by A. C. Wise
“Looking at books doesn’t sound like an adventure,” he says. His voice holds no judgment, not the way Peter’s would, only the beginnings of disappointment. But there’s doubt, too, as though Timothy is merely waiting to be convinced. She thinks quickly, then launches back into the story.
“Well, the Tailor’s daughter was a different kind of scientist. All her instruments were also magic. She had a telescope that could see every star in the sky, no matter how far away. And… it could transport her to those stars to visit the people living on them and other planets too.”
Timothy’s expression brightens.
“That’s all right, then. I like magic.” He leans against her again. Is that where they are, she wonders, on another star? There’s a catch in her voice when she speaks again, but Timothy doesn’t seem to notice.
“The Tailor’s daughter also had a magical compass that could point north like any other compass, but also point to where the best adventures were…”
Timothy stays pressed against her side as the words unspool. It’s almost like her mother is telling the story through her, but even better, like they’re telling the story together. It makes her a little less afraid; it makes her feel a little less alone. Even though she can’t see or feel her mother, she knows with absolute certainty they’ll find their way back to each other soon.
When the sun comes up, it’s a surprise—a glitter of light breaking all at once through the leaves. Was she truly lost in the story, or did daylight simply pounce like a tiger, sudden and rude, like everything else in Neverland? The camp’s stillness shatters with a sound that is half cock’s crow and half war cry; Timothy bolts upright, going from half-sleep to alert fear in an instant. She looks down from the platform into the camp.
Peter stands beside the ashes of last night’s fire, as if dropped out of the sky and landing just there as the sun rose. Even from here she can see his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and his hair wild. Unlike the mess of Timothy’s hair though, there’s something sharp-edged and dangerous about Peter’s locks. It makes her think of a broken crown resting upon his head, and the leaves caught there might almost grow from his scalp.
His hands rest on his hips, elbows jutting sideways, and his expression is impatient as the camp wakes and gathers around him.
“We have to go.” Timothy nudges her. It’s not a suggestion. Without waiting, he scrambles down, and she follows, her pulse going harder in a way that has nothing to do with the climb.
“We’re going hunting.” Peter casts his voice like a net, snagging everyone as she and Timothy join the circle. “We must have a proper feast to welcome our new Wendy.”
Peter’s gaze skims over the boys and stops on her. It feels like a pin driven though the center of her body, holding her down the way she mounts her butterflies at home. She opens her mouth, feeling as though something is expected of her, but the moment she does, her mind goes blank.
It’s more than the sticky sweet drink; it’s Peter himself who makes her forget, who turns her strange. She has only a moment to think it then she finds herself blinking, a step or two closer to where Peter stands, as though a moment of time has slipped away without her marking it.
She closes her mouth. When did she open it? Did someone ask her a question? Peter’s expression digs at her, simultaneously seeking approval and daring her to contradict him. She fights the urge to squirm, even though everything in her wants to crawl away. Like every game Peter has proposed since she got here, she doesn’t understand the rules to this one either; she only knows she can’t be the first to look away.
She keeps her head up, keeps looking at Peter. Confusion passes through his eyes like a cloud across the sun, then his lips form a slow smile and he nods, as though she gave him her approval even though she did no such thing. She wants to stamp her foot and shout at him, but there’s no time. Peter whirls away from her to address the expectant circle of boys, all watching him eagerly. Except for Timothy, who remains pressed against her side.
“Hunters, gather your weapons. We are going to catch a boar.”
Boys scatter in every direction, like an anthill broken open. It looks like chaos, but in no time they’re assembled again into tense, eager lines, each holding a weapon. It makes her think of the pictures she’s seen of her Uncle Michael and her father dressed in their soldier’s uniforms, lined up with other men, ready to fight a war. Some of the men in those pictures scarcely look older than the oldest of the boys around her now. She’s allowed to look at the pictures, and even hold them, but she’s not allowed to ask Uncle Michael about the war.
Her papa looks handsome in his uniform, but Uncle Michael looks lost, afraid. She thinks her father might tell her about the war if she asked, but she also thinks her mother wouldn’t like it very much if he did. Besides, if she can’t ask her Uncle Michael, maybe it isn’t right to ask her father either.
Peter’s boys aren’t wearing uniforms. They’re as ragged as ever, and she wonders if they even have other clothes besides the ones they’re wearing. How long have they been here? Did Peter steal them all away like he stole her? Instead of guns, the boys hold spears, bows and arrows, slingshots, knives, and swords. Some of the weapons look as though the boys made them themselves, but others look stolen from the ruin of the ship, like the cup Peter made her drink from, and the hammocks.
It doesn’t matter what weapons the boys use, or what they’re wearing. Even though she isn’t allowed to ask about the war, she understands enough about what it means. War is where men go to kill each other. These boys—even though some of them are younger than she is—hold death in their eyes.
As she looks around at the assembled line, some of the boys refuse to meet her gaze. Others, like Arthur, glare back at her, defiant. For those who will look at her, she tries to convey without words that they don’t have to do this. She doesn’t want a welcome feast; she doesn’t want to be here at all.
Desperation gnaws at her. How can she make them understand? Peter strides down the line, and all eyes turn to him, his chest puffed up like a general inspecting his troops. Only then does she notice that Timothy is missing. She scans the camp, relief filling her as she catches sight of him crouched near the pile of weapons.
She tries to signal to him without drawing Peter’s attention. Timothy doesn’t look up, staring at the sad offering of broken spears and unstrung bows. She glances back at Peter. He seems distracted enough that she risks hurrying to Timothy’s side, touching his shoulder. His head snaps up, cheeks blotchy with tears that he scrubs at furiously.
“What’s wrong?” She whispers it, glancing over her shoulder, but Peter is focused on giving orders.
“I don’t want to go.” Timothy wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
He looks at the ground between his feet, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears. She has to strain to hear him.
“Last time we went hunting, the boar got away. I stepped on a stick by accident and it made such a loud noise the boar knew we were coming and it ran. Rufus said it was his fault, to protect me, and Peter boxed him so hard he cried.” Timothy looks up at her, his expression miserable.
She thinks of the boy on the beach, the one with the bruise on his cheek. Just then, a slight hand touches her shoulder, and she jumps.
“Here you go, Wendy.” Peter grins, thrusting a long stick smoothed of its bark and sharpened at one end into her hand. “You can use my spear.”
She’s too stunned to do anything but take the spear. Peter doesn’t even look at Timothy. His eyes are fixed on her, bright and hard. The spear is half again as tall as she is, and she can’t imagine why Peter would give it to her. Why would he want her along on the hunt? Unless he’s testing her, or he thinks she’ll escape if he leaves her alone. And what happens if she refuses?
“I don’t—” she begins, but Peter cuts her off, bouncing on his toes.
“Everybody has to hunt the boar. Nobody stays behind.”
He’s looking straight at her, but
she understands that Peter is really talking to Timothy. Even though he’s smiling, there’s something dangerous in his eyes.
“Everyone follow me now.”
He spins away, skipping a few steps before plunging into the trees, a whooping call trailing behind him. Arthur is next, right on Peter’s heels, then Bertie and the others, flowing after him. She and Timothy are alone, and she reaches for his hand.
“We don’t have to go,” she says, but even as she does, she knows it’s a lie.
It’s colossally unfair. Why should Peter make the rules and no one else gets a say? But she feels it in her bones, an unassailable truth of this place. Everyone hunts the boar; no one stays behind. She looks at Timothy. His eyes are wide and trusting but bright with fear. It hurts, looking at him. She takes a deep breath to prove she can, even though her chest feels tight and funny.
“It’ll be okay,” she says. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything bad happen, I promise.”
A call echoes between the trees. A kind of chant, only she can’t make out the words.
“We’d probably better go,” she says, moving toward the sound.
It’s only a moment before she and Timothy catch up with the rest. All together, their feet make a rhythm on the forest floor, like drums. A flash of bristled fur appears, just to her left, between the trees. If she hadn’t hung back, she might not have seen it at all. Her voice sticks, then she shouts.
“Over there! I see the boar!”
The words surprise her. What is she doing? And more importantly, why? Her blood fizzes, pride and terror flooding her belly. She doesn’t want to hunt anything. But she does. Her grip tightens on the spear; she can’t help imagining what it might feel like to drive it into something living. Powerful. Strong.
It would be so easy, like pushing a pin into a butterfly with the pad of her thumb. The thought makes her smile. Something about the drumming of their feet, the chanting caught between the rustling trees, makes it seem all right. This is good. Everyone hunts the boar. No one stays behind.
She turns and runs and the boys stream behind her just as they followed Peter a moment ago. She swells the way Peter did. She is important, worth listening to. She isn’t holding Timothy’s hand anymore, and she doesn’t care. He’s just a baby anyway.
The thought, in her own voice, cruel and sneering, smacks into her, stealing her breath. Guilt brings her crashing back into herself. Her palm is slick against the wood, and she wants to let go of the spear, but she finds herself gripping it tighter. Sweat stings her eyes. She licks her lips and tastes salt. The air buzzes. No, it’s her head buzzing, like it’s full of bees. She wants to hunt. She wants to do things she never would, or could, back home. Who cares about rotten old London with its rules anyway?
She lets out a joyous whoop, cut off as Peter rushes past her, knocking into her so hard she goes down on one knee. It snaps her out of her desire to kill, and she stares at Peter, dazed.
“It’s this way. I found the boar, it’s over here!” he shouts, pointing in the opposite direction.
She can see the boar clearly, but Peter ignores it willfully, smashing through the greenery and breaking the rhythm. The boys wheel around, disoriented, uncertain. But Peter’s reality asserts itself over hers, and they all turn to follow him. He bounds across the path, laughing, the movement itself a game, the boar temporarily forgotten. The tail of boys becomes a snake, whipping back and forth.
She climbs to her feet, breathing open-mouthed. The spear is still in her hand and she throws it away from her, as far as she can, shaking. Neverland is changing her; she can’t let it.
A shout draws her attention as Bertie knocks into a boy called William. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. They tumble into the bush, grappling at each other. The other boys gather around, cheering them on. They aren’t soldiers anymore, just silly boys playing with sticks and toy swords. Until Arthur hits a boy whose name she doesn’t know, the blow deliberate and hard. Blood, shockingly bright, spurts from the boy’s nose, coating his lips and chin and scattering onto the leaves.
Her heart leaps into her throat. She looks to Peter to stop it, and her heart lodges there. Peter grins approvingly as the boys fight. He looks so strange, not a boy anymore, not a person who can be reasoned with at all. He’s something else. He’s…
Timothy reappears, and she remembers her promise to keep him safe.
“Don’t look,” she murmurs, turning his face against her side.
The rolling tumble of Bertie and William crashes into Arthur. Arthur abandons the boy with the bloodied nose and grabs Bertie instead, hauling him to his feet.
“Oy! Watch it!”
Arthur drives a fist into Bertie’s stomach. Bertie doubles over, and the boys fall silent. Her own stomach clenches in sympathy. Someone whistles; feet stamp and applause echoes through the trees.
“Bravo, Arthur! Bravo!” She doesn’t know who says it, but as the cheers fade the boys fall back into line as though nothing happened. Even the boy with the bloody nose. Even Bertie, though he moves slower than the rest, hunched and trying to catch his breath.
She keeps a tight hold on Timothy’s hand this time as she hurries to catch up to Bertie.
“Are you all right?” She falls into step beside him.
“Fine.” He tries to make the word hard and clipped, but it comes out strained, his breathing still not entirely back in control.
“But—”
Bertie whirls on her, his face scrunched, and for a moment she thinks he’ll hit her the way Arthur hit him. And then she sees the water in his eyes, and how hard he’s trying not to let it turn into a proper cry.
“I said I’m fine. Leave me alone!”
He bellows the words then trots away from her, not looking back. Up ahead, Peter gives a triumphant shout.
“The boar! Everyone gather round.”
There’s laughter now, boys falling over each other, elbowing and jostling and getting in each other’s way. She isn’t certain how the boar got in front of them again when Peter was clearly leading them the wrong way, but there it is—bristled hide, wickedly curving tusk, beady, evil-looking eyes. She’s never seen a boar up close before, and it looks so much bigger than she ever imagined. How, with all the shouting and chaos, have they not frightened it away? Any animal with an ounce of sense would flee rather than stand and be killed.
The mass of boys, running and shouting, spills into a clearing. Even then the boar doesn’t move. Curious despite herself, she joins the crowd, standing on her toes to see over the heads of the boys in front of her. The earth is pounded flat in a near-perfect round, closed in on all sides by trees. The boys spread to the edges, forming a perimeter with their bodies, leaving Peter and the boar facing each other in the middle.
It feels deliberate, like she’s sitting in the audience at a play. Only instead of a stage there’s only the ground, and Peter in the center, the sun beaming on him like a spotlight.
Her skin flushes hot and cold as Peter circles the boar. It’s almost a dance. She strains to get a better view and at the same time, she doesn’t want to see what will happen next.
Dread fills her. Peter waves the short sword he’s been carrying, like it’s a baton and he’s conducting an orchestra. The way the blade catches the light, glinting, makes her realize for the first time that it’s a real sword, not a makeshift thing carved from wood. Peter leaps forward, feinting, yelling as if he expects the boar to challenge him. But the boar remains utterly still, haunches up, head down, almost like it’s bowing.
“Run.” She turns to Timothy, teeth clenched around the word.
He gapes up at her. Something terrible is coming, like a storm waiting to break.
“Hide. I’ll come find you, I promise.”
Timothy turns, pelting away. She watches him go before dragging her gaze back to Peter. The circle of earth, the way the boar remains perfectly still, all of it is unnatural. It’s not just the boar though, it’s everything—the silent boys, their
expressions solemn and watching. It’s not war she thinks of now, but something like being in church with her grandfather—a ritual, solemn and terrible and centuries old.
Malevolence rolls from the boar’s bristled stance, hatred in its eyes, but even still, it doesn’t move. There’s intelligence there, not animal intelligence but something akin to human. The boar knows what is about to happen, and it loathes Peter for it, but there’s absolutely nothing it can do. It waits. The cruel sweep of its tusks could tear Peter apart, but it remains transfixed as Peter hops around it, jeering and taunting. Then all at once, Peter lunges. His blade goes in and a hot spray of blood splashes his skin.
The animal doesn’t bellow or make any sound at all, and that only makes it worse. It simply collapses under Peter as he falls on top of it, stabbing and stabbing again.
Her eyes sting. Leave. She has to leave and it has to be tonight. She’ll take Timothy and Rufus and even Bertie. She’ll take everyone she can and they’ll go somewhere far away where Peter can never find them.
The boar’s sides finally stop heaving, and Peter looks up, his eyes finding hers. The freckles scattered across his skin are joined with blood now, and his grin is as wide and wicked as ever, pure delight. Like the boar, she’s hypnotized. She can’t look away as Peter rises, wiping the short blade of his sword on his blood-spattered clothing. He gestures to the boys around him, and they dutifully come forward. Two of them hold a long pole, a third carries a coil of rope. They go to work in utter silence.
Peter approaches her, his eyes still shining. She wants to ask him why, but the breath in her throat merely wheezes and no words emerge. His hand lands on her shoulder. Rinds of crimson darken the ends of his nails. He leaves a smudge of red on the fabric of her nightgown.
“There,” he says. “Now you’re one of us properly. Wendy and Peter and the Lost Boys.”
THE FROZEN GIRL
LONDON 1919
