by Brom
The Lady laughed heartily and the sound was music to Peter’s ears.
“That’s good, Peter. How’d you learn to do that?”
Peter shrugged, then began to mimic the whistles, hoots, chirps, and calls of the other animals. Soon all the creatures around the pond were cocking their heads quizzically at him.
The Lady laughed long and deep, and even the elves couldn’t help but smile.
A strange cry caught their attention. Peter saw a large bird with fiery red plumage glide across the pond and alight in a nearby tree. It surveyed the pond, its brilliant orange eyes standing out in stark contrast to a crown of black feathers.
The Lady let out a soft gasp and leaped to her feet. “Peter,” she whispered. “The Sunbird.”
It lifted its head and began to sing, and all the creatures in the forest fell silent. This wasn’t just a call, but a song made up of whistles and chirps, like nothing Peter had ever heard before.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.
Peter nodded and glanced at the Lady. She held her fingertips to her lips, her eyes captivated.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the bird took flight and left them.
“Oh, don’t go,” she said, and sighed. “I’ve not seen it since I was a girl. That sweet song takes me back to happier times.” She was quiet then, her eyes distant.
Peter caught a flash in the sun and something landed on the sandy bank. He leaped up, raced over, and picked it up. It was a brilliant red feather. He brought it back and held it up for the Lady to see. The sunlight shimmered off the fine filaments, and when he twirled it, it sparkled and glowed as though aflame.
The sparkles glittered across the Lady’s face. “Oh, Peter. It’s beautiful!”
He handed it to her. “It’s for you.”
“For me? Peter, no, you can’t. It is too wonderful a treasure.”
“Yes I can.”
She took the feather and began to twirl it. A smile of unabashed joy lit up her whole face, and in that moment she looked like a little girl.
Peter cupped his hands over his mouth, and began to whistle and chirp, trying to mimic the Sunbird’s song. He didn’t get it right, but after a few more tries, he had it and whistled the song all the way through.
The Lady stared at him in utter amazement, then grabbed his hand and clasped it in both of hers. “That’s wonderful! You must be part bird.”
“Yes, I am,” Peter said proudly. “Why, I’m a Peterbird.”
“Well Peterbird, you must come visit my court and sing for me. Is it agreed?”
Peter gave a big nod.
“Good.” She looked at him, looked at him intently for a long time. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“One more thing.” She reached behind her neck and undid the gold chain. She held it out so Peter could see the eight-point star. He noticed it was actually fine threads of tarnished gold spun around a dark stone. “This belonged to another little boy, a very special little boy. He is lost to me. I would like for you to wear it for now. Would you do that for me?”
Again, Peter nodded.
She slipped it around Peter’s neck and kissed him atop his head. “My little Mabon,” she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it
As Peter held the star, it began to glow slightly.
The Lady saw it too and her eyes began to tear. She reached for Peter and pulled him tight, hugged him for a long time. She smelled of pollen and the sweetness of cool water.
Peter heard her again in his head, or heart maybe, like in the pond. You are mine. Mine forever.
Yes, he answered. Forever.
“HEY,” NATHAN CALLED. “Wait up.”
The child thief realized he’d let his mind drift, let the kid fall behind. He knew better, knew that the Mist, given the chance, would get in his head and play games. Stupid, he thought. Careless and stupid. And now the boy was actually shouting in the Mist.
Peter waited, searching the shimmering wall of silvery light, listening. Had the Sluagh heard? Were they on their way?
“I don’t like this,” Nathan said. “Just where are we?”
Peter put his fingers to his lips. “Shhh!” Peter whispered. “You have to keep quiet or they’ll hear. Now let’s go.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Peter didn’t answer; now wasn’t the time for talk. He turned, searching for the Path. It was there, just ahead, the thin golden thread sliding and shifting, drifting away as though blown by a hidden wind. You had to stay with the Path or it would leave you behind.
Peter headed for the Path, then realized Nathan wasn’t following; the boy was staring at the ground.
“Look!” Nathan said, pointing.
Peter didn’t need to look. He knew what it was.
“Those are bones! That’s somebody’s goddamn head!” Nathan squinted warily at Peter. “What the hell kinda place is this?”
Peter jabbed his finger to his lips. The kid had to be quiet. Had to!
“Don’t tell me to shhh,” Nathan said, raising his voice. “I asked you a question. What the fuck kinda place is this?”
Peter gritted his teeth, tried to control his temper, but this kid was going to get them both killed. He glanced at the Path, it was drifting away. He didn’t dare lose sight of it, but they needed the kid. Peter stepped toward him.
Nathan stumbled back, jerked a gun out, and pointed it at Peter. Peter halted.
“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” the kid yelled.
Peter heard the distant sound of children’s laughter. His blood went cold. The laughter grew louder, joined by wails and moans, the cackling cries of old women. The Mist began to stir.
The kid snapped his head about. “What’s that? Huh? What the fuck is that?”
The Path drifted farther away, another moment and it would be lost. “Listen, Nathan,” Peter said as calmly as he could. “You have one chance. Follow me, right now. Move, or you’ll never leave the Mist.”
But Nathan wasn’t paying Peter any attention. He spun around, left then right, holding the gun out in front of him, his eyes wide and terrified. “STAY AWAY FROM ME!” he screamed.
The Sluagh came, first the disembodied heads, flying around, circling the boy, followed by the naked craggy women, holding hands and skipping merrily about, then the beasts, all shapes and sizes, their barks and howls, screams and growls rumbling back and forth across the ghostly wasteland.
“NATHAN!” Peter cried. “COME! NOW!”
“OH MY GOD!” Nathan screamed and pulled the trigger over and over. But there was only a dry click as the hammer fell on the dead shells. The kid’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and terror. Peter could’ve told him the gunpowder wouldn’t work, not here in the Mist. It never does. And even if the bullets had fired, they wouldn’t have done a bit of good.
The spirits, one and all, laughed, the sound booming about the Mist like thunder. The flying heads swarmed the boy, pecking at his hair. He ran screaming, swinging the gun wildly, trying to fend them off as they chased him into the swirling wall of gray mist.
Peter didn’t shout to the boy again. It would do no good. Peter found the Path and walked, his face tight, his eyes hard. He watched one foot after the other pound into the soft, powdery ground and did his damndest not to hear the distant echoes of Nathan’s screams.
PETER STUMBLED ASHORE and collapsed on the beach. He punched the sand again and again, until his knuckles were raw, until he could no longer hear the boy’s cries inside his head. He dug his fingers into the beach, came away with two handfuls of sand, turned and glared at the Mist. “WHY?” he screamed and slung the sand into its swirling mass. “Why,” he screamed again, knowing the night would hear, the were-beasts and, worse, the Flesh-eaters. He didn’t care.
“Flesh-eaters,” he spat. “Fucking Flesh-eaters. This is all because of them.” He bared his teeth at the Mist. The glint of madness sparkled in his eye. “Someone,” he whispered, “needs to remind them to be afraid of th
e night.”
Instead of heading into the swamps and back toward Deviltree, Peter turned and followed the coastline, making his way over the driftwood and rocks beneath the silvery glow of the low-hanging clouds, and it was not long before he heard the soft tread of something trailing him.
Peter slid out his long knife and turned, shouting a challenge, daring the thing to show itself. Nothing did or dared, his madness too plain, and Peter continued on alone until he saw the jagged timber walls of the fort lit up from within by a smoldering watch fire.
He looked out toward the lagoon, to where the skeletons of the great galleons lay half-drowned, leaning off-keel and rotting. Their frames silhouetted against the silver glow of the Mist like the ghostly bones of a sea dragon.
He walked up to the fort wall, mesmerized by the dance of firelight between the jagged timber beams. Atop each of the gate posts sat a boy’s head, their mouths frozen forever in the silent screams of the dead, their hair blowing in the brisk wind, the dark hollows of their eyes staring back at him, mocking him, accusing him.
He counted twenty-four of them. “Jimmy, Mark, Davis…Bob. No. Bill? Which was it?” He started over again, then again, but no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t remember all their names. As his frustration grew so did his volume, until he was shouting their names, knowing the Flesh-eaters would hear and not caring.
He saw their shapes approach the wall, peering out into the darkness, felt their eyes searching for him.
“DEATH HAS COME,” Peter screamed, “TO CUT YOUR THROATS AND DRINK YOUR BLOOD!” He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.
The gate opened. Dozens of Flesh-eaters carrying torches and wielding swords and axes stepped out. A figure pushed through them, a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He slid his sword from his belt, sliced the air with its long, narrow blade, and strolled forward.
Peter slipped silently back into the shadows and disappeared into the night.
Chapter Eleven
Barghest
Oww! OWW!” Nick cried.
“Just hold still,” Cricket said. “You’re making it worse.”
Nick grimaced. During the night, something—and Nick had a damn good idea what, judging by the pixies giggling from the rafters—had tied his hair to the bars of his cage.
“Just one more. There,” Cricket said. “Y’know, you’ll have to learn not to sleep with your head so close to the bars.”
Nick sat up, rubbing his hair, and shot Cricket a cutting look. “Thanks, but I think I figured that one out on my own.”
“Eww, someone’s a sourpuss,” Cricket laughed, then stopped abruptly. “Whoa, you don’t look so good.”
Nick frowned. “Thanks.”
“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you don’t look well. You feel okay?”
“I’m fine,” Nick said curtly. “Just had a bad dream, that’s all.”
NICK WAITED HIS turn for the privy, stepped in, and took a hard look at himself in the mirror. Cricket was right, he looked bad. There were dark circles under his eyes and his eyes looked haunted, his face oddly gaunt. He couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare. Unlike most nightmares, this one stayed with him. Not only could he clearly remember every detail, but he still harbored the ill feelings, the horror of what he’d seen and the terrible things he’d done. He knew it was silly, but he checked his hands, searching for any signs that they were turning black or growing claws. It had been that real. He doused his head with the cool water. It made him feel better, but didn’t wash away his dread or the dark mood lingering in his chest.
Nick almost ran into Sekeu when he came out. She was busy refereeing breakfast and getting the fires going.
“Sorry,” he said.
She gave him a passing glance, stopped, stepped back, and looked at him again. She didn’t seem so much concerned as disturbed. “Nick, how do you feel?”
“Okay.”
Sekeu eyed him, skeptical. “You are sure?”
“Yeah,” Nick said, a bit annoyed. “I’m fine, really.”
Redbone came up behind Sekeu and jabbed her in the butt. “Squaw, paleface need’um powwow.”
Sekeu spun around, leading with her fist.
Redbone was ready for her and leaped back, but she caught him on the arm so hard that even Nick flinched.
“Oww, Jesus Christ, man!” Redbone cried, wincing and clutching his shoulder. “Geez, I was just kidding around.” He shook his arm out.
“What do you want?” Sekeu snapped, looking ready to take his head off.
“Nothing really, except to say we’re running low on acorns, and berries, and mushrooms. Oh, and pretty much every other damn thing.” Redbone leaned over to Nick, still rubbing his arm, and whispered, “She got her muscles from scalping white men, y’know.” He snorted and elbowed Nick, then did a double-take. “Hey, wow. Cat, you don’t look so good.”
Nick frowned.
“How did you sleep?” Sekeu asked Nick. “Did you have any bad dreams?”
The image of his skin turning black and his hands twisting into claws came to Nick. He was about to mention it, but didn’t like the way the two of them were scrutinizing him, like he’d committed a crime. “No,” he lied. “My stomach hurt a little. That’s all. I feel fine now.”
Sekeu and Redbone exchanged a wary glance, neither looked convinced.
Redbone slapped Nick on the back. “That’s just your body getting used to the different food, man. That’s all. It’ll pass.” But Nick didn’t miss the dark look Redbone shot Sekeu.
It scared him.
THE NEXT COUPLE of days flowed into one another: breakfast, training, dinner, sleep, breakfast, training, dinner, sleep, round and round. Nick did his best to stay out of Leroy’s way, but the bigger boy took special pleasure in targeting him, taking every opportunity to give him a hard time. Nick tried not to let it get to him, losing himself in his training. He found the drills and long hours of practice to be the one place where he could forget his troubles. He also found he was getting pretty good with the staff and spear—his ability quickly outpacing that of both Cricket and Danny. His progress was encouraging. But more than anything, he wanted to beat Leroy, and worked tirelessly with Sekeu trying to master every move and trick. Soon he was pressing her to show him the advanced maneuvers he saw the Devils performing. He wasn’t sure if it was the exercise or the strange food, maybe both, but either way, his body felt stronger, his timing and speed increasing with each passing day.
The nights were the hardest, the dark dreams haunting his sleep. Each night in his nightmares, his skin would turn black and the dread and rage would grow in his chest. He would wake breathing hard, his stomach burning and murder in his heart.
After breakfast on Nick’s fourth morning, Sekeu led him, Cricket, Danny, and Leroy over to the big round door on the far side of the hall.
A few moments later, Redbone and the one-handed boy, Abraham, joined them, toting buckets and potato sacks. They’d put on leathers, tight-fitting, hand-stitched, single-piece garments with pointed boots sewn right into them, held up by a belt strapped high across the chest.
Redbone tugged on a beat-up, black leather jacket. This one wasn’t hand-stitched, this was a genuine American motorcycle jacket, complete with spikes, patches, and SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL painted in peeling red letters across the back.
Redbone had a sly grin on his face. “Any of you cats up for a break?”
Danny perked up. “Hey, that’d be great!”
“Good,” Redbone said. “We’re going on a little adventure.”
Nick didn’t like the way Redbone said adventure.
“We are going foraging,” Sekeu said.
“Give you a chance to see some of the sights,” Abraham added and gave Redbone a wink.
“Dirk and Dash are coming with us,” Redbone said to Sekeu. “Be here in a sec. Just as soon as Dirk finds his sword.”
“What, again?” Abraham asked. “How do you lose a sword? Kid would lose his
butthole if it weren’t attached to his ass.”
Redbone laughed out loud at that, showing all of his teeth. He seemed to always be wearing that wide, fierce grin. Nick felt that grin combined with the dye, or paint, or whatever it was he rubbed on his skin and hair to make it red, made him look like a real devil. Then there was that ridiculous red bone, the one tied into the topknot of his wild, tangled hair, like something out of the Flintstones. Nick figured if he were to ask—which he had no intention of doing—that ridiculous bone would have something to do with his nickname. Up close, Nick couldn’t help but notice all the scars on the boy, and wondered how many scrapes and challenges this whacked-out kid had been in. One particularly nasty-looking scar snaked lengthwise right down between his squinty, fiendish eyes.
Abraham, other than his missing hand, had very few scars. It was his golden eyes that made him so striking, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. Nick didn’t believe he’d ever seen a person as dark as Abraham; his skin was almost raven-black. Abraham wore a scruffy bowler hat dressed up with black feathers and beads, and a tight-fitting pin-stripe dinner jacket with the sleeves cut out.
Two more boys joined them; one hopping along as he laced up his boot.
“Nick,” Sekeu said. “Meet Dirk and Dash.”
Dirk’s scalp had been shaved; jagged ritual scarring spun away from his eyebrows and along the side of his head. He was a bit shorter than Nick, square-jawed with a hefty build, reminding Nick somewhat of a bulldog.
Dash pushed a clump of blond hair from his face and stared down at Nick. He was almost as tall as Redbone, had a slight underbite, and a head full of long, greasy hair. Bits of bone and metal jutted from his ears, nose, eyebrows, nipples, and Nick didn’t want to imagine where the hell else.
Dirk and Dash cocked their heads from side to side and began to click their teeth.