by Brom
Peter saw her vision: he, the wild warlord of the Sidhe, romping through the magical forest with the beasts and wild faeries at his side, lord of all he sees. And it was indeed everything he had ever desired.
“Your heart is heavy for the children,” she continued in that low, deep, lulling tone. “Peter, that is understandable. But that will fall behind you in the new day. Once you are by my side. Once all of Faerie dances about your feet, you will forget them and the pain will fade.”
“Forget them?” Peter said, shaking away the vision. “No.” His voice was strong and resolute. “I will not forget them. I will never forget them.” He took a step back.
“Peter, you will come. You must come. A new world is a fragile thing. It’s your place to carry Caliburn, to defend Avalon. You cannot deny your birthright. It is your duty. Now come aboard, I command it.”
Peter held her eyes and shook his head. “I made a promise.” He dropped the bundled sword in the boat next to the Lady. “Good-bye, Modron.”
The Lady’s eyes flared, and she bared her teeth, snarling.
“Modron,” the witch laughed. “His father’s blood has been awakened within him. Seems your charms no longer rule his heart.”
The Lady glared at her sister, then it was as though all the air left her, and she sagged against Tanngnost. “Peterbird,” she said, sounding weak, tired, defeated. “My little Mabon. Don’t leave me. I need you.”
Peter pulled the star necklace from around his neck, took the Lady’s hand, and laid it in her palm. “I’m not Mabon,” he said softly.
The Lady stared at the lifeless star. She looked impossibly sad. Then her face grew grim and for a moment Peter saw the Lady he’d met all those summers ago, not the fragile woman but the goddess, the proud daughter of Avallach, the queen of Avalon. She pulled herself up straight, held out Mabon’s star. “Do this for me. Keep it safe.” Peter saw that its golden glow had returned. “When you’re done playing games, bring it home to me.”
Peter accepted the star but slipped it into his pocket rather than around his neck. He looked to Tanngnost. “Good-bye, old friend.”
Tanngnost let out a deep, heavy sigh, shook his head sadly from side to side, but clasped Peter’s hand firmly in his. “May Avallach go with you.”
The last tendrils of the Mist swirled away. Peter heard men shouting far back in the park.
“We must go,” Tanngnost said and let go of Peter.
“Peter,” the Lady said. “Come home to me. Make it soon.”
“Yes,” agreed the witch. “And take good care of your eyes. One of them belongs to me.” She grinned, showing him her long, green teeth.
The Lady set her hand in the bay; a swell of water gently rose beneath the boat, and they drifted from the rocks. The swell built behind the boat and pushed it rapidly away.
Peter stood there until he could no longer see them, until he heard the squawk of a radio and heavy footsteps coming down the walkway. Then he slipped away, disappearing into the shadows.
THE SIRENS FADED as Peter put the park farther and farther behind him. He no longer crept through alleyways, walking instead along the main streets. He ignored the hard stares and wary looks, not caring who might notice him, hardly watching where he was going. So much lost, he thought, his heart so heavy he felt he might suffocate. What have I done? Again he saw the disappointment on the Lady’s face, the look in Nick’s eyes as he died. Peter set his jaw and pushed them from his mind, plodding onward into the night, concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other, as though he could truly leave all the pain behind.
He left Manhattan, scarcely noticing as he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Before long, the high-rises gave way to warehouses, then apartments and detached houses. He entered Prospect Park and soon found himself face to face with the green climbing turtle.
“Nick,” Peter whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
The turtle stared back with its ridiculous grin.
Tears bit at Peter’s eyes. He wiped at them and gritted his teeth. “So damn sorry.” The tears kept coming until a harsh sob shook his frame. He slumped against the turtle as tears for Sekeu, Abraham, Goll, his mother, Nick, and all the Devils that had died for him poured freely down his cheeks. He slid to the grass. The list was long, but Peter sat there, eyes clenched, arms tight about his knees, until he could name every one—every single one.
Eventually, a brisk wind blew. Peter opened his eyes, inhaled deeply—warmth, a trace of spring. His skin prickled, the night suddenly felt alive, as though the trees, birds, and bugs were watching him. He caught sight of a sparkle, then another and another. They raced to him, zipping along just above the dewy grass, circling him, spiraling round and round. “Faerie folk,” he said in wonder. Something blue shot past Peter’s head, whirled about, and hovered right before him. It was one of the pixies, a girl with white, wispy hair. She hissed at him, then rejoined the flock as they frolicked about the trees.
Peter heard a whispering in the leaves, a voice calling for him to come dance with the night—it was his father. Peter recalled how the Horned One had danced with him and the Devils around the great fire, granted them a place in Avalon. You chose me, Father, to stand beside you at Merrow Cove, to fight by your side. Honored me, not Ulfger, but me.
Understanding dawned on Peter and he began to grin. His father had indeed left him a gift, a great gift, and not the deadly sword. His father had claimed him when no other would, because the Horned One’s spirit lorded over all wild things, whether pagan or Sidhe, of this world or faerie. And now his father had passed that spirit on to him.
Peter jumped to his feet, laughed long and loud, as though he owned the park, daring any to challenge him. He set back his head and howled—a primeval call not heard by men for a thousand years, one that made them remember why they are afraid of the deep dark forest.
I’ve no need of banners, titles, crowns, magic swords, or gilded courts. I’ll never be confined to any realm. My domain is wherever the wild wind blows.
“I am the Horned One,” Peter called. “The forest spirit, the lord of all wild things.”
He dug in his pouch, pulled out one of Avallach’s apples, and admired it. It was a sacred thing of remarkable beauty—the revered symbol of Avalon. Peter took a bite. “Yum.” Smacking loudly, he headed off to find a house, not just any house, but a blue house on Carroll Street. His golden eyes sparkled and he touched the hilt of his knife. He looked forward to meeting Marko and his pals. He intended to have some fun with them—a really good time, because it had been so long since he’d had a really good time.
He felt his step lighten. The Sunbird came to mind, how wild and free it had been, free to fly wherever it fancied, whenever it pleased. Peter felt like that now, as though he could go anywhere, do anything, almost as though he could fly.
He glanced up at the stars and a wicked smile lit his face. “Time to play,” he whispered to them and winked.
And the stars winked back, for Peter’s smile is a most contagious thing.
Author’s Note or An Ode to Peter Pan
Like so many before me, I am fascinated by the tale of Peter Pan, the romantic idea of an endless childhood amongst the magical playground of Neverland. But, like so many, my mind’s image of Peter Pan had always been that of an endearing, puckish prankster, the undue influence of too many Disney films and peanut-butter commercials.
That is, until I read the original Peter Pan, not the watered-down version you’ll find in the children’s bookshops these days, but James Barrie’s original—and politically uncorrected—version, and then I began to see the dark undertones and to appreciate just what a wonderfully bloodthirsty, dangerous, and at times cruel character Peter Pan truly is.
Foremost, the idea of an immortal boy hanging about nursery windows and seducing children away from their families for the sake of his ego and to fight his enemies is at the very least disturbing. Though this is fairly understandable when you read in “The Little White Bird” (
Peter Pan’s first appearance) that as an infant he left his own nursery to play with the fairies in the park, but upon his return found the windows barred and his mother nursing another little boy—just the sort of traumatic event to leave anyone a bit maladjusted. Rejected, Peter returned to the fairy world and apparently decided things would be a bit more fun if he had a few companions. And, not being one to worry on niceties, he simply kidnapped them.
But what happens to these children after that? Here is a quote from the original Peter Pan: “The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out; but at this time there were six of them, counting the twins as two.”
Thins them out? Huh? What does that mean? Does Peter kill them, like culling a herd? Does he send them away somewhere? If so, where? Or does Peter just put them in such peril that the crop is in need of constant replenishing?
That one paragraph forever changed my perception of Peter Pan from that of a high-spirited rascal to something far more sinister. “Thins them out”—the words kept repeating in my head. How many children had Peter stolen, how many had died, how many had been thinned out? Peter himself said, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”
There is certainly no lack of bloodletting in Peter Pan: pirates massacring Indians and so forth, but those are adults killing each other—nothing new there. Much more intriguing to me is that murderous group of children—the Lost Boys. With them, Peter Pan has turned bloodletting into a sport, has taught them not only to kill without conscience or remorse but also to have a damn good time doing it. At one point the boys proudly debate the number of pirates they’d just slaughtered: “Was it fifteen or seventeen?” And how can any child not enjoy such lines as “They fell easy prey to the reeking swords of the boys.” Or “He lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler, when another, who had just passed his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.” Nothing like a good spilling of entrails to liven things up. And more chilling is Peter’s ability to do all these things—the kidnapping, the murder—all without a trace of conscience: “‘I forget them after I kill them,’ he (Peter) replied carelessly.”
Once I pondered these unsettling elements I began to wonder what this children’s book would be like if the veil of Barrie’s lyrical prose were peeled back, if the violence and savagery were presented in stark, grim reality. How would children really react to being kidnapped and thrust into such a situation? How hard would it be for them to fall under the spell of a charismatic sociopath, to shuck off the morality of civilization and become cold-blooded killers? Judging from what goes on in modern gang culture, and seeing how quick teens can be to define their own morals, to justify any action no matter how horrific, I believe it wouldn’t be that hard.
And these thoughts were the seeds for The Child Thief.
KNOWING THAT I didn’t want to simply retell Barrie’s Peter Pan, but instead create my own Peter, my own world, and the darker story behind the fairytales, I began to dig into the same Scottish fairy stories, myths, and legends that originally inspired James Barrie himself. And I was delighted to find a treasure trove of folktales from which to pull together the mythology for The Child Thief. Since these legends helped steer and form this novel, I thought some of you might find them interesting and have listed them below.
I found the details to these myths varied to some degree from source to source, from region to region, and I took liberal use of many of them for The Child Thief. But following here are the most common threads and elements I have drawn upon:
Avalon: Avalon, or “Ynys Afallach” in Welsh, is one of the Otherworld islands. It was originally ruled by Avallach with his daughter, Modron. It is where Caliburn (Excalibur) was forged and where King Arthur was taken by Morgan le Fay (Modron) to be healed of his wounds after the battle of Camlann. Like the name of Avalon (from afal, or “apple”), the apple is one of the most recognized symbols of Avalon, with counterparts in the Greek Hesperides, the Norse Apples of Youth, and the Judeo-Christian Fruit of the Tree of Life.
Avalon is closely associated with a similar Otherworld island, Tír na nÓg, called in English the Land of Eternal Youth or the Land of the Ever-Young, and thus I combined both mystical islands to some degree. Tír na nÓg is perhaps best known from the myth of Oisin, one of the few mortals who lived there, and Niamh of the Golden Hair. It was where the Tuatha Dé Danann, or Sidhe, settled when they left Ireland’s surface. Tír na nÓg was considered a place beyond the edges of the map, located far to the west. It could be reached by either an arduous voyage or an invitation from one of its fairy inhabitants. The isle is visited by various Irish heroes in the echtrae and immram tales popular during the Middle Ages. Tír na nÓg is a place where sickness and death do not exist. It is a place of eternal youth and beauty.
Avallach: Avallach (also Afallach and Avalloc) was the son of Nodens, God of Healing. He was one of the Celtic gods of the Underworld. He ruled Avalon where he lived with his daughter, Modron, and her sisters.
Modron: In Welsh mythology, Modron (divine mother) was a daughter of Avalloc, derived from the Gaulish goddess Matrona. She is regarded as the prototype of the Lady of the Lake, Morgan le Fay, from Arthurian legend. She was the mother of Mabon, who bears her name as “Mabon ap Modron” (Mabon, Son of Modron).
Mabon: In Welsh mythology, Mabon (divine son) was the son of Modron. He is synonymous with the ancient British god, Maponos, and probably equivalent to the Irish god, Aengus Mac Og. Mabon was stolen from his mother three days after his birth. He then lived in Annwn until he was rescued by Culhwch. Because of his time in Annwn, Mabon stayed a young adult forever.
The Horned One: The Horned One I based in part on The Great Horned God, a modern syncretic term used amongst Wiccan-influenced Neopagans, which unites numerous male nature gods out of such widely dispersed mythologies as the Celtic Cernunnos, Herne the Hunter (English legend), Pashupati in Hindu, and the Greek Pan. A number of figures from British folklore, though normally depicted without horns, are nonetheless considered related, namely Puck, Robin Goodfellow, and the Green Man. To the Christians the horned god is the devil.
Other Influences
The names Tanngnost (meaning “tooth-gnasher”) and his brother Tanngrisnir (meaning “tooth-grinder”) are the names of the two billy goats that pull Thor’s chariot.
Ginny Greenteeth (or Jenny Greenteeth) from English folklore is a river hag, similar to a Peg Powler; she would pull children or the elderly into the water and drown them. She was often described as green-skinned, with long hair and sharp teeth.
Famous in northern England, a Barghest is a form of black ghost dog or goblin dog.
A Hissi is a mischievous spirit or god from Finnish folklore.
In Irish and Scottish folklore the Sluagh were the spirits of the restless dead. Some consider them to carry with them the souls of innocent people that they have captured.
I’ve taken many liberties with the locations in and around New York, but there really is an old church topped with a white cross set amongst the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan. It is located just across the street from Battery Park and the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Standing within the arch of the steeple is an angelic statue of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton, her arms open, welcoming home any wayward pilgrim.
Fairytales of old were cautionary tales full of ghastly endings, serving as hard lessons for young and old alike. I for one believe that all myths and legends are sparked by some real event, person, or…other. So, should you find yourself alone in a dark corner of Prospect Park—or any other wild and untamed place—and the fireflies suddenly seem emboldened, the air alive with a silvery mist, listen closely and you just might catch the distant echo of a boy’s laughter. And whatever you should decide to do then, just remember, you’ve been warned.
Brom
February 20, 2009
Acknowledgments
This book has been a
long time coming. I’ve had a lot of encouragement, input, and help along the way and owe a lot of people booze and chocolate.
Foremost, Diana Gill, an extraordinarily gifted editor. I am in awe of her insight and intuitiveness for story and character. Time and time again she steered this novel out of the muck and took it much further than I ever thought possible. Thanks, Diana, for your voodoo.
To my manager, Julie Kane-Ritsch, for her friendship, enthusiasm, and diligence. There is no better feeling than knowing you’re in good hands. Thank you, Julie.
To Emily Krump, Katherine Nintzel, Michael Barrs, and Olga Gardner Galvin for their invaluable input.
And a special thanks to the poor souls who read through my early drafts—a selfless act worthy of sainthood. There is a little of each of you in this novel: Luke Peterschmidt, Robert, Ivy, Killian, Devin, and Laurie Brom. And to Ben Reh for posing as Peter.
About the Author
BROM first won acclaim illustrating for TSR’s Dark Sun role-playing world. He has since lent his distinctive vision to all facets of the creative industries, working on such notable titles as World of Warcraft, Magic the Gathering, Diablo, Doom, Batman comics, Galaxy Quest, and Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow. He is the author of two award-winning illustrated horror novels, The Plucker and The Devil’s Rose. Brom is currently kept in a dank cellar somewhere just outside of Seattle.
Visit him online at www.bromart.com
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ALSO BY BROM
The Plucker
The Devil’s Rose