by Kara Swanson
Stubbornly keeping my head up, I force my way forward. The ground bucks back at me, and I lose my footing. I fall forward but manage a stiff roll to cushion my fall. When I leap back to my feet, I don’t see the tree branch swinging my way before it’s too late.
Blast!
I grit my teeth and keep moving forward.
Tootles catches up to me as I shoot a glare at the dark trees surrounding me, spindly branches clawing skyward. Lay off, would the lot of you?
“This whole place has got its blasted knickers in a twist.”
Tootles shakes his head. “You said it, not me.” He jogs on ahead.
The island begins to settle down, apparently finishing up its latest tantrum. Tootles cuts through a craggy field and nimbly leaps over a small stream I think I recognize—though now it’s filled with murky, dark goo.
Certainly didn’t dream up that.
We skirt around a grove of dead flowers—and I remember this patch of trees, twisted as they are. And the cluster of rocks we used to climb on.
We’re close!
My pace speeds up, and I round the corner excitedly because I know it’s here.
But the shriveled, warped tree standing in the middle of the charred ground is nothing like I remembered.
Our tree is so haggard that you almost can’t make out the slender holes chiseled into the side. I’m a tangled mess of threads of relief and homesickness knotted up in disbelief at how shriveled it’s all become. Footsteps dragging, I go over to the hollow tree and trace a uniquely shaped hole winnowed out in the side. “This was Cubby’s . . .”
Tootles knocks a calloused knuckle against the rough bark. “Yes. His chute was the biggest and the only one still usable. I only recently moved back here—it’s been so long, the pirates don’t even bother to keep tabs here anymore.”
Skin growing cold, I circle the tree. I can make out a few more of the tunnel entrances, but the shapes that had once been carved out to perfectly fit each of the Lost Boys have now been nearly swallowed up as the tree has twisted and bowed.
But I’m curious. “How did you survive for so long?” Tootles rubs at the back of his head. “Moved and hid a lot, mainly. Watching, learning how the pirates and Connor made do. Learned to work around them. For months, I’d have to find a new hideout practically every day. At least I know the island better than nearly anyone else and could set up traps and warning systems near some of the hideouts.”
“Including the booby traps and trip wires we had around this old place?”
“Especially those.”
Noted. Careful where I step and what leaves I tug on, I continue circling the tree. I stop when I reach one hauntingly familiar cutout shape. Even shriveled as it is, I recognize the entrance that I’d carved out for myself. Bending down, I press my hand against the side of the small tunnel. Even if the tree hadn’t contorted like this, I would never be able to fit in this hole.
I’m much too big now.
Something about that realization makes my temples throb. So much has changed. Far more than I want to admit. When I try to unravel even one thread of that blooming mess, I find that it’s wrapped like a noose around my neck. The past doesn’t play nice.
“Ready to go in?” Tootles is not watching me but scanning the jungle around us.
Ah—right. We’re probably exposed here.
Pushing aside the disappointment, I muster a lopsided grin. “You bet! Lead on, chap.”
He levels me another one of those long, perceptive glances. Then he turns and goes back toward the larger hole that had once been Cubby’s.
With practiced fluidity, Tootles leaps feetfirst into the hollowed entrance. I can hear the faint rumble of his body sliding through the tunneled-out chute and down to the underground hideout beneath.
I step up, take a deep breath, and then duck inside the cutout. “Here goes nothing.” Feetfirst, I jump in.
The chute is still very small and my shoulders are almost too broad. I squeeze my arms over my chest and somehow manage to scoot through. I thud out on the other end, landing on the hard-packed dirt floor.
As I leap to my feet, I’m riveted by the look of shock on Tootles’s face. He’s even paler, lifting a finger to his lips.
“Hey, let’s not do that . . .” He’s speaking in an oddly hushed, even-tempered tone, but fear cuts beneath his words.
My brows clash together. “What?”
I start toward him, but Tootles quickly shakes his head, gesturing for me to stay still.
“Take it easy. Let’s not do anything brash.”
His wide gaze is fixated on something behind me. Over my shoulder.
Every nerve on high alert, I swivel on my heel. My mouth drops open at the form hovering against the edge of the dirt-walled hideout. It’s a little more ragged, a little dimmer, and a heck of a lot smaller than I remembered.
But that is definitely my shadow.
And it’s holding a knife.
My stomach drops, and the bottoms of my feet burn where the scars used to be. Guessing my shadow isn’t very happy about me cutting it off.
I put my hands out. “Whoa—mate—let’s talk this out.”
Tootles gestures to the dark, almost transparent silhouette. “Yes, c’mon, Shadow. You’ve already been told it wasn’t entirely his fault.”
My mouth drops open for the second time. “You have talked about this?”
My gaze darts between the Lost Boy and the small, impish shadow stalking toward us. It slides across the floor, knife forward.
I shoot Tootles a dour look. “It’s not entirely my fault? What kind of codswallop have you been—”
But Shadow darts forward, grabbing for my ankles and swinging the blade.
I leap backward and slam into Tootles. We both go flying, knocking over a few wayward dishes and a ramshackle chair. I land on my back, knocking the wind from my lungs. My eyes shoot open, and I come face-to-face with my shadow.
It’s dangling above me, splashed across the curved roof of the hideout.
This is it.
He’s going to drop down and gut me like a fish.
Because, let’s be honest, I probably would do nothing less if someone had decided to chop me off.
I brace for the swipe of the blade, squeezing my eyes shut—
Nothing happens.
And that’s when I realize Shadow has dropped the knife.
He’s not looming over me—he’s writhing against the ceiling. No, not writhing—laughing! Shadow is literally rolling on the roof. Laughing his blooming head off.
I bellow curses up at Shadow, and he continues miming laugher, pointing a small hand at me. And because this shadow is my own blasted echo, I know exactly what he’s saying:
You should have seen the look on your face when I jumped at you, y’duffer.
I’m not sure if I’m shaking with fury or shock or stress or all of it, but when I pry myself off the ground, I toss a few choice words at that impish fellow.
Of course my boyish shadow-self would have a morbid sense of humor.
I’m finally able to catch my breath, the chill skimming my skin waning as I realize that maybe this shadowed nuisance isn’t going to kill me after all.
Hopefully.
“Okay, so . . .” I turn toward Tootles and point to Shadow still clinging to the ceiling. “Explain how this happened.”
Tootles shuffles his feet. “After you cut off your shadow and escaped—I think he fell. I found him all tangled up in the twisted branches of a tree, barely moving. I brought him back here, and pretty soon he was skittering around everywhere and getting into all kinds of trouble.” He gives his head a shake. “He’s a bit of a nuisance, but over time, Shadow sort of . . . kept me company.”
As he casts a knowing glance at the shadow, Tootles’s expression lifts with a small smile. I have a sudden idea of how lonely Tootles must have been while I was gone. The only Lost Boy left here, the only one who hadn’t joined Hook.
When I spy Shadow
again, he’s slid down from the ceiling and lounges like a slip of paper on a cracked chair at the far end of the room. The large chair that I’d once called my throne. I’d perch in it like a proper royal and order the boys about. But now the makeshift throne has become dull and spider-webbed and a little shrunken, like the rest of this place.
I slowly turn in a circle and take in the hideout. Hard-packed dirt walls that used to be covered in moss or freckled by small flowers are now instead only marred by dark, jagged veins. Even the tree roots that used to curl out of the walls and create a perfect place to hang one’s slingshot are gone. Dust cakes the ground, and the thick woven matts we’d rigged to sleep on have been piled in a corner to make a thicker bed for Tootles, and others have been propped at an angle as a makeshift chair.
Even the table and chairs we’d hand carved and strapped together with coils of rope are chipped and sagging.
Clearly Tootles has tried his best to patch up what he can, but this underground sanctum that used to be so full of life and rustic color and vibrancy and laughter and boys’ games is now . . . dusty and forlorn.
Everything, that is, but the weapons that are within arm’s reach near the exit of the hideout, where I see Tootles stow the pistol he’s been carrying. Boxes of stored vegetables and dried meat are also stacked against the wall. I spy a pile of torn rags and needle and thread. I doubt it’s for sewing clothes—more like sewing up wounds.
This place has been transformed into a bunker for survival.
A sharp pang shunts through my chest. My head starts to ache.
I scoop up some of the ointment and shredded rags from Tootles’s stash and gingerly shove off my hoodie. “Mind if I . . . ?” I gesture to the slices that sting along my torso. He ducks his head in a nod, quickly crouching beside me and together we make quick work of binding up the cuts. The ointment not only helps the wounds heal but takes the edge off the pain.
Once I’m all fixed up, I tug my hoodie back on and slowly rise to my feet.
Tootles stares at me for a long minute, like he’s going to say something, then lets out a long breath. “I’ll find us something to eat.” He wanders toward the mess quarters of the hideout.
I scan the hideout again, starting to feel a tad more optimistic at the thought of grub. But then I see the tiny nook nestled in the corner of the hideout. My chest locks up.
I try to toss a lousy attempt at humor toward Tootles. “You didn’t give her home to another pixie, did you?”
But Tootles’s reply is somber. “Peter, there aren’t many pixies left.”
I sputter. “What? What does that mean?”
He’s scrounging around inside a large tub filled with some kind of dried fish. “Most of them haven’t survived. They’re too frail for how tumultuous Neverland has been with all the anger and doubt that Connor brought here.”
In a haze, I head toward the small alcove carved out of the hideout’s wall. A slender drape of woven, shimmering white strands handmade by the pixies themselves still falls over the entrance to the tiny home.
And I know, even before I gently lift the thin curtain and peer inside, that Tootles has taken good care of her.
Her memory.
I try to hold back the grief that is welling like a blasted storm inside of me.
Not a speck of dust mars Tink’s small home. Her bed made of seabird feathers is stacked nicely. Her tiny thimble seat and the seashell mirror rest delicately in one corner. The tiny crown of dried berries I’d once made her lies beside her bed. I lean closer to take in the intricate drawings she’d spread across her walls. Painted by a tiny pixie hand and in a shimmering gold ink she’d stolen from the human world, silhouettes of Lost Boys circling the little place. Grinning and playing and meaning everything to the tiny pixie.
A pang pierces through me when I see that even Connor is pictured here.
Then I spot myself. Painted in the center of the curving wall, hands on my hips, large grin and dancing eyes.
And she’s painted herself there too—a tiny fluttering thing perched on my shoulder.
Peter and Tink. The way it had always been. The way it was supposed to be.
In a world where the pixies had filled the island with light and life.
Not in this world that snuffed their very lights out.
As I stare at this empty place where Tink used to be, the wall I’d built to hold back grief splinters.
I break.
I can’t pretend this is all fine. That I can still fix this, make it what it used to be.
I can’t bring her back.
Can’t bring any of it back.
It feels like a white-hot poker has suddenly been rammed through my temples, and my entire body shakes. My knees crumple, and I collapse to the floor. But it’s the thick, wet tears dripping down my cheeks that are the most shocking. Salty and gushing from my blooming eyes.
It’s all so wrong.
Tears flood down my face. My nose runs, and droplets dribble off my chin. I can’t make it stop.
The world seems to spin. But it isn’t until things begin to clatter around, chairs sliding and Tootles tripping across the floor, that I realize it’s not just my head spinning.
The whole room spins. Rocking and shaking with my sobs.
The island is grieving with me.
Maybe my connection isn’t as distant as I thought.
I’m not sure how long I continue to weep, glad that no one else is around besides Tootles and Shadow to see me grieve just how lost of a boy I truly am. How much has been torn away. Crying for Tink and her people. Everything I somehow ripped apart without ever realizing it.
When the tears finally ebb, a bit of strength comes back into my muscles, and the massive ache in my head has dulled as well.
Scrubbing at my face with a mucked-up sleeve, I gulp down deep breaths. My feet are unsteady as I stand, but at least the floor has stopped rocking. Shoving thick tendrils of reddish hair out of my eyes, I find Tootles staring at me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.” His own eyes glisten. “Not even when Wendy left.”
I wipe at my face. “Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve ever blubbered quite so much before.” I point a stern finger at him. “And if you tell anyone—”
But Tootles throws spindly arms around me and clumsily pats my back. “It’s all right, Peter. We all need a good cry sometimes.”
Good ol’ Tootles.
I reel back and wipe my leaking nose. “You sound like Claire.”
“I think I’ll like this Claire.” He smiles.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Whoa, there. She’s mine, mate.”
Tootles colors. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Don’t fret, chap.” I clap him on the shoulder. “I won’t tell Tiger Lily you said that.”
That makes him blush more, and I’m glad to see that his soft spot for the tribal princess is still there. At least some things don’t change.
The familiar banter helps soothe the ache in my chest. Tootles offers me water, and after I guzzle it, a new kind of determination settles over me. I may not be able to bring the pixies back, but I can try to save whatever is left of this place and Claire. “All right, mate. I want to hear it—all of it. What is really going on here? And how did you survive for so long? I can’t imagine Connor has been happy with you. Or Hook. Or anyone, really.”
Tootles sits on one of the less rickety chairs. “It hasn’t been easy.” He slowly rolls up one of his baggy sleeves, and as he does so, I see the thick, jagged lines of roughly healed scars tracing up his thin arms. Nasty-looking scars—some of them deep enough and jagged enough that he must have stitched them up on his own.
I wince just thinking about it.
“Connor’s connection to Neverland is unlike anything I’ve seen. He’s learned how to wield the island like a weapon.” He rolls up his other sleeve, revealing thin spirals of jagged scars. “One time, he tried to catch me by wrapping me up in thorny vines. And he to
ld the sirens to drown me. Another time, it was a tree branch to my head.”
He pulls back hair from his temple, revealing another scar disappearing into his hairline. “Connor already has control over nearly every tree and vine and inch of broken ground. The rivers flow with ink, and the sun rarely shines through.”
Tootles braces his hands in front of him and looks straight at me. “If he gets what he really wants—total control of the island no longer split between you, him, and Claire?” His eyes grow dark. “He’ll have access to more magic and devastation than anyone could ever come back from.”
I slump to the floor, back against the packed-dirt wall. “And no one has tried to do anything? Even if only to slow him down?”
Tootles shakes his head. “They’re all terrified. Even Hook. And a few months ago Connor kidnapped a tribal healer from Lily’s people. Not even their warriors could stop him.”
I’m surprised. “A healer? Why would Connor need a tribal healer?”
Tootles pinches his eyes shut. “I’m not sure. The healer refused to help with whatever Connor wanted. No one has ever seen him since, and his apprentices went into hiding. I’ve heard rumors from the few pixies who’ve been able to sneak on board the ship that Connor is researching into Dark Stars and Blood Bonds. I have no idea what that means, but I do know one thing.”
He opens his eyes, and we both speak in unison. “It’s not good.”
I chew over everything he’s just said. “Well, there’s only one thing to do.” Getting to my feet. I trail my gaze from Tink’s little alcove, to Shadow plastered against the wall behind Tootles, and back down to the Lost Boy.
“We have to get Claire back before Connor can do anything dodgy. Once we have her back, we’ll figure out what to do next. How to fix the island and rescue that healer.”
Tootles looks at me a moment, then kicks back his chair as he abruptly rises to his feet. “That was actually a decent and not totally foolhardy idea.” There’s a ghost of a grin as he knocks me on the shoulder. “What did you do with the old Peter Pan?”
I blink. “I think he’s finally growing up. Just the tiniest bit.”