by Terry Brooks
The pirates drank from flagons of ale and rum pouches, cheering lustily, pounding fists and glasses on the ship's railing. "Hook! Hook! Hook!"
The captain watched Peter inch his way back along the plank toward the safety of the deck, relief etched in his chubby features. He can't help being pitiful, it seems, Hook thought, sighing. He hoped this fat, old Pan would find a way to offer him some small challenge. It wouldn't be good form, after all, to kill him the way he was.
He strode briskly to the end of the plank to confront his enemy a final time. "Go on, whoever or whatever you are." He sneered. "Get out of my sight. Fly, why don't you? Fly your fat carcass off my ship!"
He jumped up and down on the plank furiously, sending Peter catapulting into the air.
"But I can't!" Peter Banning wailed. "I don't know how!"
Tinkerbell flitted swiftly into view. "Come on, Peter," she urged. "You've got to! Think a happy thought!"
Peter landed uncertainly on the plank again, balanced precariously above the waves. "Now?"
"Of course, now! Think of Christmas!"
A pirate hit the end of the plank a final time. Peter lost what remained of his composure and tumbled away. Down he went, Tink yelling after him, and disappeared in a splash.
"You really can't fly?" Tink cried in despair. "Then swim, Peter! You can swim, can't you?"
"Doubtful," murmured Hook, peering down.
Peter's face could be momentarily seen beneath the surface of the water, and then it was gone.
"Terrible luck," Hook sympathized with a smile.
Tinkerbell darted toward the water and away again, rushing this way and that. No sign of Peter. When it was clear that he was gone, she burst into tears and disappeared in a flash of light. Hook yawned, growing bored. The whole bargain-making business had been a waste of time. Three days or three years, it wouldn't have made a snail's ear's worth of difference.
Then abruptly, impossibly, Peter resurfaced, cradled in the arms of three shimmering mermaids, each giving him long, deep mermaid kisses, breathing air into his lungs. One after another, they kissed him, over and over again. Then they raised his head clear of the water and sped toward the entrance to the harbor, fishtails propelling them swiftly away.
Hook watched incredulously for a moment, then rolled his eyes and blew a kiss after them. "Pan, luckiest of devils. See you in Hades!"
But before he could turn away, a fourth mermaid leaped from the waters directly in front of him, a shining, graceful woman-fish, paused nose to nose with the scourge of the seven seas, the only man the infamous Barbecue had ever feared, and spat water right in his eye.
As she dived from sight, Hook wiped the water from his face with his sleeve and glowered after her. Intentionally or not, she had put out his cigars.
The Lost Boys F ound
For Peter, waterlogged and exhausted, rescue happened in a dream. He was borne on the crest of the ocean's waves for many leagues, the soft arms of the mermaids wrapped tightly about him, keeping him safe and warm. The fish-women sang to him, their voices sweet and reassuring. The stories they told were of a time and place only dimly remembered and forgotten again as soon as the words were spoken. There was a boy in the stories, a child who refused to grow up, who lived in a place where adventures were the food of life, and no day was complete without at least several. The boy was fearless; he dared anything. He lived in a world of pirates and Indians, of magical happenings, of time suspended and dreams come true. He was a boy who, Peter sensed, he had once known.
Somewhere along the way the remnants of his pirate garb disappeared and with them his immediate memory of why he had ever worn them.
His journey ended at a column of rock that lifted out of the ocean like a massive pillar, and the mermaids placed him in a giant clamshell tied to a rope that ran up through its center. The clamshell closed about Peter, and he felt himself rising, slowly, steadily, rocking gently in his cocoon. When his ascent was complete, the clamshell's lid cranked open, and he was tossed like a coin on which a wish had been made, landing with an oomph on a grassy bank.
His eyes fluttered open. The waters of a small, clear lagoon sparkled behind him. The clamshell was gone. The mermaids were gone. Their memory was all that remained, and he was already starting to wonder if he might not have imagined the whole thing.
Taking a deep breath, he staggered to his feet, water dripping from his hair onto his face, and from his clothing to the ground. He brushed at himself futilely, then lifted his gaze to look around.
His breath caught in his throat. He stood at the top of the rock column of his dream, hundreds of feet above the ocean, so far up that it seemed the clouds in the sky might pass close enough to brash his hand. The atoll stood just off the coast of the island to which he had been carried, surrounded by azure waters, white foam, and the glistening backs of waves. Mountain peaks rose from the island's spine, their tips white with new snow. Twin rainbows arced from a series of waterfalls into the sea. Far below and miles away, hunkered down within its protective cove, was the pirate town of James Hook. Farther still, where the sky and ocean met in a perfect horizontal line, the sun was a flare of gold and purple light. The afternoon was waning. Sunset approached.
Peter glanced skyward and was astonished to find not one, but three moons, one white, one peach, and the last pale rose. They shared the sky comfortably, as if they might actually belong.
And behind Peter, away from the lagoon and at the exact center of the atoll, stood the largest tree he had ever seen in his life-a great, gnarled, old forest denizen somehow removed to this rock, jutting toward the sky, its limbs stretched forth as if in supplication. It might have been a maple or an oak or a mix of each and still it would have to have been something more. It was like no tree that Peter had ever seen.
It was like something imagined in boyhood.
Or in a dream.
Nevertree. The wind whispered the name in his ear.
He took a step toward the tree, past a patch of rose-tipped yellow flowers that leaned over curiously to sniff at him. He jumped away in disbelief. The flowers sneezed. What is this? He took another tentative step, and another, moving away from the flowers. Flowers that sniff? That sneeze?
He was still wrestling with the concept when he stepped into a rope snare that closed about his ankles, yanked him from his feet, and hoisted him upside down high into the network of tree limbs. His pockets emptied-business and credit cards, wallet, keys, and loose change all falling to the ground below. His breath left him in a gasp, and he flailed in an effort to right himself. But the rope went taut, and he was left hanging helplessly.
I don't believe this, he announced to himself.
He hung there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Finally, he managed after repeated attempts to jacknife upward far enough to catch hold of his own legs (he really was going to have to get into an exercise program) and from there pulled himself up until he could reach the rope that bound him. Looking vaguely like an oversized tetherball, he began working to swing himself toward a nearby branch that appeared heavy enough to offer support.
That was when he saw the clock. It was hanging from the branch he was trying to grasp, an ornate, scrolled, wood-carved affair that looked as if it had once been the top of a grandfather clock in an English manor house. The clock face was inlaid with gold and silver, and there was an attractive arrangement of flowering vines hanging down about its shell and works.
Peter snatched at the branch from which the clock hung, catching hold finally, causing it to shake violently. From inside the clock came an "Oh!"
Then the clock face swung open and out flew Tink, roused from the shell that served as her bed, her eyes darting this way and that before finally settling on Peter and growing instantly to twice their normal size.
"You're alive!" she gasped.
And everything came back to Peter in a rush, the floodgates of his memory opened in that instant's time.
"Tink! I've got to save Maggie and
Jack! Get me out of this trap!"
But Tink was too busy flitting back and forth across his cheek, pecking at him with her faerie lips, crying out joyfully, "You're alive, you're alive!"
"Yes, it was mermaids, I think. I'm not sure really. Are there mermaids here?" He didn't want to make too much of it at this point. "But my kids, Tink. What can I do? How can I fight Hook? I can't! Look at me! I'm a mess! I'm fat and out of shape, I can't fight my own shadow, let alone some pirate-"
"The Lost Boys!" she exclaimed, as if that answered everything. "This is the Nevertree, Peter! This is their home! And you'll need them if you're to do anything about Hook! All we have to do is make them believe that you're the Pan!"
Peter groaned. "But I'm not! I'm Peter Banning!"
"Ha! That's today! You don't look it yet maybe, but you're more Pan than you think! You'll deal with Hook and get your children back. I promise you will! You wait and see!"
Up she flew to where the rope snare bound his legs, produced a pair of tiny scissors, and began to snip.
Peter cast a hurried glance down-which was a long way. "Wait, I don't think-" he started to say, and then the rope parted and he fell with a long, frightened cry to land flat on his back in a bed of moss, the breath and the sense knocked from his body.
"He's back, he's back!" he heard Tink cry out sharply, and caught a fuzzy glimpse of her darting upward into the limbs of the great old tree. "Lost Boys, come out! It's the Pan! He's back!"
Peter blinked to clear his vision. From his vantage point beneath the Nevertree, looking up into a web of limbs that seemed to stretch on forever, he watched in amazement at what happened next.
As Tink flitted from branch to branch, a flash of light against the bark and leaves in the shadows of the fading afternoon, the Nevertree came alive. Branches shook, bells sounded, whistles blew, chimes rang, and doors slammed open. Boys appeared from everywhere, as quick and nimble as cats. The first had long blond hair, a vest and top hat, and carried an antler horn. He blew into it instantly, a deep, lowing call that seemed to trigger everything else. Out of the cacophony the boys appeared, a ragged bunch dressed in every form of vestment imaginable, flashes of motion and color as they filled the Nevertree and began to descend, yelling "Pan! Pan!" Down they came, on vines and ropes, on slides formed of hollow logs and bark, from nets lowered on winches, in buckets, and along ramps.
Peter shoved himself up on his elbows, astonished at then-energy. Now the ground was opening up as Lost Boys emerged from underground tunnels and caves, exiting through large tufts of saw grass, stumps, and tree roots, popping up like weeds in summer heat. Ten, fifteen, twenty at least, materializing from everywhere. They were all shapes and sizes and colors, bright-eyed and eager every last one of them, hands and arms waving as they shouted out for the Pan.
A moment later they were gathered about him. Peter climbed unsteadily to his knees to face them. They backed away a step, staring, then all of them began talking at once.
"Is it him? Lemme see. That's really Pan?" some said.
"Too old and fat. He's a grown-up! He's not Pan!" declared others.
"I'm Peter Banning," he ventured.
Immediately they began shouting their names back at him, almost like challenge. Ace, the blond kid with the antler horn. Don't Ask, wearing a tie, a shirt with a round collar, and a fifties kind of blue and white plaid jacket. Latchboy, a round-cheeked little fellow with curly red hair and a winning smile. No Nap, ebony-skinned and wearing striped coveralls and a newsboy cap. Pockets, a dark, sweet-looking youth with huge brown eyes and a plaid, floppy cap and pockets sewn everywhere on his red coveralls. Too Small, who really was, possessing an uncertain smile and curly brown hair the same color as Jack's.
Like Jack's, Peter thought in despair.
And finally Thud Butt, who arrived in a barrel, bursting out of it with a whommph that left everyone gasping, a rotund, exuberant kid with a tam, his chubby face puffing as he emerged, clutching what appeared at first glance to be some sort of medical chart with a diagram of a human figure and arrows pointing to various parts of the body.
There were others as well, more names than Peter could remember or even hear in the clamor. He stared from face to face, from outfit to outfit. Children! All boys, the Lost Boys.
Carrying weapons, he noticed suddenly. Knives, tomahawks, slings and bows of all shapes and sizes. And rattles! Baby rattles! Each Lost Boy wore one, proudly displayed about his neck or from his belt or wherever. Peter couldn't believe it.
"Tell us a story, tell us a story!" some were shouting now, noticeably the smaller ones.
But others were beginning to ask, "What would Rufio say? What about Rufio?"
Tink flashed into view, zipping among them, saying, "Listen to me! It's him! It's really the Pan!"
Then a piercing cry sounded, like the crowing of a cock at sunrise, fierce and proud. The Lost Boys turned as one, crying out "Rufio!"
Instantly Tink flashed to Peter. "Rufio's here. He's leader now, and he'll be hard to convince. You don't know about Rufio, do you?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully.
There was a flash of movement in the limbs overhead, far out at the edges of the Nevertree. Something that resembled a sailboard, its cloth sail colored with pictures, whipped like a roller coaster down a wooden track along a ridge line backing the Nevertree, a boy mounted at the mast. In one hand he held the slim, golden sword that had once belonged to Peter Pan. As the sailboard reached a bend in the track the boy vaulted off, diving into the wind, arms outspread. Down he plummeted, holding his body arched, then at the last minute reached out to grab a trailing vine, pulled out of his dive, and dropped gracefully into the midst of the Lost Boys, arms and sword raised triumphantly.
"Rufio! Rufio!" the Lost Boys cheered.
He was bigger than the others, coffee-skinned with a broad, confident smile, black hair styled in punkish fashion and dyed with red stripes. He wore pants and shirt fringed with red and black buckskin strips and red boots. Leather bracelets were strapped to his wrist and a large knife was sheathed at his belt.
His smile remained in place as the cheers continued, then faded quickly as he turned to face Peter.
Peter was already moving, striding forward, finger pointing. He was shaking with anger. "Okay, mister, you've had your fun. Now put that thing down before you poke somebody's eye out! Don't you know how dangerous that stunt was? My God! You fell from a very high place with a sword in your hand! This is ridiculous preadolescent anarchy! Where are your parents? I want to talk to whoever's in charge!"
Most reactions we can find ways to control, no matter the situation. Only a few are so explosive that nothing short of an iron band across the mouth will prevent them from bursting forth. Such, unfortunately, was the case with Peter Banning's sense of Parental Responsibility.
Tink flashed in front of his eyes, hissing, "No, Peter, no!"
Rufio brought the sword up threateningly. "I'm in charge."
Peter drew up short. "A kid? I want to speak to a grown-up-and I mean right now!"
Rufio's frown had turned dangerous. "All grown-ups are pirates. We kill pirates."
Peter drew himself up. "Well, I'm not a pirate. It happens that I'm a lawyer!"
A howl went up from the Lost Boys. Rufio thrust his sword into the air. "Kill the lawyer!" he cried.
The chant rose from every quarter. Peter hesitated only long enough to admit to himself that quite possibly he had said the wrong thing, and then he was off and running.
"Kill the lawyer! Kill the lawyer!"
Peter fled into a tunnel and found himself on the sailboard track. He scrambled along, not caring where he was going, knowing only that he had once read Lord of the Flies, remembering how things had turned out there. He called desperately for Tink-perhaps she could make things right-but there was no response. The shouts and cries of the Lost Boys followed after him, spurring him on. He emerged from the tunnel on a span of track that bridged a grassy stretch close by the lagoon and a waterfall.<
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Thud! Thud!
He looked down to find arrows sticking out of him. Or, rather, sticking to him-knobby things that seemed to have adhered to the front of his dress shirt. One was dangling from his crotch.
"I've been shot!" he exclaimed in horror.
A ragged cheer rose from a small group of Lost Boys gathered below.
"Heart Stopper, Rib Tickler, Barf Button, and Nutcracker!" declared Don't Ask, plaid-jacketed arm pointing to the diagram held by Thud Butt. There were names and point totals indicating a score for every hit.
Peter examined himself. "What is this stuff?" He touched the end of detached arrow experimentally. Glue! How disgusting!
A rolling sound from ahead signaled the arrival of Rufio aboard the coaster. Peter turned and raced back into the tunnel, panting for breath. Cries sounded from that direction, too. Having no choice, he ran on, back the way he had come, emerging from the tunnel to find Latchboy and No Nap running away from him.
"Help, somebody!" cried Latchboy and No Nap. ''He's chasing us!"
"I'm not either!" Peter insisted between breaths. "You're chasing me!"
"No," they persisted with small-boy logic, "you're chasing us!" And they dived off the track into the grass.
Twins in tattered, old-fashioned Boy Scout uniforms rushed to intercept Peter, but now Tink appeared, flashing to intercept them, yanking up a vine, which tripped them and knocked them flat.
She buzzed in front of their faces. "He married Wendy's granddaughter! Hook kidnapped his kids! We have to get him in shape to fight!"
The twins stared at each other. "What's she talking about?" they said as one.
The coaster and Rufio caught up with Peter seconds later and bumped him off the track. He sprawled in a heap, gasping for breath. How could this be happening to him? Lost boys cheered all about. Peter dragged himself to his knees-only to discover flowers sniffing at him once again. Sniff, sniff. They seemed to like the glue. He slapped them away, struggled up, and began running once more.
Lost Boys charged after him in pursuit, yelling gaily. For them, it was all a game.