by Terry Brooks
So up he got and off he went to exercise-fat, old Peter Banning, attorney-at-law and sometime developer, strayed from the real world into this imaginary one, out on a when-you-wish-upon-a-star kind of expedition that a faerie and a bunch of little boys were convinced would result in the discovery of his own personal fountain of youth.
It was midmorning, and he had been at it for more than three hours already. Lord have mercy!
Down the pathway into spring he jogged once more, grateful to be past winter, looking forward to summer. His breath came in gasps, his feet were on fire, his muscles ached, and his whole body puffed and shook and generally refused to respond in any positive way to the torture he was putting it through. Tink jogged on his shoulder, going nowhere, enjoying it nevertheless. His entourage of Lost Boys ran circles around him, darting here and there, urging him on, singing and dancing and calling out enthusiastically, covering three times the ground and possessed of at least twice the energy.
Oh, to be twelve again-just for the morning!
He trudged elephantlike through the wildflowers, their scent pungent and sweet in the warming air, spring in full bloom now where it dipped down the rise beneath the limbs of the Nevertree and approached the lagoon. Around and around the tree he had gone, in and out of the four seasons. Real seasons, not pretend. Summer, fall, winter, spring. At first he hadn't been able to believe it-an entire year's seasons grouped around a single tree, never mind how big the tree might be. It wasn't environmentally possible. It wasn't rationally conceivable. And yet, nevertheless, there it was. It took him a dozen times or so of trooping about the tree and passing through each to accept that they were there-a dozen times of sloshing through winter's snows, tripping through spring's flowers, dancing through summer's grasses, and sprinting (well, almost) through fall's colors. But in the end he had accepted what was happening because, after all, it wasn't any crazier than anything else he had encountered, and now was hardly the time to start being choosy.
Sweat dripped off his forehead and ran down into his face. He licked his lips. The temperature warmed as he left spring, passed the lagoon, and started up into summer.
He would give anything for a cold beer!
"Gotta train! In the rain! Gotta run! In the sun! In the snow! Ten below!"
"Shape up! Lose weight! Get thin! Gotta win!"
"Pick 'em up! Move 'em down! Pick 'em on up! Off the ground!"
His little band of followers shouted slogans from all around, pushing him from behind, pulling him from ahead, leading him from season to season, from ache to ache. The remainder of the Lost Boys, Rufio at their head, were gathered in clusters about the Nevertree, watching. Mostly, they were laughing-rolling on the ground in hysterics, yelling very unkind (however true) remarks about Peter's body every time he passed them.
"Hey, jollymon, catch a bus!" shouted Rufio, bringing laughter from all quarters.
"Must be more than one of you in there!" roared another.
Peter kept on, ignoring them as best he could, conscious of the fact that he looked ridiculous, continuing only because he didn't know what else to do. If there was even the slightest chance that Tink was right, that this was the way to get Jack and Maggie free of Captain Hook…
He closed his eyes momentarily against what he was feeling, then staggered on toward fall and its slippery carpet of leaves where he always fell at least once, then winter and its curious penguins, and back again into spring, and on and on and on.
When he was finally allowed to stop running, he was somewhere between spring and summer and total exhaustion. Allowing no rest, Tink directed him briskly to the makeshift exercise equipment that the Lost Boys had constructed. Peter's old clothing was in tatters by now-his dress shirt and the remnants of his tux. The waistcoat had disappeared entirely. His shoes were scuffed and dusty.
Tink started him first on a bar attached to a rope, counterbalanced by Lost Boys sitting in a basket. Too Small and Latchboy started, the lightest of the group, and then heavier boys took their place. When that wasn't enough, they added rocks. Peter succeeded in pulling the bar down by dint of excess weight alone and not because of muscle tone. He gave it up after a dozen tries.
From there he was moved to the leg-lift machine, where a rope tied to a bar and affixed to his ankles ran to a cluster of what the Lost Boys claimed was poison ivy suspended over his face. Failure to keep the legs up resulted in the obvious. Peter grunted and strained, his stomach muscles turned to water, and his face was bathed in sweat. He would have dropped the poison ivy into his face in the end if Thud Butt hadn't grabbed the rope a moment before his collapse.
Peter rolled away, gasping. He looked up at his entourage forlornly. "I know I'm in lousy shape. I know I'm old and fat. I know I'm going on forty. I accept all that. I accept my mortality. How is all this going to help me get my kids back?"
Pockets bent down as if to study a specimen on a slide, floppy hat dipping over one eye. "The only way ta be uh kid is ta look like uh kid," he answered solemnly.
Then they hauled Peter to his feet again and steered him to a huge tree stump over which he was unceremoniously draped. Most of what remained of his clothes was stripped off. Surrounded by Lost Boys, he had another flash of the horrors of Lord of the Flies, but it turned out they had something much worse in mind. Crowding close, they began to pummel him with fists and hands in a sort of haphazard massage, kneading and rubbing his flabby flesh and rubber-band muscles, bringing out from within every last smidgen of pain he had spent the morning building up and trying to forget. Finished with one side, they flipped him over and began on the other, singing and calling out as they worked. Peter was certain he was going to die. Secretly, he began to wish for it.
This will never work, he told himself dismally. Never.
Rufio walked up and gave his stomach a double twist with his knuckles. "Ain't missed too many meals lately, 'ey, Mr. Pretend Pan?" he jeered.
The massage ended and the Lost Boys raised him up, somewhat the way you would a limp noodle, and took a look at their handiwork.
"Gettin' there," ventured Thud Butt, hands on hips. His bluff, chubby face broke into a toothy smile.
"Still doesn't look right." Don't Ask frowned.
Pockets, Latchboy, Ace, and No Nap crowded close. Then Too Small wormed into view, reached out, and pulled a tuft of Peter's chest hair. The Lost Boys stared at each other. Amusement twinkled in their eyes. No Nap scratched himself like a gorilla, bringing peals of laughter from the others.
Within moments a steaming bowl of soap lather was brought forward by Don't Ask. Ace followed, top hat cocked back, a very large, very sharp knife in his hand. Peter's eyes went wide. He backed off the stump and tried to run, but the boys tackled him and wrestled him to the ground. With arms and legs securely pinned, Peter decided that twisting his torso against the knife blade was counterproductive, and so he lay quite still as Ace carefully shaved the hair from his body, front and back, then worked his way down both legs and arms as well, until Peter had been scraped pretty well clean.
Clad only in his shorts now, he stood staring down at his smooth, pink-skinned body in disbelief. All that hair had covered a whole lot of flesh, he decided. There seemed to be a lot more of him now.
The Lost Boys stood around, eyeing him critically, a few nodding their approval. Rufio reappeared and stood watching without comment. Tink darted this way and that, appraising him from all angles.
Suddenly Pockets began whispering to the other Lost Boys. Peter knew from experience now what that meant and began looking for a way through their ranks. But once again he was overpowered as they descended on him with war paint decorating him with stripes and squiggles and strange faces in the wildest colors, making him look as much as possible like them, to disguise the last vestiges of who and what he had been when he had come to them, trying to find the Pan hidden somewhere within.
When they were done, they stepped back once again. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Pockets said quietly, "Godda see ib
you can still fly, Peder."
Singing and dancing anew, they paraded him through the clearing and up through spring and along the edges of winter to a cliff. A giant sling sat just back from its edge. The sling was made of wood and ropes and had a leather pouch into which Peter was summarily plopped.
"Wait, no, this isn't going to work!" Peter protested, wide-eyed with fear.
Pockets and Ace walked to the edge of the cliff and peered down. Below, standing next to a giant mud puddle, was a Lost Boy holding a cutout of Peter. Blond hair pushed carefully back beneath his hat, Ace raised his spyglass and called out a distance to Pockets, who marked it down on a small chalkboard. A hurried discussion ensued with several others and an agreement was reached. Ace lifted his hand to signal.
Peter heard the sound of a crank being turned and felt his pouch begin to draw back through the heavy framework of the sling. The band of the catapult slowly tightened.
Ratchets caught and slipped. Click! Click! Click!
Peter couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. He was paralyzed with fright. They weren't really going to do this, were they? Not really? This was ridiculous! This was incredibly dangerous!
Tink appeared beside him, walking along in time to the clicking of the ratchets, eyeing him critically. "All you need is one happy thought, Peter. Just one, and it will make you fly."
Peter swallowed. "Get me out of here, Tink!"
"One happy thought," she persisted.
"Not being in this slingshot would make me very happy! Ecstatic, in fact!"
Below, where the cutout had been measured, a gathering of Lost Boys were raising a huge net. They think they're in a circus, thought Peter in horror.
"Think, Peter," urged Tink, still following his progress backward in the pouch. "Try."
Peter thought, desperate now. "Wait! I have one!"
Tink bounced excitedly. "I knew you could do it! What is it?"
"Last February, the market shot up two hundred points!"
Tink stared. "What market? What are you talking about?"
Peter's head bobbed, frantic. "No, you're right-I was underinvested. Wait, let me think. Got it! This one will fly!" He cringed at his choice of words. "It's the perks!"
Tinkerbell tossed her head. "Are they wonderful, rich, round cakes with lots of frosting?"
Peter laughed tonelessly. "I'm talking about a five-line phone in a super-stretch limo, last-minute tickets to any sporting event, to any theater I name, corporate jets with precleared flight plans and priority landing…"
Tink held up her hands to shut him off. ' 'This can't be the right direction, Peter. Look, maybe this will help. I'll say some things. You see what comes to mind. Close your eyes and picture it."
Peter was happy to close his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready. Hurry!"
Tink flitted close. "Puppies."
Peter frowned. "They try to commit suicide under your feet."
"Cotton candy."
"Disgusting, cavity-inducing pink goo that gets all over your hands."
"Snow."
"Awful-turns to slush and ruins the finish of your car." Peter's voice was a wail. "I'm not happy!"
Tink flared. "Are you happy in spring?"
Peter's lips compressed. "Taxes."
"Summer?"
"Mosquitoes."
"How about swimming?"
"Chlorine."
"Play-Doh?"
Peter hesitated. "What's that?"
"Christmas?"
"Gifts, bills, credit cards. I'm not happy!"
"Swings or slides?"
"Fact of life. Happens all the time if you play the market. You've just got to learn to live with it:"
"MMs?" Tink was growing desperate.
"Melts on your couch, not in your hand."
Tink exploded. "Peter, nothing makes you happy!"
Peter's whole face was crumpled tight in concentration. "No, now that's simply not true. Just let me think, let me think. One minute. How much time do I have left?''
"None," whispered Rufio in his ear.
Peter's eyes shot open. Rufio towered over him, legs spread, arms folded as he balanced on the end of the sling frame. Almost as if by magic, the Pan sword appeared, slicing down through the taut rope. The sling released, catapulting Peter skyward. Arms and legs flailing madly, his voice raised in a howl of disbelief and terror, Peter tried desperately to fly. Down below, Lost Boys shouted and leaped about, some holding up placards that spelled out words like horsies, candie, bugs, and pennies. None of them meant anything to Peter. He seemed to sail overhead for a very long time, the eyes of the boys below tracking his progress hopefully. Tink watched with them, peeking out from between the slits of the fingers she had clasped over her eyes, wings and heart beating madly.
Just one happy thought!
But it was not to be this day. Down plummeted Peter, tumbling into the safety net in a frightened heap, the air whooshing from his lungs, his body bouncing like a balloon in the wind. Tink flew to his side, followed by the small entourage of Lost Boys who were still in his camp.
The rest turned doubtfully to Rufio.
Rufio lifted his sword. "I'm more man than Pan-and twicet the boy! Now, who is wi' me?"
They charged from where they stood to join him, crying out, "Rufio, Rufio, Rufio!" He raised the sword high to signal victory, leading them away from the cliff. In seconds they were gone, headed back to the Nevertree.
Peter sat up, dazed. Tink and the seven Lost Boys stared down at him disconsolately.
"There was the Proctor and Gamble deal," he announced hesitantly. "That made me happy."
No one seemed impressed.
Peter was last to the dinner table that night, so bone weary he could barely manage to hold his head up. Everything hurt from his hair to his toes. Bruised, battered, and bandaged, he was a certifiable wreck. Tink and the little band of Lost Boy followers had kept him going the entire day, from one exercise to the next, over and over and over again.
Except for the sling routine-they hadn't bothered to try that on him again.
Not that it mattered. Nor that anything they did mattered. Because nothing they did was going to work-of that Peter was certain. They could run him, pummel him, and sling him hither and yon until the cows came home and it wouldn't change things. He was still fat, old Peter Banning and not-he couldn't bring himself to say the name-who they wanted him to be. Worse, none of this was getting him any closer to rescuing Jack and Maggie.
So as he trudged from the jogging track and exercise machines to the long table set back close beneath the branches of the Nevertree within the shadow of summer and hailing distance of spring, he found himself confronted with the fact that he was on the verge of failing his kids one more. Not being there for baseball games or piano recitals was one thing. Not being there to save Jack and Maggie from Hook was something else again. It would be the culmination of a long line of disappointments he had given them-only this one was likely to prove fatal.
He wiped away the tears that sprang to his eyes, not wanting anyone to see, and moved to take a seat. Despite his distress, he was hungry. No, make that starved. He'd had nothing to eat all day, kept busy by Tink and the Lost Boys trying to find the boy in himself. Which was long since gone, of course. Which was dead and buried. He shoved the thought away. At any rate he needed to eat. However slim his chances of helping his kids might be in any case, they were nonexistent if he didn't eat.
The table was crowded from end to end, with Rufio and his pack occupying most of it. Peter's bunch was gathered in a small section at the opposite center. A space had been left for him, and he settled into it gratefully, sandwiched between Pockets and Ace. Tink was seated at the center of the table in a place of her own.
Rufio sat directly across from Peter. He smiled disdainfully as Peter sat down, mischief dancing in his eyes. Peter ignored him.
I have to eat. I have to build up strength.
He took a deep breath.
I can't stop trying.
A handful of Lost Boys appeared, bearing steaming dishes from clay ovens fired red-hot. Peter inhaled the aromas and sighed. Whatever it was, it smelled wonderful!
Ace passed him a dish, and he set it down in front of himself, brushing away the steam to see what was on it.
The dish was empty.
Peter stared blankly, then lifted his gaze to look down the table. Everyone was eating ravenously, scooping food into their mouths, chewing in delight. Except that they were eating nothing. All the dishes were empty.
"Mmmm! All my fav'rite Neverfood!" declared Pockets next to him, his mouth full of nothing. "Yams, mammee apples, banana splash, wash id down with a calabash of poe-poe. Then Neverchicken and… Hey, Tink! Led go!"
Tink was tugging at one end of nothing while Pockets tugged at the other. Peter blinked. Across the table, Rufio was watching intently,
"Drink your poe-poe, Peter," invited Ace, and poured nothing from a pitcher into Peter's empty mug. Don't Ask and Thud Butt clinked mugs and drank air.
Peter sat there without moving for an instant longer, then threw up his hands. "I don't get it!" he exclaimed. "Where's the food?"
Tink glanced up. "If you can't imagine yourself as Peter Pan, you'll never be Peter Pan."
"What's that got to do with… this!"
She gave him a stern look. "If you don't eat, you won't grow."
Peter was as steamed as the dishes. "Eat what? There's nothing here to eat!"
"That's the point," said Tink. "Peter, have you forgotten how to pretend as well? That's how we eat."
Rufio laughed. "He can't! He doesn't get it!" Then he jeered, "Eat your heart out, you crinkled, wrinkled bag of fat!"
And he tossed his empty dish across the table and hit Peter directly in the chest. Peter jerked away, the blow sharp and stinging. He was stunned.
"My God, you are a badly raised child," he managed.
Lost Boys all about repeated the words "badly raised child," laughing and jeering as they did, mocking Peter.
Rufio straightened. "Slug-eating worm," he taunted.
Tink leaped up, hands on hips, sunrise eyes fiery. "Come on, Peter! You can do better than that!"