After all, everything was easier to handle on a full stomach.
Together, the three of us approached a door carved into the base of the tree, barely big enough for Peter and me to pass through, even with our backs hunched. I peered at the entrance, marveling at how comically small, nigh unnoticeable, it was—its seams so smooth I would have walked right past it if Peter hadn’t shown me exactly where to look. He pressed a hand against a small knot in the trunk, and the door slid open with a low whoosh, like the doors of a supermarket.
“Welcome,” Peter said, his voice playful once more, “to the Hangman’s Tree.”
Chapter 19
The Hangman’s Tree.
The name brought up old, childhood memories of Dez—her feet propped up on an ottoman—reading beneath the light of a fire, her eyes sparkling as she spoke. The Hangman’s Tree, I recalled, was the hollow tree Peter Pan and his Lost Boys had slept in, a perfect hiding place from Hook and his pirate crew. Of course, in my imagination that tree had always looked something like a sycamore—not the great-great ancestor of all trees in existence.
Once inside, both Peter and I were able to stand with little difficulty, having to duck only once or twice as he led me through a long, winding hallway connected to a series of rooms. Although it was dim, light poked in here and there, illuminating the chambers, many of which contained little more than scattered toys covered in dust and cobwebs. As we walked, we passed through a stretch of hallway in which shattered wooden swords hung from the rafters by knotted twine like beaded curtains from the 70s, each with a name carved into the handles—we had to part them slowly as we passed to stop them from swinging back at us.
It took everything I had not to read the names out loud, even knowing what they likely represented.
Fallen boys.
At last, we came to a large living area, of sorts—a tiered space with enough room to fit over a hundred people comfortably. The furniture was a moth-eaten mess, representing at least a dozen different epochs—couches and sofas that would have looked at home on the sets of period films, anything from the incredibly ornate Queen Anne style couches of the early eighteenth century to the retro Egg chairs popularized in the 60s.
To get to the middle of the room, we had to pass under a staircase carved out of the very tree, which wound upwards, spiraling so high that it disappeared from sight long before it actually ended. Ropes, knotted at ten feet increments, fell from the ceiling—or whatever you call the top of a hollowed-out tree. Peter grabbed one of those ropes and tugged, testing its reliability. He held out his hand. “Onwards and upwards,” he said, grinning.
I cringed. “Is there no other way to get where we need to go?” I asked, jerking my chin towards the staircase—clearly the preferable option for us landlubbers.
Peter laughed. “If we had three days to wait for you to walk up all those stairs, I’d say sure…but I don’t feel like waiting that long. Leave your cane here. We can collect it on the way back.”
I muttered obscenities under my breath, but finally tossed my bat onto a particularly goofy-looking couch from the disco era, and took Peter’s hand. This time, however, I was surprised to find myself not so much weightless as…lightened. Barbie flew above us, flitting about, keeping her glow to herself.
Peter smiled. “Alright, when I tell you to, grab hold of my ankle, and use the rope to steady yourself. Whatever you do, though, don’t let go.” He winked, then—before I voiced the dozen or so reasons why none of that sounded even remotely like a good idea—he tossed me up into the air.
Which made no fucking sense.
I hung there, suspended for an instant, wondering how the hell I was supposed to grab the ankle of the man below me, before I felt gravity slowly beginning to reassert its will—slower than I was accustomed to on earth. “Grab hold!” Peter called. I did, snatching at his ankle, realizing he’d already climbed up ahead of me as quick as a squirrel, one hand secure around the rope. Once I had hold of him, the sensation of being lighter returned. He checked to make sure I had a good grip, nodded, and took off towards the top of the tree, using the knots in the rope as handholds to speed up his ascension.
It was…exhilarating. Frightening, to be sure, especially knowing that the instant I let go of his ankle I’d likely plummet to my death, but honestly it felt a lot like agreeing to ride a roller coaster; sure, a gruesome death was a possibility, but the odds were slim so long as I didn’t do anything stupid. Let’s be honest…I’d done dumber things for cheaper thrills.
Together, Peter and I passed floor after floor of rooms, each containing beds of different shapes and sizes. From what I could tell, it seemed like there had once been dozens—perhaps hundreds—of children here. Far more than Peter’s fort could support.
Hence the hanging swords.
At last, we slowed. Peter swung me back and forth with his leg, yelling down at me, “Grab the rope!”
I froze, not wanting to let go at first, but I finally gathered up enough courage to wrap myself around the rope, holding on so tightly I could feel the braiding press into my flesh. “Why couldn’t we have just flown?” I asked, my eyes pinched shut to avoid looking down.
“Because then what would be the point of the ropes?” Peter asked, as if my question were somehow ridiculous. Peter shook his ankle loose, then swung around, snatching me by the waist. I yelped as he flew us over to the staircase. “Don’t worry, just a few more steps from here,” he said, laughing.
I followed the chuckling bastard, staring daggers at his back, doing my best not to look down; it wasn’t that I was afraid of heights or anything…simply afraid of falling from them. A perfectly natural fear, if you asked me. “Wait,” I said, pausing on the steps, “where’s Barbie?”
“I’m in here,” Barbie said, from the room up ahead, her voice surprisingly loud. I entered behind Peter, which is all that saved me from falling forward in shock; Barbie had gone life-sized. The sprite lounged on a fur-covered mattress, her nakedness on full display now that she was our height—well, Peter’s height, anyway; she was still half-a-foot shorter than me. She crawled over on all fours, suggestively, her smile playful. “Maybe after he’s shown you his, I can show you mine,” she purred, gazing up at me with a serious set of fuck-me eyes.
I froze like a troll in sunlight.
“Your face!” Barbie finally shrieked, leaning back to clap her hands, cackling like a madwoman. “Peter, did you see her face?”
Peter coughed, trying his best not to laugh at my expense, though I could see it was costing him. “It’s through there,” he said, pointing to a curtain on the far side of the room.
“What is? Where are we?” I asked, pointedly ignoring Barbie, my voice laced with suspicion, cheeks still flushed from embarrassment.
“This is the room Wylde’s parents stayed in,” Peter explained. “We thought it would be funny to give them the top room, since they couldn’t fly.” Peter grinned at the memory. “But they didn’t complain. I think we sensed it early on…how different they were from us. How disgusted they were by us…well, maybe not us, but our lives, certainly. We were filthy little demons who knew nothing of love, not to mention hygiene. We only knew how to fight. How to die well.” He walked to the curtain and ran his fingers along the cotton. “What they did changed everything. After all this time, I’d like to think they meant well. But,” he shrugged, “I suppose I’ll never really know.” Peter pulled the sheet wide.
Waning sunlight poured into the small recess Peter revealed, making the space easier to see. I took a step forward, peering into the gloom, but saw nothing out of the ordinary…if anything in Fae could be considered ordinary. “And what am I lookin’ for, exactly?” I asked.
Peter pointed. “It’s there,” he said, indicating the furthest section of wood.
I frowned, but edged into the space, following Peter’s outstretched finger with a sense of trepidation. I had a feeling that whatever I was about to see was either very dangerous, very grotesque, or both.
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But what I found was neither.
Inside the wood was a small petri dish—like the kind scientists use when looking through a microscope—held in place so naturally it looked as if the tree had grown around it.
“Do you see it?” Peter whispered reverently.
“Aye, but…what is it?” I asked.
“Look closer,” he suggested.
I did, peering at the glass container until, at last, I could make something out. Something so small I had to double check to make sure I hadn’t imagined it. A speck, smack dab in the middle of the dish. I turned back. It was the only thing inside, or I would have mistaken it for contamination. “What is that?”
“Time,” Barbie said, her head propped up in her hands at the edge of the bed, kicking her legs like a pin-up girl. “A single grain of sand, stolen. One tiny piece of a relic taken by Nate’s parents.”
“When they finally moved on,” Peter said, “they left this behind. It took us ages to find it, to realize the Temples were the ones who changed our world as we knew it.”
“I still don’t understand,” I admitted. “What does this t’ing do?”
“The relic they stole,” Barbie said, “manipulates time. It was a gift, given to King Oberon, in case catastrophe ever again befell the Fae. Nate’s parents pried loose that single grain of sand to bring time to Neverland.”
“And, in the process,” Peter added, “they pushed back the wild. Fae exists largely outside time, you see. The seasons change, but the Fae age so slowly that they don’t even notice it. Fae itself changes even slower than that. Except here. Here, men and women grow old. Children grow up. The path outside marks the boundary that runs from the tree to the fort. If you step off it, or step outside the fort, your wild side will assert itself, once again.”
I pressed my back against the wood of the tree, the gravity of what that meant threatening to hold me in place forever. If what Peter was telling me was true, I was safe here—safe to think and plan and reflect—but only here. The instant I left to find my answers, I’d become a slave to that…other me, the me who didn’t even notice she was bleeding to death.
Basically, I was fucked.
“We should go,” Barbie said, frowning. “She looks hungry.”
Oh, Christ. In our rush to get up here, I’d forgotten all about the fact that we’d have to go back down. I hung my head, debating seriously for the first time whether I should have come to Fae, at all.
Peter studied my face, perhaps realizing it wasn’t hunger written all over it, but resignation. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Falling down is a lot easier than climbing.”
“Aye,” I replied, my current mood resonating with the deep philosophical undercurrents of that statement. “It usually is.”
“And my wife makes a killer stew,” he added.
I nodded, my stomach reasserting itself with an audible gurgle.
Right. Food first. Fret later.
Chapter 20
Peter Pan’s house was one of the larger dwellings within the fort, a teepee divided by thick, theater curtains that cordoned off three bedrooms from a communal living space, all of which Wendy eagerly showed me the instant Peter dropped me off at the door.
The bandana-clad child I had met earlier had changed into a nightgown, and her mother—a soft-spoken woman named Sarah—had done up half her hair in a pigtail by the time I arrived. Coincidentally, that was as far as the process got; Wendy ran around the house pointing out everything remotely interesting with one braid flying. Her older brother, James, busied himself by setting the table. After Wendy tired of showing me around, I was left to study the residence on my own.
It took me a minute, but I eventually realized what it was about the place that was nagging at me: the lack of manmade materials. Everywhere I looked, it seemed, I saw wood. Metal, plastic, and ceramic—which many common household items were made of—were represented, but in wooden form. It was odd, but appealing, in a rustic, backwoods kind-of-way.
“It’s the Nevernever trees,” James explained, watching me. The boy had dark hair and dark blue eyes, only partially obscured by a pair of glasses that were a little too big for his face. He was perhaps twelve, but acted much older, his expression seemingly incapable of hitting an extreme on either end of the emotional spectrum. “They grow uncommonly fast. If we don’t keep cutting them down, they’d take over the whole settlement in a month. It’s like the land wants to kick us out. Father says that isn’t true, but I think he’s wrong.”
“Now, now, James,” Sarah—clad in a green dress, her skin darkly tanned, with deep, honey brown eyes—said, patting his head as she headed for the kitchen. Once behind the counter, she began field-dressing a rabbit, peeling and tearing with savage efficiency without so much as a downward glance—her gentle attention focused on her son. “Quinn is our guest. Let’s try not to start a fight with your father while she’s here, alright?”
James nodded, then fixed his hair where she’d touched it, refusing to look at any of us until it was properly coiffed. “Alright, mother.”
“Quinn!” Wendy called. “Come look at my dollies!”
Sarah gave me that sad, what-can-you-do smile that all parents end up giving their adult friends, at one point or another. Of course, I never much cared for that look, especially because I found the answer painfully obvious…
Don’t have kids.
But, for a rugrat, I had to admit Wendy wasn’t terrible; she was loud and demanding, but easy to please and hard to upset for longer than a few minutes at a time. James, by contrast, struck me as the moody type I’d hate to babysit—irritable and too smart to buy half the fabricated answers the adults parceled out.
Thirty minutes later or so, with the sun having only just fallen, Peter ducked through the open doorway with an armful of lumber. “It can get chilly at night,” he explained, catching my curious expression. I scanned for Barbie, but she wasn’t there, tiny or otherwise. I shrugged, figuring she was likely off doing whatever—or whoever—naked sprites did once the sun fell.
Peter dumped the logs in the corner, wiped his hands off on his pants, and sauntered over to Wendy and me. He hesitated, staring down at the expansive collection of dolls and stuffed animals, all of which I was now on a first name basis with. One, a teddy bear missing an eye that Wendy had dubbed Teddy Darling, seemed to snag his attention longer than the others. I noticed a haunted look in his eyes, but it was gone quickly.
“Peter, can you get the children washed up? Dinner’s almost ready,” Sarah called.
Peter swung away with an impish grin on his face. “Come on Wendy, let’s get your brother.” He began to creep forward, Pink Panther style, towards the curtain separating James’ bedroom. Wendy followed, mimicking her father’s prancing gait. It was adorable, and yet, at the same time, incredibly creepy; neither made any noise as they approached.
I meant that literally.
James, probably having heard his mother yell, swept out from his bedroom and headed straight for the wash basin, ignoring his father and sister completely. Peter spun slowly on his heel, staring at his son with comically wide eyes, but eventually gave up altogether when it was obvious James was in no mood for games—practically deflating as he assumed a normal posture. Wendy did the same, folding her arms across her chest.
“James, you’re no fun,” she huffed.
“Yeah, James,” Peter said, now mimicking his daughter, arms folded across his chest, openly pouting.
James didn’t seem remotely bothered by the criticism. He finished washing his hands, wiped them clean on a bit of cloth, and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll help mother bring out the food,” he said.
“I want to help, too!” Wendy said, chasing after her older brother.
Peter sighed as I came alongside, his arms falling in resignation. “One day I’ll get that boy to smile,” he said, with a wry grin. “If he ever laughs, I’ll probably have to throw a party.”
“Aye,” I admitted, watching the somber boy
as he helped his mother by stirring the stew, ignoring the heated demands of his little sister that he let her help.
“He can’t fly, you know,” Peter said, sounding tired. “Some days I wonder if that’s why he refuses to play. If maybe he feels trapped here.”
“He can’t fly?” I echoed, arching an eyebrow.
Peter shook his head. “Too much of his father in him, I expect.”
My eyes widened, to which Peter could only nod. “Remember when I told you about the pirates who came over to our side, hoping to spy on us?” Peter asked. “Well, Sarah was one of the first. She was older than most of the boys, but small enough that we didn’t really notice. Not until she got pregnant, at least.” He leveled his eyes at me, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. “James is named after his father, you see.”
I felt my gut twist a little at the thought. That, or I was hungrier than I knew. James…Peter Pan’s adopted son…the son of Captain James Hook.
Jesus Christ, what a legacy that poor boy had to carry. I shuddered, despite myself.
Peter nudged me a little, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. “He doesn’t know. Hook, either. Sarah’s decision. I’d hoped they might reconnect themselves, one day…but now that he’s left Neverland…” Peter shrugged.
“Is it hard, raisin’ his son?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
“Of course not,” Peter said, sounding surprised. “To me he’s just another Lost Boy. He’s my Lost Boy. I love him, just as I love Wendy.”
I frowned. “And who is Wendy named after, then?” I asked, wondering if my earlier guess had been the right one.
A shadow passed across Peter’s face. “A girl I knew, a long time ago. I expect she’s dead, now. Her and her brothers.” He shook himself, and his smile returned; I could see where his daughter got her resilience from. “Anyway, it’s time to play the Eating Game. Are you ready?”
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