by Andrea Jones
His gaze fell to the floor as he looked around for chests or bags of loot and signs of digging. There were none, but there was treasure enough for Rowan. A friend stood in the corner, and it was not a boy. Against a patch of mossy wall lay his tomahawk. Rowan smiled and snatched it up, wondering what spirit could have flown it here to him, before he himself arrived. This was no place the Black Chief was likely to visit, and the man had been on the far end of the Island last night. Who or what had carried it here?
Rowan rubbed his fingers over the familiar surface, flaking the mud away. But when he touched it, he knew in his bones the crust upon it wasn’t made of earth. It was dried blood, although not human blood. Still, it made him anxious to find his friend, somewhere in the blackness. He called out, cautiously. “Lightly.” The only response was the echo of his voice, trailing into the darkness.
He had seen all there was to be seen. The light of the shell burned too feebly to venture into the recesses. But Rowan was at one with life, and he sensed more than his own within this place. He turned around and followed the echo, seeking whatever waited in the farther shadows.
He shoved his feet forward one length at a time, feeling his way along the floor for Lightly. The earth was clammy underfoot, and as he stepped deeper into false night, the smell of putrefaction grew more repugnant. Rowan’s lungs resisted intake of the fetid air. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand. At last his right foot met a mat; his left met flesh. Rowan knelt, set the tomahawk down, and reached out for his friend.
The mat was woven of supple strands. The flesh was cool, unmoving. It was Lightly’s shoulder. Rowan’s hands traveled it, searching for the right place, and he leaned down to press his ear against the frigid chest. The boy must be sleeping.
Rowan shook him. He didn’t wake. He slid his hand up to Lightly’s neck, to measure the pulses of the blood. Lightly wasn’t sleeping. Rowan felt the cold, like the stench, creep throughout his veins, but he didn’t freeze. Instead, he gathered Lightly in his arms and stood unsteadily. The weight of friendship was good, it brought warmth to Rowan’s limbs. He searched the darkness for the faint sign of the entryway and headed for it.
He laid Lightly down by the hole, then lay on his own back, hooking each of his feet under Lightly’s shoulders. Stretching out, he grasped the rugged wall on either side of the entrance, then he drew a breath and closed his throat, and with an effort, hauled himself head first under the rock, dragging his friend with him. Shady as it was, the light under the willows dazzled him. The boughs scraped his skin as he emerged, but he pulled with feet, then hands, until both bodies were free of the tomb in the fresher air of the swamp. Out here, Lightly’s stillness made Rowan more apprehensive.
The brave bent over the boy, who he could now see was white as birch bark. Lightly’s skin contrasted with the circle of mud drawn on his forehead and the dots spaced evenly around the inside of the circle. Rowan knew what he had to do. He straightened and inhaled deep breaths, sucking in what life forces existed just outside the grotto— in the air, the mud, the water, the light. Warmth returned in full, spreading rapidly, quick as lightning through the crooked pathways in his body, all the way up to tingle in his scalp.
Rowan captured the last breath, then bent over Lightly’s face, his fingers prying at the boy’s lips. He shoved his own mouth down over Lightly’s, and exhaled.
It was said that Rowan was the Life-Giver. He hoped it was true.
Because the silence that rang in his ears was rent by the subtlest of sounds. A swish of water, and a steady beat not imagined in nature.
White man’s Time.
Chapter 20
War of Attrition
The life-breath was potent. As soon as it surged through his lungs, Lightly’s eyes sprang open. He beheld Rowan’s face above his, felt Rowan’s fingers pressing on his jaw. The fog of confusion quickly dispersed as his ears awakened to the tick of oncoming death. Recognizing it instantly, Lightly gathered his wits. With no time to lose, he pushed Rowan aside and sat up, scrambling forward and leaping into the sky, leaving Rowan to read the imprints of his toes on the stream bank.
Fighting dizziness, Lightly swooped and hollered through the air, plunging at the crocodile with outstretched fists, then veering toward the water. The beast pursued him, snatching at his limbs. Half in the water, it stretched to snag a heel, but Lightly proved too nimble. With a clap, the jaws closed on emptiness. Its tail thrashed the pool, dredging up clods of muddy debris. Sweating with cold, the boy gulped breaths of swampy air and circled back, diverting the croc while Rowan scaled a tree to sit in patchy sunlight, taut brown skin among stiff brown blades.
Once assured of Rowan’s safety, Lightly left the croc to fester. He lowered himself to a branch, and the two friends hung, panting. The color returned to their faces. And swiftly the grins spread, and then the laughter, and they were a brace of eagles who had outsmarted death. Beneath them, in its own purgatory, the crocodile snapped and snarled, moving in irregular rushes against the rhythm within, a gash on the crown of its head.
“It hasn’t a hope of snaring these birds! Not until it learns to fly!”
“Your totem is surely a bird.”
“That’s what I was thinking yesterday.” Lightly looked down again, and grimaced. “Look at that ugly cut on its skull.”
“The mark of my tomahawk. It was taken from me, then returned to me in the tomb. But I left it there.”
Lightly felt along his belt. “I don’t have my bow or knife, either.”
Their eyes met. “Our old friends are gone, exchanged for new.”
“It’s a good trade.”
“Even without weapons, we have paid each other life-service.”
They heard the sibilance of the croc below, intolerant of their freedom. The young men watched its red eyes glare at them, then, grudgingly, it dragged itself through the rock into its cell. Once again, the ticking was swallowed up.
Lightly was still a bit fuzzy. “How did we get here?”
“I saw you by the small dwelling-place and tracked you to the cave.”
“I was following Peter to your mountain camp and we stopped to take a look inside. I’m not sure what happened next. I got so sleepy…” Lightly’s eyes opened wider when he became aware of his surroundings. “Look!” His recent adventure faded as his astonishment grew. “These leaves are the same as Peter wears! This must be the skeleton tree.”
Rowan studied the brown and brittle leaves. “I have never seen anything like this growing before. Truly, this place is an entrance to the Dark Hunting ground.” With a grim expression, he wondered, staring at Lightly but reserving comment. It was not Rowan’s way to question good fortune. He reached out to Lightly’s forehead and rubbed the circle of mud with his fingertips. It smeared in the sweat beaded there.
“What are you doing?”
“You are marked with mud. A symbol of Time, like the one painted above the altar in the crocodile’s cavern.”
Lightly felt his forehead. Their fingers joined, and both boys wiped the smudge away. Lightly spied the grooves on Rowan’s wrist and grasped his arm to study them. “You are also marked!”
“Tell me first of your experience.”
Lightly tried to remember. “I was glad to find an excuse to visit your camp. I thought you’d be there by now. Peter and I were going to talk with the People about fighting pirates.”
“I can tell you about pirates. I saw many boots yesterday.”
“You were captured?”
“Soon after you flew away. The great dark man would have killed me, but the captain’s claw stopped him. Now I am bound by more than rope. I owe the pirate captain a life-service.”
“He could have killed Peter, too, yesterday, but he only wounded him.”
“That is strange. Their hostility is a legend on this Island.”
Lightly seemed to examine the skeleton leaves again, but he wasn’t contemplating the strange tree. A new idea had occurred to him. Now that he was separa
ted from Peter, he found himself thinking it through on his own. “Maybe Hook’s holding back because of Wendy. He wants her to join him. He nearly took her from us yesterday.”
“I have heard my mother say that change in a man may often be attributed to a woman.”
Lightly smiled. “I think your mother and mine could be friends, too.” Then he grew serious, thinking again. “Wendy is almost grown-up, isn’t she? Peter may have to change, too, if he wants to keep her. Especially after yesterday.”
“Much has happened since we parted at the camp. We will speak of it on our way up the mountain.”
“I should go back to Wendy, she’ll be worried if I don’t come home.”
“Then she need not worry. Home is where you will be.” Rowan had worries of his own for his new friend. “Come.” He began to descend, a few of the branches snapping under his weight.
Lightly hesitated, considering Wendy. He knew what she’d want him to do.
He didn’t question it. Using make-believe one last time, he flew through the open window without looking back, and waited for Rowan by the half exposed roots of the skeleton tree.
“Show me the way!”
* * *
The Twins balanced the arrows on their fingers, then shot a few off to try them out. Their innovative bow design was working, too, launching their missiles to hurtle through the air and thunk into logs a good distance away. It would function even better when they’d attached new heads to the arrows, shaped like those they’d found at the Indian camp yesterday. The Twins had slipped one or two into their Wendy-pockets while Peter’s hawk eyes weren’t watching. Like conspirators, they smiled at each other.
“Wendy looked fine with her new pistol!”
“So it was her gun we heard. She’s a crack shot! Right through the eye of a parrot, like Jill the pirate.”
“These feathers will be dead useful on our new arrows.”
“Hope she’ll give us a chance at firing it.”
“It’ll be a while before we can cast metal for our own guns. We need more workspace than we have underground here.”
“The Indians have nickel, I know. Can we trade for it, do you think? Wonder where they get it?”
“Must be a vein somewhere. We’ll ask them once Peter and Slightly have established relations with them.”
The two boys already had so many questions to ask the Indians once truce was declared. About the theory of papooses first. Then metals and arrowheads, lodges, canoes. They couldn’t light a peace pipe fast enough.
A speck of fairy sunshine danced in the tree above them, eavesdropping. Jewel didn’t linger there another second; now she was a ray of light, shooting into the forest toward the clearing, in the opposite direction from which she had dawned. Her master’s business was urgent.
The Twins stored the parrot feathers in their pockets and trooped together to a log, where methodically, they dislodged their arrows. A few moments later, they sucked on their scraped knuckles and straightened, peering into the forest.
A tapping had started up in the vicinity of Wendy’s house. They looked at each other. “Drums, do you think?” They listened. Soon they heard flutey music floating toward them.
“Peter’s pipes!”
“Sounds as if Peter and Slightly are at the clearing, with friendly drums. They’re celebrating by the house.”
“They must have made peace!”
“Let’s go see.”
“Should we tell Wendy first?”
“She’d want us to be careful. We already know to do that.”
“Right. Grab up those tools, I’ll get the bows.”
And so, unceremoniously, the enterprising Twins left home, without looking back.
* * *
The three boys expressed relief when Wendy dropped into the hideout, landing on all fours. Then the questions began.
“Where did you get the pistol?”
“It’s a beauty! Can I see it?”
“Wendy, where were you?” John took the lead. “Did Nibs and Tootles catch up?”
Wendy answered with a distracted air, as if hardly hearing any of them. “Nibs and Tootles? No, I didn’t see them.” She headed straight for her workbasket and drew out a swath of fairy gauze.
Curly followed her. “They went looking for you. On the ship.” The boys watched with curious eyes as she tied the material around the stock of the weapon, concealing her initials. She knew without thinking that Peter mustn’t see them.
“Is that where you got that gun? And the book?”
“No.” Suddenly, Wendy paid attention. Her face blanched. “No! I was at the house. You don’t mean to tell me Nibs and Tootles are on the Jolly Roger?”
John looked down, then rallied to meet her eyes. “Tink told us you’d gone there, and they all three went to get you back.”
“But why would you believe Tinker Bell? I told you not to worry!”
John became aware of his duty to his sister, and from their expressions, it was clear the two younger boys were counting on him. He planted his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. “Wendy, we didn’t know what to believe because things have changed since yesterday.” With solemn resolve, he steered her to the fairy’s niche and took hold of the mirror. “Look at yourself.”
Wendy gave John a questioning gaze. He placed the mirror in her hand. “You’re not just our Wendy any more.” She lowered her eyes to the glass.
A lady reflected there. She had Indian beads in her hair, and the seam of a wound on her throat. Wendy touched her neck, awakening to the echo of a silken voice… marked by her experience… This lady was.
She tilted the mirror. The lady wore a fairy gown, and a knife and a pirate’s pistol hung at her waist, with a newborn secret, a burning message smoldering under green gauze. Her hand moved to stroke it. The remnant of a feral old friend hugged her middle, still wild, at odds with the book reposing in its embrace.
Wendy turned the mirror back to the lady’s face. The reflection of her brow creased. The most remarkable change was on her lips. The kiss no longer hid at the corner of her mouth— her fingers traced it— wanton now, it spread over her lips, making them fuller, more regal, and all the more impatient, as if her kisses husbanded abundance.… having partaken… of both joy and pain…
Wendy held the mirror, a half-smile stealing into it as she watched, when a firm hand closed over her own and angled the glass to the side. A new face smiled back at her, its voice confident and questioning.
“Do you like what you see?” His eyes looked into the mirror from under a fringe of dirty golden hair. “I do. Except for the pistol.”
* * *
The Twins had followed the music to its source, flying straight to the clearing where, seeing no threat, they ran to ground and dropped their gear.
“We were right about Indian ladies, they’re lovely!”
The Twins’ assessment was accurate. The ladies were lovely, soft dresses swaying as they moved, the fringe lapping their legs. Their colored beads and the kisses that hung on their lips reminded the boys of Wendy.
“Lots more fun than nurses with prams in London!” They bounded into the air again to land in the middle of the ring of dancers, sparking their laughter. The three native women had been waiting for them, pacing in shuffling circles. One played pipes, another murmured in singsong, mimicking the brook in the wood behind the little house.
“We’re the Twins. We’ll help you settle into the house.” They began hopping to the beat of tiny tom-toms, pounded by two tiny Indian children. The girl and boy blinked bashfully as they drummed, and the women smiled greeting to the well-mannered lads.
“Hello, Little Men!”
“Put your own things in the dwelling, as well.”
“We welcome you to the ancestral home.”
The Twins raised their eyebrows at one another. It was true. This house had been their mother’s abode, commissioned for her by their father, built by their own hands, and their brothers’. They were at
home here.
The music flowed like the stream. Two of the ladies turned their backs as they danced, so that the littlest ones, the papooses with their bobbling heads, could smile, too, at the sons of the house. The Twins’ eyes lit up. They goggled, curiosity satisfied at last. “So that’s how it works. Papooses are babies!”
The little men trusted their fingers to the fists of the babies, and were surprised by the strength in the grips. They admired the brown eyes, like their own, but were utterly captivated by the slate-gray gaze of the wee little girl with spikes of red hair.
The Twins were in their element. “We’ll be needing a nursery for our new brothers and sisters, one with a nice big open window.”
“And several bedrooms for our mothers. And a totem pole of our own right in the center of the clearing.”
“A fire pit! Also a much stouter door, remember the croc.”
“A real door with a lock and a key!”
“Where shall we build the workshop? Over there, so as not to disturb the babies?”
“Yes, and we can install a wheel in the stream for power. Oh, look! The chimney’s smoking a new color.”
“I like that, very welcoming.”
“I’ll bet it can be seen from the natives’ mountain camp to Neverbay.”
“Maybe farther.”
“A sort of smoke signal.”
“So everyone will know where the lovely ladies live.”
“It’s a nice, homey shade.”
“Just right.”
“Our favorite color.”
“A lovely shade!”
They said it together. “…Red!”
The Twins’ mother and father had brought them up well. These little men were accustomed to sharing.
* * *
“Peter!” The lady in the mirror turned to look directly at him. She replaced the mirror in the darkened niche. She had to wait for Peter to release her hand. “Michael, take Peter’s things for him. Curly, here’s your knife. I won’t need it any more.”