Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  "As if I'd let you run away."

  "Run away?" That cracked Ernest's composure. "I'm not scared of you. You're just a story to me."

  "Just a story?" Peter grinned. "Tell me if this feels real."

  He lunged.

  Ernest barely evaded the first swipe of Peter's knife, stumbling back and nearly tripping over his feet. Peter was pleased to see that his reflexes were quick, at least. There wouldn't be any fun in having a rival if he couldn't fight. The other Lost Boys scattered left and right as he drove forward again. Tinker Bell flew from Peter's shoulder with a squawk of amusement, and then settled in a branch above to watch as Ernest ducked and wove, Peter's blade catching only the air.

  "Wait," Ernest shouted. "Wait!" He seized Peter's wrist in a grip of iron, fingers squeezing so Peter couldn't wriggle free, and yanked it and the knife high above both their heads. Doing so dragged Peter closer to him, and Ernest glared straight into his eyes. "You care about the Lost Boys, don't you?"

  "Of course," Peter said, although in that moment he didn't care about much beyond fighting Ernest.

  "Come with me," Ernest said. "I want to show you something."

  *~*~*

  A spiraling wooden staircase lead inside the Lost Boys' hideout. Ernest lead the way stiffly; he didn't seem to like turning his back on Peter. The roots of the flowering tree formed the hideout's ceiling, snaking down the walls in a protective dome.

  Inside, it smelled faintly sour. Tink made a disgusted sound and crawled under Peter's collar. There were weapons everywhere, and beds tucked into cubbies in the walls, furs and rough straw pillows spilling out onto the floor. One bed was occupied, and Peter recognized its occupant at once by his hair, which was almost the same color as Peter's. "Curly?"

  Curly didn't answer. He was shivering and wrapped in several furs despite the warmth of the room, his eyes pressed shut. He had grown as much as the others, but huddled up as he was, he looked like a little boy still. When Peter felt his forehead, he found it cold and damp.

  Peter snatched his hand back and wiped it on his trousers, grimacing. "What's wrong with him?"

  "He got sick about a week ago," Ernest said. "It's been getting worse and worse. He hasn't been able to speak since yesterday." He placed a hand on Curly's shoulder, rubbing it gently. "We've been trying every cure we know of, but nothing helps. Slightly remembered a story about a flower that only grows on the night of a fairy commune. If you make a tea with it, it can heal any illness." Ernest fixed Peter with a grave look. "I don't know how much time he has left. That's why we're going immediately. The mermaids told me there's a commune up on the mountain tomorrow night, and it'll take all the time we have to get there."

  "I could just fly there," Peter said.

  Ernest looked startled, and almost disappointed, like Peter had ruined his fun. Then he shook his head, collecting himself. "You wouldn't be able to see it from the air," he said. "They choose short trees for their communes so the canopy hides them."

  "It doesn't matter. I could still fly up there faster than you could walk."

  Ernest's face pinched. "I'm the leader. It's my responsibility to find the flower."

  Peter smirked at him. "So you'll admit that I'm the leader if I find it first?"

  "You've never even seen the flower."

  "Neither have you."

  "You disappeared for ten years," Ernest said. "Who's to say you won't disappear again and leave Curly to die?"

  "Who's to say you won't fail to get up the mountain, in which case he'll die anyway?"

  Ernest turned red. "I don't care who you think you are," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm going, because I don't trust you. That's final."

  "Fine," Peter said. "Come if you want. See if you can make yourself useful." Then, because he was annoyed by the insinuation that he was untrustworthy, he reached over and patted Curly on the shoulder as Ernest had done. "I'll be back soon, and you're not allowed to die while I'm gone."

  He turned on his heel and went up the stairs to the surface.

  Tink laughed beneath his collar. "What's so funny?" Peter asked.

  "You," she said. "Grown up. What a joke."

  The Lost Boys were still gathered where Peter and Ernest had left them, looking like children whose parents have been shouting in the other room. Peter scowled at them, and they cowered. It didn't make him feel particularly powerful.

  Ernest stepped up to Peter's side and folded his arms. He had added a bow and quiver to his arsenal and looked forbidding. "Change of plans," he said. "The lot of you are staying here and looking out for Curly." He glowered over his shoulder at Peter. "Pan and I are going up the mountain."

  *~*~*

  Peter supposed it wasn't such a bad distraction from his real quest. He'd get the flower, fix Curly, and then the Lost Boys would fall in behind him when he resumed his war with Hook. Just like old times.

  For a while he skipped over the treetops, Tink on his shoulder, while Ernest struggled through the underbrush. He stepped from branch to branch, hands in his pockets, enjoying his view of Ernest's tribulations.

  "Are you all right down there?" he called.

  "I'm fine," Ernest replied evenly. Peter had to admit he was making good time for someone limited to the ground, and he had barely broken a sweat so far, despite trekking upward into the foothills. "Weren't you supposed to be the boy who never grew up? You look grown up to me."

  Peter didn't have an answer; he was fairly sure he had pretended to be immortal to impress the others, but couldn't admit that. "I decided I'd rather be stronger than stay a boy forever," he lied. "There's some things a man can do that a boy can't."

  "Like what?" Ernest asked.

  "Like have a real war," he said. "Where things are really dangerous."

  "Ugh," Ernest said.

  Peter had never imagined that a self-professed leader of the Lost Boys could sound so unenthusiastic about war. "How many pirates have you killed?" he asked.

  "None."

  "What do you mean, none?"

  Ernest squinted up at him. "We've been at peace with the pirates."

  "Peace?" Peter sneered. In the old days, no Lost Boy would have stomached the thought of a truce with one of their mortal enemies.

  "Why not?" Ernest asked. "They don't bother us, and we don't bother them."

  "Have you made friends with all the lions and tigers too?"

  "Those are beasts. The pirates aren't so different from us. It's easy to negotiate with them." Ernest shrugged. "At least for me. Maybe you couldn't."

  "I could if I wanted to."

  "You couldn't negotiate a peace with your own left foot," Tinker Bell yawned.

  Peter glared at her. "That's because only cowards need to make peace. I'll show you how I negotiate with pirates." Peter dropped into the undergrowth beside Ernest, drawing his knife to slash through the bunch of brambles ahead. "Things are going to be different now that I'm back."

  "I don't know how the Lost Boys survived with you," Ernest said, shouldering past Peter through the bushes.

  "They had fun with me."

  "We have fun. But we don't kill any people."

  It had never occurred to Peter to think of the pirates as people. "It's just a game," he said. "Who cares?"

  "Whatever it is, I don't like it."

  Peter pushed up to walk alongside Ernest. He cut his own swath through the forest, ignoring the fact that they were now leaving a trail twice as large for anyone to follow.

  They proceeded in unruly silence for a while. Only Tink seemed content. She plucked a small flower from a passing bush and drank its nectar as they walked.

  Ernest stopped suddenly when they reached the base of a mossy cliff and swiveled toward Peter. "Say, Tink," he said. "The story about the flower is true, isn't it?"

  Tink shrugged. "It's true for you," she said, in a mysterious shimmer. "The fae give it the power to heal."

  Peter frowned at her. "If it's fairy magic, why can't you heal him?"

  "Because
I'm old. It takes a lot of magic to save a human life. Do you want me to shrivel up?"

  "No," Peter said hastily. "It was just an idea."

  "The flower is our only choice, then," Ernest said, craning his neck for a better look at the cliff. "I think this'll be a shortcut, if we can scale it. There's a ledge up there that looks like it connects to the path. Peter, can you fly a rope up there?"

  Peter took the end of the sturdy grass rope Ernest handed him. "How would you manage without me?" he asked, and shot up to the ledge.

  "I'd go around!" Ernest yelled.

  The ledge was covered in slippery, emerald-green moss. It wound along the cliff for quite a distance, sloping upward, creating a path for them. It also extended back into a shallow cavern, the floor of which dropped off after a few meters. There was nowhere to secure the rope, so Peter wrapped it around his own hands a few times before tossing the line to Ernest. "Climb up!"

  He wasn't anticipating quite how heavy Ernest was. The first time Ernest placed his weight on the rope, Peter jerked forward, banging his knees on the ledge and barely stopping himself from slipping right off. He peered over the edge to see Ernest sprawled on the ground, glaring up at him. The sight made him grin.

  "Idiots," Tink said. She took a tiny pinch of silver dust from her wings and tossed it over the rope. At once it lightened, and Peter could stand again, even supporting Ernest's weight. He stood there watching Ernest climb, reluctantly impressed by the muscles standing out from Ernest's arms as he hauled himself up hand over hand.

  "You could've made him fly," Peter said.

  Tink scoffed. "I don't need two of you." That, Peter thought, was a good point. He didn't want there to be two of him, either.

  "What are you talking about up there?" Ernest called, a genuine thread of anxiety in his deep voice. Peter couldn't help but notice that Ernest was gripping the cliff face in addition to the rope, like he didn't trust Peter to hold it sturdy.

  "Nothing," Peter said. "Can you climb any faster? My palms are getting sweaty." He grinned at Ernest, who grimaced and did his best to climb faster. "That was a joke," he added. "I wouldn't drop you unless it was on purpose."

  Ernest didn't reply; he grabbed the ledge beside Peter's knee. "Move over," he groused. But when his chin cleared the edge, his gaze snapped to something behind Peter and he went white. "Look out!"

  Peter and Tink twisted around as one to see a mountain cat crouched in the mouth of the cave, drawn back on its haunches in preparation to pounce. Peter threw himself sideways off the ledge as the cat sprang for him, its claws scrabbling at the rock. He righted himself in the air and heard Ernest yell.

  Ernest had managed to pull himself onto the ledge, but the cat had raked its claws over his back, ripping shirt and skin and pulling his bow and quiver out of alignment. As Peter watched, Ernest landed a kick to the cat's jaw, stunning it long enough for him to scramble away across the ledge. The cat, recovered, crouched to spring again.

  "Hey!" Peter shouted, swooping above the ledge. The mountain cat startled, hissing, and turned to follow his movements as he flew around the cliff. The moment he saw its attention start to turn back to Ernest, he sailed in and grabbed it by the tail, throwing all his weight downwards and dragging it off the edge. The cat went screeching and clawing down the cliff. When it hit the ground, it fled limping into the woods.

  Peter landed on the ledge. Ernest was still half tangled in his bow and trying to pull it off, wincing, bloody lacerations visible through the gashes in his shirt. When he met Peter's gaze, he gave a helpless, embarrassed laugh.

  "Thanks," he said. "You saved me."

  "You're welcome," Peter said. He stepped forward to extract Ernest from the bow and quiver. "You did warn me about the cat," he added graciously. "Can you keep going with your back like that?"

  "I'll be fine," Ernest said. "Let's get to the top of this ridge. There's supposed to be a stream; we can wash out the cuts there."

  Peter nodded and led the way.

  *~*~*

  There was a terrific view from the top of the cliff, which they reached after another hour or two of climbing. The ground spread out levelly at the cliff's summit before sloping up into mountainside, making it the perfect place to stop and rest. There were scattered trees for shade and a stream that trickled into a clear, waist-deep pool. Ernest, though he continued to act brave, had started to flag. He sank down by the water's edge, pale and wincing. With Peter's help, he rinsed the shallow gashes on his back. Tinker Bell hovered over them, inspecting the wounds and declaring them free of contamination after a sprinkle of fairy dust.

  When they were finished, Ernest dangled his feet in the pool, his bloody shirt folded beside him and trousers rolled up to his knees. Peter sat beside him, running his toes over through the cool water. There was an uncertain but comfortable quiet between them, and Peter enjoyed the silence. It had been a long time since he'd sat with another boy in easy intimacy.

  He had a sudden memory of curling up with his brothers in a rowboat made of pillows, blankets, and building blocks, a book of illustrated fairytales open between them. One more story, Michael had begged, knowing Peter would always say yes.

  The memory came with a twinge of pain, of something irreparably lost. Peter stared down at his blurry reflection in the water stirred by Ernest's feet, and for a second his own face looked unfamiliar.

  He blinked and it returned to normal.

  "You can bathe if you want," Ernest said. "I won't be jealous, even if I can't soak my back."

  "He means you smell," Tink said.

  "That's not what I meant!" Ernest protested. "Honest, I'm just trying to be friendly—"

  Tink cackled.

  Peter pulled off his shirt, mostly intending to swat Tink with it. But then he remembered she was old, and probably less resistant to swatting than she used to be. Besides, he was immediately preoccupied by the hair scattered across his chest—by the shape of his chest itself, flat and smooth, all the way down to his hips.

  He stared at it with a nagging, uncomfortable awareness that this had not always been true.

  "Peter?" Ernest asked. "What is it?"

  "Nothing," Peter said, but he heard his own voice as if he were someone else listening to it. Had it always been so low? He liked it, the deep resonance in his chest, but at the same time it was unsettling. Different.

  New.

  "It's all right if you're shy," Ernest said.

  Peter shook himself and shot Ernest an angry look. "I'm not shy," he said curtly, and more to prove it than anything else he stripped off the rest of his clothes and slid into the pool. The water was cold in contrast to the warm air, and Peter ducked his head under to scrub himself clean of sweat, salt, and dirt.

  He surfaced with water running out of his ears and found Ernest watching him. Tink had retreated to sun herself on a nearby bush, leaving them alone. Reflexively, Peter crossed his arms over his chest.

  Ernest smiled. "I get shy too," he said. "The others only get embarrassed when they're swimming in front of the mermaids, but I've always felt odd undressing around anyone, especially men."

  Peter frowned and sank back into the water up to his eyes, mulling that over. He could remember a time when, as a child, sharing a bath with his brothers hadn't been strange at all. But something had changed him in the interim. There was no denying he felt uncomfortable now.

  Ernest was looking at him again. Peter lifted his head from water and said, "I'm not shy."

  "All right," Ernest said. "Don't tell the others that I am, okay?"

  "Who cares?" A few long, clinging strands came loose on Peter's fingers when he raked them through his hair—and he remembered cutting it.

  A crawling dread came over him, and he plunged his hands into the water, shaking them until the hair was gone. He didn't want to think, so he twisted toward Ernest and asked the first thing that came to mind. "Where did you come from?"

  Ernest blinked. "Before Neverland?" When Peter nodded, he stared up at the
foliage above them, an odd look on his face. "I don't think about it much anymore. It was so long ago… and I wasn't very happy."

  Peter felt a twist of empathy and stiffened. "Why not?"

  "I don't know. I don't remember. I knew… I was different somehow." Ernest's face shuttered. "I had to get away from my family. They kept saying there was something wrong with me. In Neverland, nobody cares about that. You can be free."

  "I know what you mean," Peter said without thinking.

  Ernest looked as startled as Peter felt. "Do you?"

  Peter shrugged, attempting nonchalance. Inwardly, he was disturbed to realize it was true. "No one would let me do what I wanted or be who I wanted before," he found himself saying. "In Neverland, they can't stop me."

  "Who's they?" Ernest asked. "Your family?"

  "No," Peter said. "I don't have a family." His brothers' faces rose in his mind as he said it, but he forced himself to think of them as strangers.

  He swam out of the water, crawling into the dry grass. The sun washed over his back, drying the trails of water that trickled from his soaked hair.

  "What about Wendy?" Ernest asked.

  The name went through Peter like a knife. "What did you say?" he spat, ripping up a handful of grass.

  Ernest looked taken aback. "The Lost Boys said you went away to be with Wendy. I'm sorry. Should I not have—" Whatever he saw in Peter's face made him shut up and climb hastily to his feet. "Never mind," he said. "Let's go. We've got plenty of mountain to climb."

  Two

  They slept on a ledge that night, curled up beside the embers of a fire Ernest had lit. In the morning, Peter woke to the nagging sensation that he had forgotten something, but his stomach distracted him. By the time they had finished foraging for breakfast, his mind was pleasantly clear.

  That day, as they made their way up the treacherous slopes, Peter didn't fly at all; he trudged beside Ernest, Tink asleep in his hair. Trees stuck out at reckless angles from the mountainside, blown into wild shapes by past storms. The going was difficult, and Peter developed a grudging respect for Ernest's tenacity. He never wavered, no matter how tired he became. He had shrugged off yesterday's wounds and was in good spirits. He seemed to have decided that he and Peter were friends and was much happier that way.