by Austin Chant
"No!" Peter tore away from him, scrambling to his feet, backing away like James might infect him. "I don't care if it's not real," he said. "It's real enough for me. It's better. It's all I have. I want to—I want to stay here till I die."
James looked stunned. "What are you talking about? What kind of a life can you possibly think you'd have here?"
"I'll be Peter Pan. Forever." It would be enough. It would have to be. He could forget about this too. "I'll be like the fairies."
"That's nonsense and you know it," James said, getting shakily to his feet. "Come with me. Please." He stretched out his arm.
"Go if you want," Peter said in the coldest voice he could muster. "I'm staying."
He flew before James could stop him.
Fifteen
The rain started the moment Peter was gone.
It began as a sad dripping that quickly escalated to a miserable deluge, fat raindrops pummeling the trees and earth, turning the ground to mud. Thunder soon joined the chorus, lightning flickering on the horizon. All the while, the air grew colder, and a thick fog choked the forest.
"This seems excessive," James muttered, teeth gritted as he shouldered his way through the undergrowth. Then again, nothing was too excessive for Neverland.
In the smoggy rain, it was impossible to make out any landmarks; even the mountains were hidden from view. As such, it took him the better part of a day to locate the Lost Boys' charred hideout. It was James's best guess as to where he would find Peter—or at least Ernest, who Peter was unlikely to abandon if he meant to stay in Neverland forever.
But not only was the hideout lacking any signs of Peter, the Lost Boys were nowhere to be found either. Surely, James thought, that meant the boys had been led somewhere safer; they lacked the initiative to make such choices without Peter. He held on to that hope.
Nearby, he found a set of fairies burrowing into a tree. "Excuse me," James said. It annoyed him to even have to talk to them, because it felt like playing by Neverland's rules, but he had to accept that for a little longer. "Have you seen the Lost Boys?"
The fairies said a series of rude words, some of which were beyond James's understanding of their language. He got the impression they weren't willing to assist an enemy of Peter Pan.
"I'm trying to help him," James said. He came closer to the tree, and a fairy darted out and stung him on the cheek. "Ow, damn you!" Without thinking, he grabbed the fairy by the wings, dangling it in the air. "Tell me where Pan is," he growled, "or I'll say the magic words. There's no such thing as fai…"
The fairy explained hastily that it hadn't seen head or tail of Peter Pan, but that the Lost Boys had gone down the river after salvaging weapons from the remains of the hideout. James released it with a snarl, and then realized what he had done. "Excuse me," he said abruptly, mortified with himself. "Er—sorry. Old habits. Very sorry." He backed away before they could consider adding another sting to match the one on his face, and hurried off down the river.
For a moment, with the fairy hanging helplessly from his grip, he had thought of himself as Hook.
*~*~*
The river emptied into Mermaid Lagoon, pouring over a cliff into the roiling water below. The weather was only growing worse, clouds twisting yellow and black over the horizon. James nearly fell to his death while trying to find a way down the slick cliffs in the driving rain. He didn't know whether it would particularly hurt him to die in Neverland—it wasn't real, he kept reminding himself—but he was afraid he would at least wake to find himself outside Neverland, with no way to find Peter.
He was drenched by the time he reached the shore, his palms scraped bloody on the rocks.
Meanwhile, the merfolk looked to be having a merry time, riding the waves around the lagoon and jeering at James. He had always disliked them—ghostly, glossy creatures with thready hair and staring fish eyes. He liked them no better now that he thought of them as illusions.
"Have you seen the Lost Boys?" he bellowed at a passing mermaid, who swam closer, chirping and holding her hands over her frilled ears. "I need to find Pan," he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the howling wind.
The mermaid flipped her tail, splashing James with enough water to soak him through a second time. Then she gave a nasty squawking noise that might've been laughter and swam away, her teeth bared.
James retreated under the nearest cliff, not that it was much comfort to be out of the rain when he was already wet. At least his hands were numb enough to have stopped feeling their injuries. James caught himself thinking unfriendly thoughts toward the mermaids, as if they were really his enemies, as if any of it were real.
"It's a lie," he said loudly. "My name is James. I'm not a pirate. I'm going home, and I'm taking Pan—Peter, damn it—with me. And you can't stop me by flooding the place, so you may as well give up."
As if in reply, a streak of lightning cut the sky open. James flinched back against the cliff. The merfolk screamed in excitement or fear and went slicing through the water into a flooded cave across the bay. The following peal of thunder made the cliff shake to an alarming degree; James held his breath, wondering if Neverland had plans to bury him rather than let him go. But the thunder passed, and the merfolk came streaking out of their cave again, throwing themselves into the waves.
James squinted. There was fire flickering on the cave wall.
Lifting a hand to shield his face, he struggled back out into the rain.
A narrow, rocky spit of land was all that connected the cave entrance to the shore, and the waves were high enough to roll over it with every gust of wind. James grimaced. "It's not real," he told himself. "Nothing in this wretched dream has managed to kill me yet."
Out loud, it didn't sound as reassuring as it had in his head. It sounded dangerously like a dare.
He made his way out onto the spit, pressing his back against the cliff behind him and finding it difficult to keep his footing over the slick rock. Worse, when he was halfway across, the merfolk took notice of him. They swam over and began tugging at his trousers, first playfully and then quite hard, trying to pull him in. The first few retreated when James kicked at their slimy hands, but they weren't deterred for more than a few moments—and more of them gathered as he inched along, their gleaming eyes following him.
"Protecting something in that cave, are you?" James shouted. He glanced at the entrance, which was still at least twenty meters off. "It looks as if there's a fire inside! Now who might that be?"
The merfolk hissed, growing agitated. One of them slithered forward and wrapped its hands around his ankle and jerked hard, and James fell on his back in the rocks with a grunt. He kicked out hard and felt his foot collide with something soft—like a mermaid's face, perhaps. There was a screech of pain, and he caught sight of green blood running down a scaly cheek before it vanished under the water. James drew his sword and slashed at the waves, hoping to frighten off the rest of the merfolk.
Instead, he realized his mistake as their taunting eyes turned angry and, as one, they snarled and leapt for him. He tried to run for it, but only made it a few strides toward the cave. One sprang almost out of the water, slamming him against the cliff and then digging teeth and fingernails into his clothes as it dragged him into the waves.
There was nothing he could do. He lost his sword almost at once, and the freezing water closed over his head, a brutal, numbing cold spreading through his body. He could see nothing in the frothing water, only feel a dozen talons clawing at him as they pulled him down.
Then, from a great distance, he heard someone shouting. The merfolk released him suddenly, and a new set of hands closed on his shirt, pulling him back to the surface. He took in such a great gasping breath as to make his head spin, so it was a long moment before he recovered enough to look at his rescuer. He saw brown hair and for an aching moment thought it was Peter.
Then he blinked, and it was Ernest.
The boy was sodden, his eyes owlish in the grim wet darkness of the wor
ld. He dragged James the remaining distance to the cave, limping and heavily favoring his left leg. James recalled stabbing him, and wondered if he should apologize. Just because Ernest was fictional didn't mean he couldn't appreciate an apology.
At the back of the cave, the only part of it that wasn't swamped with water, the Lost Boys were huddled around a bonfire. They scrambled to their feet at the sight of James, most of them visibly terrified. Ernest dropped James on the floor and drew a knife from his belt, trembling as he held it out.
"What on earth—" James coughed and spat out seawater. "What on earth did you rescue me for if you were only going to threaten me?"
"Where's Peter?" Ernest demanded.
James stared at him in the firelight, hope draining out of him. "You mean you don't know either."
Ernest's knife arm drooped. "Don't you?" His face hardened—or at least he made an attempt at it. "You're probably lying."
"If I knew where he was, I'd be there," James snapped. "I certainly wouldn't be looking for you."
"If he doesn't know anything," Curly said hesitantly, "should we kill him?"
"No," Ernest said, rounding on him. "We don't kill anyone. Not even Hook."
James inched closer to the fire, since the Lost Boys weren't exactly keeping him from it. Ernest watched him, but let him sit in the warmth. He remained standing, gripping his knife.
"You don't have to worry about me," James said. "I've gone off piracy. Cross my heart and hope to die."
"Do you expect me to believe that?" Ernest asked, his mouth thinning.
"Yes. You've always struck me as rather gullible."
"Well, I don't. You can stay and dry off, but after that, you'll have to leave."
James had to laugh. "I can't tell if you're really this gregarious or if you're being generous because Neverland doesn't want me to die. Or perhaps it's because you're Pan's imaginary friend and he doesn't want me to die."
That was a nice thought. He could cling to that.
Ernest, predictably, looked confused. "What?"
"Did you know you're not real?" It felt cruel to say, but on the other hand, James felt he needed to keep saying things out loud to remind himself of what was true. "Did you know that Pan made you all up so he'd have playmates? Funny, isn't it? You and my pirates are the same. He and I just wanted different things."
"What's he talking about?" one of the Lost Boys asked plaintively.
Ernest looked like James had slapped him for no reason. After a second, he said, abruptly, "He didn't make me up."
"As you like," James said.
"No." Although Ernest was still gazing in James's direction, he didn't seem to be seeing him. "He didn't. The Lost Boys were his… but I adopted them. I wanted friends who'd like me, who'd look up to me, and when I came here and saw them wandering without a leader…"
"Oh," James said. "Oh. You too?"
*~*~*
They sat together by the fire for a long while. The Lost Boys wandered off to other corners of the cave, seeming not to enjoy the topic of their conversation. James couldn't really blame them for that. It had to be distasteful to hear yourself discussed as an imaginary construct. He didn't know if they really understood, or if they could.
"I ought to have realized," Ernest said. "About Peter, I mean. I remember us talking about where he came from. He ran away like I did."
"He told you about his life?" James asked, startled.
"Only a little. It was just after he arrived, when we were going up the mountain. He said he didn't have a family."
It would have hurt less if someone had stamped on his heart. "No," James said. "No, I don't think he does."
"I wanted him to be with me," Ernest said. "Er—with us." When James glanced at him, he turned pink. "I guess I knew he was different than the others. And I liked him so much, despite everything."
"You should go home, dear boy, wherever home is for you." James cleared his throat. "Also, Peter is a menace. I wouldn't wish being in love with him on anyone."
Ernest suddenly became very interested in staring at his toes and said nothing.
"I'm sorry about your leg," James added. "I hope it won't hinder you along the way."
"I'll make it," Ernest said. "I don't really feel it anymore."
Outside, the storm raged on. Ernest offered to let James stay until he was dry, but James had little hope that the rain would stop, so once he'd regained feeling in his extremities he set off. Ernest had given him an idea of one more place where Peter might be found.
*~*~*
By that point, he was relatively sure that Neverland wasn't going to kill him. It would, however, do its absolute best to make him miserable. His long trudge through the soggy forest had been proof enough of that; the merfolk attempting to drown him had been further insult to injury.
Neither, as it turned out, was anything compared to the mountain.
By the time he reached the foothills, it had grown so cold that there was frost gathering on the leaves. Icy wind whipped over the mountainside, while the frost made the cliffs all the more treacherous. As if that weren't enough, it began to hail, thick chunks of ice that stung and scraped his cheeks as they rained down.
James made incremental progress, his fingers and toes so cold they seemed about to fall off. He felt absurd, almost biblical, as he dragged himself up another slick, freezing slope; this was like a trial arranged by a vengeful god. Exhaustion made him delirious, but he didn't stop to rest for fear that if he fell asleep, he would forget himself again. Even without sleep, he found himself drifting to peaceful dreams of sailing on the summer sea.
"It never happened," James croaked, unable to hear himself over the howling wind. "It wasn't real. Home was real. Peter is real."
If only he'd been able to remember more of home. He couldn't even think of his address, nor the names of his late parents, nor if he'd ever had any siblings—he didn't think so, but couldn't be certain. He could barely picture the place where he lived: his cottage, which had surely been empty for years, and the river which ran alongside it.
When at last he reached the forest where he had fought Peter and been driven off by the fairy queen, he was so weary he was pulling himself along on branches and tree trunks. He didn't know what he expected to find when he reached the commune tree—he had never seen it, only watched Peter go through his telescope—but it wasn't an empty field of dead flowers wilted by the frost.
Peter wasn't there.
James sagged against a tree and slid down to rest in the frozen leaves below, fuming with despair. He let his head fall back against the trunk with a painful thud. "I thought for sure he'd be here," he said aloud. "It seemed so dramatic, just like him. Why on earth did getting here have to be such an ordeal if it didn't mean anything?"
"A fascinating question," the fairy queen said.
James leapt. The queen was sitting on a branch above him. All around her, the frost had melted, and green leaves were growing.
She fixed him with her nasty, beady red eyes. "I see you've come to your senses," she said. "I never expected it, after all these years. Will you be leaving us at last?"
"I ought to swat you," James said, stiffly straightening up against the tree. "You wretched little insect. How long have I been here?"
"Many years," she said. "It might have been eternity if not for him."
James's chest squeezed, although that could have been his heart giving out from the exertion. "Yes, thanks to him. No thanks to you. Where is he? I'm not leaving without him."
The queen looked startled, though it was hard to tell emotions on a dragonfly. "And if he chooses to stay?"
"He won't."
"It is his choice. If you stay, you might lose yourself waiting for him."
James grimaced, which was difficult, because his face was mostly numb. "Don't pretend to be concerned," he snapped. "If you really wanted to help, you'd stop making this accursed storm so I could find him without freezing to death."
The queen's laughte
r was a terrible, discordant clanging that set his teeth on edge. "Oh, James," she said. "It's his storm."
James opened his mouth, then shut it.
"I see," he said at length. "I should have known."
He felt blank. He'd truly thought it was Neverland or the fae or some other malicious force of nature trying to wash him into the sea, trying to keep him away from Peter.
But it had been Peter—Peter trying to keep him away, or just raging against the world, thoughtless of what he might be doing to James.
"Haven't you ever noticed that the sun comes out when he smiles?" the queen said. "It's another thing he wished for when he was a boy."
James laughed raggedly. "And all I wished for was a pirate crew."
"He is a far bolder storyteller than you."
"I can't leave him."
"How long do you think you can hold on to your memories?" the queen asked. "You'll forget. The temptation was always too much for you." She landed in his hands; they were suddenly warm, as though they had never been cold, and the gashes left on them by the rocky cliffs began to knit closed. James told himself it would be pointless, and probably deadly, to try to crush her. "You should go now," she said, "while you still can."
The idea of leaving without Peter tore at him. But so did the idea of being lost again, wandering in search of Peter until he forgot why he was searching, never returning to the life he had already come so close to losing.
"There's so much I wanted to tell him," James said quietly. "He ran off before I could say half of it."
The queen gave a little sigh and rose into the air, leaving behind a pool of silver dust. "Then say it," she said. "Surely you can think of a way."
*~*~*
On his way down the mountain, it started to snow.
Sixteen
The window was closed. Peter landed on the sill outside, balancing on his toes as the wind pushed him from side to side. The lacy white curtains were drawn shut, but he could see through them to the three beds in the nursery. His brothers were sleeping; they were lumps beneath under the covers.