“It started to get dark, and the duckling was scared, but he kept walking and crying, thinking that around every corner there might be his mama, ready to scold and hug him all at the same time.”
“My mama was never like that,” Harry said to Jonathan in a low voice. “She only did the yelling and the hitting, none of the hugging.”
Peter gave no sign that he noticed this remark. “After a long time the boy came to a clear pond in a little valley. The water was so fresh and still that all the world reflected in it, like the shiniest looking glass you ever did see.”
Ah, I thought, it’s to be a gobbling by a crocodile, then. I pulled Charlie a little closer to me and put him in my lap, like I could protect him from Peter’s story with my arms.
“The little duckling went to the water and peered in, and inside the water was the valley and the trees all around and the white face of the moon and the white face of another little duckling, fuzzy yellow hair and all. The duckling quacked ‘hello,’ for he was very pleased to see a friendly face after walking and crying so long in the woods on his own. The other duckling in the pond said ‘hello’ at the same time, which made them both laugh and laugh. The duckling reached through the water, toward his new friend, and their fingertips touched.
“At that very moment the smooth surface of the pond rippled and the sneaking, peeking eyes of a crocodile broke through. The croc wasn’t far from where the little duckling and his friend were laughing together. The duckling started up and shouted to his friend, ‘Oh, get away, get away or you’ll be eaten.’
“He ran a little way and looked over his shoulder to see if his friend followed him like he hoped, but the other duckling wasn’t there. Then the little duckling’s heart was in his mouth, because he was so scared but he didn’t want to leave his friend to be gobbled up by the crocodile. Those sneaking, peeking eyes still lurked in the same place, so the duckling thought he had time to get his friend from the water.”
“How come the bird was so stupid?” Harry asked. He seemed to have forgotten that the duckling was actually a boy in Peter’s story. “Don’t he know the pond only shows what’s put in it?”
This didn’t really make sense but we all knew what Harry meant. A few of the others nodded.
Charlie hadn’t forgotten the duckling was actually a boy. He pressed his face against my chest, like he was trying to climb inside my skin, trying to find a place where he could be safe from the story. Only Charlie and I seemed to know it wasn’t to end well, and only I knew the story was meant for me. Charlie was dead scared of the crocodile pond, and he was right to be. Those beasts could gobble a little one like him in one bite.
“Haven’t I said he was a foolish little duckling?” Peter said, responding to Harry’s question. “Everyone knows we stick together in the forest.”
“If you go out alone you won’t come back,” a few of the boys said together.
“’Cept Jamie,” Fog said.
“Yeah, ’cept Jamie,” Nod said.
“Nothing in the forest would be dumb enough to try and hurt Jamie,” Peter said, with a fierce kind of pride.
That pride would have made me swell a little were it not for Charlie’s small voice. “But what about the duckling?”
“Right you are, Charlie,” Peter said. “That little duckling crept back to the so-still pond, where Mr. Crocodile waited. He gathered all his courage and looked into the water and saw his friend there, so very close to those watching eyes.”
“I thought this was a ghost story,” Billy said. He didn’t seem much impressed by the tale of the little duckling. “Where’s the ghost?”
“Aye,” said Jonathan. “I thought a proper ghost story would have bloody white creepers covered in chains and all.”
“If you don’t shut it we’ll never get to the ghost bit,” Peter said, temper snapping in his eyes.
That’s all right, I thought. Charlie and me, we don’t need to hear the end of this story. We don’t need to know how the crocodile chomped the little duckling into its jaws while the boy cried for his mama, because Charlie and me, we already see it.
Peter cleared his throat so all the boys would pay attention again. There was no thought of leaving, of doing something else, of taking Charlie somewhere he wouldn’t hear. And the boys who were bored wouldn’t leave either. It was Peter’s island, Peter who’d brought us here, and in the back of every boy’s mind was some form of the same thought—He could send me back, if he wanted.
They didn’t know that Peter wouldn’t ever let anyone leave. Once you came to the island, you stayed on the island. That was the rule. You stayed there forever.
And none of them wanted to go back, for they’d all been alone or as good as, running from the smell of ale and dirty straw and the fist that made your teeth fall out. Anything Peter had on offer was better than that, even if there were monsters here.
Except, I thought, maybe for Charlie. Charlie didn’t belong. Charlie might have a brother, a brother who teased about the ghost in the wardrobe but who might look out for him too, and maybe Charlie had been that little duckling following a grasshopper the day we found him. Maybe we should have just turned him around so he could find his way back to the path, instead of taking him away with us.
“The duckling reached for his friend in the water, and his friend reached back. Just as the duckling was about to grasp hands with the other boy his fingers somehow slipped past and into the water.”
“How can a bird have fingers?” Harry asked Billy, and Billy shushed him at the look in Peter’s eye.
“The sneaking, peeking crocodile eyes hadn’t moved, so the little duckling thought there must still be time to save his friend. He reached in the water and the other boy reached back and his face was scared but their hands did not touch. The little duckling knew then his friend was trapped beneath the surface and that meant he would be eaten for certain.
“No wonder the crocodile hadn’t lumbered from the pond to chase the duckling, for his meal was only a snap and a clap away, no need to run after little boys on land.”
“Here, now, where’d the boy come from?” Harry asked.
“The little duckling thought and thought, and then he dragged a large branch to the pond and pushed it in for his friend to grab. It splashed and crashed and the old fat croc blinked his eyes, but he did not move, and the duckling’s friend was still stuck beneath the water, his face as pale as the white moon.
“The duckling saw a vine on a tree and he ran to the tree and tugged with all his might, always checking over his shoulder to make sure the croc wasn’t about, but the croc just stayed where he was put, like he was sleeping with his eyes open.
“The vine came loose with a ripping noise and the duckling tumbled back, rolling so far so fast that he almost went right into the pond with the friend he was trying to save, and what would happen then? Who would save them if they both were trapped under the surface?
“He threw the vine in the water and told his friend to grab hold of it and he ran away from the pond as fast as he could, holding his end of the vine and hoping, hoping, hoping he was pulling his friend from the reach of the crocodile’s teeth. After a while he looked back and saw he had gone far from the water and the sneaking, peeking eyes but he was all alone. The end of the vine trailed along behind him, wet and dirty and friendless.
“The little duckling cried then, for he was scared of the croc and the water and of being by himself in the woods and he just wanted his mama, just wanted her to come and put him under her wing and take him home.”
Peter looked at me, and I knew this last part was for me—a warning, maybe, or a foretelling of the future? Charlie started to shake then—he couldn’t bear it another second—and I turned him around so his head was on my shoulder, just like he was my little duckling and I was his mama, putting him under my wing. I gave Peter a look that said, Do your worst.
&nb
sp; “But though he was a foolish duckling he was still, deep down, a brave one too. He wouldn’t leave his friend behind. The little duckling decided finally he must dive into the water and push his friend out, and the thought of this made him tremble all over and made the downy yellow fuzz on his head stand up. He stood on the shore of the pond, watching that sneaking, creeping crocodile, who was so still the duckling almost thought he wasn’t even alive.
“Just as the duckling had worked up enough courage to leap into the water, he heard something, something so far away but so longed for that he was sure he imagined it. It sounded like Mama, quacking and quacking his name.
“The little duckling forgot about his friend in the water and turned and called for her, and she called back and now his heart was full and happy and he started away from the pond, running across the clearing and shouting and shouting for her. Everything would be all right now that his mama was here.
“But, oh, that peeking, sneaking crocodile, he knew his time had come. The little duckling’s back was turned but if he had looked over his shoulder he would have seen that old crocodile moving fast now, faster than anyone would have thought possible. His tail whipped that giant monster’s body through the water in a trice, and though he splashed as he clambered onshore, the little duckling did not hear. He could only hear one thing—the voice of his mama.”
Charlie trembled all over, his body vibrating against my chest, and he covered his ears with his little hands. He didn’t want to hear because he already knew, and so did I. The other boys leaned forward, their eyes shining in the afternoon light, for Peter had them well and truly caught now.
“And what do you think happened then?” Peter asked, for he never lost a chance to perform for the audience.
“He got eaten!” Harry said. “And he turned into a ghost!”
I sniggered a little at the look on Peter’s face, for although it was obvious where the story was heading, he clearly felt that Harry’s delivery left something to be desired.
“The little duckling’s mama broke through the trees and saw him running to her, and she saw, too, the crocodile behind, his eyes so hungry and red. She shrieked and reached for her duckling but it was too late, far too late. That sneaking, creeping crocodile had hold of the duckling’s leg and the little duckling was too surprised to cry out, too surprised to do anything at all.
“His mother, she was quacking and squawking as the little duckling was dragged away, but she should have kept a better eye, shouldn’t she? Isn’t that what mamas are supposed to do?”
“Don’t remember our mama,” said Nod, and Fog nodded his head up and down in agreement.
“I do,” Billy said, and it didn’t seem the memory brought him any particular joy.
“I do,” said Charlie, but it was a tiny whisper, just for me. “She used to rock me and sing to me and hold me so tight.”
“That mother duck, she ran after the crocodile, but he disappeared under the water of the pond, taking the little duckling with him.
“Now, you might think that the little duckling turned into a ghost that haunts that old crocodile pond,” Peter said, his eyes hard and bright as he glanced at the shivering Charlie in my arms.
“Didn’t he?” Harry asked.
Peter shook his head side to side, a long, slow “no” that had all the boys peering at him in confusion.
“What’s all this duck business about, then, if he didn’t turn into a ghost? Where’s the bloody ghost in the ghost story?” Harry asked, but there was no rancor in his voice, just confusion.
“The mother duckling stood at the shore of the pond, weeping and weeping for her little lost one. Her tears were so great and so many that the waters of the pond rose and flooded around her feet and ankles, and she sank deep into the mud there until the water covered her to her knees. On and on she wept, for she knew it was all her fault for letting her little boy get lost in the first place. After a very long time her tears ran dry, but by then her legs had turned into stems and her yellow hair into the petals of a flower, and so she stands there until this day, crouched over the crocodile pond, hoping forever to see the face of her little duckling again. And sometimes, if you go to the crocodile pond late at night, you can hear her voice on the wind, crying his name.”
Peter said this last bit very quietly and dramatically. I didn’t know what the rest of the boys would make of this tale—they mostly looked confused and slightly disappointed—but I knew that Peter meant it for me. But was I the little duckling’s mama in the story, or was I supposed to return him to her before something happened to Charlie? I wasn’t sure.
Peter’s eyes were dark and full of blood, but the wet on my shoulder was from Charlie’s quiet tears.
chapter 3
After that strange little interlude, the boys were full of energy and ready to run, so Peter decided we ought to set off for the pirate camp though the sun was lowering. As usual, my objections were overruled.
“The sun will be up for a while longer,” Peter said. “Anyhow, the boys are already gone.”
It was true. As soon as Peter had given them leave to go, all the boys had collected their supplies and weapons (following the lead of Nod and Fog, who were always happy to order the new boys about). Then the twins whooped and hollered and ran into the woods, and most of the others had followed them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Del’s face was less pale than usual, and I could tell he still felt some lingering pride at having fought Nip off at lunch.
Maybe he would make it. Maybe he wouldn’t die slowly coughing out blood. Maybe.
Everyone left except Nip, who was still passed out where I’d left him, and Peter and Charlie and me. Charlie had one hand attached to the tail of my coat and the thumb of his other hand was stuffed in his mouth.
Peter eyed the little boy with distaste, though after the story he’d told, Peter could hardly expect Charlie to scamper happily after the others.
“Go and kick Nip,” Peter told Charlie. “If he doesn’t get up he’ll have to stay here on his own while we raid the pirates.”
Charlie looked up at me, which I could tell bothered Peter no end. He was used to having his wishes granted without question.
“I’ll do it,” I said. I didn’t want Nip to wake up swinging and punch Charlie in the face, although I was pretty certain that was precisely the goal Peter had in mind.
“I’m not minding him while you’re about it,” Peter said, just as if Charlie weren’t there at all.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Come with me, Charlie.”
Peter frowned, this outcome apparently not at all what he’d wanted.
“Go on after the others,” I said to Peter, and his frown became fierce. Not only was I taking the risk of harm away from Charlie but I’d just dismissed Peter like one of the other boys. Like he was ordinary.
And Peter never wanted to be ordinary.
“I don’t want to go yet,” Peter said.
“As you please,” I said, and hid my smile as I turned away.
Charlie kept his hand on my clothes, but as we approached Nip he tugged at the hem. I glanced down at him and he shook his head at me.
“You don’t want to get closer to Nip?”
Charlie’s thumb popped out of his mouth. “He scares me.”
“Do you want to go back to Peter?”
Charlie shook his head no again, but didn’t offer any explanation this time. I had a fair idea that Peter’s “ghost” story had taken some of the shine off the other boy for Charlie.
“Just stay here, all right? I’ll just go give Nip a kick and come right back for you.”
Charlie shook his head, his eyes big and blue and full of feelings he couldn’t put into words, but I could see the story of the lost duckling swimming around in them.
“I promise I’ll be back,” I said. “I don’t want you to get hurt if Nip wakes up like
an angry bear, right? And you can see me all the time I’m gone.”
Charlie turned this over in his mind, and finally nodded and let go of my clothes. He snagged one hand firmly in his own shirt hem and put his other thumb back in his mouth.
Peter stood near the fire where we’d left him, his brow creased as he watched us.
Whatever trouble Peter seemed to think Charlie might cause, it was nothing, in my mind, to the trouble Nip would cause. He was that kind of boy, the kind who’d always be slugging the others and taking their food and generally disturbing the peace. Not that there was so much peace, really, with more than a dozen boys about, but the roughhousing was usually in a friendly spirit.
I’d seen Nip’s eyes when he went for Del at lunch. There was a piggy kind of meanness in them, a cruelty that didn’t have a place in our little band of lost boys—at least I thought so, though clearly Peter didn’t, else he wouldn’t have chosen him.
That made two mistakes Peter had made in the last collection—Charlie and Nip. I knew what he thought he’d get in Charlie—a sweet little toy to play with. I wondered what he thought he’d get out of Nip.
All this was drifting around in my brain as I stood over the prone boy, and so I didn’t do any of the things I might have done with one of the others—shake him awake, or roll him over so that the sun on his face made him open his eyes. No, I did exactly as Peter had told Charlie to do—I kicked him.
I kicked him good and hard in the ribs and if I didn’t crack any bones it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Nip rolled over with a cry and came to his knees. His face was smudged with dirt and ash from the fire and his eyes were reddened from the coals. It took him a moment to realize where he was, what had happened and what I was doing there. When he did he stood up—staggered up, really, and his hand went to his head like my last blow was still ringing there.
Lost Boy Page 4