“My name is my own and only those I call friend have the honor of using it. Let her go. I’ve played your game and I won. I followed every map, obeyed every rule,” Archie said, feeling the coldness creep into his voice. “Let her go or I shall kill you.”
“No.” The dark look hadn’t left Peter’s face. If anything, it had intensified. “You haven’t won, because I’m not done playing.” He took the knife from his side. The sun glinted off the blade. “I challenge you to a duel, Archie.”
“And if I don’t accept?”
“She’ll die—as will you.”
Archie looked over at Tiger Lily. The water was rising and there was no other way to get around Peter. If fight he must, he would have to do it soon.
He unsheathed his rapier, the thin blade made a tinny metallic echo as it came free. He poised the blade before him and gave a small bow for the sake of formality. “I will accept, on the terms that you fight as a gentleman and that this is the last of your games.”
“I agree to your terms,” Peter nodded. “And I have my own. If you win, she goes free. If I win, you never try to leave Neverland again.”
There was no choice to be made. The only thing that mattered was Tiger Lily. “Agreed.”
The first strike came the instant the word left Archie’s lips, sending up a crackling spark as metal met metal. The force behind it caught Archie off guard and he took a step back, before countering with a strike of his own, which Peter deflected. The boy moved quickly, delivering blow for blow.
Peter had a definite advantage as his feet never hit the ground. He flew to and fro, effortlessly dodging each of Archie’s thrusts. Archie, on the other hand, was slipping and sliding on the ledge.
“Bad form,” Archie managed after one staggering blow that he nearly missed.
“What’s bad form?” Peter paused, his knife poised.
“Having bad form is my way of implying that you do not fight as a gentleman. You are flying, which is putting me at grave disadvantage. A gentleman would make certain that his fight is fought fairly.”
Peter’s face went scarlet with anger before he said in a calm voice. “Then I won’t fly.”
Archie hadn’t expected this, so when the boy landed on the slick rock before him, he was surprised. He smiled and gave an elaborate, deep bow. “And that, Peter, is what I would call ‘good form.’”
Peter’s reply was to send another stinging blow against his rapier that made his arm numb. Archie countered with his own, happily noticing that Peter was now sliding about as much as he. The duel was now fair—or more in his favor now that the young ruffian wasn’t flitting about in the air.
They fought the length of the ledge, with Archie advancing on Peter, one blow at a time. The boy countered each thrust. It seemed Archie wouldn’t be wearing him down anytime soon, so he concentrated on trying to push Peter back, trick him into taking one fatal misstep that would either make him fall or land him in the water.
The clang of the rapier against the knife echoed back and forth against the rock walls. It sounded as if war was being waged by an army, instead of two souls locked in a single, deadly duel. Archie registered that the ledge had left the wall and they were now on the section that jutted out into the water. There was at least an inch of water on this new section of rock. The sounds of sloshing mixed in with the echoes as they fought.
I must hurry, there isn’t much time left. The tide will soon cover her. Archie began fighting with renewed vigor, which seemed to catch Peter by surprise. The boy stumbled once, and retreated a few quick steps, as if to regroup. Archie closed the gap between them and poised his rapier for a quick thrust at Peter’s heart.
Instead of blocking the movement, as Archie had expected him to do, he spun around, took a step off the end of the ledge—and flew.
Archie’s rapier had found its mark, but not in the boy who was now flying high above. The jarring sensation of the rapier sinking into flesh felt surreal at first. But now, as he looked into Tiger Lily’s wide, shocked eyes—he was horrified.
His heart felt as if it was the one that had been pierced. “No, no, no,” he whispered as he pulled his blade from her chest. As it came free, she slumped forward against the rope that held her fast. The hilt of his rapier made a dull clang as he dropped it to the ledge and leaned across to take the rag away from her mouth. Realizing that he needed his rapier to cut her free, he snatched it back up and cut through the ropes, before throwing it back down again.
“No, no… no…” he whispered again as he knelt, cradling her body to his, feeling the last bits of his heart die as she took one shuddering breath—and went still. He laid her down on the ledge, watching as the water brought her hair up to float around her face in dark, silky tendrils. She looked like a sleeping princess, but the narrow hole in her chest belied that she would ever wake again. Overcome by emotion, he bent and brushed a kiss to her lips. For the first time, it wasn’t returned. She was gone—and the fault was his.
The sound of a blade scraping against rock cut through the muddle in his mind. Instinctively, he reached behind him for his rapier. When his hand found nothing but water and slick stone, he remembered the forgotten, flying boy, and turned.
Holding Archie’s rapier, Peter hovered just above the water’s surface, poised as if he had fought with such a weapon before.
Fury roiled over Archie as he stood and grabbed his blade. He ignored the sting of pain as the metal bit into his flesh. He gripped it tighter in his hand, bending the metal down. “You will pay for all that you have done, even if it takes my death to make it so,” the words seeped out in a low whisper.
Peter’s eyes went wide at first. Then, a dark look passed over them, giving him the appearance of being much older than the boy he seemed to be. “No, it won’t take your death. Not yet. I find myself enjoying this far too much.” With a quick, forceful jerk, the blade was ripped from Archie’s hand, slicing through the tender flesh between his fingers as it came free. Then, before Archie had the chance to move, Peter swished the blade through the air, straight at his still uplifted hand.
Time slowed as Archie watched a ray of sun catch the silver blade, causing a sparkle to run from the hilt and travel toward the tip. In the instant the gleam touched the tip, the blade found his hand, severed it, and sent it flying through the air.
Blood poured from Archie’s wrist, trapping his attention as it oozed from a stump and covered the lace cuff a gory, dark blue. This isn’t happening, he thought, taking an unsure step back, watching as the blue blood ran down to his elbow and began dripping into the water in an increasing stream.
A laugh caught his attention, and his eyes left the empty place where his hand had been, so where it now was, in Peter’s grasp. The boy looked jubilant, as if he had done some grand thing.
“My blade, if you please,” Archie said coldly, trying to ignore the fact that his vision was now clouding and his body was weakening with each passing second. He stumbled forward and lifted up his uninjured arm to retrieve his rapier, daring Peter to take that hand, too.
Peter lifted an eyebrow, as if he was thinking of doing exactly that, but then he pitched the blade down, and flew off, disappearing through the opening in the ceiling. He hadn’t thrown the rapier to Archie, but to the ledge, where the water had risen so much that it splashed near Tiger Lily’s body.
Archie turned back and staggered toward her. The current was moving the hilt of the rapier back and forth. He was having difficulty focusing on it. His vision kept darkening each time the water surged.
He slipped as he bent over to pick it up and found himself on his knees by Tiger Lily. Instead of finding the rapier, his hand felt the cold silk of her hair that floated in the water. His vision cleared only well enough to watch his rapier wash over the ledge with the next surge in the tide. As it disappeared under a blanket of hazy, white foam, his vision left and the darkness closed in. He felt warm.
It’s over now, Archie thought. The pain left as the water covered hi
s face. A single thought passed through his mind as his hand found hers.
I will die with the one I love.
RUNT STOOD ON the deck of the ship. He had been there when they brought his body on board. He’d caught a glimpse of the captain’s face. It was white and pasty and had the look of the dead.
How will I join this crew if Captain Archie is dead? Runt watched, horrified, as they carted the captain’s body below.
The sullen-looking, old man they had called the doctor looked even grouchier than the one other time Runt had seen him. He brushed by Runt as if he hadn’t noticed his presence and followed the others down the steps.
It was quiet for the rest of the day. He stayed on the deck, wanting to help in some way, but didn’t know how to go about it. The ship was a strange thing with hundreds of ropes stretching up to the huge pieces of canvas that billowed in the wind.
“Come up here, boy,” a large man with rippling tattoos said from the deck above him. “I will teach ye how to sail the ship.”
He did as the man asked and climbed the steps to the upper deck. “I am Beckett,” the man introduced himself. “What be yer name, lad?”
“Runt.” It came out in a nervous squeak, making Runt feel even more self-conscious as he stood in front of the hulking man before him.
“Well now, Runt. If ye wish to be a pirate, ye must know all there is to know about the ship, aye?” the man named Beckett said, giving Runt’s shoulder a quick squeeze, before motioning to the big, round wheel in front of him. “What say ye take the wheel and bring us out to sea, eh?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Runt said, taking the spokes of the wheel in his hands.
A chilling scream rent the air, sending gooseflesh along Runt’s arms. He gripped the wheel and looked up at Beckett with wide eyes.
Beckett was looking toward the steps, where the scream had seemed to come from. “Nay, lad, I am not the cap’n of the Jolig Roger. I only be watching over her ’til her true cap’n is fit to handle her again.”
Runt had been looking at Beckett’s tense face, when he noticed something just over his shoulder. With a sense of dread, he whispered only loudly enough for Beckett to hear, “He’s here. Peter is here.”
Beckett whirled around as the gravity of his words hit him, and began barking orders to every man in sight. Runt cowered next to the wheel, hoping to escape Peter’s notice.
“Ye stay close to me,” Beckett said, as he stepped in front of Runt, blocking his view.
Runt hid behind Beckett’s legs, hoping that Peter hadn’t caught sight of him. He didn’t want to be one of the Lost Boys anymore, but he wasn’t feeling brave in this particular moment, either. He had been brave when Peter took Tiger Lily away. He had stood up to him and told Peter to leave her alone, but it hadn’t worked. He had been too small to do any good. Now, he wanted to be invisible, but he still wanted to watch, so he peeked around Beckett’s legs, just in time to see Peter fly past, so close that Runt could have reached out and touched him. He was carrying a long, pointed knife—one that looked like the one Runt had seen before at Captain Archie’s side.
“He forgot this,” Peter announced, throwing the long knife at the big pole in the middle of the ship. It made a loud thwack as it sunk in, the shiny handle moving back and forth.
Without another word, he flew upward, disappearing into the clouds. Several long moments passed as they watched for any sign that he would return.
“I guess he came and did what he meant to do,” Beckett’s words sounded hard, but he shrugged as he turned and offered Runt a hand up from his hiding place. “Let’s make ye a pirate, lad. I feel we be needin’ all the help we can get.”
IMAGES CAME AND went in a jumble, mixing and twisting so that nothing made sense. Archie wanted the darkness back—wanted the peace that it brought. The colors came in blurs, though the blue always seemed dominant, the cursed blue that always reminded him of blood. Some flesh colors reminded him of the faces of his crew or of the mermaid he spotted at their arrival. Several times over, he thought he was staring into the face of Smee, but then the blue would take over and the pain would come alive.
Each time, he wished for darkness. He wished for death—but it wouldn’t come.
“Come on, lad. Ye have tried to give up for three days now, but yer spirit be too strong. Best ye open yer eyes and deal with it, eh?” Smee’s voice broke through the darkness and shattered it. “If ye do, I promise the pain will go away sooner.”
Archie’s eyes opened a slit as he tried to focus. Smee’s white sideburns came into view first, followed by his bulbous nose, and his spectacles. Two shrewd, watery blue eyes were looking at him.
“Ah, there ye be,” Smee said in a conversational tone, as if his captain had been misplaced instead of at the brink of death. “If ye would like to sit up, I’ll get ye a drink. I’d imagine ye need one,” he turned, presumably to pick up a tankard of rum. Then, Archie heard him mumble, “I know I do.”
Archie sat up, body aching and throbbing, though the worst of the pain was coming from his left arm that had been tucked under the covers. That brought his memories back and he remembered his last thought. “How is it that I am not dead? Or is it that I am dead and stuck in this cursed place for all eternity?” His voice was raspy as he took the offered tankard from Smee. He took a long drink, noticing that the old man had taken pity on him and filled it with wine.
Smee sighed, settling down on the bench across from him, his own tankard clasped in his hands. “Ye aren’t dead, lad, though I thought ye to be when we found ye floating in the water. Lucky for ye, Beckett wanted to go hunt a croc, else ye would have been dead, sure enough. Ye lost a hand and more blood than I ever saw from a single man, but ye must have a purpose to stay alive, ’cause ye are still here.”
Archie slipped his wounded arm out of the covers. The sight of the wrapped stub was a shock, even though he had expected it to be there. The worse part was that the air above it ached, as if his hand were still there, only invisible and hurt.
“They say those who lose a hand or a foot will have its ghost to haunt them, unless it is buried proper-like,” Smee said, as if he had read Archie’s mind.
“That will be difficult to do, as the last I saw, it was in Peter’s possession.” Archie grimaced, taking another gulp of wine.
“Eh, no, he doesn’t have it,” Smee said, fidgeting on his stool. Catching Archie’s cold stare, he continued, “He flew around the sails a bit yesterday, so as to make sure we was watchin’. Then he flew a ways out, and waited for the croc. When the big beastie came to the surface, the boy threw it to ’im. Yer hand got eaten, lad. Won’t be any burying it, I’m afraid.”
“Lovely.”
The two sat in silence for the next few moments until they had both drained their cups. “Beckett has a report to give ye, whenever ye want to hear it. Ye also have a new man that wishes to join the crew. If ye want me to send ’em down, I will,” Smee said, standing.
“Send them.”
Smee waited, and when it became apparent that Archie had nothing more to say, he left, shutting the door to the map room. No one ever shuts that door quietly. It must be worse than he lets on, Archie thought, swinging his legs over the side of the cot.
Without thinking, he placed his left arm down to grip the side of the cot. His wrapped stump thunked against the wooden rail, sending currents of pain that radiated all the way to his elbow.
Archie gritted his teeth until the pain subsided. Then he stood, struggled into his breeches and coat, then fumbled with the fastening on his belt. At last clothed with the help of his single hand, he sat down in the chair behind the map table to wait.
He had expected Beckett to arrive first, but a moment later Smee came back into the map room, carrying a small wooden box. “I haven’t told Beckett to come yet. There be somethin’ I wanted to give ye.” He sat the box down on the table, and flipped open the lid.
“This belonged to Blackbeard. He bought it on Madeira, but forgot to take it
with him. I found it at the tavern when he left. I suppose he meant to use it, should he ever lose a hand. I doubt we ever see Blackbeard again, and ye are the captain of this ship. It’s yers, if ye want it.”
Lying on a pad of black velvet, was a gleaming silver hook.
Archie didn’t realize Smee had left again until the door closed behind him. As he lifted up the hook, the light caught the thick, white scar on his palm. A memory of Tiger Lily raced through his mind. A bargain for her people’s safety, a cut to his hand, and a chaste kiss, rushed through him, sending tears to his eyes.
She was gone, and it was his fault. One solitary tear trekked down his cheek. He fixed the gleaming hook onto the stub, ignoring the stabs of pain that radiated in his wrist as he clamped down the leather strap. He would take this gift that Blackbeard had left—and in doing so, he would vow his revenge. If the death guardian wished someone to battle until the end of time, he would be there to do it. He would not rest, nor ever leave Neverland, until Peter had paid for what he had done. He glanced down at his scar. He would have it to remind him of Tiger Lily. He took Harper’s drawing of Mary out of his coat pocket. It was ragged now, water-stained, and ruined, but he could still make out her beautiful face.
He undid the fastenings. Curling the picture around his stub, he replaced the hook, trapping the image of Mary between his skin and the leather. He tightened the strap, hearing the paper crinkle as it became part of him.
Now, on each hand, he would have a reminder of what had been taken from him. Feeling the last bits of his heart harden, he stood. Without waiting for anyone to appear, he made his way to the deck.
The first thing that caught his eye in the dwindling daylight, was his rapier, stuck fast in the mast. Without a word, he jerked it free, and slid it back into the sheath at his side. Then, he stalked to the quarterdeck, watching as his crew moved to stay out of his way.
The Untold Stories of Neverland: The Complete Box Set Page 25