The Child Thief

The last tendrils of the Mist swirled away. Peter heard men shouting far back in the park.

“We must go,” Tanngnost said and let go of Peter.

“Peter,” the Lady said. “Come home to me. Make it soon.”

“Yes,” agreed the witch. “And take good care of your eyes. One of them belongs to me.” She grinned, showing him her long, green teeth.

The Lady set her hand in the bay; a swell of water gently rose beneath the boat, and they drifted from the rocks. The swell built behind the boat and pushed it rapidly away.

Peter stood there until he could no longer see them, until he heard the squawk of a radio and heavy footsteps coming down the walkway. Then he slipped away, disappearing into the shadows.

THE SIRENS FADED as Peter put the park farther and farther behind him. He no longer crept through alleyways, walking instead along the main streets. He ignored the hard stares and wary looks, not caring who might notice him, hardly watching where he was going. So much lost, he thought, his heart so heavy he felt he might suffocate. What have I done? Again he saw the disappointment on the Lady’s face, the look in Nick’s eyes as he died. Peter set his jaw and pushed them from his mind, plodding onward into the night, concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other, as though he could truly leave all the pain behind.

He left Manhattan, scarcely noticing as he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Before long, the high-rises gave way to warehouses, then apartments and detached houses. He entered Prospect Park and soon found himself face to face with the green climbing turtle.

“Nick,” Peter whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The turtle stared back with its ridiculous grin.

Tears bit at Peter’s eyes. He wiped at them and gritted his teeth. “So damn sorry.” The tears kept coming until a harsh sob shook his frame. He slumped against the turtle as tears for Sekeu, Abraham, Goll, his mother, Nick, and all the Devils that had died for him poured freely down his cheeks. He slid to the grass. The list was long, but Peter sat there, eyes clenched, arms tight about his knees, until he could name every one—every single one.

Eventually, a brisk wind blew. Peter opened his eyes, inhaled deeply—warmth, a trace of spring. His skin prickled, the night suddenly felt alive, as though the trees, birds, and bugs were watching him. He caught sight of a sparkle, then another and another. They raced to him, zipping along just above the dewy grass, circling him, spiraling round and round. “Faerie folk,” he said in wonder. Something blue shot past Peter’s head, whirled about, and hovered right before him. It was one of the pixies, a girl with white, wispy hair. She hissed at him, then rejoined the flock as they frolicked about the trees.

Peter heard a whispering in the leaves, a voice calling for him to come dance with the night—it was his father. Peter recalled how the Horned One had danced with him and the Devils around the great fire, granted them a place in Avalon. You chose me, Father, to stand beside you at Merrow Cove, to fight by your side. Honored me, not Ulfger, but me.

Understanding dawned on Peter and he began to grin. His father had indeed left him a gift, a great gift, and not the deadly sword. His father had claimed him when no other would, because the Horned One’s spirit lorded over all wild things, whether pagan or Sidhe, of this world or faerie. And now his father had passed that spirit on to him.

Peter jumped to his feet, laughed long and loud, as though he owned the park, daring any to challenge him. He set back his head and howled—a primeval call not heard by men for a thousand years, one that made them remember why they are afraid of the deep dark forest.

I’ve no need of banners, titles, crowns, magic swords, or gilded courts. I’ll never be confined to any realm. My domain is wherever the wild wind blows.

“I am the Horned One,” Peter called. “The forest spirit, the lord of all wild things.”

He dug in his pouch, pulled out one of Avallach’s apples, and admired it. It was a sacred thing of remarkable beauty—the revered symbol of Avalon. Peter took a bite. “Yum.” Smacking loudly, he headed off to find a house, not just any house, but a blue house on Carroll Street. His golden eyes sparkled and he touched the hilt of his knife. He looked forward to meeting Marko and his pals. He intended to have some fun with them—a really good time, because it had been so long since he’d had a really good time.

He felt his step lighten. The Sunbird came to mind, how wild and free it had been, free to fly wherever it fancied, whenever it pleased. Peter felt like that now, as though he could go anywhere, do anything, almost as though he could fly.

He glanced up at the stars and a wicked smile lit his face. “Time to play,” he whispered to them and winked.

And the stars winked back, for Peter’s smile is a most contagious thing.

Author’s Note or An Ode to Peter Pan

Like so many before me, I am fascinated by the tale of Peter Pan, the romantic idea of an endless childhood amongst the magical playground of Neverland. But, like so many, my mind’s image of Peter Pan had always been that of an endearing, puckish prankster, the undue influence of too many Disney films and peanut-butter commercials.

That is, until I read the original Peter Pan, not the watered-down version you’ll find in the children’s bookshops these days, but James Barrie’s original—and politically uncorrected—version, and then I began to see the dark undertones and to appreciate just what a wonderfully bloodthirsty, dangerous, and at times cruel character Peter Pan truly is.

Foremost, the idea of an immortal boy hanging about nursery windows and seducing children away from their families for the sake of his ego and to fight his enemies is at the very least disturbing. Though this is fairly understandable when you read in “The Little White Bird” (Peter Pan’s first appearance) that as an infant he left his own nursery to play with the fairies in the park, but upon his return found the windows barred and his mother nursing another little boy—just the sort of traumatic event to leave anyone a bit maladjusted. Rejected, Peter returned to the fairy world and apparently decided things would be a bit more fun if he had a few companions. And, not being one to worry on niceties, he simply kidnapped them.

But what happens to these children after that? Here is a quote from the original Peter Pan: “The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out; but at this time there were six of them, counting the twins as two.”

Thins them out? Huh? What does that mean? Does Peter kill them, like culling a herd? Does he send them away somewhere? If so, where? Or does Peter just put them in such peril that the crop is in need of constant replenishing?

That one paragraph forever changed my perception of Peter Pan from that of a high-spirited rascal to something far more sinister. “Thins them out”—the words kept repeating in my head. How many children had Peter stolen, how many had died, how many had been thinned out? Peter himself said, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

There is certainly no lack of bloodletting in Peter Pan: pirates massacring Indians and so forth, but those are adults killing each other—nothing new there. Much more intriguing to me is that murderous group of children—the Lost Boys. With them, Peter Pan has turned bloodletting into a sport, has taught them not only to kill without conscience or remorse but also to have a damn good time doing it. At one point the boys proudly debate the number of pirates they’d just slaughtered: “Was it fifteen or seventeen?” And how can any child not enjoy such lines as “They fell easy prey to the reeking swords of the boys.” Or “He lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler, when another, who had just passed his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.” Nothing like a good spilling of entrails to liven things up. And more chilling is Peter’s ability to do all these things—the kidnapping, the murder—all without a trace of conscience: “‘I forget them after I kill