A strange cry caught their attention. Peter saw a large bird with fiery red plumage glide across the pond and alight in a nearby tree. It surveyed the pond, its brilliant orange eyes standing out in stark contrast to a crown of black feathers.
The Lady let out a soft gasp and leaped to her feet. “Peter,” she whispered. “The Sunbird.”
It lifted its head and began to sing, and all the creatures in the forest fell silent. This wasn’t just a call, but a song made up of whistles and chirps, like nothing Peter had ever heard before.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.
Peter nodded and glanced at the Lady. She held her fingertips to her lips, her eyes captivated.
As suddenly as it had appeared, the bird took flight and left them.
“Oh, don’t go,” she said, and sighed. “I’ve not seen it since I was a girl. That sweet song takes me back to happier times.” She was quiet then, her eyes distant.
Peter caught a flash in the sun and something landed on the sandy bank. He leaped up, raced over, and picked it up. It was a brilliant red feather. He brought it back and held it up for the Lady to see. The sunlight shimmered off the fine filaments, and when he twirled it, it sparkled and glowed as though aflame.
The sparkles glittered across the Lady’s face. “Oh, Peter. It’s beautiful!”
He handed it to her. “It’s for you.”
“For me? Peter, no, you can’t. It is too wonderful a treasure.”
“Yes I can.”
She took the feather and began to twirl it. A smile of unabashed joy lit up her whole face, and in that moment she looked like a little girl.
Peter cupped his hands over his mouth, and began to whistle and chirp, trying to mimic the Sunbird’s song. He didn’t get it right, but after a few more tries, he had it and whistled the song all the way through.
The Lady stared at him in utter amazement, then grabbed his hand and clasped it in both of hers. “That’s wonderful! You must be part bird.”
“Yes, I am,” Peter said proudly. “Why, I’m a Peterbird.”
“Well Peterbird, you must come visit my court and sing for me. Is it agreed?”
Peter gave a big nod.
“Good.” She looked at him, looked at him intently for a long time. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“One more thing.” She reached behind her neck and undid the gold chain. She held it out so Peter could see the eight-point star. He noticed it was actually fine threads of tarnished gold spun around a dark stone. “This belonged to another little boy, a very special little boy. He is lost to me. I would like for you to wear it for now. Would you do that for me?”
Again, Peter nodded.
She slipped it around Peter’s neck and kissed him atop his head. “My little Mabon,” she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it
As Peter held the star, it began to glow slightly.
The Lady saw it too and her eyes began to tear. She reached for Peter and pulled him tight, hugged him for a long time. She smelled of pollen and the sweetness of cool water.
Peter heard her again in his head, or heart maybe, like in the pond.
“HEY,” NATHAN CALLED. “Wait up.”
The child thief realized he’d let his mind drift, let the kid fall behind. He knew better, knew that the Mist, given the chance, would get in his head and play games.
Peter waited, searching the shimmering wall of silvery light, listening. Had the Sluagh heard? Were they on their way?
“I don’t like this,” Nathan said. “Just where are we?”
Peter put his fingers to his lips. “Shhh!” Peter whispered. “You have to keep quiet or they’ll hear. Now let’s go.”
“What’re you talking about?”
Peter didn’t answer; now wasn’t the time for talk. He turned, searching for the Path. It was there, just ahead, the thin golden thread sliding and shifting, drifting away as though blown by a hidden wind. You had to stay with the Path or it would leave you behind.
Peter headed for the Path, then realized Nathan wasn’t following; the boy was staring at the ground.
“Look!” Nathan said, pointing.
Peter didn’t need to look. He knew what it was.
“Those are bones! That’s somebody’s goddamn head!” Nathan squinted warily at Peter. “What the hell kinda place is this?”
Peter jabbed his finger to his lips. The kid had to be quiet.
“Don’t tell me to
Peter gritted his teeth, tried to control his temper, but this kid was going to get them both killed. He glanced at the Path, it was drifting away. He didn’t dare lose sight of it, but they needed the kid. Peter stepped toward him.
Nathan stumbled back, jerked a gun out, and pointed it at Peter. Peter halted.
“
Peter heard the distant sound of children’s laughter. His blood went cold. The laughter grew louder, joined by wails and moans, the cackling cries of old women. The Mist began to stir.
The kid snapped his head about. “What’s that? Huh? What the
The Path drifted farther away, another moment and it would be lost. “Listen, Nathan,” Peter said as calmly as he could. “You have one chance. Follow me, right now. Move, or you’ll never leave the Mist.”
But Nathan wasn’t paying Peter any attention. He spun around, left then right, holding the gun out in front of him, his eyes wide and terrified.
The Sluagh came, first the disembodied heads, flying around, circling the boy, followed by the naked craggy women, holding hands and skipping merrily about, then the beasts, all shapes and sizes, their barks and howls, screams and growls rumbling back and forth across the ghostly wasteland.
The spirits, one and all, laughed, the sound booming about the Mist like thunder. The flying heads swarmed the boy, pecking at his hair. He ran screaming, swinging the gun wildly, trying to fend them off as they chased him into the swirling wall of gray mist.
Peter didn’t shout to the boy again. It would do no good. Peter found the Path and walked, his face tight, his eyes hard. He watched one foot after the other pound into the soft, powdery ground and did his damndest not to hear the distant echoes of Nathan’s screams.
PETER STUMBLED ASHORE and collapsed on the beach. He punched the sand again and again, until his knuckles were raw, until he could no longer hear the boy’s cries inside his head. He dug his fingers into the beach, came away with two handfuls of sand, turned and glared at the Mist.
“Flesh-eaters,” he spat. “Fucking Flesh-eaters. This is all because of them.” He bared his teeth at the Mist. The glint of madness sparkled in his eye. “Someone,” he whispered, “needs to remind them to be afraid of the night.”
Instead of heading into the swamps and back toward Deviltree, Peter turned and followed the coastline,