Her papa looks handsome in his uniform, but Uncle Michael looks lost, afraid. She thinks her father might tell her about the war if she asked, but she also thinks her mother wouldn’t like it very much if he did. Besides, if she can’t ask her Uncle Michael, maybe it isn’t right to ask her father either.
Peter’s boys aren’t wearing uniforms. They’re as ragged as ever, and she wonders if they even have other clothes besides the ones they’re wearing. How long have they been here? Did Peter steal them all away like he stole her? Instead of guns, the boys hold spears, bows and arrows, slingshots, knives, and swords. Some of the weapons look as though the boys made them themselves, but others look stolen from the ruin of the ship, like the cup Peter made her drink from, and the hammocks.
It doesn’t matter what weapons the boys use, or what they’re wearing. Even though she isn’t allowed to ask about the war, she understands enough about what it means. War is where men go to kill each other. These boys—even though some of them are younger than she is—hold death in their eyes.
As she looks around at the assembled line, some of the boys refuse to meet her gaze. Others, like Arthur, glare back at her, defiant. For those who will look at her, she tries to convey without words that they don’t have to do this. She doesn’t want a welcome feast; she doesn’t want to be here at all.
Desperation gnaws at her. How can she make them understand? Peter strides down the line, and all eyes turn to him, his chest puffed up like a general inspecting his troops. Only then does she notice that Timothy is missing. She scans the camp, relief filling her as she catches sight of him crouched near the pile of weapons.
She tries to signal to him without drawing Peter’s attention. Timothy doesn’t look up, staring at the sad offering of broken spears and unstrung bows. She glances back at Peter. He seems distracted enough that she risks hurrying to Timothy’s side, touching his shoulder. His head snaps up, cheeks blotchy with tears that he scrubs at furiously.
“What’s wrong?” She whispers it, glancing over her shoulder, but Peter is focused on giving orders.
“I don’t want to go.” Timothy wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
He looks at the ground between his feet, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears. She has to strain to hear him.
“Last time we went hunting, the boar got away. I stepped on a stick by accident and it made such a loud noise the boar knew we were coming and it ran. Rufus said it was his fault, to protect me, and Peter boxed him so hard he cried.” Timothy looks up at her, his expression miserable.
She thinks of the boy on the beach, the one with the bruise on his cheek. Just then, a slight hand touches her shoulder, and she jumps.
“Here you go, Wendy.” Peter grins, thrusting a long stick smoothed of its bark and sharpened at one end into her hand. “You can use my spear.”
She’s too stunned to do anything but take the spear. Peter doesn’t even look at Timothy. His eyes are fixed on her, bright and hard. The spear is half again as tall as she is, and she can’t imagine why Peter would give it to her. Why would he want her along on the hunt? Unless he’s testing her, or he thinks she’ll escape if he leaves her alone. And what happens if she refuses?
“I don’t—” she begins, but Peter cuts her off, bouncing on his toes.
“Everybody has to hunt the boar. Nobody stays behind.”
He’s looking straight at her, but she understands that Peter is really talking to Timothy. Even though he’s smiling, there’s something dangerous in his eyes.
“Everyone follow me now.”
He spins away, skipping a few steps before plunging into the trees, a whooping call trailing behind him. Arthur is next, right on Peter’s heels, then Bertie and the others, flowing after him. She and Timothy are alone, and she reaches for his hand.
“We don’t have to go,” she says, but even as she does, she knows it’s a lie.
It’s colossally unfair. Why should Peter make the rules and no one else gets a say? But she feels it in her bones, an unassailable truth of this place. Everyone hunts the boar; no one stays behind. She looks at Timothy. His eyes are wide and trusting but bright with fear. It hurts, looking at him. She takes a deep breath to prove she can, even though her chest feels tight and funny.
“It’ll be okay,” she says. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything bad happen, I promise.”
A call echoes between the trees. A kind of chant, only she can’t make out the words.
“We’d probably better go,” she says, moving toward the sound.
It’s only a moment before she and Timothy catch up with the rest. All together, their feet make a rhythm on the forest floor, like drums. A flash of bristled fur appears, just to her left, between the trees. If she hadn’t hung back, she might not have seen it at all. Her voice sticks, then she shouts.
“Over there! I see the boar!”
The words surprise her. What is she doing? And more importantly, why? Her blood fizzes, pride and terror flooding her belly. She doesn’t want to hunt anything. But she does. Her grip tightens on the spear; she can’t help imagining what it might feel like to drive it into something living. Powerful. Strong.
It would be so easy, like pushing a pin into a butterfly with the pad of her thumb. The thought makes her smile. Something about the drumming of their feet, the chanting caught between the rustling
