“How could he forget being hit?” Jane thinks of the bruise on his cheek. She glances back in the direction of the camp, thinking of Rufus on his knees, squealing. Will he forget that too?
Perhaps, for his sake, it would be better if he did.
“It’s the tea Peter makes. We all have to drink it, but if no one is looking, I spit mine out. I think Rufus does sometimes, too, but sooner or later he always drinks it again. I don’t think he likes remembering.”
Jane thinks of Rufus hunched and miserable by the fire, warring against himself, wanting to hold on and wanting to forget himself all at once. She’s seen what happens to people who resist Peter. And part of her understands—forgetting is so much safer, so much easier.
Timothy’s frown deepens, his bottom lip sticking out. Jane sees the moment the troubled expression in his eyes becomes something else, fear, like the edge of the moon peeking out behind the clouds.
“When I don’t drink the tea, sometimes I remember scary and bad things.” Timothy’s voice is a hush, barely a whisper, so Jane has to strain to hear him.
“But no one else remembers the things I remember, so maybe they’re just a story I made up in my head.” Timothy looks to her, his eyes wide in the moonlight. And for a moment, they aren’t eyes at all, just darkness, and Jane thinks of ghosts again and her heart lurches terribly.
He blinks, and his eyes look normal again. Just a little boy.
“Tell me,” Jane says. She makes herself touch Timothy’s wrist, to reassure him, and to prove to herself she isn’t afraid.
“Once upon a time,” Timothy starts, as if he really does mean to tell her a fairy tale, “there were other boys here who aren’t here anymore.”
Jane’s pulse trips, unease settling around her like a cloak, but she holds her tongue and lets Timothy continue.
“One boy was called Edmund. He would stick up for me sometimes, like Rufus does. Except since Peter gives us different names sometimes, maybe Edmund is still here and I just forgot, but I don’t think so.”
Timothy looks down at his hands, knotting his fingers together, then unknotting them, digging his nails into the rope of the hammock as though to pull the whole thing apart. Jane watches him. Should she put an arm around him? What would a good big sister do? He seems so fragile that she fears he might break.
“A long time ago, when Edmund was here, he said that Peter shouldn’t get to be leader because he isn’t even a real boy. He doesn’t have a shadow, and that proves it, that’s what Edmund said.
“They got into a fight about it, a really big one, but Peter never got tired or hurt, and Edmund did. Peter would jump up in the air where Edmund couldn’t reach him and fly in a circle, sticking his tongue out, laughing, and calling Edmund all sorts of names. Nobody even tried to help Edmund.”
Timothy blinks, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.
“Then all of a sudden Peter clapped Edmund on the back like they were good friends again and he said he wasn’t cross anymore. I was still scared though, because Peter had the look he has when he thinks of a really good game. He said he and Edmund were going to go someplace secret and no one else was allowed to follow.”
“What happened?” Jane whispers.
Distress is clear in Timothy’s expression, like he’s holding something big and terrible inside him and it’s pressing out against his skin.
She’s afraid he will wail, and draw the attention of the others. Once Peter grows bored with tormenting Rufus, he might come looking for her.
“It’s okay,” she says, trying to make her voice soothing, trying to sound like she believes her words, and there is nothing to be afraid of at all.
“I did a really bad thing.” Timothy’s eyes fill, tears over whelming them and hovering on his lashes. “I followed even though Peter said not to, because I wanted to see the secret, and I wanted to make sure Edmund was okay. I tried to be really brave and really quiet and…”
Timothy’s lower lip quivers. Jane hugs him close, presses her nose to the top of his head, feeling his body tremble against her. But the cry she fears never comes and Timothy takes a deep breath, squirming away so he can look up at her. There is determination in his eyes now, and she can see that he’s trying to be very brave and very quiet all over again, and her heart aches for him.
“Peter took Edmund to a place where there’s a little stream running out of a cave and into the sea. I climbed up a tree to watch. Peter made Edmund wait outside, then he went into the cave and came out holding a thing that was maybe a stone, or maybe a knife. I don’t know.” Timothy picks at the hammock’s ropes again. “I didn’t like looking at it. It made me feel bad, like there was something wrong inside my chest. Peter kept looking at Edmund, right in the face, and I think he was talking to him, but it was so quiet I couldn’t hear them…” Timothy falters.
Jane imagines the worst, seeing Peter falling on the boar, blood joining his freckles like constellations traced between stars.
“Did he… Did he kill Edmund, like he killed the boar?”
Timothy shakes his head, tears spilling, and now his expression is one of frustration as well as fear. It’s like there’s so much he wants to say, but it’s too big to explain. It’s the same expression he wore when Jane asked him about his mother and father, like he’s trying to remember something, and the remembering hurts.
“Peter touched Edmund with the
