On nights such as that one, the boy came to understand that the key to not dying was remembering he was alive. For the world around him was strange, and often it felt like he was dreaming, though wide-awake. So he almost did not trust his eyes when he turned and saw his brother, gray and pale as an apparition, in the dim evening light. . . .
Chapter 17
SO THE STORIES ARE TRUE,” I say, watching the dance of the waters. Maybe the tales weren’t accurate, exactly, but . . . “Neverland is real.” I glance over at him. “And so are you.”
He grins then, a wickedly charming smile that makes my heart kick up in my chest. “It does appear that way, does it not?” he murmurs, his voice soft, coaxing, and again I feel pulled toward him with an urgency I don’t understand.
“It does,” I agree, but I also remember what the Captain told me about stories and the lies they often hide.
Though it’s clear now that the Captain’s stories held lies of their own.
“What did the Captain do to that boy on the ship?” I ask Pan.
Pan seems to ignore my question as he lets the tips of his fingers trail through the water of the pool, making small eddies ripple across the glassy surface. Tiny brightly colored fish swim over to investigate. They look like jewels glinting just below the surface. One of the braver fish stills and then, darting forward, latches itself on to Pan’s finger with an unexpected violence. He doesn’t even flinch. He simply lifts his hand from the water, the fish still dangling from his fingertip.
“We each belong somewhere, Gwendolyn,” Pan finally says, examining the fish. “This creature belonged to the water. . . .” The fish’s scales are a brilliant sapphire-blue and startling purple, too vibrant and bright to belong in the seas of my own world. But as I watch, the colors fade and tiny black lines begin to snake themselves across the surface of its body. The lines remind me of the cracks that appeared in Davey when the Captain drank in his life.
“But when a creature ventures beyond the safety of its own world, often it can’t survive.” Pan flicks the body of the fish from his fingertip, and it falls to the ground, where it crumbles on impact into brittle shards that look like bits of broken glass. Dark blood begins to well from Pan’s finger, but he ignores it. “Your Captain doesn’t belong in this world, Gwendolyn, and so he depends upon the Dark Ones for his life.”
I stare at the blood beginning to drip from Pan’s finger and think of the way the boy’s life drained away from him when the Captain inhaled the glowing thread, and I have a feeling I understand more than I want to.
“You see, my dear, children do well enough here in Neverland. This world is a place for the wild, unruly desires of innocence. But your Captain is no longer a child, and he’s certainly no innocent. Without what he takes from those boys, his body would become as fragile as this poor creature’s.” With a deft flick of his wrist, he brushes the shards of the fish back into the water. The other fish immediately swarm, darting in and out to scavenge the remains of their friend. “As all human bodies become here as they age.”
The tattoos. On the ship, the older boys all had dark, scarlike lines that I’d thought might have been some mark of loyalty or rank, but I see now they weren’t. What just happened to that fish is happening to all of them.
“All humans?” I ask, my voice wavering. I’m not any more of a child than most of the tattooed—no, cracked—boys in the Captain’s crew. Neither is the Captain.
“Well . . . perhaps not all,” Pan concedes. “As you saw in the hold of the ship, your Captain has found a way to avoid such an unfortunate end. When he accepts what the Dark Ones offer, he takes for himself his victim’s innocence and youth. The younger the child, the more power it contains, the more time it buys him.” His cool eyes bore into mine as his expression goes coldly dangerous. A moment before, the valley had felt like a peaceful, welcoming place, but now there is a dangerous tension radiating from Pan.
“But it will never be enough for him. This world will never be a place where he belongs.” Pan’s features soften, and his mouth curls into a slow, satisfied smile. “Not as I belong,” he says, brushing his hand over the soft grassy ground cover between us. Tiny white flowers appear at his touch. “And not as you could belong, Gwendolyn.” His cool eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t speak for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Me?” I say with a surprised laugh. But a small part of me still wonders at the pull I feel to the island, to Pan. “This isn’t my home. I don’t want to stay here,” I force myself to say. And it’s only partially a lie.