Peter Pan in Scarlet (5 page)

‘I did so hope you would come,’ he said again. ‘My heart rejoices at it. My creatures and I are honoured by your kindness.’ The voice trickled into her like golden syrup into a steamed pudding. Coils of bushy, shineless hair and the woollen hood encroached over the face, but she could make out a pair of large, hazel eyes watching her as attentively as the lions were doing. ‘Come,’ he said extending a woolly arm towards her. ‘Walk slowly towards me and make no sudden motion. My cat-kins have not eaten today. Above all, do not—you will forgive the indelicacy of a vulgar animal trainer—do not, whatever you do,
sweat
. Sweat, you see, falls sharp in the nostrils of a hungry cat-kin.’ His voice poured like hot chocolate over vanilla ice cream. Even the lions’ ears swivelled to catch it. Clawed paws shifted on twelve tin baths, with a noise like scouring saucepans.

Wendy, as she stepped closer to the lion tamer, could see how every hem and seam and raglan of the shapeless cardigan was unravelling. Moth holes peppered the fabric, and every moth hole had also begun to unravel. He was a woolly miasma of trailing ends.

‘I am Miss Wendy Darling,’ she said, reaching out to shake hands (though the man’s hands were quite invisible). If she could make friends with their master, the lions might stop thinking of her as lunch.

The pale brown eyes wrinkled as if her name alone had bestowed the greatest joy. ‘And I am Ravello, owner of this lamentably humble establishment. I feel certain you will do better with your life than I have with mine.’ He reached forward, too, and Wendy found her hand full of the ravelling cuff of his over-long sleeve. ‘Tell me, child, what is it you wish to be when you are
grown-up
?
’

‘I—’ But before Wendy could answer, a blood-curdling scream scattered her thoughts and filled her outstretched palm with sweat. ‘Tootles! That’s Tootles!’ she gasped and darted past the circus master and out of the tent. Her only thought was to rescue Tootles from danger. Behind her she heard twelve tin baths overturn and Ravello’s voice sharp and loud, trying to quell the lions. But she only ran and ran.

At the head of a beach was a cave and out of the mouth of the cave came Tootles’s voice shrieking, ‘
DRAAAAHAAAGON
!’

Bored with waiting for her questing knights to come back, Tootles had begun to explore the cave. The darkness dripped. Lovely shells glistened in pools on the floor, and the walls were furry with cold, green slime. Deeper in, though, there was no colour and no gleam—only the drip-drip of water like the topmost note of a piano played over and over again. A low roof banged her on the head and knocked her crown over one ear. Soon she had to explore with fingertips, because there was no light at all. And that was when her outstretched hand felt the knobbly hide, the snout, the row of ghastly teeth that went on and on and … Tootles gave a gurgling shriek ‘DRAAAAHAAAGON!’—and ran. The low ceiling caught her on the head again and this time it knocked her crown to pieces.

The echoes of her scream died away. Plink plink said the tone-deaf darkness. Then a grip fastened on one shoulder, and her knees crumpled with fright as she was spun round.

‘Tell me where and I’ll slay it dead!’ said a voice close to her ear. It was Peter, a blazing driftwood torch in his hand. One by one, the rest of Pan’s League appeared at his back. ‘Where?’ said Peter again. Tootles pointed wordlessly, and the League streamed past him while she stayed rooted to the spot, fingers absently stroking her top lip. Last to arrive, Wendy gave her a caring pat and galloped on by to catch up with the boys.

And there it was—an eye socket, a gaping jaw, a snaggle of teeth as long as a man’s arm. ‘Stand back, men!’ cried Pan and lunged with his sword and rapped it over the skull, then sprang backwards expecting it to scuttle out of its lair, jaws snapping. In the jumping firelight from their torches, the monster appeared to shudder and writhe … but when John threw a rock at it, the rock only knocked out a rattle of teeth.

Then Fireflyer darted in through one eye socket and out of the other, illuminating the grisly skull. ‘
Nothing in
here
!
’ he complained, peering up at the skull like a tourist at a cathedral roof. The dragon was dead.

Peter put a hand through its nostril and together they dragged it out into the daylight. It was monstrous big. When all the Lost Boys lay down end to end, they were not as long as the dead dragon from snout to tail. They rolled it on its back and found that the stomach hide was gone altogether, leaving only a ladder of ribs and a glimpse of backbone. There was a smell of rotting fish, mermaid, and, oddly enough, gunpowder.

‘I win!’ said Peter. ‘I quested the dragon!’

‘Superb!’ exclaimed Tootles.

‘ ’
Tain’t a dragon
,’ said Fireflyer, still sitting on the snout. Peter launched a kick at him, but he ducked. ‘
Well, it ain’t!
Dragons’ve got fireproof tonsils. Everyone knows that! This here’s a
nalligator
.’

‘ ’Tis NOT a nalligator!’ insisted Tootles, who was delighted that Peter had won her hand. ‘Take no notice. That fairy is always lying.’

‘Nalligator or not,’ said Curly, holding his nose, ‘it’s awfully dead.’

‘Not a nalligator,’ muttered Tootles under her breath.

‘Now now, boys,’ said Wendy soberly. ‘Don’t quarrel. All that matters is that …’

‘Not a nalligator,’ said Tootles sulkily, several times over.

Wendy noticed something shiny dangling from Tootles’s hair and pulled it free. It was a metal spring. Tootles explained how she had found the makings of a crown inside the cave.

Wendy nodded sagely. ‘This one time,’ she said, ‘Fireflyer is telling the truth. It is not a nalligator …’

‘Told you!’ crowed Peter. ‘It’s a dragon!’

‘
I never tell the truth
!
’ protested Fireflyer (which was not true, of course).

‘Nor a dragon!’ said Wendy, holding up the spring. ‘It is a crocodile. In fact, it is THE Crocodile, with capital letters! The one who ate our direst foe. Here, dear Boys, in Tootles’s crown, you see all that remains of the alarm clock it carried in its stomach as it hunted Neverland, looking for a bite more of Captain James Hook!’

The very mention of Hook sent a thrilling shiver down their spines. Curly felt the curls in his curly hair tighten. For though they had witnessed the end with their own eyes—had seen the pirate captain leap to his death in the jaws of a gigantic crocodile, Captain Jas. Hook still had the power to haunt their dreams. They gazed down at the carcass in awe, and the jaws grinned smugly back at them.

‘So has
anybody
won my hand?’ moaned Princess Tootles, determined that
someone
must have.

‘I found a stone dragon!’ said John. ‘They’re the worst!’

‘I found a cloud dragon,’ said Slightly.

‘A water dragon, me,’ said Curly, unlacing his wet shoes.

‘Ours was made of wood,’ said the Twins, ‘and we killed it with fire!’

‘I found twelve lions,’ said Wendy mildly, ‘though I don’t suppose that counts.’

Peter simply kicked the Crocodile. A hinge in the cheek broke, and the top jaw slowly lifted. It even seemed as if smoke coiled out, but it was only mist rolling off the Lagoon. The weather was certainly strange: it is rare to be dazzled by lightning and tickled by mist in the same night.

‘You all did very well,’ said Wendy, seeing trouble brewing. ‘Would you like to hear about my lions now? And the Circus?’

‘Well, we can’t
share
,’ said Curly. ‘You can’t
share
a princess. How would you split her up?’

Peter fingered his dagger, at which Tootles looked distinctly uneasy.

‘There are lots of different days in the week,’ said Wendy brightly. ‘Perhaps Tootles could lend you a hand on Wednesday, Slightly, and you a hand on Thursday …’

‘I’d rather have half a kingdom anyway,’ said Slightly.

‘Well, you can’t,’ said John, ‘because I quested best and killed a stone dragon and they’re the worst!’ The Boys began to bump and barge each other. Even the Twins started a fight over which of them had set light to the Forest Dragon.

‘Let’s have a story,’ said Wendy quickly.

Peter leapt on to a big rock. ‘No! Let’s have a WAR!’

This marvellous idea of his set Fireflyer whooping and wheeling in fits of delight. ‘
A war, yes! I never saw a war!
’ The fairy clung to Peter’s unkempt hair, like fire to a fuse.

The Twins stopped fighting. John brushed sand off his sailor suit.

‘No,’ said Wendy. ‘Don’t let’s.’

‘No,’ said Curly. ‘Let’s not.’

‘No,’ said John. ‘Not a War.’

Perhaps it was the clammy touch of the mist. Perhaps it was the ghost of a memory. Perhaps, in far off Fotheringdene someone leaned against the war memorial on the village green …

‘Done War,’ said one Twin.

‘Me too,’ said the other.

‘Michael wouldn’t like it,’ said Slightly.

Peter stamped his foot in outrage. ‘And just
who
is
Michael?
’

John gave a gasp. Wendy turned away. Could Peter really have forgotten their brother? Their wonderful brother Michael? For a long time no one spoke. There was only the noise of Fireflyer fizzing and fretting around their heads.

‘Michael Darling went away to the Big War,’ said Slightly. ‘He was … Lost.’

Peter stared at them, these mutineers, with their white faces, wet hair, sad eyes. Then he somersaulted carelessly off the rock. ‘Ah! One of the Lost Boys! Do you expect me to remember them all? There were so many!’

No one tried to explain. They knew that Peter Pan (and foolish young fairies like Fireflyer) were much better off
not
knowing about the War. Besides, something else had put it quite out of their heads.

Five large black bears, jaws agape and slavering, were leaping towards them over the rocks.

‘
Hup, cub-bages!
’ said a deep, imperious voice.

The bears lurched up on to their haunches, roaring, rolling their black heads on their thick no-necks, drooling saliva and dancing in waltz-time: one-two-three; one-two-three.

Peter Pan spread wide his arms: he would shield his League from harm or die in the attempt! Behind the bears, out of the wreathing mist, came a sixth shape, almost as tall, almost as shaggy. There was a crack like gunfire.

‘
Wet your whistles, cub-bages!
’ said the Great Ravello, coiling up his long, rawhide whip. The bears dropped down, long claws sinking like grappling irons into the soft sand, and lumbered down to the water’s edge to drink. ‘Gentlemen … ladies. I hope my little pets did not scare you.’

‘Fear is a stranger to me!’ declared Peter, hands on hips.

‘Two strangers met in one day, then, Peter Pan,’ said the circus-master. ‘Fear and Myself.’

Peter was startled. ‘You know my name?’

Ravello came closer, his woolly garment dragging, erasing his own light footprints. His voice was softer even than the sand. ‘Naturally I know you, Peter Pan. Who has not heard of the Marvellous Boy? The Boy from Treetops? The Fearless Avenger! The Wonder of Neverwood! The flame of your fame lights my every dull day. You are the stuff of legend!’

The League of Pan gave a rousing cheer, except for Wendy, who thought so many compliments might go to Peter’s head. Sure enough, Pan gave a shrill crow of pleasure:

The bears in the surf jerked upright and rocked from foot to foot, rattling their claws like dinner knives.

‘Ah, I must caution against loud noises,’ urged the circus-master, in tones so sweet that the bears, sniffing the air, scented honey. ‘My cub-bages are nervous of loud noises. They might run amok.’

Curly, watching the bears with a mixture of terror and fascination, asked if they really ought to be drinking from the Lagoon. ‘I read somewhere: doesn’t drinking seawater make you go mad?’

‘Pray do not fret on their account, young man. They are all stark mad already.’ Seeing Wendy, the circus-master bowed deeply from the waist—‘We meet once more, Miss Wendy. Your servant, ma’am. Your most humble servant,’—then addressed himself again to Peter. ‘I might likewise ask if it is wise for people of tender age to be out so late. Please tell me you have the prospect of warm beds and a filling supper?’ When they said they did not, he at once invited them to return with him to the Circus Ravello. ‘In these lean and hungry times many of my cages are empty. They are clean and mattressed with soft, fresh hay. I would deem it an honour …’

‘We don’t go about with grown-up people,’ Peter interrupted, scuffing his foot in the sand.

‘Oh. Very well. But you will at least come to the Circus, won’t you?’ persisted Ravello. ‘I bring tickets for you, look! Tickets for the circus? Everyone loves an outing to the circus! Clowns and acrobats? Bears, tigers, lions! Jugglers! Escapologists? Illusionists. Bare-back riders! A flying trapeze …!’ And he pulled from somewhere a deck of scarlet tickets that he fanned out before flicking them high in the air to fall like autumn leaves over the children’s heads.

‘Oh yes, Peter! A circus!’ Tootles was not the only one whose face lit up at the thought.

‘Nor we don’t choose to sleep in cages neither!’ said Peter.

‘… thank you all the same,’ Wendy added hastily.

Ravello did not seem to take offence. ‘Have you never dreamed … Has none of you ever dreamed of joining a circus—of running away to a five-ring life of gasps and laughter and cheering? Picture it! Dancing with the raggle-taggle gypsies to the quacking of trombones! Hearts thumping in time with the thud of hoofbeats on sawdust! The flash of lamplight on sequinned leotards?’ There was an awkward pause, during which Ravello looked from child to child with his oddly eager gaze.

The puppy was the only one who moved towards him, and that was to sniff the curious frizz that wrapped the circus master from head to foot. It pounced on a trailing bundle of ravelled wool and was instantly tangled up, so that Curly had to hurry over and try to free it. His own fingers got embarrassingly snagged somewhere between the man’s knobbly, mottled boots. Ravello looked down at him patiently with eyes the colour of an English sea. ‘You show a great concern for animals, young man. Do you see yourself as a veterinary man, perhaps? One day? When you are older?’

‘I—’

Puppy suddenly and unkindly nipped the circus-master, so that he gave a cry of pain. It startled the bears and brought them romping up the beach, black noses drizzling, black eyes beady bright. A dead fish dangled from one mouth, a crab from another. They stood up tall, to push between the children, towering over them, at least twice their height, great shawls of gleaming fur brushing bare little arms.

‘Gently, my furry furies,’ breathed Ravello. ‘No dancing tonight. We are not wanted here.’ And hunching his clothing closer around him, he turned to go, the tail of his rawhide whip trailing snake-like through the sand. The bears dropped on to all fours to trot after him.

‘Who are you?’ called Slightly. He was sensitive to hurt feelings and could smell them as surely as lions can smell sweat, or bears honey.

Ravello turned. ‘Me? Oh, just a travelling man,’ he said. ‘A simple travelling man. But I will not impose myself upon you any longer, since you find no need of me or mine. I must go now: feed my beasts and master my disappointment. I had
hoped
to be of service to the Marvellous Boy. But alas, Hope is nothing but a cruel trick practised upon us by the gods. Goodnight, gentlemen … ladies.’ The mist closed behind him like the doors of a cathedral and the only sound left was the hissing surf of a turning tide.

The Twins bent to gather up the tickets, but Peter snatched them and tore them all in shreds. ‘We don’t need grown-ups!’ he said. ‘We are all right as we are!’ and his face brooked no argument.

‘
He might have given us egg and toast soldiers for supper
,
that ravelling man
,’ said Fireflyer unwisely, and Peter swatted him into a rock pool.

‘
Travelling
man,’ Wendy corrected Fireflyer, pulling him out again and drying him in the skirts of her dress. ‘Not “ravelling”.’

‘Perhaps he’s not a grown-up,’ suggested Tootles. ‘You couldn’t really see, could you? Maybe he’s just a big one of us.’

‘Or a very tall cardigan,’ said John nodding.

But Peter refused to listen. The thought of sleeping in a cage (whether or not the straw was dry) struck horror into his freewheeling soul. The thought of animals caged was almost as bad. It appalled him to think of wild creatures penned up behind bars. It was almost as if they were trapped inside him—those bears and tigers and lions—pacing up and down, pushing their plush noses between the bars of his ribcage, so that he wanted to tear open his chest and set them all free … A terrible foreboding settled over his heart, which he did not understand. And not understanding always gave Peter a pain.

‘Well, where
are
we going to sleep tonight?’ whinged Princess Tootles.

‘Peter, do you smell smoke?’ said Wendy.

Peter lifted his face and his nostrils flared. ‘Signal fires,’ he said. ‘Or bonfires … Maybe the Tribes are feasting.’ But over the sound of the sea washed a different kind of noise, like a giant moaning in her sleep and turning over on a mattress of brittle straw. Crackling. There were the cries of animals, too: frightened, agitated animals. It was impossible to tell whether the mist was growing thicker or just meshing with the smoke. Certainly the smoke was thick enough now to make the children cough.

‘About that Forest Dragon of yours, Twins …’ began Peter. ‘How did you say you killed it?’

‘With fire. Why? Oh. Oh!’

Now the Neverwood began to glow, showing its bones, showing the tilt, this way and that, of dead trees. Something monstrous was coming through the woods, and this time it was not a covey of bears or a dragon or the Trans-Sigobian Express.

It was Fire.

A ghostly, billowing shape broke clear of the treetops and rose into the night sky trailing a dozen fuses. It glowed orange, being full of fire. And written quite clearly across it was the word

The circus tent, its guy ropes blazing, kept on rising until, crumpling into a ball of flame, it lost its shape and fell back down into the general inferno.

‘Oh, Twins! What have you done!’ whispered Tootles.

‘Slayed a dragon is all!’ protested the Twins.

Somewhere, inside that blazing forest, was the wreckage of the Wendy House, the Underground Den, several cages full of dry, clean straw, and a circus-master clad in a garment of ravelling wool. The Neverwood filled up with the cries of lynxes and lions, zebras and gorillas, tigers and palmerions. Sparks began to rain out of the sky, as if the stars were falling piecemeal.

‘Time to go,’ said Peter as the heat reached them on the beach, and the Lagoon began to steam.

But where to go? They were trapped—penned in between the burning forest and the sea. The Neverwood was smudged out. The cave had melted from sight. Without them noticing, the misty smoke and smoky mist had grown so thick that they could barely see further than each other.

So they all turned to face the Lagoon. And out of the Lagoon, as though summoned by trumpets, came the most startling sight of all. Their sore eyes grew wide as wide. John’s lips shaped the blessed words:

‘Sail ho!’