Prologue
Tick, tock,. The sound of the clock resonates through the chill morning air. Small and faint, it is no match for the songs of neverbirds greeting the sun, nor does it equal the volume of lapping wavelets as they play along my scaly hide. A spider dances past along the water, oblivious. A moth flies to conceal its self, pausing not at all to wonder at the rhythmic measure of time made by the tick, tock, tick, that runs forever inside me.
It is my enemy. It is my friend, constant as my own heartbeat. Lazily, I shift my great bulk in the shallow water, resting my head on my paws and looking up at the lightening sky. I am old now. I am old and alone, but for all that, I am content. You cannot know how long I have dreamed of him. The succulent flesh, the eratic pulse. You cannot know what joy I had upon claiming him at long last.
It's a strange thing, joy. It's an alien thing, as far removed from my reptilian mind as music from the mind of a worm. But, even worms feel the vibrations through the ground as the violinist plays soft and low above them. Even they delight at the subtle and unexplained strangeness it imparts. Like me, even they forget when the song fades and the youth with bow and instrument walks away. The earth where he sat grows cold, the worms go on, and nothing remains but what was before.
I hunger. Filled to brimming with his flesh, I long for the taste of another. Warm and living man blood calls to me. I pursue it. Drunk and engorged with last night's kill, I let my thoughts go after you, snuffling and chomping at your ship as it glides ever closer to my island. Oh yes! Come, little pirate man. Bring your crew and your hot man blood, for neverland is not complete without a villain. They all need something to hate as I need something to want, to crave.
It wasn't always like this. Oh no. Once, I was so small I could fit into the palm of your hand. Once, I was small and breakable as a twig, relying on a boy for food, for life. But that, dear little man, is at the beginning of my story, for my tale is interwoven with his so tightly as not to be separated. His tale, in turn, cannot be whole without that of one Oliver smee. How they loved, how they craved each the other. And, dear one, I cannot say, here in the quiet between dreams and adventures, that I did not in some small measure envy that which they possessed. It is their tale I will spin, their lives I will convey as your ship sails unbidden to rest against my shore. Listen well, and know that I love you. I am waiting for you, to hold you in my jaws.
