Chapter two: Woodlyn
It had been a long, dark winter in Neverland that seemed as if it would never end. Every day passed with an iron colored sky and every night was even more bitterly cold than the previous – the animals were hiding in their dens and holes and it was becoming increasingly harder to find food. It had been ages since the last mermaid had been caught, flayed like fish to feed the hungry children and when her blood had been spilt the rest of her kind made a vow to have their revenge; they sunk deep beneath the Lagoon into the sea caves and there they waited until some foolish boy would come to disturb them. Rumors were passed amongst the woods, between the trees, that the mermaids had evolved into something new; with sharp teeth and claws and eerie voices that sounded like grinding stones. Since then the Lost Boys had not been allowed out near the ocean, confined to the woods and deserts and mountains by order of their self-proclaimed king.
Woodlyn sits on his makeshift throne with his spindly legs crossed and in his nimble fingers turns a pendant, it is comprised of several thin discs surrounding a core made from a blue stone; he examines it suspiciously for a moment longer, hearing the soft whir of the invisible mechanics and wondering exactly how it was put together. Woodlyn had always been the more curious of the boys and the brightest with the way he was always inventing things for them. Quietly he sucks his bottom lip between his gapped teeth and chews it as the pendant spins between his fingers, he raises a dark eyebrow as the pendant's discs come to a stop and without a word he throws it against the stone wall; it breaks into several pieces, the stone core rolling across the floor and into the encroaching shadows. He is a lean boy with high, sharp cheeks and skin that has turned sallow from lack of sunlight – dark brown eyes that squint furiously and a mouth that is almost too thin, that seems to encourage the idea that, behind them, are rows of pointed teeth.
Ever since he had left them it was common knowledge amongst the boys that Woodlyn had never been the same, seeming to sink further inside his own mind, after all, Woodlyn had been his favorite; now the boy is always locked away in the inner rooms where there was no light except from the little lanterns that surrounded his throne, which was no more than a large boulder that had once been used as the center of the Underground. Here Woodlyn had sat with wide eyes to listen to the bedtime stories from him, that was when he had been innocent and naïve and no, he refused to pretend that he was a little boy anymore – not with the way the skin around his eyes puckered and the surface of his chest grew hard, how his legs seemed longer and shoulders broader. He was no longer that simple minded boy who believed in fairies and flew high up in the summer sky, painted gold by the tendrils of the setting sun; when his bones were frail and brittle. No, he is different now and the changes scare him so much that he hardly ever leaves the inner room; he has lost all interest in the outside world since he had disappeared.
He places his bare, dirty feet on the ground and stands with shoulders squared; takes a deep breath followed by a noisy exhale. It feels like coming alive, he thinks, as he shuffles forward in the dimness to where the radio sat in the corner – just a small wooden box with dials and a little needle that jumped, reminding him of the way the mermaid had squirmed beneath his touch. There is a quiet, almost smug grin as he thinks about it and his tongue laps over his lips at the ghosting taste of her blood warm in his mouth. With an altogether skeletal hand he reaches up and fixes the wreath on his head, this rudimentary crown that he had made for himself to prove he was their new king – he had grown tired of those false idols and their promises to save them, tired of starving in the dark winter and pretending that someday the phantom from their past would return. Woodlyn had decided a long time to burn them down and so he had fashioned his crude laurels to wear like a Caesar from one of those stories in the Black Books that had always fascinated him as a child.
Woodlyn kneels before the radio, his bony shoulders curled forward and his bare knees scraping the stone because he never had gotten around to wearing pants – only those tattered knee-length trousers that had been useful in the summer, when the nights were balmy and the sun bright enough that he would have to shield his eyes with his hand. He imagines that he could still hear the hum of fairy dust as it settled on his skin and of when he had been told to think happy thoughts and oh, that feeling of lifting up from the ground to find the kind fingertips of the sky. A single tear rolls down his dirty cheek as he swallows thickly, decides crying is for babies and begins twisting the knobs until a beautiful static pop sends a chill down his spine. It takes a moment before voices begin to surface and he knows that these are not the one he was looking for, that singular tone that sent his heart to racing madly in his chest. For such a long time he had tried to fix the radio, tinkering with it night and day, he had put his blood and tears in hopes that someday he would manage to bring it to life – and that was exactly what he had done.
He twists the dials just as he had the pendant, bottom lip slack and eyes resembling burning coals as the lantern light flickers in their depths, pinpricks of light that settle in the surrounding darkness. Woodlyn eyes the useless length of cord along the stone floor and he reaches out, takes it up into his greedy hands with a quiet consideration – it would be easy, he thinks, to destroy the radio. The static cracks and fizzes as he holds the cord, he thinks about what his newly acquired information might do to them, it almost seemed unfair to rip up their new found roots. He tilts his head as he releases the cord, puts both hands on the radio and lifts it up into the air to glare at its glossy surface; it would be so easy. He wants to throw it into the wall, watch it splinter and fall to pieces just like the pendant had done – then he could put it back together again and the cycle could continue.
"Woodlyn," there is a visible twitch when he hears his name and he turns to peer idly over one shoulder at the woman standing just inside the small circle of light. She is not beautiful to him, there are too many wrinkles on her bronze colored face and her mouth is too broad – her hair is two long braids and there are feathers twisted into the inky black locks. On her high cheeks are smears of dirt and war paint and maybe even blood, she holds herself with dignity despite the fact that she the last of a dying breed. Woodlyn tightens his grasp on the radio, his sharp features accentuated by shadow and lantern light so that he is turned into some contorted demon with his lips curled up into a smile.
"Tiger Lilly, what a surprise this is." He whispers to her in a hissing, breathy tone and turns his face away from her to stare at the radio. Its face glows a pale powder blue and the little needle flinches, he can hear the voices beneath the white noise and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "I see Jimmy found you."
Tiger Lilly clenches her hard jaw and clutches her furs tightly, eyeing the flecks of red on the stone walls that are a deep shade of rust now. She had not been this deep inside the Underground for a long time, it had changed, she was quite sure – it smelled of dead and dying things. Pelts of animals lay discarded in the corners and for a moment she can imagine another Woodlyn altogether – a boy who was small and shivering and lost, not this deranged tyrant who knelt before his blood drenched alter. She swallows the bile that rises up in her throat, behind her Jim shuffles restlessly as he wrings his pale hands and tries not to look directly at the boy crouched in front of them.
"Where are the others?" She asks in a husky tone.
"The other boys, you mean? Should I call them?" Woodlyn sits the radio back down on the floor and gets up with a little wince, his pale legs bloodied and bruised and smeared with dirt. He uses two fingers to hitch the fabric falling from off his shoulder back up into place and then leans a little to the left as he turns around to face them, trying to get a better view of Jim before he grins toothily. From around his neck Woodlyn lifts a crudely made flute attached to a dirty string and blows two shrills notes, which make Jim suddenly clamp his hands over his ears as if the noise itself causes him immense pain.
Mere seconds later there is the sound of many feet slapping against stone, raucous shouts and curses that make Tiger Lilly narrow her eyes on the boy standing across from her. He does not seem to notice the way she stands so concrete against him as if to say that she is not sure if she feels pity or hatred, maybe both rolled up into one. Quietly she eyes the flute around his neck, it is a replica of the worst kind and it stings her heart to see it being so abused – she wants to snatch it from his greedy fingers and wrap the string around his swan's neck to choke him. There is a little huff from her as the other boys file into the room and she is forced to look away from Woodlyn to survey them. What she finds is shocking, sends her reeling with eyes wide and mouth parted – she lifts her chin and eyes them cautiously. There are four of them beside Woodlyn and Jim, four boys who were not really boys anymore with their new found muscles and the barest hint of scruff on their chins. Tiger Lilly had not even noticed the way her consciousness pressed her backward away from them, away from the way they watched her with hollow eyes, until she bumps into Jim – until his chest presses against her back and it feels hard and warm and she feels heat rising up into her cheeks. She whirls around on him then, eyes fierce, and her mouth in a firm line that says he would be better off to move out of her way.
"Tiger Lilly! Tiger Lilly!" The boys bellow in unison and clap their dirty hands, their faces turned up to her in a way that says they are eager to hear what she has to say; it had been a long time since she had come to see them, their honorary mother. Woodlyn watches her with cold eyes, jealousy clearly written on his face in the way his mouth pinches and his thin hands clench at his slender sides; he shakes a little too visibly and she eyes him sharply, pupils like dagger points.
The one they called Lefty breaks from the others, he moves toward her with his hand out stretched to take the hem of her sleeve – he tugs it a little and her eyes snap onto him, all the air is pushed out from her body and she slumps a little. His face is still plastered with freckles and his red hair is a shaggy mop, he looks up at her with those lovely hazel eyes that seem to have aged centuries since their last meeting – when he had been small enough for her to pick up and sit on her hip and swing in circles. She tilts her head and feathers fall into her dark eyes, resembling some great bird surveying its prey. Tiger Lilly examines him coolly before she smiles down at him. "Tiger Lilly, have you come back? Are you staying this time?" His voice is tiny and hopefully like it had been when she had helped bandage his wrist when that lion had severed his right hand during a hunting trip. He had been so small then with tears in his eyes and sweat on his childish brow, blood spattered on his clothes and against his pale skin.
"Lefty," she hesitates, heart beat at the back of her throat. She can see their eyes staring at her and she flicks her eyes toward Woodlyn who grins like a hyena at her. "I'm staying," she says with a bit of conviction and watches at the way Woodlyn's mouth tumbles into a deep set frown.
"Then we should celebrate," Jim interjects and puts a pale hand on her shoulder, feeling the way it quivers beneath his touch. "We should have a powwow like ones we used to have out in the Neverwood."
To that the Lost Boys begin to cheer and throw hands up into air, their feet slapping against the blood dried stone floor and their voice raised high. Tiger Lilly grins a little as they swarm around her and prod at her furs, she almost feels more comfortable with Jim's hand on her shoulder, if it weren't for the fact that it also unnerved her. "Quiet, boys, we can't do anything without permission first!" Tiger Lilly looks up at Woodlyn with a nasty grin of her own and the boys immediately turn on him, begging him to let them out into the woods; out beneath the moon, dancing and kicking up the snow. He seems to go rigid for a moment as a blackness seeps into his eyes and he looks at her, silent words passing between them until he sighs – flicks his wrist and the boys roar in excitement.
Tiger Lilly watches as they file out of the inner room to pass down the stone hall and out into the crisp night, she moves slowly, shoulder to shoulder with Jim who has a delicate smile on his lips. "I'm glad you're back," he says as he takes her hand and squeezes it a little before running to catch up with the others. She pauses thoughtfully for a minute, listening to the sound of slapping feet and raucous shouts and she chuckles as she follows them out into the night.