Apologies for the delay people, and thanks for the reviews once more. We're getting near the climax of the story now (3-4 chapters left) and its all sex, drugs and rock and rool from here. Except for the drugs. And the rock and roll...
Neverland was dying. Peter and Wendy emerged from the dark of the night to find a grey isle, haunted by grey spirits and surrounded by cloud. There was none of the old life and colour that had once inflected the place; it all seemed to have been sucked out by some malignant spirit. Peter was the only colour on the dire landscape, a magical flash of gold followed by the Wendy-bird, blinding in white.
They took a quick pass before heading to the hideout, the Indian camp smoked silently on its long ridge, its inhabitants cowering inside their wigwams. The surface of the lagoon was scummy, a thin film of oil drifting over its top, strangling all life inside. Only the witches on the north face seemed to be enjoying themselves, cackling over pots of some bubbling green substance.
And everywhere there where the angels. They moped, half dead figures that gasped and groaned among the trees. Some just sat and cried, leaning against a tree stump while others just stood. They were nothing like the golden figures that Peter remembered, their wings where folded and eyes dead. It was difficult not to feel pity for them, Wendy thought as they took another pass, they had been put here by some cruel god and left to rot. Mere children forced to be alone and afraid.
They were looking for John's hideout. It had to be around here somewhere, and finally Peter spotted a nook in one of the trees that looked oddly familiar and they gilded down, the angels scattering as they touched down. He stroked the tree softly and watched as the nook opened wider, allowing them access. The sound of sobs came from within.
The ceiling of the hideout was low, maybe five foot high at most, so Peter had to crawl in order to make any headway towards where the sobs emanated. The slope quickly turned a slide, a reminder of Neverlands more joyous days, and so they slid, Peter lying in the crux of Wendy's legs.
The slide spat them out onto the floor of a large, open room. A large open hearth lay to one side of it, with a set of bunks to the other, containing a set of small figures who each lay in what appeared to be a deep sleep. It was freezing in the hall, with icicles hanging from the roof and quickly Wendy felt the very marrow in her bones beginning to freeze. She busied herself about the fire, attempting to light the damp wood that lay at its base, but with no success. IF they spent too long she would freeze.
Peter felt no cold and so he followed the sound of the sobs to a small separate room that was shielded from the rest of the hall by a carpet of vines. He pressed through and saw a small boy lying foetus shaped on a high bed, shaking with sobs. This, he reasoned, must be John and so he approached slowly, his feet making no sound on the oak floor.
"John," He whispered and watched as the boy slowly turned to him, "John Pan."
He boy looked at him with deep, soulful eyes and reached out for his top hat, before giving up the attempt as though it was too much effort. "They won't move." He said, his voice still unbroken, "I've tried everything. I've tried shouting at them, and hitting them, and stabbing them and they won't move."
Peter was concerned, he had never known such a lack of fight from a Pan "Who won't?"
"The lost boys. They're asleep and they won't wake up." Peter thought of the small mounds that had lain in the beds, covers drawn up high for warmth, and his suspicions where confirmed by a small cry from Wendy. She walked into the room, now visibly shivering, cradling a small boy in her arms. His skin was blue.
"They're dead Peter," She gasped, "All dead. Frozen, poor mites."
John glared at her, seeming not to remember who she was, "No they're not." He said, "They're just sleeping. That's all. They all felt cold and so I told them to go to bed."
Peter glanced back at Wendy, seemingly surprised by this childish petulance, and shook his head. "We have to get out of here," he said, "We'll just freeze if we stay."
Wendy nodded her assent and stepped forward towards John, who responded by pushing himself further into the corner of his bed. His eyes where wide with fear now, haunted and old as though he had seen more horror than anyone could imagine. "We can't go out." He said, his voice shallow, "We can't go out there. The ghosts are out there, and if they get us..." He trailed off into silent horror.
Peter glanced at Wendy and shook his golden locks, "They can't do anything, John." He said, "They're dead, they can't hurt us. They're just angels looking for a home. You know that and I know that."
John shuddered, "You didn't see what they did too Hook." He said, the memory flashing across golden eyes, "He tried to fight them as well, and they got him. The Jolly Roger sank and I couldn't save it." He whimpered, slowly and tried to bury himself under the covers, it sounded as though he was muttering, reality cutting through clouds of denial. It sounded as though he was slowly repeating a few choice phrases to himself; "The horror, the horror..."
Peter looked towards Wendy and shrugged, "We can't leave him here, not like this. He'll starve himself to death." He reached forward and attempted to grab the boy by the armpits, but his hands passed straight through.
John stared and then yelled once more, scrambling out of bed. He ran to the corner furthest from Peter, "Your one of them!" He yelled, "You're not Peter at all!" He forced his way past Wendy and fled, flying away into the crowds. The older pair followed, attempting to keep up with John's hectic flight. They rushed into the open air, scattering the angels as they did so.
But John was gone, a mere golden speck on the horizon, heading deeper into the fog that surrounded Neverland. Peter and Wendy where alone on the dead isle, with no choice but to hope that they could solve Neverlands melancholy without a Pan's help.
They stood together in the darkening forest and watched as the angels gathered around them, their fear seemingly overcome by wonder. There were hundreds of them, illuminated by Peters golden glow, and slowly they closed the circle. Peter glanced around, his face etched with worry. "We should leave Wendy." He said, "You heard what they did to Hook."
Wendy nodded and then looked round at the dead faces. They where, she realised, just people. Children with looks of yearning and hope on their faces, hope at the sight of someone who didn't flee from them, or look to fight them. "Peter." She said, slowly, "has anyone tired talking to them?"
The next chapter might be a bit longer, I'm afraid, but I hope you enjoyed this one.
R/R
Thanks,
BrookylnRed x
