Then abruptly the light exploded through the open windows, no comet this, too small by far to be anything so grand, but terrifying nevertheless, because it appeared to be alive. It caromed about the room wildly, knocking pictures from the wall, spinning this way and that, and then finally rocketed toward Peter. He saw it coming and backed away, brushing at it with his hands, crying "shoo, shoo," and searching at the same time for the door out. He caught sight of a stack of magazines and snatched one up, rolling it, then swatting at the light. Some sort of crazed firefly, he told himself, frantic now. Would it bite or sting? What else was going to happen to him before this night was over?
He was still retreating, the light dancing around now as if to taunt him, when he tripped over one of the fallen dolls and went down. He caught himself with his hands, losing his grip on the magazine as he did. Weaponless, he began skittering backward on all fours. The light darted and zipped away, back and forth, up and down, tireless in its pursuit.
Finally Peter backed himself into a corner, close by the rocking horse and the dollhouse, and there was nowhere else to go. He flattened himself against the wainscoting, gasping for breath.
The light darted in and away again, steadied, then settled slowly to the edge of the children's writing desk. As it did so it changed, gaining definition, taking shape. Peter found himself staring at a tiny creature no bigger than a minute. A woman, a girl, something of each? She wore clothes that might have been a mix of moonlight and morning dew and fall leaves. They glimmered as brightly as diamonds and clung to her like a glove to a hand. Her hair swept back from her pointed ears and was a mix of sunrise and sunset, both red and gold, and as bright as the summer sun at midday.
She straightened and began to walk about the desk, hopping over pencils and crayons, stepping lightly through an inkpad, then flitting down to land on Peter's knee. Peter stared, frozen as still as an ice statue. The little creature had wings! Tiny, gossamer wings! She walked down his leg, keeping perfect balance, and up the front of his rumpled white shirt, leaving tiny black footprints from the ink as she went. When she reached his chin, her wings fluttered and she rose in the air before him until they were nose to nose.
Bending delicately, she sniffed.
"Oh, it is you," she declared with some surprise. "It is. A big you. I wasn't at all sure. I guess it's not bad that you're big-you were always bigger than me anyway. Not this big, of course." She glanced down at his stomach. "Well, maybe this means you will be twice as much fun."
Peter's head was hunched down between his shoulders. He was trying both to breathe and not to breathe at the same time. His fear had paralyzed him.
"Moira?" he managed to whisper, hopeful that she would come.
The little creature was dancing about, not listening. "Oh, Peter, what fun we'll have-what times, what great games! Do you remember what it was like before?"
Peter made a supreme effort to collect himself. He took a deep, steadying breath and swallowed down his fear. "You're a… you're a fae… a fae…"
"A faerie, yes," she agreed, and brushed delightedly at her shimmering hair.
"A pix…"
"Pixie." She gave an impish grin. "And if less is more, there is no end to me, Peter Pan."
Peter paled. "Peter Banning," he corrected.
She squinched up her nose. "Pan."
"Banning."
"Pan."
"Banning."
She put her hands on her hips and stood there in midair, sizing him up. "A fat, old Pan."
"Uh… a fat, old Banning." He managed a nervous grin.
The faerie pursed her lips and thought the matter over. "Well, whoever you are, you're still you. Only one person has that smell."
Peter blinked indignantly. "What smell?"
The faerie's face went radiant with her smile. "The smell of someone who's ridden the back of the wind. The smell of a hundred summers of sleeping in trees, of adventures with Indians and pirates. Oh, remember, Peter? The world was ours and we could do whatever we chose. It was wonderful because whatever we did could be anything at all and still it was always us doing it!"
She darted forward to touch his face and flinched. "Ouch! Bristly, sharp things!"
"Whiskers," Peter said dully. He laid his head back against the wainscoting and closed his eyes. "It's finally happened-I'm having a nervous breakdown."
A tug at his bow tie brought his eyes open again. The faerie, possessing surprising strength for someone so tiny, brought him to his feet and dragged him toward the open windows.
"Follow me, Peter, and all will be well," she called back.
Peter wasn't listening. "Or I've had a massive heart attack and I'm dying. I'm having an out-of-body experience. I'm floating toward the white light of… whatever. Look, I've left my body completely." He caught sight of the dollhouse behind him. "You see-there's Granny Wendy's house, number fourteen Kensington, way down there, way down. But wait a minute, those are my feet, aren't they, right there on the floor. Oh, my. God. What's happening? Where are we going?"
The faerie laughed gaily. "To save your children, of course."
Peter's eyes snapped up. "Wait! How do you know about my kids?"
She laughed some more. "Everybody knows! Captain Hook has them, and now you've got to fight him to get them back. Let's fly, Peter Pan!"
She let go of him and flitted back across his face. As she passed she blew into her cupped hands and a sprinkling of silver dust scattered and settled over him. Peter brushed at it and then sneezed loudly, dropping back on his rump. The sneeze blew the faerie right through one of the tiny cellophane windows of the old dollhouse. Instantly the inside of the dollhouse lit up, as if a switch had been thrown and lamps brought to life in each little window. Peter crawled back across the floor and bent down, peering in.
"So it's true then, isn't it?" he heard her say from somewhere inside. "You did grow up. The Lost Boys told me, but I never believed it. I drank poison for you, you silly ass! Don't you remember anything? You used to call me Tink!"
She burst into tears, the sound of her crying echoing through the toy house.
Peter searched the windows. "Are you in there, little bug?" He opened the front door.
"I'm not a bug!" she declared, furious at him. "I'm a faerie!"
He tried to see up the toy staircase, his neck crinking as he laid his cheek to the floor. "I don't believe in faeries."
He heard her gasp. "Every time someone says 'I do not believe in faeries' there is a faerie somewhere who falls down dead!"
Peter's patience with himself and his out-of-body experience, which clearly wasn't anything of the sort, snapped. "I do not believe in faeries!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.
A loud crash sounded from within the dollhouse, and the faerie appeared at the top of the stairs, swooning. She clutched futilely at a wall, then toppled over, tumbling down the stairs to lie in a ragged heap at their foot.
Peter jerked erect, his face ashen. "Oh, God! I think I've killed it!" He fumbled with the hinged flap of the dollhouse side, swinging it open to have a better look.
The faerie's eyes fluttered. "Clap. Clap your hands, Peter. It is only way to save me. Clap, Peter, clap! Louder! Louder!"
Peter was clapping as loud as he could, aware suddenly of a ringing in his ears, like tiny silver bells, thousands of them. "I'm clapping, I'm clapping! What's that noise, that ringing? Are you doing that? Just stop it, okay? Hey, what are you… are you all right?"
She was standing again, ignoring him, pretending that she had forgotten him entirely. She brushed herself off and walked into the kitchen, where a Barbie doll was serving dinner from a stove top to a Ken doll seated at a table. With a frown the faerie switched the Ken doll and the Barbie doll around so that Ken was serving Barbie. She nodded and turned back to Peter.