Peter shoved himself up on his elbows, astonished at then-energy. Now the ground was opening up as Lost Boys emerged from underground tunnels and caves, exiting through large tufts of saw grass, stumps, and tree roots, popping up like weeds in summer heat. Ten, fifteen, twenty at least, materializing from everywhere. They were all shapes and sizes and colors, bright-eyed and eager every last one of them, hands and arms waving as they shouted out for the Pan.
A moment later they were gathered about him. Peter climbed unsteadily to his knees to face them. They backed away a step, staring, then all of them began talking at once.
"Is it him? Lemme see. That's really Pan?" some said.
"Too old and fat. He's a grown-up! He's not Pan!" declared others.
"I'm Peter Banning," he ventured.
Immediately they began shouting their names back at him, almost like challenge. Ace, the blond kid with the antler horn. Don't Ask, wearing a tie, a shirt with a round collar, and a fifties kind of blue and white plaid jacket. Latchboy, a round-cheeked little fellow with curly red hair and a winning smile. No Nap, ebony-skinned and wearing striped coveralls and a newsboy cap. Pockets, a dark, sweet-looking youth with huge brown eyes and a plaid, floppy cap and pockets sewn everywhere on his red coveralls. Too Small, who really was, possessing an uncertain smile and curly brown hair the same color as Jack's.
Like Jack's, Peter thought in despair.
And finally Thud Butt, who arrived in a barrel, bursting out of it with a whommph that left everyone gasping, a rotund, exuberant kid with a tam, his chubby face puffing as he emerged, clutching what appeared at first glance to be some sort of medical chart with a diagram of a human figure and arrows pointing to various parts of the body.
There were others as well, more names than Peter could remember or even hear in the clamor. He stared from face to face, from outfit to outfit. Children! All boys, the Lost Boys.
Carrying weapons, he noticed suddenly. Knives, tomahawks, slings and bows of all shapes and sizes. And rattles! Baby rattles! Each Lost Boy wore one, proudly displayed about his neck or from his belt or wherever. Peter couldn't believe it.
"Tell us a story, tell us a story!" some were shouting now, noticeably the smaller ones.
But others were beginning to ask, "What would Rufio say? What about Rufio?"
Tink flashed into view, zipping among them, saying, "Listen to me! It's him! It's really the Pan!"
Then a piercing cry sounded, like the crowing of a cock at sunrise, fierce and proud. The Lost Boys turned as one, crying out "Rufio!"
Instantly Tink flashed to Peter. "Rufio's here. He's leader now, and he'll be hard to convince. You don't know about Rufio, do you?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully.
There was a flash of movement in the limbs overhead, far out at the edges of the Nevertree. Something that resembled a sailboard, its cloth sail colored with pictures, whipped like a roller coaster down a wooden track along a ridge line backing the Nevertree, a boy mounted at the mast. In one hand he held the slim, golden sword that had once belonged to Peter Pan. As the sailboard reached a bend in the track the boy vaulted off, diving into the wind, arms outspread. Down he plummeted, holding his body arched, then at the last minute reached out to grab a trailing vine, pulled out of his dive, and dropped gracefully into the midst of the Lost Boys, arms and sword raised triumphantly.
"Rufio! Rufio!" the Lost Boys cheered.
He was bigger than the others, coffee-skinned with a broad, confident smile, black hair styled in punkish fashion and dyed with red stripes. He wore pants and shirt fringed with red and black buckskin strips and red boots. Leather bracelets were strapped to his wrist and a large knife was sheathed at his belt.
His smile remained in place as the cheers continued, then faded quickly as he turned to face Peter.
Peter was already moving, striding forward, finger pointing. He was shaking with anger. "Okay, mister, you've had your fun. Now put that thing down before you poke somebody's eye out! Don't you know how dangerous that stunt was? My God! You fell from a very high place with a sword in your hand! This is ridiculous preadolescent anarchy! Where are your parents? I want to talk to whoever's in charge!"
Most reactions we can find ways to control, no matter the situation. Only a few are so explosive that nothing short of an iron band across the mouth will prevent them from bursting forth. Such, unfortunately, was the case with Peter Banning's sense of Parental Responsibility.
Tink flashed in front of his eyes, hissing, "No, Peter, no!"
Rufio brought the sword up threateningly. "I'm in charge."
Peter drew up short. "A kid? I want to speak to a grown-up-and I mean right now!"
Rufio's frown had turned dangerous. "All grown-ups are pirates. We kill pirates."
Peter drew himself up. "Well, I'm not a pirate. It happens that I'm a lawyer!"
A howl went up from the Lost Boys. Rufio thrust his sword into the air. "Kill the lawyer!" he cried.
The chant rose from every quarter. Peter hesitated only long enough to admit to himself that quite possibly he had said the wrong thing, and then he was off and running.
"Kill the lawyer! Kill the lawyer!"
Peter fled into a tunnel and found himself on the sailboard track. He scrambled along, not caring where he was going, knowing only that he had once read Lord of the Flies, remembering how things had turned out there. He called desperately for Tink-perhaps she could make things right-but there was no response. The shouts and cries of the Lost Boys followed after him, spurring him on. He emerged from the tunnel on a span of track that bridged a grassy stretch close by the lagoon and a waterfall.
Thud! Thud!
He looked down to find arrows sticking out of him. Or, rather, sticking to him-knobby things that seemed to have adhered to the front of his dress shirt. One was dangling from his crotch.
"I've been shot!" he exclaimed in horror.
A ragged cheer rose from a small group of Lost Boys gathered below.
"Heart Stopper, Rib Tickler, Barf Button, and Nutcracker!" declared Don't Ask, plaid-jacketed arm pointing to the diagram held by Thud Butt. There were names and point totals indicating a score for every hit.
Peter examined himself. "What is this stuff?" He touched the end of detached arrow experimentally. Glue! How disgusting!
A rolling sound from ahead signaled the arrival of Rufio aboard the coaster. Peter turned and raced back into the tunnel, panting for breath. Cries sounded from that direction, too. Having no choice, he ran on, back the way he had come, emerging from the tunnel to find Latchboy and No Nap running away from him.
"Help, somebody!" cried Latchboy and No Nap. ''He's chasing us!"
"I'm not either!" Peter insisted between breaths. "You're chasing me!"
"No," they persisted with small-boy logic, "you're chasing us!" And they dived off the track into the grass.
Twins in tattered, old-fashioned Boy Scout uniforms rushed to intercept Peter, but now Tink appeared, flashing to intercept them, yanking up a vine, which tripped them and knocked them flat.
She buzzed in front of their faces. "He married Wendy's granddaughter! Hook kidnapped his kids! We have to get him in shape to fight!"
The twins stared at each other. "What's she talking about?" they said as one.
The coaster and Rufio caught up with Peter seconds later and bumped him off the track. He sprawled in a heap, gasping for breath. How could this be happening to him? Lost boys cheered all about. Peter dragged himself to his knees-only to discover flowers sniffing at him once again. Sniff, sniff. They seemed to like the glue. He slapped them away, struggled up, and began running once more.
Lost Boys charged after him in pursuit, yelling gaily. For them, it was all a game.
"Help me!" howled Peter.
"Help me!" howled the Boys.