Peter kept on, ignoring them as best he could, conscious of the fact that he looked ridiculous, continuing only because he didn't know what else to do. If there was even the slightest chance that Tink was right, that this was the way to get Jack and Maggie free of Captain Hook…
He closed his eyes momentarily against what he was feeling, then staggered on toward fall and its slippery carpet of leaves where he always fell at least once, then winter and its curious penguins, and back again into spring, and on and on and on.
When he was finally allowed to stop running, he was somewhere between spring and summer and total exhaustion. Allowing no rest, Tink directed him briskly to the makeshift exercise equipment that the Lost Boys had constructed. Peter's old clothing was in tatters by now-his dress shirt and the remnants of his tux. The waistcoat had disappeared entirely. His shoes were scuffed and dusty.
Tink started him first on a bar attached to a rope, counterbalanced by Lost Boys sitting in a basket. Too Small and Latchboy started, the lightest of the group, and then heavier boys took their place. When that wasn't enough, they added rocks. Peter succeeded in pulling the bar down by dint of excess weight alone and not because of muscle tone. He gave it up after a dozen tries.
From there he was moved to the leg-lift machine, where a rope tied to a bar and affixed to his ankles ran to a cluster of what the Lost Boys claimed was poison ivy suspended over his face. Failure to keep the legs up resulted in the obvious. Peter grunted and strained, his stomach muscles turned to water, and his face was bathed in sweat. He would have dropped the poison ivy into his face in the end if Thud Butt hadn't grabbed the rope a moment before his collapse.
Peter rolled away, gasping. He looked up at his entourage forlornly. "I know I'm in lousy shape. I know I'm old and fat. I know I'm going on forty. I accept all that. I accept my mortality. How is all this going to help me get my kids back?"
Pockets bent down as if to study a specimen on a slide, floppy hat dipping over one eye. "The only way ta be uh kid is ta look like uh kid," he answered solemnly.
Then they hauled Peter to his feet again and steered him to a huge tree stump over which he was unceremoniously draped. Most of what remained of his clothes was stripped off. Surrounded by Lost Boys, he had another flash of the horrors of Lord of the Flies, but it turned out they had something much worse in mind. Crowding close, they began to pummel him with fists and hands in a sort of haphazard massage, kneading and rubbing his flabby flesh and rubber-band muscles, bringing out from within every last smidgen of pain he had spent the morning building up and trying to forget. Finished with one side, they flipped him over and began on the other, singing and calling out as they worked. Peter was certain he was going to die. Secretly, he began to wish for it.
This will never work, he told himself dismally. Never.
Rufio walked up and gave his stomach a double twist with his knuckles. "Ain't missed too many meals lately, 'ey, Mr. Pretend Pan?" he jeered.
The massage ended and the Lost Boys raised him up, somewhat the way you would a limp noodle, and took a look at their handiwork.
"Gettin' there," ventured Thud Butt, hands on hips. His bluff, chubby face broke into a toothy smile.
"Still doesn't look right." Don't Ask frowned.
Pockets, Latchboy, Ace, and No Nap crowded close. Then Too Small wormed into view, reached out, and pulled a tuft of Peter's chest hair. The Lost Boys stared at each other. Amusement twinkled in their eyes. No Nap scratched himself like a gorilla, bringing peals of laughter from the others.
Within moments a steaming bowl of soap lather was brought forward by Don't Ask. Ace followed, top hat cocked back, a very large, very sharp knife in his hand. Peter's eyes went wide. He backed off the stump and tried to run, but the boys tackled him and wrestled him to the ground. With arms and legs securely pinned, Peter decided that twisting his torso against the knife blade was counterproductive, and so he lay quite still as Ace carefully shaved the hair from his body, front and back, then worked his way down both legs and arms as well, until Peter had been scraped pretty well clean.
Clad only in his shorts now, he stood staring down at his smooth, pink-skinned body in disbelief. All that hair had covered a whole lot of flesh, he decided. There seemed to be a lot more of him now.
The Lost Boys stood around, eyeing him critically, a few nodding their approval. Rufio reappeared and stood watching without comment. Tink darted this way and that, appraising him from all angles.
Suddenly Pockets began whispering to the other Lost Boys. Peter knew from experience now what that meant and began looking for a way through their ranks. But once again he was overpowered as they descended on him with war paint decorating him with stripes and squiggles and strange faces in the wildest colors, making him look as much as possible like them, to disguise the last vestiges of who and what he had been when he had come to them, trying to find the Pan hidden somewhere within.
When they were done, they stepped back once again. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Pockets said quietly, "Godda see ib you can still fly, Peder."
Singing and dancing anew, they paraded him through the clearing and up through spring and along the edges of winter to a cliff. A giant sling sat just back from its edge. The sling was made of wood and ropes and had a leather pouch into which Peter was summarily plopped.
"Wait, no, this isn't going to work!" Peter protested, wide-eyed with fear.
Pockets and Ace walked to the edge of the cliff and peered down. Below, standing next to a giant mud puddle, was a Lost Boy holding a cutout of Peter. Blond hair pushed carefully back beneath his hat, Ace raised his spyglass and called out a distance to Pockets, who marked it down on a small chalkboard. A hurried discussion ensued with several others and an agreement was reached. Ace lifted his hand to signal.
Peter heard the sound of a crank being turned and felt his pouch begin to draw back through the heavy framework of the sling. The band of the catapult slowly tightened.
Ratchets caught and slipped. Click! Click! Click!
Peter couldn't speak. He could barely breathe. He was paralyzed with fright. They weren't really going to do this, were they? Not really? This was ridiculous! This was incredibly dangerous!
Tink appeared beside him, walking along in time to the clicking of the ratchets, eyeing him critically. "All you need is one happy thought, Peter. Just one, and it will make you fly."
Peter swallowed. "Get me out of here, Tink!"
"One happy thought," she persisted.
"Not being in this slingshot would make me very happy! Ecstatic, in fact!"
Below, where the cutout had been measured, a gathering of Lost Boys were raising a huge net. They think they're in a circus, thought Peter in horror.
"Think, Peter," urged Tink, still following his progress backward in the pouch. "Try."
Peter thought, desperate now. "Wait! I have one!"
Tink bounced excitedly. "I knew you could do it! What is it?"
"Last February, the market shot up two hundred points!"
Tink stared. "What market? What are you talking about?"
Peter's head bobbed, frantic. "No, you're right-I was underinvested. Wait, let me think. Got it! This one will fly!" He cringed at his choice of words. "It's the perks!"
Tinkerbell tossed her head. "Are they wonderful, rich, round cakes with lots of frosting?"
Peter laughed tonelessly. "I'm talking about a five-line phone in a super-stretch limo, last-minute tickets to any sporting event, to any theater I name, corporate jets with precleared flight plans and priority landing…"
Tink held up her hands to shut him off. ' 'This can't be the right direction, Peter. Look, maybe this will help. I'll say some things. You see what comes to mind. Close your eyes and picture it."