“We all loved you, and so we loved Peter too, because you did. But when you stopped, so did the rest of us. You always made us see him through your eyes.”
If I’d known I had that kind of power over the boys . . . I might have left sooner. I might have saved more of them.
It took such a long time for me to see Peter as he truly was. He blinded me, and shame wriggled in my stomach.
Was this, too, part of growing up? Was it facing the bad things you’d done as well as the good, and knowing all your mistakes had consequences?
Peter made mistakes all the time—he was thoughtless; he hurt people. But it never troubled him, not for a moment. He forgot all about it in an instant. That was being a boy.
I wasn’t a boy anymore.
Then she screamed, and screamed again. It echoed over the dunes, high and shrill.
Peter. Peter had found them.
I dropped everything I was carrying and ran for my life, for Sally’s life, for Charlie’s life.
One more time, I ran.
chapter 17
Nod ran with me, or tried to, but he soon fell behind. I heard him panting and coughing, trying to keep up. Sally’s scream went on and on.
I don’t know how long I ran, listening to that scream hovering in the air, and then it stopped.
When it stopped, I ran faster, though I didn’t know that I could. My body already felt like it was pushed far past the point of pain or exhaustion. I didn’t feel anything except fear, except the pounding of my heart driving me along.
In my mind I saw Sally on the beach, her arms spread out in an “X” like Crow, a big red smile at her throat where there shouldn’t be one at all.
Her blue eyes empty and open, a cloud of dark hair around her head. Just like my mother.
Because that was what Peter did. If I loved someone he took them away. I should never have loved her in the first place. Or Charlie. Or Nod.
Or Fog or Crow or Del or anybody.
Not even my mother. I’d loved her, and so Peter had cut her away from me, just as quick as the pirate he was. He took what he wanted and left what he didn’t behind.
The moon was full, like it always was on the island, watching with its cold, cold eye. The seasons changed but the moon never did. The moon was Peter’s brother, never changing.
It lit up the sand and the ocean like daylight, but at first I didn’t see them. I did see the rowboat, though—Charlie had been right about that. But what good was the boat if Charlie and Sally were dead?
Then I did see them. And everything was worse, much worse than I’d imagined. Peter hadn’t slit Sally’s throat and left her for me to weep over.
He’d brought a crocodile to the beach.
I knew Peter must have done it on purpose, for the crocodiles always stayed near the pond. None of them would have roamed the forest or cruised as far as the place where the marsh met the sea. In all the years I’d been there, I had never seen such a thing.
A huge crocodile, its belly round and dragging in the sand, sprinted after Charlie with surprising speed.
Peter was high above the sand, laughing in the air as Charlie ran, trying to reach the safety of the rocks at the other end. The little boy was so scared he was zigzagging this way and that, always just out of reach of the crocodile’s snapping jaws. I heard his thin cry of terror streaming behind him.
I was sure that if Charlie managed to reach the rocks, Peter would grab him and drop him into the crocodile’s open mouth. Peter was well past the point of pretending to care anymore. No one remained to pretend for—almost all the boys were gone, and the ones who were left no longer believed in him.
I ran, not knowing how I could do it again, knowing only that if I didn’t reach him in time, Charlie would be eaten for certain. And I wished I’d thought to bring some arrows, for nothing would have pleased me more than to shoot Peter out of the sky and watch him fall like a burning star to earth.
There were trails of dark blood in the sand. I caught a glimpse, just from the corner of my eye, something that looked like Sally.
Or something that used to be Sally.
If Sally was dead, I couldn’t help her. Charlie was what mattered now.
Peter didn’t appear to have noticed me yet, for he was too busy laughing himself silly at Charlie’s struggle to reach and climb the rocks.
The last time I was at those rocks I’d had to scrape off what was left of six boys and bury them all. I didn’t want to do that again. I didn’t think I could bear it, to put Charlie in the ground.
The crocodile snapped and this time it caught Charlie’s leg. He screamed in terror as the croc ripped away his pants and teeth grazed his leg, but he wasn’t caught, not yet.
I put on a burst of speed, my dagger out in my left hand, and leapt onto the back of the crocodile. Its scaly back scratched my bare chest and I felt all the muscles of the creature bunching. The animal bucked, trying to roll over and throw me off, but I dug in my knees hard and wrapped my right arm under its jaw to hold it in place and then I slashed as hard as I could across its neck with my other hand.
It wasn’t quite enough, though blood poured over my arm, and the crocodile twisted back and forth, trying to get me off so it could bite and claw.
Peter cried, “That’s not fair of you, Jamie! That’s no fun!”
I didn’t know where Charlie was, but I hoped he was hiding from Peter. It was difficult to see anything except the heaving animal underneath me, lashing its tail and tossing its head to and fro in a desperate attempt to make me go away.
I stabbed at the croc again and again, trying to reach the soft underbelly, and finally it slowed. Hot blood gushed from its many wounds, and then it stilled.
I rolled off its back and away from its claws and teeth, not trusting that it was entirely dead yet. Blood coated my hands and arms and sand stuck to it so when I tried to swipe the sweat from my eyes I got a face full of the fine grains.
Spitting and trying to clear my eyes I called, “Charlie!”
“Jamie!” he said from somewhere in front of me, and he didn’t sound happy or relieved that I’d killed the crocodile. He sounded terrified.
I shook the sand off, my eyes still blurry, and then the world swam into focus again.
Peter was holding Charlie tucked in one arm, almost the way I did, like he cared about Charlie, except that in his other hand he held his knifepoint over Charlie’s heart.
Peter watched Charlie’s face and mine, though Charlie was looking only at me. His eyes were pleading for me to do something, do anything, to save him.
I’d told him I would protect him.
“Caught your little duckling now, haven’t I?” Peter said.
His voice was singsong and somehow very young. His eyes darted between Charlie and me, sure that I wouldn’t be able to stop him. I saw the cruel glee at this certainty, his enjoyment of our distress.
“Thought you could get away from me but you won’t. Nobody ever leaves the island, Jamie. Nobody. Especially not you. And certainly not this little duck, who went wandering from his mama. Should have stayed home like you were supposed to. Should have listened and minded. Now you’ve been naughty and you have to be punished. All the boys must follow my rules, for this is my island.”
He stroked the knifepoint down Charlie’s chest toward his belly, and the smaller boy tried to shrink away but Peter held him tight.
“It’s me you want to punish,” I said. I tried hard not to sound scared, not to sound like I would do anything if he would only let Charlie go. “Why hurt him?”