“Aye,” said Jonathan. “I thought a proper ghost story would have bloody white creepers covered in chains and all.”
“If you don’t shut it we’ll never get to the ghost bit,” Peter said, temper snapping in his eyes.
That’s all right, I thought. Charlie and me, we don’t need to hear the end of this story. We don’t need to know how the crocodile chomped the little duckling into its jaws while the boy cried for his mama, because Charlie and me, we already see it.
Peter cleared his throat so all the boys would pay attention again. There was no thought of leaving, of doing something else, of taking Charlie somewhere he wouldn’t hear. And the boys who were bored wouldn’t leave either. It was Peter’s island, Peter who’d brought us here, and in the back of every boy’s mind was some form of the same thought—He could send me back, if he wanted.
They didn’t know that Peter wouldn’t ever let anyone leave. Once you came to the island, you stayed on the island. That was the rule. You stayed there forever.
And none of them wanted to go back, for they’d all been alone or as good as, running from the smell of ale and dirty straw and the fist that made your teeth fall out. Anything Peter had on offer was better than that, even if there were monsters here.
Except, I thought, maybe for Charlie. Charlie didn’t belong. Charlie might have a brother, a brother who teased about the ghost in the wardrobe but who might look out for him too, and maybe Charlie had been that little duckling following a grasshopper the day we found him. Maybe we should have just turned him around so he could find his way back to the path, instead of taking him away with us.
“The duckling reached for his friend in the water, and his friend reached back. Just as the duckling was about to grasp hands with the other boy his fingers somehow slipped past and into the water.”
“How can a bird have fingers?” Harry asked Billy, and Billy shushed him at the look in Peter’s eye.
“The sneaking, peeking crocodile eyes hadn’t moved, so the little duckling thought there must still be time to save his friend. He reached in the water and the other boy reached back and his face was scared but their hands did not touch. The little duckling knew then his friend was trapped beneath the surface and that meant he would be eaten for certain.
“No wonder the crocodile hadn’t lumbered from the pond to chase the duckling, for his meal was only a snap and a clap away, no need to run after little boys on land.”
“Here, now, where’d the boy come from?” Harry asked.
“The little duckling thought and thought, and then he dragged a large branch to the pond and pushed it in for his friend to grab. It splashed and crashed and the old fat croc blinked his eyes, but he did not move, and the duckling’s friend was still stuck beneath the water, his face as pale as the white moon.
“The duckling saw a vine on a tree and he ran to the tree and tugged with all his might, always checking over his shoulder to make sure the croc wasn’t about, but the croc just stayed where he was put, like he was sleeping with his eyes open.
“The vine came loose with a ripping noise and the duckling tumbled back, rolling so far so fast that he almost went right into the pond with the friend he was trying to save, and what would happen then? Who would save them if they both were trapped under the surface?
“He threw the vine in the water and told his friend to grab hold of it and he ran away from the pond as fast as he could, holding his end of the vine and hoping, hoping, hoping he was pulling his friend from the reach of the crocodile’s teeth. After a while he looked back and saw he had gone far from the water and the sneaking, peeking eyes but he was all alone. The end of the vine trailed along behind him, wet and dirty and friendless.
“The little duckling cried then, for he was scared of the croc and the water and of being by himself in the woods and he just wanted his mama, just wanted her to come and put him under her wing and take him home.”
Peter looked at me, and I knew this last part was for me—a warning, maybe, or a foretelling of the future? Charlie started to shake then—he couldn’t bear it another second—and I turned him around so his head was on my shoulder, just like he was my little duckling and I was his mama, putting him under my wing. I gave Peter a look that said, Do your worst.
“But though he was a foolish duckling he was still, deep down, a brave one too. He wouldn’t leave his friend behind. The little duckling decided finally he must dive into the water and push his friend out, and the thought of this made him tremble all over and made the downy yellow fuzz on his head stand up. He stood on the shore of the pond, watching that sneaking, creeping crocodile, who was so still the duckling almost thought he wasn’t even alive.
“Just as the duckling had worked up enough courage to leap into the water, he heard something, something so far away but so longed for that he was sure he imagined it. It sounded like Mama, quacking and quacking his name.
“The little duckling forgot about his friend in the water and turned and called for her, and she called back and now his heart was full and happy and he started away from the pond, running across the clearing and shouting and shouting for her. Everything would be all right now that his mama was here.
“But, oh, that peeking, sneaking crocodile, he knew his time had come. The little duckling’s back was turned but if he had looked over his shoulder he would have seen that old crocodile moving fast now, faster than anyone would have thought possible. His tail whipped that giant monster’s body through the water in a trice, and though he splashed as he clambered onshore, the little duckling did not hear. He could only hear one thing—the voice of his mama.”
Charlie trembled all over, his body vibrating against my chest, and he covered his ears with his little hands. He didn’t want to hear because he already knew, and so did I. The other boys leaned forward, their eyes shining in the afternoon light, for Peter had them well and truly caught now.
“And what do you think happened then?” Peter asked, for he never lost a chance to perform for the audience.
“He got eaten!” Harry said. “And he turned into a ghost!”
I sniggered a little at the look on Peter’s face, for although it was obvious where the story was heading, he clearly felt that Harry’s delivery left something to be desired.
“The little duckling’s mama broke through the trees and saw him running to her, and she saw, too, the crocodile behind, his eyes so hungry and red. She shrieked and reached for her duckling but it was too late, far too late. That sneaking, creeping crocodile had hold of the duckling’s leg and the little duckling was too surprised to cry out, too surprised to do anything at all.
“His mother, she was quacking and squawking as the little duckling was dragged away, but she should have kept a better eye, shouldn’t she? Isn’t that what mamas are supposed to do?”
“Don’t remember our mama,” said Nod, and Fog nodded his head up and down in agreement.
“I do,” Billy said, and it didn’t seem the memory brought him any particular joy.
“I do,” said Charlie, but it was a tiny whisper, just for me. “She used to rock me and sing to me and hold me so tight.”
“That mother duck, she ran after the crocodile, but he disappeared under the water of the pond, taking the little duckling with him.
“Now, you might think that the little duckling turned into a ghost that haunts that old crocodile pond,” Peter said, his eyes hard and bright as he glanced at the shivering Charlie in my arms.