"Oh, the cleverness of me!" he exclaimed, the boldness of the little boy easing past the grown man's restraint.
Then he leaped back to his feet and dived through the clouds toward Neverland's green jewel. Down he went, faster and faster, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Tink caught up with him, as reckless and willing as he, saw that gleam, and knew instinctively what he was about.
Where are they? he asked himself, scanning the pillar of rock and the Nevertree that sat atop it. Where are the Lost Boys?
He found them gathered at summer where it faded into autumn, bunched in a tight circle about Rufio. A stick traced patterns in the earth as Rufio outlined a plan of attack against Hook and the pirates. Heads arched forward in concentration as his stick moved.
Peter came in like a tornado, spinning over their heads, autumn's leaves cascading downward in his wake. Pockets, at the back edge of the crowd, was the first to look up, floppy cap knocked askew. His eyes went wide as he saw Peter, and he tumbled over onto his back.
"Id's hib!" he gasped, pulling at the clothing of those closest. "Id's really hib!"
Peter laughed and spun back again, Tink at his heels. Down he flew a second time, whooping in triumph. Other Lost Boys were looking now, turning to stare, then jumping to their feet. Latchboy and Too Small were screaming in delight, arms waving and gesturing. Rufio, distracted finally from the description of his battle plan, rose to confront the cause of the interruption.
Peter swooped low across the sea of heads, snatched a Lost Boy's dagger from its sheath, and with a single pass severed Rufio's belt. Down went Rufio's pants to lie in a tangle about his feet. Lost Boys everywhere cheered and shouted, trying to follow Peter's flight. Peter came back a final time, skimmed the surface of the pond with his hands, and sent a spray of water cascading directly into Rufio's astonished face.
Landing finally in their midst, Peter found himself the delighted recipient of high-fives, backslaps, and congratulations of every form. Pan was back! Peter Pan had returned! They were all with him now, and in that instant they would have followed him anywhere.
Rufio realized the truth of things, and his face fell. All but forgotten by the others, he tugged up his pants and charged up a rope ladder into the Nevertree. He disappeared inside his house and emerged again brandishing the Pan sword. Back he came, climbing down a knotted rope, his eyes wild and hot, the blade of the Pan sword glittering in the bright sunlight.
Peter, with Too Small on his shoulders, Pockets in his arms, and adoring Lost Boys all about, didn't see him coming. It was not until Rufio had reached the ground and given forth a piercing crow that everyone turned to discover him bounding toward Peter with the Pan sword held high.
All of the Lost Boys scattered, terrified. Peter dropped Pockets and swung Too Small away.
"Defend yourself, Peter Pan!" shouted Ace as he ducked from view.
But it was too late for that. Rufio was already on top of Peter, who crouched to fly.
Then, astonishingly, Rufio dropped to his knees, tears streaking his coffee-colored face, his red-streaked hair in wild disarray, a look of agony and awe reflected in his eyes.
"You are him," he acknowledged, breathing hard. "You are the Pan." He held out the sword to Peter, hilt forward. "It's yours. Take it, jollymon. You can fight, you can fly, you can…"
Words failed him. He swallowed hard. There was disappointment and a trace of resentment reflected in his face, but admiration as well. Peter accepted the sword, stepped away, and drew a line in the earth. Peter and the Lost Boys stood on one side of the line. Rufio stood alone on the other.
Rufio rose to his feet and crossed. The boy that had been and the man that would be faced each other with faint smiles and embraced.
All around them, the Lost Boys cheered.
That night there was a huge celebration in honor of Peter Pan. The Lost Boys painted themselves in their wildest colors, dressed in their finest garb, ate all of their favorite foods until they were full to bursting, and then danced Indian dances before bonfires that lit the darkened skies for miles. Whooping and leaping about, they ringed the fires, lifting their arms and brandishing their weapons fiercely, singing songs in languages both imagined and real. Peter was the center of attention, called upon repeatedly to do flying stunts. He willingly complied, giving exhibitions of barrel rolls, loop the loops, corkscrews, and spins and sweeps so daring that he clipped the ends of branches and the tips of grass. Each new stunt demanded another, and the more daring that one the greater the cry to top it with the next. Peter laughed and joked and played games with one and all, the joy and wonder of his boyhood coming back to him as he did so, the bits and pieces of who and what he had been recalling themselves in a dazzling kaleidoscope of memories.
To think that he had ever given it up! To think that anything could ever have persuaded him to abandon it!
So great was his enthusiasm at rediscovering the boy, so intense his happiness at being shed of the man, that he was lost for a time in the living of the moment, and the larger picture of his life and loved ones became obscured.
Then finally, toward morning, the moons of Neverland gone westward to their rest and the stars grown faint in a gradual brightening of the eastern sky, it occurred to Peter that Tink was missing. She had been with him for a time, celebrating with the rest, but at some point in the festivities she had disappeared entirely.
Peter flew up into the Nevertree, calling her name, thinking that perhaps she had decided to play hide-and-seek with him. He soared to the top of the ancient tree and swooped down again without finding her. He flew 'round about and saw nothing.
At last he arrived at the little vine-covered clock that was her house. He called for her as he flashed by, but there was no response. Below, the Lost Boys danced on, their cries rising up into the deep silence of the Nevertree's limbs. Peter landed on a tree branch, bent down so that he was eye level with Tink's house, and peered inside.
Tinkerbell sat with her back to him, her head lowered into her hands, her shoulders quaking. Peter frowned in confusion, aware suddenly that she was crying.
"Tink? Tink, is that you?" he asked anxiously.
There was no answer. The room was cluttered with strange things. A man's open wallet served as a dressing screen, a spool of thread as a stool, keys as clothes hangers, and loose coins and a few red Life Savers as decorations. A driver's license hung on the wall like a family portrait.
Most of it belonged to Peter, of course, but the little boy he had become failed to recognize them.
"Tink?" he repeated, more insistent this time. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
The crying stopped. "No. I just got some pixie dust in my eye, that's all."
"1 shall get it out for you," he offered, drawing his dagger.
Tink shook her head, still turned away.
"Are you sad, Tink?" he asked.
"No. Please go away."
Peter brightened. "Need a firefly? Or a bit of dewy webbing? I know. You're sick! You need a thermometer. A thermometer will make you all better."
"No, it's not about that."
Peter wasn't listening. "That's how Nibs got the Wendy-girl better after Tootles shot her down, no thanks to you. Nibs put the thermometer in her mouth and she got all better. Don't you remember?"
Tink quit crying and nodded. "Remember how you spoke in Hook's voice and saved that great ugly Tiger Lily and made peace with the Indians?"