Chương Chương 13 · DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?

. DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?

The more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to

emerge from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of

Cecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who flung him

to Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler, and so he was tossed from one

to another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate. All the boys

were plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner; and several of

them were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to

hand.

A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With

ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his

arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged. He

did it with such an air, he was so frightfully _distingué_, that she

was too fascinated to cry out. She was only a little girl.

Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced

her, and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange results.

Had she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of

her), she would have been hurled through the air like the others, and

then Hook would probably not have been present at the tying of the

children; and had he not been at the tying he would not have discovered

Slightly’s secret, and without the secret he could not presently have

made his foul attempt on Peter’s life.

They were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their

knees close to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black

pirate had cut a rope into nine equal pieces. All went well until

Slightly’s turn came, when he was found to be like those irritating

parcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no tags

with which to tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, just as

you kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string);

and strange to say it was Hook who told them to belay their violence.

His lip was curled with malicious triumph. While his dogs were merely

sweating because every time they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in

one part he bulged out in another, Hook’s master mind had gone far

beneath Slightly’s surface, probing not for effects but for causes; and

his exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly, white to the

gills, knew that Hook had surprised his secret, which was this, that no

boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man need stick.

Poor Slightly, most wretched of all the children now, for he was in a

panic about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly addicted

to the drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled in consequence

to his present girth, and instead of reducing himself to fit his tree

he had, unknown to the others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.

Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay

at his mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the

subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely signed

that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be

alone.

How to convey them? Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be

rolled down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a

morass. Again Hook’s genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated that

the little house must be used as a conveyance. The children were flung

into it, four stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others

fell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the strange

procession set off through the wood. I don’t know whether any of the

children were crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the

little house disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of

smoke issued from its chimney as if defying Hook.

Hook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle of

pity for him that may have remained in the pirate’s infuriated breast.

The first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling

night was to tiptoe to Slightly’s tree, and make sure that it provided

him with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill

omen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze which had arisen might

play refreshingly through his hair. Dark as were his thoughts his blue

eyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he listened for any sound

from the nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the house

under the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in the void.

Was that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly’s

tree, with his dagger in his hand?

There was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak

slip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood

stood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave man, but for a

moment he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like

a candle. Then, silently, he let himself go into the unknown.

He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again,

biting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes became

accustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under the trees

took shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze rested, long

sought for and found at last, was the great bed. On the bed lay Peter

fast asleep.

Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for a

little time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no

doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did not

care. Then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve Wendy.

Then he lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her still

more; for she had always tucked them inside it, because you never know

that you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he nearly

cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed

instead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of

it.

Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful

than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from

these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I

think, with the riddle of his existence. At such times it had been

Wendy’s custom to take him out of bed and sit with him on her lap,

soothing him in dear ways of her own invention, and when he grew calmer

to put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so that he should not

know of the indignity to which she had subjected him. But on this

occasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless sleep. One arm dropped

over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part

of his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the

little pearls.

Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the

tree looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of

compassion disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he

loved flowers (I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no

mean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted,

the idyllic nature of the scene stirred him profoundly. Mastered by his

better self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one

thing.

What stayed him was Peter’s impertinent appearance as he slept. The

open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a

personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one

may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness.

They steeled Hook’s heart. If his rage had broken him into a hundred

pieces every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and leapt

at the sleeper.

Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in

darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered

an obstacle, the door of Slightly’s tree. It did not entirely fill the

aperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he

found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. To his

disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter’s

face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung

himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?

But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter’s

medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was

straightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.

Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a

dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that

had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow

liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent

poison in existence.

Five drops of this he now added to Peter’s cup. His hand shook, but it

was in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided

glancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely

to avoid spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim,

and turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he emerged

at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.

Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around

him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the

night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to

himself, stole away through the trees.

Peter slept on. The light guttered and went out, leaving the tenement

in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less than ten

o’clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened

by he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his

tree.

Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt

for his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.

“Who is that?”

For long there was no answer: then again the knock.

“Who are you?”

No answer.

He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached

the door. Unlike Slightly’s door, it filled the aperture, so that he

could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.

“I won’t open unless you speak,” Peter cried.

Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.

“Let me in, Peter.”

It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her

face flushed and her dress stained with mud.

“What is it?”

“Oh, you could never guess!” she cried, and offered him three guesses.

“Out with it!” he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long

as the ribbons that conjurers pull from their mouths, she told of the

capture of Wendy and the boys.

Peter’s heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on