Peter Pan's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

Peter rose from the sea and walked into the Witch's Forest. The child was here somewhere, still remembering. But the paths belonged to the woodsmen now. Peter counted three patrols before noon. They marched the trails with axes, checking every shadow. He could not hunt in the open like this. He needed a place to hide, a lair no woodsman would find. He had none. A pixie found him first. She darted out of the ferns, wings throwing sparks of blue light. Tinker Bell. She had followed him from Neverland without asking. She hovered at his ear and rang, sharp and fast, pointing deeper into the trees. She wanted him to follow. Peter almost took her future then, out of habit, on instinct. He stopped himself. She was still useful. He let her lead. She brought him to a crooked cottage swallowed by vines. Books cluttered every ledge. Clocks hung in the windows, all stuck at different hours. A man stood in the doorway, small, with a tall hat covered in gears and cards. His yellow eyes did not blink. Peter knew him from old days. The Hatter. A creature from outside time, who collected the moments the world had dropped. "This is mine," the Hatter said. "You want it." "I want a base," Peter said. "Hidden. The woodsmen watch every path." "The rent is high." The Hatter stepped aside, letting Peter see the cluttered dark within. "I don't lend. I sell." "Name it." The Hatter tilted his head. "A moment. One you'll never get back." He touched his own chest. "I pay for my stillness every day. Now you pay for shelter." Peter understood the trade. He had nothing left inside but the taking. He reached out, not toward the Hatter, but toward himself. He gave up the memory of Ursula's door closing, the last hour he had wanted to be a husband. The Hatter caught it from the air like a coin. It looked wrong in his hand, a small square hole where a memory should be. He tucked it into his coat. "Done," the Hatter said. Then, quieter, "You paid too easy. That means you had nothing to keep." He walked past Peter into the trees and was gone. Peter stepped inside and shut the door. The cottage held him now, walls thick with vines, windows blind with clutter. No woodsman would look here. Tinker Bell settled on a stuck clock, her light dimming to a glow. Peter had his lair. He could hunt the child from cover now, learn its routes, choose his moment. But the Hatter had walked out with a piece of him. And the pixie who trusted him watched from the shelf, waiting to see what he would do next. The refuge was won. What lived inside it was already less than the man who paid.