Chapter 9
It's a few steps into the forest when I feel a hand on my wrist. Yanking down, spinning around, a dagger against a throat.
"Aren't you excited to see me?" Pan cocks an eyebrow.
I shrug down, putting the dagger back in my cloak. "Sorry, it's just-"
"If you're always going to be on edge when we're at war, then I have some bad news for you." He chuckles.
"I got a warning from Walela," I tell him. "The Natives are going to attack you tonight while you're sleeping. They found out where you live."
He bites his lip, before leaning against a tree. "Damn."
"Now you know to move it." I tell him.
"It's already moved." He tells me. "I'm quick like that."
I roll my eyes. It's easier to pretend to be annoyed than to show my relief. For all I knew, he was already sleeping. I should be too, and so should everyone honestly. It's a wonder Max is awake, but that can be chalked up to how off he's been since he lost his ability to walk. He's lost both his friends and his own body in only a few weeks.
"Quick to find me too." I point out. "What, can't get enough of me?"
"I have a favour to ask." He lets a soft smile slip on his cheeks.
"That's interesting." I ask, stepping closer to him. "Pan asking for a favour? Can't do it yourself?"
"You're an extension of me." He says. "You know, as a Lost Boy."
He's so full of it. Can't even admit he's asking me for help. He's such a boy, honestly.
"So what is this favour?" I ask.
His hand rests against the tree next to him, holding his weight. Propping his head just above mine. "Jared was asking to talk to you."
"Me?" I ask.
"Well, he doesn't remember your name. He was just curious as to where the girl went." Pan points out.
I'd love to talk to Jared. Not only because I'm so very curious about the whole situation, but because I know it'll anger Alex to know I'm interfering with Jared and Rufio. Although Alex and I have been on good terms lately, revenge is so sweet. I can almost feel its sugary taste on my tongue.
Pan doesn't need to know that though.
"Fine," I tell him. "But you owe me."
He smirks, and grabs a hold of me.
After the popping subsides, I find myself alone in the camp. Only a few boys have gotten up, and are moving around the tents. Some are heading over to the fire pit, the old benches now gone and the only place to really sit is the logs now.
The med tent seems to be empty, and I can only tell it's a med tent because that's where they brought Rufio this morning. The new camp seems to be organised like a maze, designed to be weaved through to get in any tent.
It's a much more dangerous set up than the last. More compact, harder to find, but a fire hazard. Nevermind the Natives could wipe us out in a second here if they so choose. I doubt they will, but still.
Pulling the flaps open, I notice the boy sitting on the small cot. I cross my legs, and sit on the ground across from Jared.
"How are you?" I ask, looking up at him.
He grins, but shrugs. "I'm better now that I've found people. I was walking in that forest alone for weeks."
Right he was. "Well, you had that other boy with you, right?"
"Rufio?" Jared asks. "That boy sure is an odd one. Knows who I am, but I've never seen him before in my whole life."
His southern accent is much stronger now that his memory is gone. It was probably worn away by all the years he spent here.
"He's an odd fellow." I tell him. "Seems to be convinced a lot of people are a lot of people. Maybe you look like a different boy."
"Named Jared?" He laughs. "Why, you people sure are funny."
I shrug. "You get used to it."
"You've got your own little slice of heaven, you know." He smiles. "Running around, just playing, no cares in the world. Sorry if I'm forward miss, but you are wearing pants and everything."
I wonder how old he is. He came just after Alex, who came between the titanic and the First World War. He must've came sometime in the early 1910s then, maybe only a year after Alex.
"We're a little bit different up here." I tell him.
"This is Canada, right?" He asks. "I've heard a lot about it up here you know. I knew that whites and coloured people were allowed to walk together free up here, but I didn't know woman could wear pants."
Woman didn't typically sport pants as fashion back in the 1910s in Canada either. That didn't happen until at the earliest the 1920s, but more so in the 1930s. No point in telling him that though.
His use of the word coloured makes me feel weird, but I understand it's from his time. There is no excuse for people back home to use that word, no matter how old they are. However, Jared is plucked directly out of the beginning of the 20th century, so I think it's forgivable.
"We normally say black people up here." I say. "Most people find it rude to be called coloured."
He wipes his hand on his sheets. "That's good. Your people worked hard to make them safe, and I can appreciate that. My grandfather helped with the Underground Railroad, you know."
That would've been pre the civil war, maybe early 1860s at the latest. Given that he's from the South, I'm a little surprised he's not a racist.
Maybe if I get him to figure out how he got here, it'll cure his memory. He'll be able to piece together the pieces and he'll remember me and all of this as well.
"Can I tell you a story?" I ask.
He nods, leaning forward for me to continue.
Now, to come up with a bullshit story. The best lies are woven in with the truth.
"I was a bastard child." I tell him. "My mother fled her home to safety. Her parents were going to kill me, you see. They didn't like my father see, and wouldn't give him my mother's hand, and when they found out she was with child..."
I don't continue, trying to play up the story. In truth, I don't know any of my family except my mother. She never told me what happened to any of them.
"She then married another man, who pretended I was his own child to keep face with the new place she lived. He and my mother had another child, my younger sister. She passed in childbirth."
I let my voice slip, giving way to a mid-western accent every few words. I grew up in Northern Michigan before we moved to Maine, and as such I sound more like your typical American than anything else. Being around so many mid-westerns, like Johnny, has made me able to imitate the accent with ease.
"My father isn't a good man, and I found solace here." I tell him. "This place is our safe haven. There isn't a boy walking around here without a sob story."
"I bet." He says. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
It didn't, not really anyway. But like I said, he doesn't need to know that.
"What happened to your leader?" I ask.
"Peter?" I ask. "He doesn't talk much about it. Some people won't tell you why there here, even though many will."
"How come you're the only girl?" He asks.
I shrug. "This place isn't one that's easy to find. It finds you, more or less. I'm still not all that sure why I'm here. Most of the kids here are orphans, or bullied, or just have awful parents."
"I don't think I belong then." He says. "I'm not an orphan."
"What are you then?" I ask. "If you don't mind me asking."
His rough hands, one missing a thumb, run through his hair. "No, it's no problem miss. I just, don't want to bring trouble your way."
Trouble is the only thing this island is good for.
"It's no problem, honest." I tell him.
He looks at me crooked. "You've got very dark eyes for a white lady."
I do, and I know it. I've got dark hair too. The eyes are from my mum, and I can only assume the hair is from my father's side of the family.
"I know." I say.
"My lady, she had eyes like hers." He points out. "Her name was Katherine, and she had beautiful black eyes, and soft skin."
He seems to be gone in a trance as he thinks about her. A beautiful memory. If only he knew she's long dead. As far as I know, he was born in about the late 1890s. I'm guessing 1914 was the year he came, which would mean he was born in about 1898. That's just a guess though.
He wouldn't be here if he wasn't lost though. So it's more of a question of what happened to her.
"How'd you two meet?" I ask.
I'm trying to piece together what he's implying. Like I've said before, I'm a bit of a history and language nut.
"She was a hand on the neighbour's farm." He explains. "Mostly took after the animals. She loved them, you know? Her brother tended to the grass, and she the animals. No one else in town would hire her. One day, she wanted to be a vet. My father taught me how to care for the animals, and when I heard she wanted to learn, an excuse is an excuse."
The pretty girl next door. The pretty girl next door that he talks about in past tense. She must already be dead, as far as he knows. Or if not, something awful must've happened.
He crinkles the white sheets in his fist as he thinks about her, and I can see his eyes glossing over in pain. "You know, if we had lived here, nothing would've gone wrong. I know Canada isn't perfect either, but it's not the south."
Katherine was black, and Jared is a white boy if I've ever seen one. Ginger, freckled, and pale. His veins are visible on his wrist, white and clean. At least, normally. Right now he's awfully dirty, which comes with being in the forest for days on end.
"What went wrong?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Small towns aren't quiet. We broke the law, Katherine and I. We could never get married, not even elope without our parents' permission. Mine didn't care, but Katherine's parents were weary. They weren't sure what would happen if anyone found out. I wasn't sure either, but I didn't see it coming."
"Someone found out, didn't they?" I ask.
"We had farm hands of our own." He tells me. "White supremacists."
Rights for people of colour wouldn't come until the martin Luther King's time. Even if Jared wasn't discovered, he and Katherine would have had to leave America to be together.
"I'm sorry." I begin.
He looks away. His voice is but a mutter. "They beat us. Beat her, with all they could. I was arrested before the end of it. Her brother came in, and her other siblings. Six of them together. I think they got her out in time, but I can't be sure."
"I'm so very sorry."
He wipes his eyes, and weakly smiles. "Katherine was a tough woman. She could take it, I know she could, but she was with child."
Oh dear God. Now I feel like an asshole for bullshitting some story about how I'm a bastard child or whatever. Jared was going to be a father, and that was stripped from him by white supremacists.
"It could've been worse." He tells me. "They killed my brother, when they found out he was seeing another man. They burned him, said if he was going to be a fag, they'd use his body like one."
"We aren't like that." I say.
He stands up, the sheets tumbling on the ground in front of him.
"They beat me," he says. "But they didn't cut my thumb off. I was in the jail cell, then I was here. My head was pounding, but either wise I was fine."
I stand up to stop him, as he rolls up his sleeves. Rough scar lines cover his arms. They're still white, but have faded over time."
"These couldn't have healed." He gets up, storming out of the tent.
"Jared, wait." I follow him out as he runs into the forest.
He rips off his cloak, searching his body, tracing his hands across all the healed lines.
"This isn't possible." He says. "How'd I get here? I was in South Carolina, then I was here. That isn't possible."
"Jared, you need to calm down." I correct.
"How did I get here?' He demands, spinning around to stare at me.
His eyes are blood shot, and as he pulls his hair it stands on end. He grabs hold of me with his arms, tightly wrapping them around my shoulders.
"Peter." I call out.
"You know the truth." He yells. He doesn't shake me, his hands are delicate. I've seen volcanos erupt inside of people, and I can feel the heat burning inside him. He's scared, and upset, and that is not a good combination as far as anger goes.
"Peter!" I scream again.
I don't know how to find him. He can't hear me.
I don't get scared often. Every time I'm in a near death situation, and Peter saves me, I'm more shocked then upset. This however, makes me worry. Not for my personal safety, I barely give half a shit about that.
I'm worried for Jared. He's already lost his love, his memory, he doesn't need to lose his mind on top of that. He's delirious, shaking and screaming, terrified out of his mind. I can't help him like he's helped me before. There's nothing I can do except hold still as he explodes.
"I can see the truth in your eyes." He shouts. "You know what's happening."
When I notice the slight twitch of his fingers, and the fluttering of his eyes, I know what's going to happen. I've seen it before. The beginning of a seizure. I manage to catch him and lower him to the ground, as his body gives way. A tower crumbling down to the ground.
I'm not far away from the med tent, so I shout back. Alex and Harry have to be back by now, right?
I can see them running my way from out of the corner of my eye. Finally. Honestly, this was getting ridiculous.
Alex rushes over, heling me lower Jared to the ground. Harry's hand is on my shoulder and I embrace him.
"Where's Rufio?" I ask, pulling back.
"Felix is with him." Harry tells me. "He's the only one who Rufio seems to be calm about."
"I need to find Pan." I shout over top of Jared's screaming. "You help Alex."
Harry nods, pushing past me to the boys.
I begin to walk, my shaky steps moving me forward, as I decide to look for Pan.
~~~~~~~
Everyone has a sob story. And Jared's is super crappy. I mean, he's delirious. And this is such a good set up. Good things are coming, and I am so excited.
Who's story that you know is the most tragic? Personally, I think it's Keaton's. I might be biased though. Let me know what you think in the comments.
I'm still behind oops. So nothing will be out until Monday it seems.
For now, look to the stars, and I'll see you Monday.