Bark flowed roughly under his fingers, repeatedly interrupted by patches of green moss that overgrew the ancient tree in many places. Small cushions of soft pillows on which the feet of the climbers sank as if into feathers and which soaked themselves on rainy days with hundreds of tiny drops of water. Today, however, the sun had kissed them awake, drawing with deft fingers of light and warmth a bright green on the overgrown spots and weaving a warm carpet over bark, grasses, and forest floor for the children. Soft snores seeped through the air, testifying to the good sleep of the boys who had spent last night hunting mackerel near the shore. The silvery, hand-sized fish with the pretty greenish or bluish markings on their backs tasted good to most of the boys, and this morning some had already spent their time roasting some of their successful catch over the campfire.

This was another reason Peter quietly put one foot in front of the other as he pushed his way through the maze of passageways, climbing ever higher. Practiced, he skirted around lying toys woven from twigs and grasses, dodged a box full of sabers, and jumped just in time over a stool that had been left here for some unknown reason. The stool's wooden feet stuck up in the air, testifying to.... either a fight or someone had pushed the chair outside from its sleeping cave because it took up too much space. Peter wasn't bothered by this, got back up on his feet easily, and continued on his way. To the left and right along the corridor were several round or square, oval and straight entrances - some open, others blocked by curtains, wooden boards, or even makeshift doors made of woven twigs. 

Behind them were the sleeping quarters of some of the lost; among others, Peter passed the entrance of Tootles, who had covered his hollow with a stolen leather skin from the Indians, and every time he crawled out of it, he had to push aside again the stones with which he fixed the temporary curtain the night before. Peter grinned, gave the Indian paintings that had gradually faded on the leather a quick sideways glance, and strolled on. Over his shoulder hung a quiver, fastened with a rather handsome leather belt of which he was pretty proud. A long time ago, Tiger Lily had given him the quake... why he did not know exactly, but the gift he held faithfully in honor. In it were handmade arrows, whose feathers lightly rubbed against each other with every movement. Peter had also put the bow made of solid wood over his shoulders so he had more freedom of movement.

Finally, he reached the highest opening in Hangman's Tree, where the sunlight was already peeking in and casting patterns of light and shadow on the hollowed-out interior of the tree through a wall of swaying foliage. The boys had found a large chamber under the mighty tree, probably once dug by a wolf or bear... but the cave had long been uninhabited, and so they had continued digging themselves until the cozy main room emerged. By now, it was dominated by a long table where people ate, argued, fought, or frolicked. There were also narrow crevices running through the old tree, which the boys had also cleverly widened so they could move through the corridors of a house. 

Each corridor housed several sleeping caves where the boys kept their little bit of belongings and set up their perfect sleeping quarters. Although the boys had carved their halls and dwellings in the giants, the tree did not die.... each year, its mighty branches bore the most breathtaking profusion of leaves found nowhere else on the entire island. It wrapped their little exits and entrances in a puffy embrace of rustling green, whispered to them to get up in the morning, and sang them a lullaby in the evening. Even now, Peter almost lovingly brushed aside a branch full of dancing leaves to step out into the open on the broad branch. 

Ah ~ wonderful. Out here, the fresh scent of the forest, somewhat tinged with sea salt, wafted toward them. Driven by the stormy easterly wind, on some days, even the brackish bog could be smelled in the air, which did credit to the small rock massif in its center and its name, the witches' caves. Peter stretched his nose into the wind, sniffed the day, and instinctively decided where he wanted to go hunting today. Because yes... for a decent game, one had to leave their little island - as proudly as it towered above the swirling spray of the Neverseas. The rock had risen from the water long ago, shaking off the gripping arms of gravity, and now it floated high above the glittering surface. 

Below it, almost like a carelessly dropped plate, lay a rounded rock plateau accessible only at low tide via the lianas that stretched out like thirsty arms toward the sea and disappeared in the sparkling spray. Whether they could feed on the saltwater or die at the sea's touch... Peter was not so sure until today. Light-footed, the young man pranced along the trunk, which was a good one and a half meters wide, narrowing with each step and finally trembling more and more under his weight. Peter took a deep breath, tasted the air again, and searched for the hidden clue. 

Where was the best deer today? Well, he could never say for sure, but too often, he had been right not to rely on the sweet notes in the wind. Today there was something harsher in it, the rich black earth of the forests along their coast. He would just have to let himself fall, carried by his old friend the wind to the jagged edges of Neverland's coast, and finally plunge past the nesting grounds of the Neverbirds in the embrace of giant trunks.

Anticipation prickled in Peter's fingers as he lowered his gaze to the base of Hangman's Tree. Through the dense foliage, nothing more could be seen than the tops of small, brown-green huts. Not all of the Lost had room in the Tree, but that wasn't a bad thing... there were no wild animals on the island, so the remaining boys - especially the newcomers - could safely set up camp at the base of the tree. In the meantime, there were several tiny houses, makeshift structures made of branches and leaves, covered and padded with mosses, grasses, the feathers they found in the woods, or stolen blankets from the Indians, pirates, and the sea town. Small columns of smoke spiraled into the sky from two fireplaces, the remaining two still cold, testifying to the different times the boys got up. 

Some made their way ashore early in the morning if the tide was kind to them that day... for sometimes one awoke to find the wave still holding full sway over the hidden passage that was the only physical way ashore. On other days, the path was out in the open at the same time. Like everything else on the island, the tides escaped the rules of an ordinary, gray world so that the boys were more or less surprised every day. Well... Peter didn't need to wait for the tide to go out, and he didn't need to climb on foot over the slippery rocks to land... for him, there was an easier, faster way. 

The grin prepared itself on the cheeky features like a ray of sunshine breaking through thick clouds, and with a joyful crow that must have woken even the last sleepyheads in the Tree, he dropped sideways into the void. For a heartbeat, Peter just fell, hurtling through the air like a projectile before - just short of the next branch - he caught himself as practiced as a bird and darted out of the shelter of the leaves as fast as the wind. Foliage rustled after him as if to wish good morning, but by then, Peter was already out of reach, darting over the edge of the islet. Flying... it was simply fantastic, and how could one not have happy thoughts? When the wind and the sun were blowing around your nose, the birds were chirping their greetings in joyful surprise, and the island was at its best at this time of day. Shone by the pure light of a young sun, the gold painted a beautiful play of all imaginable shades of color on the patch of land, embraced by azure-tinted water and silver-white beaches.

In joyful enthusiasm, Peter drifted above the glittering ocean for a while. Below him, spray splashed up in tall columns, waves crashed against each other and splintered into thousands of tiny diamonds before rejoining the lazily rolling masses of the ocean. The lost one drifted off, revolved around a bit, and finally circled in a wide arc around the nesting sites on the cliffs of the tribal area. When he turned his head to the side, dark red specks shone behind the trees some distance away, scattered like drops of blood on the green land... From up here, the poppy fields beamed at you like ruby eyes. Seductive and teasing, just as much a curiosity-raising temptation as from the ground... only a little less deadly. Peter hurriedly averted his gaze again to avoid getting the idea in the first place. 

He paid close attention to every sound carried to him by the wind - especially the sounds of the neverbirds, the soft, croaking caws at their breeding places. If it became too loud, he moved away again a piece to keep enough distance because the nesting places were holy for the Indians and with the gigantic hunters of high air, not to joke. Unseen, he stole past them until the green tops of tall oaks, beeches, maples, and so many more passed below him. Surely the boys would be glad of the extra meat - especially since some of them would be setting out today on their first, great adventure.

The bowstring felt rough between his fingers, but Peter didn't mind; he was used to it. For so long, his fingers had been pulling on the stern, home-twisted rope that, by now, it felt more familiar than shaking someone's hand. Cheeky grins pressed into the corners of his mouth, almost reaching from ear to ear with tingling anticipation. It took no real forethought to put one foot in front of the other; Peter had lived in these woods since... since... always! 

Instinctively he crept, melting into the green of the giant leaves and lush mosses. The honey-blond hair shone here and there where the sunlight cast a pattern of shadows on his face, but neither the hunter nor his prey was bothered by that. Forced into shape by sturdy muscles, the flexible wood groaned softly in his hands, creaking softly as if to whisper a pleading caress to the shooter. An arrow, the shaft of which was adorned with white and brown bird feathers, lay at the string. On the stone arrowhead, one could still see the small notches of the tools with which the boys formed the points from roundish stone. Against a metal saber, the ancient weapon might have seemed amusing, like a child's toy... but it was far from being that.

 The sharp rock points could pierce skin and flesh as quickly as conventional weapons. But it was not yet so far. Leaves moved quietly under his feet, the sound not enough to warn the prey barely ten feet away. A deer nibbled on some low-hanging leaves. Engrossed in enjoying the fresh little branches, it didn't notice the young man slowly pushing his way through the midday light, stopping in the shade of the mighty tree trunks. Peter concentrated calmly and evenly, pulling the string of the bow backward, the arrow still firmly in his hands.

Inhale... Exhale... the tickle on his cheek. Peter knew the gentle touch of the feathers so well that he sometimes deliberately tilted his head a little to the side and nudged them. His little ritual was to ensure the arrow found the right way to the target. His fingers relaxed, the string sprang forward, and the arrow was flung straight along the bow.

Tonight he could surprise the boys with the venison. Just thinking about their bright eyes, stuffed mouths, and.... yes, even when they asked him if it had been difficult to kill the deer, a cheeky grin pressed itself into the corners of the mouth of the lost one. Of course, they would all be happy; after all, they were hungry, especially before tonight; they needed something between their teeth and stomachs.

The arrow slammed into the animal's body with a thud, hitting its target so powerfully that the deer's front legs snapped off, hitting the ground sideways. Peter hurriedly left his cover, slipped the bow back over his shoulders as he ran, and drew the long dagger from the sheath at his belt. It was not long before the sounds of the dying prey died away, and Peter brushed the blood from his knife with a handful of dry leaves. By now, he hardly minded the feeling of animal blood; the sticky warmth might not be pleasant, and killing something wasn't easy for him, but he thought less about it than before.

Suddenly, tiny feet settled on his shoulder, followed by a hesitant breeze gently brushing his left ear. Little wings rustled, then a graceful little hand tapped against the earlobe. The little fairy stood expertly on his shoulder and regarded the deer. Tinker Bell made a few gestures from which probably no one but Peter could have interpreted anything. But the lost one just grinned and nodded proudly. Yes, it was a good catch, and the boys were indeed pleased. It surprised him to find them here because, normally, the little fairy hardly ever left her lair. Since it... the young man's face darkened... No fairies were left on the island, and she had little reason to flutter around and do fairy things. Only sometimes, when she was drawn outside, Tink paid him a little visit like in the old days.