The Lost Boys

The Lost Boys

That which I crave I may not take,

this mortal thirst I cannot slake.

That which I love must sicken me

whose soul is bled because of thee.

The folly and the fear is mine,

for love is death if I am thine,

so murder hope and set me free,

else I am damned because of thee.

My name is Gwendolen Barrie, although for many years I have been addressed solely as Sister Marie Theresa. I was almost seventeen years of age when the boy rapped on my chamber window. Being of a practical nature unlike my brothers I presumed some bird had lighted on my window in search of sustenance or rest.

Fearlessly I threw back the velvet drapes and was startled to discover myself face to face with an exquisite youth, hair combed stylishly off his forehead, wearing a tailcoat which fitted his narrow shoulders to perfection. His eyes were of a blue so vivid I could find no comparison save with that shade which illuminates the peacock’s wing. His bearing denied his apparent age which seemed my own. His countenance was one which spoke simply of authority, but his smile is my most precious memory.

“Let me in Gwen”, he teased. “My hands are frozen fast to my gloves.”

It was after midnight, and I will tell you I was not in the habit of allowing foolish boys to trifle with my reputation, even if they had risked death climbing three solid floors of ivy clad stonework. But Peter was unlike anyone I had ever met. He beguiled my heart, and whilst knowing for the sake of my family I should curse him utterly, I cannot; I love him still.

I believed him then to be one of Jamie’s friends, for how else should he have come to know my name. Undoubtedly he had been attempting to reach his school friend’s room on some childish dare, and in error had arrived at my own. His rueful smile concorded with my theory and I had to force myself to suppress the beginnings of girlish laughter. Assuming my most stern expression I commanded, “Behave like a gentleman and I will open the casement for you.”

His returned bow I took for agreement and a moment later I was standing most shockingly alone with a young man, whilst dressed only in my night apparel. As I have stated, I was not possessed of a fanciful disposition. Thus wearing half a bolt of stout white Indian cotton in male company did not inspire the vapours in me as perhaps it ought.

I used to torment myself with thoughts of how different everything might have been, were I only more open to the worlds of imagination, had I then the courage to believe in dreams or nightmares. I am finished with such reproaches. If there are devils, and I know there are, then perhaps there are truly creatures of light too. If so then I pray they watch over and comfort my brothers, both the living and the dead.

It will seem strange when I tell you that in those first few hours with Peter, those social niceties so essential to polite intercourse, the exchange of family names, friends and such, simply never took place. Perhaps his unorthodox method of introduction rendered these matters both unnecessary and irrelevant. And his keen wit and passion for life were so delightful to behold. He flattered me by treating me as an equal, listening to my opinions as they were as worthy of consideration as his own. I had never been so happy.

The reason for my late wakefulness was the opportunity to peruse contraband literature. I had been indulging in a fest of forbidden delights, Baudelaire, Wilde and for good measure some pamphlets upon rational dress and the franchise for the fairer sex. His gaze had fallen upon these open volumes as he entered the room and we had engaged immediately in a kaleidoscopic discussion which lasted till the first glimmer of dawn was promised through cloud. He started up then as if there were some matter that had come urgently to his attention. Speaking swiftly in that perfectly modulated voice he exclaimed, “Gwen I must leave. Tell me I may come again, I may surely.”

I affirmed his request, and before I could object he had flung open the casement windows, clearly intending to depart in the same fashion he had arrived. He glanced back towards me with that same puckish grin, and that was the last thing I recalled prior to waking in the bright sunlight. The maid was knocking on the door to call me to breakfast. Sluggishly I roused myself from my chair, to dress and the sensibilities of the day.

Father was absent due to some business he must attend to. The only company I found at table were mother and Jamie, of David there was no sign. Upon enquiry I discovered he was unwell and resolved to stay within his chambers. This did not concern me greatly as it was no uncommon thing. His was a melancholy and delicate nature, and he was subject often to chills and slight ailments which the stout of health like myself did not find themselves afflicted by. Jamie was his usual self, steadfastly attempting to please mother and comfort her concerns for our brother. She fretted so over him, and Jamie worried so over her.

As you can see everything appeared to be if not as it should be, but as it was ordinarily. In the midst of all this domestic tedium, I ask you is it at all strange that I should long for one who would hold my company especially dear. How could it be other than I should crave Peter’s company, yearn for his return. I was not to be disappointed. That very evening I received my second visitation. I had even flung open my windows in hopeful anticipation. I must have fallen asleep I thought, in my wicker chair, because I steadfast practical soul that I was, ever ready to calculate the household accounts, soothe cooks sensitive nerves, and coax ever fractious Jamie into eating, was possessed by the most fabulous dream.

I could hear Peter’s voice whispering in my ear, and more disturbingly his arms around me as I awoke, the night sky ablaze with stars all about us as I opened my eyes. There was a bizarre stillness in the world I had never felt before, nectar to I who was so rarely granted the freedom to walkout into the streets in solitude, without mother to chaperone my conduct and my thoughts.

But we were not in the street, nor in the park amongst the great trees I loved so well. We were not even walking but rather suspended in the air with no rational explanation other than sleep to sustain my character. And the beauty of it all, the clouds brushed by us like amorphorous angels. Dear God, I could weep now just to think on it. The streets below, glowing with gaslight appeared like some magical fairyland.

Peter laughed to see my bedazzled and astonished expression. “How do you like my realm Gwen. Is it not the greatest adventure ever, the most fabulous spectacle one might imagine.”

And I so rarely lost for words could only nod my reply, and tighten my hold upon his waist- a shameless but natural response to my predicament. A thunderbolt of sheer mischief shot across his eyes and I was suddenly sped through the skies at a pace I dared not even contemplate. I screamed, not in fear but delight as he wheeled and dived like a swallow across the ether.

I think that was the moment I realised I loved him, for his recklessness, his vivaciousness, his adamant refusal to be crippled by the curses which chain common humanity. He would never grow old or grey or tedious. No frost could wither that brilliant intellect. Had I only known the devil’s bargain he had struck to sustain those treasures, could I have changed what was to come. I do not know, and as I have stated I am done with such reproaches.

Finally he returned me back to my tiny balcony. Holding hands we whispered our farewells for the morning was drawing nigh and people would soon be bustling about the city. I did not want to risk discovery for even in dreams my mother’s reproaches would be too awful to think on. I had half turned to pass through the casement windows when with boyish grace he spun me around to place a delicate kiss upon my lips.

“Are we friends forever” he questioned.

“Ever and always” I swore to him. Ever and always.

And so it is, even as the years fly by and the past is all I have of pleasure, the future a grey stretched road of nothingness that I do his bidding still.

How awful that following morning, descending the stairs sleepy headed and chiding myself for the absurd follies which had filled my sleep the night before, to discover the news of David’s worsened condition. Mother sat white faced, silently staunching her tears with a handkerchief, Jamie resolutely clasping her other hand in his. Father had still not come home but was sent for urgently. The doctor was in attendance but could find no immediate cause for David’s distress. What a dreadful day. Eventually at Jamie’s insistence Mother took comfort in her bible. It was clever of him to know how this would solace her in her hour of need. I had no such consolation in the good book, despite Peter discovering me later, dutifully mulling over the gospels as if I might find some magic to cure David within its pages.

His reaction was very strange. I had jumped up to greet him when he discerned my reading material. His countenance became bathed in white; his beautiful eyes glowed in fury. ‘Put aside that terrible book Gwen’, he cried out. ‘Cast it upon the fire. You will find no beauty in it, only cold laws and cruelty. Put it aside I beg of you.’

Shocked as I was, the tears which adorned his ivory pale cheekbones were of more import to me than any false piety. I flung the bible into my bedside drawer and hastened towards him, to ease down the arm he had flung across his face. I coaxed him like a child and soothed him with old lullabies – the way I had sung to Jamie on occasion, when his fragile nerves would not let him rest. Peter’s anger evaporated so suddenly I wondered if it had merely been one more prank. One that I had failed to understand. For he threw back his head and laughed, so loud that I feared for our discovery. Then snatching me up in his arms, he led me into a ridiculous waltz, which near resulted in our bumping into or knocking over the majority of my bedroom furniture. Despite the sadness which oppressed my soul I could not fail to be cheered by his gleeful absurdities. My grief could not withstand his gaiety.

When finally I could dance no more, I pleaded for a moment to catch my breath and he set me down upon my wicker chair. Still, yet still he paced the room, gay hearted as ever. At last he raced up to the open window and performing a perfect circus cartwheel finished, alarmingly perched upon the veranda railing. ‘Peter’ I gasped, ‘Come down from there this instance.’

He gave no answer save to hold out his hand to me in a half mocking princely gesture. Like a moth to the flame I drew closer, ever closer till our fingers touched. I cannot excuse myself the moment of madness in which I too found myself poised upon the rail. My heart was in my mouth, I feared to look down for I had heard that vertigo could unbalance a soul with one unwary glance. Instead I gazed into Peter’s eyes as though my very life depended on it, which in truth it did.

And I cannot pretend to have been the least part horrified when he kissed me. And such a kiss it was, my head reeled, the stars danced before me, and had he not caught me firmly in his strong arms it would surely have been my death. ‘Do you trust me,’ he asked, half in earnest, half teasingly and I nodded my reply as he stepped clear off the railing taking me with him. I almost screamed, but it was all so much like the previous nights dream that I did not. Instead time stood still for a moment.

And we did not fall. It was as though we were standing upon a pane of glass. I suppose I must have been in shock then. I can find no other way to explain my calmness. ‘Last night,’ I questioned him. ‘As real as I Gwen’, he smiled. ‘As real as dreams.’ I did not understand then the later remark. I wondered if a lifetime of practical reasoning had resulted in a fit of insanity. I felt quite myself but not having been mad before, I was not sure how I ought to feel or think.

Peter laughed at my confusion and spun me around to make me squeal. It was impossible to remain serious when he was in such a mood, so recklessly I gave myself up to the lunacy of it all. And so we played. We peered through the candlelit windows to watch the children sleeping, and flew over the heads of solitary policemen who never once thought to gaze up at the skies to see the strange pair hovering above them. We even peered through the windows of a house of ill repute, and saw a young lady wearing rouge enough to have made mother slap me, with precious little undergarments on, beating a be whiskered gentleman old enough to have been her father.

My blush made it plain to Peter that I had seen quite enough for one evening. He took me home- my flushed cheeks had almost faded when we arrived. We both fell oddly silent at our farewell. Minutes passed wordlessly, then he planted one kiss beneath the hair at the side of my neck, and then looking into my eyes he said as statement not question.

‘Tomorrow.’ There was no need of an answer.

Barely ten minutes after his departure I heard his voice again, crying my name at the counterpane. He was half sobbing in pain or anguish. Throwing myself hastily out of bed I flung open the casement. Peter stood there ashen faced, tears coursing across his countenance. There was a terrible burn upon his forehead which had almost caught his left eye, as though he had spun away to deflect some awful blow. I led him by the hand like a child and sat him down upon my chair. ‘Peter, I must summon a doctor. I cannot help you alone.’ But he merely clung to my hand and shook his head. Finally he collected himself and so calmly he explained. God help my soul, if there is a god.

‘A doctor would be no use here Gwen. You have what I need. Dreams are sustained by blood, not pills and potions.’

He did not even ask. He knew I would give him whatever he required. My eyes told all. It was such a simple matter really. He still had hold of my hand and merely inclined his head to my wrist. I did not look away and thus saw him gently sink those delicate teeth into my flesh. I gasped with the pain then and sank onto my knees on the bare wooden floor. Soon the pain ceased. There was no pleasure in this matter for me, as for him I cannot comment save only this. As five brief minutes passed, counted by the pounding of my heart I saw the wound upon his visage fading impossibly, miraculously away. The blood loss began to overwhelm me; my breathing grew ever harsher as I stroked his silken hair, something I had previously so longed to do.

‘Peter, you must stop dearest, you must.’ I finally gasped.

He shuddered, his dreamy eyes focused again and with the one ungainly movement I ever witnessed from him, he pushed me clumsily away. As though it cost him something terrible to do so. A price I would never understand and never pay. I sat crumpled where he had flung me. But Pandora-like I had to know, had to learn the truth of what had occurred. ‘What has been happening Peter. What is going on in this house.’

He smiled the bittersweet smile then, the smile of a fallen angel.

‘David wished to be as I am. I came to fetch him away tonight but your Jamie harmed me. He threw sanctified water in my face, then waved the black book at me like the envious hypocrite he is.’

I would have started up then, but I felt close to fainting and could only beg of him.

‘Jamie, what have you done to him?’ He looked at me then in puzzlement, as though I had asked the most irrelevant question in the world. ‘What have I done? I have merely defended myself. Your little brother will wake tomorrow with a headache that is all. I would not sully myself with his feeble blood. The pity is for David. I cannot save him now from the grey consolations of the grave. His soul has fled.’

And there it was David’s mysterious sickness which had so perplexed the doctor, explained quite succinctly. Peter’s tender ministrations had taken him to the brink of death; Jamie’s actions had saved him from becoming a parasite upon the living. Peter could sense my anguish and horror, vehemently he argued, ‘Gwennie don’t take on so. It was what David wanted, what he longed for. Wouldn’t you wish to be ever young, always free from the mediocre cares of humanity?’

Stubbornly I shook my head. ‘Not at such a price. The cure is worse than the sickness.’

He did not shout at me for this but his angry distress was plain, in his countenance and his tone. ‘If you are so certain of your choice Gwen, then for the sake of our shared affection I must warn you. I have tasted your blood; it has become a sacred thing to my flesh. Else you flee to holy ground where I cannot sense you by tomorrow’s eve I must hunt you and claim you as kin. Do you understand?’

He stood up then and seemed to tower over me as I sat upon the floor, contemplating my hands, my wound, the blood upon my nightgown, anything at all to stop my thinking on the truth. Peter was a murderer. I loved the killer who had destroyed my brother and now offered me the same fate. I forced myself to reply, with what dignity I could muster.

‘I understand Peter. I think it would be best if you should leave now.’

He walked gracefully to the open casement. I thought then he would leave without another word. But he turned his head back to mine, and with that familiar half teasing smile quizzed me.

‘Friends forever, Gwen.’

I could barely see him through the haze of my tears as I uttered the treacherous thoughts of my heart for him.

‘Ever and always.’

My story thereafter is simple to relate. There was no time to explain ought to my family. And how on earth might I tell all to my parents, even with Jamie’s account to support mine. Could I have told them that I dallied with the fallen angel who stole David’s life and attempted to steal his soul. Could I tell them that I loved him still?

No, I could not. And so it was that casting aside my sullied nightgown, I like a later day Ophelia got me to a convent and the sheltering arms of the Catholic heresy. The sisters have been kind, too kind I believed for the first few mournful years, when the guilt fair threatened to overwhelm my senses. But the news of my family they obtained in a circumspect way cheered my lonely heart. Jamie was become a successful novelist, and by a weird twist of fate had made the unhappy past events of our lives into a sweet fable, to entertain children’s bedtimes. I was so proud of him.

Alas my family were not so of me. I had left my father a hastily scribbled note, saying only that I must go away but there was no need to worry. This was taken as evidence that I had gone off with some unsuitable young fellow. My name was never spoken of in his house again. It was no more than I deserved. And what of Peter?

For him I indulged in the one romantic gesture of my life. Before quitting my family home I left the poem which begins this narrative, wrapped in green ribbon amongst the ivy which crept about my balcony. I knew only he might find it. But he cannot, will not, find me. Consecrated earth is a bind to his exquisite perceptions. He did not deceive me on that point. But he did not warn me of the temptations I would suffer either.

Each eventide when the sun fades from the sky I am possessed by the fiercest of longings; a need, a passion to fling off these heavy black robes and seek my wild freedom far away from imprisoning convent walls. I crave his company. I thirst for it. I fight my demons through the long dark nights and when the dawn greets me at last, with its sweet promise of temporary surcease from my torments, I weep for all the lost boys, David, Peter and Jamie and hope that at the last we may all find peace.