“You’re wrong,” Paul said heatedly.
“Am I?” The Boy’s voice quavered slightly. “There was a time when I was hiding in Kensington Gardens. I was watching a group of very young children. They had been running about the park and, quite by accident, had converged in one area, having come from different directions. One of them touched another, said, ‘You’re it!’ and within seconds they were all playing tag. It was just a group of youngsters thrown together. They had different-color skin. Different-shaped eyes. The chances are that they all believed in different things, had different names for God. But they came together there, in the park, reveling in the joy of being with one another.
“Because they were children.
“And then their parents showed up. With their different skin colors and different-shaped eyes, and different names for God.
“And they looked at one another with suspicion and fear and anger. Then, very quickly, they went to their children and plucked them away from one another and pulled them back whence they’d come.
“That was when it was all made painfully clear to me. When you are a child, there is joy. There is laughter. And most of all, there is trust. Trust in your fellows. When you are an adult…then comes suspicion, hatred, and fear. If children ran the world, it would be a place of eternal bliss and cheer. Adults run the world; and there is war, and enmity, and destruction unending. Adults who take charge of things muck them up, and then produce a new generation of children and say, ‘The children are the hope of the future.’ And they are right. Children are the hope of the future. But adults are the damnation of the present, and children become adults as surely as adults become worm food.
“Adults are the death of hope.
“And you ask me why I would hesitate to leave my childhood behind. That shouldn’t be the question. The question is, why wouldn’t you? Why would anyone be glad about getting older?”
No one had an immediate response…and then very quietly, Paul said, “Because it’s change.”
“So?” said The Boy.
“So…change is good. Having everything being always the same—what’s the point of that?”
“It’s not a point so much as it is an end in itself,” The Boy said.
“Yes. That’s right. It’s an end,” Paul said. “And we’re too young to have something be an end. Childhood is about new beginnings. It’s about discovery. If you’ve found everything that you can do…why do anything else?”
“And that’s where our great divide is,” said The Boy. “Because you see that as a bad thing…and I see it as a good thing.”
And so it went, back and forth, with Gwenny or Paul putting forward notions as to why adulthood was not the terribly revolting thing that The Boy believed it to be, while The Boy presented his point of view with steadfast sadness and a sense of abandoning himself to a fate he felt would doom him. Meanwhile the Indians worked on repairing their camp. Princess Picca’s wigwam and several others had been rebuilt by the time the sun crawled high into the sky.
“I’m becoming more and more convinced that it’s the absence of his shadow that’s doing this,” Gwenny said to Paul at one point.
Paul looked surprised. That had never occurred to him. “Why do you think losing his shadow would have this kind of effect on him?”
“You didn’t see him the first time he lost it. He was practically frantic when he was separate from it. It’s not like your shadow or mine”—and she held up her hand and watched as her shadow mimicked the gesture. “It isn’t just a thing the sun makes. It’s part of him, sharing lives with him. As strange as it sounds, I think it anchored him to this world. That’s why he was so desperate to get it back. Without his shadow, he has no roots, nothing holding him down. His mind is wandering to places it shouldn’t go, and his body is following him into that abyss.”
Paul wasn’t entirely sure he was convinced, but he knew that Gwenny certainly was, and that was good enough for him. “We have to reunite him with his shadow,” Paul said firmly, “and find a way to get Hack out of it. Otherwise we’ll just be back with the same problem.”
At that moment, Dog Licking Self ran into the camp, looking out of breath and concerned. He ran up to Princess Picca and dropped to one knee, bowing his head, as was the custom when returning to her presence.
“Stand, brave,” she ordered. When he did so, she continued, “You check on boats?”
He sighed heavily. “Boats destroyed,” he said. “Bare frames. Shards. Enough pieces from all boats could make one.”
“Pity,” said the princess, glancing toward Paul and Gwenny. “We plan use boats, go fight pirates. Cannot fight pirates, no boats.”
“Pirates leaving.”
“What!” That startled exclamation came from both Gwenny and Paul. Gwenny then continued, “How do you know?”
“See them,” said Dog Licking Self, “heading out toward open water.”
“This is bad,” Paul said, looking at the shriveling husk of The Boy. The Boy’s hair was now thoroughly shot through with gray. Bizarrely, his face still looked relatively youthful, yet more underscoring of The Boy’s lack of familiarity with proper aging. Granted, he knew the pirates well enough, and the pirates were adults. But he thought of them simply as pirates rather than grown-ups; and besides, it was the very prospect of growing older that haunted The Boy. So naturally his own version of aging would mirror his innermost fears. “If they depart with The Boy’s shadow, he’ll be finished.”
“Not just that,” said Gwenny worriedly, “but who knows what sort of destruction they’ll do to—to everyone—if they’re out sailing around and wreaking havoc with no one to stop them.”
“They have Fiddlefix,” The Boy said.
They looked to him with alarm. “They do?” Paul said. “She’s a prisoner?” When The Boy nodded, looking rather indifferent about it, Paul was moved to anger over The Boy’s attitude. He strode forward and grabbed The Boy by the front of his garment and shook him. “And this is how you rise to a challenge? By doing nothing?”
“I’m becoming an adult,” The Boy said tonelessly. “Adults don’t go on grand crusades against pirates. They read and write and spew their ABCs. What matter is it to me what becomes of Fiddlefix?”
That was the point where Princess Picca had had enough. “We waste too much time on this,” said the princess. She pointed to the sun, which was down upon the horizon. “Entire day spent on convincing Boy to do what must needs be done. Boy complain that he not boy. That he man. That, as man, he useless now. Princess Picca not believe that. Princess Picca show him otherwise.”
The Boy looked at her blankly and then cried out as she gripped him firmly by the ear. “Come with me,” she ordered. She pulled him upward, and he almost tripped over his feet as she walked him firmly in the direction of her wigwam.
“Where are you going with him?” Gwenny said. “What are you doing?”
Princess Picca did not deign to answer. Instead she hauled The Boy into her tent, closing the flaps behind her. Gwenny tried to follow, but two large braves stepped in from either side and blocked her passage, their arms folded. Each of them was holding a spear firmly in his hand.
This did not daunt Gwenny in the slightest, but it was more than enough to deter Paul. So when he saw Gwenny striding up to the guards with the clear intention of trying to push past them, Paul quickly came up behind her and took her politely but firmly by the arm. “I wouldn’t suggest it,” he cautioned her.
She looked from Paul to the scowling braves and back to Paul. “You don’t know what she’s doing to him in there.”
“Do you?”
“Well…no,” she said uncertainly.
“Then you don’t know whether it’s good or bad.”
“No,” she said again. “But—”
“There is no ‘but’ here,” Paul said, trying to sound reasonable. “She is the princess. They are going to obey her wishes. And failing any sure knowledge that she’s hurting him, I think we’re going to
have to trust her—especially since we’re not really being given any choice.”
Ultimately she had to agree that there was wisdom in Paul’s words. So the two of them retreated to the debatable safety of the Vagabonds’ company, where Irregular and Porthos asked what was going on with The Boy and Princess Picca. “I do not know,” Gwenny said primly, “and, frankly, I’m not sure I care to know. Whatever it is, I suspect it’s not very civilized, which would make sense since they are savages.” She made sure to say this loudly enough that the braves heard, not particularly caring if they took offense. But the braves either didn’t hear or pretended not to. It’s hard to say with them, since Indians lean toward being inscrutable.
It was a long night, and both Gwenny and Paul, independent of each other and without having discussed it, kept an ear out for the slightest sound emanating from Princess Picca’s tent. None was forthcoming. They might have been talking. They might have fallen asleep. They might have been playing board games. It was simply impossible to say. But Gwenny and Paul knew one thing, and that was that they were determined to stay awake until they saw The Boy emerge from the tent, so they could ask him what it was that he and the princess had been engaged in.
Naturally that determination played a distant second to their own endurance, and so it was that they fell asleep before the moon was remotely high in the sky. When they finally awoke, it was because the sun was shining in their eyes. Caked mud clung to their clothes, and they brushed it off as best they could. Stretching and yawning, they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, and then Gwenny noticed that there was no one guarding the tent of Princess Picca.
Before Paul could utter a word to warn her off, Gwenny scrambled to her feet and made a dash for Princess Picca’s tent. In what could only be called a shocking breach of protocol, she threw open the flap and looked inside, not having the faintest idea what she was going to see but certain that she wasn’t going to like it.
Princess Picca was lying on the ground, a blanket pulled up to her chin. She was awake and looking at Gwenny, and her eyes were sparkling with amusement and, perhaps, something else. It was difficult to say.
Braves were coming from either side, making angry noises, but Princess Picca called out something in her native tongue, and the braves slowed and then stopped. They made no further hostile move toward Gwenny but instead stayed several feet back, content to glower at her.
“You look for Boy?” said the princess. Her voice was soft and relaxed. When Gwenny nodded, the princess said, “He not here.”
“And when he was here? What did you do? What did he do? What did the two of you do?”
“Boy feel like adult. So…I help him feel like boy again.”
“And how,” Gwenny said tartly, “did you accomplish that?”
“Indian way,” was all Princess Picca said, and smiled in a manner that seemed to light up her face.
“Look!”
It was Irregular’s voice that had shattered the air before Gwenny could continue with a questioning that likely wouldn’t have gotten her anywhere. Gwenny turned away from the wigwam and ran toward where Irregular was standing on the crest of the far ledge that was the outer perimeter of the Picca camp. The vantage point provided a decent view of the water, although any view of the lagoon itself was obscured by trees below. But the interfering trees weren’t a factor at this point, for what Irregular was seeing and pointing at was high above the trees. The others came to his side and gasped.
The masts of a man-of-war towered over the trees. It was fully rigged, and the shining oak of which the vessel was constructed glittered in the morning sun. The deck was lined with cannons, more than fifty by Paul’s quick count. And standing, perched high in the crow’s nest, his sword extended and howling a wolf howl in triumph, was The Boy. Even from this distance, they could see that his hair was its normal black, and although his shadow was still missing, he had been restored to his youthful vigor.
“Come on, ya swabs!” he said. “Hack and Slash are getting away! They have a full day’s head start on us! We have to catch them! All hands to deck!”
“How is it possible?” Paul gasped. “Where did that—that ship come from?”
“From his imagination.”
They turned to see that Princess Picca had emerged from her tent. She still had her blanket wrapped around herself, and her feet were bare. “You know well as I…Anyplace linked to Boy’s imagination. He believe it, it be true. He believe that remains of Picca canoes can be transformed into mighty sailing vessel…then they are. Simple as that.”
“You mean he just…” Paul couldn’t find the words.
Gwenny, however, was able to. “You’re saying he just dreamt that up.”
Princesss Picca shrugged. Her shoulders were as bare as her feet. “Something like that.”
“So—so it’s over? He’s cured? There’s no problem?”
But the Indian princess shook her head gravely. “Still problem. Happiness passing thing. Loss of shadow still strong. Sooner later…he feel years again. Feel old again. Must regain his shadow. Must become as he was.” She turned away from Gwenny and Paul and started shouting orders to her people in that harsh native tongue of hers. The Indians snapped to at her instruction and began running hither and yon. Paul thought it was all at random, but he quickly realized the Indians knew what they were about and were busily gathering their weapons in preparation for sailing after the pirates.
“You’re going to aid us, then?” Paul said.
Princess Picca turned back to him, looking a bit surprised that he would even have to ask. “Gave word. Allies now. Besides, Boy must be made whole. Only so much princess can do.”
“Yes, speaking of that,” Gwenny said, looking extremely suspicious while the Indians scampered around the camp following their princess’s orders. Fortunately they’d been carrying some weapons with them when they’d fled to the caves, and they were gathering up whatever they could find that the storm had not destroyed. “You still haven’t told us what exactly it was that you did do.”
“Indian way,” Princess Picca repeated.
“And what would that Indian way be?”
“Very old,” the princess intoned. “Very sacred. Very much none of business of girl.” Gwenny huffed at that as the princess shifted her gaze toward Paul. “You also going to ask about it, Tigerheart?”
“Actually,” said Paul, “I think it’s one of those things I’d rather not know.”
Gwenny gave him an angry look, clearly feeling as if he had just cut the ground out from under her. But all Princess Picca said was, “Very wise. I get ready lead braves in battle.”
This caught Paul’s attention. “You’re going to lead them? Yourself?”
“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “What good leader if not lead men into battle? Should not send men in battle if not willing risk same dangers. Act of cowardice.”
With that she headed off to her tent to prepare. Paul looked at Gwenny and said, “You know, I think if our leaders had that same philosophy, there’d be a lot fewer wars fought.”
“You may well be right,” said Gwenny, who still didn’t look particularly happy with how matters had been left with the princess. But she wasn’t in a position to pursue the matter further. Even she had to admit that there was something to be said for Paul’s philosophy: Perhaps there are some things best left unknown.
And if several of our heroes are going to maintain that opinion, then I—who am also not sure of just what went on in the Indian princess’s tent that fateful night that restored The Boy to youth and vigor, if even for a short time, although I do have some general thoughts that I won’t share—am disinclined to pursue the matter further. So if you’re going to desire more details, I regret to tell you that, like Paul, Gwenny, and the others, you are destined to be disappointed. Don’t feel bad. Disappointments are suffered throughout life, and how you endure them will determine the measure of the person you’re going to be. Besides, since it is not to be spelled o
ut for you, it is left to your imagination to determine what happened and serve as your own explanation. Not only does this make this adventure unique to each and every reader who will have his own viewpoint of this key turning point but also it will be a nice exercise in training your imagination. After all, you’ve seen the power of imagination and what it can accomplish in the mind of a true master of it such as The Boy.
The slow, steady beat of war drums began to fill the air. Paul, Gwenny, and the others heard them; and they saw that there was much activity in and nearby Princess Picca’s tent. For no reason that he could readily understand, Paul felt his feet starting to move in time with the music. Up and down, sideways, then up and down again; and within moments he was moving in a circle. Gwenny, Irregular, and Porthos were right behind him, although Irregular’s feet weren’t moving in exactly the right way and Porthos got stepped on more than a few times. It was as if the beat of the drums was appealing to something primal deep within them.
A figure dropped from overhead, and although it should have been obvious that it would be The Boy, Paul was still momentarily startled. The Boy glanced over his shoulder and grinned at him, his pearly white teeth glistening and looking as clean and complete as they had ever been. A roaring fire had been built in the middle of the camp, which was quite an accomplishment considering how much of the surrounding trees had been thoroughly soaked. The blaze was reflected deep in The Boy’s eyes, or perhaps that fire was always there and Paul could simply see it more clearly this time.
Then a transcendent howl soared above the thudding of the drums, and Princess Picca leaped out of her tent. She was wearing leather covering her breasts and loins, and thigh-high doeskin boots with fringe hanging from the tops. The rest of her body—stomach, face, legs, and arms—was covered with an astounding and fearsome array of images. They appeared to symbolize all manner of hunting animals: Panther, lion, and hawk were all painted upon her skin as if seeking approval from their spirit totems. Paul also saw, plunging down Picca’s bare back, a reasonably recognizable outline of his tiger. He supposed it was a gesture of respect from the Piccas, that, even though they had so feared the tiger because he was striking them down, they nevertheless sought his spiritual blessing on their enterprise.