KIM LAKIN-SMITH

The Island of Peter Pandora

Peter caught the fly between his palms. The insect buzzed and tickled.

‘Aren’t you the jolly little irritant!’ Peter parted his hands slightly and tried to peep in. When the fly flew out, he snatched at it. A trace of gore stained his hand.

‘Funny bug.’ Peter didn’t bother to brush off the insect’s remains, but picked up the wrench and plunged his hands into the Lost Boy’s stomach.

‘Those Rogues. They’ll do for me one day,’ said Nibs in his chiming voice.

‘Ha! They’d have to catch me first, and Peter Pandora is not easy to tie down.’ Peter lifted his sharp chin a notch. Locating the flywheel under the leather heart, he adjusted the torque. A squeeze of oil from a can and the gears moved smoothly again.

‘I am nothing if not exceptional.’ Peter slid the bolt plate back across Nibs’ stomach. He cleaned his hands on a rag.

‘You’re the bravest and the best, Peter.’ Nibs craned in his legs, rocked onto his porthole backside and got up off the grass. Steam oozed from his joints.

Peter nodded sagely. ‘I am.’ When the Lost Boys failed to concur, he shot them a savage look. ‘What say my men?’ He bit his bottom lip.

The animatronic band wheezed into life at the command.

‘The finest mind in the French empire.’ Tootles cradled his fat bowl belly; Peter had fashioned it from a condenser casing and a girdle of steel ribs.

‘Master of the fair isle of Tsarabanjina. We are loyal to the last.’ Curly nodded enthusiastically, exciting the frayed wires that poked out his skullcap.

‘The last! The last!’ echoed the twin tinies who Peter had not bothered to name. They were rather a nuisance with their rudder flippers that got stuck in the sand or left visible tracks up the banks like turtles come ashore to lay their eggs.

‘Slightly?’ Peter adopted a grown-up’s tone.

‘I have a headache,’ said Slightly as farts of steam escaped his back boiler. ‘And with mother being on the gin and father having run away with the fairies.’

Peter crossed his arms. He considered Slightly’s head which had been all but bashed off, with only a couple of wires attaching it to the body.

‘The Rogues shall pay for their attack.’ Peter unhooked the wrench from his utility belt and wielded it. ‘What say my men?’

‘The finest mind in the French empire.’

‘Master of the fair isle . . .’

‘Enough!’ cried Peter, and apart from the taps of water pipes and the crackle of wood inside their boilers, the Lost Boys fell silent.

 

Three hours later and Slightly’s head sat back on his shoulders. The iridescent blue of day was giving way to the black and oranges of dusk. Peter led his robot band through the tall reeds, kicking up crickets and newborn mosquitoes. The air was full of flavours – cocoa, coffee and sea salt; Peter breathed them in. This was his favourite part of the day, when the stars his father had loved so much began to wink overhead, and the rumble in his belly told him it was suppertime.

‘Did any tuck survive the raid?’ he called over a shoulder.

‘Papaya, banana, sweet potato.’ Tootles sounded proud of their haul. Peter had hoped for a fish supper, but he let things slide. His men had survived being attacked by the Rogues when collecting provisions earlier that day. Plus, they could always go a-hunting again tomorrow.

‘A banquet fit for kings,’ he managed. His spirits cheered at the sight of the raggedy tree house with its smoke stacks and the fat brass trunk of his father’s telescope pointing skyward.

‘Run on ahead, you and you,’ he told the twin tinies. ‘Get the water boiling under the supper pot. Light the lamps.’

The pair set off, rudder feet swishing through the reeds. A minute later, Peter saw the glow of lamplight at the windows. Smoke trickled from one of the tall stacks.

Peter entered the clearing. Tootles, Slightly, Curly and Nibs arrived alongside, oozing steam and sweating oil. Moths danced in the twilight like fairy folk. The detritus of scrub and husk made a noisy carpet underfoot. ‘No creeping up on me,’ thought Peter smugly.

He stepped onto a wooden palette, grabbed hold of the ropes and heard the winch start up. The ground dropped away and he sailed up to the tree house, that great nest of palm leaves, reeds, flotsam and jetsam, turtle shell, coral chunks and drift wood. Crawling in at the tarpaulin-covered entrance, he slammed a large iron lever forward and sent the palette back down to fetch the others.

Standing up and placing his hands on his hips, Peter took in the chaos of the room. The hairy trunks of seven coconut trees sprouted up through the living quarters. Golden Orb spiders nestled among the eaves, their sun-coloured silk forming a glittering canopy.

‘Home sweet home.’ Peter rocked back onto his heels and separated his toes, planting them on the reed matting with a satisfying sense of grounding.

 

James and Wendy Darling had come to Tsarabanjina – a tropical island located northwest of Madagascar Main Island and forty nautical miles from Nosy-Be – in the year of our lord 1889. A twelve-man strong crew assisted them to offload the numerous tools of Mr. Darling’s trade – spy glasses, constellation maps housed in leather tubes, an oversized compass with gold and ivory inlay, easels and other drawing apparatus; and, of course, his pride and joy, a giant brass telescope. Mrs. Darling, meanwhile, was content to haul ashore her own box of tricks – metal-working tools, saws, hammers, piping, sheet steel, and every conceivable nut, bolt and screw. And while many ladies would have protested at the steaming wilderness, Wendy embraced it. Befriending the tribe on the south side of the island, she enlisted those strong, cocoa-skinned men to help her build an observatory among the trees.

Peter had been four years old, his sister Bella, six months. Leaving behind the dreary greys of London for Tsarabanjina’s endless blue sky and ocean, both children felt as if they had stumbled upon paradise.

Three years later came the Three Bad Events as Peter called them. First, a tremendous cyclone storm which sunk his parents’ dhow offshore. Second – and by far the more devastating – the death of both his parents from Typhoid Fever. What made it worse was that both of these incidents happened within two weeks of one another. And third, the islanders muscling in on his and Bella’s seclusion and insisting so kindly and so absolutely that the youngsters go with them. Peter had refused with every violent response he could muster. Bella, though, went with them. At the age of seven, Peter had found himself alone with only the sounds of the waves lapping the shore and the contents of his mother’s workshop for company.

‘Time to fill your cakehole.’ Slightly stood at the brink to the observatory. His insides turned over with a faint clanking sound.

Peter peered into the telescope’s eyepiece. Venus, the morning star and his father’s life’s work, shone in the night sky. ‘Such an elegant turn of phrase, Slightly,’ he muttered.

‘Want me to put on false airs like Rogues?’ Slightly elevated a backside flap and let out a guff of steam.

Peter slid the cap across the eyepiece and made his way across the room, weaving in and out the map stands and tables full of paperwork. He slapped Slightly on the arm, producing a hollow rumble.

‘I really did use up the odds and sods at the bottom of the drawer when I created you, Slightly.’

The Lost Boy seemed pleased with the fact. His boiler bubbled softly as he led the way into the dinner den.

‘Peter! So glad you can join us.’ Tootles tapped the space on the bench next to him. ‘Have a seat, there’s a good chap.’

Peter eased in besides Tootles even thought the crueller part of him wanted to say, ‘No, I won’t. I shall sit opposite between the twin tinies just to show who is boss around here.’ By way of compromise, he vowed to ignore Tootles for the evening.

‘So what’s the plan, Peter? How do we make those Rogues pay?’ Nibs banged his fist against his stomach plate, a reminder of the torn internals he had suffered at their hands.

Peter spoke through a mouthful of turtle and sweet potato stew. ‘We lure them in from their hidey hole and then we garrotte them.’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ said Curly.

‘Masterful,’ added Tootles.

‘How’d we do it?’ The twin tinies asked in unison.

Peter put his elbows on the table and lent in. The Lost Boys mimicked him.

‘I am going back below and I’m going to raise the Ticktock.’

His animatronic companions ooh’ed then fell silent, the cicada song of the night punctuated by the whir and knocks from their steaming bellies.

It was Slightly who spoke up. ‘What’s the Ticktock?’

‘What’s the Ticktock?’ Peter leapt onto his seat. ‘What’s the Ticktock?’ He stepped onto the table, narrowly missing his bowl of fruit mush and the Lost Boys’ flagons of oil and platefuls of grease. ‘Only the bringer of destruction. It is the hand of God, the great leveller.’ He knocked a fist off his breastbone. ‘It was my mother, Wendy Darling, who told me of its power. ‘Be careful, son, the Ticktock is not a toy. It likes to buck and spit.’’

‘But you’ll tame it, won’t you, Peter?’ Tootles showed his metal tooth pegs.

‘Naturally. First though, I’ve got to commander the thing from the deep.’ Peter danced up and down the table, upsetting a jug of rainwater and splashing through it as if he was jumping in puddles at the park. ‘I do so love to go a-hunting!’ he cried.

‘Can we come too?’ piped up the twin tinies.

‘Only I.’ Peter puffed out his chest. ‘This quest requires cunning and lashings of cleverness. Besides. . .’ He dropped to his haunches and ladled a mouthful of stew into his mouth. ‘I’m the only one who knows how to swim with the Mermaid,’ he said thickly.

 

Later, when the Lost Boys had completed their chores and joined in Peter’s rousing rendition of Jolly Rain Tar; after which he had instructed them to stoke their boilers, wind innards and sup enough water to tide them over until the morning – then companions and master had gone their separate ways. The Lost Boys took up patrol duty on the tree house’s vined balcony while Peter climbed onto his parents’ reed-stuffed mattress, beneath a canopy of mosquito netting. Besides the bed was the gramacorda which his father had used to archive his discoveries. A few times, his mother had thought it amusing to speak into the horn and record the bedtime stories she told Peter onto one of the foil scrolls. While the heat had warped the greater part of his father’s recordings, three of his mother’s tales still played. That night, Peter selected her rendition of The Tin Soldier. Lying back on the bed, he had let his mother’s spirited narration lull him to sleep.

He was woken once during the night by the sound of footfall on the ground below. Peter imagined he heard a chilling, all too familiar grunting, but sleep overtook him again.

 

The sun was high in the sky when Peter awoke. While the Lost Boys breakfasted on their oil and grease, their creator tucked into spiced fish baked in banana leaves. Soon the conversation turned to the night watch. The Lost Boys denied any sign of intruders. Peter remained haunted by the conviction they were wrong.

‘Rogues have curdled my dreams long enough.’ Peter fastened his utility belt at his waist and slammed his hat down on his head. ‘Time to fetch up the Ticktock.’ He knocked a hand off his brow in salute. ‘See you later, alligators.’

Half an hour later, and having battled his way through the mosquito infested reeds, Peter arrived on the north shore. The sand was toasty between his toes. Waves foamed at the shoreline. The clear blue ocean stretched away to tiny islands known as the Four Friers. Two large rocks ‘kissed’ a little way out to his left. His mother’s workshop burrowed into the cliff to his right.

At the entrance, Peter cocked his head and leant in, drinking from the fresh water, which streamed down the rock. He stepped inside the workshop, blinded by the sudden transition from brilliant daylight to shadow. It was dry inside – precisely the reason his mother had selected the cave – and battened with wooden shelving. Peter lit oil-filled dips in the rock. The makeshift sconces flickered whenever he walked by, causing his shadow to dance over the walls seemingly of its own accord.

Numerous engineering supplies had gone down with his parents’ ship, but the workshop was still well stocked. Several shelves were dedicated to trays of nuts, bolts, screws and nails. Giant bobbins were wound with rubber pipe while tinier versions held various gauges of copper wire. Two workbenches stood on stilts on the uneven surface; one was stained with oil, the other with blood. Tools hung off nails between the shelves – hammers, bow saws, hand drills, chisels, scalpels, vices and tourniquets. One basket held clean bandaging, the other soiled.

Standing in his workshop surrounded by the tools of his labour, Peter was glad he had come alone. As much as he enjoyed his elated status among the Lost Boys, there was a tendency for their restricted audio to grate. More than anything he longed for the stimuli of sentient conversation. But his efforts to create companions had birthed all manner of dark breed among the Rogues, he reminded himself, gaze lingering on the bloodstained bench. One of them worse than all the rest; Hookie, the ape-man. Had Wendy Darling known that, in introducing new animal species to the island, she would provide her son with the raw materials to investigate and reinterpret life, she might just have tipped her caged specimens overboard on route and drowned the lot. Instead she was the enabler for Peter’s experiments, having left behind science books, engineering diagrams, pencilled notes and a veritable operating theatre.

‘Much good it does me!’ Peter protested out loud.

Not that he had any intention of moping around and feeling sorry for himself, Oh no, Hookie and crew had played their final trick on him. It was time to deal with the Rogues like any other group of wayward children.

A long tarpaulin-covered object occupied the far end of the cave. Peter pulled off the cover. The Mermaid’s polished wood shone in the greasy lamplight.

 

Pitched between the perfection of motherhood and the gutsiness of a Rogue, Wendy Darling had always demonstrated a soft spot for the underdog. In engineering terms, her pet favourite was an untutored Catalonian inventor called Narois Monturiol I Estarrol. To the young Peter, his mother’s daytime stories were as engaging as her bedtime stories were soporific.

‘Imagine it, Peter,’ she would say, a glint of passion in her eye. ‘While his competitors were busy developing submarines for military purposes, Monturiol was a communist, a revolutionary, a utopian. He saw his machine as a way of improving the lives of poor coral divers. Here, Peter.’ She would lay the open book before him and stab a finger grubby with oil at the illustrations. ‘Such a beautiful design. A wooden submarine supported by olive wood batons and lined with copper. Why copper?’ She would shoot the question at him like a bullet.

‘For structural support?’

‘No, Peter, no. To stop shipworms from eating the hull.’

Even as an intensely intelligent child, Peter had been haunted by images of giant worms chomping down on the wooden submarine. And while he was nonchalant about Monturiol’s morality, he did appreciate the inventor’s design ethic and had proceeded to apply it to a solo submersible he nicknamed the Mermaid.

A pair of polished wooden sleds allowed him to push the Mermaid out of the cave and through the sand to the water’s edge. He paused for breath and mopped his forehead with a forearm. Seeing it in the sunlight, he was reminded just how perfect a machine the Mermaid really was. The ‘head’ was a wood-staved cabin with a broad strip of glass tied around its middle like a ribbon. This cabin housed the controls and a driver’s seat, which revolved to allow for a 360-degree view through the glass. The boiler was built into the torpedo-shaped ‘body’ and heated via a chemical furnace; the compounds potassium chlorate, zinc and magnesium dioxide were from his mother’s dry store, and while their combination produced enough power to heat the boiler, it had the added bonus of generating oxygen to supplement the supply in the cabin. The true magic, though, was in the Mermaid’s tail – five feet long, covered in wooden scales, and tapering to a brass-plated rudder.

Pushing the Mermaid offshore, Peter held his breath and ducked under the water. He swam beneath the submersible and emerged in a small moon pool to the rear of the cabin. Securing himself in the driver seat, he twisted a stopcock to flood the boiler and began to work his way through the operative checklist.

 

It was the 28th of February 1893 when the storm hit. Peter’s family had been living on the island for eight months, and while numerable supplies had been brought ashore, some larger items were stored in the traditional ‘dhow’ boat moored offshore. As Peter had learnt since, December to March saw violent cyclones bombard the island and its neighbours, the usual tropical serenity giving way to torrential rain and clockwise circling winds. The dhow was well made, used to carrying heavy loads up and down the East African coast. But even with its lateen sail lowered, the dhow could never have weathered that assault. Sometime between dusk and dawn, the ship tore loose of its anchor, drifted and sank near the second Freir. His parents had called it the devil’s work. Peter had come to view the shipwreck as a treasure trove.

The water was fantastically clear as the Mermaid dipped below the surface. Peter moved the weight along the line by his right shoulder, adjusting the angle of the Mermaid’s descent. The smooth action of the tail drove the submersible forward at a steady rate of four knots. All around him, shoals of fish danced, their brilliant colours transforming the ocean into a fairyland. Corals burgeoned below like giant fleshy roses. A solitary turtle drifted by, buoyed on an invisible current. Once the creature stirred the water with its front flippers then drifted once more – the nonchalant old man of the sea.

Lying besides a great crease of volcanic rock, the dhow’s sharply curved keel reminded Peter of one half of an eel’s open jaw and he felt the jolt of discomfort he always did at the sight. The feeling gave way to excitement; Peter wanted to fly out among the wreck and peel strips off it for no other reason than it might please him. The rational side of him argued that the wreck was best preserved for future foraging.

One thing he did intend to secure that day was the Ticktock. His mother’s ledger listed it under ‘Weaponry/24 pounds of copper.’ He knew the Ticktock had been stored in a large chest with a skull and crossbones etched on top – his mother’s idea of a joke, given the Ticktock’s practical application. That box now lay at the bottom of the ocean, wedged between the crease of rock and the ribs of the dhow. Up until that moment, he’d had no need for such an item, but Hookie and the rest of the Rogues had become a damnable pest. They needed swatting like sand flies.

The boiler to the rear of the cabin mumbled soothingly. It was hot inside the Mermaid but Peter didn’t mind. Yes, he risked drowning or being baked alive in his handmade submersible, but he’d always entertained the idea that to die would be an awfully big adventure! He pulled on a leather strap above his head to regulate the heat off the boiler and stabilise the craft. A small adjustment to the sliding counterweight and the submersible hovered alongside the large chest.

‘Peter Pandora. You possess the cunning of a crow and you are as wise as the stars,’ his father used to say.

Peter sucked his bottom lip. ‘Indeed I am, father,’ he whispered. Scooting his seat forward on a greased wooden rail, he took hold of a pair of iron handgrips. His fingers pressed down on ten sprung-levered valves. ‘Arms’ unlocked on the front of the cabin; each metal limb was tipped with a grabber. Peter manipulated the handgrip valves to open and close the grabbers and secured a hold on the handle of the chest nearest the curl of rock; the other handle was trapped beneath the boat’s mast. And while the arms siphoned off power from the boiler, magnifying his strength three fold, he still got slick with sweat as he tried and failed to pull the chest free.

‘Move, you bloody thing!’ he cried, irritated at the situation but pleased with his use of the swear word. The chest stayed wedged beneath the mast and he had to break off trying to move it and catch his breath. Water pressed all around, muffling the sounds of the boiler and the churn of the engine.

Peter stretched out his fingers and was about to work the handgrips again when something large crashed into the cabin’s exterior wall. He spun around in his chair, staring out the window strip. Legs disappeared from his eye line, the soles of the feet like black leather. Peter whipped his head the other way and caught a glimpse of horns, thighs like fat hams, and a snout. When the Mermaid began to rock, water lapping at the moon pool and threatening to flood the cabin, Peter knew he had attracted company – and not that of a whale shark or a mantra ray. The hands rocking his craft were strong and animaltronic, with claws that scraped the hull.

‘Rogues.’ Peter bared his teeth gleefully. ‘You’re no match for Peter Pandora!’ he cried, kicking at the sides of the cabin to add his beat to theirs. He concentrated on the handgrips and tried again for the trapped handle. Bodies hurled themselves against the submersible. Peter was grateful to have a grip on one trunk handle since it helped anchor the Mermaid.

‘Wild things!’ he called out to the creatures pestering him. ‘To catch a fellow unaware. But that’s the nature of Rogues, isn’t it?’

Faces appeared at the glass. Part mechanical, part animal, the Rogues stared in with colourful glass eyes, which reminded Peter of Christmas baubles. One Rogue had goat horns grafted onto his iron-plate skull. He butted the glass and blew bubbles out his ear canals.

‘All bluster and no backbone’ Peter stuck out his tongue. By way of reply, one of the Rogue crew tried to come up through the moon pool; Peter stamped on the creature’s skullcap. It sank down and swam away, air escaping from steam-release vents at its knee joints.

He’d scared one off. The rest appeared perfectly happy to continue rocking the submersible. Meanwhile, a dark shape was materialising through the dust cloud kicked up by the Rogues. The figure swam with broad, confident strokes, the scythes that served for hands sweeping out in glittering arcs.

Peter slammed one hand forward, driving the corresponding grabber hard at the mast, splintering the rotten wood. Hookie drew closer at speed, the sweep of those long, muscular arms matched by the frog-like pump of his huge legs. Underwater, Hookie’s fur was dark and sleek. His silver teeth shone.

At last, Peter got a lock on the other handle and lent back in his chair, pulling the handgrips towards him. Secured in the Mermaid’s arms, the chest lifted off the ocean floor. Peter pressed a foot pedal to lock the arms in place then released the handgrips. Adjusting the weight counterpoint to allow for the burden, he raked a hand across the bank of switches to release the sand ballast in the storage cylinders and unleash a fresh head of steam to drive the engine. He engaged the throttle and powered up, Rogues tumbling aside in the submersible’s slipstream. All but one. Hookie maintained his hold on the craft. Buffered by the pull of the water, he brought his great muzzle to the glass and stared in before letting go, seemingly of his own accord. The last thing Peter saw as the Mermaid ascended was Hookie dropping away into the darkness.

 

‘You must stay with us now. My wife will care for you well. We are a good family and, together with the rest of the village, we will feed and clothe you.’ The islanders’ representative had appeared kindly and concerned. He’d smiled and clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Seven years old, Peter had surveyed the horseshoe of islanders. Bella’s hand had gripped his – not because she was scared of the Malagasy with their open faces and choppy way of talking but because, even at three and a half years old, she’d known he wouldn’t stay.

Over the years, Peter hiked to the south side of the island on occasion. Hidden at the forest’s edge, he spied on the villagers and his sister. The malady Bella had been born with was as much a gift as a trial and one that suggested she was only capable of registering one emotion at a time. On occasion, she would kick and wail in blinding rage. But there were also calmer moments when she would concoct detailed puzzles from the rows of shells she painstakingly arranged. Sometimes her laughter was high and tinkling. Sometimes she sat and stared out at the sea for hours, as if her mind had flown far away. Then Peter would see one of Bella’s Malagasy brothers come and take her hand and sit with her awhile. Perhaps her new family thought her enchanted. Peter was pleased that Bella was happy. He was also sick at heart and resentful.

For the most part, Peter had been left to his own devices on the north side of the island. He didn’t interfere with the fishing trips or beach BBQs or Famadihanna ceremonies where the Malagasy would exhume the remains of their ancestors, wrap them in silk and entomb the bones once more. In return, the Malagasy left him to play puppet-master with his band of loyal Lost Boys and itinerant Rogues – the later steering clear of the islanders ever since one inquisitive specimen had been speared in the chest like a giant turtle.

There was one exception to the rule though. Two days after his underwater expedition, Peter was holed up in his workshop with the Ticktock when he caught a glimpse of movement at the mouth of the cave.

‘Tigermaw. I can see you.’ He waited, staring out from the gloom. All he heard was the noise of the ocean.

Satisfied that his mind was playing tricks, Peter gave his attention back to the Ticktock. Dipping a small scrubbing brush into a coconut shell containing a solution of salt and vinegar, he set to work removing the patina from the brass.

A stone struck him on his left temple.

‘Damnation!’ His eyes flashed aside. This time he saw feathers of afro hair poking up from a crop of rocks at the cave’s entrance.

‘Go away before the Rogues get you, girl!’ he called, slamming down the scrubbing brush.

As quick as Peter liked to think he was, his reactions didn’t compare to Tigermaw’s. She fired off two more stones from her slingshot. One struck Peter’s thigh. The other nicked his ear.

‘Enough, Tigermaw! Don’t start what you can’t finish.’ Using a ruler as a makeshift catapult, he sent two slugs of nails towards the rocks. Apparently the scattergun approach worked. He heard a gasp.

‘Peter Pandora, you are a sorcerer. You deserve a hundred stones upon your head,’ came the cry from the rocks.

‘And you are slow brained, and a savage to boot!’

‘What are you cooking up today, evil boy?’ demanded Tigermaw, standing up suddenly and striding inside the cave. She approached his workbench, hands on hips, lemur-large eyes blinking as they adjusted to the dark. How fantastically fearsome she looked, thought Peter. Her face painted with white swirls. Her afro hair spread high and wide like wings. The shift she wore was a faded rose pattern. Her feet were bare.

Tigermaw pointed at the copper barrel of the Ticktock. ‘Will that be a tail or a nose?’

‘Neither. It is a method of upping the stakes against the Rogues.’

‘Ah, so it is a weapon.’ Tigermaw glared, daring Peter to deny it.

‘It is the weapon, savage girl. I’m going to fill those Rogues with so much lead they won’t have brains intact to bother my Lost Boys and me ever again.’

‘By Rogues you mean the demons you yourself conjured? They are mischief-makers, but nothing more serious than children in need of their father’s affection. But instead you cast them out as failed experiments.’

Tigermaw leant in close. Peter felt her breath on his lips. It made them tingle.

‘Would you have us behave the same with your sister, Bella?’ She stabbed a finger up at the roof of the cave. ‘Bella is angry with her maker for taking away her parents, making you a stranger, and giving her an unusual nature. Should she be destroyed too?’

Peter folded his arms across his chest. ‘What do you know about my inventions? You have no more right to apportion feelings to a Rogue than to a Jackfruit. As for Bella, she is a free spirit who must be allowed to fly. Your people should not try to contain her, else she might just rise up and bite you on the nose.’

‘Ah, Bella is a good soul,’ said Tigermaw with a dismissive flick of a hand. ‘The only bad around here is a little boy who plays with flesh and machinery over choosing a normal life living alongside his sister.’ The girl’s big black eyes softened. ‘My family will still take you in, Peter. You can have a home.’

‘And see my life drain away until I am old and wrinkled, just another bag of bones for your people to cherish. No thanks. I’d rather stay here with my Lost Boys.’

Tigermaw sighed; to Peter, it was a sign of submission and he put his nose in the air.

‘And what about the Rogues?’ It was Tigermaw’s turn to cross her arms. Under the lamplight, her white war paint was luminescent.

Peter picked up the scrubbing brush and attacked the Ticktock’s patina again. ‘I’ll kiss each and every one goodnight with this then fashion myself a grandfather clock from their remains.’

Tigermaw stared at him, and for a moment Peter saw himself through her eyes as the true monster. He started scrubbing again. When he next looked up, the girl had gone.

 

Lying in bed listening to his mother’s bedtime stories on the gramacorda, Peter would occasionally feel the pinch of loneliness. At such times he would question the ethics of his companion machines. Life was his to give or take at the flick of a switch or the turn of a key. But where he had really strayed from the moral path was in his creation of the Rogues – in particular, Hookie. Most Rogues owed their origin to the livestock his parents had introduced to the island – pigs, goats, sheep. Hookie, though, was a rangy old orangutan his mother had rescued from a street performer in Borneo. Shot through with arthritis and pining for Wendy, Peter had decided to put the creature out of its misery. But had the family pet deserved vivisection and animaltronic rebirth? Had any of those poor dumb animals wanted the gifts he had bestowed – intelligence, conscious thought, and all the suffering that came with an awareness of one’s own mortality.

That these moments of lucidity were rare testified to Peter’s absolute self-belief. Secure in his divine right to mix, mess and mesh, he’d created monsters. Now it was his choice to destroy them.

Evening settled around the circumference of the camp. Tootles had done an excellent job of collecting dry wood. The fire pit roared, spitting sparks like orange shooting stars. Slightly had unfastened a little at the neck again. He walked to and fro, muttering, ‘Midnight feast, he says. Go cook it up, he says. What from, say I? Fairy dust?’

In spite of his limited larder, Slightly had magicked up a decent spread of deep fried hissing cockroach with its greasy chicken taste, vegetable and coconut curry, a platter of bright orange jackfruit pieces – resembling dragon scales laid out on a knight’s shield – spiced rice, and crab claws.

In lieu of a table, Peter had instructed the Lost Boys to bring up a bench from the workshop. No one had bothered to clean it so they ate amongst sawdust and iron fillings.

The moon was fantastic – pocked and shimmering like a cherished half a crown. Everyone tucked into the feast, Peter crunching up cockroaches and greasing his chin with crab juices; the Lost Boys taking great mouthfuls, swilling the useless matter around their jaws and disgorging the lot into personal spittoons. Peter didn’t mind. He had his feast. Now all he needed were a few extra guests.

Ten more minutes passed. The Lost Boys were in danger of mauling all the food.

‘Leave some to attract the blighters,’ he shouted. His mechanical companions froze mid-grab. They brought their arms back down slowly and fell silent.

‘They should be here by now.’ Peter bit his bottom lip, scowled and forced himself to drop the childish expression. ‘Fetch the gramacorda, Curly, and don’t get your hair stuck in it this time when you wind it. Twin things, bring the music scrolls.’ He crossed his arms and stared out at the velvet dark. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

Before long, Curly and the twin tinies descended from the tree house on the elevator platform. Curly set the gramacorda down on one end of the workbench. Each twin carried a number of cylinders.

‘What song shall we have?’ demanded Peter. ‘Whist the Bogey Man? Jolly Little Polly On A Tin Gee Gee?’

‘Daisy Day!’ cried Tootles, patting his tin-pot belly contently.

Peter ignored him. ‘Maple Leaf Rag, it is.’

Curly saluted at the order. Locating the right cylinder, he slid out the foil sheet, fed it in then cranked the stylus into place. As he worked the handle, his wire hair bobbing, he became just another extension of the machine.

The ragtime tune plinked and plonked, cutting through the peace of the forest like swords through reeds. Peter tapped his feet to the music while watching the peculiar lurching dance of the twin tinies in the centre of the clearing. They made for pleasant little morsels of bait, he decided, his eyes sharp and his mouth tight. Curly sent the crank round and round, keeping up the tempo. Tibs forgot his sentry duty and belched steam from his mouth as he tried to recreate the musical notes. Only Tootles remained seated, no doubt eyeing up the last dregs in the oil can.

Peter strained to listen past the music and the mechanical orchestra. Was that the drag of scythes across tree trunks? There was no wind but something whistled out among the reeds.

‘Hush now, Curly.’ He glared at the Lost Boy who let go of the crank and steeped away from the gramacorda as if it was nothing to do with him whatsoever. The rest of the gang fell still and the silence pressed in.

Yes, there it was – the distinctive yo-ho-ho of Rogues’ pistons and the swish of their footfall. They came through the reeds, fifteen not-quite-anythings – his animalisations. Bred on steel skeletons with nerves of copper wire and clinking steam-driven insides, the Rogues were the monsters to his Frankenstein.

Stepping out from the reeds, the creatures spaced themselves out around the edges of the clearing. Each carried a makeshift weapon of a long wooden spike or a rock hammer. They showed their silver teeth and breathed heavily.

Lastly came Hookie, two pig Rogues moving aside to make way for him. The Lost Boys seemed to understand the point of the feast – that big shiny homing beacon – and stood up straight, chests plumped. Peter had not built it in them to know fear -which was not to suggest either the Lost Boys or the Rogues had turned out as pliable as he might have imagined. This was especially true in Hookie’s case.

‘Peter Pandora.’ The ape-man spoke slowly, feeling the weight of each syllable. His tremendous, muscular shoulders were matted in orange hair. His metal breastplate reflected in the moonlight. ‘What a wonderful feast. And music too. Are you holding a party for us?’

‘A party for Rogues? What a notion! No, Hookie, I am throwing you a wake,’ hissed Peter.

Hookie’s long arms swung by his sides. The huge scythes serving as hands glinted.

‘In which case, I must apologise, for I have made the intolerable faux pas of attending my own wake while still alive. Which, I have to say, seems an idea worth prompting. After all, there ain’t a man alive who wouldn’t risk a breech of etiquette under those circumstances.’

‘Except you aren’t a man, are you Hookie. So how could you know?’

‘Ah, that old chestnut. So you can give an old ape a voice to speak but refuse him humanity on the grounds his nose is a little too bulbous.’ Hookie gestured to his hairless grey face. ‘Or his hands a little too extraordinary.’ He held up his scythes.

‘You gave me a headache,’ said Slightly, lunging forward. He stopped short of the ape-man, his motoring whirring inside his chest.

‘I did? At least your master was good enough to put you back together again. I wonder if he would do me the same kindness.’ Hookie’s seven-foot frame towered over Slightly’s four. Peter had always liked to experiment with proportions.

‘Poor Lost Boy. A windup doll without a soul.’

‘Don’t go claiming a soul now, Hookie. You are an animal with a metal spine at best.’

Peter was pleased not to flinch when Hookie knocked Slightly aside and ran at him, one scythe stopping an inch short of his throat.

‘If that is all I am, it is of your making. I have begged to continue my education under your tutorage. But no, the second I show a mite of interest in your precious books, you banish me and my kind from the only home we’ve ever known.’ The sickle hand shook slightly. ‘Well, if you don’t mind awfully, the Rogues and I are inclined to move back in and boot you and your Puffing Billies out.’

‘You can try, Hookie.’ Peter stepped back and grabbed hold of the ropes, activating the platform winch. He rose rapidly towards the tree house, leaving the ape-man behind. Looking out, he saw Hookie beat his scythes against his breastplate and let out a deep bellow. Peter responded in kind, beating his chest with his fists. It was invitation enough for the Rogues to attack. Two pigs took on Nibs and Slightly, their spears clattering off the Lost Boys’ chest plates. Not that Rogues were discouraged that easily. They drove the spears at Slightly’s skull and Nibs’ tessellated arm panels. Slightly lost his head. Nibs shed scales, exposing his inner workings.

The twin tinies fared better against the reanimated goats. Forming tight little balls, the twins propelled themselves at the goats’ legs. Horns battered off them, ineffectual against the rudder feet and steel bellies. While Tootles belly-flopped the sheep, Curly added his muscle to the assault, spiking the Rogues with his wiry hair and pulling their tails.

‘Ah, my fine men. Show no mercy to the Rogues!’ Peter smiled. It felt phenomenally good to witness the carnage below. He was a god ruling over a universe of his own making.

‘Do we honour you with our split guts and flesh wounds?’ Hookie called up from the base of the largest coconut tree supporting the tree house. Unlike the rest of Peter’s creations with their colourful glass orbs, Hookie retained the deep brown eyes of the orangutan. Peter felt a pang of longing for the companionship of the wise old ape he had murdered.

‘You are to leave the island and swim far far away,’ he told Hookie. ‘No more night raids, no more crying at the moon, no more effort to be what you are not.’

‘And what is that, Peter Pandora?’ Hookie drove the scythes into the trunk of the tree and began to inch his way up. ‘I am not to be intelligence, and yet you built me so. I am not to behave like an animal and yet you insist I refrain from bettering myself.’ The scythes scraped up and in at the trunk. Hookie’s grey muzzle moved closer.

‘You are missing the point of servitude,’ spat Peter. ‘You want to question and learn and exceed your master.’ He danced off to the back of the platform and ripped down the tarpaulin. The sight of the Ticktock set him aglow. With its copper barrel restored and polished up, the steam-canon looked like a piece of the sun. One end was enclosed in a chemical furnace chamber, the other loaded with gunshot.

Peter stood behind the canon, hand going to the firing valve just as the first of Hookie’s great claws appeared over the platform’s edge. The ape-man’s shoulders rippled with muscle mass as he hauled himself up and got to his feet.

Hookie’s deep brown eyes settled on the Ticktock, which clicked over in anticipation of being discharged.

‘I ask for books and you give me bullets?’

Peter jutted his chin. ‘You should have towed the line, Hookie.’

‘And you should have left me an ignorant ape!’ Hookie lunged forward, scythes whirring. Peter tripped the firing valve; water gushed into the trigger chamber, evaporated in an instant and discharged the canon. A starburst of gunshot escaped the barrel. As the ape-man fell, the tip of one of his scythes nicked Peter’s cheek. He lay at his creator’s feet, blood escaping his flesh parts. His metal guts wheezed and spluttered.

Peter rolled the ape-man over to the platform’s edge. He rested a foot on the creature’s bloodstained breastplate.

‘Goodbye Hookie.’

He pushed the body overboard.

Seeing their captain defeated, the Rogues took flight into the forest. Peter didn’t mind. He could always pick them off another time. Below, his Lost Boys had suffered rather badly. Slightly’s head lay a foot or so from the rest of him, mouth flapping like a fish out of water. Tootles wobbled about on one spot, belly skewered by a spear. Nibs had split open again, wires and cabling erupting from his chest plate. Curly appeared to have been scalped. Only the twin tinies looked well preserved as they circled the clearing, fists raised, rudder feet flapping.

Peter put his hands on his hips. He nodded in satisfaction. Victory was his. Letting his head fall back, he opened his throat and crowed.

 

It took Peter three days to repair his Lost Boys. Rather than drag their hefty machinery down to his workshop, he chose to bring his tools to the clearing where he worked beneath the glare of the sun and well into the night. He constructed a canopy from palm leaves, which he strung together. In the evenings when the temperature was still intense, he stacked the fire pit high, more for company than any other purpose. Watching the flames, he would fancy he caught the gleam of eyes out among the reeds. Sometimes he thought they belonged to animals gone Rogue. Other times, he believed they were bright black – Tigermaw’s. Once he thought he saw a glimpse of yellow hair and he called out Bella’s name urgently, like a lost sheep calling for its mother. When no answer came, he cursed his stupidity and returned to tinkering with his toys.

At last, his band of steam and clockwork men was put back together again. Slightly uttered those now immortal words, ‘I have a headache’, before stalking off to the platform and setting the winch in motion. Soon he was installed in the safety of his kitchen, putting Curly to good use as his commis. Tootles broke out into an idiotic monologue on the mating habits of lemurs and Peter was sorely tempted to smash him up again. Nibs and the twin tinies seemed unaware of any time lapse and spun round on the spot, fists wielded as if still engaged in brawling. Peter sent the three off into the forest to hunt, their clanging and hissing gradually receding until the night fell quiet again. Cicadas pulsed in the grasses. He could hear the ebb and flow of the ocean. It was all very beautiful, and all very dull. Not for the first time since the great ape had fallen, Peter found his gaze returning to Hookie. Flies had bothered the remains all day. The creature’s muzzle was mud grey, the jaw open, the protruding tongue still and mollusc-like.

Peter approached the body and gave it a firm prod with his toe. He crossed his arms and stared up at the blanket of stars overhead. For an instant, he felt the magnitude of his insignificance next to that heavenly expanse. Pointlessness threatened to crush him alive. He hated the thought and forced it aside. He needed more than the Lost Boys. He needed someone to truly show him the meaning of love and of hate.

His gaze returned to Hookie. Dare he attempt to reanimate the ape-man’s decomposing corpse? It struck him as a dark art but no more so than the acts of a twelve-year-old boy who creates living creatures out of flesh and metal. And didn’t all heroes need a foe to fight?

By the light of the moon over a far away island, Peter Pandora went off to fetch his tools.