Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (11 page)

“Of course you know the situation best, my Belle. But I have reasons for wanting to keep the Wendy creature alive. Might you be satisfied if I simply… spirited her away from Pan?” With an air of nonchalance, he reached out and relieved her of the leaf, which had drifted onto the pillow. He held it up and looked at her sideways. “Saving your lovely little hands from any dirty work, as it were.”

Tink’s curious eyes peered at him from over the thimble.

“I might keep her myself, you see. As it happens, I have need of a storyteller. Dear Mr. Smee,” he sent a look to Smee, who brought forth another jug, “has a weakness for love stories.”

Furiously, Tinker Bell sputtered into her nectar.

Hook frowned. “Oh, no, don’t tell me. Knights and ladies? Boys and pirates? No fairy tales?” He topped off her drink. “We’ll remedy that. Very soon, we will each write our own happy ending, eh?”

Unnoticed, the foxglove fluttered to the floor. As Hook had foreseen, the fairy, wise to danger in the wood, was ignorant of this darker, more sophisticated forest. It flowered with kindness, flattery, luxury; it burgeoned with gratification. She was reveling in it. So was Hook. His smile was genuine now as he guided her down his path.

“Belle.”

Unsteady, she perched atop her pillow.

“Tell me, my love, where might I find this Wendy, of a summer’s afternoon. Alone?”

Giving a little hiccough, she floated up a few inches, then descended.

“She has a special place of her own, no doubt. All girls do. Perhaps… in the forest?”

Tink slowly indicated the affirmative. She didn’t want to move her head too fast.

“Near any particular landmark? Say, water?”

Another nod.

“A stream?”

A lopsided smile. Her hand wiped a horizontal circle.

“In a clearing. Is there a cave or a structure of some kind, for shelter?”

Another levitating gasp.

An edge in his voice. “A way to mark it?”

Dizzily, Tinker Bell thought a moment, then puffed on an imaginary pipe. Her finger drew a curlicue above the bowl.

“Ah.” His voice softened. “Smoke. Excellent.”

She pointed to his eyes.

“I don’t follow.…”

Pointing out the window, she indicated the sky. He diverted his gaze toward the glass, then returned it to her face.

“Blue smoke, like the sky. But how will I know when to find her there, by herself?”

Tinker Bell looked down.

“Belle?”

In an attempt at determination, she shook her head— then regretted it as the room reeled.

“Some mystery, love?”

Fighting the remains of her will, her eyes looked up.

“Ah, let me take over your care for you. A matter of such proportions, for one so petite!”

Absently, she stroked her velvet. Teardrops began to dampen it.

“You mustn’t waste another tear on him. I won’t allow it!”

She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

“Favor me, and I will be your champion. I will rid your kingdom of this heartbreak.” He leaned closer and gazed upon her, tenderly. “When can I find her, in her secret place, alone?”

Tinker Bell hung her head.

“No.… No, I don’t believe it! You surely cannot mean she has persuaded Pan to share this secret place with her— already?”

Tinker Bell’s head swung up and she swayed, blinking for a moment, two moments. Her brow wrinkled and she studied Hook’s face. Little by little her features relaxed, and she lowered her head once more.

Shaking her shoulders, she released a spray of golden dust. It settled on the velvet, glittering. She gathered a handful and blew on it so gently not a particle stirred. A thrilling, tingling sensation spread throughout her body, and she responded to it, accepting a gradual smile. Her rare blue wings grew luminous, like the light of the full moon through stained glass.

Hook raised his eyebrows and slid his gaze toward Smee. They exchanged a deep look. “Do you mean, my darling Belle, that if I breathe upon your dust, I may summon you?”

Tink reclined on her cushion, nodding.

Hook continued to stare at her as he drew the vial from his pocket. When he looked down, it too, glowed, transmuted from gold to a vibrant, iridescent blue.

Hook hardly drew breath. “And you, in turn, can summon me?”

A tiny tinkle sounded the answer.

“And if I should call upon you, you might be so generous as to grant me the honor of… doing as I ask?”

Helplessly, her shoulders rose.

“…Whatever I ask?”

She didn’t move. She looked.

He pressed the vial to his breast. “Tinker Belle. You are a jewel. My own Jewel, far richer than any treasure I have yet discovered.”

Her smiling eyes drooped sleepily. She heard the newly-familiar chink of crystal on wood.

And then Mr. Smee looked in awe upon his captain. In all his years of service, he had never admired James Hook more than at this moment. Truly, the man was a master. For with his eyes half closed and a smile that could melt gold, he bent lovingly over the fairy, and with one finger of one good hand, Captain James Hook did what no man, save himself, would ever do again.

He stroked her peacock wings.

“Just one more, insignificant question, before you rest, dear Jewel. Exactly what other properties does your… marvelous fairy dust possess?”

Chapter 11

Growing Pains

On a night of a near-full moon, the village lay at rest. Nudged by silent paddles, the river waters stroked their pebbly banks, and then subsided. When the tree frogs ceased their chirring, the old woman stirred uneasily. As she started to rise, her granddaughter hastened to her side, but the woman shook her head. Colorless as the moon, her braids barely moved.

“No, child. Strike the drum and run to gather the children. Boots are upon us.”

The black eyes that watched her widened, and then the girl whirled to obey. Even as she threw open the flap and ran light-footed from her grandmother’s tepee, the silence of imminent danger afflicted the camp. The old woman listened for the tom-tom, and when the shouts and screams erupted, she straightened her spine. With bony fingers, she drew her blanket closer to her shoulders. By the time the torch plunged through her doorway, her cloudy eyes were clear enough to see her enemies, and her back stiff enough to greet them with a proud indifference.

A swarthy seaman with large golden earrings followed the torch, poking his head under the flap and smiling at her with his even white teeth. He strode into her home, cast a greedy glance around, and finding no gold or silver, tossed his head back and laughed. His brown boots stepped near to the Old One, right on the skins of her pallet, and with the tip of his cutlass, he pointed to the open doorway.

“It is time to go, old woman.” The red light of embers smoldered on his bracelets, turning them a bloody orange. He spoke with a strange accent, unlike the other white men’s, and shrugged a set of muscular shoulders swathed in an embroidered shirt. “Do as you are told. I should not like to harm such a one, who reminds me of my own tribe’s wisewomen.”

It was the wailing and the gunfire that moved her to rise, but still she delayed, resolved to speak her words. “You will not find what you seek here. Tell your chief. His men may plunder their riches, but his own treasure lies elsewhere.”

“Old One. He already knows this.” In an incongruous gesture of chivalry, the pirate tucked his sword at his side and offered his hand. Through the open tepee flap, firelight illuminated the scene outside. The woman glimpsed her warrior son resisting the grip of an ebony-skinned giant bearing an ax in his belt. Refusing the pirate’s assistance, the woman rose, gathering her robes and leaning on her staff. As the young girls shrieked and the babies cried, her son, like all the others, struggled with his captor.

The old woman’s nostrils smelled the bite of gunpowder. Hastening into the flaring light, she felt the slap of cool air on her cheeks. Indifference grew more difficult to feign as flames tasted the sacred wood of the totem pole. Standing in the midst of strangeness, she wrapped her fingers around the familiar roughness of her staff. All about her, the dogs barked and the men fought. Trees bled from gunshot wounds, oozing sap.

Glancing toward the river, the woman spied the camp scouts lying bound next to the canoes, inert and senseless. A row of boats lined the water’s edge, bobbing in the river’s gentle eddy. Closer to hand, black-haired women knelt to shelter their children in their arms, their mouths open in supplication. When the braves who encircled their families finally threw down their tomahawks, the Old One saw him.

The Black Chief. The tall one, with his glittering earring and the sleek lion’s mane flowing from his scalp. He emerged from shadow, materializing like a malignant spirit. Standing in the ring of crackling firelight, he drew a white cloth from his sleeve, raised a foot to dust his boot, then flicked the cloth and retired it to a pocket. When he was satisfied that all eyes rested upon him, he flourished what should have been his right hand toward a man near the totem pole. The sailor balanced a bucket, and at his captain’s signal, he dashed its contents over the sacred carvings. Fire greeted water with a hissing scream that doused the most virulent of the flames. Only then did the Black Chief’s shiny boots saunter forward. He wore a sneer on his lips and his eagle’s claw dangled at his side. He hadn’t raised it against the People, but its message was clear. That claw would slash any who disobeyed its master.

At the mercy of his men, the People obeyed. Under European eyes and the light of a near-full moon, the Indians began their exodus.

And as she hobbled toward the children to lay her calm, cool hands upon them, the Old One looked to the moon, and wondered.

Did it cast its light upon Rowan, or was he confined in the shadows?

* * *

“They’re gone! They’re gone!” Nibs came sliding down the hollow tree to land on his feet in the hideout. Before Wendy could ask the question, Peter did.

“Who’s gone?”

“The pirates! I saw them weigh anchor and drop sails. The
Jolly Roger
is headed out to sea!” With his eyes still full of the sight, he sighed. “She’s a beautiful bird.” Nibs had been performing his morning lookout duty, another of Wendy’s, now Peter’s, ideas.

Peter crowed, then he shouted, “The pirates have set sail!”

More relieved than anyone, Wendy exulted, her ready smile sparkling. The boys bounced and yelled around them. When at last the tumult subsided, Wendy stopped to think. “I wonder what made them go?”

Peter got a shrewd look. “Nibs, was there any sign of the croc?”

“No, Peter, but I did see Tink at last.”

“Tink? Where?” Peter was aware that Tinker Bell had been absent for a bit. Wendy was aware that Tinker Bell had been absent for exactly six days and seven nights, unless Time was misbehaving again, which no doubt it was, but at least since the afternoon of the hunt. Tink had not slept in the bed within her niche, nor was any trace of dust to be found in or near the hideout, nor indeed, on Peter, who had remained unaware even of that fact until the nightlight ran short of fuel and dimmed.

Nibs said, “I forget exactly where she was, but she didn’t look herself.”

By now Wendy was concerned about the fairy. Tink was part of the family, after all. “Nibs, please. Think where you saw her and tell us what you mean.”

Nibs traced a finger in the air as he recalled his reconnaissance route. “I flew over the Island, keeping high, then I skirted the Lagoon and came round the far side, over the mountains and on to the Indian camp— the whole tribe was canoeing up the river— then I finally got over to Neverbay. That’s when I saw the ship. I watched the pirates for a while and then came straight home to tell you about it, and— That’s where I saw her! She was flying kind of cockeyed around Wendy’s house.”

Peter relaxed. “I’ll go look for her after breakfast. You say the Indians have broken camp?”

“Looks like they’re moving to the lodge up the mountain.”

Peter’s crow resounded again, and he punched the air. “Then today’s the day! We’ll raid their camp!” The children whooped and pranced until Wendy spied earth trickling from the ceiling. They were all excited to have a carefree day ahead. Everyone hurried through breakfast and rounded up supplies for their foray, slinging on quivers and sharpening blades.

John was no longer restricted to his bow and arrow. Peter had at last allowed him to fashion a knife from bone, and now John thrust it proudly into the sheath Wendy had stitched, and which he wore around his naked middle. Wendy worried about John, not because he wielded such a weapon, but because Peter had sanctioned it. Peter, too, must have seen that John was growing. If John was old enough for a knife now, how much time was left before he was too old? As much as Wendy hated to think about it, the knife was a signal that his time was approaching.

Michael’s, too. These days, Michael looked just like the older boys, in skins and leather. He certainly wasn’t the baby of the family any longer. The other boys didn’t advance at the same rate as the Darlings, perhaps because they’d lived their whole lives here and they were more accustomed to Peter’s ways. No radical adjustments in thinking were necessary for them. Still, now that Wendy was their mother, they were growing faster than ever before. Slightly had yielded another tooth to Peter’s pouch, and Tootles was becoming almost burly, redefining the meaning of his britches. Even the Twins were advancing, developing more sophisticated building skills, always seeking more complicated projects and crowding the hideout with wood and tools. They littered so much sawdust about the entrance above ground that they had designed a new round broom with which Wendy kept the tree shaft clear. Apparently Peter had been correct in his assessment, but wrong in his assumption; the children
had
needed a mother, yet her effect was not to keep them young, but to encourage their growth.

In spite of this shortcoming, Wendy, like any mother, took pride in her boys. All was well and progressing naturally with them— yet that very circumstance was the source of her fear. She watched Peter, anxious to gauge his disposition toward them. When should she speak? And what, really, could she say? Peter’s law against growing up was firm.