Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (2 page)

“Leave it to me. Nibs, take charge of the boys!” With a grim smile, Peter darted toward the forest to draw fire away from the others. He flew low, then lower, and the strings of ivy and the leaves he wore became one with those of the trees. He and his dagger shimmered into the forest.

Nibs, Curly, Slightly, the Twins, and Tootles heard trouble coming. Having hung below playing tag, they now stopped short to goggle up at the onrushing brothers. It was possible Peter’s boys possessed enough sense between them to avert disaster without his guidance. All three of the Darling children were counting on it.

“Boys, catch them!” Wendy was yet too far to help John and Michael, but as she streamed lower, her arms reached for them anyway.

Nibs was Peter’s best strategist. He took command as ordered. “Ahoy, lads, all together!” He signaled them closer, and the boys bunched themselves to form a motley flock. Wendy shut her eyes and winced, hoping. She counted the seconds until she heard the collective “Oof!” and knew at last the fall was broken.

“Thank goodness!” Wendy’s ready smile reappeared and she righted herself to float down, touching her garland. She laughed to see the tangle of boys. “Do hold still while I sort you all out.”

“Where’s Peter gone?” asked the shaggy, brown-eyed Twins, the only ones who still had breath in their lungs.

“Plundering booty from the enemy, of course.” Tootles recovered quickly, and his sturdy arms handed Michael to Wendy by the collar of the nightshirt. “I hope he’ll bring back weapons.”

“Aye,” Nibs agreed. Satisfied that his leadership had succeeded, he now considered that Peter, too, might need the boys’ assistance. A plan of attack was already forming in his mind. “And if he’s not back soon, we’ll go after him.”

John straightened his nightshirt in an effort to regain his composure. “Wendy, what do you think? Shall we follow Peter and see if he wants help?”

“No, John. He gave instructions to leave it to him. Peter will keep us safe from the Indians.”

“Wendy lady?” Curly’s freckled face looked thoughtful as he asked politely, “Are there Indians in the forests of London?”

“Papooses, too?” asked the Twins, always curious.

As the eldest, Slightly remembered more clearly than the other children. “No, London is where the nurses push prams in the park. You know.” With wise looks, the Lost Boys nodded to one another. At some point in their infancies, every one of them had fallen from such a pram. Iron bars bordered the park’s trees and pathways, and if, after the gates were locked, a lone little boy roamed the grounds in search of fun, the fairies would find him and deliver him into Peter’s care. Except for Curly, the allure of the Neverland far surpassed the park, and on the rare occasions the Lost Boys thought about it, they laughed to think the place had ever seemed a wilderness.

Seeing their smiles grow, Wendy looked askance at the children, a spark of mischief in her eye. “The question
I
want to ask is, did you boys fall out of your prams, or did you jump out and run away from home, like Peter did the day he overheard—”

A distant whoop sounded below, followed by a fierce cry, the kind of cry that stops hearts. The boys froze. Wendy wheeled toward the horizon, scanning for Peter.… Nothing more could be seen there. She clenched her hands into fists and waited, searching, while the boys crowded closer together.

Far-off drums erupted in a savage beat. All the children’s hearts started up again to match it. Slightly interpreted its meaning, and his voice was hushed. “War drums!” The boys looked with wide eyes from one to another, waiting breathlessly for Time to catch up.

Time obliged. Within seconds they heard a lusty crowing. The next moment, Peter burst through the forest roof. His band of boys released sighs of relief, and Wendy’s eyes lit up. He sped back to them, hair wild and green eyes glowing, victory personified, the Indian arrow between his teeth. Everyone waved and cheered for Peter, including himself.

Slightly eyed the arrow hopefully. “Can I have it, Peter?”

But with ceremony, Peter raised it in salute to Wendy and presented it to her. The scents of sweat and myrtle leaves lingered about him. “For my Indian princess.” He was, indeed, a superb make-believer.

And Wendy equaled him. Entering his game, she changed roles without a hitch.

“Big Chief Peter! Many thanks.” The queen-turned-princess received the tribute with dignity, but spotted a smear on her brave’s forearm. Her eyebrows drew together. “Are you hurt?”

“Just warpaint, nothing to worry about. Look, boys, a badge from the Indians!” Peter thrust his marked arm in the air, showing it off.

Deprived of a good fight, Nibs led the charge notwithstanding. “Hurrah for Peter!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

As her fears for Peter calmed, Wendy smiled indulgently. It seemed she was the only member of his band glad to have avoided a skirmish. Looking him over, she found that neither he nor the arrow was bloody— but his dagger was.

She recoiled.

A sudden wind whipped her, passed right through her, flapping her gown and binding her face with her hair once more, and with the tendrils of the garland, too. She shuddered with cold and shoved them away, one-handed now because of the arrow, and asked no more questions. Peter would tell of his adventure later… if he thought of it again.

His sharp eyes caught her reaction. “What are you shivering for, Wendy? I told you, I’m fine.”

“It’s just the breeze. It’s getting cool now.” She tried on a smile.

Peter knew he was a wonderful boy and he seldom hesitated to boast. “The wind can’t catch me! I never feel it.”

“I feel it always. I can’t help but feel it.” Wendy’s gaze strayed, drawn toward the trees from which Peter had emerged, but they masked their mysteries. Another gust fluttered her nightdress.

Eager to tell the news, Michael waved his hands. “The Lost Boys saved me and John, Peter! They catched us from falling!” He was a schoolboy bred in captivity, released to the wilderness.

“We thought we were done for!” John was an older schoolboy, released a bit too late.

Peter crossed his arms, disapproving, his fine features severe. All the boys drew back and lowered their chins.

“You two were flying too high. You’ve been here long enough to know the rules.” Peter’s gaze darted. “The rest of you were too low! The Indians could have shot you, and then I’d have had to avenge you all.”

The boys were solemn. They knew Peter to be most foreboding when his rules were broken, the primary one of which was the rule against growing up. It was rare that his boys knowingly disobeyed. Peter’s laws hampered independent thinking somewhat, but Michael, as the littlest, was least grown-up and not as self-conscious as the others. He still asked questions. “Avenge! Our honor? Like in Wendy’s stories?” Michael often fell asleep before the happy endings and missed important bits, but even he knew the importance of keeping up with Peter’s decrees.

“No.
My
honor, for leading a pack of fools!”

The boys squirmed, not knowing whether to display amusement or shame, so in a practiced effort to appease their leader, some did one and some the other.

Wendy came to their rescue. She turned from Peter, his dagger, and his wrath, to the jumble of children. Hugging Michael, she assessed the damage. “It’s all right, everyone is safe now. We’ve learned to take better care of ourselves next time. But Michael, John, how damp you are! Hanging about in clouds…”

And Peter permitted Wendy’s motherly role to assume its authority. She gathered the family together. “Time to go home, children.” She was relieved to see Peter’s ill temper dissipate as swiftly as it had appeared, and they both hustled the Lost Boys toward their underground hideout. Wendy clutched the arrow, feeling even now that its tip pointed to danger. But no. That couldn’t be. She was living happily ever after with Peter Pan, in once-upon-a-time, and the adventure of the arrow was over. Surely, she reasoned, Peter would make everything all right again.

As the band flew over the colorful Island toward home, the children took care to remain at the proper height, throwing occasional glances at their chief. Peter flew freely, shooting like the arrow after the tail of a parrot and wobbling comically alongside butterflies over their bushes.

Wendy, too, watched him. He plucked a large leaf and wiped his dagger clean.

Wendy looked away.

Amid her circlet of roses, the hidden thorns stung her again as over her shoulder she searched the darkening forest. No creature moved there. Only the Indian drums beat on, slowly and solemnly now. A dirge for their fallen warrior. The arrow grew heavy in her hand.

Wendy reminded herself that Peter had kept the children from danger. That always made it all right, afterwards.

Soon they would be safe with their suppers, chattering and quarreling about the day’s adventures. They would gather before the fire to hear another of Wendy’s tales.

Wendy shook herself and smiled uncertainly.

It would be all right, then. Everything would be fine.

It would be only a story.

* * *

That evening’s adventure tale, punctuated by gasps and sighs from the children, proved worthy of Wendy’s reputation. As it unfolded, even her brothers sat blinking. The Neverland was a mine of riches for Wendy’s inspiration, and it lent her plenty of material on which to draw.

She had removed the uncomfortable crown with no loss of rank. Although none of her subjects appreciated the fact, Wendy remained a graceful, slender queen as she recounted her stories. She liked to imagine she had been enchanted by a gnome chief, to sit upon his throne in his underground cavern each night, inventing tales for the greedy ears of his gnome band. They were surrounded by walls of twining tree roots and leafy hangings, wooden flutes and animal bones, bows, quivers, and one sword. A pleasant loamy smell pervaded, perfect, her majesty thought, for a gnome chief’s den.

This queen’s clear blue eyes always spoke the truth. Now they were lit by the hearth fire, and her fair hair fell over her shoulders. The boys squatted in a half circle at her feet, cozy on the earthen floor as she gathered the straws of each day’s experience, twisting the strands with nursery stories, to spin golden rings to hang upon their ears. Wendy’s words cast a spell that, as yet, even she didn’t fully understand. A blending of truth, myth, and magic.

If this lady had a secret, it was in her smile. She didn’t need enchantment to call it; it flew naturally, willingly to her lips at the slightest excuse. It was just the right shape for a queen’s smile, and it cradled the hidden kiss, visible only to the few who could read her heart. Wendy’s smile seemed impatient to bestow its kiss upon her prince. But as yet, her desire remained as arcane to Peter as her kiss.

Although the prince declined to come forward tonight, the smile presented itself as Wendy looked around at the faces of her listeners. “Don’t be afraid, children, it’s just a story.” She had given free rein to her imagination, and the ride had gotten a bit rough. At her reassurance, the gnomes breathed more easily. The difference between them and their chief was that Peter did not distinguish between the real and the make-believe, and yet he was not afraid. He was exhilarated.

Only Tinker Bell, that moody bit of fairy, seemed unaffected. Here was another queen, and one not inclined to share power. Tinker Bell was proud, perhaps because she was different. Her wings, instead of the fussy, lacy affairs so common among her kind, were luxuriant like a butterfly’s. Wings such as these didn’t merely move through the air. They moved the air itself. And they were blue. The intense, iridescent blue of the peacock.

Tinker Bell disdained to honor ‘the Wendy’ with her presence at story time. Scorning to be found among the gnomes, the fairy hid herself away in her niche to sit unseen and unheard with chin in hand and ears pricked throughout the narrative, hanging on every syllable. Tinker Bell listened assiduously to the big girl’s words. She stored them up and stacked them to use against her later, like cannonballs. The battleground was Peter. The Wendy was the enemy.

As Wendy’s story concluded, Peter jumped up on his chair, exulting. “Nobody tells a story like Wendy!” Then, usurping success, “That’s why I chose her to be our mother.” Many nights, in what to Peter seemed the distant past, he had hovered outside the nursery window, listening with rapt attention to Wendy’s tales, especially those about himself. Now she was here and she was his. Peter had made up his mind; she must never go back and grow up. To that end, he discharged an appreciative smile.

Enchantment not yet broken, Wendy was flattered by Peter’s warmth of feeling. Manners, however, dictated a show of modesty. “I only came to look after you poor Lost Boys. Peter told me you had not one pocket among you, and no medicine. Someone had to mother you.” The tale of her first meeting with Peter and his insistence that she come away with him was one of Wendy’s favorites, recited on many an evening. But as she remembered that long-ago night, a questioning look crossed her face, and she dropped her playful air to stare into the fire. The matter had begun to trouble her of late. How long ago? Exactly when had this enchantment seized hold of her?

The boys were familiar with Wendy’s story of pockets and medicine, and accustomed to performing their part in it. They picked up their cue, and only Peter noticed their mother’s change in mood. “Thank you, Wendy lady! What would we do without a mother?” In a body, the boys poured themselves over Wendy, ending her distraction and earning Peter’s approval.

Wendy recovered, laughing, and pushed her boys away, rising from the throne to light the nightlight. It was an opaque shell the size of her hand, spiraling into nothingness at the center, its inside sprinkled with fairy dust. Such grains of Tinker Bell’s magic had enabled Wendy, John, and Michael to fly from home. All it took to master the air was fairy dust and happiness. For Wendy, Peter supplied both.

It hadn’t been easy to get Tink to part with more dust for the nightlight, but Peter had persuaded her, knowing it was important to Wendy. He had explained that it was important because Wendy wanted her brothers to remember their home. Michael and John might go back, someday, if the nightlight in the nursery still burned by the open window. Tinker Bell had demanded a good deal of Peter’s attention until the subject was exhausted. Ultimately, she permitted herself to be swayed, surrendering the dust in hopes the Wendy, too, would remember home— and exit with her brothers.