Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (20 page)

She stopped. As her face contorted, she drew one of its legs toward her. She stared in disbelief, and then her gaze darted again to the mantle. What she sought wasn’t there among Peter’s trophies. She turned toward the hollow tree and shivered, all warmth and comfort draining away.

The lion’s right front paw, with all its claws, had been hacked off the hide.

* * *

Rowan listened to the water rushing by, just out of reach. The sound had disturbed his sleep, but he had slept, in spite of the tantalizing trickling and in spite of the ropes cutting into his wrists. He would be a warrior soon. He could endure worse than this. The Black Chief with the eagle’s claw could have decreed that he should endure worse than this. And now Rowan owed the Black Chief a life-service. It was fitting. Rowan was the Life-Giver.

But Rowan hadn’t meant to give him his secrets. His slate-gray eyes had simply not been able to mask his emotions when questions were plied about his new companion. Rowan’s shame was tempered by the force against which he had been set. Enemy though the man might be, Rowan had never questioned the judgment of the tribal elders; but only now did he understand why they had forbidden the hunting of the Black Chief’s scalp. It possessed too much power. Such a prize might tear the tribe apart. It was taboo. And Rowan was no stranger to taboo.

The moon had lighted his path last night and determined it should end here. When the moon left him by this abandoned dwelling-place, the forest was too dark to search the stream for a rock to cut his bonds. By now, he craved a drink. He got awkwardly to his feet and shouldered the door, anxious to reach the water the moon had provided.

But he halted, listening: two pairs of feet brushing the grasses, then running, slowing to a walk, like geese touching down to earth. Now they stepped toward him. Rowan slid to the window. Another moment and the two boys were within view.

It was Slightly— Rowan’s ‘Lightly’— led by the yellow-haired boy with bow and dagger. The Golden Boy, who flew like the hawk, and who with those very weapons caused so much anxiety among Rowan’s people— every bit as much terror as the crocodile. Rowan spotted the fresh red wound on his arm right away. It must be painful, but the boy’s face didn’t show it as he pulled an apple from his pouch and offered it to Lightly. Rowan tried to swallow, his thirst redoubling at the sight of the fruit and the snap of Lightly’s first bite.

But even in his craving, Rowan wondered. Should Lightly be touching that fruit? The healers of the tribe revered green apples. They were strong medicine. The sleep these apples induced was profound. Ever since he was a child, Rowan’s mother had cautioned him not to taste one. The Golden Boy must be careless indeed, to give them to his followers.

Rowan attended the boy’s voice as it spoke in a low and earnest tone, “…always to be a boy and to have fun. And I want Wendy to never leave me alone. Don’t forget…” As Rowan watched, unblinking, the pair disappeared into the wood behind the house.

Giving them time to move away, Rowan looked about the shelter. He wondered at the sight of white sand spread over the table. He smelled it. It carried a faint odor of strawberries. He pressed his finger in it, then touched it to his tongue. It felt like grains of crystal. It tasted sweet.

The taste clung to his mouth. He saw the bits of shattered glass, but he avoided them and scooped the stuff up with the swollen fingers of one bound hand, bending over it, mouthing it, then sucking at it, licking his fingers, the strokes of his tongue spilling it over his ropes, his wrists. It was so sweet, sweet as honey, but it crunched between his teeth. He dug for more and lapped it up. He didn’t think he could get enough, and his mouth was too dry to try. He straightened, the white sand sticky, coating his lips, his chin, and tumbling like a sweet snow to drift rising and falling on his bare chest.

Then, Rowan Life-Giver followed another instinct, and his friend. He stole from the house, marking the beads on the ground in front of it, and entered the wood. Searching for footprints in the earth next the stream, he determined the direction he would pursue once he had tasted water and broken his ropes.

He savored his tongue. He didn’t doubt his path, and he didn’t question why the moon had brought him here.

* * *

Nibs slid down the tree chute. “All clear, Wendy. I flew high like we planned, and the
Jolly Roger
is back in the bay with the pirates aboard her.”

“What did you see?”

Nibs paused to look Wendy up and down, blinked, then answered, “There was a pile of smoldering ashes on the harbor beach. Lots of broken bottles, and footprints all around. Looks as if they had a party last night. I found this, too.” He flashed her a bold smile and pointed to the kerchief he’d tied about his head— orange, and knotted at the back.

Tootles looked up from the grindstone on which he was sharpening knives. “You look just like a pirate, except that you have no boots. And a party sounds like fun. Wendy, can we have a party on the beach one night, with a big fire?”

“Only once it’s safe. So that’s where the pirates were! There are plenty of trees to hide them there, just off the beach. And they were celebrating?”

“There weren’t any boats left, I checked under cover of the brush all around. But what did they have to celebrate? You got away, we all did, and Peter only got a scratch. If I was a pirate, I wouldn’t carouse until all my enemies were stowed in the brig. Or until my sword had run them through.”

“I would!” Tootles declared. “I’d celebrate any time I survived a raid! And then I’d polish our boots and sharpen our weapons for the next.” He wiggled his thick, bootless toes and held up Curly’s shining dagger as an example. “Pass me yours, Nibs, I’m ready for it.”

Wendy reached for Curly’s knife. “Let me borrow this again, please, Curly.”

Forgetting to be a gentleman for once, Curly had been eyeing her. But habit was strong and he recovered his manners. “I was going to cut my hair this morning, but I can wait.”

“Thank you. You can make yourself another belt to hold it. Take down Michael’s old baby basket and use its strips to braid one. Michael can help you. Now I’m off to do some scouting of my own.”

Closeted within the niche, Jewel rose from her couch, yawning. She fumbled for a thistle and brushed her hair.

John had thoroughly studied his sister. He now stood up. “I’ll come with you.”

Michael wanted to come, too; so did they all, but Wendy waved them down. She had her secrets. “No, thank you. I have to go alone this time.”

Jewel poked her hand in a drawer, rifled it, and pulled out a tuft of dandelion. She buffed her nails— and listened.

Speaking slowly, John thought aloud, “Peter went to make peace with the Indians…” He scrutinized Wendy once more. “You’re going to be Red-Handed Jill again, and try to make peace with the pirates… aren’t you?”

All the boys watched for Wendy’s reaction, using John’s question as an excuse to stare at her. Curly piped up and spoke for the rest. “We’ve all been wondering that. It’s just the sort of thing mothers do, isn’t it? You did it yesterday.”

Behind the curtain of the fairy’s room, two little dresses were hanging side by side. Jewel held her head slantwise and examined them. Even so, her miniature ears listened for the Wendy’s answer.

“It’s not come to that yet today! Don’t worry about me, I’ll be back soon. And remember what Peter said. Stay close to home. And no bonfires.”

Still they stared at her, until Nibs took charge and forced them to pull their gaping gazes away. “Twins, go up with Wendy and stand watch. And you can make more arrows. We can’t be too careful. I know how those pirates think.”

Wendy raised one eyebrow and wondered if he did know. She tucked the knife into the belt she had made for herself while waiting for Nibs to come back. It wasn’t a tiger tail, but it would do for now.

It was the tail of the lion with which she had slept the night before, dreaming of drums.

* * *

In spite of Nibs’ all-clear, and maybe because of it, Wendy was cautious on her flight through the trees. She remembered too well the pirate colors blossoming within the wood as Michael and John spirited her from the house. Curly’s knife in her belt didn’t make the memory any less potent.

She alighted at the edge of the clearing. All was still. Walking toward the house, she pieced together in reverse the events of that day as she came across its remnants. She stopped to pick up Curly’s belt, with its jagged scar. She ran her fingers over it, over the edge of leather both sharp and tender, and wondered if a scar of flesh would feel this way. Absently, she folded the belt and held it close. It was supple in her two hands, and the sun’s kiss awakened its leathery scent. Would a patch of new skin feel tough like this? Would it grow to cover bone?

Another few steps. Here were the remains of the vine Peter had cut away. She didn’t have to touch them. She already knew how they felt. Ivy was beautiful in the forest. It spiraled upward if left to thrive. She conceived an image of ivy twining up the mast of a ship, green, thick, and clinging, surging toward the sun. She began to sway as if on board, then remembered herself and looked down at her feet planted in the grass. Uprooting them, she moved to the next reminder.

The beads.… His hat had lain here. Its jewels couldn’t rival his eyes. Wendy’s own eyes narrowed. She angled her head. Where was the basket? He had swept it over here… the first time he’d touched her. Right here, with these beads spilling out.

Looking around for the basket, she saw something that shouldn’t have been there, something that played no part in the scene enacted here. It lay on the bench, next to the book and two leather pouches. Her lips parted, and the rhythm of her heart was disturbed yet again.

It was polished and shining, made of both wood and metal, and very welcome. She dropped the belt and ran to kneel before it. Her hands hesitated above it for only one instant, then seized it and embraced it. Immediately, she felt a wave of power wash over her. Before she could think, she whispered fervently, “Thank you.”

But who was she thanking, and for what? Her enemy, for lending her the means to destroy him? What arrogance, to place in her hands a weapon to use against him! Or was it confidence? Or was it… care?

Was he not her enemy? Wendy felt angry now. What was he to her, bringing her heart’s desire, in whatever form? For Hook had read her heart; it was she who was the open book. Her tension relaxed as she searched within herself for the answer. She had longed not for golden apples, not silly flowers even. He had given her that which she truly craved, regardless of how she might use it. From any other man, that would be an act of love.

Wendy breathed carefully. What, really, was the link between them? How could he use it to suit his purposes? She didn’t have to know right away, she was free of Time and its demands. She would discover truth as it was revealed. And now she had a tool with which to handle it, the one thing she had asked of Peter, and been denied. The return for one kiss.

She lowered the gleaming pistol to her lap, and fondled it. It was smooth, its fine wood mellow like honey and warm from the sun. As she turned it over she stared, and it began to tremble in her hands. Inlaid on the stock were three initials in flowing script. Two were crafted of the shifting colors of mother-of-pearl…
J
.
H
.

The third initial was black, branded with iron between and over the first two, burned right into the exquisite handle. She smelled the acrid odor of charred wood, inhaled it to smolder next to her heart as she read his message, written to her in fire— his love letter…
R
.

J
.
R
.
H
. Very slowly, Jill Red-Hand raised the stock of the pistol to her lips and closed her eyes. And she answered his letter, with a kiss.

* * *

It was a hard lesson for Jewel, but she was learning it. Patience. Believe in Time, that’s what he told her. And he was always right. He always knew what to do. Even when he hurt Peter, it was the right thing to do. Pain brings him closer to you, he said. She believed him. It was part of the lesson.

He never caused Jewel pain. His voice alone could bring her to bliss. But it was never his voice alone.… His fingers were gentle, velvet. She would have flown to his hand even if she had never gifted him with the secret of her slavery. But now she was inescapably his creature, and content to be so. She closed her eyes. Peter said he was a black man. But when he touched his fairy to make her wings radiate their rarest light, when she beheld her master then, she saw a rainbow.

Jewel opened her eyes and shook herself. Finally, the Wendy was gone. The master had been right about that, and he knew where she would go. Would he take the girl today? She clamped her lips together. Patience, Jewel.

And he was right about the boys, which ones to choose for today’s adventure. As she primped her hair one last time before the mirror, she tinkled as alarmingly as possible, then zipped out of her room to work the wiles she’d recently acquired.

She buzzed over Nibs.

“What, Tink? What’s the matter? I thought you were asleep.”

She nodded, then traced a circle above her head.

“You had a dream? About Peter?”

“Who else?” Michael asked, looking up from the basket he was dismantling and rolling his eyes. But Jewel shook her head and dashed to Wendy’s lion skin. She grasped two hairs and tugged.

“You think Wendy’s in trouble?” John’s eyebrows went up, then came down. “Or are you just making trouble
for
her again?”

Jewel seized Nibs by the knot of his pirate kerchief and dragged him toward the tree shaft.

“All right, all right, I’ll come!”

She dropped him and selected Tootles, jabbing at him with her elbows.

“Here’s your knife, Nibs. Looks like I’m coming with you. Where, Tink?”

Pausing for effect, Jewel made sure all eyes were upon her. She smoothed her skirt, then she danced a hornpipe in mid-air.