Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (3 page)

Wendy lit a twig in the fire and touched its flame to the grains of gold in the shell. With the gentlest of breaths, she blew on it, and the powder ignited to glow with a warm, dancing light, exuding a fragrance of fermented apples. As she placed the nightlight on the table next to the bed, John studied it, remembering something from far away. “Wendy, are you and Father going out tonight?”

Wendy’s eyes glowed like the fairy light. “Peter, shall we go out like real mothers and fathers? We could go to the Fairy Glade!” In her excitement, she forgot and placed a hand on his arm.

But he didn’t shake it off. He bent his elbow like a high-born gentleman and escorted her. “We shall go to the theatre, Madam, and wear chimney hats.” Everyone laughed while he strutted around the room with Wendy on his arm. Her fingers met the toned energy under his bare skin, and she looked up at his well-formed profile. Although it was impossible to determine an age for Peter, Wendy knew herself to be petite for her own. As he allowed her to press against him, she observed again that Peter was just taller than she, and in her opinion, they were a perfect match.

Only one boy had grown taller than Peter. It was Slightly, light-haired and lean, who now interrupted their promenade. “I think I remember the theatre. Isn’t that a story-place?”

Peter stopped. “We have the best stories right here. And mothers and fathers don’t leave the children at night, do they? Afraid they’ll fly away.” He dropped Wendy’s arm and turned to face her, breaking the connection. For a moment, she had been wearing her mother’s white evening gown. But it was gone.

Curly, named for the nature of his rusty hair, was fascinated with the world the Darlings had left behind. He turned to Wendy, too. “They can leave the children as long as a dog is there, right, Wendy?”

“Not a dog, Curly. A nurse, or a nightlight, like ours. Now it’s nighttime, boys. Into bed.”

Peter propelled himself into his chair by the fire and watched while Wendy presided over the ritual.

“Give me your hats… clothes for mending… weapons.… Now here’s your medicine.” Make-believe medicine was gulped with genuine distaste. “I’d think you’d be used to it by now!” Wendy was amazed at how her boys resisted it, aware as they were that it was only water. But she excelled at dispensing it. It had become a challenge. “I spent all morning working out how to get you to take it.” She released her grip on the nose of the last boy, who happened to be the tough, solidly-built Tootles. He rubbed his nose and appealed to Peter.

“If we take our medicine, will we get strong enough to wear boots? To stomp around in all day and stow by the bed at night, like pirates?” It was Tootles’ greatest sorrow that there was not one pair in the hideout to polish after adventures.

Peter leaned back, his answer casual. “We’ll have plenty of boots, once we’ve slain the lot.” He directed a meaningful stare at Wendy.

Wendy ignored the hint and nudged Tootles toward the rest of the children on the bed. “Make room for Michael tonight, boys. He’s just outgrown—” Wendy stopped short and shot a glance at Peter. He eyed her sharply, then looked up at the basket hanging over the bed, in which Michael had slept… until tonight. Squinting at Michael, he sized the little boy up, then laughed.

“He’s got a ways to grow yet. I’ll keep him a little longer!”

Wendy promised herself to be more careful. Her rapid heartbeat slowed.

“Peter!” Slightly tossed a tiny missile. “Here’s another baby tooth. I think I’ve only two left now.” Peter caught it and held it up to examine in the light of the fire. Wendy’s heart sped again. A mystery was at work here, in spite of Peter’s rules. It had something to do with growing up, and as Slightly’s mother, Wendy would one day have to guide him through it. She had recently begun to wonder who would guide herself when the time came.

“I don’t know why you boys can’t keep your teeth. I still have my first set.” Peter shoved his dagger aside and stowed the tooth in his pocket, the first Wendy had fashioned on the night she was initiated as mother of his hearth. It was too tricky to fasten a pocket to his skeleton leaves, which in any case were perpetually falling off and regrowing themselves— such leaves were rare, only to be found in the Neverland, and so far found only by Peter— nor was it feasible to fasten a pocket to the ivy vines he liked to wind about himself. But Wendy was resourceful. Now Peter’s pocket had a flap to secure its contents when he flew upside-down, and she had made it of leather and strapped it to his sword belt, which he always wore whether or not he carried the sword, for he was never without his knife.

At last the boys lay piled on the one bed in the hideout. It was comfy, and big enough for all, including Michael, and there they wiggled under the furry skins provided by Peter’s forest kills. Hunting was Peter’s favorite sport, and he kept the hideout well supplied. Tonight the animals seemed still alive until Peter sprang from his chair and advanced with face aslant and dagger drawn. “Do I have to slay those beasts again?” At which the boys immediately lay still.

With the children settled, Wendy moved about, listening to the breathy music of Peter’s pipes and putting the hideout to rights, making it feel like home. From time to time she studied Peter. One of the few places he sat still was in his big chair next to her own, while playing father to the boys or prince of the palace. Peter had woven his throne from willow boughs, and their greenery clung to it yet. Wendy watered it every morning with the dregs of the medicine bottle. It, too, thrived under her care, lending to the cavern a foresty touch from the upper world.

Peter noticed her watching him and cocked his head in curiosity. Smiling, she kept her voice low. “I was thinking how you sit enthroned on your seat of honor, like a prince in his feasting hall. You rule your realm from that chair.”

“I like being prince! It’s even better than being father.”

Wendy gathered up the discarded clothing and joined Peter at the hearth. She advanced with caution, as always, for instinct and experience informed her that, prince or not, he might startle when approached, like some woodland creature.

Maybe if she made it sound like a story he would understand her this time.

The fire spoke first in soft pops and crackles, then Wendy. “One night, I was sleeping in my bed in the nursery, and a wonderful boy whispered in my ear.”

He was listening.

“You wanted me to come away with you, so you taught me to fly. Do you remember?”

Peter remembered. He remembered how, with the promise of flight and something else he didn’t yet understand, he had cunningly drawn her out the nursery window— just before her mother and father burst through it, breathless, reaching vainly into the night to pull her back. It had been a grand adventure!

“It’s one of your best stories!”

“It’s
our
story, Peter, and it really happened.”

Peter shrugged. “They all really happened.”

“No, no.” She leaned closer. “In London, I longed for adventure. I couldn’t wait for it so I made up stories to tell Michael and John. It’s only here the stories are true,” except, so far, the love stories. “Most of them.”

She had long ago returned his acorn for the thimble kiss she had given him. Peter didn’t understand what a kiss was, and when Wendy quite shamelessly offered one that first evening, he simply held out his hand to accept it. Not wishing to embarrass him, she had slipped her thimble into his fingers instead, and with an honorable sense of obligation, he’d given her an acorn in exchange.

The acorn saved her life once. It still bore the scar of the arrow Tootles had fired at her. Wendy didn’t blame Tootles for being bloodthirsty. It was the way he’d been brought up, and of course he was urged to shoot by Tinker Bell before Wendy had the chance to be introduced to the Lost Boys. But that was all in the past. These days, Wendy got more practical use out of the thimble than the acorn, so the acorn lay on the mantel, displaying its wound.

Like most of the furnishings in the hideout, the mantel was crafted by the enterprising Twins with their building skills. Carved from a hunk of alder, it was constructed to exhibit Peter’s array of trophies, from beadwork to buck racks, with a brass button winking here and there. The mantel dominated the room and dwarfed the acorn. But Wendy wasn’t deceived by dimensions. Like her love stories, the tiny seed might yield a forest yet. Neglecting her mending, she stared at the mantel and fidgeted with the thimble.

Peter said, “As long as I’m in the stories, I don’t care if they’re true or not.” His eyes grew bright. “I had a fine adventure in the woods today, Wendy. I killed that Indian!” He bounded up to seize the arrow from the mantel, and struck a heroic pose. “He threatened you and the boys.” With its shaft in his fist, Peter shook the arrow above his head in a victory rite. Leaping from the fire, his shadow played along, arching over the earthy ceiling.

“Peter! For no better reason than that?”

He stopped, indignant. “Should I have let him kill one of you first?” The arrow came down. “I have to protect my family.”

“You’re full of courage, and a good father to the boys. But sometimes you frighten me.” Wendy peered up at his shadow, looming, but momentarily still. “Just like the forest beasts.”

He tossed the arrow and perched close again, his shadow condensing. “You never act frightened. You’re always very brave on adventures, even if you won’t let the boys and me kill any more filthy pirates.” But Peter’s instincts about Wendy were alert, too, and now he offered rare credit for her cunning. Admiration oiled his voice. “You’ve managed to keep the pirates at bay so we haven’t had to fight them. Even Nibs and Tootles have piped down about attacking them. And we’d have gobbled that cake if you hadn’t warned us it was a pirates’ trap.”

Wendy nodded like a sage. “Only a mother knows how subtle pirates can be.” She herself had invented the dangers, conjured them up, in many a story. Wendy knew danger, intimately.

“You’re a wise one, Wendy.”

Peter’s praise warmed her as heartily as the fire, yet as she gazed into the flames, she found herself puzzling. “The danger is real now. But once upon a time it wasn’t.” Her forehead creased. “Even Time behaves differently here. It’s the only thing that
isn’t
real.” She looked up at Michael’s empty basket and thought of Slightly’s tooth in the maw of Peter’s pouch. “I sometimes think the crocodile swallowed Time right along with that clock. I never know where it will pop up next.” As she spoke of the crocodile, the image of its teeth caused her to wince. Like a row of knives, each committed to slaughter, they triggered an uncomfortable memory of Peter’s dagger, and his hands wiping a man’s blood from it this afternoon. The warmth receded, and Wendy felt much older than the girl she had been the night she arrived here.

“You can tell the croc’s story tomorrow night!”

Wendy’s posture sagged. “But how many tomorrow nights will come? How many have passed? I used to be so sure about Time. I could rely on it. But I keep trying, and I can’t think how long we’ve been here, away from home.”

Innocent as he might be, Peter recognized dangerous ground. She’d worn that same look the night he flew back to the nursery to retrieve her china tea set. Peter would keep Wendy, no matter what he had to do, and he’d whispered that message to Wendy’s mother where she dozed by the window. He’d even shed a few of his skeleton leaves to be discovered by Mr. and Mrs. Darling in the morning, underscoring his determination. Peter didn’t know as much about parents as he pretended, but he suspected they could read an omen almost as well as he could.

“You’re right, Wendy, Time isn’t real here, so it doesn’t matter how many nights.” With his sly smile playing along his lips, he scooted closer. She scented the lingering leaves, just as she had when he’d first awakened her, and his next words thrummed the memory. “I knew that first night how much you wanted to fly.”

Her face cleared. “Yes, Peter. I wanted it very badly. You were clever to see that.” She gripped the thimble tighter.

“The cleverness of me!”

“You’re clever enough to see there’s something else I want badly, now.” She watched Peter’s face take on the alert expression he wore whenever she began a story. So many stories.

She had been patient such a long while, anticipating the natural response of boy to girl. Wendy couldn’t gauge the time, but she’d grown at least an inch waiting for it. It had to come sooner or later. Setting the thimble aside, she held her breath. They were close now. No more delays.

Slowly, Wendy reached for Peter’s hand. She cradled it like a fledgling and lifted it, placing it against her cheek, barely touching his thumb to the kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Can you see it?”

Alive to danger again, Peter didn’t move. Wendy willed him to read her heart as she watched his wary eyes considering her. The time might be right at last. If she believed. For one long moment, she held hope in her hand.

Then, like sunlight, Peter slipped through her fingers. He leapt to his feet and spun away. Snatching his sword, he darted toward the tree trunk at the end of the room. At a safe distance now, Peter, the superb make-believer, assumed his best paternal manner. “I’ll go up on guard, Wendy, now that the Little Ones are abed. Good night!” He nodded with authority, then snaked his way up through the hollow tree to the forest floor— to guard
himself
until such time as Wendy no longer threatened.

Wendy sighed, her hand lingering on the hidden kiss. “Will he ever see it?” She frowned, and immediately heard a familiar mocking tinkle from a niche in the wall. Her eyes shifted toward the sound, the frown formed a line of determination, and her hand moved stealthily down. The slipper slid off her foot and sailed in Tinker Bell’s direction. A musical retort followed, after which both females put out the lights and retired, each harboring dark thoughts about Peter Pan.

Chapter 3

A Pirate’s Passion

A dark man harbored dark thoughts about Pan.

The night was black, the cabin blacker. The man was darker still. His hair spread in waves on the silken pillows, like the midnight surface of the sea. It parted at the ring hung upon his ear, a delicate filigree, yet solidly golden. The beard was trim, but further growth of whiskers darkened his face and neck with unsuppressed masculinity. Small beads of moisture lay stagnant on skin too taut to allow retreat.