Hook & Jill (The Hook & Jill Saga) (8 page)

Nibs’ wiry frame sat the branches easily, like a sailor in the rigging. “I’d wish for a sword, to fight pirates.” His swarthy face lit with a grin as he threw Tootles a salute. “And boots, of course.” Wendy assured them that the hunt wasn’t likely to produce any wishbones.

Remembering an island chieftain in one of Wendy’s stories, John and Michael hankered after boar’s tusk bracelets. Peter assured them that wild boars inhabited the far side of the Island, near the Indian camp. “We’re more likely to shoot tigers here than boars.” Wendy was certain the plural of boar was boar, but didn’t bother to correct him.

Slightly’s branch bounced as he mimed impaling a boar on an Indian spear. “Let’s go there tomorrow. We could make a pact with the Indians to declare peace while we hunt together. Then we could celebrate at their village, feasting and dancing around the fire for three days and nights!”

Excited by any new idea, the Twins swayed on limp and limper limbs. Their precarious roost didn’t bother them. They had already discussed the limitations of this tree and designed a structure to support a hunting blind. “We’ll have to look bold to impress the Indians. Can we grab a tiger’s tail like Red-Handed Jill?”

“Who?” asked Peter with airy nonchalance, and Wendy scowled at him before replying.

“Of course you may, Twins. I’ve brought plenty of bandages and medicine for the wounded.”

“I’ll cut you a tiger-tail belt, Wendy, since you like the story so much,” Peter said, proving his perfidy. He knew perfectly well who Jill was. But he looked so brave and casual, Wendy felt her heart swell, and she had to smile.

All this time the beasts put off their entrance. By now they were probably tapping their claws and chafing as the boys whooped their approval of Peter’s or Wendy’s tiger-tail idea. Wendy’s eyes shone as she thought of it, for once forgetting the creatures’ proximity.

She would feel so fierce and wild sporting a tiger belt. How gallant Peter was to understand what she wanted and promise it to her, in spite of his own distaste for the story. Whatever his feelings for romance, his pledge was a token of his care for her. And one day soon, he might show it again and ask to hear the adventures Wendy itched to invent for Jill. As if picking up the thread of her thoughts, Tootles carried her hopes further. He ribbed his captain, exclaiming, “Peter, you do respect lady pirates after all!”

“No, I never will. Pirates of any kind are villains. But I respect Wendy. She’s our mother.”

With the sensation that her insides were empty, Wendy looked out at the forest, staring blankly. The belt would be nice, anyway.

As ever, Curly was a gentleman. Considering his old belt and the ragged shirt Wendy had mended many times, he asked, “How do boys in London dress to fight pirates? I want to look proper if I go there some day.”

Peter tossed his head, dismissive. “London is no place for boys. Since I ran away from home, I only go there when I need something I can’t find here.” He flashed his smile at Wendy and immediately she felt the presence of her heart again. It always gave her trouble when he looked at her that way.

“Peter?” John asked, “You needed a mother when you came to our window. Have you ever gone back to your house to see your other mother?”

Peter’s expression waxed grave, as it always did when he considered grown-ups. “Yes. Once. I’ll never go back there any more.” The boys pricked up their ears. They sensed a story coming.

Touched again, Wendy asked gently, “Why, Peter? Did she try to make you stay and become a man?”

“No.” Peter’s eyes spilled bitterness.

“What then?”

The boys were fascinated now. They hung on Peter’s words as steadfastly as they hung in the trees. He rarely hesitated to boast of his adventures. This one must have been dramatic.

“It was a long time ago. I’d been away just long enough to want to go back. Not to stay, really, but for an adventure. And when I found the house, I remembered my mother used to sing to me. I wanted to hear her sing.”

Michael interrupted, “Did she tell you stories, too, Peter?”

“She told me lots of things I didn’t think were true. Were the untrue things stories, Wendy?”

Wendy didn’t know how she knew. “Not exactly, Peter. Mothers sometimes tell us what they want us to believe. To keep us happy.”

“She must not have wanted to keep me at all, once I’d gone.”

“What happened?”

“When I went back to my window, it was locked.”

Michael and John inhaled. The Lost Boys rolled their eyes at each other, and Wendy’s heart bled.

“And it was fitted with iron bars.”

“No!”

Peter resisted going on, but seeing the scandalized looks on their faces, he made a show of tapping his courage. Persevering, he tossed them another morsel. “But that’s not the worst.”

Curly sniffed, pulling a bedraggled kerchief from his neck. “What could be worse?”

“My mother had forgotten me!”

A mother herself, Wendy gasped in disbelief. “How could you think that?”

Peter lifted his chin, fixing her with his green gaze. “Because I saw her. I saw her in my room.”

Wendy’s spine stiffened. “Then she hadn’t forgotten. She was waiting for you.”

In a gesture worthy of the best London theatre, Peter shook his head. “No. She was sitting by my bed. Singing.”

“But that proves—”

“To a new baby boy!”

The silence of the family’s shock rebounded through the wood. The children dangled, speechless. It was the ultimate insult to run away from home and be replaced. One imagined, at the very least, that one was missed, and every boy in those trees hoped his absence had ruined the lives he left behind. If they hadn’t wanted to be noticed, they would have stayed at home. The band of boys subsided into stillness while they indulged in the horror of Peter’s tale, but having soaked up the effect of his story, Peter forgot it.

All quiet.

At last the forest fauna came to life. Roaring reached the children’s ears, halfhearted at first, petulant… then, as the dinner hour advanced, swelling to the full fury of hunger. The leaves surrounding the children quaked as bows nocked arrows. Danger imminent, all ears were alert, all eyes expectant, hardly blinking. Tiny mudslides dribbled from the camouflage on their cheeks to plop on the ground below. Then, the soft sound of panting, almost a purring.

What was coming? Something more than a story. Something wild.

Peter’s face was set, intense. He hung over his branch, muscles as taut as his bowstring, his arrow poised.

Wendy hoped the something was nothing. At the same time she hoped it was something fierce and feral. Something not even Peter could tame. She hoped it was Red-Handed Jill, brandishing her whip. She hoped it wasn’t Red-Handed Jill because Peter might kill her. She shivered and then she stopped hoping because something had arrived.

Peter’s arrow hissed and sang. Darts from the boys’ bows whistled after it but bounced to a stop, unnecessary. Peter threw back his head and let out a mighty crow, his victory shaped into sound. It seemed to Wendy that his voice was his arrow, and it pierced her heart. Her hand flew to her breast and she cried out. “Oh! Oh, no!” The something died instantly. With only one shot, the hunter prevailed, in the space of a heartbeat.

Jubilant, the children loosed themselves from the trees and dropped in bursts to the forest floor. Wendy sought to descend also, but found she couldn’t fly. Without focusing, she climbed down, fingers seeking purchase branch by branch, until her feet touched the ground and led her to the death scene. Rubbing together, her palms tried to rid themselves of grit.

“It’s a lion! A lion!” The boys danced around it. Wendy pushed through them and looked down. Her heart bled again at the sight— the powerful king of the forest, with a golden mane flowing freely to the earth. Its mouth gaped open, exposing its tongue and its deep teeth. In its silence, it spoke to Wendy.

She choked on her words. “It looks so proud, even though it’s dead.” She looked to Peter.

His countenance glowed with triumph while the boys shouted and cavorted around him. The image of pride, Peter flung his arm toward his kill. “Look, Wendy, I’ve made the forest safer for you.”

She stared at the animal again. She didn’t feel safer. Somehow the death of this splendid thing seemed only to bring danger closer. “It never really threatened us.…” But some other kind of beast crouched in Wendy’s memory, a shadow looming over her from the light of Peter’s hearth fire. It danced in a macabre rite, clutching an arrow for a trophy, and celebrating the death of a man. She put out her arms to hush the children and knelt down next to that ghastly shadow’s most recent prey.

Peter tugged on its fur. “He’ll make a nice blanket, now I’ve tamed him.”

Wendy’s face tensed in consternation. She had to stroke its mane, to caress its coat. It was warm and silky, contradicting the claws that fringed its footpads. Unable to comprehend its fate, she shook her head. “But it’s huge, fully grown.”

“The grown-up ones are the most dangerous, Wendy. The only law they understand is the law of the jungle.”

“The forest animals can’t obey rules, Peter!”

“Of course not. They’re wild.” He shrugged. “They have to be slain.”

She dragged her gaze from Peter to the carcass and its equal horror. When she could speak again, she wondered, “How did you bring down such a magnificent creature so easily?”

Peter stooped over his victim, placed a foot on its shoulder, and yanked the arrow free. Wendy shuddered at the drag of it. Dark liquid began flowing from the wound.

“I know where to aim! The heart is the weakest part, even in the meanest of creatures.”

Wendy buried her fingers in the fur of the animal, gloriously unlawful— and dead at Peter’s feet. Its blood marked his hands, and, although it couldn’t be seen, its blood stained her hands, as well. She didn’t look at them, and she didn’t know how she knew… she wasn’t innocent.

Watching the wind ripple through the mane, Wendy realized Peter’s words were true. The heart was the weakest part. Because she still felt his arrow, driven into her own. She recognized the truth. She admitted it. And in her afflicted heart, she still believed.

Chapter 8

Harvest at the Fairy Glade

Tinker Bell was no innocent. She was versed in forest lore. She knew the warning signs. She should have heeded them.

But her small heart was breaking, and she fled from it. Tink streaked through the forest, away from her beloved Peter and oblivious to where she was going. The Wendy creature was taking Tink’s place in Peter’s world, and the world was gall to her. This Island was her universe, and there was no place on it that didn’t remind her of him. She could settle nowhere.

Her thoughts ran rampant, as confused as her flight, and her aura burned angrily. Peter had brought the Wendy here on a whim, just a whim. He hadn’t cared about the girl, he wanted to hear stories. He’d heard lots of stories now. Why was she still here? And the Wendy thought she was a queen, she ruled at the hideout, Peter commanded all the band to obey her. Adventures weren’t risky and fun anymore, their mother ordered them to be careful! And every time the Wendy was careful about something, she got bigger. About this notion, Tink wasn’t confused at all.

The Wendy wanted to grow up. She
was
growing up. Peter was one of the things the Wendy was careful about. With the clarity of air, Tink could see that the big girl wanted Peter to grow up, too!

Tink belonged to Peter. He must never grow up and away from the fairy world. Better that he never understand his Tink than that he should grow away from her. She didn’t care that he didn’t guess her secrets; he had secrets, too. As long as she remained his fairy, her hope persisted that one day, with the cleverness of which he boasted, he might unpuzzle her mysteries. But even if he never learned how to touch her, she belonged!

Swerving over the Island, Tinker Bell bounced from point to point, first high, then low, and always moving. She circled the house in the clearing, pulling faces and shaking her fist. She itched with an urge to pick it apart, leaf by leaf, but finding no satisfaction in threatening the girl’s shell of a dwelling, zipped on again toward rarer scenes. She didn’t slow, and some while later found herself zooming up the steep contour of the Indian mountain.

The air grew chillier toward the top, and Tinker Bell paused to pant and fan her cheeks. Perching at the pinnacle, she gazed on the mountainside, spying stone circles around cooking fires, waiting tepees and a long, low lodge built of pine logs. All uninhabited now, until the fields fell to harvest and the People moved with the seasons.

The Indians were Peter’s enemies. Maybe she should run away and join them. Tink might be the first fairy to befriend the People, and how priceless a prize she would be to them! Conceiving in her bitterness what a trophy Peter’s golden scalp might make, the fairy soared down the far side of the mountain to follow the river, watching for the telltale smoke that would lead an exile to the village on the plateau. For once, Tink would venture where Peter forbade her to go.

She heard it before she saw it. Chanting song, and flutes. Dressed in deerskin shifts, women knelt before their tepees, shaping dough for their dinners. Others were winding in procession about the camp, playing some game with the black-haired children in their wakes, and old ones with white hair sat on broad-striped blankets, cross-legged, and laughing at their antics. All the villagers took up the chant, even the men in buckskin leggings, congregating on the edge of the encampment to drop the fruits of their hunting and unsling their weapons. The note of harmony in their music struck so jarringly on Tinker Bell’s mood that she grimaced, reversed tack, and buzzed away. Cautious only to avoid the pirate ship in Neverbay, she tore in the opposite direction, careless of where it would lead, as long as it took her away from the noises of contentment.

Instinct eventually headed her homeward, toward the Fairy Glade. Dusk was falling as she neared it, and she glimpsed the webs of light her cousins wove as they flew about their homes and halls. Patches of buds and tall grasses lit up and dimmed as the lights passed over them, making the glade gay and rippling. The fairy community was enclosed by a ring of toadstools, more symbolic of a magic place than of fencing, as it kept nothing in or out. Fairies were not particular with whom they kept company, providing that the company was merry. Their musical language played on the air and echoed in their hollow tree stumps. Greeted by the sights and sounds of home, the wanderer approached.