Never, Never (5 page)

“You just sleep outside?” James said, trying very hard to swallow.

“If that's where we fall asleep.” Peter's voice was flattening. James couldn't quite tell if it was from sleepiness or irritation, but something told him it was the latter.

“You don't worry about creatures and such chomping at you in the middle of the night?”

As he said this, a lonesome sort of whistle-howl rang out through the wilderness, and James shivered, even more concerned, if that were possible.

“No creatures wish to eat Pan. And very few would try to eat a Lost Boy under my watch.”

“Very few” was not as comforting a statistic as he wagered Pan thought it was.

“What if you get cold?” James asked as a cool breeze ghosted over his skin.

“Just make-believe you aren't,” said Peter with a sigh, which confirmed James's earlier assumption.

Make-believe he wasn't. Like he'd make-believed with the food. That was a colossal failure, or so his stomach thought. Thus, he did not have high hopes for make-believing he was comfortable. Nevertheless, he tried very hard to pretend that he wasn't chilly and that he wasn't frightened, but just when his eyelids would start to leaden, another crackle or jingle would wake him, or the leaves would start changing colors again. At one point, he swore he could feel a rumble in the earth—a low, hollow beating like a massive drum, as if Neverland itself had a heartbeat. He fidgeted and turned over and over, trying to unimagine that and to unhear the wind, which he knew could not have been softly whispering, “Peter” as it crept through the forest. But that worked about as well as the food debacle. He turned his head slightly to see if Peter was still awake. He was.

“Peter?” He felt a sharp elbow in his side and recoiled, shooting Bibble, who was beside him, a dirty look.

“Yes?”

“Are we meant just to fall asleep out here, by ourselves?”

“That's how we always do.”

James bit his lip, searching the darkness for some sign of comfort, receiving none. “With no mothers to tuck us in?” he said.

James knew that this made him sound very childish, but at this moment, he didn't much care. He cared a bit, however, when Peter turned to him, lips pursed, a dark mood showing on his face.

“Don't say that word, James Hook. We don't speak of mothers here.” There was raw pain and venom in his eyes when he said this, and James was taken aback.

“Don't speak of mothers?”

Bibble's elbow was digging into James's side again, and he wanted to elbow him back, or kick him at least. When Peter sat up and leaned toward him, though, James forgot Bibble and scooted back, wishing he could sink lower into the ground. “You've said it again. Once more and I'll wallop you, James, and don't think I won't.”

James turned back to the stars and sighed deeply, beginning very much to regret his decision to spend his holiday here. He wondered if, perhaps, it was a nicer place in the day, and if the darkness of the sky brought out the darkness in Peter and in Neverland. He desperately hoped that this was true.

To make matters worse, the only image his mind could conjure when he closed his heavy eyes, when it wasn't bombarding him with pictures of hideous beasts and possessed islands, was that of the
Spanish Main
, beautiful, majestic, glorious. Then it was being overrun by little boys who wanted nothing more than to carve up as many pirates as they could before moving along to another adventure. Sometimes, that image was broken up by that of the pirate on the beach. When he'd got closer, James recalled that he'd had exceptionally friendly hazel eyes and little crow's feet around them, likely from smiling. A jolly pirate, then.

For whatever reason, this round of make-believe or memory or whatever you wanted to call it did warm the boy. He smiled lightly, envisioning that peculiar bow the pirate had given him, and drifted off to sleep with the word “Captain” on his lips.

J
AMES WOKE EARLY AND WAS QUITE CONFUSED, HAVING
no idea where he was, part of him having surmised that the previous day's events were nothing more than a dream. But there was definitely a forest floor below him and a canopy above him, and no sign of a feather bed or breakfast or Mother. Then, his present situation came flooding back to him. He stood and yawned, wishing he had a toothbrush, for his mouth tasted foul.

Then, he heard music floating through the trees, and his ears perked up. Peter came prancing into the clearing, a pan flute at his lips, eyes sparkling. Over his shoulder was a makeshift bag of some sort. He put down the flute and said to the boys, “Breakfast!”

They all, James included, looked slightly suspicious until Peter let down the bag from his shoulder, and berries that were so bright they looked as though they were made of colored glass rolled out onto the dirt. James knew right away that this would be the farthest thing from a proper breakfast, so he let go of his dignity and scrambled to the food with the rest of the boys, fairly shoveling the stuff into his mouth. His favorite, he found, when he slowed down enough to focus on flavor, were the white, frosted ones that tasted like peppermint. They were followed very closely by the ones that blinked and changed color, mostly because they changed flavor too, while you ate them.

Pan looked pleased and just stood there watching them with his arms folded. The food quieted the roar of the monster in James's stomach until it was more of a whimper. James chose to be content with this.

After the odd food was all gone, James let his eyes wander, and they came to rest on the flute, which lay on the ground beside the feast. He reached for it, brushing it with his fingertips, curious, but the Lost Boys all gasped at once, and Peter's hand clamped like a trap around his wrist.

James yanked back, eyes wide, but Peter held all the more tightly, grip bruising.

“Don't you touch this,” he spat. “Ever.”

Wind swirled around Peter's ears, blowing his hair up in a way that would have been comical, were it not for the sudden greyness in the air and the horrible salted licorice flavor on James's tongue that rudely drove out the pleasant vanilla.

“I—I'm, ever so, ever so sorry, Peter. I only—”

“Touch it again and you'll lose a hand.” Peter flung James's wrist away and snatched the flute back, turning his back to him.

James sat on his haunches and turned to the Lost Boys, searching for some sign that that reaction had indeed been as absurd as he'd thought. He got no real confirmation. Only a smug shrug from Slightly and somewhat sympathetic nods from Bibble and Bobble.

Suddenly, Peter's head perked up and he tilted it toward the east, or what James guessed was the east. He had no real way of knowing as there were many more suns and moons here than there were in London, and they all just sort of rotated about in the sky.

Peter held out a hand and the boys were instantly silent.

“Do you hear that?”

James didn't hear anything at all. But then, there was a small snap somewhere in the direction Peter was looking.

“Indians,” Peter breathed. The boys were up in a heartbeat. James took another handful of berries and stuffed them into his pocket, then followed along, thankful that something else was the cause of the tension, for once. No matter his misgivings about the way this place was run, he wasn't just going to spend his entire holiday moping about it. He would have as many pleasant adventures as he could here this week, and that meant following Pan and the boys. So, he crept with them through the woods, rather excited to have another adventure so long as it didn't involve killing.

Bibble hung back with him, and when Peter was out of earshot, whispered, “It was a gift.”

“What?” James furrowed his brow. He moved a smidge to the right, as Bibble's too-large proboscis of a nose was brushing uncomfortably against his cheek.

“The flute. It was a gift from his mother, from back when he was little and regular. No one's allowed to touch it.”

James nodded and kept walking, having quite a difficult time imagining Peter as regular in any capacity.

“Bobble did it too, a long time ago. Peter forgot all about it right after; I wouldn't feel too bad.”

James said, “Thanks,” and walked on, keeping in step with Bibble and endeavoring to do so for the remainder of his time here, if at all possible.

The party came to an abrupt halt then. A flare of citrus in the air as Pan jumped in surprise. They, it seemed, were not the only ones who could be sneaky. For though they'd heard scarcely a thing, they found themselves very immediately face to face with the Indians. Their leader was a massive man; he looked like the incarnation of an oak tree. He stood erect, proud—every bit a chief.

“Friend or foe today, Chief?” Pan said.

The man scanned the lot of them slowly, letting his piercing, dark eyes meet each of the boys'. One by one, they let their gazes drop. But, though James was trembling fiercely when he met the other man's eyes, he refused to look away. Instead, he resolved not to blink. He stared at the serious man until a ghost of a smile began to play at the corners of the Chief's mouth.

“There is a new boy among you.”

Pan drew his eyebrows together, almost as though he'd forgotten. Then, he met James's eyes. After a beat, in which James was very uncomfortable, something clicked in Peter's face. “Oh, yes. James Hook.”

The Chief regarded him again, and James continued to stare back. The man was taller than James could have imagined, and not large in the way Slightly was large. Large in a way that dared anyone and anything to provoke him. James guessed that if any creature tried to push him, it would fall backward, fingers broken, and the Chief would still be standing there.

From behind his legs, a little person, a girl who looked to be around six years old, peeked out. Pan smiled at her, and she was entranced by him, eyes huge and shining and very dark, little perfectly bowed mouth set in a wide grin. James smiled as well, and she looked at him for a moment, then returned to her awe of Peter.

“Friends, today,” the Chief boomed.

Pan nodded. James let out a great breath, drawing a suspicious look from the little girl, and beamed. No violence today, then. He'd already faced death the night before and wasn't keen on the idea of doing so again.

The Chief and the rest of his tribe turned around and made their way back to where they came from, and Peter and the Lost Boys stayed where they were. James had his eyes on the little girl, who looked back at him once and
flashed him a toothy and innocent smile. One piece of real childhood in a world that had twisted it all around.

He blinked hard when Peter snapped in front of his face. “Come on, James. You don't want to be left here, do you? The Indians will come straight back across the river and shoot you in the heart.”

James jumped to follow his companions away, unsure if this was exaggeration or the wicked truth, and unwilling to find out for himself.

W
HEN THEY GOT WHERE THEY WERE HEADED
, J
AMES
felt an elation rising up in his chest, and he smiled genuinely. There in front of them was a lagoon, of which the water was blue enough that James hardly believed he was seeing it right. It sparkled as the suns hit it, ebbing and flowing in lazy waves to the shore. James had to stand totally still for a moment and look without blinking in order to fully take it in. There was a massive cave that gaped at its back. Around it, trees James could only describe as weeping willows—though that wasn't quite right—bowed, ever-changing leaves caressing the shores and fluttering down into the water. What was even better than the lagoon's sparkling serenity and quiet beauty was its inhabitants. They were beings of pure grace and loveliness—mermaids.

They laughed at one another and dove in and out of the rich blue water, splashing and chattering. The bottoms of them were made of fish scales that caught the light in an indescribable way, and tails that flitted and flopped, spraying up water wherever they went. The tops of them were human and lovelier still than the scales. Every one of them had long flowing hair of all manner of bizarre
colors that looked as though it was painted; it was too beautiful to be real. But, everything in Neverland seemed too
something
to be real. Too beautiful, too horrible, too fantastic, too savage.

Peter whooped and ran full speed at the lagoon, leaping into the water without hesitation. (James was coming to realize that his companion did everything without hesitation.) James and his fellows followed suit, ripping off their shirts and diving into the lagoon after him.

The water was cold enough to cool the boys down and warm enough not to feel like an ice bath. James noticed upon closer examination, then, that only the dry mermaids, the ones sun-bathing up on the rocks, had skin anywhere, and even then, only on the bone-dry parts of their bodies. The ones in the water were covered in thin, iridescent scales from their faces to their tails. The scales didn't detract from their beauty; rather, they added to the drama of the creatures. And another strange thing. The mermaids, whom he had so been looking forward to meeting since Peter had mentioned them back in Kensington, scattered away from him and the boys, and most were congregated around Peter. Peter lay up on a massive rock in the middle of the lagoon, grinning as they fawned over him, caressing his hair, cooing in his ear, laughing with him, whispering to him. But they gave the rest of the lagoon's temporary occupants looks that could freeze the water around them.

James focused on the boys and on splashing about and enjoying the day, deciding that for the better part of his holiday, he would focus only on Neverland's pleasantries and not on her faults. Eventually, though, the mermaids were not satisfied with paying Peter heed and freezing out the boys. One by one, they vacated the monstrous rock where Peter sat and splashed into the water in sprays
of glitter, bodies colorfully scaling over as they drenched themselves. Part of James was happy at this, but the other part of him had a deep sense of foreboding.

The mermaids bobbed up and down in the pool, as mermaids do, and eventually came close enough to the boys to touch them. One was floating right within arm's reach of James, and she was smiling coyly at him. He thought that she was perhaps the loveliest creature he had ever beheld. But, then she dove into the water, splashing him in the face and bumping hard into him with her tail. He cried out, surprised and in a small bit of pain. He was quite sure that a bruise was forming already.

Then, several others followed suit, bumping and splashing around him until he was having trouble staying afloat. Several of the other boys had already got out of the pool, but James was unsure how to go about doing this. It was difficult to think with the water spraying into his face and the bodies bumping against him, and eventually he couldn't stay afloat any longer. He felt himself being pulled under the water and started to panic. A stab of fear coursed through him, for he found he had no idea which way was up. He was flipping and turning and rolling frantically, lungs burning, eyes stinging, thoughts blurring the longer he was under.

Then, there were several small hands on his back, yanking him to the shore. He felt himself being flung out of the water and lay there for a little while, coughing, sputtering, not eager to open his eyes. When he finally did, though, Tootles, Slightly, and the twins were staring, wide-eyed, at him.

“He lives!” shouted Bibble, and Slightly wiped at his pale brow, flinging a spray of sweat across the shore. Pan came skipping over to them. He looked perplexed. Not concerned, relieved, or alarmed. Just perplexed, as
though he'd not realized anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

James shut his eyes, wondering how it was that, in Neverland, he was facing death daily, though, admittedly, he wasn't sure “day ”was the right word. It seemed that they didn't keep time here. Maybe it didn't exist at all; James didn't know. Either way, there had been some sort of night, and today felt longer than yesterday, but it
was
marching forward as regular days tended to do. It was of little consequence. He'd only been here one night and two days, but there, lying on the grass, James felt a strange sense of urgency. Perhaps his little holiday had lasted long enough.