Eve sighed. “Just keep it with you. Don’t let go of it for any reason, alright?”
I nodded, feeling a bit silly for teasing her under the circumstances. Morosely, I wondered if this wasn’t some sort of memento, something for me to take with me to the afterlife. A parting gift for the soon-to-be-departed. If so, at least it was pretty; a girl’s gotta have some standards. “So, what’s next?” I asked, raising my gaze from the pip to Eve.
Except Eve wasn’t there.
In her place was a young girl sitting on the lip of a fountain, seemingly captivated by the pages of the book which lay cradled in her lap. She wore a gray cardigan beneath a blue jacket, her hair tied back with a blue ribbon, though that didn’t stop her frizzy locks from poking out in all directions. Perhaps that’s why she wore a straw hat; it, too, had a ribbon, and partially shaded her face. Crossed at the ankles, her legs were covered by a pair of long white socks which disappeared beneath the curve of her skirt, her shoes so scuffed I couldn’t tell if they’d once been a color other than black.
I spun round, expecting to see the shelf of rocks behind me, but found myself in a different place entirely; the courtyard was a quaint little place, surrounded on all sides by paths leading off into what must have been a park of some sort. Trees, their leaves burnished in shades of autumn, were visible in the distance. The fountain itself was a drab thing, meant more for pigeons to enjoy than people. And yet, the girl didn’t seem to mind; she thumbed another page, biting her lip. I considered waving to her, if only to confirm that I wasn’t dreaming, but she was far too engrossed to notice some strange woman hailing her from a dozen feet away. Better if I approached her, I thought. Maybe she could tell me where I was.
Except I couldn’t. I could turn, even wave, but I was firmly rooted to the spot upon which I stood—as though I were meant to observe, not interfere. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Indeed, now that I thought about it, I realized there was no sound at all; the fountain should have gurgled, the birds chirped, the faint breeze whispered past my ears. I began to panic. What the hell was going on? Where had Eve gone? Was this part of the test? Had it already begun?
I felt a sudden weight in my palm. I found Eve’s seed there and squeezed, reassured that I held it, still. If this was a dream, perhaps that meant it was one in which I had at least some control of. Focus, that’s what I needed to do. I glanced back up, expecting to find the girl sitting alone, still immersed in her book. But she wasn’t alone. A boy, perhaps only a bit younger than the girl, watched her from the other side of the fountain, dressed in what appeared to be rags. The child had that unique color of hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blond or not—streaks of shimmering gold ran between large swathes of auburn. But it was his face I couldn’t look away from. He had a faintly pointed chin and sallow cheeks, his eyes large and round and breathtakingly blue. Overall, there was an impish cast to him that could only belong to a child; as a man, his beard would obscure much of his elfen features. Only the eyes would remain—the eyes of the man who’d patched me up after I fell from the sky.
As I watched, the boy crept across the courtyard, slinking comically towards the girl, whose back was turned to him. Indeed, his steps were so elaborate, so artfully placed, that it seemed alien, somehow. Like a dancer defying the laws of physics for one spectacular leap—except over and over again. It was then I realized why; the boy’s feet weren’t touching the ground. Unable to keep up the game for long, the boy rushed the last few feet, throwing his arms wide, mouth opening in what seemed a silent scream. The girl leapt to her feet and danced backwards, though I could only imagine the sound of her feet skittering across the ground. Her shout of surprise. She began waving the book about manically, jabbing it in the boy’s direction. But he was too busy laughing to notice. He’d doubled over in mid-air, floating on his back like a spider hanging from a web.
Peter Pan, the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up.
The instant I thought his name, it was as if someone hit the mute button a second time; a crescendo of sounds descended, so loud I flinched, taking a step backwards. So, I could move, as well. Good to know, I thought, as I tuned into the situation at hand.
“You can’t keep doing that to me, Peter,” the girl was saying in accented English, her voice deeper than I would have expected for a girl her age, more mature. It made me tick her up a couple years. A teenager, at least. “It’s a dreadful thing to do, sneaking up on a young lady.”
Peter, lounging in mid-air, propped his head up with one hand and yawned. “You’re always telling me what I can’t do, when you know I can do anything I want.” He rolled over, turning his back to the girl.
“Except grow up,” the girl muttered, stuffing her book into a satchel I hadn’t noticed her carrying. She glanced up at the sky and sighed. “Oh well, looks like I’d have been late if you hadn’t distracted me from my book. So I guess I should thank you, really.”
Peter flipped back around, grinning wildly. “Does that mean you’ll come play?”
The girl shook her head. “Not today, Peter.”
“Oh, come on. I’d have you back in no time.”
“Last time you said that, you brought me back so late I had to beg John not to tell our parents. Do you remember what you said to me, then?”
Peter pinched his lips together as though he were trying not to laugh. “I said,” he began, voice breaking with humor, “I said—”
“You said no time means whenever you want it to mean. That if I wanted a specific time, I should have said so,” she declared, sounding cross. “You should know better than to try and pull the same trick on me twice, Peter Pan. You’re not that clever.”
The humor on Peter’s face drained away so quickly it was as if it had never been there at all. In fact, his expression went cold. Inhumanly cold, like those of centuries old vampires or long-lived Fae. Only the really old ones could pull off that level of disdain—as if everyone and everything were beneath their notice. Frankly, to see that look on the face of a boy Peter’s age was more than a bit disturbing. And yet, the girl didn’t seem the least bit fazed; she took one look at him, turned on her heel, and marched off. Straight towards me.
I shuffled out of the way as she passed, though she barely seemed to register I was there. She offered a muffled “excuse me” as she went, pressing one hand to the hat on her head as if afraid it might fly off. A moment later, I saw why: Peter had flown above us and now hovered over her, hands splayed like claws, hoping to snatch it away and lead her on a chase. From where I stood, the girl looked a bit beleaguered, if not worn down completely. It wasn’t hard to understand why, what with Peter Pan playing poltergeist above her head.
After perhaps a dozen feet, she stopped to glare up at the boy. “Peter, go home. I mean it, I’m not in the mood.”
Peter let his hands drop, arms dangling towards her, but without malice. He, too, seemed upset. He wilted a bit, drifting towards the ground. Just before he landed, however, he perked up. “I know! I’ll ask Michael. He’ll come with me.”
“Peter, no!” the girl cried. But the boy was already twenty feet in the air, bathing in a sudden beam of sunlight, radiating joy. The rags, I realized, were formed of leaves and twigs, pasted together with thick slabs of sap, lending Peter a less homely, but infinitely more wild aspect. The girl began running after him, but it was no use; he wasn’t listening. I hurried after her, afraid I’d miss something if I didn’t. Whatever was happening here, something told me these two were the key.
“You can’t keep taking him, Peter,” the girl mumbled to herself, too wrapped up in her own emotions to even notice me. “It’s not safe.” She yanked off her hat, clenching it tight with one fist. “Do you hear me, Peter?! If something happens to him, I’ll never forgive you!”
“It’s all just fun and games, Wendy!” Peter yelled back, fists planted on his hips. I noticed the hilt of a short sword poking out from his left side just as he slid his fingers over the pommel, as if he were subconscious
ly aware of the contradiction. “I’ll have him back in no time!”
And, with that, Peter Pan launched himself forward. He performed a half-dozen barrel rolls, whooping as he went, clearly showing off. Soon, nothing remained of him but a speck in the distance. And yet, there was something of his spirit left behind. I could feel it riding the air—a manic delight that made me want to do something reckless. The only reason I noticed it at all, I think, was because—until recently—I’d always felt that way. Impulse-driven, I’d lacked the inhibitions that governed most people. Over time, of course, I’d learned how to slow down, to think before I acted. I’d never have survived adolescence, otherwise. But it hadn’t come easily, not the way it had for everyone else I knew—those people who thought of self-preservation as part of the human condition.
“I hate you, Peter Pan,” Wendy Darling—for who else could she be—whispered as she donned her hat once more, oblivious to the crease she’d created. “And I wish you’d just leave us alone.”
I almost reached out in that moment. I even tried to speak, though no sound emerged. But I knew it would make no difference; what had happened here—if it had happened at all—had taken place long before I was born. Long before I ever met the man Peter Pan would become. My role here, assuming I had one, was strictly to observe. Which is perhaps why I wasn’t surprised to find that, between one blink and the next, Wendy and the park were gone.
And I’d returned to Neverland.
10
This was not the Neverland I’d left behind, however, but the Neverland of ages past. Looking around, I realized this was how it must have appeared before my time, before the Lost People carved out a space for themselves; I was surrounded by the splayed trunks of banyan trees, their many limbs thrust high overhead, their canopies blocking out all but the faintest golden light. There were no signs of deforestation, no indication that anyone had ever stepped foot here. Not, that is, until I heard the distinct snap of a twig to my right.
I whirled, tracking the sound, and spotted a young man approaching a familiar landmark. Although, among its fellows and bearing none of the trademark elements I’d seen upon my visit, I almost didn’t recognize the Hangman’s Tree. But there was no mistaking it; even now it exuded the slightest air of authority, a humming sort of power I could sense in the air. Now that I knew what I was looking at, my eyes were drawn to the tree as though it had been staged, like a famous painting mounted on an otherwise empty wall. The young man, meanwhile, seemed equally fascinated. He trudged through the undergrowth with a steady determination, and I realized he was humming. It was a shanty—a pirate’s song.
Sensing what I was about to see unfold, I hurried to catch up, glad to find I’d retained my mobility. Soon, I was close enough to observe details, to note the ragged appearance of his brocaded blue jacket, to discern he’d been washed ashore; the stench of salt water and brine lingered wherever he walked, he wore no shoes, and he clearly suffered from an awful sunburn which had blistered his hands and face. Still, despite his youth and sorry condition, I knew who I was looking at the instant I saw his face in profile—if only because he and his son looked so alike.
Captain James Hook, though perhaps not yet a Captain at all, cursed as an errant vine tripped him, sending him sprawling on all fours. A giggle emerged from the eaves, chiming as clearly as a doorbell. Hook rose quickly, producing a small dagger and brandishing it with his right hand. “It’s bad form to laugh at a man when he’s down,” Hook called, scouring the canopy above for the offender. “Come down or be labeled a coward!”
“You talk funny.”
Peter Pan, looking much as I’d last seen him, sat in the crook formed by branching limbs, his head resting against the trunk of the Hangman’s Tree. I’d never seen him look so at home, so at peace, so...comfortable. It took me a moment to realize why; unlike before, Peter seemed to have forsaken his childlike affectations. Or perhaps he’d yet to learn them. Either way, while a manic gleam continued to twinkle behind his eyes, the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up studied Hook with a cool, calculating gaze.
The dagger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The sailor, clearly realizing he was addressing a mere child, bowed. He rose a moment later and ran his hand along his bristled jawline, clearly chagrined. “Sorry about that, my boy. Caught me by surprise, that’s all. Can you tell me where I am, and who I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“I’m Peter. Peter Pan.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Peter Pan.” Hook bowed a second time. “Midshipman Killian Jones, at your service.”
“This is Neverland,” Peter said, jerking a thumb at the Hangman’s Tree. “She’s mine.”
Hook—going by his original name, I gathered—nodded, slowly, the way you might when talking to a crazy person. He spun in a small circle, studying the landscape, then squinted up at the sky. “Any chance Neverland has another name? India, maybe? Africa?” He flicked his gaze to Peter. “Where are your parents, anyway?”
“Parents?”
“Yes. Your mother and father…” Hook drifted off, perhaps noticing for the first time what the boy was wearing. I could practically see the wheels turning in his head—no respectable, God-fearing parents would allow their child to run around on his own, and dressed like a native, no less.
“Neverland wants to know what you mean. What is a mother?” Peter asked, pressing his cheek against the bark of the Hangman’s Tree, which seemed somehow to curve into him, cradling the tilt of his head like a pillow. Had that lip always been there, or had the Hangman’s Tree really just molded itself to the boy?
“I am sorry, my boy, but I need to know if there are any adults around here. Anyone I can speak to who might know where I am.”
“Any what?”
“Adults,” Hook said, patience wearing thin. “Someone older, perhaps taller. Like me.”
Peter laughed. “There’s no one like you around here. Neverland, do you know any adults?” Peter asked, putting an odd stress on the last word, the way you might try to pronounce something obviously foreign. A moment later, Peter laughed. “She says no.”
“Who on earth are you talking to, boy?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “I already told you.” A pause, then another laugh. “Neverland says you could always talk to the mermaids. They live in the lagoon.”
“The what?”
“If not them, maybe the skin-wearers,” Peter continued, pointing off into the distance. “They’re on the ridge.”
“And who are they?” Hook asked.
Peter shrugged.
“Is there anything you do know?”
A grin split the boy’s features. “I know you aren’t what you say you are.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but—”
“You’re a pirate,” Peter said, with relish. “That’s what Neverland said. She told me you stole that coat from a man with his own ship, that you cut him from gut to gizzard. Only now you’re lost, same as the rest.” The boy hopped up so quickly it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. He stood with his hands on his hips, perched on the lip of a single bough in a defiance of gravity. “I think we’re going to have fun together, Jones.”
The Hangman’s Tree seemed to shudder beneath the boy’s feet. He reached out, patting the bark, and whispered something I couldn’t make out. Hook, meanwhile, seemed preoccupied. At first, I thought him simply incredulous; a child he’d never met had just poked holes in his cover story and was currently thwarting physics, to boot. But I quickly disabused that notion as a slow, lazy smile spread across the pirate’s face. “I am not one for games, Peter Pan.”
At that moment, everything—myself included—froze.
Suddenly, voices began thundering overhead—as though there were speakers in the sky, the volume cranked way up. The first was Cathal’s. He sounded anxious, a thin whine trickling through his words. “What’s happening to her?”
“Neverland happened,” Eve replied, brusquely. “She’s latched
on to Quinn, somehow. She’s taken her mind, though I have no idea where.”
“Can you snap her out of it?”
“I don’t know. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Quinn was supposed to initiate the bond. Offer up her blood, lure her in, and establish control. It’s possible Neverland let me think she was weaker than she was. All I know is that if Quinn stays under too long, Neverland won’t let her go. The island will have won.”
“We have to do something.”
“If only Quinn could…”
Eve’s voice drifted away.
I craned my ears, unable to do anything else, wishing I’d caught the tail end of what Eve had said. Maybe then I’d know what to do—how to stop Neverland from playing show-and-tell until I literally lost my mind. What was the point of all this, anyway? Why show me Peter and Hook’s first interaction? Why show me the scene with Wendy?
An emotion flared, so strong it registered in my head as a thought. But it wasn’t my emotion. This was external, coming from everywhere all at once, like a strobe of blinding light. Suddenly able to move, I cringed, recognizing the heady weight of regret—so thick, so cloying it made me want to curl up in a ball and cry. Indeed, I could feel tears slipping down my cheeks. Mine, and yet not mine. Hers.
I found myself spun around as though someone had grabbed me by the shoulders, forcing me to look directly at the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up. That feeling of regret intensified, but—with it—I sensed something else. Something profound and deep, an emotion so lacking in subtlety it hurt: love. So much love. More than I could ever have imagined possible, and not just from this sentient creature, but from anything. Hers was a selfless, inexhaustible fount. In that moment, it was as if I could read her mind, as if I could recall her memories. I could see Peter, again and again, flying off with his friends. I watched him fight. I watched him crow. I watched him play. I mourned with him when things failed to turn out how he wished they would. I leapt for joy when he succeeded. I envied those he chose to spend his time with but never begrudged him their company. When he asked for things from his imagination, I provided them, like the sword he used to sever the hand of the man he called Hook. I changed my shape for him, transforming to become the shelter he needed. I gave him everything he asked for, until one day I could not. I’d become too distracted. I had forgotten my purpose. Peter began to change. To age.
Sea Breeze: Phantom Queen Book 8 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 7