As The Tiger prowled into the swirling dark, it seemed to Wendy that all her senses came alive. The heat of the southern climate closed in around her, stifling her as it never had before. She heard every creak of wood, every gentle lap of the sea against the hull. She felt the tension in the men around her, coiling in their bodies, preparing to fight.
And when the fog finally reached her, she sensed that, too. She felt its cool caress against her cheek. She tasted the salt of it. And she smelled just the slightest hint of green. Nana growled quietly, but Wendy shushed her. This was not the scent of Peter Pan or the everlost. It had no form. No direction. It was simply all around them. It was the scent of the fog itself.
And the fog enveloped them.
From where she stood, next to Charlie at the helm, the front third of the ship had disappeared. She could barely see the foremast, let alone the lookout standing at the bow. Without Peter’s compass, they would not have been able to navigate at all. She held it open where Charlie could see it, and he kept them moving forward through the dark, swirling shroud, which seemed to Wendy more like a thundercloud than a fog.
She reached out her free hand and moved it slowly through the air, letting thin tendrils drift between her fingers, while Peter’s voice spoke in her memory: “I bet you’ve never touched a cloud!” She shuddered, just a little, and let her hand fall back to her side.
Their eyes were all but useless, so they strained their ears instead, listening for any sign that they were not alone. The creak of another hull. The snap of another sail. The metallic click of pistols being made ready, or the muffled sound of muskets being loaded. But they heard none of these. Only the thin wail of a seagull, crying somewhere ahead, in the dark.
A seagull! Wendy thought to herself. Neverland!
Hook, of course, had the same thought. (Or, at least, the land bit. The presence of seagulls indicated land up ahead, but the nature of that land remained to be seen.)
“Sounding line, Mr. Smee,” Hook ordered in a whisper.
“Aye aye,” Smee answered, just as softly. He scuttled away toward the bow until he disappeared from view. It wasn’t long before they heard the distinct sound of a chain being lowered into the water. Then silence. Then a quiet rattling as the chain was retrieved. Another silence. And then the chain being lowered once more.
But measuring the depth of the seabed does little good when you don’t know the shoreline. Rock outcroppings hidden beneath the waves can dash a ship to pieces without any warning. And with no visibility, a ship can sail straight into the plunging cliffs of land while still in deep waters. So they crept forward slowly. Carefully. As the fog stretched on and on.
Until finally, after what felt like an eternity, the bow reappeared in a soft halo of golden light. The ship brightened. The fog cleared. And suddenly, they were through.
The gray veil now hung behind them, and before them lay the sun-bright shores of Neverland, its emerald green foliage and pearl white beaches stretched out upon a turquoise sea.
“Neverland,” Wendy breathed.
“Back into the fog, Mr. Hawke,” Hook ordered at once.
“Aye, sir,” Charlie replied, without hesitation.
Wendy held her tongue, but her left eyebrow was already hoping for explanations.
“Circumnavigate the island,” Hook continued, speaking to Charlie, his voice pitched soft and low. “Keep to the outer edge of the fog. We’ll use it to our advantage. Get the full lay of the land before we come out into the open.”
“Aye, sir,” Charlie said again.
Wendy stared wistfully at the shore, but she knew it was a reasonable plan. More than reasonable, given the everlost attack that had crippled The Dragon and The Cerberus. Still, that didn’t mean she had to like it.
One more day, she reminded herself. Perhaps two, at the most. We’ve found it. We’ll be ashore soon enough. And there’s still a patient to attend.
The very thought of Nicholas sobered her. She had forgotten all about his condition for a moment, but now the guilt came flooding back and her excitement fell away. Neverland had cost them so much already. What greater price would they pay before it was over?
With one last, pensive glance at the island, she turned and headed below.
Unfortunately, Nicholas wasn’t any better. If anything, he seemed worse. His fever had risen, and the redness had spread. Wendy took her evening meal in the infirmary, doing what she could for him. Cooling him with seawater. Bringing him fresh water to drink when he was aware enough to swallow it. Moistening his lips when he wasn’t.
Thomas promised to stay the night with him, and Wendy finally returned to her quarters with Nana pacing faithfully behind, the dog’s head hanging low in silent commiseration.
“We must do something, Nana,” Wendy said quietly, once they had settled in. She sat near the head of her small bunk with Nana’s monstrous form lying next to her, taking up most of it.
As for Nana, she had no idea what to do for Nicholas, but she was more than willing to try anything Wendy suggested. She placed a paw on Wendy’s leg in solidarity.
“Thank you, Nana,” Wendy said, sighing a little, and she stroked the dog’s head, looking down at her fondly. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what to do either. I’ve looked through every medical book on the ship, but there’s nothing useful in any of them. The only thing I know that could help Nicholas now is Peter. And even if we could find him, we could hardly bring him here, now could we?”
Nana raised her head. She didn’t know anything about bringing Peter or not bringing Peter, but Wendy had sounded hopeful for just a moment, and Nana wanted to be supportive.
“What, Nana?” Wendy asked her. “What is it?”
Nana looked back at Wendy with complete and utter confidence. Her mistress would think of something. She always did. And sometimes, that’s all a good idea needs to be born into this world: for someone else to look back at it with complete and utter confidence.
Suddenly, Wendy felt it coming. Her back straightened, and her eyes darted about the room—up and to the left, then sideways to the right, ready to pounce on the idea as soon as it landed. She must have caught it on the desk, because that’s where she was staring when she said what she said next.
“Nana, that’s it! We don’t have to bring Peter here. We only need his blood!”
Nana cocked her head to one side, listening intently.
“No, don’t worry,” Wendy assured her. “We won’t hurt him. Remember how he saved poor Reginald? Just two drops of blood. His thumb healed right up again, and it saved poor Reginald’s life. I’m sure Peter would do it if we asked him!”
Nana’s tail thumped against the foot of the bunk. She didn’t fully understand the plan, but Wendy seemed happy, which was all that mattered.
“We’ll need something to carry it in,” Wendy continued. “I’m sure we can find something in the infirmary. We’ll look tomorrow while Thomas is at the mess. Then we’ll borrow a rowboat and sneak off to the island tomorrow night. We’ll follow our noses to Peter. But we can’t tell anyone, Nana. Especially not the captain. He’d never let us go, and we can’t get any of our friends in trouble.”
When Wendy said the word “captain,” Nana growled a little in the back of her throat.
“Now, now, Nana. It’s not his fault. Captain Hook would only keep us here to protect us. He would never hurt Nicholas on purpose. But we know what Nicholas needs, don’t we. So we’ll just have to take care of it ourselves.”
Nana fell silent and dropped her head back onto the bunk. But she hadn’t been growling at what Wendy said. She had been growling at the faint shuffle she heard outside the door, and at the scent of a certain man with dark eyes, a button nose, and an unusually wide mouth.
A man Nana did not like at all.
eanwhile, Hook sat at his desk, writing in his journal as best he could. The penmanship of his left hand had become easier, over time, but it still felt awkward. Cumbersome. It reminded him of what he had lost.
As a result, this was not a duty he enjoyed. It was important, so he did it. But it tended to put him in a bad mood.
Still, at least for tonight, there were happier thoughts on his mind.
Neverland! he wrote.
After all this time, is it possible we have arrived? Have we, at long last, discovered the island homeland of our enemy? Our hopes are high, but nothing is certain, nor shall it be until we have seen the truth of it with our own eyes. We must proceed with caution. Even if our suspicions are correct, the ship lies in dangerous waters. We shall remain—
Here, he paused. We shall remain what? he wondered. He had almost written cautious, but he had used caution already. Alert? Perhaps, but it didn’t carry the proper weight. He was considering vigilant when he was interrupted by a sudden rapping at the door, and now we shall never know what it was they were going to remain. (Although we might reasonably assume they were going to remain all three.)
“Yes, what is it?” he barked. His hair hung loose, as was his habit in the evenings, even aboard ship. He set down his quill pen and ran his good left hand through it, ink stains and all, then looked up from his journal. He scowled when he saw who it was.
Mr. Smee closed the door behind himself and stood with his head slightly bowed. He held a rag in his hands, fidgeting at it with his fingers.
“Begging your pardon, Captain,” he said, “but I have a report.”
“From Mr. Hawke?” Hook shifted his weight as though he were about to rise. “Have we found something?”
“No, sir,” Smee blurted out. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s nothing like that. It’s just … I’ve overheard something. Something I thought you should know.”
Hook sighed and sat back in his chair. For that one brief moment he had appeared energetic. Alert. (Or, perhaps, vigilant.) But now it disappeared from his countenance, and he stared at Smee coldly.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded.
“It’s … it’s about Miss Darling, sir.”
Hook’s jaw thrust forward, and his eyes narrowed dangerously, but he said nothing. After a long moment, Smee gulped and forged ahead.
“I overheard her plotting to steal a rowboat, sir. Tomorrow night. She intends to row to the island to find Pan. I believe she’s in league with the enemy. Sir.”
“Plotting with whom?” Hook snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir?” Smee asked.
“With whom, Smee—plotting with whom? Surely Miss Darling doesn’t intend to row herself to the island. I doubt she’s ever rowed any sort of vessel in her life. I doubt she would even know how.”
“With …” Smee’s fingers moved more quickly over the rag. “I believe she was speaking to her dog, sir.”
If Smee had expected outrage, that wasn’t what he got. The captain sat up straight and furrowed his brow. Then he rested his hook on the right arm of his chair, planted his left forearm on the table before him, and leaned forward with a look of such confusion that even Smee began to doubt his own report.
“She was plotting …” Hook said, pausing for effect, “with her dog.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir,” Smee mumbled. “There might have been someone else with her, I suppose. Now that you mention it, I’m sure there was.”
“Did you hear anyone else, Mr. Smee?”
“No, sir. No, I didn’t. But I wasn’t there for very long.”
“You weren’t where, exactly?”
“Outside her quarters, sir. I was just passing by. And I heard her speaking. She said they would steal the rowboat, whoever they are. And then she said, ‘We’ll follow our noses to Peter.’”
“We’ll follow our noses to Peter,” Hook repeated quietly.
“Yes, sir,” Smee affirmed.
But Hook was no longer listening. Instead, he was entertaining two ideas, one immediately following the other. The first was that there were only two noses on the entire ship capable of smelling magic, so Wendy Darling had, in fact, been talking to her dog. There really was no end to the strangeness of that woman.
The second idea was this: She could follow her nose to Peter. And Peter would never suspect her.
“Mr. Smee, you will say nothing of this.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. Absolutely nothing. And you will do nothing to stop her.”
“Aye, sir,” Smee replied, looking disappointed.
“Tell Mr. Abbot and Mr. Bennet to report to my quarters at once.”
“Aye, sir!” he agreed, sounding a little more hopeful.
“And, Mr. Smee.”
“Aye, sir?”
“I find it terribly convenient that you happened to be passing by Miss Darling’s quarters in the exact moment that she made this confession.”
“Very convenient. Aye, sir,” Smee agreed.
“No, Mr. Smee. You misunderstand me, so let me be clear. In the future, you shall not hover outside Miss Darling’s door. That’s an order.”
“Aye, sir,” Smee grumbled.
“Then you are dismissed.”
Miss Darling was still an Englishwoman under his protection. An odd one, to be sure, but a woman nonetheless. He didn’t want his men getting any ideas. And besides, this would all be over soon enough.
He was about to set the perfect trap for Peter Pan.
verything was ready.
Or, at least, Wendy believed everything was ready. One can never be certain, which is the very nature of planning. At some point, one must simply forge ahead. Still, Wendy had prepared as best she could, which is essential to every worthwhile venture, even those that don’t proceed as we intended.
She had commandeered the necessary specimen vials from the drawers in the infirmary. She had strapped her sword to her hip, as she always did. She had tucked Peter’s compass safely into her bag, and she had filled two leather-covered bottles with fresh water, just in case.
She had also squirreled away a healthy supply of silver bullets for her musket and pistols, with plenty of lead ammunition besides, along with the necessary powder. She hoped not to need any sort of bullets, silver or otherwise, but it seemed wise to have them along. Who knew what dangers lay ahead, on the shores of Neverland?
Satisfied with her packing, she sat next to Nana and waited for the last rays of sunlight to fade from the sky.
And waited … and waited.
The aching slowness of the planet as it turned within the heavens gave her plenty of time to think. Too much, in fact. Unoccupied time is the richest of soils—the slumbering earth in which our dreams and our fears grow best—and as Wendy sat on the little bunk in her stateroom, an insidious vine of doubt crept up her spine to brush the back of her neck, taunting her with its gentle persistence.
She had noticed, for example, during the long night before, that she had seen no lights on the island. Not even one. But this was Neverland. She had expected the phosphorescent dance of the innisfay. The haunting song of the sirens. Ethereal midnight pageantry beneath the stars. She had expected a dazzlement of fairy lights skating just beneath the waves, or perhaps trailing up the slopes of the stony peak that loomed above the jungle in the distance.
Instead, she had seen nothing.
At the very least, she had expected to see a hint of gas lamps, sparkling through the greenery. Or fires. Any kind of light to mark the presence of thinking, rational minds. Instead, there was only the dark, lumbering suggestion of the island itself, blocking out the stars on the horizon—a lonely sentry in the midst of the vast ocean—and only the moon reflecting upon the sea.
Needless to say, this was troubling.
“Perhaps they are very deep within the jungle,” she said quietly to Nana, stroking the dog’s neck for reassurance. “Or perhaps they can see well enough by the moonlight. That would explain it.”
Nana wuffed softly, but not at Wendy. The dog lifted her head and whined, and then Wendy heard a knock at the door.
She scrambled to hide her pack, stuffing it into the sea chest and securing the latch. Then she stood, smoot
hed down her vest, and walked the two short steps to the door. No matter who it was, even if it was Hook himself, anything would be better than sitting still and worrying for even one moment longer.
But then it occurred to her that it might be Thomas, or John, or Michael, come to tell her that Nicholas had taken a turn for the worse. Or, what if he … she couldn’t even think it. And all before she had had the chance to find Peter and make it right.
She took a deep breath and opened the door to find John and Michael standing there together, looking distinctly uncomfortable. A surge of fear tightened in the small of her belly, and her hands began to tremble.
Michael glanced at John as if to say, “You’re the ranking officer. You tell her,” and a tear formed in Wendy’s left eye.
“Nicholas?” she barely managed to whisper.
“Sorry?” John had been about to say something else, but now he closed his mouth, furrowed his brow, and tilted his head slightly to the right, clearly puzzled. He had planned out his speech very carefully, but it didn’t involve Nicholas in any way, leaving him no idea how to proceed.
Michael, however, understood immediately.
“No!” he blurted out. He leaned forward and shook his head, holding Wendy’s gaze. “Nothing like that. The boy’s condition hasn’t changed, as far as I—” He glanced back at John. “I mean, as far as we know.”
“Ah,” John said. “No, nothing like that.”
Wendy exhaled sharply, only then realizing she had been holding her breath.
“Well, come in, both of you,” she told them.
“Come in?” John asked. “That doesn’t seem …” His words trailed off. In the entire year Wendy Darling had spent at Dover Castle, not one of the men had ever entered her private quarters, not even with a chaperone.
The Navigator Page 5