Straight On Till Morning

by Liz Braswell

  It wasn’t cold at all.

  She felt like an idiot standing there in such a lovely current, skirts raised like some sort of fainting milksop from a terrible operetta. So she let them drop and strode to shore, pushing against the water. Little fish she couldn’t quite see scooted out of her path.

  The sun pushed its way through the purple clouds and its light grew on the beach strangely and organically, starting out weak and white and then ripening strong and yellow. Wendy cast a final glance back. The ship and she—the only two tall things in an endless flat plain of water and shore—seemed to regard each other in wonder. Then she turned from it and stepped onto land. The dry rattle of coconut palms swaying in the distance filled the air when the sound of the ocean began to recede.

  Wendy had arrived in Never Land.

  The beach sand was crunchy and perfectly golden, like—well, like in a winter Londoner’s wildest imagination. Wendy walked inland watching her feet, her toes curling and spreading into the sensual granules. Halfway to where the shore met the jungle was a perfectly picturesque shipwreck. She clambered up it, holding on to the helpfully curvy trunk of a palm tree for balance. With a hand to her forehead, Wendy surveyed her new kingdom.

  She was perched at what was obviously the edge of a cove, Pegleg Point just to the south and west of her. Despite its scurrilous reputation the place looked downright pleasant. Tiny waves of sparkling aquamarine lapped at the edges and were probably delightful to splash in. Out of sight to the northeast lay Mermaid Lagoon. Off the shore beyond that would be the nefarious Skull Rock, riddled with caves where pirates hid their loot.

  Emptying into the cove was Crocodile Creek, a wide, sparkling rivulet whose source was somewhere in the Black Dragon Mountains (Michael had named them). These were a wild range in the center of the island that grew bleaker and spikier to the northern, or Hyperborean, shore (John had named that). While the closer peaks were green and clear, the farther ones were gray and shrouded in mist and mystery.

  And if one followed Crocodile Creek toward these mountains, through the Pernicious Forest and Quiescent Jungle (both John’s touch), one eventually came to the Hangman’s Tree, hideout for the Lost Boys. But in the very northwesternmost part of the island, there was…

  There was…

  Wendy frowned.

  She couldn’t remember—or she had never described it, or had never dreamed it. Or maybe she had, and then she had forgotten it? There was something there, but it was like it was wiped from her memory completely.

  Or maybe the reverse—maybe it was unimagined yet. And therefore unexplored.

  The sun was a brilliant lemon yellow, the sky a bracing blue. The sea wind whipped Wendy’s hair into an obliging jig.

  Her adventure was beginning! Her quest to find Peter Pan and save Never Land!

  But, truth be told, while she was living the adventure, it didn’t feel like one. It felt horrible. Not at all like the stories she made up. Never Land wasn’t supposed to be actually dangerous. Never Land wasn’t supposed to have murderous grown-ups in it. Pirates shooting each other seemed awfully funny in the context of a bedtime tale, but the blood on the deck had been thick and ugly and she could still hear the way his head had hit the planks. Pirates attacking ladies had never been part of her story.

  And neither was laundry.

  “And that poor pirate,” she whispered. “Zane. What was his story? I didn’t make it up.…What did he mean he was trapped?”

  Never Land was not as simple—or as innocent—as it had seemed. Wendy would have to stay on her toes whilst there. But everything looked just as bright and sunny and perfect as ever. Her shadow was as black and strong against the sand as a child’s drawing, and…

  Wait, was the shadow crossing her arms?

  Wendy looked at her own arms, which were first at her sides, and then snapped to her chest in surprise.

  Her shadow still kept her arms crossed. And was now shaking her head as if to chastise.

  Then she flexed her hand and curled it into a menacing hook. Shadow puppets without the puppets.

  There was no doubt at all what she was trying to say: she was upset with what Wendy had done, selling Peter’s shadow. Of course shadow–Wendy was worried about shadow–Peter Pan. Here she was simply free to express it.

  “He didn’t want his shadow,” Wendy muttered to herself—and her shadow—for the thousandth time.

  She still didn’t believe it.

  Wendy took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Whatever, it was done. She had already dealt with some of the results of her actions and would now see to righting the additional wrongs she had created as a result. She would go find Peter.

  She would save Never Land.

  And if he was angry with her for what she had done—well, she would deal with it and accept it as fair punishment for her actions.

  She hopped off the shipwreck and wandered toward the greenery at the edge of the cove. Trying not to notice or hope that her shadow was coming along and behaving, trying to keep her eyes on the jungle ahead.

  A strange structure untangled itself out of the background like a hallucination, not part of the natural landscape. It was a funny-shaped, almost spherical, green podlike thing woven from living branches of trees and vines. A trellis of flowers hung down over the opening that served as a door.

  Wendy was so delighted tears sprang to her eyes.

  It was her Imaginary House!

  They all had them. Michael wanted his to be like a ship with views of the sea. John had wanted to live like a nomad on the steppes. And Wendy…Wendy had wanted something that was part of the natural world itself.

  She tentatively stepped forward, almost swooning at the heavy scent of the door flowers. Languorously lighting on them were a few scissorflies, silver and almost perfectly translucent in the glittery sunlight. Their sharp wings made little snickety noises as they fluttered off.

  Her shadow made a few half-hearted attempts to drag back, pointing to the jungle. But Wendy ignored her, stepping into the hut.

  She was immediately knocked over by a mad, barking thing that leapt at her from the darkness of the shelter.

  “Luna!” Wendy cried in joy.

  The wolf pup, which she had rescued in one of her earliest stories, stood triumphantly on her chest, drooling very visceral, very stinky dog spit onto her face.

  “Oh, Luna! You’re real!” Wendy hugged the gray-and-white pup as tightly as she could, and it didn’t let out a single protest yelp.

  Although…

  “You’re a bit bigger than I imagined,” Wendy said thoughtfully, sitting up. “I thought you were a puppy.”

  Indeed, the wolf was approaching formidable size, although she was obviously not yet quite full-grown and still had large puppy paws. She was at least four stone and her coat was thick and fluffy. Yet she pranced back and forth like a child, not circling with the sly lope Wendy imagined adult wolves used.

  “You’re not a stupid little lapdog, are you?” Wendy whispered, nuzzling her face into the wolf’s fur. Luna chuffed happily and gave her a big wet sloppy lick across the cheek. “Let’s see what’s inside the house!”

  As the cool interior embraced her, she felt a strange shudder of relief and…welcome was the only way she could describe it. She was home.

  The interior was small and cozy; plaited sweet-smelling rush mats softened the floor. The rounded walls made shelves difficult, so macramé ropes hung from the ceiling, cradling halved logs or flat stones that displayed pretty pebbles, several beautiful eggs, and what looked like a teacup made from a coconut. A lantern assembled from translucent pearly shells sat atop a real cherry writing desk, intricately carved and entirely out of place with the rest of the interior.

  Wendy picked up one of the pretty pebbles in wonder, turning it this way and that before putting it into her pocket.

  “This is…me…” she breathed. She had never been there before, but it felt so secure and so right that it couldn’t have been anyt
hing but her home. Her real home. Here there was no slight tension of her back as she waited for footsteps to intrude, for reality to wake her from her dreams; there was nothing here to remind her of previous days, sad or happy ones. There were no windows looking out at the gray world of London. There was just peace, and the scent of the mats, and the quiet droning of insects and waves outside.

  “Never Land is a…mishmash of us. Of me,” she said slowly. “It’s what we imagine and dream of—including the dreams we can’t quite remember.”

  What an odd thought. “Zane was right. It is an island that knows me better than I know myself.”

  She could easily envision herself falling asleep on the scented mats—adventuring was exhausting work—but she went back outside instead. Luna leapt beside her.

  In the bright sunlight her shadow reappeared, jumping and waving her arms and trying to pull herself away from Wendy again.

  “We are going after Peter Pan. I promise. We’ll certainly need him against Hook and whatever he has planned. But I really don’t know where to even begin looking for him! I suppose we’ll just start. In that direction.” And with that, she strode resolutely ahead, Luna leaping beside her.

  (If she had snuck a look, she might have seen her shadow wag her head back and forth as if making fun of her, then snap back to aping her mistress’s movements—if a little slower and more reluctantly than they were actually performed.)

  Large-leafed plants at the edge of the jungle reflected the sun rather than soaking it up, their dark green surfaces sparkling white in the sunlight. Some of the smaller ones had literally low-hanging fruit, like jewels from a fairy tale. Behind them was an extremely inviting path into the jungle with giant white shells for stepping-stones. And rather than the muggy, disease-filled forests of books that seemed to kill so many explorers, here the air was cool and pleasant and not too moist—although Wendy could hear the distant tinkle of water splashing from a height.

  “Oh! Is that the Tonal Springs? Or Diamond Falls?” Wendy wondered breathlessly. “Luna, let’s go see!”

  She made herself not race ahead down the path, but moved at a leisurely, measured pace. Like an adventuress sure of herself but wary of her surroundings.

  (And yet, as she wouldn’t realize until later, she hadn’t thought to grab her stockings or shoes. Those got left in her hut without even a simple goodbye.)

  Everywhere she looked, Wendy found another wonder of Never Land, from the slow camosnails to the gently nodding heads of the fritillary lilies. She smiled, imagining John as he peered over his glasses and the snail faded away into the background in fear—or Michael getting his nose covered in honey-scented lily pollen as he enthusiastically sniffed the pretty flowers.

  The path continued, winding around a boulder into a delightful little clearing, sandy but padded here and there with tuffets of emerald green grass and clumps of purple orchids. It was like a desert island version of a perfect English meadow.

  “Oh, Luna, isn’t it beautiful? Let’s go see!”

  With the loud snap of a horse rider’s crop a white vine whipped out across the path at her ankles.

  “Oh!” she cried, stumbling forward.

  But she didn’t fall; another vine shot out across her chest. She bounced jarringly into and then off it. This one, too, was ugly and poisonous white—but also slightly sticky. Her dress got caught and so did her throat, already bruised from the impact.

  Another vine whipped behind her so she couldn’t fall backward. Couldn’t escape.

  “What the deuce!” she cried, pulling at the vines. They were tough but stretchy and gave rather than broke under her hands.

  More of them—slowly now, like they had all the time in the world—coiled around her wrists and ankles. Their viscous sap itched and burned where she struggled, and it was an unhealthy scarlet color.

  “No grown-ups allowed.”

  Out of the clearing stepped the speaker of these words, a strange little fellow indeed. He was short and fat and as clear and crystalline as a blob of molten glass. His head was a misshapen oval on top of his body. A peaked crystal hat sat on his head, and he held a sharp shard of a spear. The only color on him at all was his eyes, strange and tan, like two butterscotch candies pressed into the face of a snowman.

  “What?” Wendy asked indignantly, trying to understand the harsh words from the otherwise almost adorable figurine.

  “No grown-ups allowed.”

  He turned to face her, but not like a normal person; more like a cross between an owl and some sort of hideous, broken toy. His body didn’t move. Instead, his head spun smoothly and slowly and farther than it should have until his pupilless eyes locked on hers.

  Probably. It was hard to tell what he was looking at.

  “I am not a grown-up!” Wendy sputtered. “Let me through!”

  “You are sixteen,” the guard said tonelessly. “The time of parties and balls and weddings and husbands has commenced.”

  “It has not commenced,” Wendy said with great dignity. “I’m here in Never Land, aren’t I?”

  The creature’s button eyes didn’t move at all but somehow darkened.

  “You should not be here in Never Land. No grown-ups in Never Land. No fun killers! No bringers of pain and boredom! GET OUT!”

  Wendy blinked at the ferocity of the ridiculous, strangely terrifying little thing. It leaned forward, bringing the tip of its spear perilously close to her stomach.

  Where on earth had it come from? She had never invented any such monster. True, adults didn’t figure in her stories of Never Land except as incidental characters—pirates and their ilk, villains and foils. Never Land was supposed to be an island of endless fun for children like her and Michael and John, but she had never said anything specifically about prohibiting grown-ups or threatening them with spears.

  “You make the days long. You make the food terrible. You make us go to school!”

  Wendy caught her breath in shock, recognizing the tirade. Michael. Michael had horrifyingly once told his own father that he hated him—actually hated him—for making him go to school, where the seats were hard and the lessons worse. And for forcing him to eat their mashed peas.

  Also, now that she thought about it, the shape of the little creature wasn’t unlike something Michael had made out of mud once. Puppin, he’d called it.

  Yes, this whole scenario felt a bit like Michael, now that she thought about it. A crazed, all-powerful Michael.

  “Now, you listen to me—” Wendy began in her best adult voice, as if she were speaking to Michael.

  Bad choice.

  “NO MORE LISTENING!” the thing screeched madly, pushing itself as high and far into Wendy’s face as it could. “YOU GO AWAY NOW. FOREVER. TO FOREVER PLACE!”

  It reached back its arm to hurl the little spear—

  But Luna had had enough.

  She threw herself at the horrid thing. Her claws made little tinging noises as they scraped harmlessly against the crystalline surface. Her teeth slipped from the creature’s neck, unable to get a good hold or sink into real flesh.

  While the creature was distracted by this Wendy took the opportunity to try to free herself. She rocked back and forth as hard as she could against the vines, pushing her arms and legs out as far as they would go. The tendrils gave just enough for her to be able to slip her right hand out. She immediately reached into her pocket and grabbed the stone she had taken from her hut. Summoning as much boy-chucking-rocks-in-a-fountain as she could, Wendy hurled it full-force at the creature’s bulbous crystalline stomach.

  There was a very satisfying crack.

  As soon as the tip of the rock hit its “skin,” giant ragged cracks appeared from the impact point. These rapidly winnowed out through the rest of its body, growing like Jack Frost on a windowpane—but much, much faster.

  The thing’s mouth hung open and it dropped its spear. As the fractures spread it waved its arms back and forth helplessly, like a puppet or a windup toy.

&nb
sp; When the cracks reached its head and became so numerous that its body was almost opaque, the thing exploded.

  Its glittering bits hurled themselves every which way through the dappled sunlight in a beautiful wave of tinkles and pings one might expect to hear from baby angels playing harps.

  Wendy flinched and covered her face. Where a shard hit her skin it immediately melted, running down to the ground with little droplets of her own blood.

  “Well,” she said uncertainly.

  Luna jumped back and forth over the thing’s rapidly disappearing body, barking last warnings and triumph.

  “Goodness,” Wendy added.

  She let herself experience one more moment of shock, then forced herself to focus and work at pulling away the vines. They were unpleasant to touch (and sticky and itchy) but actually not that hard to wrestle out of now that she had one hand free and no distractions. In fact they were strangely like a pair of her mother’s hose the three children had once gotten into massive amounts of trouble for using to tie up Michael when he was “kidnapped by pirates.” Same color, even.

  “Hmm…” Wendy said thoughtfully.

  Then, a little nervously: “I suppose that’s the last of them?”

  Luna barked, and it sounded like an affirmative response, but Wendy couldn’t be certain.

  “I think it was really going to kill me,” Wendy murmured, putting her hand out. The wolf immediately came over and leaned against her friend, sensing her need. “Isn’t it funny…”

  There were a lot of thoughts in Wendy’s head, and none of them were actually funny at all. They weren’t even clear or formed thoughts; just a mishmash of feelings, misgivings, and the unnamed, fetal beginnings of ideas. Not a situation she was used to: possessing a quiet mess of genesis with no articulation. No pronouncements, aphorisms, or decisions came readily to her tongue.

  “Isn’t it funny,” she tried again. “I thought Captain Hook would be the only real villain here. I mean, the only one I would bump into, because of the shadow. And here I have run into a villain I didn’t even know existed…one my brother invented as some sort of protector or savior. It’s not really clear what that thing was, is it? But all of my stories were perfectly clear and straightforward.”