by Liz Braswell
“Er, lovely, Cap’n.”
Zane let his eyes roam over the rest of the desk, which was covered with black leather-bound books, scrolls written in what appeared to be Greek, and one particularly hideous tome labeled The Necronomicon.
“I knew you would like it.” Hook grinned smugly and chomped down on the upper cigar of the twin cigarillo holder he sported.
“Yes, Cap’n. Amazing, Cap’n. So the boys were kind of wondering when…ah…all this would be over? It’s a lovely spring day, sir, and we’ve got a cracking breeze. Perfect weather for despoiling a port or two.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I feel it, too, Zane,” Hook said with a sigh, looking nostalgic. “This sort of air reminds me of when I was a young man, skewering a few of the queen’s finest. But you know, work first, play later.”
The pirate was on the one hand relieved by this answer from the intemperate Hook. He had expected to be fired upon, or stabbed—or worse, to sit through one of the screaming, incoherent lectures the captain of the Jolly Roger so enjoyed.
On the other hand, the seemingly random tempers of Hook were actually quite predictable. This behavior was not, and therefore terrifying.
Knowing he was dangerously tweaking the crazy, Zane nevertheless persisted. He had drawn the short straw, after all, and pirates did keep to their code.
“Ahh…and what work would that be, Cap’n?”
“Why, finding Peter Pan, of course!” Hook said, laughing at his crew member’s idiocy. “Once we have him I can put my final plans into action. He must be there to watch the destruction of Never Land, of course. I mean, if we’re short on time I could just…leave him to his and everyone else’s fate. But that would be missing the point, wouldn’t it? It would be revenge, but lacking finesse. Anyway, one way or another, after that we’ll be free to do whatever we want. Maybe we’ll upset the power structure in a small Caribbean island nation. That might be a nice change, eh? A little civil war and revolución for the masses? Roast some pigs, party like it’s 1699?”
“That sounds lovely, Cap’n. It’s just that the crew…well, this…work of capturing Pan seems to be dragging out a bit.…”
He continued quickly, seeing the look on Hook’s face.
“And this whole involvement ye have here with shadows and black magic—it ain’t right, sir. It ain’t right or wholesome. That’s the way of witches and sea sorcerers. We none of us signed up for a sea sorcerer as a captain, sir.”
He swallowed but held steady. That was the truth, plain and simple.
“Ah, well, I suppose I could see your issue with that,” Hook relented, tapping his chin thoughtfully with his hook. “But shadows—what can you do? There is no other way to deal with them other than black magic. They are…literally…black.
“But you’re right about things dragging out a little long. Time’s a ticking, Zane. You can practically hear it. That foul beast of a crocodile is nearly upon me. We don’t have forever, you know. The sooner we get this done the sooner we can move on with our lives. I have to rid the world of Peter Pan and his silly Never Land friends before we can all be free.”
Zane sighed.
The captain of the Jolly Roger was somehow both more reasonable and more insane than ever. There was nothing that could be done besides mutiny—and who was going to try a mutiny against a psychotic, hooked captain who now knew black magic and had captured the power of a shadow?
“What if,” the pirate begged, “what if we went after some other annoying lad—one of the other Lost Boys, maybe? Or someone else entirely? Someone close and easy to grab? Then you can do whatever you want to Never Land and we’ll all be on our way.”
Hook laughed. “Well, what would be the point of that? This is revenge, Alodon. Peter Pan must see what happens to everything he loves and perhaps just die on his own—of a broken heart.”
Zane ground his back teeth in frustration.
He tried a different course.
“You know…some would say your chasing after Pan isn’t actually about revenge, sir.”
“Oh? What else would it be, then?” the captain growled, holding up his hook. Despite his growing lunacy, he kept it regularly sharpened and polished; it glittered even in the low light of the lantern.
“Well, some would say—not me, necessarily, Cap’n—but some might say it’s less about revenge and more about…well…chasing your own youth, sir.”
Hook stared at him. In the dim hold, the two regarded each other silently for a long, awkward moment.
“What in blazes is that supposed to mean?” the captain finally demanded.
“Well, it’s like this, Cap’n. Peter’s young and adventurous and can fly, sir. And you can’t never catch him, he’s always receding from you, as it were, sir. Like youth. And also, he cut off your hand, which might could be looked at as representative of the end of your prowess with a sword, and—”
“OH, SHUT YOUR BLOODY NONSENSE UP!” Hook roared, standing up and throwing the desk over. As the books tumbled and he pulled out his flintlock, Zane felt a strange sense of relief. This was the sort of ending he expected.
“I ought to shoot you in the head, you insane, Freudian dimwit,” Hook growled. “We’re only Jungians on this boat, you know. I can see all this focus on Peter Pan has made you a bit loony.”
“Me… ? Loony? Focused on Peter Pan… ?”
But Hook wasn’t even paying attention.
“Well, maybe we could all use a break,” he said with an air of giving up. “A bit of R & R might do you and the crew some good. And, as it happens, although Peter’s shadow is leading us almost directly south, I have a bit of an errand to get done first, at Skull Island.”
Zane’s face lit up. “Skull Island! The boys’ll love that! We can dig up some casks we hid there, have a right party. That’ll get you back to feeling yourself, sir.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you and the crew can have an evening. I need to work. To prepare for my final showdown with Peter.…”
Hook’s eyes flicked to a pile in the corner. It was almost indistinguishable from the other pirate bric-a-brac he chose to collect: pianofortes, urns, snuffboxes, an evil-looking and sinuous black dagger. But there were several tightly capped quarter-casks with what looked like three Xs stamped on their sides, and a pile of rope or fuse.
There was also what looked like a broken-up clock.
Hook saw the surprise on Zane’s face.
“Oh yes, I know. Usually I hate the dratted things. But it’s just one last clock,” the captain mused quietly. “The last clock. For Skull Island.”
“All right, Cap’n. Whatever. I’ll go tell the crew about landing at the island. They’ll be happy to hear it.”
But Hook was already picking up the desk and frowning at his drawings.
“If you see Mr. Smee, send him in here. That rascal’s been missing all morning and I haven’t had my tea yet.”
Zane sighed again, shook his head, and prepared to deliver the tiny bit of good news to the crew.
The sky above the jungle grew darker and lighter at the same time, shades exchanging depth and brightness. It took Wendy a moment of watching through the hole in the tree to realize what was happening: the storm was clearing up, the clouds were dissipating and leaving a streaky just-washed sky. A night sky, bright with stars and a moon that hadn’t risen yet. Or moons. Still inky; the world lay in shadow.
“Well, this is rather beautiful,” Wendy said, pushing her way up and out of their den. The forest looked like it was covered in pixie dust—and transformed in other indescribably mysterious ways as well. A very un-tropical and refreshing breeze blew. The air smelled delightful and fresh; there was no heavy undercurrent of the rot or foul sweetness that usually permeated the forest floor.
Winged things began to come out of their hiding places. Giant birds flapped heavily overhead like geese (if geese had four wings). Night singers, invisible in their slick black feathers, called out to each other tentatively. Insects began to chirp and scrtch.
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One particularly wondrous Never Land creature hummed up right in front of Wendy. It looked like a very, very, very large carpenter bee…if that bee had a thorax the size and shape of a wine glass. Its wings, strangely geometric and crystalline, looked too small to be able to lift such a load. A pair of long legs hung out in front mirrored by a pair of tiny feelers above. Large faceted eyes stared dumbly ahead.
As Wendy watched, its bulb-thorax flickered and slowly lit up.
Not like a fire or an electric light, but more dimly, and sort of black-and-white, like a photograph.
Deep within this glow images began to appear.
A hazy blur resolved itself into a mermaid—perhaps even one of those Wendy had encountered—brushing her hair in the lagoon. Again and again and again. The little play looped around to the beginning again like a circle of yarn in cat’s cradle. Sometimes it went in reverse and the mermaid’s hair fell up in strokes.
Tinker Bell was rising in the night air along with the other creatures, stretching and looking a little grumpy. She was not, by any account, a nocturnal fairy.
“Tinker Bell! What is this creature?”
The insect flew very slowly and Wendy was able to move around it, regarding the thing from every angle. Also like a carpenter bee it seemed more interested in hovering than actually going anywhere with purpose or direction.
Tinker Bell made a bored, disgusted face.
It’s a thysolit. They’re stupid. Barely alive. Dangerous.
“Oh! Dangerous!” Wendy backed away from it immediately. The amount of poison in a stinger from a thorax that size would be enough to kill an army.
No, not like that, Tinker Bell said, yawning. They…suck you in. Not you. Not everyone. Those who pay too much attention. Poison the mind, not the body. If you’re that kind of person. And if you rouse a whole colony they get you.
“But I won’t get stung?”
No.
As if to illustrate, Tinker Bell approached another one of them that was just taking off from the ground and threw herself against it, hard. The insect fell to the side, confused, then shook itself and continued on its original path.
“Oh…” Wendy approached closely to see if it was all right—then peered at its images. These were of the same lagoon, but a different part of it. No mermaids, just lapping water and what might have been the fin of a fish about to surface, again and again and again.
More thysolits rose, buzzing drowsily and drifting into the sky like silky seedpods. Wendy walked among them, enchanted.
“But what is going on with their—derrieres? What are they showing?”
Anything. A moment of time from somewhere in Never Land. They collect them. Usually they’re only a few hours old.
The next one Wendy saw had a monkey swinging from vine to vine across a high stream that fell down into the lagoon. The one after that showed Hangman’s Tree.
“Oh, look, Tinker Bell! It’s the hideout!”
And in fact, another one had a loop of the Lost Boys themselves (and Luna), sitting around the table and eating a plum pudding they had gotten from who knows where.
The next thysolit showed a placid beach, a scurrying crab. The next one showed an empty sea.…
“And the pirates!” Wendy cried as the Jolly Roger came riding quickly through the waves.
Tinker Bell jingled impatiently. So? We should go! They are probably looking for Peter!!
“No, wait,” Wendy said, twirling around and searching all the other bees. “It seems like these creatures fly in clusters. Like they gather their moments together. There’s always a number of the scenes that take place at the same spot. If we can find all the ones related to this moment, maybe we can see where the pirates are, or what they are up to!”
Tinker Bell thought about that for only a second before nodding. She began to zoom around the creatures, checking their sides with as much grace and care as an American cowboy searching the flanks of his herd for the right brand.
That is, not very delicately.
Wendy was still a little hesitant about just grabbing and handling the insects. She resorted to glimpsing and ducking and weaving and saying excuse me when the situation warranted a gentle pushing-out-of-the-way. Dozens of them were now aloft. Their lights blinked on slowly, one by one, like stars coming out in a hazy summer night.
Some of their scenes took a moment to figure out: one was the black eye of a large animal, blinking; in another, a set of children who weren’t the Lost Boys danced and cavorted on a hilltop, ribbons round their heads and streamers flowing from their hands and toes.
Tinker Bell jingled loudly and excitedly. Wendy looked up and saw that the fairy was steering a bee from behind, flying it toward her friend.
This one showed a close-up of the prow of the Jolly Roger. While the view wasn’t far enough back to give them any geographical information, what it did show was interesting—and disturbing. It looked as though the pirates had hung a sort of cage off the front of the ship. The thing was extremely nasty-looking, covered on the insides with spikes and barbs and other horrid implements.
And inside this cage was a dark, oily figure that could only have been Peter’s shadow.
Watching over it was Hook, unmistakable even at that distance in his bright red coat.
“What are they doing? It looks like they’re torturing him!” Wendy took the bee into her hands without thinking, trying to get a better look. She had to resist shaking it to see if that would help.
What is the cage for? Why are they suspending it over the water?
“I don’t know—is it to threaten the shadow with drowning, I wonder? Or are they…are they using him somehow to power the ship? Or maybe…” She spun around, letting that thysolit go and running back to where Tinker Bell had first found it. Now she batted the creatures carelessly in her zeal to find the right one. “Let’s see…water, more water, no. Oh—I know that face,” she said, seeing a surprised and angry-looking pirate in one, as if the bee had almost knocked him in the nose. “Ziggy. Interesting fellow. Sewed a patch on for him, sort of a lightning-shaped one. Look—a beach! With rocks! Tinker Bell, does this look familiar to you at all?”
Tinker Bell watched the rolling waves and strangely shaped boulders rewind and replay. She shrugged.
That could be anywhere on the eastern coast. If the thysolit is following the boat or the pirates, though, they are heading south.
Wendy frowned. “Why? Do they know where they are going? Did they somehow get the shadow to tell them where Peter is, do you think? Is that why they are torturing him?”
Tinker Bell shrugged again. But her brow was furrowed with worry. She made a little flying-off gesture with her fingers: we should go.
“Yes, of course. Peter’s shadow is in more peril than ever—and Never Land as well. Let’s be off.” And Wendy turned to launch herself into the air.
But…
A thysolit drifted by with an unusually dreary image in its thorax. Almost entirely black-and-white and grainy, the interior of a dull house. Somehow the room seemed both vacant and cramped at the same time. There was an un-set table. Two ghostly figures sat at it. One looked like he was about to say something—but didn’t.
“Michael! John!” Wendy cried.
She grabbed the next closest bee and peered desperately into its bulb. A misty view of the street the Darlings lived on, at dusk or dawn, empty of people.
“Tinker Bell! You said these thysolits only gathered moments in Never Land. How are they showing me London?”
She caught another one, her fear of the supposedly dangerous things now entirely gone as she tried to find another view of home.
Wendy…Tinker Bell jingled warningly. We have to go. Stop. This is what they do.
“But Michael and John! They looked so sad! Do you think they miss me? How much time has passed there since I left? Oh, do let me find just one more.…”
As she searched among the bees for more images of her brothers, she was vaguely aware of the in
sects’ growing numbers. The air was filled with the pleasant hum of their ridiculous little wings. It was hard to see anything now, much less take a close look at their behinds.
Wendy! Tinker Bell jingled. Your brothers are fine! They’re distracting you! Poisoning your mind!
“Don’t be silly. I feel fine. Oh, look, it’s the Shesbow household,” Wendy said, turning another thysolit over in her hand. “What are they up to? Piano lessons? Funny, looking in on someone’s house without them even knowing it. It’s like being a peeping tom, one second at a time. I wonder if Mr. Crenshaw’s house is here, too.…I would so love to see what he’s up to.”
Wendy!
Struggling, Tinker Bell wove her way through the tightening mass of bees. She grabbed the human girl’s arm and yanked it. This is exactly what happens. You get caught. You humans—too interested in what you can’t see for yourself. You fill your heads with too much…noise.
“Too much news, you mean,” Wendy corrected. “Look! There’s parliament. Oh my goodness, they’re all arguing! Whatever do you think it is? Taxes or something to do with Europe? Wait, is that a view of Paris? I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”
Wendy reached out for a bee with the Eiffel Tower flashing on and off in its thorax like a strange warning beacon.
It flew just out of her reach. She lunged too far—
But didn’t fall.
Instead she found herself drifting softly several feet above the ground.
It wasn’t the fairy dust; she wasn’t concentrating on floating or flying or anything else but grabbing at the bee.
In some ways it was a far stranger phenomenon that held her aloft: her legs and body were now entirely supported by the soft, furry thysolits.
But she was only vaguely aware of this.
WENDY! COME! Tinker Bell jingled anxiously.
The dazed girl had finally managed to get hold of the bee she wanted. It was warm and plummy in her hands, comforting, not at all dangerous or disobedient.