by Liz Braswell
“Loud and clear,” the pirate said, brightening a little at the mention of blood.
And maybe final battle.
Hook glowered: no one in his idiotic crew shared his passion for defeating their worst enemy once and for all. They only seemed to look forward to getting it over with and moving on to whatever fun activity was planned afterward. They were short on imagination and education; they had no taste for refined concepts like nemeses and life conflicts and guiding principles.
(They might also all have still been in recovery mode after their shenanigans at Skull Island. The entire crew but Hook and Smee dragged and stumbled a bit.)
No matter. Whatever it took to drive them to victory.
“Mr. Smee, take a note: I need you to go back and recheck cannon crews one, two, and six. They didn’t pass muster. Also, have the Duke unlock the stockroom and distribute as many bullets and shells as needed. My personal stash of purloined weaponry will be available for general use, except of course these flintlocks on me belt. I want every man armed and ready.”
“Oh, they’ll like that, Cap’n. That’ll get them in the spirit! Bullets and muskets! Right away, Cap’n!” Mr. Smee doffed his cap and ran off to deliver the news.
Hook twirled his mustache for a moment, enjoying himself utterly. This was what it meant to be a pirate captain! To be on top of everything, awash in the excitement before a battle!
Wait? What was that?
That sound…
He grabbed the nearest pirate—Djareth—by the earring.
“Do you hear that?” he demanded.
The pirate, wide-eyed, tried to shake his head and shrug.
“THE TICKING! Can you not hear it, you villainous fool? The sound of the crocodile approaching!”
“N-no, Cap’n,” Djareth stuttered. “Nothing, Cap’n!”
“Bah!”
Hook threw him aside. Of course, when he listened, it was silent now: wherever the beast was, it must have gone beneath the waves.
But it was close.
Hook stalked to the prow. A rope had been hung across the decking between the chart room and the railing along with a hastily painted sign that read no admittance. The words could, of course, just have been gibberish; few of the pirates could read. It was the angry red paint that got their attention.
Zane was on watch. He sat on a stool looking vaguely green, like a reluctant landlubber on a transatlantic voyage. This despite the fact that the wind was up and the ship cut through the waves as beautifully as a knife through a kidney. No, it was what he watched: the shadow in its golden prison of bars and sharp picks, the way its blackness recoiled in ripples away from those picks.
“Any change in the prisoner, Alodon?”
“No, Cap’n. He ain’t moved an inch. Looks like he even gave up on the whole escaping-himself thing. He’s just been man-shaped. Peter-shaped. The whole time. Pointing the same way.”
“Hmm.” Hook stroked his chin and frowned. The shadow had been pointing that way more or less directly for the last day. It only wavered a little, when the ship had to curve around a bit of coast or shoals, but always returned to face the same way.
The captain made his way back to the chart room. Zane apparently decided that was as good as a dismissal, or an order to follow, and hastily went after him, getting away from the unnatural scene as quickly as he could.
The cool darkness of the cabin caressed Hook’s tortured brow. He bent over the table that held the map of Never Land with the help of two pressed-glass prisms, a bronze astrolabe, and a perfect skull. A little pewter model of the Jolly Roger stood in for the real one. He did some quick calculations for latitude and longitude. The breeze had remained steady; he pushed the little ship along, down and around the corner of Never Land. Then he took a ruler and tried to predict the route.
“No, it’s the same, look at that,” Hook said thoughtfully. “If this is all correct, Peter Pan has been in Pegleg Point for two days now—unmoving. I wonder why. That dratted boy can never stay still for more than a moment at a time.”
“Maybe he can’t fly, Cap’n?” Zane suggested. “That without his shadow, he lost some of his power, or the pixie dust don’t work or somethin’?”
“True, true,” Hook said, turning it over in his head. “But even if he couldn’t fly, the boy could still run, if the notion took him. No, something else is going on.”
“Maybe he’s resting. Or sick. Or pining for the fjords. Or…captured!”
“But by whom? The First were last spotted on the exact opposite end of the island. The L’cki haven’t been heard from in fortnights. The Fangriders of Upper Hillsdale swore they wouldn’t bother with him again until they got their numbers back up. It’s festival season for the Ragnarosti—they make peace with the deuced fairies and have those terrible musical concerts that go on forever. With the stupid flower crowns and ceremonial kombucha. No…it must be a trick. Something he’s planning.
“I know, it’s an ambush!”
He pounded his fists down on the table in realization. But he was smiling.
“Uh, Cap’n… ?” Zane asked, worried.
“Don’t you see? I’ve figured it out. His ambush! I got it! Ha ha! Peter Pan can’t get the best of me!”
“But what do we do then, Cap’n?” the other pirate asked carefully. “Surprise him? Go around the island the other way? Sneak in through the back side of the lagoon? Uh, is there a back side of the lagoon?”
“No, there isn’t, Zane. No…I think I may try something else. Go present your flintlocks to Mr. Smee for inspection and see about making any requests from the artillery storeroom. And I need someone else keeping an eye on the prisoner. Someone a bit more…proactive, and less squeamish. You know who I mean, Zane. The one who was recently reunited with us.”
“Uh, yes, Cap’n. Right away, Cap’n.”
Zane shivered as he escaped the room, but Hook didn’t notice or care. The moment the other pirate was gone he pulled out one of the black leather books obtained from Madam Moreia. Along with theories on how to capture and remove a person’s shadow, there were passages in the book that discussed the connection that remained between them even after the two were separated. The bond between person and shadow was deep and possibly continued through the spirit plane. For if a person was hurt or weakened dramatically—say, an arm cut off—wasn’t it true that the shadow was also affected?
So logically it followed the reverse was true, too. And now that Hook had the Painopticon…
A smile grew on his face, a genuine, devilish one complete with an evil gleam in his eye.
Finally Captain Hook was going to win. Really win against Peter Pan.
And after?
Skull Island.
Tinker Bell performed the fairy call for aid as quickly as she could, just above the tree line at the edge of the forest. Then she zoomed back to where Peter lay talking to himself—and then to her, when he noticed she was back.
“I just can’t wait until the pirates are here, Tink,” he said in a tone only he could master authentically: dreamy and excited at the same time, wistful and full of resolve. “I’ll show Hook. I’ll show that stinky old codfish. This time, I’ll finish him but good, and…ohhh!”
Suddenly he convulsed in pain. He fell, hard, to the sand.
Tinker Bell flew backward up into the air to take him in all at once: Was it a poisonous snake? A spiderphyl? Something else she could beat back with fairy rage?
But…no. She could see nothing.
“Tink? Tink?” Peter cried, squirming and writhing in the dust. His eyes were screwed shut in torment.
She landed on his chest, put a hand on his face.
What? What is it? What hurts?!
He opened his eyes and tried to focus them on her, but they were glazed and unwilling to do his bidding.
“Tink, it burns! It’s like…it’s like something inside of me is being pulled—outside of me. Something is reaching up into me and is pulling my heart into knots…but it’s not
my heart…it’s my…I don’t know what it is. Oh, Tink, it feels terrible. I don’t know what it is. I can’t see it. I can’t fight it. Tink! Help me!”
The fairy buzzed back and forth, helpless and angry. She thought about what she had seen on the thysolit thorax, the pirate ship and the cage. Wendy was right: whatever was happening to Peter must have something to do with the shadow. Something Hook was doing to the shadow.
She flew as high into the sky as she could and looked for the pirate ship at sea, Wendy in the jungle. There were no signs of either.
Hurry! she jingled loudly, knowing no one could hear her.
“Tink—where are you? Oh! Please! Tink! Come back!”
She returned to Peter, frustrated and powerless to do anything.
“Don’t leave me, Tink. Wendy and the Lost Boys will be here soon. The Lost Boys will come. They’ll help me out. They’re the best. Even Slightly. He just wants…he just wants…Ohhhhhh!”
He spasmed, contracting over his stomach again.
“Tink! Where are you? Tink!”
Peter put his hand up to feel for her like a blind man. The little fairy took his thumb and squeezed as hard as she could. His face was pale and glittering with translucent beads of sweat. His breath came in thin-sounding rasps.
Tinker Bell hesitantly leaned over. She kissed him ever so gently on the lower lip.
A fairy kiss, invisible and seemingly ephemeral, whose effects and existence would last as long as pixie dust.
Perhaps his breathing eased. Perhaps he looked a trifle more peaceful, despite his eyes rolling beneath their lids.
She wondered what it meant, the touch of human lips on her own—if it left any trace on her.
Hurry, Wendy, she jingled.
Wendy found the trufualuffs and the clearing with Hangman’s Tree in the middle of it fairly easily. Were men ever actually hanged from the nooses that dangled from its branches? She had never given it much thought when telling stories to the boys.…
Her landing was far more graceful than the first time there. Also more prepared for the slide down this time, she managed to use some pixie dust power at the bottom of the ramp to pop back up on her feet like a jack-in-the-box, immediately and somewhat unbelievably.
Luna, who had been lounging near the fire, leapt up joyfully and stuffed her nose into Wendy’s hand.
“Good girl! Miss me? I’ve had the most extraordinary adventures. What’s it been like here?”
The Lost Boys, figures of her tales of swashbuckling adventures under their leader, Peter Pan, seemed to be having a rare quiet moment. The older ones, Slightly, Skipper, and Cubby, were reclined in various supine positions on different furniture stand-ins: mushrooms, ledges, roots. The twins were playing some sort of game like jacks which involved swiping the other person’s jacks. They looked almost demonic with their quick movements and shiny white teeth bared in grins that contrasted starkly with their black masks. Tootles had what looked like a bright pink dormouse that he was petting and whispering baby-nothings to.
“Wendy!” He put the dormouse in his pocket and smashed into her, wrapping his arms around her legs, squeezing in next to Luna.
“Did you find Peter or his shadow?” Slightly asked, hopping down from his root.
“I—we—found Peter, yes. Can I have this?” Wendy asked, suddenly distracted by the honeycomb on the table mushroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten.
“I was saving it for—” Cubby began.
“Thank you,” Wendy said, for the first time in her life being a little rude. And why not? Everyone else in Never Land was. She couldn’t be expected to civilize an entire island of barbarians. “I’ll just take a piece.”
She broke it in two and immediately shoved half into her mouth, closing her eyes at the glorious golden deliciousness. It tasted like summer and flowers and something exotic. When she opened her eyes Slightly was regarding her with an amused expression.
“That’s lovely,” she added primly, not even bothering to look for a napkin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Even without a bit of toast. Anyway, yes, we found Peter. He’s at Pegleg Point with Tinker Bell. Seems a bit peaked. As for his shadow, Hook still has it and is doing something unspeakable to it, maybe using it to find Peter. Hook wants Peter in hand—excuse me, hook and hand—before he destroys Never Land so that Peter is forced to watch it. Or something. According to the First. Pretty over-the-top villainy there. Anyway, it’s only a matter of time before the pirates reach him and Tinker Bell. Our job is to lure the pirates in, grab the shadow, and return it to Peter.”
The boys—and girl—all stared at her.
“Maybe she should be the new leader,” Skipper ventured.
Slightly raised a foxish eyebrow. “D’you mean to tell me you plan on using Peter as bait to catch old Codfish?”
“Yes. I’m just going to grab one of these apricots here. Before we go. Maybe three.”
She wished she had a bag to tuck them into instead of being forced to pop them all into her mouth at once. She was so hungry and they were so good there was a danger of the juice spilling from her lips and running down her cheeks. Which, again, would not have caused much of a scene in the den of the Lost Boys, but she wanted to keep up some appearances.
“Did you—did you talk to Peter?” Skipper asked in a low voice. “About me?”
“Or me?” Slightly added. “Is everything all right again between us?”
Wendy almost choked. “All of Never Land is in danger. Did you miss that part? I have left Peter tended by a tiny fairy while a pirate ship is coming after him. I’ve been nearly drowned by mermaids, fought off thysolits, escaped the realm of the First, and flown all over this bloody island. Somehow, during all of that, I may have neglected to launch into an invective against misogyny or a monograph about the necessary skills of a great leader. We don’t have a lot of time here, is what I’m trying to say. Do you think you could get over your personal grievances and come to his and all of Never Land’s aid? Are the Lost Boys really going to sit around while everything is destroyed around them?”
“Of course we’ll help,” Slightly said, pulling out his rapier and brandishing it. “That was never a question!”
“We’d never abandon Peter if he was in trouble,” Skipper mumbled as she put one hand on her scimitar, the other on her bow. “Whatever our problems are.”
“For Peter!” the twins said together, drawing the little knives that hung from their waists. “And Never Land!”
“LET ME AT THOSE PIRATES,” Cubby roared, pushing up his sleeves and baring his meaty fists.
Tootles just narrowed his eyes and growled.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Wendy said. “I’m going to fly ahead and see how they’re doing. How long do you think it will take you to get there?”
“Forced march?” one twin asked.
“Several hours,” the other answered.
Wendy began to open her mouth, feeling her panic grow.
“We could use the tunnels through the Cenotaph Caves,” Skipper suggested quickly, seeing her look.
“Just what I was thinking,” Slightly said with a frown. “They lead right into the back of the cove. And maybe we could ask the Elephant Wheels for help. Let’s say four hours, max. Depends on the cooperation of the various parties involved.”
“All right, well, I suppose that sounds feasible,” Wendy said uncertainly. Elephant Wheels seemed interesting. The other…perhaps a little dangerous. She worried about Tootles. “Pegleg Point, by the three clustered palms. If we’re not there, it’s because we’re hiding in the jungle from the pirates, who have already arrived.”
“Aye, aye, madam!” Slightly said with a bow, doffing his cap.
“Hmm. You’re doing this all in a dress,” Skipper observed.
“Not much of one, really,” Wendy said with a smile.
“To arms, men—ah, mates!” Slightly cried, raising up his rapier.
“TO ARMS!” they all
shouted.
The fox boy threw back his head and howled. The rest of the Lost Boys joined in, each in his or her own way, crowing, barking, screaming, roaring.
“Yes, well, all right,” Wendy said. She gave Luna another good solid scratching on her head. “You make sure they find me. And remember where they are going.”
Luna barked once.
Wendy wished the wolf could meet Nana; she felt somehow sure they would get along splendidly.
The heroine appeared above the jungle like a tatter on the breeze.
Wendy had become just another one of the strange Never Land flying creatures, she realized; had anyone, even her own parents, looked up and seen her—well, they wouldn’t have seen her. They would have seen a tanned, lanky fairy thing without wings, in strips and bandages of once-blue cotton, performing some unknown task within the realms of the magical island. And considering how many denizens she had interacted with—and almost grown comfortable with—she thought she was also well on her way to being accepted by the natives as just another weird flying creature.
Well, maybe not by the First. They were rather cranky about all the newcomers and dreamers who changed their world.
(Who could blame them, really?)
Although she had figured out their trap, so maybe that accorded her a smidgen of respect.
But unlike the endlessly cheerful and vicious full-time residents of Never Land, Wendy had hollows around her eyes from the constant flying, fighting, running, bleeding, strategizing, and worrying.
Peter’s shape could easily be distinguished among three palm trees on the beach. A tiny golden glow shone against one of the harsh, tree-shaped shadows.
Wendy tried not thinking of herself as a ragged facsimile of a Greek god, but she did land as she imagined one might: delicately, cloth whipping around her, arms raised. Not for balance, but for effect.