Straight On Till Morning

by Liz Braswell

  Peter flew up to an eye socket to investigate more closely. Despite the slapdash appearance, the job was pretty solid. He couldn’t pull out any of the stones or boards, or break up the cement.

  “No good.” He swore, kicking at the island. “That’s a pickle.”

  I can slip in, Tinker Bell said, pointing. There.

  The childish, potty-humored pirates had left a chink in the nose hole toward the bottom left. Some extra cement had been guided to pool around the base to give the appearance of snot.

  “Tinker Bell, do you even know how to disarm a bomb?” Wendy asked.

  Pirates are unencumbered with imagination, as a wise lady once said, Tinker Bell jingled with a wan smile. Hook tried this before.…Easy-peasy!

  “Aw, Tink can do anything,” Peter said, waving his hand. “She’s a tinker. This ain’t nothing to her.”

  “Be careful,” Wendy pleaded. “Even defused it’s dangerous.”

  Tinker Bell gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then snapped to attention in front of Peter, touching her hand to her brow. Then she dove into the nose hole.

  “Huh, that’s funny,” Peter said. “She gave you a kiss and me a salute.”

  But that was all he said, and he seemed merely to be puzzled by it, neither offended nor amused.

  Wendy fretted while they waited: What if Tink couldn’t defuse the bomb? What if, failing, she brought the bomb outside so the three could figure it out together? Wendy didn’t know how to defuse a bomb—did Peter? What if they couldn’t? What would they do with it?

  Meanwhile, Peter whistled, checked his nails, made little churches and people with his fingers, stretched out in the air on his back.

  At one point he sat up and noticed his shadow on the rocks below, reinvigorated by the bright light of the two moons. Wendy’s shadow was playing cat’s cradle with her friend, using a shadow piece of string from somewhere.

  “Hey,” Peter said, a little vexed.

  Shadow Peter turned to look at him, which of course was no more than a shifting of flat black shapes. But even Wendy could feel the look he gave the solid Peter. Really? You want to start this again?

  “As you were,” Peter said quickly. “You could ask us if we wanted to play, though.”

  This was such a ridiculous and impossible idea that everyone just ignored it.

  And then the bomb went off.

  It was a noise like nothing Wendy had ever heard before, an earsplitting sound preceded by a blast of air so strong it knocked her back like a carriage pulled by eight panicking horses. Somehow Peter flung himself around her and wrapped her body with his.

  The two were thrown, the world went black.

  She must have only been out for a moment or two, but when Wendy came to she found the world a topsy-turvy place that made no sense. It was almost perfectly silent, for one thing; noises like rocks falling and gulls screaming sounded almost hollow, as if very, very far away. Dust and grit poured from her lashes as she tried to make sense of gravity, light, and pain, all of which were coming at her from strange angles.

  Peter Pan was lying next to her, one arm still thrown protectively over her waist.

  “Peter,” she whispered. Even that sounded wrong; she felt the vibrations in her throat but couldn’t hear the words.

  Wincing at the extreme, wrong pain in her back, she managed with great difficulty to push herself onto her elbows and knees.

  “Peter, wake up.”

  She gasped at how bloody he was; a thousand lacerations covered him from forehead to feet. After a panicked moment of wiping it off—with his own soft hat—she was relieved to see they were just tiny divots and scrapes from the grit and scree shot out by the explosion. No wound seemed especially deep.

  “Where’s Tink?” he murmured. At least, that’s what it looked like his lips said.

  “I don’t know!”

  “I can’t hear you,” he said accusingly.

  “The explosion.” She touched her ears, then waved to the black and windy sky.

  “I can’t hear you!” Peter shouted.

  This Wendy could hear a little, which was a relief. She forced herself to stand up. Her back was a throbbing mass of pain—but it obeyed her will, albeit reluctantly. No permanent damage except for maybe a cracked rib. No tingling in her feet. She was all right, though the crimson streak in the corner of her right eye was a little worrisome.

  “TINK!” she shouted as loudly as she could, unsure how loud it really was.

  The landscape was much changed in the last five minutes. Skull Island was almost entirely gone. What Wendy stood on were its remains: a whole new atoll of big, ugly chunks of gray rock, some of which were still rolling and shifting into place like knucklebones. Dust had risen up and nearly blocked out the moons and stars, diffusing their light strangely and, turning the sky the same sort of monochrome white she associated with the First. A wind had sprung up and the water was an ugly shade of lead.

  “TINK!” she screamed.

  “Tinker Bell!” Peter yelled, and this time Wendy thought she heard him. He shot into the air, darting back and forth over the sea in the same random, unorganized way Tinker Bell would have. Wendy struggled to fly, buffeted about by the winds and very, very unsteady. She coughed and spat up sand and blood.

  “Tinker Bell!”

  In snippets and wisps sound was coming back, but it was confusing and snarled. Somehow the noises made her want to vomit. She gagged and ordered her stomach to settle.

  “Tink! TINKER BELL!” Peter Pan called again.

  A faint shadow appeared over Wendy’s vision. This is it, she thought; she was going to pass out again.

  Then it blinked away and everything was light…and then it was dark again. On and off, like a signal.

  Confused, Wendy put her hands up between her face and the sky.

  Her shadow appeared on her palm, shrinking quickly to fit. She had been trying to get Wendy’s attention! She pointed and waved her arms toward what might have been north. Wendy dropped her hands and the shadow fell to the sea, just visible in the dim light. The shadow skittered across the water, still pointing. Peter’s was close behind.

  “Peter!” Wendy shouted.

  Whether he was less injured or his pixie ears healed faster, Peter Pan heard her immediately. He looked to where she pointed and flew after the shadows.

  The four skimmed together over the surface of the sea.

  And there she was: a glittering lump of golden hair and wings, floating lackluster on the foam.

  Peter scooped up the tiny fairy and landed on the closest pile of rocks. He gently lowered her down and cleared the water and silt off her face.

  But Tinker Bell wasn’t breathing. And she wasn’t glowing.

  “Don’t die, Tinker Bell!” Peter begged. “Don’t go out! Tink! You mean more to me than anything!”

  “Come on, Tink,” Wendy begged. “You can make it. I know you can. I believe in you. I believe in you and fairies and Never Land. I know you wouldn’t leave me or Peter Pan or this world. Please, Tinker Bell. I believe in you.”

  Silence.

  And then…the faintest of jingles.

  No, Wendy.

  I believe in you.

  The pirates sailed away to resume wholesome—well, normal—pirate activities. Zane promised to find a nice tropical port where they would deposit Hook, along with enough gold for a comfortable house and a caretaker. Which was, perhaps, more than the violent, insane captain deserved—but then again, the bomb hadn’t really worked all that well after all, and it did nicely set him up for recovering and returning for revenge when he was needed again.

  Captain Zane saluted Peter Pan and declared their enmity at an end, but said that he and the crew would cheerfully resume aggressions any time Peter wanted to interfere with their operations. The boy politely offered the same.

  The pirate then shook Wendy’s hand. “It was a pleasure knowing you, Miss Darling. You…brought change. And as you said, change comes to all things. Even N
ever Land. It was high time.”

  He turned to Skipper.

  “Should you be looking for…other employment, my ship is an open and welcoming place to anyone who wants to loot and plunder, no matter what they look like, who they snog, or how they dress. As long as you’re into murder and burnin’, these days we keep an open mind on the Jolly Roger.”

  Skipper cracked one of her small sideways smiles.

  “Thanks, Captain. Maybe someday I’ll take you up on it.”

  And so the pirates sailed away, the Jolly Roger growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the horizon.

  On the white sands of the tropical beach now remained only the Lost Boys (and Luna), Peter Pan, Wendy, Tinker Bell, and everyone’s shadows.

  It was how Wendy had once imagined a perfect end of an adventurous day…and yet entirely different. Peter Pan was covered in ugly wounds. Tink sat slumped on his shoulder, not quite recovered enough to fly. The Lost Boys looked less lost and more real under this Never Land sun, pores and hair and dirt and scratches and eyes and smiles and all.

  “Now then, what’s this about you being a girl, Skipper?” Peter Pan demanded.

  Skipper shrugged.

  “She is what she is,” said Slightly.

  “You wouldn’t have taken me if I wasn’t a boy,” she pointed out.

  “But it’s the Lost Boys,” Peter said, exasperated.

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be,” Slightly said. “Maybe it shouldn’t be Boys. Or Girls. Maybe it should be Lost People.”

  “Lost People … ?” Peter repeated, a little distastefully.

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be Lost.” Cubby spoke up unexpectedly. “You found us, Peter. We’re found.”

  “Found People,” Slightly said, nodding, “I like that.”

  “I like it, too,” Skipper agreed.

  Slightly and Peter stared at each other for a long, silent moment.

  Finally, Peter rolled his eyes.

  “Lost Boys, Found People, Tiny Bunnies—I don’t care what you call yourselves. I just don’t ever want to be fighting with you again. I missed you guys. I don’t know if it was arguing with you or losing my shadow that made me more sick. And I know it was at least half my fault.

  “You’ve, ah, you’ve grown into quite the position of leader—under my wise tutelage,” Peter added, putting his arm around Slightly. “I definitely think it’s high time we gave you more responsibility over this little ragtag group of heroes.”

  Now it was Slightly’s turn to roll his eyes, but he did it with a smile.

  “Bring it in, Peter,” he ordered.

  And the two boys hugged and made up.

  Tinker Bell disentangled herself from Peter and slipped down his arm. Wendy put out hers and Tink landed on it as gracefully as a ballerina.

  What will you do now?

  “I think…I’ve been thinking about this a lot, Tinker Bell. And I think because you are wiser than you let on—when you’re not distracted by boys—you can probably guess what it is.”

  The fairy pulled a face.

  You’re returning to stinky London.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am,” Wendy sighed. “Just like in all those terrible stories I said I would never, ever tell or write. The ones English authors love so much, about experiencing magic and wonder as a child and then giving it all up and putting it away to become an adult and take on responsibilities and children and a job—and all that somehow making it all right.

  “But I cannot forget what the First said, about how Never Land is a reflection of London, my world. My world has a lot of problems. And not only is it unfair to foist them upon this unfinished, innocent world, it’s unfair to ignore them by staying here and pretending they don’t exist.

  “Somewhere right now a toothless old grandfather is shivering in a poorhouse, starving and without visitors. Somewhere an orphan—who wasn’t rescued by Peter—is being beaten by a harsh nurse or sold as a slave to a factory owner. And everywhere in the world, girls have little ability to make their voices heard, or the power to change things. I think about the way I changed things in the Land of the First…and here, with your and Thorn’s help…and I wonder if I can use a little of that magic at home.

  “I’ve had the best adventure a girl could ever want—and that is more than I ever dreamed was possible.”

  But…I’ll miss you.

  “I can’t even think about it, Tinker Bell. It hurts dreadfully. You’re the best friend I ever had. I feel like I’m cutting off a part of me. Forever.”

  The little fairy drooped, and she was a sad sight indeed: tattered wings, trembling lips, limp hair out of its messy bun and draping her like an old cloak.

  Then she looked up.

  Maybe just one last adventure? For goodbye?

  “I’d dearly love to see a dragon,” Wendy said eagerly. “I didn’t get to do that.”

  The two girls smiled, and gently touched scratched-up, bruised hands.

  In one of the less pleasant—but eminently affordable—neighborhoods of London was the in/famous flat of Ms. Wendy Darling.

  Her apartment was modest but large enough for Wendy, her books, and gatherings of like-minded people. There was hot running water, electric lamps, and a private entrance. Every room had windows. There was a dining area large enough to serve as the nexus for organizing protests, staging letter-writing campaigns, publishing pamphlets, planning speeches, strategizing actions, and occasionally even feeding unannounced hordes of supporters who dropped by.

  And none of them said Wendy talked too much. Some came from a hundred miles away just to hear her speak.

  (Even Mr. and Mrs. Darling came over to attend her speeches. They were mostly embarrassed and very slightly proud, but more than anything else surprised by this enterprise of their eldest, dreamiest child.)

  (Michael and John were absolutely on their sister’s side about changing the world and voting rights for women, even to the point of marching with her—but that might have been partially due to the number of passionate ladies attracted to the cause.)

  Wendy looked mostly the same as an adult; her only nod to the passage of time was the decision to keep her hair up in a messy bun modeled after a dear friend’s style. She also found that her years of dreaming had either left her myopic or caused her to let it go unnoticed for a long time. She now sported a pair of glasses very similar to John’s.

  (These were removed when fisticuffs were expected, as when she joined a number of ladies of Caribbean descent at Saxelbrees Café and Salon for a peaceful sit-in. Tea was an English right, regardless of race, color, or creed.)

  This particular evening, all was quiet; constituents and suffragettes and equal-rights advocates and rabble-rousers had all been ordered out. Wendy was indulging herself in a pastime with which even her closest confidants were unacquainted.

  First she set the kitchen table with a pretty cloth and her best un-chipped tea service.

  Next to this she carefully placed another tea set—but this one was tiny: so dainty and perfect that an outside observer would have blinked in astonishment. For Wendy Darling was gifted, passionate, forgiving, and talkative, but not cracked in the head or prone to strange hobbies. And she did not have any cats.

  (Or dogs. Nana had passed on peacefully. Snowball was happily adopted by Phoebe Shesbow.)

  “Oh, I’ve forgotten a spoon, and a fork for the cake,” Wendy realized. She ran up the cramped flight of stairs that led to a dormer. Her neatly made bed was nestled under a brilliantly large pair of windows that looked out on the sky. Next to it was a rickety nightstand that supported a tall stack of pamphlets, chapbooks, and monographs. And next to that was a chest, on top of which was a very large dollhouse decorated with every conceivable realistic detail.

  (“You never played with dolls as a child, Wendy,” Michael had pointed out upon seeing it. Perhaps with a touch of envy.

  “Maybe this is just a physical manifestation of your reframing the desire for a child, the natural impulse of
which has been subverted by mannish occupations?”

  John was very fond of modern psychology.

  This sort of thing was usually answered with a disappointed look from Wendy—and sometimes a slap.)

  It was a work in progress. If Wendy had a little extra money for herself it went to things like having an exactly 1:12-scale Chesterfield sofa made to her specifications and upholstered in real leather with tiny covered buttons decorating the tufts.

  If she had a little extra time for herself—even rarer—she tatted miniature antimacassars out of single-strand silk, or rolled tiny real beeswax tapers. Teensy gas and oil lamps she hadn’t quite worked out yet without teensy explosions.

  She carefully opened the miniature china cabinet in the pantry and used the tip of her pinky to pull out a dainty silver spoon and matching fork. It was part of a brilliant charm set she had seen in a jeweler’s shop.

  (She had received very funny looks from the jeweler when she had asked him to pull open the jump ring and separate the eating implements off it.)

  She hurried back downstairs, laid the spoon and fork next to the cup, and put the kettle on the hob.

  Then she proceeded to wait.

  It looked like madness: a famous suffragette sitting at an empty table with two very different-sized saucers laid in front of her.

  And if one managed to peep into the mind of Wendy Darling—well, that too might look like a bit of madness.

  It had been ten years since she had reappeared in the garden of the Darling household, practically naked and covered with injuries, all of which the Darlings managed to keep a secret.

  She was not sent to Ireland.

  Those ten years had been full of hard decisions, harder work, and fights with her family and friends and even strangers on the street as her notoriety grew. There were small victories, large setbacks, and of course the endless, tiring, and unglamorous work that no one tells you about when you decide to change the world. Boring stuff like writing letters, keeping accounts, assigning funds, constantly reminding people to show up, and politely pursuing them to hold them to whatever promises they made. Usually about funds.