Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  Spurred by success, David swung from branch to branch, tugging ropes on command. While maneuvering in the rigging of a real ship was easier than dodging clumps of shrubbery, he proved more agile than the lubbers. Peter cursed the company, but praised David for his quick and efficient obedience. David swelled with pride, and threw himself all the more eagerly into the game.

  Soon the captain ordered his men, “Hit the deck and man the cannon!” Here again, David excelled. He appointed himself gunner, shouting orders to the crew. He named their cannon Deadly Dinah, painting its moniker on the log with mud. Handing Chip a long, leafy branch, he taught the boy to swab the bore, then sent his powder monkeys, Bertie and Bingo, scavenging for rocks to use as shot. He himself tamped the wadding and powder down, and, closing one eye, squinted along the barrel for aim. Arming the gun crew with ‘handspikes,’ he made them set the proper trajectory. The muscles of their arms bulged as they toiled, and they wiped their brows with kerchiefs.

  “Dinah’s primed and standing by, Sir!” he hollered, and Peter strutted over, grasped the line of ivy David handed him, and yanked. As the gun exploded with thunder from five children’s throats, David heaved a stone into the distance, kicking up soil where the shot came to earth. He’d sprinkled a dash of fairy dust on the ball, which completed the effect by lighting up the spray. The crew cheered. David was certain he smelled gunpowder, and a haze of white smoke hung by the bow. The captain roared, “Silence, fore and aft!” then it was time to tack the ship for a broadside, with all hands clambering back up the rigging.

  David burned with excitement, and so did his captain. By the end of the afternoon, he’d been promoted to first mate, bo’sun, and master gunner. Peter elevated himself, as well, and halfway through the battle he changed sides from buccaneer to British Navy. The crew held David in awe, and although the admiral was shorter than he, he looked down his aristocratic nose at David, buffing his epaulettes and beaming approbation.

  In the whole of his young life, David never had so much fun. When Peter tired of the play, all his boys moaned in disappointment. David lifted their spirits by promising to teach nautical knots by the light of the fire in the hideout that evening. He hoped he could find some rope, though. His imagination was improving, but even the simplest of knots wasn’t easy to pretend. He opened his mouth to suggest a raid on one of the pirate ships, to steal some. The parrot’s beady gaze stopped him dead, and Jewel looked like a fairy again— a fairy who knew what was what. David shut his mouth, tight.

  Reality and fantasy were two separate animals. Survival, David realized, was no longer his only goal. As the boys rose in a flock to head homeward over the forest, he closed his eyes, held his breath…and floated on happiness.

  Behind Peter’s band, a long shred of David’s shirt streamed in the breeze, anchored at the peak of the proud old oak. It wasn’t colorful enough, but David imagined that it was. And so, to the tree’s relief, the sailors sought shore leave on the Neverland, while the admiral’s pennant adorned the flagship of the formidable forest fleet.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The sun reached its height over Neverbay, and as it ebbed toward its bed in the western heavens, preparations for the party neared completion. Two ships’ companies, divided while aboard in the bay, united for a night of leisure on the shore. Still on board the Roger, Smee tended the final tasks for the commodore.

  “I’ll tote your pistols and swords myself, Sir,” he said, “though we’ve prepared so well, doubtless you’ll not be needing them.” He knotted a deep blue scarf about Hook’s head, confining his long black hair. Then he nodded. “All set for the Island, Commodore.”

  Jill sighed, “How handsome you look, Hook. I adore your more formal attire, but you do steal my heart away in just a shirt and breeches.” She had finished dressing for the revels, and now she stood admiring her lover.

  Reflected in his shaving mirror, Hook’s gaze met her own. His voice was smooth, and amused. “Don’t forget to breathe, love.” Hook and Jill smiled as his words reminded her of their first assignation. He turned to observe her. “You are a vision yourself, my love. Bright and bold.”

  She spread the skirt of her tunic, posing for his inspection. “I chose the topaz in your honor, since you like it so well. And it brought us luck the last time we ventured to the Island.”

  Jill touched her hair to make sure she had captured every wisp in its twist. Although she dressed simply, she’d applied a dab of scent behind her ears, her exotic, expensive perfume, a reminder of her position as the commodore’s queen. Her crescent earrings dangled free, and she wore the opal and diamond necklace Hook had bestowed upon her, symbolic of the color and complexity of the Neverland. The first jewels she’d ever owned, they glowed at her throat, just beneath the red line of her scar. Her feet were bare under the narrow ankles of her Turkish trousers, be-ringed and ready to dance in the sand.

  “Mr. Smee,” she declared, “you look quite fine this evening. Like me, Lily is sure to appreciate you.”

  Smee grinned with gratification. “Too kind you are, Lady.” He’d tended his own appearance with a close shave and new duck trousers, and he’d tucked a gift for his Lily in his pocket. “But I admit, the woman has never complained.”

  Hook inquired, “Is my pavilion erected on the beach, Smee?”

  “Aye, Sir, well up from the tide line, complete with rugs and furnishings. The camp bed is made up and ready there, whenever you and the lady decide to retire.”

  Jill said, “Thank you, Mr. Smee. I believe you and the commodore have thought of everything to make this party a success.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. The lads have outdone themselves preparing. They’re ready for a night of it.”

  “I’m as eager as the men for tonight’s festivity.” Jill filled her vision with her pirate king. “And I am many times more grateful than they, Hook, to celebrate your escape from the Indians.”

  He bowed in acknowledgement. “The men performed worthily in the crisis. This reward is well earned.”

  “The thought of that day will forever remind me not to take you for granted.” Standing near the hourglass, Jill rested her scarlet hand upon the brass of its casing. “Every moment we spend together, every grain of the glass, is precious.”

  “I am no slave to time— except, my love, where you are concerned. Then I count the seconds like a miser.” Hook touched her cheek and caressed her, then took up the hourglass, handing it to Smee. “As discussed, we shall need this on the beach. Wrap it up and bring it along.”

  “Aye, Sir. There’ll be no complaints about shifts on watch tonight. Every man’ll serve his turn of the glass.” Smee headed for the cabin door. “The lads are all ashore, Commodore. Your boat’s ready to launch when you are.”

  “My thanks to you, Mr. Smee. We shall join you presently.” As his officer closed the door, Hook’s aspect became serious. “Since you speak of gratitude, Madam, I’ll inform you now that I will make a speech, praising the men for their conduct as they fetched me from the village.”

  Puzzled, Jill answered, “Of course, Hook. I’d expect nothing less.”

  “I shall make a point of commending Captain Cecco, as well.”

  “Oh….Yes. I see.” Jill dropped her gaze from his. Three heartbeats later, she met his eye again. “Hook. You should know before we begin that, this evening, I intend to dance with everyone.”

  “By ‘everyone,’ you mean to say…your husband.”

  “I mean to say, everyone.”

  “Will his hopes not be raised by this attention?”

  “What I hope to raise is a sense of unity. Tonight we celebrate the fact that, even faced with the fiercest of enemies, our two ships’ companies work as one. You yourself are setting the example. Our leaders must, all of us, demonstrate the same kind of accord, whether fighting or at leisure.”

  “Have a care,” Hook warned, and his visage darkened. “The captain’s temper is unimproved. By all reports, his Island beauty has not tamed him.”


  Thrown just a bit off balance, Jill steadied herself on the desk. Her cheeks heated in a flush. “I…” She stood straight again. “I do not favor tameable men.” A part of her heart was glad of Cecco’s constancy. Another part regretted it.

  “And yet you aspire to reach some accord. Of the three of us, not one is liable to yield.”

  “I require your patience, Sir. It is my wish that, tonight, we’ll find some kind of footing.”

  “Make no mistake about your aspirations. Or Captain Cecco’s.” He placed the tip of his hook on her breast, pressed against her beating heart.

  She didn’t wince as the cold of the point met her flesh. She waited to feel its prick, knowing even as she did so that Hook would not cause her hurt— not today, and not ever. Yet the power he exuded was so potent that, once again, she ceased to breathe.

  But he passed that power to her. “You hold his life in your red hand.”

  “And you hold my heart on your hook.”

  “I know your heart. Your love pours, like the hourglass, from one end to the other.” Dropping his hook to his side, he drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “I have forewarned you, Madam. With you, I am a miser.”

  “You are…a commodore.” She smiled at last, cajoling him, yet noting the gleam of his claw in the corner of her eye. “I am the commodore’s soul.”

  “See that your husband minds his manners.”

  “Aye, Commodore.” Bold as she was, standing her ground, her pulse beat cruelly behind her façade. She arched her eyebrows. “And shall I see that my lover minds his manners, too?”

  “I keep command of myself.” Deliberately, he bent to her breast, and kissed the place his blade had rested, bringing warmth to chase the chill off her skin. His face remained close to hers as he cautioned, “Bear in mind what you assert: do not take our union for granted.”

  “Never.”

  “Then let us fly, to the Neverland. An excellent idea, in fact.” He stepped away, to arm’s length, enticing her only with his eyes.

  It was enough. With just a look, he took possession of her senses. Hook, her lover, became all she could feel, hear, or see. He spoke low and slowly, and the nectar of his voice filled her ear. “As you aim to partner everyone, I claim your first dance.”

  Through the sixth sense that vibrated between them, his desire for her stirred her. She’d have felt his effect no matter where she stood, just as, not long ago when he was a prisoner, Hook perceived her own arousal when she lay with her husband, while he, her lover, lay in chains. Indistinct at a distance, the sensation when so near overwhelmed. And, at any distance, Hook’s longing echoed her own. Once again, discord sharpened their ardor. As happened so often since Hook’s abduction, uncertainty brought urgency, and it spiced the taste of their embrace.

  Afterward, he opened the door and guided her, light-headed, down the stairs of the companionway. When the pair arrived amidships, Hook leaned over the gangway to call to the waiting boat.

  “You may shove off, Mr. Smee. We shall meet you ashore.”

  Smee saluted. “Aye, aye, Commodore.” He shouted the command to the oarsmen, and the boat pulled away from the hull.

  Above the creak of the boat and the cry of the gulls, music drifted from the beach of Neverbay. A balmy breeze buffeted the couple’s garments. Together, they pushed from the deck to rise upward, through the sleeping rigging. Higher and higher they ascended in the early evening sky, eggshell blue speckled with bright white spots, as the stars in the east blinked awake.

  When they reached the topmost masthead, Hook pulled Jill with him, leaning backward until they hovered just above it. The Jolly Roger flapped below them, its motion black as shadow. Their banner swirled beneath it with two blood-red handprints. Swimming in the wind, it showed now one hand— Hook’s— now the other— Jill’s— then both hands, reunited, to divide in the breeze once again.

  Setting one boot on the mast, Hook gathered Jill in his arms as if for a waltz, then thrust away toward the Island. Together, they circled and swirled to the melody that grew louder as they neared it. Like the sun before them, they reached their height over Neverbay, and descended to settle, finally, at the wooded edge of the beach. They strolled left hand in right on the sand among their sailors, as eager as every other reveler.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Indulgence of Divergent Forces

  In Chef’s estimation, Captain Cecco’s appetite had waned with his marriage. In the weeks since L’Ormonde became Red Lady, the little Frenchman huffed and fumed, feeling that his talents went unappreciated. He’d suffered the frustration of the artist in search of a patron. Tonight, at last, he relished the opportunity to exhibit his culinary savoir-faire.

  Leaning toward the embers, he basted the boar. His face glowed pink in the heat of the pit. Beneath an apron, his belly extended, at risk of braising, too, but Chef’s soul was satisfied as he prepared a feast fit for kings upon the shore of Neverbay.

  He kicked his galley mate, encouraging him to rotate the spit. “Come, Jacquot, we must exert every effort tonight. For the sake of my reputation, the crew of the Roger must be regaled. And Red Lady’s men deserve our indulgence.”

  Except for the commodore and his lady, Chef didn’t expect the ignorant Englishmen to perceive the nuances of his talent, but he was certain his countrymen would smack their lips and gaze toward heaven. He sighed, nostalgic at the thought of his former captain’s gusto. “Monsieur LeCorbeau would sob at a taste of the fare denied him tonight, hein?”

  Jacquot shrugged boney shoulders. “Oui, Monsieur,” he replied, like an automaton. He wiped the sweat from his brow and kept turning the spit.

  But Jacquot’s indifference could not diminish Chef’s bonhomie. “I bless this Isle for its salubrious properties.” The meat had been hunted in this forest and seasoned on this magical shore. The very fuel of its firewood bestowed flavor. Chef’s only lament at this fête concerned his suspicion— the fear of all great artists— that he might never surpass tonight’s triumph. He licked the taste of clove from his greasy fingertips and admonished Jacquot, “You are not cranking water from a well, you fool! Turn the spit slowly.” Then he looked up the sandy slope, to beam upon those whom, fondly, he termed the royalty of the Island.

  Commodore Hook and the Lady Jill appeared tranquil in the radiance before twilight, standing at ease on Persian rugs in front of their pavilion. They sipped from one goblet the wine Chef had selected for them. With every manifestation of cheer, they greeted their guests. Hook stood regal, his hook half hidden by the snowy cuff of his blouse, his scarf a dash of blue over his raven hair. Jill’s garment glowed golden in the sunset. Her opals and diamonds dazzled at her throat. Colorful stripes on the tent behind the twosome added gaiety to the tableau. With a silken tie, its flap swagged open to show a net-covered camp bed, lanterns, chest and table, towels and a basin— all the furnishings necessary for the couple’s comfort. When not gesturing, they joined their hands together. To Chef and to the company, no hint of tension was evident.

  Mr. Smee, however, knew better. He loitered nearby, hoping to forestall ill feeling before it materialized from any quarter, the usual causes being drunkenness, rivalry, or women. Tonight Smee was wary of all three combined, in the single person of Captain Cecco.

  He watched with an eagle eye as Red Lady’s ruler approached the Island in his boat. Upon arrival, Cecco’s rowers raised their oars to slide into shore. The captain sprang from his craft and splashed up the beach, the medallions jangling on his headdress, and the man rolled in like a dark, discordant cloud.

  His own first officer, Mr. Yulunga, immediately joined him. Smee had conferred with Yulunga, and he knew that Cecco’s mate, too, was prepared to be vigilant. Employing all the power of his presence, the African took up a position opposite Smee, flanking his captain. Mr. Smee and Mr. Yulunga exchanged nods of accord; amity must rule over even the highest ranks, tonight.

  As for external threats, the captain and the commodore had organized preca
utions. Their officers secured the beach early on. Because the succulent odor of roast boar attracted both men and beasts, Smee and Yulunga ordered torches to be planted along the circumference, and they’d assigned sentries to watch through the night. The perimeters of the party— forest and shore— were lit, armed, and guarded. Each team served a turn of the hourglass, which stood on a post by the commodore’s pavilion. At every rotation, Smee signaled the change with a blast of his bo’sun’s pipe. At that time, too, a fresh pair of sailors rowed out to Red Lady to relieve the watch aboard. As the noise level rose, prowling beasts shied away. The men, however, drew nearer, their mouths slavering and their stomachs rumbling in anticipation.

  Among the anticipators were Nibs the Knife, Tom Tootles, and Mr. Guillaume. They sauntered down the shore, Tom shuffling sand before him and squeezing it in his toes to filter its grains between them. He nudged Guillaume. “Going for a dip tonight, now that you’ve learned how to swim?”

  “I think not, Mr. Tom. I prefer the warmer waters of the Lagoon.”

  “Aye to that,” said Nibs, recollecting their expedition to the mermaids’ lair. His orange kerchief flapped loose in the breeze, and he re-tied it over his forehead. “I found this kerchief while on scout duty for Wendy, the morning after another party Hook held here. Curse me for a lubber if I lose it in the very spot that Bill Jukes did.”

  Tom chuckled. “Since Jukes lost it chasing Lelaneh, you might change your mind, mate. As he tells the tale, he never missed it.”

  “And what about you, Guillaume?” Nibs asked, slyly. “You’ve left off your brass buttons tonight. Afraid you’ll lose your uniform in a similar scuffle?”

  Guillaume blushed, but shot back good-humoredly, “No, no. Unlike my friends, my wits are not addled in the presence of beauty. If you remember, I am the only man who could speak to the mer-ladies.”

  “Touché,” Nibs conceded.

  “You’re not afraid of men, either?” Tom grinned. “Of losing your subordinates’ respect?”