John was pulling ahead at the end of their chain excitedly, his top hat close to falling off.
“Peter! Say, how big is this island we’re seeing?”
Peter looked back at him, his red hair settling messily on his forehead. His skin flushed in the sun. He was home.
“It’s about five hundred miles by your London measurements! By my measurements, it takes about two hours to fly from end to end!”
Wendy looked down at the island, unable to control the hungry excitement bubbling up in her chest. Life in London was filled with gray skies and gray buildings, the clopping of horse hooves at all hours of the night, buildings upon alleys upon shops; this was untouched lushness, the wild. It was like nothing she had ever seen, more exciting than she had imagined possible! To think, only two hours ago, she had been lying in the nursery, covers tucked up to her chin. Wendy turned her head back to look at the doorway. In the few moments that they had been free from it, it was already churning in on itself, the lights dimming with each passing second. She watched silently as their way home became smaller and smaller until it simply folded into one small burst of lavender light, which then dissolved into a thousand tiny pieces in the sky. All that was left was the prick of shadow, no bigger than a marble. Peter nodded his head, and the light flew silently into his pocket.
“Well!” he declared with a boyish grin. “That wasn’t terribly complicated, was it?”
From the air, Wendy could make out that the island was entirely consumed with lush greenery. With the exception of the east side of the island, which was covered in a craggy white rock face that looked uninhabitable, the rest of the island was a verdant spread of a thousand different greens, like mosaics of flora and fauna, none of it familiar. A range of tree-covered mountains cut the middle of the island in half, a zipper of such immense size that Wendy found herself tempted to reach out for them. The lower peaks rose up to meet one towering peak, its very tip free of greenery; it was sharp and black, and it shimmered in the sunlight.
“Shadow Mountain!” Peter shouted down to her when he saw her looking at it. “The highest peak in Neverland, and one of the most dangerous places around. See that black tip?” Wendy nodded, spellbound. “It’s made of a flaky shale, as thin as a wafer! If you step on it, you’ll find yourself sliding down the sides with a terrible tinkling, and you’ll be impaled on a tree below.”
Mist trailed off the tip of Shadow Mountain, the white clouds wheeling down into the rolling hills of green like waves of fog, cascading down from one peak to the next. Wendy had never seen anything like it. Of course, she had seen mountains in picture books, and grainy photos of the impressive peaks of the Americas or Switzerland, but here was a real mountain, and its power, its immovable mass, caused something deep inside of her to tremble, as if she were kneeling before an indifferent god. Peter grinned.
“When Shadow Mountain blows smoke, the natives used to believe it was a sign of fertility, a time to fall in love, a time to make children.”
Wendy blushed. “The natives?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “The Pilvi Indians, a silly people, through and through.”
“Will we meet them?”
“No. Unfortunately you will not.” Peter shrugged, suddenly seeming uninterested in the conversation. Wendy looked back to the large island, growing closer with every minute, her eyes trying desperately to take it all in and failing. At the southern end of the island, resting at the bottom of the sharp green peaks, there was a small town, a long collection of rickety buildings, a few roads edging the top of a gigantic bay. The bay bristled with life—three ships rocked in the turquoise waters, anchored by a long stretch of beach with white sand. It wasn’t the sandy color of the dilapidated and litter-strewn beaches of London—no, this sand was a pure white, untainted by color, like a new lamb. Light shimmied and danced across the sand, reflecting on the faces of a half dozen gigantic ships that were overturned on the beach, their rotting hulls made beautiful by the contrast. Peter bit his lip as they flew to the east of the bay.
“The sand . . . it’s made of naturally crushed pearls that the waves deposit there! That’s why it’s called the Bay of Treasures.” Peter started laughing. “The Lost Boys call it ‘Booty Bay.’”
“And above it?” Wendy trained her eye on the collection of wooden buildings that looked to be about a mile long, all leaning against each other as if exhausted. Some were large and ornate, others crumbling.
“Port Duette,” he replied. “A place that you will see for yourself one day, but never without me . . .” He turned and looked at her, his vivid green eyes burying deep into her consciousness, his face etched with worry. “Only I can protect you here.”
She flushed, a tiny trickle of pleasure crawling over her skin. Wendy let her eyes run upward to the west side of the island, where a dozen thin waterfalls rushed down from the peaks above, disappearing into the depths of towering green trees. When she looked at them, the air shimmered and jumped, like watching a rock under a river. She blinked. There was something beneath the trees—something that winked in the sunlight and then concealed itself again. Shades of gray flowered from underneath the leaves, but then, with a breath of warm wind, they concealed themselves again. When she squinted, she thought perhaps she could make out dilapidated pearled archways—maybe?—and black fog winding itself between them.
“Peter, is that a city?”
“It was, at one time. That’s the Forsaken Garden. It used to be the fairy city, until they all died. It’s rumored to be haunted by all sorts of wicked creatures. We don’t go there because it’s too dangerous.”
“We?”
Peter unleashed his hypnotizing smile upon her. “The Boys. You’ll see. Any other questions?”
Wendy couldn’t help herself and burst out laughing. “Yes! About a thousand thousand!”
Peter squeezed her hand, and she felt a familiar warmth spread through her limbs. He had quite the effect on her. “I promise I’ll answer all of them. But for now, just take in the view.” A softness crossed his features. “Why, Neverland from above is my favorite sight in all the world.”
“And there?” John asked. “That wild forest beyond the Forsaken Garden?”
“Empty,” Peter shouted. “Abandoned, like the Forsaken Garden, abandoned by the natives who should have guarded it! I’ll take you flying there someday, John, the flying through the trees—well, there’s nothing quite like it!”
Wendy reluctantly forced herself to bite back her inquiries and focus on the incredible scene unfolding underneath her feet, teetering now directly above the massive island below. Without warning, Peter banked a hard right, and they were flying directly to the east of the island. Soon, the sharp white cliffs gave way to the endless turquoise sea. There was nothing below them but water and the occasional arching back of some flitting sea creature that lingered just below the surface.
“Peter . . . ?” Michael had finally found his voice. “Where are we going, Peter?”
Peter squeezed their hands before flying them in a dizzying upside-down loop. All the children squealed and laughed with delight. “Here’s the best surprise of all: We don’t live on the main island. We live in an even more magical place.”
“And where’s that, mate?” John laughed nervously.
“Just wait a moment,” Peter shouted. “Be patient, Darling children, and we will soon be there.”
The waves underneath their feet changed directions and began getting more violent as they flew away from the shore.
“Pan Island.”
“You have an island named after you?” John shook his head. “Brilliant! Do you live there alone?”
Peter laughed. “Ah, John, my friend, you have no idea what awaits you!”
John was unable to keep the joy off his face at being called someone’s friend. Without warning, Peter began spiraling downward in an ever-widening circle with the children trailing behind him, reminding Wendy of the birds of prey that she occasionally spotted soaring over
the parks in London.
“There it is!” John cried.
At first glance, Wendy thought she was looking at another mountain, but as the children covered the distance between the islands, she saw that it was a . . .
“A tree!” she shouted. “Pan Island is a tree?” As long as her block in London and just as wide, the tree seemed to burst forth from the ground with a certain violence. Pan Island rose almost vertically out of the ocean. It was indeed a tree, a tree that could swallow all other trees and the sea and sky around it. From above, it reminded Wendy of the bonsai that her father kept in his office. Levels upon levels layered the tree, wooden beams and walkways visible from the air. From above, the round, flat huts that dotted the tree’s branches looked like ants on a log. Sunlight filtered down on its thousands of leafy branches, each one its own unique hue of green. Choked vines and variegated leaves as big as horses provided the massive tree with shade and protection. At the base of the great tree, pale beige roots rose out of the ocean, the tree’s main trunk not even beginning until thirty or so feet up in the air. Beyond that, a green maze of bamboo that surrounded the base peacefully swayed in the wind, brushing its tips to wave to the children above. From there, the great branches, some as wide as buildings, curled out, contorted, gnarly and thick, their upward-facing surfaces worn with the sun. As they flew closer and closer to the island, Wendy thought she saw a boy scampering down a branch before he disappeared into the green leaves of the tree.
“It’s, it’s . . . incredible,” John gasped.
The humid Neverland air seemed to beckon Wendy ever nearer as Peter began leading their descent to the topmost point of the tree. As they dropped swiftly, Wendy saw a flag emerge out of the dense foliage. As they grew closer to the tree itself, she could see that it wasn’t so much a tower as a wide, circular thatched roof that loomed above all the others. Peeking out from a jumble of overlapping dried palms and leaves was a thick branch, and at the end of the branch, a handmade flag snapped in the wind. It had once been a shirt, Wendy observed, a black threaded shirt, sized for an adult. Someone had painted a crude yellow moon on the back of the shirt, the fingerprints still visible where they wiped the paint off on the side of the flag. Silhouetted in the middle of the rising, messy moon was a black figure, his arms outstretched in flight.
Peter Pan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’M SLOWING NOW!” Peter shouted, and he pulled back so that the children trailed feet behind him, their arms all stretched beyond being comfortable. As light as a feather, Peter landed gently on the thatched roof, his feet barely making a sound as they brushed its scratchy surface, at which point he let go of their hands.
The Darling children were not so graceful. Michael went tumbling, almost pitching off the edge of the roof before Peter grabbed his arm roughly to catch him. John ended up on his knees first and then skidded face-first into the roof, leaving his burning face marked with tiny red slivers. Wendy landed hard on her side and rolled a few times before coming to an abrupt stop, her nightgown hiked up just over her thighs. Mortified at both her landing and her white legs, she yanked it down with a cry, Peter looking away quickly to pretend he hadn’t noticed. All three children staggered to their feet, and Wendy felt her stomach give a heave of nausea. She turned away just in time to miss Michael getting sick off the side of the roof, but she heard it. It took all her willpower to force the nausea down. Peter came to her side, concern etched across his impossibly beautiful face.
“Are you feeling all right, Wendy?”
She held out her hand. “We’re . . .” She laughed. “We’re just not used to flying. We might need a few minutes before our stomachs settle.”
To her great annoyance, besides the rough landing, John seemed perfectly fine. He walked swiftly to the edge of the roof and was looking out at Pan Island with a huge smile across his face. Wendy pushed herself up to her knees and laid her hands firmly against the strange roof, unlike anything she had ever seen. Even the smallest palms were woven, and not in a simple cross-pattern, but rather in an ever-widening circle of elaborate designs. Her fingers traced the design upward until she reached the center of the roof, where a gorgeously sewn night sky was pierced through by the branch holding Peter’s flag.
“Why, this is amazing work,” she stuttered. “Who made this?”
Peter shrugged nonchalantly. “Magic. Probably. But wait until you see the rest!” Wendy stood, shakily, and Peter reached out to steady her. His green eyes met hers, and he reached down and, without warning, he unlatched the two navy buttons holding her coat on. The coat fell to her feet, and Wendy felt like she was shedding a skin.
“I thought you might be warm. Here, I’ll help you down.” Peter gestured to her brother. “Aye, John, do you see that bell?”
Peter pointed to the farthest point of the roof, where a perfect silver bell was perched upon an outlying branch. “Ring it!”
As John scampered over, Wendy took note of how out of place the silver bell looked amongst the tree branches and the natural, woven roof.
“That bell is so lovely.”
Peter turned to her, his naughty grin at once so enticing that Wendy had to clench her hands to keep from caressing his face.
“I stole it. From Hook.”
Michael, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, looked up from where he was finished getting sick on the roof, and Wendy made a note to clean his face as soon as she had access to water.
“Captain Hook?” Michael asked, eagerly.
Peter wagged his long finger. “Later. That is a tale for later. I’m assuming that you could probably use a good meal and perhaps a nap?”
At the mention of a nap, Wendy felt all the energy drain from her body. Peter was right—she was exhausted. It had been night when they had left . . . where was it that they lived? London, yes. How silly that she forgot! When they had left London, it had been night. Now it was midday. Her senses were out of whack and the strange question that had leapt into her chest when they arrived whispered once more before settling into the folds of her subconscious: what is . . . what is . . .
“Yes. That sounds quite lovely, Peter.” With that, John began ringing the bell. Its harsh clang sounded out over the roof and echoed down into the tree below, out over the island.
“Thank you, John.”
John’s hand slipped, and the bell gave an extra clang. Peter laughed. There was a moment of deafening silence in the absence of that harsh, sharp sound, and then Wendy heard a rising wave of whooping. Whooping and cheering, banal and animalistic in its nature, as if the tree itself were calling back to Peter its happy reply. It was the joyful cries of boys, boys calling like wolves to the moon, scampering and yipping toward them. Peter flew to the side of the roof, where a clumsy ladder made of branches was attached.
“Come, Darlings! Let’s go meet my boys.” He gave Wendy a naughty grin before leaping off the side of the roof, while Wendy self-consciously tucked her blue nightgown underneath her, climbing down one rung at a time until her feet met a boarded platform. She turned her face upward and reached her arms out to catch Michael, who, to her dismay, simply jumped.
“I’m Peter!” he cried, before landing heavily in her arms, his foot pushing roughly into her hip.
“Oof, Michael, you are getting so heavy! You can’t jump like that.”
He giggled, and Wendy curled him up for a kiss. His fat hand pushed her face away.
“No, Wendy! Not in front of Peter!” With a shake of her head, she put her little brother down and turned around. A sudden, sharp silence filled the air. Finally, a brave boy’s voice rose up through the silence, cutting through it like a blade.
“What the bloody hells ’tis a GURL doing here?”
The Darlings and Peter were now standing on a high platform that overlooked several descending levels of a dizzyingly large tree house. Staggered down from their spot on the platform were several more very wide and flat circular thatched roofs, each gorgeously patterned. The manzinita-esque tre
e wrapped and clung to the different buildings, leaping in and out of windows, its fingers splaying and supporting each of the levels, which were connected by endless mazes of rope walkways, tattered pieces of rope that ran from hut to hut. Each rope walkway was strung with perhaps a dozen hanging lanterns. There were probably about thirty huts in all, some larger than others, some shaped like tents, others like round bowls, still others like tiny versions of rickety square buildings. The tree groaned and creaked in the wind, and Wendy was struck that Pan Island, this fortress of nature, was somehow alive. A raw bustling energy ran through its veins, something she could feel in the air, sense on her skin. It was the feeling of boys, a crackling and fervent energy, and as she looked out from the platform, she understood why. About two hundred boys of every shape, color, and nationality stared up at her. There were pale white skinny boys with red hair and dashes of freckles; black-skinned boys with dark, beautiful eyes; black-haired lads with icy blue eyes; tanned boys with curly brown hair, their skin the color of cocoa; blond boys with strong chins; and Asian boys with long black hair and tanned skin.
Dirty boys all of them, wearing similar outfits to Peter: leggings and loose tunics decorated with leaves and visible stitching, and a variety of random leather pieces that didn’t seem to really fit them. Across their chests, some of them wore a haphazardly painted moon, drawn with the same messy yellow paint that had marked the flag. They stared at Wendy, and she felt the eyes of each boy: piercing, judgmental, and foreign. Their faces contorted between fascination, anger, and confusion as they looked at the strange girl standing in pajamas in their midst. Wendy suddenly felt very naked.
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