“Yeah! Guns! Guns! Guns!” The boys were chanting. Peter kept his eyes on Wendy.
“Here, John, why don’t you be the first to try one out?” John flushed happily and walked to the front, pushing his glasses up. He took the musket in his hands, turning it over, wondering at the bayonet, his fingers brushing the lock. Wendy could see his brain figuring out how the gun worked, no doubt something he had studied back in London. Wendy saw a small smile brush his face. Then, without warning, he whirled around and aimed it at one of the thick limbs that branched off Centermost. The branch exploded into a thousand pieces, showering delighted boys with splinters of wood.
“Right shot, John!” Peter yelled, looking impressed. John had never looked happier. Peter raised his eyebrows at Wendy over the crowd. She held his gaze. “Now, you may be wondering—why the guns? Sure, we will have fun with them, but are they necessary?” At this, he knelt down as if telling the boys a secret, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Yes, they are. For you see, our days of playing games with Hook are over. There will come a time very soon when our battles will turn into all-out war. I grow weary of our small adventures. Beginning now, we will raise up our army. I’ll bring more boys and find more guns! And when Hook least expects it, we will strike. Once the pirates are defeated, we will be truly free, and all of Neverland will bow to us. Wendy and Peter, the King and Queen of Neverland.”
The surprised eyes of the Lost Boys all turned to Wendy, who stood at the back, her hands clenching with anger as she gazed at Peter. Hatred burned through her chest as he looked at her, claiming her as his own in front of all the boys. “She’ll be our mother?” one asked.
“Yes.” Peter smiled. “She knows the cost.” He looked down at Michael, who was reaching for one of the muskets. Wendy looked up and forced a smile upon her face. John was looking at her now with confusion playing across his face, his head tilted, his glasses almost sliding off his nose. He was unsure, and she was glad. Thankfully, John reached down and tugged Michael away from the guns. “Awwww!” Michael flailed in his grasp, and Peter laughed.
“Don’t stop him! We have enough for all of us! Every boy to a gun!” There was a wild clamor for the front, and Wendy watched with relief as John took a musket in one hand and Michael’s hand in the other before walking swiftly away from the crowd. John was stubborn, he was utterly unlikable and completely under Peter’s spell, but at least he was smart. At least there was that.
Wendy turned away from the boys and walked quietly into the tree. A cacophony of gunshots followed her, and she cringed at each one, waiting for a bullet to tear through her wounded heart. It didn’t come. Instead, she wove deep through the great tree until she began making her way upward, climbing through the branches, step by cautious step. Slowly, a plan was forming in her mind. There was a soft thud behind her, and she knew what it was without even turning. “Peter.”
“Wendy.” When she turned back, he stood proudly, his legs splayed wide, a gigantic musket in his arms. “Do you like my new toy? I’m thinking of calling it the Wendy-bird. John had to show me how to use it, can you believe it?”
Wendy saw herself step outside of her body and make her way over to the tree branches in the distance. Pretend he is Booth. Think of Michael. Wendy turned to Peter. “It’s lovely, Peter.”
His face registered surprise. He was obviously not expecting her to be so kind to him. “Yes, well, it’s a start. We’ll need many more if we are to try and overthrow Hook.”
“I imagine you will.” Wendy shyly pushed the hair out of her face. Peter’s eyes lit up, lingering on the line of her neck. Even now, when his presence made her want to bathe in scalding water, she could feel her body pulling toward him, feel her skin flush at his gaze. “Peter, I’ve been thinking. And I do need some time, but I do believe, I do believe that I could love you. I was just scared, you see. What I feel for you is confusing.” At least now she wasn’t lying. “I fear losing myself in you. It’s not something I’m familiar with, and it frightened me.”
Peter’s face darkened. “I understand, Wendy, but when will you be ready? I have waited long enough, I feel. I’m losing my patience, waiting for you to sort out your womanly feelings.” He stepped menacingly toward her. “We need to take our place as King and Queen of Pan Island, and soon. Who knows, perhaps we should even think about children to carry on our legacy?” At Wendy’s horrified look, Peter laughed. “Not soon, of course. After the great war has ended.”
Wendy felt frantic and trapped, like an animal in a cage, wishing more than anything that she could bury her head in her father’s chest and he would take care of this wicked boy once and for all. But there were no grown-ups, no rules; there was no order here. There was just Peter, looking at her hungrily, and Wendy, hands shaking as she tried to maintain her composure in utter despair. She raised her head to look up at the sky, at the darkening clouds that dotted the distant horizon above the sea. She couldn’t wait any longer.
“Tonight.” She turned to him. “Tonight. Meet me by the branch that holds the lantern, long after the boys have gone to sleep. I’ll be waiting for you.” Peter was so excited by this that he fumbled, dropping the musket, for once out of control, belying the maniacal god-child she knew he was. But then he was back, calmly picking up the musket and walking up to Wendy. The smell of him, once so seductive, was now repulsive. Instead of leaves and spice, he smelled now like muddy earth, decay, and death.
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Tonight. And make yourself ready for me as well.” She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure what that meant. Good. She reached up, kissing his cheek softly, her teeth clenched so hard that she felt a shot of pain bounce off her jaw. “Everything must be perfect.”
“I will. It will be perfect.” He kissed her hard on the lips, and she stayed perfectly still, furious at the way her lips rose underneath his, the way her skin tingled with fire. Booth. Booth. She repeated the words in her mind as Peter kissed her. Finally, he pulled away, his boyish face elated. She bit her tongue to keep from crying and clutched her shaking fists. “I’ll go. And I’ll be waiting for you. My darling. I can’t wait for you to be all mine.” He turned away from her. “And it looks like there will be a storm. I’ll bring extra blankets.”
“Thank you.”
He soared up and away from her, and soon she heard the happy notes of his pan pipe flitting through the tree. Wendy began making her way back to her hut. She had much to do and very little time to do it in.
Dusk came quickly, as if it were also trying to outrun the storm that courted its nightly turn-in. Wendy’s body shuddered as a huge thunderclap shook the leaves above her. She peeked her head out of her hut to look up toward the sky. Huge heavy clouds, their billowy breasts flashing with green bursts of lightning, were rolling toward Pan Island. Rain clouds. Her father had not taught her as much about the weather as he had John, but she knew this: those clouds held rain, and lots of it. Perfect. The gray sky above her was thick with moisture, and she felt the first drop of light drizzling rain upon her cheek.
For a moment, she stood, looking out at the sea, and then her head turned west, toward the main island. How far could it be? Peter had said eighteen miles, but was that true? Was anything he ever said true? The sky answered with a clap of thunder so loud that it seemed to echo and bounce around inside her bones. The rain began to pour, warm and wet and drenching. Two Lost Boys ran past her hut, holding giant leaves over their heads for shelter. “Big storm! Get inside!” one of them shouted at Wendy before disappearing into the shady grove beyond. She nodded silently. These boys. She looked down at the tiny boy footprints they had left in the muddy ground, now filling with rainwater, now drowned out and disappearing under a small puddle that turned their footprints into a widening lake. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was time to act.
Hours later, she stood up and forced herself to take a jagged breath. She had rested an d planned, until her path lay clear before her. She had tried to channel the st
rength of her mother, her strong hands and unwavering protectiveness. She had tried to channel the intelligence of her father, of his steady heart and quick mind, and finally Booth: his compassion, his kindness, and what he believed she was—brave. Wendy turned and went back into her hut, which she had totally ransacked. The small overturned table had been broken. The linen curtains were shredded. Food and ribbons were strewn everywhere. The water basin dripped over the floor. There were deep grooves in the wall where Wendy had raked a table leg with violent, heavy slashes. Wendy reached down, grabbing the burlap sack that she had packed earlier with a few dresses, shoes, apples, and her small dagger. For her last step, she turned over the small wooden chair that Michael was fond of, and with a careful stomp of her foot, she broke off one of the legs. She held up the jagged end, turning it over in the waning light of the storm. Yes, that would work just dandy.
Wendy stood up to survey the room, to take it in one last time. She watched the hammock rock in the wind, the way that the ribbons draped across the floor, a shuffling melody filling the space, a room she had once loved. She watched her shredded curtains blowing in the quickening breeze. It was the loveliest of prisons. Wendy pulled a single lavender ribbon off the hammock and tied it around her ponytail, smoothing the hair away from her flushed cheeks. She straightened her blue dress and slipped on her sensible black shoes. Through her window, she could see the mainlaind, a slumbering, green leviathan, lit up with jagged, angry bursts of heat lightning that peppered the island like an attack.
Wendy tightened her fists and recalled the memory of falling, of twisting and plummeting, of her panicked thoughts. She remembered the way Peter had drawn the line in the sand around her, the way he had kissed her as if she were his to claim. She let the memories rise up inside her like bile, filling her body with potent fear. Her breaths became ragged as she remembered it all. She turned to the small mirror hanging above the broken table. She looked back at herself, her hazel eyes rimmed with red. Her lips parted as she spoke quietly to herself. “Be brave, Wendy.” The wind roared its approval outside.
Moving quickly now, she grabbed the wooden leg of the chair and shoved the tip of it into the burning torch outside her hut. She watched as the fire seduced its way into the wood, lighting it from within until the piece flared and sparked. Wendy ran back inside with the flaming stick and laid it down, ever so gently, on the hammock. Within seconds, it caught fire. She sprinted to the doorway, kicking over another torch on her way out. Smoke began to fill the hut. Without stopping, Wendy leapt out onto the tree, wrapping her legs around it the way Oxley had taught her.
Her body hurtled downward, the levels of Pan Island flying by as she dropped. When the main platform appeared below her, she hugged her thighs together, slowing her momentum so that she could leap off onto the rope walkway. She landed on her knees, falling forward, scraping her face on the disintegrating wood panels. With a small cry, she pushed herself up to her feet and ran toward the Table, where she knew the boys were probably eating dinner. Shouts rose in the distance, and she glanced up. Her hut was now billowing black smoke into the stormy sky. Thunder cracked as she cleared the side of the rope walkway and pressed her back against the side of the Table.
A small boy named Alexander was relieving himself off the edge of the walkway, laughing as he peed into the branches below. “Alexander!” Wendy barked. He turned around, a blush spreading up his cheeks. Wendy pretended not to notice. She raised her voice to a hysterical pitch. “Fire! Fire! My hut! The pirates! The pirates! They are attacking us!” She pointed up frantically. The boy’s mouth dropped open, and he sprinted inside the Table, half-elated to be able to share the news, half-frenzied.
“PIRATES! FIRE!” There was silence inside the Table. “PIRATES! FIRE! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” Suddenly, the Table seemed to explode with noise as everyone was pushing up and running for the door. “Grab the guns!” someone screamed. Wendy silently tucked herself back against a wall. No one noticed her. A hundred boys were pouring out of the Table now, and an alarm bell had begun ringing. “Fire!” one of the littlest boys screamed when he stepped outside, unable to keep the smile off his face. “It’s a FIRE! A REAL FIRE!”
The boys were everywhere now, each of them sprinting toward the walkway, grabbing buckets or swords or both. “Where is Peter?” someone screamed. “Has no one seen Peter?” A small boy began shooting arrows at the burning hut. Wendy watched them all silently, studying each face with careful eyes. The sounds of chaos rose up through the tree, shouts and screams. The fire had grown now to engulf her hut completely, a blazing inferno against the gray sky. Wendy looked at the clouds above. The rain had begun coming down harder now—thankfully, there was no danger of the fire spreading. She ducked inside the Table. A breath of relief pressed out of her. Michael was lying on the floor with his feet in the air, watching a bright green caterpillar crawl through his toes. Tears rolled down his cheeks onto the dirt floor.
“Michael!” she hissed.
“Wendy!” He turned over. “Where have you been? You left me alone!”
“I’m sorry, Michael. Something happened to me.”
He turned his head sideways, his blue eyes tracing her face. “Something with Peter? Something bad?”
Wendy nodded.
“You left me!” he cried, dissolving into unhappy tears. “I’m tired! I stayed up all night and still no one would play with me! Peter told them not to play with me because I’m a baby.”
He struck her in that five-year-old way, more adorable than painful. She cradled his hand. “We don’t hit people, Michael. Ever.” Or drop them. Or threaten them, she thought.
He looked down sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Wendy. I feel different here.”
Wendy lowered her face to his and looked into his eyes. “I know exactly what you mean. Michael, we don’t have a lot of time. We have to leave, and I’ll explain later, but we have to go now. Do you understand? Peter . . .” She shook her head. “Peter is not a very nice person, and we have to go. Do you understand?”
Michael’s eyes widened. “I want to go with you, Wendy.” His small hands rested on her cheeks, and he leaned against her, his sweaty forehead pressed against her own. “Don’t leave me.”
She wrapped him up in her arms. “Never. I will never leave you. But I need you to be very quiet, do you understand? I need you to be silent, to keep us safe. And for the next two hours, I need you to be very brave. Can you do that?”
Michael nodded and raised his fingers to his lips. She looked down at him. “It’s time to go.” Wendy wrapped her arms around him and hoisted him up onto her hip. Then she ran. She ran out of the Table, turning down and down again, weaving her way over walkways and under branches.
“We need to get down to where the Pips sleep,” she whispered to Michael, and soon he was pointing over her shoulder as they wove deeper and lower into the island, stepping on branches and curling under thick hedges of tropical leaves, an endless maze of curves and turns that were as natural to him as the hallways in their home. Wendy could hear the shouts of the Lost Boys far above them, their panicked cries as they tried to put the fire out. She poked her head out underneath a rubbery-tongued flower, sending a spray of water to her feet as rain poured down all around her. The sky opened up for a moment, and she could see the hut. The fire was much smaller now, a yawning black hole of smoke and smoldering flame. A shadow was circling around the roof, its movement quick and agitated. Peter.
The cold knife of fear twisted inside of her, and she turned back, running faster, Michael bouncing with each step. His tiny finger pointed again, and she turned, grateful to find a thin trail twisting underneath her feet, like a snake making its way to the beach. They ran under the perch where she had argued with John. She could feel the memory like a hot scar across her mind, at the way his face twisted in disgust at her, at his blind loyalty to Peter. She would come back for him. She would not leave Neverland without both of her brothers, but since John couldn’t be carried, he would have to wai
t. Peter wouldn’t hurt him—he needed John. She wiped away a tear as the sea came into view ahead of them through a thicket of vines, its waves peppered with a hard rain. The guilt at leaving John settled in the back of her brain like a cancer.
“Wendy!” Michael tugged hard on her shoulder and let out a whimper. “Stop!”
A figure stood in the darkened tunnel ahead of them, his tall form blocking the way, the rippling sea churning at his back. Wendy put Michael down and stood in front of him. With shaking hands, she drew the dagger out of her bag and stepped closer. “Peter . . .”
The figure stepped into the light. It was Abbott, soaked to the bone, his sword drawn but dangling at his side. Water dripped from the tip, mingling with the puddle at his feet. Lightning flashed, and Wendy saw the determined look in his eyes, the way he stared right through her. He raised his sword, and Wendy raised the dagger. “Please, Abbott, he’s just a child . . .” He tilted his head to the side and looked at the dagger, and with a roll of his eyes he gave a soft shake of his head. Then he pointed the sword to the right, pointing to a small hole in the bushes, barely noticeable. Without a word, he gestured again with the sword. Wendy blinked and raised her eyes to his. He gave a barely discernible nod.
Wendy didn’t have time to think. She pushed Michael through the small hole, just the perfect size for Pips. The hole opened up into another trail, this one covered by a canopy of white flowers, their mouths shuttered shut against the storm, a perfect cover from above. Clutching Michael’s hand tightly in her own, they sprinted through the canopy before it spilled them out, without much warning, onto the rocky shore.
“Wendy!” Michael shouted, pointing past a large boulder. “Look!” Wendy turned her head. The boats that she had seen with Peter were still tied in groups, rocking violently just on the other side of a rocky outcrop. She had found them, thank God. They were right there. She raised her head to look up to the top of Pan Island. The fire was out, only a burning husk remaining. A strange horn blast rang out through the island.
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