“Run, Michael!” she screamed. “Go!” They ran toward the boats, both frequently stumbling and rising again, knees and shins leaking blood, leaving trails on the jagged peaks of rock that led to the sea. Wendy made it to the makeshift wooden dock, a thin piece of rotted plywood painted yellow, the water of the sea sloshing around her ankles, pulsating up over the dock. The boats were rising and falling on the angry waves, slamming into each other with violent cracks. She carefully picked up Michael as she made her way over the planks. Rain poured down all around them, heavy drops that blinded the eyes and made clattering sounds upon hitting the boats. Wendy could barely make out twenty feet in front of her. She plucked Michael up and set him down hard in one of the boats.
“Throw out everything!”
Michael began dumping the fish baskets and reed poles, each piece disappearing silently beneath an angry wave. She began untying the group of boats, her fingers shaking, making clumsy mistakes in her haste as she pulled one knot out only to make another.
“Dammit!” she screamed.
Michael stared at her. “WENDY!”
“WHAT?”
“You can’t say that!”
“I know, I know, sorry!” She looked back at the rope, her brain finally connecting what she was seeing. She pulled one end of the rope after looping it through another. The knot dissolved, and the boats began pulling away from each other. Wendy leapt off the dock, landing hard next to Michael. He handed her an oar. Wendy stared at it, trying to remember how Booth had paddled the one day that they had rented a small boat on Buttermere. With a shake of her head, she grabbed the oar and began pushing the other boats out of their way as they paddled out of the tide pool and into the open sea.
Michael curled against her as she pushed the wooden oar into the water and back out, their boat rocking wildly as the angry sea curled around them. A wave crashed behind them, spinning the boat outward from the shore, Wendy losing control of the direction as the turquoise water flexed its muscles around the hull. The wind whipped the water into sharply crested waves, the salt spray splattering them both. She pushed again, harder this time, sweat dripping from her forehead, mingling with the drenching rain.
“I can’t see!” Michael cried.
The small rowboat battled against the waves, occasionally churning in a circle as swirling crests around them roared with unchecked fury. The boat finally pitched and rocked forward, striving out to sea as if the waves themselves were carrying it. Wendy felt her arms clench as she drove the paddle into the water again and again, her hard determination inching them forward, her teeth grinding against each other. Michael was sobbing beside her, clutching the boat with one hand and her dress in the other. Finally, the boat seemed to pass some sort of barrier; the angry waves determined to hurtle themselves against the rock turned into waves that rose only to disappear again without the resulting foamy splash.
The paddle went in again and again. Wendy, soaked to the bone, her hands bloodied and splintered, began to hope. A full white moon rose over Neverland, and even through the pouring rain, she could make out its pocked surface. At first, it brought her comfort, this moon with all its history, the moon that she had watched out of her nursery window, just a girl gazing at the stars. Then she remembered that this wasn’t the same moon, and that these weren’t the same stars. She was a world away from her parents in the most devastating of ways. A prayer fell from her lips into the open ocean, out over the waves, into the pouring rain.
Her paddling slowed but kept its soothing rhythm: splash, pull, pivot, rise. Pan Island rose up behind them, fading now into the misty shroud that wrapped the island, barely discernible through the fat raindrops that were filling the boat. There was a moment of quiet before Michael began screaming. Wendy looked up to see a figure plunging toward them through the air, hurtling down toward the boat with unthinkable speed. Wendy stood up and held the oar out, trying to keep her feet steady as the boat pitched underneath her. Thunder crackled across the sky as gray clouds swirled in a tumult of stormy air, the sea and the sky becoming one. Wendy braced herself, the oar across her chest.
“Leave us alone!” she screamed into the wind. “If you love me, then you will leave us alone!”
Peter’s voice swirled down from above, moving so fast, Wendy couldn’t be sure exactly where it was coming from. “You know I can’t do that.” There was laughter, rising into hysterics. “You thought . . . you thought that you could escape me?”
A funnel of air pushed past her face. He was close. “Michael, lie down in the boat and cover your eyes. Do as I say,” she whispered. The waves around the boat were growing larger now, each one more powerful than the next, coming from some unknown shift in their pattern. They began spilling over the side, sloshing the hull, filling the bottom. The boat was pitching from side to side, pitiless gravity taking its toll, the small boat lingering on each pitch before violently bursting upward. Wendy stumbled, falling to her knees before righting herself and pushing her soaked hair out of her eyes.
“COME ON!” she screamed into the air, tired of waiting, tired of being afraid, anger rolling off her with beads of rain. “I’m RIGHT HERE!”
But there wasn’t a sound, except for the rain, which finally slowed to a drizzle.
“COME AND GET ME, PETER PAN!” she screamed, her legs straddling her little brother, who was curled at her feet, the water lapping at his face as he cried with his hands covering his eyes. She waited a moment, watching as the waves grew larger, engulfing the tip of the boat, unrelenting as they pounded the wood. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might drown. Michael’s sobs were becoming hysterical, and without looking down, she knelt, reaching out one hand to touch his hair.
Lightning flashed, and she saw him, lunging for her, the handsome boy with the emerald eyes. She swung the oar as hard as she could, and it caught him on the side of the head. He tumbled into the water with a roar. Wendy looked over the side, and that’s when the boat overturned, flipping so fast that there was only water, and Wendy knew they were dead.
She could feel the saltwater rushing into her lungs, all around her, salt in her eyes, the callous crashing of the waves pounding and spinning her under the surface. Lightning cracked above and she saw the flash of a fin underneath her, the flick of a sharp tail. She gasped and kicked, her arm,s clawing, her dress all around her, drowning her. With a loud scream, she broke the surface.
“MICHAEL! MICHAEL! MICHAEL!” She couldn’t see anything but she was screaming, screaming his name, hoping that the water would take her before she would see her brother drown. A head slowly rose up in the water before her, dripping red hair, bloodred in the night, wide eyes that streamed navy tears. Terrifying, a monster. Peter stared silently at her for a moment before his hands wrapped around her throat.
“Peter! Please!” She struggled to breathe.
He began sobbing. “I love you! Why are you doing this? Why can’t you love me? It could be . . . so . . . easy.”
Her ragged breaths were being choked out of her as she struggled to free his hands from her throat. “Peter . . . I can’t breathe.”
“Nor can I,” he whispered. “Not without you.” His hands tightened.
Stars exploded in her vision, but just before she caved to the darkness, she saw a flash of blond hair in the water. Michael. She brought both of her legs up and slammed them hard into Peter’s stomach. He gasped, and his grip loosened. There was a loud rush of water, and suddenly, a rogue wave flung the boat hard into them both, cracking against both of their heads and pushing them underwater, momentarily freeing Wendy from Peter’s grasp. A strange sound filled the water, a throbbing pulse, the hum of something that came from above. The waves were violent now, folding in on themselves again and again as they pitched Wendy about, her body churning in the waves like a feather.
A small pale hand brushed Wendy’s leg, and she grabbed onto Michael, yanking him up and into her arms. Kicking as hard as she could, Wendy sputtered to the surface again. Just as she em
erged, she looked up in horror to see a large wave crowning before her, higher than she had seen before, and a huge black shape riding its crest. There was nothing to do but wait, to breathe in for a moment. Loud cannons echoed through the night, and Wendy heard the screams of men. Her arms clutched desperately to her brother, who wasn’t moving; he wasn’t moving. The rowboat was flung out to sea, far beyond their reach, and Michael wasn’t moving. Wendy pulled his head up, turning his face toward her. His lips were blue, his eyes closed.
“MICHAEL!” She barely had time to scream his name before the giant wave crashed down around them, pulling them close to something that pulled them down, down into an undertow, the taste of the sea so salty in her mouth, in her lungs. She cradled her brother as the water swirled around her, unsure of which way was up or down, sea and sky and death all one shade of deepest black. She felt something sharp and hard press against her leg and tried not to imagine teeth, the flesh of a shark.
Whatever was touching them was everywhere now, all around, and she held her brother’s body close to her as it pushed them together and then began tearing—no, pulling, pulling at their skin—as they rose out of the water. Wendy greedily gulped the air as they came up out of the sea. Lightning cracked against the sky, and she could see black wood, so much glossy black wood, windows and harpoons and jagged barbs, black figures that watched silently from an open deck. There were black sails snapping in the wind above them, and the voices of men, men yelling, and they were still rising up and up, out of the depths, into the air, held by—what, a net? Wendy’s fingers curled around the black netting, silver fish flapping all around them, a small shark gasping for breath beside her, its eyes rolling back in its head, its bloody mouth snapping for air. She turned to Michael, who was still and blue and cold.
“MICHAEL!” She screamed his name and slapped his face, pressing her mouth against his own, thinking she could pour all her breath, all her life into him. “MICHAEL, PLEASE!” She blew into his mouth, pushing the air into his lungs, slapping his back, beating her hands at his heart, breathing, breathing, and sobbing as she cradled him, pressing him against her, breathing into his mouth, praying for his lungs to rise, crying and screaming, vaguely aware that they were no longer in the air but being settled onto a hard wooden surface. There was the sound of boots around her, the sound of shouts, and then an eerie quiet as she stared down at her brother, so blue and so cold. She began shaking him, desperately slapping and pounding on his chest as she cried his name.
“MICHAEL! MICHAEL! Please, oh, God, please, I’ll do anything, please, take me instead . . .” She held his body curled into her chest, his still face against her own, her cries raking the air around her as she prayed that death would be quick because Michael was gone. Michael was gone, and there was nothing else.
She thought of her mother and father, how they had cradled his tiny body at birth, how they had handed him to her, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. “This is your brother Michael. You’re going to take care of him, aren’t you?” Wendy had been afraid to touch him at first, so tiny and so weak, and yet, when she had held him, she knew he would be a part of her forever. “Yes, Mama, always,” Wendy had said.
She held his lifeless body against her own now, a whisper escaping her lips. “Oh, God . . .” she cried. “Please . . . forgive me, Mama.” She touched his face softly, taking in his still eyelashes, his perfect blue lips, his pale chubby cheeks, the limp legs that splayed out on her lap. She had leaned her cheeks against his own, trying to pour her own life into his, her tears splashing over his face, when her brother sputtered and coughed. Wendy let out of cry and flipped him over, hitting him hard on the back until water poured out of his mouth, dark and green, splashing over her nightgown and feet.
Michael took a few deep breaths and began wailing, the happiest sound Wendy had ever heard. He clutched Wendy, his voice hysterical. “I want to go HOME!” She sobbed happy tears as she pulled Michael against her, noticing for the first time that they were on a deck, a black deck, with a black net settled all around them, gathered in folds. Wendy looked up to the sky as her arms tightened around Michael’s shivering form. There, silhouetted against the white moon, she saw Peter’s shape, watching, waiting, and then he was gone, out into the dark night, once a prince, now a creature of her nightmares. Wendy shivered and pulled Michael close to her, burying her face in his wet hair. She was afraid, she was hunted, and yet this was all she could do—hold onto the only family she had left and pray that someday the Darlings would all be together again, one family among these unflinching stars.
Wendy closed her eyes, Michael clutched to her, when she heard the click of boots, the sharp sound of leather and heel making its way to her, each practical step hard and unforgiving. The boots came to rest in front of her face: black leather, etched with swirls of smoke and water and tiny skulls. The voice rang out over the storm, the outer fringes of adulthood captured in its deep clip. Wendy raised her head, unable to see the figure clearly through the now-battering rain.
A large silver hook reached out and caressed its way across her cheek, the metal bone cold.
“Welcome aboard the Sudden Night, Miss Darling.”
Wendy’s story will continue in Volume Two:
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.
—J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
THERE ARE SO MANY INDIVIDUALS that made this magical little novel possible, without whom it would not be the same, nor would my career be where it is without them. I am indebted to you. Thank you.
To my beloved, Ryan Oakes, who not only believes in me, as a writer, as a wife, and a mother, but who always has just the right ideas when plot holes present themselves: Thank you for your masterful theological brain, which lent itself to this novel and the ones that will follow, very heavily.
To Maine, thank you for being the joy that propelled me to write a book overflowing with the wonder of childhood. I am privileged to surrender my adult years into your tiny hands. I love who you are.
To Mom, Dad, and Denise McCulley: Thank you for your support, your time, and your many hours of babysitting. Your overflowing love for your grandchild reminds me that you still have things to teach me.
To Cynthia, thank you for making my heart light.
Thank you to my dear friends and family, who smiles and encouragement are the ideal sustenance of writers: Kimberly Stein, Cassandra Splittgerber, Nicole London, Elizabeth Wagner, Karen Groves, Katie Hall, Sarah Glover, Katie Blumhorst, Butch and Lynette Oakes, Emily Kiebel, Terri Miller, Amanda Sanders, Wendy Marie, Erin Burt, and Erin Chan.
To Mason: I’m eternally grateful for our writing partnership and our friendship. My words are infinitely better because of you. O Captain, my captain?
Thank you to my remarkable test readers, who brought me so many important questions, their suggestions like flashes of stars: Heather Erickson, Amanda Sanders, Jen Lehmann, Patty Jones, Jenna Czaplewski, and Katie Hall.
To Erin, my story editor: At this point, you know my writing better than maybe anyone. My work loves snuggling into your capable hands.
To my Sparkpress Team: The incredible Crystal Patriarche, whose name conveys the power she wields, whose unstinting enthusiasm for my work still bewilders me. Janay Lampkin, Christelle Lujan, Julie Metz, Brooke Warner, Lauren Wise, and Megan Connor—what a brilliant group you are. To my agent, Jen Unter—I’m so glad you are on my team. We’re going to do big things. Thank you to the editors: Wayne Parrish, Lauren Wise, Barrett Briske, and Pamela Long, for their hard work and keen eyes.
To J.M. Barrie. Thank you for writing a book that has enthralled children around the world for over a hundred years. You taught us to dream.
And finally, to the original charmer David Hall: We miss you. We love you. We’ll see you soon.
AUTHOR BIO
COLLEEN OAKES is the author of books for both teens and adults, including the Elly in Bloom Series, the Queen of Hearts Saga (HarperCollins 2016), and the
Wendy Darling Saga. She lives in North Denver with her husband and son and surrounds herself with the most lovely family and friends imaginable. When not writing or plotting new books, Colleen can be found swimming, traveling, blogging, or totally immersing herself in nerdy pop culture. She is currently at work on the final Elly novel and another YA fantasy series.
Wendy Darling Page 30