by Terry Brooks
Dinner was concluded, a sumptuous affair, and the speeches were begun. Peter's was the centerpiece of the evening.
The laughter died away. Peter shifted his attention. "So, please, ladies and gentlemen, bear with me from here, remembering, if you will, that I'm used to addressing shareholders."
The laughter returned, scattered, polite.
Peter reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for his speech and found it missing. His hand moved quickly to his other breast pocket, then to his side pockets and down to his pants. A wave of panic swept through him. Where was his speech? He hadn't bothered even to think about it once they had left the house, determined to read it as it was and the consequences be damned. He'd had it then; he remembered having it. What had happened to it?
He glanced quickly at Moira, who was already searching her purse. Her eyes lifted abruptly, and she shook her head no.
Peter took a deep breath. "I apologize, 1 seem to have misplaced my speech."
Silence greeted his announcement. He cleared his throat. "Lord Whitehall, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. For more than seventy years Wendy Darling has given hope to hundreds of homeless children…"
That was all he could remember. He cleared his throat a second time. "She has been a most significant asset to the Great Ormond Street Hospital…"
What else? What was the rest of it?
Below the dais, he could hear the sounds of people shifting about uncomfortably, of shoes scraping, of coughs and whispers. He kept going because he had no choice, not sure what he was saying, sure only that he was beginning to lose his audience.
He didn't dare look over at Moira or Wendy.
Darkness hung like a black curtain over 14 Kensington, deep and unfathomable. Although the snow had faded to a sprinkle of stray flakes, the clouds had closed tight again against the moon and stars, and the only light to be found came from the two distant street lamps as they glimmered gamely against a creeping of new mist. The peaks and gables of the aging roofs of Kensington's houses were stark and abrupt against the skyline, sharp edges cutting into the fabric of the night.
In the backyard, Nana lifted her head from between her paws and poked her wet nose out from beneath the covering of the porch. Liza had banished her almost an hour ago, miffed at some imagined wrong, and the faithful dog was awaiting the return of her true mistress for a righting of the matter. A length of chain secured her to a ground stake.
An unnatural movement in the sky had caught her attention, a reshaping of the clouds as they parted momentarily to let something through. A flash of wicked green light appeared and was gone.
Nana came to her feet with a growl.
In the nursery, Jack and Maggie were sleeping. Jack sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs beneath his covers; Maggie was curled into a tight ball with a blanket pulled over her head. Above them, the china-house night-lights glowed steadily, holding back the darkness, keeping the shadows at bay. The fire in the hearth had died out long ago, the embers turned to gray ash.
At the window, the curtains hung limp against the glass, the images of the adventures of Peter Pan lost in their folds.
Then suddenly the night-lights blazed brightly, as if the electricity that powered them had been increased twofold, then flared once and went out. The night pounced instantly, like an animal at hunt. In the darkness at the far corner of the room, the twin mirrors of the hulking armoire began to glow, faintly at first and then brighter-that wicked green light. Images appeared, indistinct, distant still, but growing clearer with the passing of each second, coming closer.
Jack stirred, mumbling.
Shadows crept up the wall, cast from nowhere, come out of nothing, fingers turned to claws, muzzles to teeth. The silhouette of something vast and sprawling rose up amid the sharpnesses, stretching from the mop boards up the wainscoting-jungle trees with their branches intertwined like spider webs, and jagged rocks from an island shoreline, damp with the ocean's spray.
In the mirrors of the armoire, the images took shape-a skull, its vacant eyes huge and staring, its bared teeth set in a chilling grin, and an ancient sailing ship, creaking and moaning as it strained against its anchor.
Lightning flashed suddenly across the toy ship in the bottle that sat atop the mantel, as if a storm had caught her unawares. Jack stirred again. The star mobile that hung over his head began to spin wildly. The old rocking horse settled comfortably by the toy chest began to buck, rope mane and tail whipping in a sudden burst of wind that came from nowhere…
Down in the garden, Nana lunged against her chain, straining to break free, barking something that sounded like "Hoof, Hoof!"
In the study, Tootles stood before the ship models that lined the shelf, fascinated as the tiny masts began to shiver and the sails to fill with invisible wind. His wet, empty eyes stared at the swaying ships, and as he watched he swayed with them. When he heard Nana bark, he stepped back instantly, cocked his head, and whispered, "Danger."
Liza dozed in the kitchen, her head cradled in her arms. A scraping sound at the front door brought her instantly awake.
Wind whipped through the nursery, catching up the loose note cards of Peter's forgotten speech and scattering them. The light from the armoire had grown brighter, the images sharper. There were shouts, cries out of sleep and dreams, and the sound of something scraping sharply-iron on wood.
The blankets on the children flew off, torn away.
Blackness engulfed the room.
* * *
At the banquet hall, Peter labored on bravely.
But he was dying. Without his speech, he was a sailor lost at sea. The audience's restlessness was palpable. Desperation flooded through him. The entire evening was on the verge of becoming a shambles^-Wendy's tribute, ruined. And it was all because of him.
He stopped abrupdy in midsentence, threw caution to the winds, and straightened. The audience quieted slighdy.
"Ladies and GenUemen, I've given you enough rhetoric to chew on for one night. Let me just say one more thing about Wendy Darling. Wendy brought me in from the cold all those years ago, a foundling. She taught me to read and write when I could do neither. She found people who were willing to adopt me, to become my parents when I had none, and even then she never stopped worrying after me, caring about me, loving me."
There was dead silence now. Everyone was listening. "She has done so much. I married her granddaughter, my wife, Moira. My children love her. They think she can do anything. They even want her to teach them to fly. She's given me my life. And, my God, she has given life to so many children. That is her true achievement, the achievement we are here to honor tonight."
He paused. "So if Wendy means as much to you as she does to me, if she has helped you in your life as much as she has helped me in mine, will you stand up, please? Stand up, if your lives were changed by this wonderful woman." He motioned abruptly with his arms. "Stand up with me and salute her!"
They rose hesitantly, in ones and twos and then in whole groups until all were on their feet and applauding wildly. The hall came alive with the sound of it, a thunderous ovation, and Peter stood proudly at its center, his boyish face wreathed in a broad smile. His eyes met Moira's momentarily, and he was stunned by the depth of feeling he saw there.
Slowly Wendy Darling rose, tears in her eyes. She bowed to the audience with a little, short nod, hands clasped tightly before her.
A cart set back against the wall behind the dais was wheeled to the front. On it sat a model of the proposed addition to Great Ormond Street Hospital and across its front was stretched a banner that read: the wendy darling foundling wing. Hands appeared to lift the banner above the model, and Peter went to Wendy's side to steer her into position for the ceremonial ribbon cutting. The applause intensified.
Then a gust of wind blew wide a set of tall, latticed windows behind them, sweeping down over the dais. Wendy stumbled with the force of it, and Peter reached quickly to steady her. Moira appeared with the scissors. The banner flut
tered wildly in the wind. The chandeliers swayed.
With an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the windows, Wendy reached up with the scissors and cut the ribbon in half. Cheers rose from the audience, and the applause erupted anew. Peter smiled and hugged his grandmother, then turned and put his arms around Moira.
By doing so, he missed seeing the glint of fear that crept suddenly into Wendy's eyes.
Wendy's Tale
The Rolls plowed slowly, steadily through the night, snow turning to slush beneath its wheels. Peter laid his head back against the soft leather of his seat and closed his eyes. The evening had gone well. He was pleased with the speech he had given, the words coming from somewhere within, from a place he hadn't visited in a long, long time. He was surprised to discover that it was even still there.
"Home," Moira whispered in his ear.
He opened his eyes and straightened, finding the dwellings of Kensington Gardens all about, their gabled roofs and ivy-grown walls wrapped in the arms of the ancient trees, their draped and shuttered windows pinpricks of light shining through the snow. The Rolls pulled to a stop in front of number 14, snowflakes melting on the windshield. Peter opened the back passenger door and stepped out, stretching. Moira followed, her breath frosting the air, her face bright and very pretty. She shared a smile with Peter and touched his cheek.
Peter stepped around her and reached back to help Granny Wendy out. Wendy's face was drawn and worn by now, the excitement of the evening having finally caught up with her. Nevertheless, she smiled like a young girl.
"That wasn't so bad, Wendy Angela Moira Darling," Peter declared softly.
"For an old woman," she replied.
Peter shook his head and grinned. "Not you. You were wonderful."
"You weren't so bad yourself… boy."
He glanced sharply at her, but she was looking elsewhere, her tired eyes distant. He took her arm and they began to walk, heads bent slightly against the mist, their feet squeaking softly in the new snow.
Moira leaned in from the other side. "I'm glad to see that you're finally enjoying yourself…"
She stopped abruptly, her words trailing off. "Peter?"
Peter's eyes lifted. Before them, the front door stood wide open; a scattering of snow drifted across the threshold and into the hall. In the glow of the front porch lights, Peter could see a deep gouge in the heavy panels-as if someone had raked a screwdriver across the wood.
Granny Wendy glanced up, started, and caught her breath sharply. "The children!" she breathed.
Peter let go of her arm and charged through the door. The house was in blackness, cold and empty feeling. Behind him, he heard Moira flick the light switch without success. The power was gone.
"There, a candle, in the sconce beside you," Granny Wendy advised.
Peter groped along the wall, found it, produced a pocket lighter, and snapped it open. A flame sparked to life, and the candle's wick caught fire.
"Jack! Maggie!" Moira was calling out.
The candlelight chased the darkness far enough to reveal that the gouge in the door continued on along the entry hall and up the stairs, deep and ragged.
"What is going on here?" Peter muttered under his breath.
They made their way up the stairs, Peter leading with the candle held out before him, Moira and Granny Wendy following. From somewhere ahead, they could hear a scratching sound, and then Nana began to bark.
Peter rushed ahead and nearly tripped over Liza, who lay sprawled unconscious on the landing. Peter bent hurriedly over the maid, finding a discolored knot on her forehead where she had been struck. Her eyes flickered, and she gave a low moan.
"Call an ambulance," Peter ordered over his shoulder, and charged up the stairs and down the hall, his heart racing. What had happened here? Where were the children?
He saw Nana ahead, clawing frantically at the nursery door, barking and panting like a wild thing. A broken chain hung from her neck, and her coat was ragged and damp.
The gouge that had begun at the front door ended at the entrance to the nursery, without slowing, Peter charged in.
The room looked as if a hurricane had passed through. The beds were upended, their covers tossed away. Toys and books lay scattered everywhere. The rocking horse was on its side, and the windows were wide open, their lace curtains flapping.
There was no sign of Jack and Maggie.
The wind whipped past, and Peter's candle went out. He stood without moving, staring at nothing, trying to make sense of things. Nana padded past, sniffing anxiously, whining deep in her throat. She rushed to the bathroom and fastened her great jaws about the knob to open the door.
Moira appeared, her eyes moving from the gouge to the empty room. He could hear her gasp, hear the beginning of her sobs. Then she was past him, darting for the open windows.
"Jack! Maggie! Answer me!" she cried out.
Woodenly, Peter followed, stepping out on the balcony and leaning out over the railing. The yard below was white and deserted. He tracked the yards to either side and along the alleyway, choking back his fear, his growing sense of desperation.
"Jackkkk! Maggieeee!" he cried out.
"Peter!"
His name was spoken in a stifled cry. Granny Wendy stood at the door, staring at something. Slowly she reached up and removed a note pinned in place by a wicked-looking dagger. Woodenly, she carried the note to Peter.
Peter took the note from her and examined it. The writing was elegant, studied, some form of calligraphy scrolled by a sure and practiced hand.
It read:
Dear Peter: Your presence is required at the
request of your children.
Kindest Personal Regards,
JAS. Hook, Captain.
Peter repeated the words aloud, then stared at the note in disbelief and confusion. What in the heck was going on here?
A shrill, rasping voice cackled sharply behind him, causing him to jump in fright. He banged his head on a window frame as he wheeled about.
Tootles was crouched behind the dollhouse, wispy hair electric, hands clutched together like claws. There was a frantic look in his bright eyes and a twisting of his slack face.
"Have to fly!" he hissed. "Have to save Jack and Maggie!"
He caught his breath and held it. "Hooky's back!"
And abruptly Wendy's hand clutched for Peter, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor.
Within a half hour, the police were there and the electricity restored. Liza sat in the kitchen with an ice pack on her forehead, telling two less-than-enthusiastic officers over and over again how she hadn't seen anything and would regret to her dying day her failure to do so. The ambulance was still parked in front as the attendants waited in vain to take her to the hospital.
"Them l'tle uns be needin' me, right 'nuf, an' I plans on bein' 'ere for em! Take more an' a bump on the noggin to change that!"
Peter could hear her voice from where he stood by the front door, one arm about Moira as he stared out at the lights of the police cars and the neighbors' windows. Everyone was awake by now, peering out curiously. A ladder leaned against the Darling house where one officer had stood high up by the eaves to examine the outside of the nursery windows.
Inspector Good appeared at his elbow, pulling on his greatcoat. He was a plump, round-faced man with soft eyes and a weary voice. He smiled wanly as he faced them.
"Now then, Mr. and Mrs. Banning, we've done what we can. We've wired the phones should there be a call, and two of my best will stay close at hand should you need them." He shrugged the coat into place on his stooped shoulders. "No sign of forced entry. The locks are all in place. Nothing out of sorts anywhere except for that odd gouge and the dog's clawing. Even those upstairs windows are clean. They must have been opened from inside."
Peter shook his head stubbornly. "I locked the windows myself before I left."
"Well, sir, be that as it may." Good fished in his pocket and produced a plastic bag containing the no
te and dagger. "The chaps at the Yard will have a go at these. Might I ask, were you ever in the armed services? You don't remember anyone named J.A.S. Hook from there, do you?"
Peter shook his head doubtfully.
"Inspector," Moira said hesitantly. "This may be something from my family history. My grandmother is the Wendy on which Sir James Barrie based his stories."
Good stared at her. "Sir who? Run that by me again, missus."
"Sir James Barrie, Inspector. He wrote Peter Pan. He was an old friend of the family. When Granny was a little girl, he wrote stories for her about her imaginary adventures."
Good's nod was decidedly condescending. "Well, then, the note may refer to that, mightn't it? It would be nice to think that this is all a prank, someone's foolish playing about, reference your family history and all. But I don't think we should leave it to chance."
Behind him, the lights to the Christmas tree that had been placed in the study blazed unexpectedly to life. All three turned and stared wordlessly.
Inspector Good cleared his throat. "The season seems to come earlier each year, doesn't it?" he murmured, and was momentarily lost in thought. Then he smiled and touched the brim of his bowler. "Try to get some sleep. We'll need to talk with you again, come morning. Don't worry. We'll do our best."
He gave a short nod and went out the door, sweeping uniformed policemen up in his wake. Car doors slammed, and the revolving lights began to drive off. Peter pushed the door closed on the night and walked Moira slowly back into the study.
Tootles stood at the window next to the tree, staring at nothing. "I forgot how to fly," he was whispering. His voice was as dry as old leaves. "We all forgot. No more happy thoughts. All lost, lost, lost."
Moira moved woodenly out of Peter's embrace and began to tidy up the room, picking up bits and pieces of things, straightening presents, brushing off this and that.
"Moira," Peter called softly to her.
She didn't turn, still working at her meaningless task, her head bent determinedly. She was working her way along the bookshelves when suddenly she brushed against something and sent it crashing to the floor. Everyone jumped. Peter went to her as she collapsed in a chair, crying uncontrollably. "Peter, oh, Peter" she sobbed.