The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  He smoothed her hair, fighting back his own tears, his sense of helplessness. He looked down at the floor. A ship in a bottle lay shattered at his feet. Transfixed, he reached down and picked it up.

  It was a brigantine. On its mast was a tiny black flag that bore the skull and crossbones of a pirate ship.

  A little later, Peter and Moira went up to Granny Wendy's room to check on her. They had put her to bed after she collapsed, telling Inspector Good he would have to wait until morning to speak with her. They made the journey in silence, lost in their separate thoughts. Peter was still trying to come to grips with the fact that something had actually happened to his children. It was just so inconceivable. All their lives, all the while they were growing up, he had done everything he knew to protect them, to keep them safe. And now this-this Peter Pan business. Some crackpot. Here, at Granny Wendy's home, the safest place in the world. How could he have foreseen such a thing happening?

  He felt dead inside, and the feeling was the most frightening he had ever experienced.

  They pushed open the door to Granny Wendy's bedroom and peeked inside. The old lady was sitting up in her bed, staring back at them.

  "Are the police gone?" she asked quietly.

  Moira nodded. "Yes," Peter breathed.

  There was an awkward moment of silence.

  "Come in, sit with me," she invited.

  They moved into the room. It was lit by a single bedside lamp, the light softened by the frills of the cloth shade. Peter sat next to Wendy on the bed. Moira walked around and tucked the blankets carefully about the old lady before coming back to join him.

  "This waiting is very unpleasant," Granny Wendy declared, fixing Peter with a sharp gaze.

  "I know, Granny. Try not to…" He failed to find the right words and gave up. "There's nothing more to do tonight, nothing to do but…" He didn't want to say wait. "The police are doing everything they can."

  "Which is nothing, Peter," Wendy said flatly. "There is nothing they can do."

  "Gran, you can't believe…"

  "Moira." Wendy looked away from him. "In times of crisis, we English do best with a cup of tea. Would you mind?"

  Peter's wife smiled, her tears gone now, her face calm. "Yes, of course, Gran."

  "And warm the pot. Peter, you stay with me, please."

  Peter watched as Moira departed the room, slim, pretty, a hint of the old assuredness back in her stride. He reached up and ran his fingers through his mop of brown hair, and his boyish face crumpled with fatigue.

  "Don't worry, Wendy. Gran. I won't leave you."

  She fixed him with a fierce gaze, her eyes sharp and knowing. "Ah, Peter, but you always did. You don't remember, do you? Every year, you left me. And when you came back, you remembered nothing. And finally you forgot to come back at all."

  Her words were so harsh sounding that Peter immediately became defensive. "Take it easy, Gran, maybe you should try not to talk."

  Her thin hands clasped before her. "I'm not raving, as you put it, Peter." She reached out and gripped his arm. "Listen to me carefully. What happened to your children has to do with who and what you are."

  She took her hand away again and pointed to the worn copy of Peter and Wendy on the nightstand. "Hand me my book, please."

  Peter hesitated. "I don't think… It would be better to rest now, Gran."

  Her lips tightened as she faced him. "Do what I've asked, Peter. It's time to tell you something, time that you knew."

  "Knew what? Tell me what?"

  She waited wordlessly while he passed her the book. Then she opened it and began to read:

  " 'All children, except one, grow up,' " she read. She looked up at him. "That is how Sir James began the story he wrote for me… such a long time ago. It was Christmas, yes, in the year 1910, and I was almost eleven. A girl becoming a woman, caught in between two chapters. How far back can you remember?"

  Peter was immediately uneasy, shifting away from her on the bed, glancing about the shadowy room as if the answer lay there. He exhaled irritably. "I don't know. I remember the hospital on Great Ormond Street…"

  "But you were already twelve by then, nearly thirteen. And before that?"

  Peter wished Moira would return. He glanced briefly at Wendy and away again. He tried to remember and couldn't.

  "Before that, there's nothing."

  Granny Wendy's hand closed on him again, tight, unyielding, a surprising amount of strength in her fingers. Despite himself, he turned to looked at her.

  "Think hard," she urged.

  Peter swallowed. "I was cold, alone…" He stopped, angry now. "I can't remember! No one knows where 1 came from! You told me I was a foundling-"

  "I found you," Wendy cut him short. "I did." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "Peter, you must listen to me now. And believe. You and I played together as children. We had wonderful adventures together. We laughed, we cried." She paused. "And we flew. But I didn't want to remain a child forever. I was so anxious to grow up and become a part of the real world. I wanted so much for you to grow up with me. But you wouldn't. Because you were afraid. And when you finally decided you were ready, it was fifty years too late for me… for us."

  Her face crumpled into a sad, worn smile. "I was old, Peter. And you, you were just beginning to become a man."

  Peter stared at her as if she had lost her mind-which, in truth, he thought she had. "Okay, just relax, Gran. I'll find some Valium…"

  But Wendy held him fast. "When I was young, no other girl held your favor the way I did. Oh, I half expected you to alight on the church and forbid my vows on the day I married. I wore a pink satin sash. But you didn't tome. I couldn't have you."

  Peter tried unsuccessfully to pull away. Something unpleasant was stirring inside him, something just beyond the reach of his memory. He wrestled with it, not quite certain if he was pulling or pushing.

  "I was an old lady when you returned for the last time and I wrapped you in blankets, already Granny Wendy, with my thirteen-year-old granddaughter asleep in the nursery. Your Moira. And when you saw her, that was when you decided not to go back to Neverland."

  Peter's eyes went wide. "What? Go back where?"

  "To Neverland, Peter."

  Peter nodded rapidly, his smile forced and entirely too quick. "I'm going to get Moira. Moira!" he called loudly.

  Granny Wendy bent close, her face only inches from his own. "Peter, I tried to tell you so many times. But I could see you had forgotten. You would just think I was a silly old woman at the end of her life. But now you must know."

  She took the book and pressed it firmly into his hands. "The stories are true. I swear it to you. I swear it by everything I adore. And now he's come back to seek revenge. The fight isn't over for him, Peter-he wants you back. He knows you'll follow Jack and Maggie to the ends of the earth and beyond, and by heaven, you must find a way to do so! Only you can save your children. Not the police. Not anyone else. Only you. Somehow you must find a way to go back. You must make yourself remember. Peter-don't you realize who you are?"

  She released him then and pried open the book from between his fingers. She paged through it desperately and stopped. She tapped the page.

  Peter Banning looked down. The book lay open to an illustration of Peter Pan, legs spread, hands on hips, head cocked back as he prepared to crow.

  Wendy waited, searching his eyes in vain for some sign of recognition. There was none to be found.

  Tink

  Moira returned with Wendy's cup of tea, and Peter immediately rose and left the room. He departed in a rush, mumbling something about checking the house one more time, desperate to escape, barely giving either of the women a glance as he went. The urgency of his need surprised him. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if he were suffocating. It was all he could do to keep from running as he hastened down the hall, moving away from the light and into the darkness beyond.

  Had everyone gone crazy?

  It was bad enough that
whoever had kidnapped his children-and he was pretty convinced by this time that it was a kidnapping-was obsessed in some way with that ridiculous Peter Pan story. But to have Granny Wendy believing in it, too, trying to make something out of family history and fairy tales-well, it was really too much to take. Wendy's mental state had fallen off more than he had realized during the past few years. Or perhaps it was simply the strain of what had happened.

  Peter slowed in his flight, running his hands through his hair, across his face, and down his sides. Then he stopped altogether, leaned back against the paneled wall, and hugged himself as if it would keep him from falling apart.

  Exactly what had happened? he asked himself. Who was responsible for this? It had to be a personal enemy, someone who knew him, someone who hated him. Otherwise the note would have been addressed to Moira as well, or to Mr. and Mrs. Banning or some such. Not to Peter. He grimaced. Some joke. JAS. Hook to Peter. He slammed his fist into his palm helplessly. It could be someone in competition with him, angry that he had gotten the contract, kidnapping his children to try to force him to withdraw.

  He shivered. So what was he supposed to do now? What could he do?

  He pushed himself off the wall and continued on, exhausted now both mentally and physically, worn-out from the strain of what had happened. Somewhere along the way he had discarded his tails. His waistcoat hung open and his shirt was unbuttoned. He knew he looked a wreck. He should get some sleep. He should go back to Moira and Granny Wendy and tell them everything was going to be all right.

  He wished he could believe that.

  He squeezed his eyes closed. Jack and Maggie-how could he ever forgive himself?

  He found himself suddenly at the nursery door. He stood staring at it for a moment, at the gouge that traveled the length of the wall leading up, at the gash where the knife had pinned that infuriating note to the wooden panel. He reached out and touched the marks experimentally, as if by doing so he might discover the truth behind their origin.

  Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The room was as he had found it earlier, dark and empty and chill. The windows had been closed again, the rocking horse righted, the beds and their covers straightened. The night-lights were back on, their glow steady and certain once more against the shadows. Toys and books still lay scattered about. The children's luggage remained stacked by the bureau.

  He stared vacantly at the room for a moment and then walked to the windows. He undid the latch and pulled them open to the night, feeling the breeze brush his face, watching the lace curtains dance. He stared up at the sky, the clouds broken and scattered now, the stars reappeared.

  Peter found himself thinking suddenly of all the opportunities he had missed to be with Maggie and Jack, all the chances he had let slip through his fingers, all the times he had promised to do things with them and then failed to follow through. Jack's baseball game-he'd been too late, hadn't he? Maggie's play-he'd come, but how much attention had he paid to her? The times they'd wanted to roughhouse-hadn't he always been too busy?

  If I could just have another chance, he thought dismally, if I could only have them back again…

  Tears came to his eyes. He wiped at them futilely, then gave up trying and simply broke down and cried, his head lowered, his shoulders shaking, his hands gripping the window frames so hard they hurt.

  Then the edge of the curtains grazed his face, teasing like a spider web. He brushed at them irritably, blinked back the tears, and lifted his head once more to stare out at the night.

  That was when he saw the light.

  The light was brilliant, a dancing brightness that hurtled out of the heavens toward earth. A shooting star, he thought-and then realized it was coming directly toward him. He stared in disbelief, then started to back away. It looked like a comet sweeping down from the Milky Way, white-hot head with a tail of fire. It kept coming, faster now, swifter than thought. Peter's eyes went wide.

  Then abruptly the light exploded through the open windows, no comet this, too small by far to be anything so grand, but terrifying nevertheless, because it appeared to be alive. It caromed about the room wildly, knocking pictures from the wall, spinning this way and that, and then finally rocketed toward Peter. He saw it coming and backed away, brushing at it with his hands, crying "shoo, shoo," and searching at the same time for the door out. He caught sight of a stack of magazines and snatched one up, rolling it, then swatting at the light. Some sort of crazed firefly, he told himself, frantic now. Would it bite or sting? What else was going to happen to him before this night was over?

  He was still retreating, the light dancing around now as if to taunt him, when he tripped over one of the fallen dolls and went down. He caught himself with his hands, losing his grip on the magazine as he did. Weaponless, he began skittering backward on all fours. The light darted and zipped away, back and forth, up and down, tireless in its pursuit.

  Finally Peter backed himself into a corner, close by the rocking horse and the dollhouse, and there was nowhere else to go. He flattened himself against the wainscoting, gasping for breath.

  The light darted in and away again, steadied, then settled slowly to the edge of the children's writing desk. As it did so it changed, gaining definition, taking shape. Peter found himself staring at a tiny creature no bigger than a minute. A woman, a girl, something of each? She wore clothes that might have been a mix of moonlight and morning dew and fall leaves. They glimmered as brightly as diamonds and clung to her like a glove to a hand. Her hair swept back from her pointed ears and was a mix of sunrise and sunset, both red and gold, and as bright as the summer sun at midday.

  She straightened and began to walk about the desk, hopping over pencils and crayons, stepping lightly through an inkpad, then flitting down to land on Peter's knee. Peter stared, frozen as still as an ice statue. The little creature had wings! Tiny, gossamer wings! She walked down his leg, keeping perfect balance, and up the front of his rumpled white shirt, leaving tiny black footprints from the ink as she went. When she reached his chin, her wings fluttered and she rose in the air before him until they were nose to nose.

  Bending delicately, she sniffed.

  "Oh, it is you," she declared with some surprise. "It is. A big you. I wasn't at all sure. I guess it's not bad that you're big-you were always bigger than me anyway. Not this big, of course." She glanced down at his stomach. "Well, maybe this means you will be twice as much fun."

  Peter's head was hunched down between his shoulders. He was trying both to breathe and not to breathe at the same time. His fear had paralyzed him.

  "Moira?" he managed to whisper, hopeful that she would come.

  The little creature was dancing about, not listening. "Oh, Peter, what fun we'll have-what times, what great games! Do you remember what it was like before?"

  Peter made a supreme effort to collect himself. He took a deep, steadying breath and swallowed down his fear. "You're a… you're a fae… a fae…"

  "A faerie, yes," she agreed, and brushed delightedly at her shimmering hair.

  "A pix…"

  "Pixie." She gave an impish grin. "And if less is more, there is no end to me, Peter Pan."

  Peter paled. "Peter Banning," he corrected.

  She squinched up her nose. "Pan."

  "Banning."

  "Pan."

  "Banning."

  She put her hands on her hips and stood there in midair, sizing him up. "A fat, old Pan."

  "Uh… a fat, old Banning." He managed a nervous grin.

  The faerie pursed her lips and thought the matter over. "Well, whoever you are, you're still you. Only one person has that smell."

  Peter blinked indignantly. "What smell?"

  The faerie's face went radiant with her smile. "The smell of someone who's ridden the back of the wind. The smell of a hundred summers of sleeping in trees, of adventures with Indians and pirates. Oh, remember, Peter? The world was ours and we could do whatever we chose. It was wonderful because whateve
r we did could be anything at all and still it was always us doing it!"

  She darted forward to touch his face and flinched. "Ouch! Bristly, sharp things!"

  "Whiskers," Peter said dully. He laid his head back against the wainscoting and closed his eyes. "It's finally happened-I'm having a nervous breakdown."

  A tug at his bow tie brought his eyes open again. The faerie, possessing surprising strength for someone so tiny, brought him to his feet and dragged him toward the open windows.

  "Follow me, Peter, and all will be well," she called back.

  Peter wasn't listening. "Or I've had a massive heart attack and I'm dying. I'm having an out-of-body experience. I'm floating toward the white light of… whatever. Look, I've left my body completely." He caught sight of the dollhouse behind him. "You see-there's Granny Wendy's house, number fourteen Kensington, way down there, way down. But wait a minute, those are my feet, aren't they, right there on the floor. Oh, my. God. What's happening? Where are we going?"

  The faerie laughed gaily. "To save your children, of course."

  Peter's eyes snapped up. "Wait! How do you know about my kids?"

  She laughed some more. "Everybody knows! Captain Hook has them, and now you've got to fight him to get them back. Let's fly, Peter Pan!"

  She let go of him and flitted back across his face. As she passed she blew into her cupped hands and a sprinkling of silver dust scattered and settled over him. Peter brushed at it and then sneezed loudly, dropping back on his rump. The sneeze blew the faerie right through one of the tiny cellophane windows of the old dollhouse. Instantly the inside of the dollhouse lit up, as if a switch had been thrown and lamps brought to life in each little window. Peter crawled back across the floor and bent down, peering in.

  "So it's true then, isn't it?" he heard her say from somewhere inside. "You did grow up. The Lost Boys told me, but I never believed it. I drank poison for you, you silly ass! Don't you remember anything? You used to call me Tink!"