The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  She burst into tears, the sound of her crying echoing through the toy house.

  Peter searched the windows. "Are you in there, little bug?" He opened the front door.

  "I'm not a bug!" she declared, furious at him. "I'm a faerie!"

  He tried to see up the toy staircase, his neck crinking as he laid his cheek to the floor. "I don't believe in faeries."

  He heard her gasp. "Every time someone says 'I do not believe in faeries' there is a faerie somewhere who falls down dead!"

  Peter's patience with himself and his out-of-body experience, which clearly wasn't anything of the sort, snapped. "I do not believe in faeries!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  A loud crash sounded from within the dollhouse, and the faerie appeared at the top of the stairs, swooning. She clutched futilely at a wall, then toppled over, tumbling down the stairs to lie in a ragged heap at their foot.

  Peter jerked erect, his face ashen. "Oh, God! I think I've killed it!" He fumbled with the hinged flap of the dollhouse side, swinging it open to have a better look.

  The faerie's eyes fluttered. "Clap. Clap your hands, Peter. It is only way to save me. Clap, Peter, clap! Louder! Louder!"

  Peter was clapping as loud as he could, aware suddenly of a ringing in his ears, like tiny silver bells, thousands of them. "I'm clapping, I'm clapping! What's that noise, that ringing? Are you doing that? Just stop it, okay? Hey, what are you… are you all right?"

  She was standing again, ignoring him, pretending that she had forgotten him entirely. She brushed herself off and walked into the kitchen, where a Barbie doll was serving dinner from a stove top to a Ken doll seated at a table. With a frown the faerie switched the Ken doll and the Barbie doll around so that Ken was serving Barbie. She nodded and turned back to Peter.

  "All right, now, who am I?"

  Peter sighed hopelessly. "You're… ah, who knows?"

  She put her hands on her hips and the wings ruffled faster. "You do! I know you do!"

  Peter exhaled and shook his head. "All right." His lips went tight. "You're a psychosomatic manifestation of my suppressed sexual anxiety-a composite of all the girls and women in my life with whom I thought I was in love. That's who you are."

  The faerie's light flared wildly, and she zipped from the dollhouse as if catapulted, right past Peter's nose. He tumbled back and away from her, rising to his knees as she swung wide about the room and back again. He was just coming to his feet, hands outstretched, when she flashed down to the far end of the rug on which he was standing and gave it a mighty jerk. The rug was yanked from beneath Peter's feet, and he was sent tumbling backward head over heels across the room.

  "Guess again!" snapped the faerie.

  Peter rolled onto Maggie's discarded parachute, ribbons tangling in his arms and legs, and his head struck the baseboard of the wall with a thud. For a moment he blacked out. When he came awake again, everything was spinning.

  "I see stars," he mumbled.

  "That's right, Peter!" exclaimed the faerie jubilantly, flitting past his nose. "Second star to the right and straight on till morning! Neverland!"

  She raced about, gathering up the makeshift parachute's ends, then lifted him up like the stork who delivers the baby in childhood stories. Straining against his weight, she flew toward the latticed windows and out into the night, the bundle that was Peter struggling weakly beneath, oblivious still of what was happening to him. Wind blew in chill gusts against the sack.

  "Any bathrooms around here?" Peter mumbled.

  The faerie tinkled like a bell. "Don't worry, we'll be over the ocean in a few minutes. Uhggg-you are so heavy!"

  She jerked at the parachute roughly.

  "Arghh, my head!" Peter groaned. "My back!''

  They gained height, soaring out from the Darling house, up above its gables and over the roofs of the neighboring homes.

  "Forget your back, Peter!" the faerie cried. "It's the back of the wind that matters now! We'll catch it, if we hurry!"

  As they rose, the tiny stork and the huge baby, the faerie with her bundle of gripes and confusion, a fringed white head poked out of the back door, and eyes gone wide with wonder and the remembrance of better times stared skyward. Tootles, clad in bright pajamas and a smile, watched the faintly struggling Peter disappear from view.

  Out across the city of London the faerie flew with Peter, past houses and shops, down streets with rows of lamps whose light reflected like silver on the carpet of new snow. Below, in a shadowy park, a couple stood beneath one of the lamps, kissing. The faerie swung past them, kicking pixie dust loose from her tiny slippers. The couple rose several feet into the air and hung suspended. They did not look up, their arms coming tighter about each other.

  "Straight on till morning," whispered the faerie with a smile.

  She began to rise, her bundle dragging clear of the light until it had melted into the darkness.

  Behind, distant and receding rapidly from view, Big Ben chimed out the midnight hour.

  Return to Neverland

  They flew until daybreak, out across the night sky, past moon and stars, through the fabric of children's dreams and the memories of childhood. Peter slept for the most part, exhausted from the day's events and the emotional ordeal of losing his children, dazed from the knock on the head he had received when he had been tumbled by the upturned carpet. Sometime during the night the faerie had harnessed him into the makeshift parachute, but Peter remained blissfully unaware of it all.

  It was dawn when finally he began to come awake. He was aware of a swaying motion, the rocking of the parachute into which he had been bundled, and then of daylight, soft and silver, penetrating the folds of his cocoon. He did not realize yet where he was. In truth, he thought he was back in his water bed at home, cradled in its temperature-controlled embrace. He smelled the odd but invigorating scent of brine and seaweed wafting on a gentle morning breeze and smacked his lips.

  He smiled and drifted back into sleep.

  Had he awakened, he might have glimpsed what lay below.

  The ocean was all around, vast and depthless blue, its cresting waves glittering like scattered diamonds in the new day's sunlight. There was an island settled in the midst of the azure waters, an odd, craggy atoll which possessed the overall look and feel of a travel-magazine paradise, with jutting peaks that scraped against the passing clouds, patches of jungle nestled down within valleys and defiles, coves into which the ocean rolled against white, sandy beaches and rocky cliffs.

  Everywhere one looked, there was something wondrous to behold. Was that some massive, old sequoia on that rocky pinnacle just off the island's coast? Were those waterfalls tumbling down off the rocks at every turn? Was that some sort of town down below?

  Was that a pirate ship at anchor?

  Peter, alas, missed everything.

  Abruptly he felt himself falling-not so rapidly as to be frightened by the sensation, but fast enough to be aware of it. Floating, that's what he was doing, he told himself, turning over in his bed. Odd, his bed seemed to lack definition. And where was Moira?

  The descent grew more rapid. And was that someone grunting in a tiny voice? What was this business about being too heavy? Who was too heavy?

  The descent ended in a jarring stop that tumbled Peter head over heels once more. He felt himself lurch awkwardly beneath his covers. He squinched his eyes shut as it all happened, grappling for his pillow, which had somehow disappeared.

  When everything was still again, he slowly opened one eye, then the other.

  Everything was blindly white.

  Peter gulped. "I died," he whispered, terror-stricken. "I died."

  But no, he was underneath his bed covers, that's all. He exhaled in relief. He was all right. He swallowed to clear his dry throat, pushed back the folds of the covers, and peeked out.

  A huge eye was staring over at him.

  "Moira?" he whispered hopefully.

  He blinked away what remained of his sleep. The eye was
still there. Worse, it was attached to what appeared to be a gigantic crocodile head. He squinted to get a better look. The crocodile head was attached to a crocodile body, and the body seemed to stretch on forever. It was standing directly in front of him.

  He took a quick, panicked breath and held it. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the covers back in place. He knew he was dreaming. He just had to find a way to wake up.

  Then a sudden movement in the folds of the bed sheet caught his eye. Something was crawling on top of him! He flailed wildly.

  "Stop that!" a voice hissed.

  A tiny dagger sliced a window through the chute, and the faerie peeked inside.

  "Oh, no," Peter groaned. "Not you."

  It was coming back to him now-the faerie's appearance at number 14 Kensington, the stuff about Peter Pan, Captain Hook, Neverland, and all that other nonsense.

  He rubbed his head. "What's happened to me? Where am I?"

  Her smile was dazzling. "You're in Neverland, Peter."

  He sighed wearily. "Sure I am."

  ' 'Come over here.'' She beckoned to the window she had cut. "Take a look."

  He did, peering first one way, then the other. Up beside him was the crocodile, its jaws open wide, its teeth gleaming. Between the teeth was a huge alarm clock with its hands askew and its numbered face cracked and broken. The crocodile sat in the center of a square that was settled on a broad stretch of beach. All about was a pirate town composed of the ravaged hulks of old ships. Ribs and struts stuck out everywhere like the bones of a dinosaur's rib cage. Gilt rails lined worn, sagging decks. From masts swayed signs offering services of all sorts in colorful language, dr. chop-limbs fitted while you wait.

  WENCHES WINE-SERVED AT YOUR TABLE. ROOMS-

  bunk your junk. Shops and living quarters jumbled together in a mix of old wood and garish paint, like ragged cats in a litter, like a junkyard's discarded remains.

  And there were pirates at every turn. They swaggered down boardwalks. They hung from doors and windows, calling out boldly. They clung to buxom women and hoisted glasses. They clung to each other. They carried pistols and swords, daggers and cutlasses. They wore tricorne hats and bandanas about their long hair, rings from their ears and on their fingers and through their noses, sashes of fine silk and boots of tough leather, greatcoats and striped shirts and pants as baggy as laundry sacks.

  Peter stared, trying to figure it all out.

  Then abruptly he did.

  Mickey and Minnie!

  It was almost more than he could stand. He groped for his cellular, but it wasn't there, of course. He looked down at himself. He was wearing the remains of his tuxedo-his pants, shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie. From last night, he remembered, the tribute to Wendy, the kidnapping, that confounded faerie…

  He took a deep breath, righted himself, worked free of the remains of Maggie's parachute (he recognized it now), and staggered to his feet. He was only minimally surprised to find himself standing on a building ledge.

  "What are you doing?" he heard the faerie call angrily. "Get back here!"

  Peter paid no attention to her. Enough was enough. The crocodile stared over at him, its jaws frozen about the clock, its closest eye fastened on Peter. Peter blinked and shook his head to clear it. He took a couple of tentative steps and almost fell, catching himself at the last moment.

  "I've got to get some Advil," he muttered to himself. "Maybe some V-8. Then find a pay phone."

  Steadying himself, ignoring the cries of warning from the faerie, he moved toward a ladder leaning against the ledge, climbed carefully down, and stumbled away toward the door of the closest building-another wrecked ship, the back end, called the aft or something, wasn't it? He drew strength from the smell of food cooking and the sound of voices. Pirates wandered past him, a few turning to stare. He didn't notice.

  He went through the door of the wreck. Inside, it was dark and smoky and implacably grim. Whoever had decorated it must have spent long hours reading Edgar Allan Poe. Kettles of stew or soup were suspended over open hearths. Pieces of meat and potatoes sat on long wooden tables cluttered with cooking implements. Pots and pans hung from racks. Candles set in sconces and crude chandeliers gave what light there was to the hazy den. Peter blinked. He must have wandered into some sort of low-end kitchen.

  He became aware then that a handful of pirates had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him, their tasks forgotten. They did not look friendly. They looked annoyed.

  "You don't happen to have… is there any kind of, uh…?" he began, and trailed off.

  A ratty toothless pirate came limping across the floor to face him, eyes squinting in a hard glint. Chewing tobacco formed a stain at the corners of his tight mouth, leaking out as his jaws worked diligently. Without a word, he reached up and tore off Peter's bow tie, eyeing it thoughtfully.

  "Here, now!" Peter objected.

  The pirate's eyes shifted back again. "I fancy them shiny shoes as well, mate."

  Peter bristled. "Just a minute!"

  Another pirate appeared from the haze and shoved the first aside. This one wore an eye patch and looked twice as mean. He grabbed Peter by his shirt and threw him against the wall. Peter careened into a collection of pots and pans, sent them flying in every direction, and ended up in the grasp of a barrel-chested pirate cook. The cook shoved him away. The pirate who had assaulted him first (Peter had already decided to press charges) came at him again, knocked him flat, reached down, and began pulling off his pants.

  Peter kicked and yelled to no avail.

  Then suddenly a familiar flash of light appeared, darting out of nowhere to snatch a candle from its sconce, whisk it to where Peter struggled, and shove it down the front of the attacking pirate's baggy trousers. The pirate reared back with a howl, beating at his pants. The light darted instantly to his eye patch, yanked it away from his grizzled face like a bowstring, then let go. The eye patch snapped back into place with a whap and the pirate went tumbling backward into a wall rack of cookware that released on top of him with a crash. He shuddered once and lay still.

  Peter scrambled back to his feet, searching for a way out of this madhouse, but now the huge pirate cook was coming at him, wielding a battered butcher's knife. Peter moaned in dismay, backing against the wall. But the light zipped past once more and landed sharply on the curved end of a ladle sticking out of a soup pot. Out flipped the ladle, sending a spray of hot soup into the pirate cook's weathered face. The cook howled and staggered back, clawing at his eyes, then rushed forward blindly, lurched into the pot, knocked it askew, and brought the rest of the soup pouring down atop his head.

  The kitchen was in chaos by now. The remaining pirates came at Peter, shouting and cursing, cutlasses drawn. Peter scrambled for the door, still reasonably convinced that he was dreaming, or if not, that this was some sort of movie stunt, but no longer willing to risk being wrong. He stumbled, and the pirates were almost on him. The light flashed by, cutting through a rope that secured the side of ribs curing overhead, and the ribs dropped squarely atop the pirates, knocking them cold.

  Peter stood alone amid the debris, gasping for breath, groping for some measure of sanity. Down swept the light, landing on a wall strut inches from Peter's eyes. The light flared and dimmed, and the faerie from last night reappeared.

  Peter laughed, certain he was crazy now. "Wow! You're fantastic, little bug! I can't believe my subconscious. I thought it would go for the demure type." He laughed giddily.

  The faerie glowered at him dangerously. "Stop it, Peter! Stop it right now!"

  She darted at him. He caught a glimpse of the tiny dagger's blade as she swept past his hand. He felt a sharp pain, and suddenly he was cut. He stared in disbelief at the back of his hand, watching the blood flow in a red ribbon from the wound.

  His eyes went wide. "I can't believe you did that! I'm bleeding! Look at me! What do… what is this…"He shuddered, the truth of what the pain and the blood meant sinking in. "Oh, my God," he wh
ispered.

  The faerie landed again on the strut, emerging hastily from the light. "Are you okay?" There was genuine concern in her voice. "Peter, are you all right?"

  Peter Banning lifted his eyes to stare at her, no longer seeing a light or an image or some figment of his imagination. Gone in an instant's time was the misconception that he was in dreamland or anywhere else imaginary. Gone was the dizziness, the belief that he would wake from dreaming when his head cleared, the certainty that the world was as it had always been, as he had always known it to be.

  He stared at the tiny faerie and knew that she was real.

  He tried to breathe, and his chest constricted.

  The faerie's face was pretty and bright with youth beneath the frown lines that etched her smooth forehead and the corners of her mouth. "Do you know where we are?" she whispered to him.

  He swallowed, then nodded. He couldn't speak.

  "Who am I, Peter?"

  He froze. If he said it, if he admitted it…

  "Say it, Peter. You have to say it."

  He managed to shake his head. "I can't," he breathed.

  She bent close. "Why?"

  "Because if I say it, if I…"He swallowed. "If I say it, it will be…"

  "What?"

  "Real."

  The lines disappeared, and there was a strange new light in her pixie eyes. "Please," she whispered. "Peter, please. Say it."

  His face softened. The name was a feather on the wind. "Tinkerbell," he said.

  "And I live in…?"

  "Neverland."

  He gasped at the enormity of what he had just admitted, jerked away, and ran to the window of the deserted kitchen to stare out into the pirate town. The crocodile tower loomed before him, facing out through the wrecks of the pirate ships toward the harbor beyond. Pirates jostled and shouted as they crossed the square and swaggered in and out of the buildings.

  Peter swung back again toward Tinkerbell. "I can't accept this! It's not rational adult thinking! It's not possible!"

  Tinkerbell darted from the shelf to land on his hand and began wrapping a handkerchief about the cut. "Listen to me, Peter. Jack and Maggie are here. And you've got to do battle with Captain Hook to free them. For that, you'll need the Lost Boys. And your sword. And you'll have to fly!"