by Terry Brooks
The last thing he remembered was letting go of Jack and Maggie's hands.
Shadows lay over the children's nursery at number 14 Kensington, layered patches of black that only just now were beginning to recede as morning neared. The china-house night-lights burned steadily above the empty twin beds, casting their small glow bravely into the dark, outlining the soldiers that stood guard before the fireplace, the rocking horse that waited patiently for its rider, the dollhouse where Ken stood ready to serve Barbie, and the books and toys that had given voice to the dreams of the children who played with them.
Moira sat sleeping in a rocking chair at the center of the room. She stirred at times, her fingers brushing at her gown, her lips whispering her children's names. She looked very alone.
Then a breeze blew open the latticed windows, brushing the lace curtains so that the figures of Peter Pan danced as if alive. A scattering of leaves swirled into the room. Then Jack appeared, floating through the opening and settling to the floor like a feather. Maggie, heavy-eyed with sleep, rode piggyback. Together, they stared at the sleeping Moira.
"Who is she?" Jack whispered finally, eyes blinking against his own need for sleep.
"It's Mother," Maggie answered with a yawn.
"Oh." Jack studied the sleeping woman carefully-the lines of her face, the way her arms crooked just so, the hint of kisses hiding at the corners of her mouth.
"She looks just like an angel," Maggie sighed. "Let's not wake her, Jack. Let's just be there for her when she's ready."
They tiptoed across the bedroom floor and eased silently beneath their covers. Perhaps it was their movement on the floorboards, perhaps simply their presence, but Moira awoke almost at once. She blinked, brushed at a stray leaf that rested upon her shoulder, and glanced at the open windows, aware of the' breeze blowing back the curtains; then she rose and walked to close them, twisting the lock into place.
When she turned back, she saw the twin lumps in the beds (cast by shadows, she was certain), and it was almost as if the children had returned. The look that came over her was sad and wistful, and for a moment she could not move, afraid to break the spell.
Then the door opened and Wendy appeared in her robe and slippers, walking slowly, gingerly, leaning on a cane for support.
"Child?" she whispered to Moira. "Have you been up all night?"
Moira smiled and shook her head. "I see them in my dreams so often, just like this, bundles in their beds, that when 1 wake I think they're really there…"
But Wendy wasn't listening. She was staring wide-eyed at the lumps. Moira turned, a frown creased her pretty face, and one hand reached out tentatively.
Abruptly Jack sprang out from beneath the covers. "Mom," he cried, and would have said more except his throat closed up and nothing came out.
Maggie threw back her covers as well. "Mommy," she called, and Moira collapsed to the floor.
The children sprang from their beds and ran to her. She gathered Jack in her arms, holding him so tightly he thought he might break in two. She took Maggie in as well, crying freely now, sobbing as she hugged and kissed them.
"Oh, my babies, my babies," she murmured.
"Mom," Jack said, breaking away, anxious to tell everything. "There were all these pirates, and they put us in a net, and-"
"But Daddy saved us," Maggie interjected. "And we flew! Great-granny, we-"
But Wendy cut her short with a warm squdge and a laugh that silenced the doubtful words that Moira was about to voice. "Pirates?" she repeated. "And you flew as well? How lovely, child. Gracious, it reminds me of the days when Peter and I flew."
And she hugged them again and gave Moira a hug as well.
Not far away dawn's light was just cresting the roofs of the houses, casting pearl streamers on the air and sunspots on the earth. Peter Banning lay sprawled in a snowbank. He was sleeping, his breathing slow and even, his arms and legs cocked in. positions he never could have managed in waking.
Tink, tink, tink, sounded from somewhere close at hand.
He blinked and awoke, sitting up sharply. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing there.
"Jack, Maggie, we're going to fly…" he began without thinking, and trailed off doubtfully.
He took a deep breath and looked around. He was in a snow-covered park. A river snaked its way past not fifty yards off, an early-morning mist rising from its waters like smoke. Hardwood trees towered overhead like sentinels, bare-leafed in the winter season. The air was crisp and bracing and full of breakfast smells.
"And how be ye this fine mawnin', Peter Pan?" a familiar voice asked. "Into some mischief, 'ey?"
Peter whirled in shock to find Smee standing not a dozen yards away, hands on hips and a bag across his shoulder. Except it wasn't Smee-it was a groundskeeper making his rounds collecting litter. And he wasn't addressing Peter at all-he was addressing a statue. The statue was the one of Peter Pan placed in the park near the Serpentine River by the writer J. M. Barrie in the year 1912-Peter Pan crouched ready for his next adventure, playing his Pan pipes, forever the boy who refused to grow up.
Peter came to his feet, stepped out of the snowbank, and walked toward the statue. The groundskeeper finished gathering up the stray papers he had attributed to Peter Pan's mischief and moved on. Peter reached the statue and stopped.
He was shaking as the memories flooded back.
Neverland. Hook. Maggie and Jack.
A tiny figure appeared on the statue's shoulder, small and delicate in the soft morning light, gossamer wings beating gently.
Peter blinked. "Tink?"
She smiled. "Say it, Peter. Say it and mean it."
He smiled back. "I believe in faeries."
Tink's whole body brightened as if a lamp had been turned on inside. Her face shone. "You know that place between asleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. And that's where I'll wait for you to come back."
Then a streamer of sunlight crested the Pan statue's shoulder right where she was standing, and she disappeared.
Peter squinted to find her again, shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a step forward. But she was gone, and already his memory of her was beginning to dim. A bit farther down the path, the groundskeeper was gathering up a pair of empty bottles thoughtlessly discarded the night before.
Tink, tink, tink, they said as they knocked together in his hands.
"Tink?" Peter said one final time, and then the memory was gone, tucked back away into a drawer within his mind, safely stowed for the time that he would need it again.
Sudden exhilaration flooded through him. He was home!
"Jack? Maggie?" he called out anxiously. He stared around. They had been right there with him when he had returned from… He frowned. From wherever. But they were safe, he was certain of that, and that was what really mattered.
"Moira! I'm home!" he shouted.
Then down the park pathway he raced, hailing the groundskeeper and everyone else he passed with cheery hellos, chipper good days, and bouncy greetings of all sorts.
It took him only moments, it seemed, to reach number 14 Kensington from the back side. Disdaining to go around to the front gate, he vaulted onto the terrace wall and began to dance along it like a high-wire artist, leaping and bounding when he tired of that, springing down finally to rush to the front door.
It was locked.
He reached for the brass knocker and stopped.
No, not today.
He dashed around to the back, vaulting still another fence, singing and humming gaily as he went. He was almost below the nursery windows when he heard a phone ring. He stared about in an effort to locate the source and determined that he was standing on it. Kneeling, he dug away the snow and fresh earth and pulled out his holster phone. He let it ring one final time, then clicked it on.
"Hello, this is Peter Banning," he greeted. "I'm not in right now-I'm out deliberately avoiding your call. Please leave a
'you know' at the 'right now' and I'll 'do it' when I'm good and ready. Happy thoughts!"
He dropped the phone back into the hole and covered it up again.
Then he started to climb the drainpipe. Up he went, hand over hand, his face flushed and eager. He would not have dreamed of doing such a thing four days and a lifetime of adventures earlier, but things had changed for Peter Banning, even if he wasn't exactly sure what they were or how they had come about.
He reached the nursery windows and tried to push them open. Locked. He tried again. Still locked. He put his face to the glass and peered inside.
There was Wendy embracing Moira, Jack, and Maggie. Something within Peter threatened to break apart, and a memory of another time, long ago, was triggered by what he saw. He couldn't get in to them! He was shut outside once more! His breath fogged the windowpanes as he hung there on the balcony railing, terrified that somehow he was once again too late…
And then he began to pound on the glass, no longer caring what it took, desperate to be inside.
"I'm home!" he cried. "I've come back! Please, let me in!"
They heard him, of course, and Jack bounded to the window. There was a hint of mischief in his elfin face (did it seem suspiciously like Peter's own?), a grin on his lips, and the beginning of tears in his eyes. "Excuse me," he said. "Do you have an appointment?"
Peter grinned back. "Yeah, with you for the rest of my life, you little pirate."
Jack released the latch and swung the windows wide. Peter stepped inside and faced him. They stared at each other for a moment in silence.
Then Peter whispered, "What did I tell you about this window?" He snatched Jack up and hugged him. "Never close it! Always keep it open!"
He whirled Jack about, flying him at arm's length, both of them laughing and shouting.
Maggie bounced up on the bed. "Fly me, too, Daddy! Fly me, too!"
Peter snatched her up and swung her about. "Your wish is my command, Princess!"
Then he set them both down, picked up a startled Moira, and whirled her about as well, lifting her off the floor as if she were a child, his face alive with happiness. She clung to him, shrieking, and when he finally put her down again she threw her arms about him and held him close.
"Peter, oh, Peter," she gasped in relief. "Where have you been?"
But Peter suddenly caught sight of Tootles, peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. He broke from Moira and went to the old man. Tootles smiled shyly and started to leave.
"No," Peter said quietly, and embraced him, drawing him into the room with the others.
"Hello, Pedur," Tootles greeted uncertainly. "I missed the adventure again, didn't I?"
Peter shook his head and smiled back. Then he remembered something. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the bag that Thud Butt had given him, loosened the drawstrings, and poured the contents into Tootles' frail, shaking hands.
"I think these belong to you," he whispered.
Tootles's eyes went wide with disbelief. Tears started down his cheeks as he turned to Wendy.
"Look, Wendy. See? I have them again. I didn't lose my marbles after all."
Wendy went to him and hugged him, one hand coming up to smooth his wispy hair. Tootles took the marbles and moved over to the window to view them in the sunlight, murmuring about lost memories, caressing his happy thoughts. A moment later, to everyone's astonishment, he began to rise. He had found a trace of pixie dust at the bottom of the pouch and poured it over himself. Buoyed by his happy thoughts he flew bravely out the window, calling back, "Good-bye! Goodbye!" as he disappeared from sight.
Wendy moved to Peter and took his hand in hers.
"Hullo, boy.".
Peter swallowed. "Hullo, Wendy."
"Boy, why are you crying?"
He smiled. "I'm just happy… to be home."
Wendy moved to embrace him, and as she did she remembered anew what it had been like all those years ago to fly away with Peter Pan to Neverland, to roam the island of pirates and Indians and mermaids, to live beneath the Nevertree and tell stories to the Lost Boys, to be a part of the dreams of childhood and youth and be free of the cares and responsibilities that growing up brought. She wanted to go back in that instant. She would have gone if she could.
"Peter," she whispered. "What of your adventures? Will you miss them?"
He shook his head. "To live," he replied, "will be an awfully big adventure."
And as he said it the last of the night's stare-if that is what it really was-flashed away into the darkness and was gone.
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