Hook & Jill

by Andrea Jones

  Her smiling eyes drooped sleepily. She heard the newly-familiar chink of crystal on wood.

  And then Mr. Smee looked in awe upon his captain. In all his years of service, he had never admired James Hook more than at this moment. Truly, the man was a master. For with his eyes half closed and a smile that could melt gold, he bent lovingly over the fairy, and with one finger of one good hand, Captain James Hook did what no man, save himself, would ever do again.

  He stroked her peacock wings.

  “Just one more, insignificant question, before you rest, dear Jewel. Exactly what other properties does your… marvelous fairy dust possess?”

  Chapter 11

  Growing Pains

  On a night of a near-full moon, the village lay at rest. Nudged by silent paddles, the river waters stroked their pebbly banks, and then subsided. When the tree frogs ceased their chirring, the old woman stirred uneasily. As she started to rise, her granddaughter hastened to her side, but the woman shook her head. Colorless as the moon, her braids barely moved.

  “No, child. Strike the drum and run to gather the children. Boots are upon us.”

  The black eyes that watched her widened, and then the girl whirled to obey. Even as she threw open the flap and ran light-footed from her grandmother’s tepee, the silence of imminent danger afflicted the camp. The old woman listened for the tom-tom, and when the shouts and screams erupted, she straightened her spine. With bony fingers, she drew her blanket closer to her shoulders. By the time the torch plunged through her doorway, her cloudy eyes were clear enough to see her enemies, and her back stiff enough to greet them with a proud indifference.

  A swarthy seaman with large golden earrings followed the torch, poking his head under the flap and smiling at her with his even white teeth. He strode into her home, cast a greedy glance around, and finding no gold or silver, tossed his head back and laughed. His brown boots stepped near to the Old One, right on the skins of her pallet, and with the tip of his cutlass, he pointed to the open doorway.

  “It is time to go, old woman.” The red light of embers smoldered on his bracelets, turning them a bloody orange. He spoke with a strange accent, unlike the other white men’s, and shrugged a set of muscular shoulders swathed in an embroidered shirt. “Do as you are told. I should not like to harm such a one, who reminds me of my own tribe’s wisewomen.”

  It was the wailing and the gunfire that moved her to rise, but still she delayed, resolved to speak her words. “You will not find what you seek here. Tell your chief. His men may plunder their riches, but his own treasure lies elsewhere.”

  “Old One. He already knows this.” In an incongruous gesture of chivalry, the pirate tucked his sword at his side and offered his hand. Through the open tepee flap, firelight illuminated the scene outside. The woman glimpsed her warrior son resisting the grip of an ebony-skinned giant bearing an ax in his belt. Refusing the pirate’s assistance, the woman rose, gathering her robes and leaning on her staff. As the young girls shrieked and the babies cried, her son, like all the others, struggled with his captor.

  The old woman’s nostrils smelled the bite of gunpowder. Hastening into the flaring light, she felt the slap of cool air on her cheeks. Indifference grew more difficult to feign as flames tasted the sacred wood of the totem pole. Standing in the midst of strangeness, she wrapped her fingers around the familiar roughness of her staff. All about her, the dogs barked and the men fought. Trees bled from gunshot wounds, oozing sap.

  Glancing toward the river, the woman spied the camp scouts lying bound next to the canoes, inert and senseless. A row of boats lined the water’s edge, bobbing in the river’s gentle eddy. Closer to hand, black-haired women knelt to shelter their children in their arms, their mouths open in supplication. When the braves who encircled their families finally threw down their tomahawks, the Old One saw him.

  The Black Chief. The tall one, with his glittering earring and the sleek lion’s mane flowing from his scalp. He emerged from shadow, materializing like a malignant spirit. Standing in the ring of crackling firelight, he drew a white cloth from his sleeve, raised a foot to dust his boot, then flicked the cloth and retired it to a pocket. When he was satisfied that all eyes rested upon him, he flourished what should have been his right hand toward a man near the totem pole. The sailor balanced a bucket, and at his captain’s signal, he dashed its contents over the sacred carvings. Fire greeted water with a hissing scream that doused the most virulent of the flames. Only then did the Black Chief’s shiny boots saunter forward. He wore a sneer on his lips and his eagle’s claw dangled at his side. He hadn’t raised it against the People, but its message was clear. That claw would slash any who disobeyed its master.

  At the mercy of his men, the People obeyed. Under European eyes and the light of a near-full moon, the Indians began their exodus.

  And as she hobbled toward the children to lay her calm, cool hands upon them, the Old One looked to the moon, and wondered.

  Did it cast its light upon Rowan, or was he confined in the shadows?

  * * *

  “They’re gone! They’re gone!” Nibs came sliding down the hollow tree to land on his feet in the hideout. Before Wendy could ask the question, Peter did.

  “Who’s gone?”

  “The pirates! I saw them weigh anchor and drop sails. The Jolly Roger is headed out to sea!” With his eyes still full of the sight, he sighed. “She’s a beautiful bird.” Nibs had been performing his morning lookout duty, another of Wendy’s, now Peter’s, ideas.

  Peter crowed, then he shouted, “The pirates have set sail!”

  More relieved than anyone, Wendy exulted, her ready smile sparkling. The boys bounced and yelled around them. When at last the tumult subsided, Wendy stopped to think. “I wonder what made them go?”

  Peter got a shrewd look. “Nibs, was there any sign of the croc?”

  “No, Peter, but I did see Tink at last.”

  “Tink? Where?” Peter was aware that Tinker Bell had been absent for a bit. Wendy was aware that Tinker Bell had been absent for exactly six days and seven nights, unless Time was misbehaving again, which no doubt it was, but at least since the afternoon of the hunt. Tink had not slept in the bed within her niche, nor was any trace of dust to be found in or near the hideout, nor indeed, on Peter, who had remained unaware even of that fact until the nightlight ran short of fuel and dimmed.

  Nibs said, “I forget exactly where she was, but she didn’t look herself.”

  By now Wendy was concerned about the fairy. Tink was part of the family, after all. “Nibs, please. Think where you saw her and tell us what you mean.”

  Nibs traced a finger in the air as he recalled his reconnaissance route. “I flew over the Island, keeping high, then I skirted the Lagoon and came round the far side, over the mountains and on to the Indian camp— the whole tribe was canoeing up the river— then I finally got over to Neverbay. That’s when I saw the ship. I watched the pirates for a while and then came straight home to tell you about it, and— That’s where I saw her! She was flying kind of cockeyed around Wendy’s house.”

  Peter relaxed. “I’ll go look for her after breakfast. You say the Indians have broken camp?”

  “Looks like they’re moving to the lodge up the mountain.”

  Peter’s crow resounded again, and he punched the air. “Then today’s the day! We’ll raid their camp!” The children whooped and pranced until Wendy spied earth trickling from the ceiling. They were all excited to have a carefree day ahead. Everyone hurried through breakfast and rounded up supplies for their foray, slinging on quivers and sharpening blades.

  John was no longer restricted to his bow and arrow. Peter had at last allowed him to fashion a knife from bone, and now John thrust it proudly into the sheath Wendy had stitched, and which he wore around his naked middle. Wendy worried about John, not because he wielded such a weapon, but because Peter had sanctioned it. Peter, too, must have seen that John was growing. If John was old enough for a knife now, how much time
was left before he was too old? As much as Wendy hated to think about it, the knife was a signal that his time was approaching.

  Michael’s, too. These days, Michael looked just like the older boys, in skins and leather. He certainly wasn’t the baby of the family any longer. The other boys didn’t advance at the same rate as the Darlings, perhaps because they’d lived their whole lives here and they were more accustomed to Peter’s ways. No radical adjustments in thinking were necessary for them. Still, now that Wendy was their mother, they were growing faster than ever before. Slightly had yielded another tooth to Peter’s pouch, and Tootles was becoming almost burly, redefining the meaning of his britches. Even the Twins were advancing, developing more sophisticated building skills, always seeking more complicated projects and crowding the hideout with wood and tools. They littered so much sawdust about the entrance above ground that they had designed a new round broom with which Wendy kept the tree shaft clear. Apparently Peter had been correct in his assessment, but wrong in his assumption; the children had needed a mother, yet her effect was not to keep them young, but to encourage their growth.

  In spite of this shortcoming, Wendy, like any mother, took pride in her boys. All was well and progressing naturally with them— yet that very circumstance was the source of her fear. She watched Peter, anxious to gauge his disposition toward them. When should she speak? And what, really, could she say? Peter’s law against growing up was firm.

  None of the children required a nightlight any longer, but Wendy kept right on lighting it so as not to call Peter’s attention to their maturity. It was more difficult to conceal the status of their baby teeth. She didn’t want to ask what became of them when they disappeared from Peter’s pouch. Some shuddering impulse made her hide several of Michael’s and John’s teeth and wonder again if the nursery window was still open. In these moments, concern for her brothers’ futures would fill her heart. Perhaps they were too unfamiliar now to be admitted through the window. Perhaps the old nightlight, weary of watching, had burnt itself out.

  Still confident that she belonged in the Neverland, Wendy herself was changing, and she now wore a garment of her own design. She had found her nightdress becoming short and skimpy, and ragged from her many adventures. In her new gown she felt beautiful, and much more at ease with her person.

  Peter had proposed a sneak incursion aboard the pirate vessel, where he supposed must be hoarded trunks of fine dresses and linens, stolen once and ripe for looting again. Nibs and Tootles seconded the idea, eager to seize any opportunity to board the ship. But Wendy of course would not allow Peter to endanger himself or her boys for the sake of mere clothing, and had applied her mind to finding other, less risky, solutions.

  It was Tinker Bell who gave her the answer. Wendy admired the appointments within the fairy’s niche. Tink enjoyed the finest furniture in the hideout, handcrafted to order by the Twins. Her best piece was the mirror they had carved. Wendy used to wonder how the mermaids fashioned their many mirrors. She now knew that like Tink’s, the glass was water drawn from the Lagoon, left to harden under a full moon. But Tinker Bell’s curtain, bed hangings, gowns and tapestries were made of some lovely fairy stuff, and Wendy had asked Peter to discover the source.

  Wendy’s new dress was loose and flowing, made of layers of various shades of gauze, ranging from the fresh green of new leaves to the emerald of the twilight forest. Peter had commissioned the fabric from the Fairy Glade. The patches of material woven by fairy looms bore a faint fragrance of ginger, and were so small Wendy had to piece the swatches together. Then she hemmed it and draped it, and cinched it at her waist with a girdle of softest doe skin.

  The fabric was airy as gossamer, and the least bit sticky, so that it clung more lightly than cobwebs. And like a cobweb, it was hardy, resistant to the snags and snares of the woodlands. Although her needle pierced it readily, Wendy found the material unyielding even to Peter’s knife, which she borrowed in an unsuccessful effort to trim the stuff. The fabric was deceptive. Light as it was, it simply could not be cut.

  She looked more and more like the enchanted queen of her story-time, with her hair plaited into numerous braids and her cheeks grown slender. If not for the kiss waiting in the corner of the royal smile, Wendy’s mother might scarcely have recognized her now, although her father would have known her at any time. Mr. Darling had often told Wendy she was enchanted.

  Peter did not object to the changes in Wendy as he did to the changes in his boys. He felt she looked more like a mother was supposed to look. And he liked her new dress so well he went out to gather vines of ivy, like his own, to twine about her, complementing its shades of green. The wind sometimes tugged at the vines until they bound her too tightly, and when Peter wasn’t looking, she would loosen them. If Peter noticed later on, he would bring fresh tendrils and twine them again to his satisfaction. Wendy thrilled to his attention and his touch but, for the sake of comfort, she became skilled at the art of discreet rearrangement, for although Peter could be distracted from the boys’ changes, his sharp eyes detected every detail of Wendy’s.

  Now, as the children prepared for their outing, a soft glow lit up the tree trunk. It descended to glide into the hideout and become… Jewel. She remained suspended in the air, calm amid the chaos, waiting to be noticed. Tootles saw her first. “Tinker Bell! She’s back!” Everyone greeted her, but she didn’t answer. She just hovered with a secretive smile.

  But this serenity wasn’t the only change. Surveying the fairy, John said, “Look, she’s different. Her hair’s down.”

  Curly tried not to gawk. “I never knew her hair was curly, like mine!”

  “Tinker Bell, you’re looking lovely.” Wendy studied her with the discretion she had learned to apply wherever her rival was concerned. “But the boys are right. You aren’t quite the same somehow.”

  Peter reached out to tug the flaxen hair. “Tink, where’ve you been? We missed you last night.” The fairy favored Peter with her regard, then swept by him, touching his cheek with her passing fingertips and continuing toward her niche.

  Wendy was suddenly reminded of her father again. Wasn’t that a trace of tobacco hanging in the air? As Jewel alighted, she turned to face Wendy, giving her an almost pleasant stare. Wendy had never seen that expression on the creature before. It was sort of assessing, sort of envious, but altogether unconcerned. The curtain slid closed.

  Wendy turned back to the gaping boys. “Well, I’m glad she’s home safe, anyhow. I wonder where she’s been?” She mused for a moment, then said, “Remind me to tell you the story of the changeling this evening.”

  She watched Peter and the boys slither up the tunnel toward adventure. John was last, and he turned to her with one hand on his dagger and one foot in the tree. “Come on, Wendy, we— What’s wrong?”

  Wendy blinked. “I’ve just had an idea.” Even the fairy might be growing up! “I think my story tonight will have to be a new one, after all. About the strange things that are happening today.” Then she laughed, snatched up her basket, and flew up the tree trunk to greet whatever adventure lay ahead.

  * * *

  The young brave rolled up his blanket and prepared to end his journeying. The night had been another full one. He was glad. It was why he had come here.

  He breathed deeply of the abundant air, turned his face to the morning light, and recalled his dream. He fixed it in his mind, along with its brothers, born of other nights, so that he could relate it to the Old Ones. They would interpret his night visions, and determine his name and his future. He wouldn’t question their wisdom. They were the ancestors.

  His mother had called him Rowan. She was a wisewoman who had had dreams of her own, and in them she had seen her little son circle the rowan tree. He circled the tree until there were two of him, and then his twin flew up into the high branches. She had teased him as he grew, checking under his blanket every sun-up, and scanning the treetops, seeking the other Rowan. Rowan, the Life-Giver.

  Rowan turn
ed his back to the sacred rock, but it, too, was fixed in his mind. He would remember the breeze wailing in the forest on his left, and the wind’s fingers stirring the kettle of the sea on his right. He would remember the stars sleeping above him and the earth waking below him, and his tomahawk for company, its oaken handle in his fist. He would remember his dream of the good air being sucked from his lungs and an evil presence lurking in the darkness. The sacred place had granted a foretelling, and he honored it.

  Rowan took the first step. He was going home to discover his place among men. He knew only that he had no place among women. His mother and his baby sister were gone.

  Rowan took many steps, and when his feet began to ascend the slope to the plateau and he was in sight of the smoke from his village campfires, his dreamquest should have been at an end. But here he read the signs, learning that it was destined to go on.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter 12

  Camp Meeting

  Peter led his band over the trees, across the Island, and into the territory of the Indians. Arrived at their destination, he signaled for all to fly low and dropped crouching into the wood that fringed the near side of the encampment. He listened, he watched, then he sprang into the air, launching himself end over end and touching down at the top of the totem pole. After a sweeping look around, he crowed the all-clear. The boys crept from the forest to gather in the center of the camp. Enemy territory.

  “My totem is a crocodile!” Posing, Peter pressed his palms together to snap his fingers like jaws, hissing horribly. “Who’ll give us a hand?” Then he laughed and jumped backward to slide down the pole. “Take a look around, but any booty belongs to the captain, to divide up later.”

  Wendy had performed her own ceremony, making an additional survey of the village, flying all around it to assure herself it was safe. She now called from the top of the pole, where the wind lashed her skirts. “Take only loose things left on the ground, boys, and no peeking in the tepees!” She tossed the basket down, leapt to the side, and caught the pole, her fingers bouncing on its bumps as she spiraled all the way. “Put everything you find in the basket— unless it’s breathing, of course.” Feeling a film coating her fingers, Wendy looked down, surprised to find them darkened with char. Observing the pole more closely, she saw that it was black in places, as if singed in some ritual of fire.