Hook & Jill

by Andrea Jones

  The band prowled about the camp, listening to its echoes, exploring mostly, but picking up feathers, beads, and bones where they lay abandoned here and there. Nibs found the tom-tom and was ready to awaken it with a fist when Wendy spread her hand on its smooth, stretched top. “No, Nibs. We’d best not call attention to ourselves. Let’s just pretend.” But she danced as wildly as the rest with their painted faces around the totem pole, Peter playing his pipes and the children drumming with their voices, leaping over the dead ashes in the pit and almost catching fire in spite of them.

  Michael was the first to sit down and reach for the basket. “I’m going to decorate my bow to look like the Indians’.”

  “I’ll show you how to bind the feathers around the handle.” Pulling a skein of leather from his Wendy-pocket, Slightly sat down cross-legged next to him. If one overlooked his light hair, Slightly in his vest and leggings appeared more like a native than any of his brothers, and telling him so was sure to bring contentment to his face.

  Peter took the basket from Michael and examined the spoils. “Don’t worry too much about your bow, Michael. You’ll be getting a knife soon. I’ll see to it.” Returning the basket, he smiled like a king doling out largess. As Michael whooped with joy, Peter felt Wendy watching him. “What?” he asked.

  Wendy thought fast through the gust of anxiety. Her youngest brother was growing, and Peter had marked it. She brushed her hair from her face. “Oh, it’s just that I’d like a knife of my own.” But she was anxious on this point as well, sure she would be denied; Red-Handed Jill carried a knife.

  Cocking his head, Peter grinned, teasing. “You don’t have a proper belt for it, just a doe skin girdle. And I like you that way!”

  Michael tugged Wendy’s arm, pulling her down to sit next to him. “I’ll let you use my knife whenever you want, now that I’m big enough to have one.”

  Wendy kept her eyes on Peter. “I’d hoped that wouldn’t be for a long time, Michael. But I appreciate the offer.” Peter settled to sit on her other side and blew on her cheek. She shivered and smiled, but soon after, she secretly loosened her vines.

  The band set to work, and before long, all their bows were enhanced with beads, bone, and feathers, Peter’s being the handsomest, with the best feathers as well as bits of rabbit fur above and below its grip, which was wrapped in leather. He crowed in high spirits, and shot several arrows swooshing off into the wood. Tootles watched them go, and at a signal from his chief, jumped up and plunged into the forest to retrieve them. As the stoutest boy, Tootles had become nearly fearless, and Peter might need those arrows back, for not even he knew what menace lurked among the trees.

  The Twins finished their examinations of the totem pole and the frames of stretched rope the Indians used for drying skins. At present, they were wondering about papooses, having never observed these native children. Island lore maintained that papooses were bound to their mothers’ shoulders, but the mechanics of the theory baffled the Twins. “Wendy, if we were Indians, how would you carry both of us on your back?”

  “One fore and one aft!” Nibs employed nautical terms whenever possible.

  Wendy laughed, imagining it. “It’s lucky you can fly instead!”

  Always respectful, Curly frowned. “But Wendy’s a lady. She would have a pram to push you, Twins, just like the one you fell out of when you came to the Neverland.”

  “Only I’d have kept an eye on you in the first place, unlike your silly nurse.”

  The Twins started in alarm. “But then we’d never have come here! Indian ladies must be much more fun than nurses. We’d rather be papooses.”

  Peter got his new-idea look. “I’ll tote you! John, help out with a Twin.” The two boys slung the Twins onto their backs, John following Peter’s lead. They teetered in a precarious dance all over the camp, thrilling the youngsters as they stumbled in a magnificent pantomime, dodging trees and nearly tipping the Twins into the cold fire, coming to an abrupt halt at the river on the far side of the settlement. Peter’s new-idea look still shone as the ensuing splash resounded.

  When the Twins emerged, dripping, they sputtered in excitement. “We’ve found treasure!” Squelching with their toes, they pried it up, and between them dragged forth a muddy lump which, sloshing to shore, they presented to Peter.

  He looked at it sideways. “It’s a blob of muck.”

  “No…” Taking it in her hands, Wendy examined it. “There’s something else here.” She knelt down on the bank to wash it, rubbing until the murk swirled away. The Twins bent over her.

  “What is it, Wendy?”

  “It’s pottery, a jar.” She kept scrubbing. “It’s beautiful. Look at the painted figures, crocodiles and hawks, dancing all round it.” It was wide at the bottom, narrow at the neck, red figures on glossy black. She held it out to the Twins. John, Nibs, Curly and Michael swam up for a look. They’d jumped in after the Twins, thinking a splash in the river looked like fun.

  “Let me see.” Peter intercepted it. He rinsed the mud out of the inside and poured it over Curly.

  Diving at the muddy young gentleman, John ducked Curly. “Just getting the mud off!” John said as they both surfaced, spitting, then he broke into an imitation of his father. “I do apologize, young man, but your appearance was simply too shocking to allow in decent society!”

  The ‘young man’ had the grace to smile, and to the society’s delight, placed one arm along his waist and topped the incident off with a bow. “Think nothing of it, old man.”

  Peter laughed at Curly, then declared he liked the jar. “This will look fine with my arrow and my eagle feather. We’ll put it on the mantel when we get home. Another trophy!”

  Wendy turned to watch the Twins, but they didn’t seem to mind. They set about scavenging along the bank for sturdy sticks, planning to dredge up more treasure. Perhaps, she thought, their mother and father were bringing them up well. These boys were accustomed to sharing.

  * * *

  Slightly wandered the encampment, drinking it in. Pausing in front of the totem pole, he studied its many hewn faces. He identified each symbol. Remembering Peter’s snapping hands, he decided he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a crocodile as the family’s totem. It suited Peter, but repulsed Slightly. He listened as the others slipped and slithered in the river below. He’d rather be a bird than a beast. Birds were right for this place.

  Presently, he walked among the tepees. He stepped lightly, keeping a respectful distance, yet he was intrigued by the painting on the dwellings’ tawny skins, and the neat way their poles intertwined at the tops. He missed their welcoming smoke signals. The tepees were much bigger than he supposed when he’d snatched glimpses of them from the sky. They could hold whole families. Maybe there was room for another young brave in one of them? A ‘slight’ one.

  Smiling at the thought, Slightly turned toward the woods. His smile faded and his face became alert. Two slate-gray eyes were staring at him, chips of smoked glass, so still and solid they seemed to belong to a sapling. They didn’t blink. Neither did Slightly’s.

  More than eyes were here. It was an Indian boy, plainly a warrior in the making. Everything about him was rigid. Cheeks and chin were carved like a totem pole, his coarse black hair bound tight on either side of his face. At his naked thigh, he gripped a tomahawk. Slightly felt himself grow more substantial just looking at this boy. He didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the wood.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you belong to the Golden Boy?”

  “Yes. No! What do you mean?”

  “I am of the People. Don’t be sorry, I know your band didn’t drive them away. I have read the signs. It is the work of boots.”

  “Boots?”

  “The marks are everywhere. But I know where the tribe has gone.”

  “Our scout saw them canoeing up the river early this morning. I’m Slightly. What’s your name?” But the splashing at the river stilled, and the native boy looked around for spying eyes. He
crooked his hand at Slightly, and they both bent low, the dark head and the fair disappearing into the underbrush.

  They settled on the far side of an oak, sheltered by its filtering leaves, and spoke again, softly. “I will be given a name soon. I am called Rowan. Why are you called Slightly? You are not slight.”

  Slightly smiled. “I was when Peter found me and named me.”

  “I see how you walk among my people’s places. I will call you Lightly. It is more fitting.”

  Emerging from its vest, Slightly’s chest swelled with pride. “I like that. I like your people’s places.”

  “The Golden Boy, Peter you call him? He is not welcome here. He has brought sorrow to the People, with his knife and his pack of wild boys.”

  “I’m one of the wild boys.”

  “No. The woman came and guided your pack away from mischief. Except for your Peter, you have all grown.” Rowan gestured toward the camp. “But I have seen her today. She is more like a fairy, and it is known how he leads his fairy.”

  As Slightly listened to these surprising observations, he turned thoughtful. “I guess you’re right, we have grown. The lady, Wendy, is my mother.” Then he laughed, but quietly. “But she isn’t much like Tink!”

  Rowan’s face clouded. “My mother is gone, but I hope to bring her back to the People one day.”

  “Why is she gone? Did she come from an open window, like Wendy, and have to go back through it?”

  Rowan sat very straight, his glass eyes glinting. “She is independent. Like me. I don’t question the Old Ones. One day they will want her back.”

  “Peter will never allow Wendy to go away, like the older boys did.”

  “My people say there have been many boys. Where did they go?”

  “Some were killed by pirates…” Slightly’s face became tinged with red. “And your warriors.”

  Rowan didn’t flinch. “It is my turn to apologize. But what of the others?”

  Slightly shrugged. “I don’t know. They must have broken Peter’s law.”

  “My mother, too, broke with tradition.”

  “But Peter treats Wendy differently from the boys. I don’t think he’ll part with her, ever. Peter will keep Wendy no matter how she grows.”

  “That is what I believed, too, for my mother.”

  “Do you have brothers, Rowan?”

  “No, I have no one now to share my tepee. This is not natural for me.”

  “You would find our hideout very natural!” Turning his head, Slightly listened for the sounds of his family. The breeze crackled in the limbs and leaves of the old oak tree, but the laughter of the others remained distant as they played their games. He had a little more time.

  “Rowan, will we be friends now?”

  Rowan smiled, his brown lips firm even so. “It was foreseen that I would have a twin.”

  “Like my brothers, the Twins?” Slightly’s heart was floating, lightly.

  Rowan’s gray eyes searched within Slightly’s blue ones, reading the signs. “Not twins of the body, but of the heart.” Rowan held out his arm. Slightly joined it with his own. As their two hands clasped elbows, their arms embraced, and abided. “We will be friends.”

  The embrace lingered, and grew.

  * * *

  When the sun rode high in the sky, Rowan watched the Golden Boy’s flock fly away, noting their direction. He felt light, as if he could soar into the air himself. But the signs had spoken to him, telling the story of what had happened here before the visit of the pack. Still watching the sky, he directed his steps toward the river, to begin his trek along its banks to the mountain camp, for it was there his people had fled.

  He entered the cover of the trees, keeping the river at his left. Its sparkling played tricks on his eyes, appearing and disappearing as it peeped between the tree trunks. The tomahawk hung at his side, no longer his only friend. Rowan felt its weight tapping against his thigh as he stole along the shadowy path.

  Then one of the shadows deepened, the river light vanished, and Rowan felt another weight, a tremendous weight, pound him from behind. Rowan sprawled flat out on the path, the earth pressing on his chin, the breath blown from his chest and the tomahawk biting into his leg. A huge, dark mass grunted and lay upon Rowan’s back, reaching for his hands, to bind them.

  When the brave was tied securely, the gigantic black man picked him up. Rowan felt light again, as light as a corn doll, his former rigidity now the brittleness of husks.

  The work of boots.

  Chapter 13

  The Open Door

  The door was open, and it didn’t matter today. Sitting next to it with her pleasant work, Wendy basked in sunbeams, stringing a bracelet from the cache of Indian beads in her basket. She had already made one for Peter, and she had woven a few of the beads into her hair. She intended to gather pine cones on her way home, to place around the pottery jar on Peter’s mantel. For now, she reveled in her freedom, hoping no boys or other disruptive creatures would interrupt it.

  Wendy was spending the afternoon at her own little house. The Indians had decamped, the pirates sailed away, and she was ready to fly if she heard the tick of the croc. Peter deemed it safe for her to stay alone there while he and the boys flew over to the Lagoon to swim. Wendy liked spending time by herself here in the peace of her clearing. She liked to listen to the chatter of the brook for a while, instead of the chatter of boys. Leaning back on her bench, she watched the blue smoke curling up to become the sky. She gave no thought to the distress of the chimney hat lid, flapping away above her. She felt the quivering of the leaf wall, but her own exterior was calm.

  A cup of tea was what she wanted. She laid the bracelet aside and slipped into the house. Out of habit, she reached behind her to pull the door shut. She could still hear the stream telling the world where it lived.

  No other sound disturbed her solitude until, half dozing at her tea table, she thought she heard singing. It was only the creek’s hysterical babbling. Her eyes opened. No.… It was singing. She listened more attentively. It was singing, but these were voices such as she had not heard since leaving her home in London long ago. Men’s voices. But the Indians were on the other side of the Island, up on the mountain. Wendy sat up straighter. Who could it be? And why were they singing?

  She began to hear branches swishing, and footsteps in the forest. A great many footsteps, and much nearer than she at first imagined. As her grip tightened on the arms of her chair, the voices grew louder. She caught a snatch of the song. She shot out of her seat and seized the window vines. Searching wildly, she saw nothing, only trees.

  The song became clearer. Assuming shape, it struck into her heart. She made out moving splashes of color, bright within the greenery, flashes of silver and gold, swords swinging at long-legged sides and bracelets on muscled arms. They were so close now she could see pistols within easy reach of tattooed hands. Her mouth opened in terror.

  No. No! It couldn’t be! The pirates had sailed.… The Roger was gone! But here they were, ship’s company invading the forest, bold boots stamping right into her clearing. Wendy’s heart pounded. Loosing the vines as if they were on fire, she sprang away from the window, screaming inwardly but not daring utterance. She stood just inside the door, invisible behind it, immobile except for the shaking she could not control. She listened. It was all she could do.

  There came a tap of metal on wood, then a vigorous voice rang out, “Hold up, mates!” The singing and tramping ceased amid a jingle of weapons. An exchange of low voices, then the same speaker, with a lilting cadence. “Get on with you, lads. Search ahead, you know where to go! Anything you find, bring it back to the harbor… alive!” It had to be Smee, the Irish bo’sun.

  Wendy heard two steps on a wooden surface, then a noise like a door closing. Another low consultation. Then the awful words, “And men, if you find the lady, do what you have to do, but hands off. The cap’n wants her willing to parley, if you catch my meaning.” A chorus of smirking joviality, and
the marching began again as Smee urged the men off. “Get going, quietly this time! And mind those boys. They’ve the sharp arrows, you’ll be remembering!”

  Her worst fears confirmed. The pirates were after the boys. After her! The ship had sailed, and it was only a ploy. The enemy, Hook, was still here, waiting at the harbor. Where were the men off to? Surely they were headed away from the Lagoon?

  But what of Smee? Why was he left behind in Wendy’s clearing? He had to be only feet from the house. Was he to search it? She would be taken! She had nowhere to hide, no way to run, or even fly. She’d been shot down by an arrow once; she had no desire to tempt the ball of a pistol unless as a last resort. Truly needing that knife now, she cast about for a weapon. There was none. Smee could easily—

  Wendy froze. Through the leafy walls and the whimpering of the breeze slipped a new sound. Had she believed her worst fears confirmed? How foolish she was a moment ago! Wendy quickly realized her mistake, and a new wisdom dawned on her. She knew his voice.

  She sickened as she recognized it. The voice she herself had spoken so often, in play. It mocked her now, the storyteller, hearing the real thing at last. The stuff of legends. She slid to her knees, helpless, on the cold, mossy carpet. The velvet voice of Captain James Hook continued to speak.

  “…Mr. Smee. What a quaint place this is.” He inhaled deeply. “A tidy little retreat for any person of sensitivity. I’ll avail myself of it now.”

  “Aye, Captain. ’Tis a pleasant enough place. I don’t wonder the girl comes here to get away from the menfolk, if you can call them that.”

  Wendy’s eyes widened. How did they know?