by Andrea Jones
“I will walk with you back to Mr. Cecco. I perceive that he is most anxious for your gifts.” He circled his arm around her tempting dimensions and started to turn, but stopped at her tug. Bracing her hand on his arm, she stood on tiptoe to brush feather-light kisses against his throat. When he didn’t push her away, she slid her hands up his chest. He looked down at her, his lips set in a wry smile, waiting.
Her fingers spread apart, stealing higher. She caressed his upper body as deftly as she’d stroked his loins, and here, too, she found something significant. Yet this discovery was wholly unanticipated. As Hook had expected, her hands halted at his breast. She opened her mouth and quickly pulled away, disconcerted at what she’d found there. “Oh! I am sorry!”
“As you were saying, it is what is hidden within that matters. Never mind, my dear. There are many here who require your attention. See to them, if it pleases you, and give my warmest regards to your sisters.” He took her arm and escorted her, flustered, to the dashing Cecco, who, concealing nothing within, had never ceased his vigil. “As promised, Mr. Cecco.”
“Grazie, Captain.” Cecco lost no time in waltzing his lady to the wood— while she looked back over the breadth of his shoulders and blinked.
Hook watched after them, feeling the heat of the fire on his throat and remembering her fingers in quest of his pocket. He kept moving, the insubstantial sand shifting under his feet, the moon over his shoulder, and as he mingled with the men, he observed the other revelers. The gunplay by the target continued, cracking the sky open in bursts of orange. Mr. Smee returned the woman called Lily to the fire and found her a drink while Yulunga, the fresh claw wound visible on his shoulder, engulfed her hand in his massive fist. In a gesture strangely tender for a man so formidable, Yulunga lifted Lily’s fingers to his lips, and before long both hands had disappeared into the shadows, leaving only a pair of footprints behind. Other footprints tracked away and back, in sets of twos and threes. The singing and the banter grew steadily louder. Eventually the music stopped trying and the drums dominated the air. In his melodic accent, Cecco recounted stories to Lily, his hands waving in gestures that set his jewelry chiming. His first lady, the dimpled angel, flitted among the bunch of drummers, her eyes engaging the captain’s again, her arms engaging the pounding hands of her current sailor. She entangled his hands so that the sound of drumming decreased until some time later, when it rebounded with renewed and vigorous force. The other woman, clad now in little other than her hair, hurried from the dark edge of the beach, laughing as she ran and turning backward to toss a colorful kerchief at Jukes, who pursued her, himself half dressed and revealing a good deal of his stem-to-stern tattoos. Hook heard her shrieks over the beating in his ears as Jukes caught her with little trouble. The pair rolled on the beach and into the waves, weaving their bodies together in the sloshing brine. Hook closed his eyes and still saw them, all of them. Revelers on a beach, knowing no shame.
Like himself. And he lifted his face to the breeze and recalled a pair of clear blue eyes regarding him with courage and just a hint of admiration. He envisioned a royal smile harboring a kiss, shameless and begging to be taken— but needing to be given. His pulse surged with the force of victory again, as it had done when he accepted that kiss. He breathed deeply while he flexed his shoulders and stretched his arms, then he hunted down another bottle and joined the men at the cask to fill it with rum.
He had hoped this night would pass quickly. It was only getting longer.
* * *
Cookson, the beachfront scout, turned his back to the fire again and felt of his weapon. He pulled his jacket tighter. It was getting cooler out here, as the party by the fire got hotter. His luck, to draw watch the night the captain led the fun. But better here than with the lads on duty aboard ship!
He tracked along down the beach. His feet were clammy in the wet sand, the swirling water renewing the feeling regularly. Every few seconds. Like clockwork. Sounded like clockwork, too. Or was it the drums? Squinting, he leaned to get a better view of the boats, keels up on the shore, hulked and prostrate, like penitent monks. Cookson smiled irreverently; they were missing the party, too. Then he jerked himself upright. Something slithered among the boats, and unlike his imaginary monks, this something was unrepentant and smelling about for more sin.
Cookson flung his hand toward the fire. “Avast! Pipe down, lads!” Tugging at the lanyard round his neck, he pulled the whistle from his shirt. He blew shrill warning and dashed back up the shore. “It’s the croc! The crocodile, Captain!”
The message spread and reverberated. “The croc!” Dead calm fell on the beach. All eyes searched the darkness, then looked to the master’s face. Hook thrust his bottle away and froze, listening. Only his eyes moved, narrowed to pierce the night. Cookson came at a run, his jacket flying behind him, his finger pointing down the shore to a pair of red points on the beach.
Hook snarled and launched himself toward it, the men on his heels grabbing up the torches planted in the sand. The lights bobbed and streamed as the torchbearers ran, but it was hatred that lit Hook’s path. Hatred for the senseless thing that sought to tear his life from his grasp. The relentless monster with no reasoning, and no mercy.
There, the flare of the beast’s eyes… and the sound of ticking. Hook judged the distance, then halted, spraying sand. His men pulled up short and reached for their weapons. Flanking their captain, they formed a half circle on the water’s edge, the croc at its center.
Hook breathed fast, staring at the brute. The blue of his eyes shifted, forget-me-not turning to violet. Seizing the head of the tomahawk, he yanked it from his belt. It was rough and primal, the ideal handler for this beast. The ticking assaulted him, then the croc advanced, scenting the excitement and gliding on its belly toward its prize. Hook steadied the axhead with his claw while his hand slid down its shaft. He raised it, feinted twice for aim, and hurled it at the monster with force so heavy the breath rushed from his lungs. His eyes mirrored the croc’s, flaming red as he watched the hatchet revolve in a flying arc between his hand and his enemy.
It struck, true and deep. The beat of time submerged as the monster groaned and belched, and backed away. Red rivulets crowned its head and veined its face, the tomahawk its headdress as the animal writhed in a dance of pain and retreated down the beach, hoarding its tick and leaving behind it a slimy trail. It skulked into the darkness, hissing.
Hook stood among his jubilant crew, his shoulders heaving. Mullins cried out, “Did you see, mates? Captain made it jig! The croc’s joined the revels!”
Hook turned his face to them and they stopped abruptly. The red of his eye was terrible to see. “Chase it down, Mullins, Cookson, find where it’s gone!” Mullins sobered and pulled the nearest torch from a mate’s fist, then both men pelted after the beast.
Violet returned to Hook’s eyes, to ease into blue once more as his heart calmed and his breathing steadied. Then the smile spread, slow and satisfied. It was the signal they had waited for, the outward indication of his mood. The men broke into cheers again. Hook looked at every one of them, then released the pent-up power, throwing his head back and laughing. The revelers crowded near, but not too close, lauding him back to the bonfire and the waiting women, more raucous than before. The drums pounded again, and again.
And again.
* * *
The fire was replete, the crew’s mood mellowed by women, drink, and fellowship. Hook lay back on his elbows and considered the sea, a bottle tilted, half buried in the sand next to him. Smee materialized at his captain’s side.
“Sir, ’tis a shame we lost its trail to the sea.”
Hook inhaled the salt air. “As ever, we taste the bitter with the sweet.”
“True enough. A fine idea it was, Sir, to feed the beast with a clock. Time’s on your side, you might say!”
Hook raised an eyebrow. “Would that be the inside, Mr. Smee?”
Smee chortled. He was rarely treated to the captain’s humor. “I
meant that Time’s in your favor, Captain.”
“A mere superstition. Those who worship Time, Smee, must propitiate it, or fear the end of grace.”
“Aye, Sir, and your fearlessness is well known. You showed that croc right well. But the Indian lad’s time could’ve been up today. He should be half home by now, with the moon we’ve had. Lucky he left you a keepsake to ward off the crocodile. The debt’s paid, now, isn’t it, by his tomahawk?”
“Fortunately, he doesn’t know that.”
“Did you never get him to speak, Captain?”
“He spoke most eloquently, without language. Yulunga’s report was correct. It seems the boy has befriended a comrade of Pan’s.”
Smee’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you say, now? Then why did you not stretch him on the rock?”
Hook gazed at the shrinking moon. “Now, now, Mr. Smee. Nature must take her course. He is quite a handsome lad. Compelling. Given enough of your precious Time, he will render me service.”
“Sir? But I thought… Oh.” A smile whipped across his rugged face. “Captain, that’s deep!”
“‘Each one to his own taste,’ as the French are wont to say.”
Smee modified his grin. “Nothing gets by you, Sir.”
“What of the women? Did they accept my dispensation?”
“Aye, and a wee bit of my own!”
“Nothing gets by me, Smee. And?”
Smee nodded. “The ladies will be ready, with babes in tow.”
“A most rewarding day.” He could still taste it, that sweet, shameless kiss. Hook handed Smee the bottle. “Drink tonight, Smee, and tomorrow have my pistols oiled. The matched set.”
Smee’s jaw dropped open. The captain hadn’t carried two pistols since—
“One of them is going courting.”
Chapter 18
Cravings and Sweet Nothings
Wendy sat up with a sharp intake of breath, clutching the lion hide. She had dreamed a deep dream, a vision of purple eyes, eyes the color of kings’ robes. At first she had believed the eyes to be fixed to stare upon herself, but then they were her own eyes and before them hung a green spider, spinning a web beaded with dewy drops of blood.
She heard Indian drums beating again. She had heard them all night, but waking now, she recognized the sensation to be the unrest of her heart. Its rhythm was uncivilized, unfamiliar… something she was relearning.
Looking about her, she found Peter slipping his quiver over his shoulder, seeming to have forgotten the gash along his arm. He had seen her startle awake.
“Good morning, Wendy! We’re off to the Indian camp.”
Slightly waited for him with one foot in the hollow tree. Since the children’s excursion to Indian territory, he wore a band of leather about his forehead, and looking more like a native than ever, he was eager to go and smiling to prove it. “Before the day is done we’ll smoke a peace pipe and become blood brothers.”
Still clinging to the hide, Wendy rose. “I won’t try to stop you, Peter, but must Slightly go?”
Slightly’s face clouded. “I have to go, Wendy.”
“I know you can manage, but I feel uneasy about it.” Maybe it was just her imagination. Alongside recent events, the dream had left her unsettled.
“Slightly’s coming. I’ve taught more about the Indians to him than to any of the other boys. I’ll be back by afternoon, with a good story to tell!” Impatiently, Peter brushed a willow leaf from his hair.
John was awake now, and seeing the two boys ready to go, he rolled off the bed. “I’d like to go to the mountain camp, too.”
“Slightly is the oldest. Today is his turn. You’re coming next time.” Peter slipped a knife from his belt and tossed it to John, who caught it, surprised. Feeling for the sheath at his waist, John found it empty. He drew his eyebrows together to give Peter a doubtful look. He had meant to keep his knife with him during the night, to defend Wendy if necessary.
Peter returned John’s look, grinning at him, then turned to poke a hand into the fairy’s niche and shake her awake. She tinkled in a groggy way, and rolled over to go back to sleep. “Stay in bed, then, Tink.” Peter opened his Wendy-pocket and captured Jewel’s glittering residue as he dusted off his fingers.
After yesterday’s conflict and strategy sessions, Nibs was alert and ready for anything. He handed Peter his bow. “I’ll go part way with you. I have to go on lookout duty.” The other children were climbing sleepily from the bed.
“No, Nibs, wait a bit. There’s no hurry. I want you all to stay close to home today. Wendy, keep the boys near. There’s no guessing what Hook has in mind. Boys, do what Wendy tells you. Those are my orders.” He signaled to Slightly, who started to climb into the chute, thought better of it, and stepped aside for him. Peter breezed up.
Slightly followed, but more slowly, as he had to pull in his knees and elbows and wedge himself inch by inch. Wendy watched him, hoping the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach was just the after-effect of her dream. As its image revived, the feeling became too much, and she ran to Slightly and set her hand on his knee to stop him. “Slightly!” She bent and peered up at him. “If you can’t fit down again, I’ll understand. I’ll come out to you.”
“I wasn’t worried, but thanks!” He touched his fingers to his lips and tossed her a crowded kiss, then proceeded to muscle his way up to the surface and was gone.
Wendy looked toward John to compare his growing size to Slightly’s, but the Twins seized her elbows and pointed to the mantel which, unless Peter was present, always took precedence over any other thing in the room. “Look, Wendy, Peter’s jar!” Their eyes filled with anticipation. “If he brings more trophies from the Indians, we’ll build a bigger shelf to hold them.”
The jar was there. She had forgotten to find pine cones for it yesterday or a hundred years ago. It was Peter’s now. The acorn, the arrow, the eagle feather, everything was Peter’s— including Slightly’s idea to make a pact with the Indians. For a moment, she imagined a chair sitting on the mantel, too, to display the Wendy.
But there was one thing, one sweet thing Wendy kept hidden. She had to get it back. It had to be kept safe. “Nibs, I want you to scout thoroughly this morning. As soon as you’ve reported back, I’m going out.”
Nibs gave her a curious look and saluted. “Aye, aye.” He vaulted onto the bed to help the other boys make sense of the skins and pillows. Wendy held the lion hide to her cheek, to feel its warmth and comfort one more time before the day began. Then she shook it, and falling to work as the boys had done, began to fold it.
She stopped. As her face contorted, she drew one of its legs toward her. She stared in disbelief, and then her gaze darted again to the mantle. What she sought wasn’t there among Peter’s trophies. She turned toward the hollow tree and shivered, all warmth and comfort draining away.
The lion’s right front paw, with all its claws, had been hacked off the hide.
* * *
Rowan listened to the water rushing by, just out of reach. The sound had disturbed his sleep, but he had slept, in spite of the tantalizing trickling and in spite of the ropes cutting into his wrists. He would be a warrior soon. He could endure worse than this. The Black Chief with the eagle’s claw could have decreed that he should endure worse than this. And now Rowan owed the Black Chief a life-service. It was fitting. Rowan was the Life-Giver.
But Rowan hadn’t meant to give him his secrets. His slate-gray eyes had simply not been able to mask his emotions when questions were plied about his new companion. Rowan’s shame was tempered by the force against which he had been set. Enemy though the man might be, Rowan had never questioned the judgment of the tribal elders; but only now did he understand why they had forbidden the hunting of the Black Chief’s scalp. It possessed too much power. Such a prize might tear the tribe apart. It was taboo. And Rowan was no stranger to taboo.
The moon had lighted his path last night and determined it should end here. When the moon left him by this abandoned
dwelling-place, the forest was too dark to search the stream for a rock to cut his bonds. By now, he craved a drink. He got awkwardly to his feet and shouldered the door, anxious to reach the water the moon had provided.
But he halted, listening: two pairs of feet brushing the grasses, then running, slowing to a walk, like geese touching down to earth. Now they stepped toward him. Rowan slid to the window. Another moment and the two boys were within view.
It was Slightly— Rowan’s ‘Lightly’— led by the yellow-haired boy with bow and dagger. The Golden Boy, who flew like the hawk, and who with those very weapons caused so much anxiety among Rowan’s people— every bit as much terror as the crocodile. Rowan spotted the fresh red wound on his arm right away. It must be painful, but the boy’s face didn’t show it as he pulled an apple from his pouch and offered it to Lightly. Rowan tried to swallow, his thirst redoubling at the sight of the fruit and the snap of Lightly’s first bite.
But even in his craving, Rowan wondered. Should Lightly be touching that fruit? The healers of the tribe revered green apples. They were strong medicine. The sleep these apples induced was profound. Ever since he was a child, Rowan’s mother had cautioned him not to taste one. The Golden Boy must be careless indeed, to give them to his followers.
Rowan attended the boy’s voice as it spoke in a low and earnest tone, “…always to be a boy and to have fun. And I want Wendy to never leave me alone. Don’t forget…” As Rowan watched, unblinking, the pair disappeared into the wood behind the house.
Giving them time to move away, Rowan looked about the shelter. He wondered at the sight of white sand spread over the table. He smelled it. It carried a faint odor of strawberries. He pressed his finger in it, then touched it to his tongue. It felt like grains of crystal. It tasted sweet.