Contents
Title Page Kindle
Copyright
Dedication
Join Our Crew
Dawn
1
The Tale of a Boy
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Morning
10
The Tale of the Island
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
Midday
20
The Tale of Piracy
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Dusk
36
37
Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland
Thank you for reading
About the Authors
Ackowledgments
Captain James Hook and the Curse of Peter Pan
By Jeremiah Kleckner and Jeremy Marshall
Amazon Kindle Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1478270898
ISBN-10: 1478270896
Copyright © 2012, 2014 Registration Number TX 7-945-652
Captain James Hook and the Curse of Peter Pan
By Jeremiah Kleckner and Jeremy Marshall
Copyright 2012, 2014 Registration Number TX 7-945-652
ISBN-13: 978-1478270898
ISBN-10: 1478270896
This is a fictional work and any resemblance to actual people living or dead, businesses, locales, or events is coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in part or whole without written consent is strictly prohibited.
Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book so that others may find it as well. Your support is everything.
Jeremy Marshal: To my mother and father for always supporting me. To my wife who I love. To my sister who believed, I know you made it more than halfway to heaven.
Jeremiah Kleckner: To Avalina, Melissa, and the family and friends who made this possible, thank you for being my inspiration and support.
Because those who can, teach.
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Dawn
Chapter One
The tall masts of the dark ship cut deep gashes into the horizon. The flag of Great Britain waves proudly above her sails. Its bold and vivid colors mock the black sheet that is draped over her bow, on which a bleached skull snickers over two crossed bones.
Admiral Charles Price strides to the rail of his flagship, the Triumph, to get a better look at the approaching vessel. He watches with steady, unmoving eyes while his men mutter rumors of her cargo, her intent, and her crew. They guess at everything except her name. That fact is known by every man aboard even though no one speaks the words aloud.
Black clouds scheme on the horizon. From the crow’s-nest, the lookout shouts down that Royal Navy crewmen are aboard the vessel, waving as they approach. As the ship draws nearer, Admiral Price sees a single man shackled on the deck of the ship. His vivid red coat shines like a beacon against the darkening sky.
“Prepare to board,” Admiral Price tells the captain. He orders his ship alongside the smaller brigantine and watches his crew fall into their stations. Each man knows his place and fulfills his duties without question. There is no wasted movement and no wasted thought. Before long, the crew secures the dark ship and brings her prisoner aboard.
Captain Hook, and his ship, the Jolly Roger, have been captured.
A distant thunder rumbles as James Hook stands shackled aboard the British cruiser. His eyes are so narrow that they never seem to blink beneath the dark brush of brow or long curly tendrils of hair.
The silence between the admiral and his captive matures and gives birth to new worries. “Now that he has Captain Hook,” the crew mutters, “what will Admiral Price do with a man who has trained under, terrified, or tortured every known pirate in the Caribbean?” Uncertainty grows between both crews as seconds of tension become minutes of anxiety.
“To the brig,” the admiral breathes. With the veil of silence pierced, uproarious cheers from both crews nearly shake the boards loose.
Captain Hook smiles with everything but his eyes. Two crewmen take him below deck to the brig. Without a glance back toward his escort, Hook strides through the cell door. He then turns about and seats himself in the center of the bench, legs crossed and arms folded in his lap as one would sit on a gazebo awaiting his Sunday brunch.
His wait is short, however, as Admiral Price slams his heels down on the steps toward the cell door. The two crewmen who first brought Hook aboard now stand guard on either side of the stairway. They part and stiffen at attention as the admiral descends toward them.
Admiral Price motions to the older crewman, hair graying slightly, to get him a chair. The admiral places it alongside a table facing Hook while the much larger crewman brings a parchment scroll and quill.
“The great Captain Hook stands humbled and defeated,” Admiral Price says after several long minutes. His voice resounds like gunfire after such a long pause.
“Where I went to school,” Hook parries, “this was called sitting.” The admiral’s jaw clenches, revealing new wrinkles on his already weathered features. His quill falls to the floor and tumbles as if to hide behind his chair. He looks to it, then over to the older crewman, who fetches it seconds too slowly. “If I were to stand,” Hook continues, “I would stand in appreciation of British adherence to procedure.”
“You’ll soon feel the appreciation of a noose,” Admiral Price says as his quill scratches the parchment, “Which is why I’m chronicling your final thoughts.”
“Is this a personal or professional interest?” Hook asks. Admiral Price looks up for a moment and considers the question.
“A bit of both,” he answers. “It is a morbid interest of mine to record the events of the sordid lives of sea criminals. In addition, the records will serve to better train the King’s Navy against future assaults.”
The larger crewman ducks through the doorway with a tray of tea and biscuits. The admiral motions for him to bring it over and quietly scolds the older crewman for not moving more quickly to set the table.
“And if I say nothing?” Hook asks. He shifts his weight to the other side and swings his right leg over his left. “What then?” Admiral Price grinds his teeth at the question. His knuckles go white as he clasps the corner of the table before he finally loosens his grip.
“Even in your silence, I will observe your actions and add it to my findings,” the admiral says. “You will atone for what you have done.”
“And what have I done, Admiral?” Captain Hook asks after a moment of thought.
“The crewmen that brought you aboard informed me that just days ago, you attacked a battleship and managed to kill her captain and all the officers,” the admiral says. “The ship sank, but you were overwhelmed by the brave Ensigns and Lieutenants. As the sole surviving pirate, you were taken prisoner on board your own dirty little ship. For that, alone, you will hang. What I am offering you is a chance to make your peace with God before your time.”
“And how much time is that exactly?” Hook asks.
He flicks open an ornate gold watch in his right hand, glances at it quickly, then deftly places it back into his coat pocket. Its loud ticking is still present, but muffled in the folds of the fabric.
“We are three days from Port Royal,” Admiral Price answers. “You will stand trial and most likely be hanged on the morning of the fourth day.”
“Port Royal,” Hook scoffs. “There is nothing left there for me.”
“Well, they have every interest in your return. I have hunted you on their behalf for the better part of a decade,” Admiral Price says, “ever since the incident.”
“I am honored at the selfless attention you have given me over the years, Admiral,” Hook smirks. “Still, how do you know it was me? I’ve made no such claim.”
Admiral Price motions to the larger crewman, who places an object on the table wrapped in a velvet cloth. The admiral waves the crewman away and peals the cloth back in two quick movements, revealing a flawless steel boarding hook. “Call it a hunch.”
“And my ship?” Hook asks.
“As of now, the Jolly Roger is needed to accommodate both crews,” Price says. “She will be taken back to be studied and dismantled. If you cooperate, I’ll spare you the indignity of seeing her stripped by hanging you first.”
“How very kind of you,” Hook says. “And how far back do you wish for me to go in these tales?”
“A change of heart?” Admiral Price asks. His quill scrapes the paper once again. The distaste of being spoken to so brashly wears off in favor of dreams of promotion and published volumes.
“What harm is it for captured prey to entertain its killer?” Captain Hook responds after checking his watch a second time, bringing the loud tick to a brief crescendo. “Prey is still prey regardless of method. If there is a game to be played between now and the predator’s final stroke, I am glad to accept.”
The admiral pauses for a small eternity. He finally says that, for the sake of historical accuracy, he would like to know everything.
“Well,” Hook shifts his weight again, “if it is, after all, for history’s sake, Admiral Price, we do seem to have nothing but time. As with all stories about a man, this one begins with a curious little boy…”
The Tale of a Boy
Chapter Two
The clearest memory of my childhood is the moment it ends.
It was the eve of my thirteenth birthday and I was asleep, as all good children were at that time of night. The shades were pulled back and the window was open to allow a summer’s breeze to waft in from the shore. The streets of Port Royal pulsed beneath my window. As the Caribbean stronghold of the Royal Navy, the city was always bustling, but my mother tucked me in hours ago and no common noise could undo her handiwork.
Her stories put the classic authors to shame. She had such a way with words that I wondered if she spoke from experience or from her brilliant imagination. Every night was a new tale of adventure, horror, and heroes. She left me safely tucked away in my bed, protected by a goodnight kiss on my forehead, keeping me safe from all the evil things in life such as trolls, demons, and pirates.
But that didn’t deter the visitor. He journeyed from window to window, peeking in to see what wonders there were to be seen. It is impossible to say what drew him to my house. Whatever the reason may be, the curious boy made it up to the second floor.
In the center of the room was a replica of the naval vessel my father captained. I built it during his time away at sea and encased it in a glass bottle for protection. When he came home, I greeted him with it at the dock. It was the first and last time I saw authentic pride on his face.
The boy poked his head in through the curtains before coming in. It isn’t the movement that did it or the scuffling of footfalls, as even now I can’t recall whether his feet ever touched the floor.
What woke me was a ruckus that was impossible to ignore. An argument of whispers was followed by a gasp, then the shattering of glass.
I exploded upright, recalling my father’s stories about waking to cannon fire. Something breathed near me and I grabbed onto a wrist. My clench tightened out of panic and I screamed. Tears of fright welled up and streamed down the sides of my face. The visitor pulled against my grasp and I was stung with a blinding flash.
My body thumped to the floor beside my bed. My first instinct was to hide beneath it, fearing trolls or demons, but I decided against hiding and scrambled to one knee. I peaked over the side of my bed, searching for whoever attacked me, but saw nothing except an empty room in the dim moonlight.
I did, however, see the first of many tragedies my visitor leaves in the wake of his foolishness. My ship, the replica of my father’s vessel, lay broken in the center of my room. The mast was snapped in half and the damage to the hull listed the boat forward and to the left. My heart did the same. I dropped to the floor and began picking up the pieces of that perfect ship.
Then something extraordinary happened. A light swirled and swept about my room, not bound to any candle or lantern. It was a light without heat or fuel. It settled on my desk and I found myself walking toward it as if pulled by an invisible rope. The light was like that of a firework sparkler my father once brought back from a voyage to the Far East.
As I approached it, the light danced from side to side in small jumps, like a grasshopper too stupid to recognize if it is in danger but still trying to keep its distance. The thought gave me an idea, but as I grabbed for an empty jar on my shelf, the light took off and began circling the room again, this time too high to catch.
It was then that I saw the curious boy, perched in the upper corner against the ceiling of my room. That delicate light rushed past his face, igniting his eyes in a terrifying reflection. I screamed again and dropped the jar, causing it to shatter on the floor as well.
“Shh! We don’t want any adults to come,” the boy said. “They will ruin all the fun we can have. My name is Peter Pan. I saw the ship through the window and wanted to play with it. I love playing captain and don’t have any toys that look that nice where I’m from.”
“I am James Hoodkins,” I told him, wiping a tear from my cheek. I rose from the ruin of my broken ship to meet him eye to eye. “And there are more polite ways to ask if someone wants to play than bursting into their room at night.” He nodded as if trying to understand.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Yes, you were. Just before.”
I told him that having tears of shock are not the same thing as crying. Although I had never been more terrified of any man or creature in my short life, I was surely not going to show such poor form by giving him that satisfaction.
“You wrecked my ship,” I told him, pointing to the mess on the floor.
“That was her fault,” he said. The light began to furiously encircle his head, creating a sort of halo. He argued with it, as a crazy person would talk to himself in the night. The glow of the argument lit up his blond hair and dirty green outfit. When he began to float down from the ceiling, the boy and his light stopped squabbling.
“How do you do that?” I asked.
The boy stared blankly at me and asked, “Do what?”
“Come now,” I said. “Don’t be silly. How do you fly like that?” The boy laughed as he glided around the room, twirling and spinning.
“I think a happy thought,” he said. “Then I take to the air and I’m off to my next big adventure.” He soared for several more moments before asking, “Well, James Hoodkins, what do you want to play?” Hundreds of answers raced through my mind, but only one idea interested me.
“I want to fly.”
Peter’s eyes filled up with joy and he was once again in the air.
“Just think of a happy thought and let it lift you away.” Of the joys that flooded to mind, my Emily’s love conquered all. With my eyes closed, I leapt, expecting to take flight among angels. I hung in the air for an instant and then fell to the floor with a thud.
“Wh
at happened?” I asked, looking up at Peter with betrayal in my eyes. “That was the happiest thought I had.” His face wrinkled with confusion. After a moment, he snapped his fingers and smiled.
“That’s right, you need fairy dust as well.”
“And you didn’t think that was important enough to tell me before? I could have leapt to my death out of the window.”
“But you didn’t,” Pan said. He placed his hands on his hips as if to stress how proud he was of his keen observation.
“Well,” I started, trying to sound less angry than I was, “Where can I get fairy dust?”
“Where else?” Pan laughed. He pointed over to the corner of my room where the sparkling light rested on the lid of a trunk of old toys.
“Her name is Tinkerbell,” Peter said. I nodded to it politely. “She’s a fairy.”
“Rubbish,” I said on reflex. A flying boy was one thing, but a fairy was too far beyond belief. Yet, the instant that the word came out of my mouth, the light went out and the creature hurdled to the floor. Peter dashed through the air, caught it, and brought it to my desk in a rush.
“You’ve killed her,” he said. A sob brewed beneath his words.
“Now we’ve each destroyed something the other cherishes,” I said, not really meaning it but still hurt from the loss of my replica ship and the fall to the floor. “We’re even.” I turned my back to the scene, but softened at the sound of tears. I had so few visitors, day or night, due to my condition. I shouldn’t make a habit of sending new friends away, even ones as odd as this unnatural child and his sparkler.
What I saw when I walked over to him mocked the barrier between what was and what shouldn’t be. The doused light was in fact a small woman, no bigger than a child’s thumb, with the wings of an insect. She, too, was dressed like Peter, in a sort of green vegetation woven into tattered cloth.
“You can save her,” Peter said, choking back tears. “You have to say that you believe in fairies.”
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