Captain James Hook and the Curse of Peter Pan

by Jeremiah Kleckner

  “Tell me again about the children you take in the night,” Hook says. He slashes at the air where Peter once stood. “Tell me about Donald Sotheby.”

  “Who?” Peter asks, jabbing at Hook and catching nothing.

  “Curly,” Hook says. He thrusts twice before looking into Pan’s clueless eyes. “The Lost Boys!” he shouts. “Do they mean nothing to you?”

  “The Lost Boys are great!” Peter says. Pan blocks two more swipes before adding, “as long as they do as I say and don’t get too old.”

  “And if they do grow too old or disobey you?” Hook asks. Pan pushes away from Captain Hook and pauses for a moment before answering.

  “I thin them out,” he says. It is such a curious answer that Hook can’t resist probing further.

  “Thin them out?”

  “Some go back.”

  “After how long?” Hook asks. “Years? Decades? Do they even recognize the world you return them to?” Hook seethes for several seconds before collecting his thoughts. But when his mind clears, one question pushes its way forward. “You said that some go back. What about the others?”

  “They get killed,” Pan says. “Like this.” Peter makes several short stabbing motions in the air.

  Captain Hook will admit to a great many evil deeds, not the least of which is murder, theft, and piracy. But the sight of Peter Pan calmly describing the slaying of his own Lost Boys chills him to his core.

  “I will end you, Peter Pan.” With his left hand, the pirate draws a boarding hook from within his coat. Captain Hook attacks and Peter rushes to meet him. Hook slashes crossways and thrusts low. Pan darts left and tries to fly above, but is cut off. Hook thrusts and swipes high, forcing Peter closer to the deck. “You are through robbing parents of their families and robbing children of their futures.”

  “We play games,” Peter says. Hook kicks two barrels out from under Peter’s footing, forcing the boy to catch himself before falling.

  “Enough with your games.” Captain Hook slashes and swipes until finally the guard of his sword cracks against Peter's teeth. The crew watches, jaws agape, as the flying boy slams against the mast and slumps limply to the deck.

  Captain Hook advances on the heap of skin and bone on his deck, his sword and hook at the ready for any attack. But when Pan sits himself upright and begins to sob at his bloodied face, Hook pauses.

  Mother was right all those years ago, Hook realizes. Peter Pan may command a sorcery that I don’t yet understand, but no matter what evil or magic makes him act as he does, he’s still just a boy, nothing more. Peter Pan can be hurt. Peter Pan can be killed.

  “You are a curse, Peter Pan,” Hook says, drawing nearer. Peter is fully crying now, his hands covered with blood from his nose and teeth. Captain Hook draws still closer. “Your carelessness has ruined countless lives. Everything you touch turns to madness and that madness must end.”

  Captain Hook measures the distance and raises his blade for the killing blow. He shifts his weight, steps hard with the lead foot, and is met with a bright flash in his eyes. The sting sends his aim off. The sword drives hard into the mast, missing Peter by inches.

  Tinkerbell rings loudly in Hook’s ear. She stings him again and darts around behind him. Hook turns and swats her with the back of an open hand. She tumbles head over feet across the length of the ship, spilling fairy dust over Captain Hook and many of his crew.

  Hook turns back to pull the sword from the mast. But as he grips it, Pan lifts himself up high, swings his sword down hard, and cleaves Hook’s right hand off at the wrist.

  James howls as thick blood oozes out onto the deck. Peter catches the hand before it falls and carries it over to the starboard railing. Filled with too much rage to be stopped by pain, James pulls his mother’s old cloth off of the hilt of his father’s sword and ties it taut on the wound to stop it from bleeding. He then straps the hook tight on the stump and chases after the boy. Peter smiles and tosses the hand overboard.

  Hook rushes to the railing and reaches out for his hand, only to find the waiting jaws of the unnaturally large croc from the island. Hungry for revenge, she leaps from the water and snaps her jaws tightly around the severed hand. Her eyes ignite with enjoyment and she circles with anticipation for more. Hook jerks back in shock and his father’s watch jostles free from his coat pocket. It twinkles in the light as it falls to the sea. Eager for another taste of Captain Hook’s unusual blood, the croc swallows the watch whole as well.

  “No!” James shouts. He pulls a pistol from Cecco’s belt and fires it at the ancient beast. Shocked more by the sound than the wound, the croc swims away, ticking loudly, back to the island and her cave.

  “Better learn to fight left-handed, Captain Hook,” Pan says from high above. He hangs from the crow’s nest, smiling and laughing through bloodied teeth. He then dips between the sails and takes off into the night’s sky.

  “Follow that boy!” Captain Hook shouts. In his heart there is the satisfaction of hunting the one boy, the one creature, most responsible for the suffering of an entire lifetime. The exhilaration in his chest ignites the spilled fairy dust. Sparkling gold light wraps around the ship, carrying it up and out of the water. Captain James Hook points the Jolly Roger at the second star to the right and chases Peter Pan straight on ‘till morning.

  The story continues in Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland.

  Chapter One

  August 15th

  The world was darkness, then spun slowly into focus. I reached into my coat pocket with fingers I no longer had for a watch that was no longer there and tore the lining. This iron hook does as much good for me as ill, but in the moments that I forget, I curse its place in my life. It is a trophy of my failure. My weakness. I have no fairies to save me. Just my wits, which now slipped between my fingers like dry sand.

  Thick and foul-colored blood pooled on the floorboards, but not from the hook. I didn’t cut myself. Something else happened. My head. Someone had hit me and now the slick copper taste stuck to my teeth and lips. I worked the hook free of the fabric as my vision righted.

  Smee and Billy Jukes laughed in the dim candlelight.

  “Tasted enough of the butt of my sword?” Smee taunted. He thumbed the handle of his weapon and rocked back and forth on stout legs.

  I spat, pulled the leather straps that held my hook in place tighter, and rose to my feet. “Once more.”

  “Again?” Smee asked. He wiped the sweat from his graying brow and looked to Billy Jukes, who scowled.

  I rose my sword to guard position and used my hook to pull long tendrils of hair away from my face.

  “Sure,” Jukes said, shifting his herculean frame. “Once more.”

  My rehabilitation has been a trial, but Jukes and Smee were kind enough to help. The cabin in the old brigantine is not ideal for this kind of training. Chests cluttered the limited wall space, narrowing an already tight room.

  The two men advanced.

  Smee thrust high at the chest. I parried with my sword, but caught an elbow in the teeth. Blood flowed again down my chin as I drove my forehead into the bridge of Smee’s nose. I then slammed the dull side of my hook down onto Smee’s chest and the Irishman collapsed in a heap.

  Billy Jukes lunged at me, taking only two steps to cover the distance. I rolled underneath his grasp, but with one sweeping movement, Jukes backhanded me and knocked my sword away. He hoisted me high in the air and brought me crashing down onto a pile of books and old maps. He leaned his knee across my chest and made himself heavy.

  “Are you done?” Jukes asked.

  “No,” I breathed, “but you are.”

  Billy Jukes chuckled, but his smile faded as a splash of red warmth grew on the front of his shirt. Jukes got up and opened his shirt, revealing three shallow scratches, one just below each ear and another across his midsection.

  “You’d have gutted me.”

  “And slit your throat.” I leaned myself up against the wall and cleaned the blood
from my hook. “Twice.”

  “Didn’t even see you do it that time,” Jukes said. He walked over to a small chest where I keep my private stores of medicines and bandages. He took off his now tattered shirt and added, “You took a hell of a beating, though.”

  “I’d take any number of broken bones over disembowelment.”

  Billy Jukes nodded and went back to cleaning and dressing his wounds.

  I stood up and walked over to Smee. “Are you getting up now?”

  “Aye, Captain. Just a moment longer.”

  I extended my hand and helped Smee to his feet.

  “Next time, I’ll be armed also,” Jukes said, looking again at his blood-stained shirt. “You’re ready.”

  “Aye, Mr. Jukes,” I said. I picked up my sword and practiced drawing it left-handed. My swordsmanship has a long way to go before it will be where it was when I brought Peter Pan to heel. I sheathed the sword and loosened the straps of my hook, shifting the guard to find a comfortable fit. The wound aches constantly, but the right pressure makes it bearable.

  When finished, I noticed my first officer and boatswain standing oddly stiff. Smee shifted his weight and put his thick hands in two sets of pockets before deciding to let them hang at his sides. Jukes dropped his shoulders and breathed loudly through his nose, a sure sign of bad news.

  “Anything to report, Mr. Jukes?”

  “The men are hungry.”

  “Anything more than quarter rations are foolish until we know more.”

  “They’re afraid,” Smee snapped.

  “They should be,” I said. Smee and Jukes looked at one another and waited for me to say more. I didn’t.

  “This place…” Billy Jukes started.

  “There are no stars,” Smee cut in, pointing out the porthole.

  “Stars are everywhere,” I said. I walked over and looked out at the thousands of lights that dazzled overhead. “They are as bright in the day as they are at night.”

  “But no stars we can use,” Jukes said. He stormed over to my desk and unrolled two sets of charts. “We don’t know them and we can’t draw new maps because they’re always moving.”

  At that moment, a soft light washed over the dark wood and gave everything a golden-orange hue.

  “The sun’s rising again,” Smee said, blowing out the candles on my many book shelves. “That’s twice today.”

  “It was three times yesterday,” Jukes said.

  “It’s still early,” I said, pointing to the tall upright clock against the aft wall of the cabin. Its gentle ticking filled the moments between words and thoughts with its rhythmic beat. “It’s barely eleven. How much food is left, Mr. Smee?”

  “We have enough to last another week, if needed.”

  “If you can call it food,” Jukes said. “I could kill a man with the biscuits and the salted beef is as green as it is slick.”

  “The cook is doing the best he can,” Smee said.

  “Aye,” Jukes said. “The best he can.”

  “You’re too good for dried beans, Mr. Jukes?” I asked.

  Billy Jukes and Smee said nothing. I watched them look to one another and build their courage. As important as starvation was, it paled compared to the topic most on the minds and lips of the crew of the Jolly Roger.

  “They don’t know what they saw,” Smee said.

  “How would they?” I asked. We chased Peter Pan past the clouds and into the heavens. There were moments when the men thought we lost him, but I didn’t need to see him to know his heading. Stars, whole worlds passed us on all sides, above and below. Then it all stopped. One instant we were surrounded by the night’s sky. In the next, a gentle sea lapped against the hull.

  And here we have stayed for ten days. No wind to fill our sails. No life in the black water below us to fill our stomachs. Ten days in still water does a lot of damage to a crew, especially one that is not accustomed to being idle. The Jolly Roger requires maintenance and upkeep, to be sure, but that is short work for a crew of twenty-seven.

  “They need you to explain it to them,” Billy Jukes said. The tension in his voice disappeared and, for a moment, he looked like the boy I knew when we were both young.

  “If only I could,” I said. “I told them all that I know.”

  “That elf,” Smee said, shaking his head.

  “Peter Pan,” I corrected. “Learn his name, Smee.”

  “Peter Pan, it is,” Jukes said. “What is he?”

  “A child,” I answered.

  “That is no ordinary boy,” Smee said.

  “He bleeds. He cries,” I said, pausing only a moment to savor the thought. “He is a child, aged beyond reason and dangerous, but still a child.”

  “And the sparkling light with him?” asked Smee.

  “She is a fairy,” I said. “And a nasty one, at that.” I walked over to my desk and pulled my red coat on over my shirt. “Is there anything else, Mr. Smee?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Good. See to it that the ship is kept up. Light work will keep the men’s minds off of their stomachs. Who is on watch?”

  “Cecco, but he’s been up there for hours.”

  “Call him down and get him fed. Send Skylights up.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Smee walked through the door and closed it behind him before I spoke again. “How bad is it?”

  “More or less what you heard,” Jukes said. “The men are in bad shape, but they keep looking to you for answers, so we should be alright.”

  I smiled. “We’ve managed to avoid mutiny for another day.”

  “Aye, sir,” Jukes said with a smirk.

  “I’m sure our fathers had it easier.” I chuckled to myself, then looked up into the blank stare of Billy Jukes. “Our fathers,” I said more clearly. “When they commanded this ship, they had to have had it easier than this.”

  “Yes,” Jukes said, “I’m sure they did.” He looked down at his feet, then over to the door. “I should get out there, Captain.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Do you want me to send in Starkey or Cecco?” Jukes asked. The gentleman and the Italian are fluent in two languages other than English and I insist that they teach me. The lessons are never formal. We talk about wine and rum and the empty promises we made to women.

  I stepped over to my shelves, on which volumes of literature and collected histories in English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Latin, and Greek taunted me.

  “Not today.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Billy Jukes ducked under the door frame and clicked the door shut behind him.

  I ran my fingers along the spines on a set of books on the fall of Rome. I pulled one off of the shelf and sat with it at my desk. Foreign words are puzzles and I attack them with the same passion I feel for mathematics, though not with the same ease. Deeper and deeper I fell into the rhythm of the language, keeping in time with the brass hands of the upright clock.

  My eyes grew heavy after a few hours, so I turned to my writing. Along with the old clock and an extensive library, the late Admiral Price spared no expense storing jars of iron gall ink and stacks of paper. May he rot.

  The journals I keep are for no one’s benefit save my own, as I am unsure whether my script is even legible in its current condition. Writing, like so much else, has become a clumsy, fumbling practice. So many small habits are harder with an untrained hand.

  Even so, this record is a growing necessity. A haze has settled on my thoughts, no matter how much I eat or sleep. It worsens by the day. What was once a subtle distraction is now a near-constant annoyance, like trying to name a song that plays in your head day and night.

  Then there are the dreams. From that which I have wronged will come an end to all suffering. These words repeat over and over, seemingly unattached to the images that flash across my eyes in slumber. Faces of family and friends. A stone hallway. A cell door. And a single blue light in the darkness.

  Several loud pops shocked me to attention. Gunfire
. The ship’s bell rang and an uproar of shouts rose from beyond the cabin door. More gunfire followed. I gathered my hat and stepped out onto the deck.

  Men ran in chaotic circles around the masts of the ship, rocking the Jolly Roger from side to side. Seven of them hung over the fore railing and pointed into the distance. Through their cries and panicked shouting, I heard one voice above the others.

  “Quit your gawking!” Jukes ordered. He grabbed Jack Elroy by the collar and threw him down in front of the nearest gun. “Get those cannons loaded.” Jukes kicked the pirate once in the ribs, but Jack never took his pale and sunken eyes off of the sky. Jukes looked around until he saw me.

  “Like we practiced,” I mouthed. His eyes widened and he nodded his understanding. I elbowed a path towards Smee, who stood staring at the clouds with his mouth agape. The sun cast a deep shadow over every crease and scar on his face. The old wool cap he has taken to wearing recently hung over his shoulder, showing much of his graying hair. The boatswain never looked older.

  “Smee.”

  “Aye,” Smee said slowly.

  I grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away. “Smee, get the men to stop shooting.”

  “How?” he said, shaking his head clear.

  “Just get them quiet and get Noodler ready.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Smee said and sprinted away. The Irishman reached Noodler and gave the order. The man with the backwards hands caught my eyes, nodded, then made for his station on the quarter deck. Billy Jukes assembled the men into their battle positions. The gunfire died down, as did the bell’s insistent ringing.

  The ship was quiet for all but a breath.

  A wind brushed me and my hat flew from my head. I looked up as a small figure weaved through clouds and ducked behind a midday star. A jolt coursed through my heart as I was again transfixed with the impossible. Wonder mixed with a swelling hatred and I stood dumbstruck.

  With mischief in his eyes, Peter Pan dove for my ship. He flew in and out of the lines between the fore and main topsails. He gripped the mast with one hand and braced his feet against the wood. He shaded his eyes with the other hand and looked down. When he saw us, he gnashed his little teeth.