Hook's Tale

by John Leonard Pielmeier

  “Why it’s—it looks like—a shadow!” She was utterly surprised. “Who does it belong to? Not—not you. It’s much too small.”

  “It belonged to me once, when I was a boy. But another boy took it, and I’ve only just retrieved it.”

  “Would you like me to sew it back on?”

  “No; thank you, Mary, but I’m afraid that would be absurd. As you said it’s too small. What I would like, though, is for you to hold on to it.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t tell George—he’ll only be alarmed—but the boy who took it from me will come to retrieve it.”

  “How will he know where it is?”

  “I intend to tell him, Mary. And when he comes, which will most likely be in the night, I need you to keep him here for a short period of time.”

  “But won’t his mother be worried?”

  “He has no mother. He doesn’t even know what that word means.”

  “He’s an orphan? How sad.”

  “He’s more than an orphan. He’s a fly-by-night, a runaway.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “He lives by no rules. He has no discipline. He needs a mother to give some structure to his life. Which is why I came to you.”

  “You want us to adopt him?” She was most alarmed.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I ask only that you keep him here for a morning at least. Wendy and Jack will be off to school. Liza can watch over Michael.”

  “But how can I keep him here if he’s a thief? Shouldn’t I call the police?”

  To be honest this option had not occurred to me. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Distract him. Give him some of Jack’s toys. Or if you must, sew the shadow back on him. But during that time, teach him the Commandments. He needs to learn about right and wrong. Most especially he needs to learn the one that says ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ ”

  “I don’t understand, James.” She looked, and was, bewildered.

  “And I can’t explain. Suffice it to say that the boy needs to embrace Responsibility, which can only be learned at the foot of a good English mother. You’re the best one I know.” I leaned close and took her hand. “Mary, you are a remarkable woman. George is very lucky, and I daresay, had George never found you, I would have been blessed to have been chosen to take his place.” Nervousness made the phrasing awkward, but she understood what I meant. I kissed her hand, then rose, and handed her the shadow. “Put it in a drawer in your bedroom—a drawer that squeaks so it will wake you. George, if he’s like me, will sleep through anything.” She smiled and shook her head, acknowledging the truth of this. “The boy will find it, don’t worry about that. Then it’s up to you.”

  She invited me to dinner, but I declined. I took my leave of her, and never saw her again.

  * * *

  Whether or not Mary succeeded in teaching Peter the Commandments made little difference to me. I only hoped that Peter would be occupied in London when the sun rose. Senility or Dust was my end for him, and though I regretted the trick I played on Mary, and the shock she would receive when this beautiful boy disintegrated before her eyes, I was sure that there would be some way to make it up to her later. Revenge, dear reader, can be so focused it blinds one to consequences. And there were many.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the day in the British Museum, marveling at the items collected since my last visit, at age twelve, and illuminated now by electric light! As soon as night fell I peppered, flew, and instead of returning to the ship I landed outside Peter’s Underground Home. The sun was just rising. Mimicking Peter, I crowed like a cock, and before long Slightly poked his head out of the tree to see what was what.

  “Is Peter still abed? Wake him. I have some alarming news for him,” I told the boy.

  Slightly descended with the message, and moments later a sleepy Peter climbed out of the tree.

  “James, you look different,” he said.

  “Unhappily I’ve grown a little more.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Do you want me to kill you? If you don’t stop growing you’ll be dead before long, and that will be terrible. But if I kill you now—in a duel or something—you’ll die a hero, which should be an awfully big adventure.”

  “Thank you, Peter, perhaps another day. I come on more urgent business.”

  “Oh good. I like urgency. Will someone die if I don’t act at once to save them?”

  For a boy destined to live forever, he certainly thought a lot about Death.

  “Have you noticed anything missing?” I asked.

  He looked at his hands, expecting to find one gone. “I don’t think so. I slept nearly all of yesterday. We had the most delicious cake and then we ran around and became unbelievably tired and snoozed all afternoon. And then we had the crumbs for dinner and slept even longer.”

  “Look at your feet.”

  He did. “My shadow!”

  “Yes, I thought it was yours. I was strolling the deck of my ship last evening when it flew overhead. I asked it where it was going and it said it was going to London, Number 14, Kensington Park Gardens.”

  “But why?” He was astonished.

  “I don’t know. I think it grew tired of you and wanted some different adventures. It knew the way to London, I suppose, because you’ve flown there so often of late, collecting the boys. But why Number 14, Kensington Park Gardens, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Oh dear.” Peter sank down onto a tree root and sat with his head in his fists. I had never seen him so discouraged, and for a moment I feared he would let the shadow have its freedom.

  “You might lure it home, of course,” I suggested. “Shadows can be like fickle women. They disappear without a moment’s notice and you need to woo them back.”

  “How?”

  “Oh, with . . . with determination, I should think. It needs to know that you miss it. You should fly to London, locate your shadow, demonstrate how thrilled you are to find it again, and then wait around a bit until the sun comes up to make sure it’s properly attached.”

  “But how will I attach it? There’s not the right sort of sap in London. At least I don’t think there is.”

  My mind was racing. “There’s a woman who lives at Number 14, Kensington Park Gardens, who’s very good with a needle and thread. If you were to ask her to sew your shadow back on, well, the problem will be solved.”

  * * *

  Stupid, stupid, stupid man. I should have thought like Peter thought, not like a vengeful naval captain drooling to get even.

  First of all, I should have taken into account the passage of Time.

  He flew that night. A London year had nearly passed in our twenty-four hours, and in those months Wendy had come across the shadow in her mother’s sewing box and, fascinated, moved it to her own dresser drawer. (Mary had assumed that the boy would arrive shortly, and when that did not happen, she must have thought the thief would never come and so put it out of her mind.) Peter arrived ten months later than expected, sniffed out the prize, and not knowing the difference between woman and girl, he asked Wendy to sew it back on for him. She did, her brothers awoke, Peter peppered the boys with Sand, and because Wendy wouldn’t allow them to travel alone, Peter peppered her too. He kidnapped all three and was gone before the sun could wither him.

  This child abduction was the latest of a long series (beginning with Tootles), and the London newspapers made much of it. THREE MORE!!! the headlines blared. (I saw a copy of the paper years later.) The police were at their wit’s end. Scotland Yard was brought onto the case, and a few unsavory men and several Gypsies were questioned. All were released. The great Sherlock Holmes was brought out of retirement to get to the bottom of it, but he was passionately involved with cocaine and bees by that point, and the mystery remains unsolved to this day.

  Mary Darling, deprived of three children in an instant, was driven to the care of an alienist, who urged her to reexamine her life and become more independent. George was indeed alienated and eventua
lly they separated, but remained friends.

  I learned of this much later, of course. But even at the time I sensed that it had all gone terribly wrong. Once I was told of the children’s arrival on the Never-Isle, I indulged in a good amount of denial (“Not my fault!”) followed by an even greater amount of conscience salving (“You couldn’t have foreseen these consequences!”). But in the end I realized that I, who had gone on and on about Peter’s Lack of Responsibility, needed to embrace Responsibility myself. Poor Mary! Poor George! Most of all, poor Wendy! (The boys, I figured, would have a grand time, no matter what the outcome.) And it was all my fault! The Agony of Blame culminated in a sort of Dark Night of the Soul, which involved, I admit, a great deal of alcohol. (I suffered terribly for it the next morning, and would not advise its use, especially in cases of moral confusion.) During the night I was visited by visions of my mother, of my father, even of Tink (for heaven’s sake!), all of whom filled me with such thoughts of self-loathing that dawn found me on my knees, praying fervently for forgiveness. God could not forgive me, of course, until I had forgiven everyone else, and so I formally pardoned Peter for Tiger Lily’s murder and all manner of other things that irritated me so. I pardoned Scroff, I pardoned Slinque, I pardoned every master and boy at Eton whose names I could recall, and when I arose from my knees I was a new man, Born Again. The grappling hooks of Revenge had loosed their grip on me.

  But God’s forgiveness bestowed on James Hook né Cook did not mean I bore no further responsibility. No, no, my good reader, I needed to make amends.

  I needed to rescue the children.

  * * *

  I felt for the parents, George and Mary in particular, but even the thought of Tootles’s grieving father and mother broke my heart. I felt for Wendy, who I knew missed her home. I felt for the children themselves. I felt for myself, and all the experiences of growing older that I had missed. And so I concocted a plan.

  By this time Peter was, of course, aware of the presence of a ship anchored off the Never-Isle’s eastern shore. I admit we had yet to remove the skull-and-crossbones flag and replace it with Her Majesty’s colors (Smee was a very busy man), and so Peter told his boys (and Wendy) that we were pirates, captained by the notorious Hook. I daresay he had nothing against us; it was all part of his game of adventure.

  Still, his boys took it all too much to heart, and so they feared us. In truth they had nothing to fear: Black Murphy, who perhaps looked the fiercest of us all (pointy teeth, wagging earlobes), adored children. This made the rescue all the more of a challenge. The fear-addled boys would not accept our invitation to visit the ship.

  Logic was not an option. Bribery might have worked, but we had nothing with which to bribe them: we were grown men with few possessions who didn’t smell very good. I was at a loss. I finally decided that my only option was to do what Peter had done: kidnap them.

  I began with an on-deck meeting with my crew. I was very forthcoming. First of all, I explained that the Never-Archipelago was so far from England that it was nearly impossible for them to return. This announcement was met with such wailing and weeping that Niobe herself would have been put to shame. I then said that, should they stay here in this wonderful place, where the weather was always lovely, they would never age and might live forever, barring someone stabbing them or hanging them or such. They now became very quiet and seemed to reconsider their predicament. I then ordered a ration of rum to be distributed, and after that they were with me.

  I next told them that there were some children on the island who had been kidnapped from their loving parents, and that it was our heroic task to rescue them and send them home. The rum had had its effect by now, and so no one asked any difficult questions. I explained that I intended with their help to bring the children to the Roger, but that this would require some force, as their kidnapper had mesmerized the innocent babes into believing that they belonged here. On no account, I emphasized, was any blood to be shed. The men grumbled a bit at this, but finally agreed.

  Some of what the Scotsman wrote regarding what followed was accurate, though most was convenient fiction. I ordered Jukes to bake a covered-dish compote of cinnamon and apples and cloves, from which wafted an indescribably delicious aroma, reminiscent of Christmas. The entire crew but Noodler and Turley traveled with me to the Isle (it was all I could do to keep them from devouring Jukes’s culinary masterpiece), and together we made our way to the Underground Home. I knew the boys would be frightened, so I brought along some potato sacks and rope. We arrived at the tree at dinnertime, and Jukes uncovered the compote while Smee fanned its scent into the tree holes.

  It wasn’t long before Nibs (who since the last adventure had appointed himself the Official Taster) popped out of the tree. Starkey seized him, plopped him into a potato sack, and that was that. Others followed one by one, thinking that Nibs was devouring the entire deliciousness all by himself.

  We got them all without a hitch. (I had, by the way, put a few molasses sweets in the bottom of each sack to give them something with which to occupy themselves during the journey.) Wendy was the last to leave, and rather than give her over to the ignominy of sackdom, I trusted that she would recognize me (or at least my hook) and allow me to explain. As soon as she emerged, Gentleman Starkey cupped his hand over her mouth in a gentlemanly fashion, and I reintroduced myself. She was delighted to see me. I nodded for Starkey to release her, and she embraced me as if I were her long-lost uncle (which, in a half way, I was).

  “Thank goodness you’ve come,” she said. “Mother and Father must be beside themselves with worry, and that terrible boy does nothing but encourage us all to do whatever we wish, so long as he approves. He’s like a little dictator. Oh, Uncle James, won’t you please take us home?”

  I told her that was my intention, and so Wendy, accompanied by my crew carrying sacks of boys happily munching molasses sweets, headed for the ship.

  I waited behind, for Peter. I DID NOT, I repeat, DID NOT descend underground to poison him, or Tink, or any such nonsense. I merely waited, and when he finally emerged, I hit him over the head and tied him up with very loose knots, after which I descended (with some trouble) into the Home to do the one bit of pirating I have ever done in my life! I stole Tink’s Cotswold Cottage, tucked it into a final sack, and at last ascended. I apologized to Peter and left.

  * * *

  Once on board the ship the boys were desacked and given some apple pie. Each sailor was assigned to one boy, and before long Mullins and Mason were playing tag with the Twins, Jeb Cookson was teaching Tootles how to “lasso a dogie,” and Black Murphy was bouncing Michael on his knee and letting the child play with his dangling earlobes.

  I brought Wendy to my Quarters, and there I told her everything. She was as sympathetic and understanding as I knew she would be, and promised to do her best to convince the boys to return with her to London, and the loving arms of their grieving parents. I explained to her about the Flying Sand (she knew the rudiments already, having flown here with Peter); I then ordered Starkey to gather the giggling boys into a group and sent her to her work. Meanwhile I removed the Cottage from the sack and carefully lifted off its roof in order to scoop out the Sand all the more easily.

  It was then I saw her, a tiny winged thing no larger than my littlest toe’s toenail. She was furious at me for transporting her Cottage, and demanded to know the reason why. I tried to explain, but I fear she did not listen. She flew out of the porthole in a huff and, as I later learned, whizzed directly to Peter, who by this time was nearly escaped from his ropes. She told him I was responsible for everything, and urged him to murder me at once.

  Wendy, in the meantime, brought all the boys to tears, reminding them of their dear parents, whom they had, until this point, entirely forgotten. Conveniently, they had also forgotten everything else about their lives in London, and so she was able to convince them that school was a delight and church even more so. “I can’t wait to learn my multiplication tables,” Curly was h
eard to exclaim, and both the Twins expressed a fervent wish that next Sunday’s sermon might be twice as long as the last one they’d heard.

  I emerged from my Quarters, carrying the Cottage, which held (I hoped) enough sand to transport them every one back to England. Wendy, surrounded by the boys, met me middeck. But before I could begin the peppering, Peter struck.

  Granted, he was a boy without education and so knew nothing of Form, Good or Bad. Nevertheless, he attacked from behind, hurtling down through the air to stab me in the back. Had he had any weapon sharper than a blunt stick, I would have been sorely wounded.

  I cried out and whipped around. His eyes were ablaze with fury. I could see at once that this fight was serious, but the boys thought differently. Assuming this was another of Peter’s adventures, they took off screaming, attacking the very sailors with whom moments ago they had been frolicking. Luckily my crew joined in on the fun, allowing themselves to be skewered by invisible swords, decapitated by tiny chopping hands, and frightened into heart failure by some imaginary something called the Doodle-Doo, which had sequestered itself in my cabin. Sadly little Michael insisted on dying himself, and was murdered again and again, collapsing in horrific screams at the feet of Black Murphy, though the poor sailor did not lay so much as a finger on the child. “Kill me one more time!” the toddler cried as soon as his blood was spilled, and Murphy had but to wag his earlobes for Michael to screech his death agony at the top of his lungs and crumple in a puddle of gore.

  Peter and I, in the meantime, faced off against each other. “Peter,” I pleaded, “release them! You can’t give them what they really need!”

  “They need fun! They need play! They need FREEDOM!” he shouted, swiping his blunt stick at me with every exclamation.

  “No, Peter,” I said. “They need Love.”

  He paused for a moment midair. “I don’t really know what that word means,” he said, and it was the only time I remember bitterness coloring his voice. “Except it’s a lie.”