Never Never

by Brianna Shrum

  A trickle of panic ran down into James’s stomach as his mind churned wildly, attempting to figure any other possible meaning for what Peter had just said. None of the other boys seemed to understand.

  “You mean to—” James paused, drew in a deep breath, “—thin me out?”

  Peter’s eyes went feral then, and he went at James, dagger out. Panic assaulted James, but he was running on adrenaline. James sidestepped him and grabbed hold of Peter’s back, thankful, for once, for his larger muscles, using the smaller boy’s own momentum to fling him into the dirt. Peter rose, brandishing the blade, wild, aggressive, and looking like he wanted blood.

  Bibble made an unintelligible, high-pitched sort of noise as the boy and the young man circled each other, each waiting for the other to slip. Peter flew into the air suddenly, then sped straight for James.

  “Bad form, Peter!” he cried, frustrated that Peter would use his advantage against him. Peter kept coming nonetheless, and James jutted out his knee, catching Peter in the gut, but Peter’s speed knocked James to the ground anyway.

  The two grappled for a bit, filling the thick silence with thuds and grunts. James threw himself from the dirt, slamming into Peter, causing the smaller boy to wince and cry out. Peter wriggled around, slipping over him with such quickness James could hardly see him. And in that one move, it was over. Peter was on top of James, digging his knee into James’s chest. It was nearly impossible to breathe. James wondered if any of his ribs were cracked, if a lung was punctured.

  Peter pressed his dagger to James’s throat. James could feel the life within him pounding fiercely against the blade, the scratchy leaves clawing his back, a large stick digging into his shoulder where he lay. He stared up at Peter, mind unwilling to accept what his body was saying to it—that, in minutes, he would be dead.

  “Peter,” he said, making one last desperate effort.

  “Yes?”

  “It seems bad form to kill me with that knife.”

  Peter hesitated. He was very concerned with matters of fairness, James knew.

  “What makes you say that?”

  James drew in a hoarse breath, struggling against the blade, air coming thin and precious. “You know as well as I that you could kill me with one arm tied ’round your back.”

  “Could I?” he asked, smirking.

  From the corner of his eye, James could just make out the faces of the twins, mouths hanging open, eyes like the moons. “Of course,” he said, gasping for air. “You don’t need a weapon. You can fly circles around me, you’re infinitely cleverer, and you could quite easily kill me with your bare hands. It doesn’t seem fair to use a blade on me.”

  Peter lightened his suffocating touch, and James drew in a greedy, gulping breath. “That really doesn’t seem fair, does it? I am quite clever and quite good.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Peter took his gaze away from James’s face for an instant and looked off into the dark, lightening further the touch of the knife. James took what he knew was the only opportunity he would be getting tonight. He hurled all his body weight at Pan, and Peter was sent flying through the air. James jumped up from the ground and grabbed the stick that had been digging into his shoulder, and when Pan darted toward him, he swung it with all his might. There was hardly a contest in the area of brawn, so it connected with a sickening thump, and Pan fell.

  Without looking back, James sprinted away. He had no idea where he was going or if Peter was behind him or if he was going to survive, but he ran on into the black. Trees smacked him in the arm, stinging him, cutting him, and the entire forest shrank in around him. The metallic air assaulted his tongue. The wind pounded darts into his skin. He could hear no Pan behind him, but continued to run. Then, he stopped. At his feet, the river ran, babbling as it did. Beyond this river lived the Indians. He stuck out his foot, and hesitated. It seemed to him that no good could come from crossing that river. None could come from staying behind, either. James was frozen in space, having no inkling as to what to do.

  There was a distant crow behind him that sounded more like a boy’s than an animal’s, and that sound propelled him across the water. Ahead, a small fire glowed, sending up a pillar of smoke that was white against the darkness of the sky. He crept closer and closer to the camp until he could see silhouettes of the people milling around. Eventually, he could see the general features of their faces. He was unable to enter the camp, however, because a large man whom James recognized as the Chief came out of nowhere and blocked his path.

  “James Hook.”

  He looked slowly up into the man’s eyes. “Chief.”

  “We grow weary of your provocations.”

  The Chief was the same size as he’d always been, so James wondered for a moment if he himself had shrunk. He certainly felt small under the other man’s hard scrutiny.

  James took a step back. “I’m truly sorry for that, Chief. I beg no quarrel from you tonight.”

  “Then what do you beg?”

  “Sanctuary.”

  The Chief looked at him for a while, dark eyes cunning and sharp. “Sanctuary from whom?”

  “The Pan.”

  “Unexpected,” he replied simply.

  Stinging tears welled up in James’s eyes, and he blinked to stave them off. “To both of us, sir.”

  James looked down at the ground, knowing full well that nothing he had done these past years warranted any sort of special favors from the Chief. Of course, they weren’t always battling; sometimes they would have grand celebrations and hunting parties and dances. More often than not, however, James was attempting, under Pan’s orders, to provoke them to war.

  “Look me in the eyes, Hook.”

  James’s gaze flickered upward.

  “So, the Pan has turned on his boys?” The Chief crossed his arms, muscles like boulders, hard and bulging and bumping.

  “Only on me. It seems I’ve been growing up.”

  The Chief looked him up and down, crow’s feet around his eyes wrinkling. “It does indeed.”

  “He pursues me even now. I ask, though I know it is undeserved, that you allow me to join your ranks.”

  The Chief shook his head. “You are not one of us.”

  “I’m not one of anyone.”

  He set a large hand on James’s shoulder and looked straight into his face. “You’re a different sort of boy—a man, Hook. I wish to believe you. But I cannot risk the safety of my tribe. Were I to shelter you and find later that this was another of your tricks and you meant only to ambush us, I would have no one but myself to blame.”

  James closed his eyes slowly and opened them again. “Where am I to go?”

  “You will find an answer.”

  The Chief patted him heavily on the back and left him there, walking back to camp. James slumped his shoulders and sighed, and it was a breath made of fear and anger and utter anguish. Then he started to walk away from the Indians and into nothingness.

  “Wait,” he heard a sweet voice say. He stopped.

  “James Hook.”

  “Tiger Lily.”

  He could barely see her at first, in the darkening night. As the flavor of metal snaked its way deeper into his throat and the leaves turned a darker shade of silver, the sky darkened as though ink was dripping down into it from space.

  When she stepped closer, his breath caught in his throat. The Indians and Lost Boys had met occasionally beyond the throes of battle, but, as he’d said to Bibble, he’d deliberately avoided Tiger Lily since he’d noticed her beginning to grow up by years, and looking it. She’d gone off from time to time with Peter and he’d seen a blurry figure of her here and there, but that was it. For his own sake, James hadn’t really seen her up close since that night so many years ago, the one he preferred not to think about, the night he found out that he was never going home again. Whereas, since he’d seen her last, he had aged five years, Tiger Lily had aged nearly ten. She couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger than him now.


  Her hair was longer than he remembered and fell in black waves to her waist, which was gently curved and impossible to look away from. The rest of her was delicate but strong, like her namesake. She smelled like rain. She cleared her throat lightly, and James realized that he had forgotten himself.

  “You know me,” he said.

  “Of course I do. I’ve seen you around with Peter. And I’d never forget that night, when I was just a little girl. I’d never seen a boy cry like that before.”

  James was glad, then, for the dark. It hid the deep red in his face. He coughed. “Yes. Well. Not my finest hour.”

  Tiger Lily stepped a bit closer, and James thought his windpipe might constrict until he couldn’t breathe at all. He decided, then, that avoiding her all those years had been a wise decision.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Am I?” Then James could feel the sting across his throat, where the blade had apparently sliced his skin.

  “Wait here,” she commanded, stretching her hand out. As if it were possible for him to do anything else. When she returned, she was holding something wet. She gestured toward the black earth, and James sank down next to her. Then she pressed to his throat something he determined must be a sort of cloth. He hissed at the prickling pain, and Tiger Lily rolled her eyes and touched his bare skin with her free hand. James swallowed hard, a buzz of excitement flooding him with her fingers touching his throat, her chest moving lightly up and down less than an inch from his.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “Courtesy of Peter Pan.”

  He saw something strange flicker in her eyes, and she looked away for an instant. Then, she regained composure of herself. “Is that—is he why you’re running in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am sorry.”

  He didn’t know why she should be apologizing, but didn’t press her.

  “I just—I wish I knew what to do.”

  Tiger Lily bit her lip. “I cannot offer you anything. Once my father has made a decision, it’s final. I’m sorry.” She hesitated for a moment, reconsidering, he hoped. But then she started up with the cloth at his neck again, swallowing what looked like guilt.

  He caught her hand as she washed the blood away from his throat, and she looked up at him.

  “Never apologize to me,” he said, voice gravelly and tired. Older. “Thank you for your kindness. Now and years ago.”

  She stared intently at him, and he felt his heart quicken. Then, he let her go, hearing yet another crow somewhere off in the direction of the Lost Boy camp, but likely closer. Tiger Lily heard it too.

  “Be safe, James Hook.”

  Tiger Lily disappeared then, and he was left alone again, mouth agape, foolishly sweaty, and not from running. But he pushed her face from his mind and made himself consider instead the very immediate threat that was likely heading toward him. He looked up at the stars and breathed deeply, dreading, fearing.

  Anticipating.

  With the Lost Boys and Pan turned against him and the Indians refusing to help, there was only one place he could go.

  NINE

  JAMES HEARD NOTHING AS HE CREPT ALONG, SAVE FOR his own footsteps and eventually the gentle sloshing of water against the shore. He questioned over in his mind if this was the decision of a wise man or an impetuous boy. Was there any wisdom to be found in seeking safety amongst a band of thieves? Thieves who would know he’d been part of the Lost Boys for years. Perhaps it was better for him to try to survive on his own. He chuckled darkly at that. Neverland was not a place for anyone desiring to live in solitude, with its dark corners and mirages of light. So, despite his misgivings, he soldiered on.

  The salt smell of the ocean found its way into his nose, evoking horrible, painful memories of a moment years ago. It still haunted him, the face of that pirate before Pan slit his throat. The first kill he’d ever been a part of. And the face of that pirate was the reason he was here now, yards away from the Spanish Main.

  It rose from the beach like a behemoth, moonlight casting the boat’s large but elegant shadow on everything near it. The wood was beautiful and dark and solid, the lines carved by a master, and for whatever reason, James was so struck by it that he couldn’t rip his gaze away. Deep in his soul, he knew that the master carver had been him, back when he was a boy and the world had still been simple. Back when he’d nothing to fear when he fell asleep, and had spent his nights dreaming of being the captain of the Spanish Main, swashbuckling and sailing the sea.

  Faint notes of music rose up from the ship and spilled over the edges, getting louder and louder as James approached, until he was assaulted by it. It was not music in the typical sense, but noise, really. Raucous sounds and drunken men belting out notes he was sure were supposed to be following some sort of tune. Somehow, the hullaballoo was not intimidating; it was inviting.

  Mirroring what he’d done years ago, he scaled the side of the ship, not as easily as he remembered Pan doing it, but effectively, and that was all that mattered. His muscles were burning by the time he reached the top, and he peeked his head over to eye what he would be walking into.

  The air smelled strongly of whiskey and of men who hadn’t bathed in far too long a time. It was filled with coarse merriment as well, making the otherwise offensive odor almost charming. There were at least thirty men on board, perhaps more, all in various states of debauchery, some dancing, some singing, some passed out, and some on the verge of passing out, but nursing their drinks anyway. It was a night for revelry across the island, it seemed.

  James took several deep breaths and hoisted himself over the ship’s edge, landing with a monstrous thump on the deck. All at once, everything stopped.

  The pirates blinked at him for several tense moments in silence. The only sound was of the waves lapping against the ship’s hull. James was frozen in a crouch, terrified, trying with everything he had to look proud. Then, the man he’d encountered on the beach years before stepped forward. His eyes crinkled in a smile as he walked up very close to James and bowed his head, then crossed his hat over his heart. “Captain,” he said.

  It was a scene that was very familiar to James, as he’d remembered it nearly every night before he fell asleep since it had happened. The part that followed, however, was new. The rest of the men looked to the one in the front and knelt in turn, each whispering the word, “Captain,” as they did.

  James was dumbstruck. Eventually, they all stood and looked at him.

  “I’m, I’m—” he stuttered.

  “Aye,” said the leader, the one with smiling hazel eyes and a gold tooth. “Ye be Captain James Hook.”

  Captain. So, it had worked. He’d dreamt himself the captain, night after night in London. Sailed with this particular crew, commanded and pillaged and plundered with them, on this very ship. He’d fancied himself Captain James Hook, and here, that was who he was.

  “I am,” James said, though at that point he could barely form words. “And I know you. But, I’m sorry. I don’t quite recall your name.” He felt blood rushing to his cheeks at this, but it had been an awfully long time since he’d dreamt of them. It’d been an awfully long time since he’d dreamt at all, really. He hadn’t dreamt a thing since leaving London. So the fellow’s name was something buried in some dusty corner of his mind, and he was left standing there, rather embarrassed.

  “Starkey, Captain,” the pirate said, not blinking at the question. “And this be Bill Jukes.” Jukes stepped forward and extended a muscled and heavily tattooed arm. James smiled widely, shaking his hand. It felt more real now than it ever had in his dreams, the massive man’s hand flexing around James’s like he could crush it if he wished, light of the moons glinting off his bald head. “And Smee.” A portly little redheaded man with spectacles too small for his face stepped out from the crew and bowed grandly, flinging his hat out. He came up smiling, bright and warm. James was sure he would take a liking to this fellow.

  S
tarkey introduced each pirate then, name by name. It struck James that somehow this crude band of pirates had many more marks of gentlemen than did the Lost Boys.

  “We’ve been waiting for ye, Captain,” said Starkey.

  A tingling warmth spread over James from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. A feeling he hadn’t had since the last time he’d been home. “Have you?”

  “Since before any one of us can remember.”

  A smile broke out on James’s face. He took another moment to examine Starkey, seeing an unfamiliar deep scar that ran from his left ear down to the right side of his chin. But he also couldn’t help but notice a familiar look in his eyes, in the way they creased at the corners, and in the way he held himself, all authority and knowledge. He couldn’t place it yet, so he decided to pack the feeling away for another time and to play the role of captain for a moment. He puffed his chest out. “Where are the captain’s quarters?”

  He didn’t know how true to his dreams the ship really was, but if it drew from them at all, his captain’s quarters should have been something to behold. James followed Starkey from the quarterdeck back to a little room set off from everything else. When Starkey pushed open the door, James realized that the room was not little at all. It was massive, exactly as he’d dreamt it, down to the tapestries.

  It was a grand cabin, filled with luxury, and several degrees warmer than the deck. There was a large bed in the corner of the room, draped in heavy crimson fabric, a blanket that looked like it could envelop you without a bit of effort, and an oak desk, upon which were the goblets—the golden ones he’d dreamt of what seemed like an eternity ago—filled with a beverage he could drink all he wanted now. A laugh bubbled out of him, despite himself. The room itself was swathed in reds and golds— large and perfectly gaudy curtains, rich dark wood on the floor, plush red rugs by the bed and under the window. He curled his toes in the soft rug, sighing at the feeling. It had been quite some time since he’d set his feet upon something that didn’t wish to scratch at him or tickle him. In the corner hung a long red jacket and an extravagant wide-brimmed hat that matched it perfectly, a hat pulled straight from his childhood imagination.