“It is her,” Peter said stubbornly before placing his palm against the window and giving it a quick shove. “And she doesn’t remember me.”
She heard a muted click from the other side as the lock popped free from the force. The window swung open.
The little boy bolted upright in the bed. His blonde hair stuck up in every direction and his eyes were wide and round as he spotted them just outside his bedroom window.
“You can’t do this!” Tink yelled in Peter’s ear and jerked two fistfuls of his hair as hard as she could. “He can’t be a Lost One—he isn’t dead!”
Peter swatted at her, as if she’d only been a pesky fly. The blow sent her hurtling back out the window and across the balcony.
The little boy had been silent to this point, but now she heard him scream. In the next second, Peter had scooped him up and flew out the window with him in his arms, stopping only long enough to tell her, “He’ll be one of us. Don’t worry, Tink, she’ll forget all about him, too.”
6
I am Pan
THE STORY PETER told the Lost Ones wasn’t what they’d expected. That much was obvious from their astonished expressions and open mouths. This, Tink decided ruefully, had been the second story she hadn’t been there to hear. This story truly had been his own, told as a bedtime story to three little boys in an old dilapidated house with rotting windowsills. Out of all the stories they had heard on their trips back, this was the one she should never have missed.
“And so the guardian became forgotten by those who loved him. They grew up without him, leaving him to ferry the souls of the dead to the Underworld.” Peter said, giving the newest member of his troupe a scathing look as if the story had been completely his fault.
The little boy whimpered and ducked his head. Tink stood on his shoulder and patted his hair. The trip to Neverland with him had been nerve-wracking. As he wasn’t a ghost—and most definitely had no happy thoughts of leaving—Peter had had to carry him the entire way, with her flying directly overhead, sprinkling as much pixie dust on them as she possibly could.
Once they made it, things hadn’t gotten any better. The Lost Ones weren’t happy to know that their newest comrade was small—the tiniest and youngest of them all, and even worst, still had all of his memories of the life he knew before Neverland and was homesick for it.
“Can’t you take him back?” Round asked, frowning. “He’s giving my head a dreadful hurt here, see?” He winced, pointing to the center of his forehead. “He doesn’t want to be a Neverling, so it’s best to take him back. All he does is cry, anyway.”
“Maybe he’s afraid because he doesn’t know who we are,” Patch suggested. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees to look the boy in the eye. “My name is Patch. The grumpy one over there is Beetles.”
Tink rolled her eyes. As of yet, she still hadn’t convinced anyone else of Round’s proper name. Three more voices chimed in, introducing themselves…Tootles, Scuttle, and Morbert. She sighed at the last one. The redheaded boy with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose by far had the worst moniker, but she hadn’t been able to persuade Peter any differently.
The little boy sniffled, his tears momentarily at bay. “I’m…” he began, only to be cut off by Peter.
“You are to be named Runt, as you are the smallest of my troupe,” he said in an imperious tone.
“But that’s not my name,” the little one objected.
“It is,” Peter said in a low, deadly calm voice that immediately hushed not only the little one, but the others, too. He looked at each of them in turn, Patch, Round, Tootles, Scuttle, Morbert, Runt, and lastly…her. “I was once a forgotten guardian known as Peter in a different life. Now, I am a Neverling—and my name is Peter Pan.”
ON HER WAY back to the human star, Tink flew low over the Never Sea hoping to catch a glimpse of Thespa’s mermaids as they swam in the glassy, blue water. She hadn’t believed the water queen when she announced her intention to bring her own Lost Ones to Neverland, but there they were, swimming just below the surface.
Tink scrunched her nose as she watched them. They were strange things that looked like humans only they sported fish tails instead of legs.
Fish people. Even if Thespa insists on calling them mermaids and mermen, I shall call them fish people for that’s what they are. They are nothing like my Lost Ones. Mine look much nicer than hers.
Regardless of their looks, Neverland had gotten a sudden jolt of energy when the fish people came. It had been strong enough to give the water sprites the magic they so desperately needed. Thespa had managed to ensure the safety of the water sprites, but rarely did the fish people come to the surface, so their arrival hadn’t helped the pixies at all.
It’s up to me to save us again, Tink accepted with a sigh. At least she knew exactly where she was going to go. And this time, she deliberately didn’t tell Peter where she was heading or that she was leaving at all.
Since the arrival of Runt, Peter had grown darker and angrier with each passing day. Something had changed in him when he’d heard the bedtime story of the death guardian. That terrible tale had broken the parts that made him the happy, mischievous boy she adored.
There were no more stories or adventures, and in turn, the Lost Ones were beginning to lose faith in their leader. Understandable, really, as she’d lost a bit of it herself lately. The last few times they’d gone back to the human star and brought back new recruits, the crocodile immediately thinned them out. The fact Peter hadn’t bothered to try to save them from the sharp-toothed monster hadn’t instilled confidence in the remainder of his troupe.
It will be a matter of time before they lose faith in me, too, she thought, and then my magic will die.
Then, I’ll die. We need someone who will believe in all of us.
If only Peter had listened before he began bringing the Lost Ones to Neverland. Had he been patient and watched with her for guidance to find the right ones, everything could have been different and they could be as carefree as the water sprites were now.
Instead, Tink was headed back to find the one she had chosen on the last trip—to the one who should have come to Neverland instead of the Lost Ones.
She flew down to the corner shop and instead of sitting on the bell, this time she stood on top of the sign and announced her arrival as loudly as she could, her voice sounding very much like the peal of the bell.
The man quickly came to the door and peered out, looking perplexed. Finding no one, he retreated back inside.
She sat down on the sign and prepared to wait for him, however long it should take. This time, she would follow him and make sure he was the one to save them. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. If there was any indication there was someone he cared for in this life, or something she thought could be a family, she wouldn’t bring him with her. She’d choose someone else.
She still wasn’t sure what a family was, but after all of this, she had learned one thing—if you were lucky to have such a grand thing, it was something you should never lose.
After a few moments, she watched through the window as the man blew out the candles and put on his coat and hat. Stepping outside, he locked the door, looking up one last time at the bell, perhaps wondering if it had a mind of its own.
As the sun set, the air grew cold and brisk, and a sudden breeze threatened to take his hat. He pulled it farther down over his eyes, ducked his head, and started down the street.
Shivering, Tink followed, hoping he didn’t plan to go far. Ever since the pixies had been in Neverland, the air was warm and she wasn’t used to this abrupt change in temperature. Oblivious to the cold pixie following him, the man continued onward, first down one street, then onto the next, in no apparent hurry.
Finally, after what seemed forever, he let himself into a tiny house that seemed to have been squished between two others as an afterthought.
Chattering so hard that she was spreading pixie dust in quick puffs, T
ink made a quick decision and darted inside just before the door closed.
From a much warmer perch on the top of an old cabinet, she watched as he listlessly set about lighting his lamps and preparing his supper. Finally returning to the room where Tink waited, he placed his dishes on the table and sank into his chair.
She’d expected him to eat, but he only sat there, staring at the empty chairs surrounding the table with a look of such longing and sadness it was all she could do not to fly down and pat his hair and comfort him as she did her Lost Ones.
“Day in, day out, nothing ever changes,” he whispered. “How I wish to be gone from this place. How I wish for adventure and someone to share it with.”
That settles it, Tink decided with a happy smile. He was the one. Adventure, she could surely give him. And if he wished to be gone from this cramped house, she could do that, too.
He leaned forward, crossed his arms on the table and laid his head on them, as if his thoughts were too much to bear. After he stayed like that for a few moments, she decided this might be the perfect time to make her presence known.
She flew down and landed in a great splash of gold dust, right in front of his nose, and then dipped into a deep curtsy and prepared to introduce herself. When he didn’t respond, she looked up.
His eyes were closed. He’d fallen asleep.
“My name is Tink,” she whispered, as she moved a long strand of hair from his cheek. “Tonight, dream of adventure—for soon it will find you.”
She patted his hair and gave him a smile before flying back up to the top of the cabinet. She yawned, then stretched. It was much too late to head back to Neverland and she was tired.
That looks like a most inviting place to sleep, she decided, eyeing a chipped teacup on the shelf below her.
She flew down to it and settled herself inside. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as she had expected. The porcelain was cold and hard, so she left it and flew to the peg on the wall where the man had hung his coat and hat.
Finding the wide rim of his hat to be a much softer bed, she curled up on the thick felt, her last thoughts happy as she drifted towards sleep.
Tomorrow Neverland will change, the pixies will be safe once again—and a new adventure will find us all.
1
Bad Form, Indeed
AN ETERNITY PASSED before Big Ben tolled five bells. They were heavenly peals to Archibald Jameson, who began to wonder if time had somehow gotten stuck or if the gigantic clock across the square was broken. Stretching out his long legs, he stood up from the desk and scooted around the corner, taking care not to bump the towering mountain of paper at the edge. Naturally, it was the largest stack in the entire room—the work that he had yet to finish. If he was even a fraction as meticulous a man as his father—the very man who left him the shop—he would have stayed, locked the front door, and remained into the wee hours to finish the work, however long it should take.
But he was not his father, and he had no intention of pretending to be so. While he was very good at running the print shop, it wasn’t something he enjoyed. It was only what he must do to ensure his survival. Remaining any longer than necessary just wasn’t going to happen as far as Archie was concerned. His inheritance should have been a blessing since he was the youngest of four sons. Without the steady work the shop provided, he might as well have lived out on the street, begging for what scraps could be found. To him, the feel of the paper and smell of ink felt like a prison where he was trapped day in and out. His release came in daydreams. As he pondered another life or another world, the work piled up before him. He spent hours upon hours each day, dreaming of adventure, of places and people that always made those in his life seem dull in comparison. Those daydreams made his life bearable.
But even the daydreams wouldn’t hold him there once Big Ben chimed its fifth peal. He never stayed a second longer than required.
He blew out lamps and turned over the sign in the window, then pulled on his frayed, black frock. He took one last glance around, then slapped on his hat and stepped outside. Chilly air greeted him as he pulled the door shut, listening to the muted sounds of the doorbell. He turned the key in the lock and jiggled the knob.
Odd, he thought. The tinkling sounds he heard earlier sounded nothing at all like the brass bell on the frame of that door. Odd, indeed. Perhaps it was the remnants of his latest daydream, for the door had never sounded that way before. Still pondering the bell, he turned and rammed into a young boy, who let out an audible oof, as he landed on the side of the street.
“I do beg your pardon,” Archie said, offering his hand to help the boy up. The lad flashed a smile, showing a unique set of small, pearly white teeth, before he took Archie’s proffered hand and replied, “Quite alright.” Without waiting for Archie to say anything more, the boy took off, disappearing around the bend.
Hunching over against the cold wind that sent leaves dancing about his legs, Archie shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and made his way down the bricked street, no longer in the rush he was in moments before.
“Mary, I don’t see how we can afford to keep her.” The booming voice was startling. Archie glanced up at a window, which was open in spite of the chill. “Let’s see, two pounds nineteen…”
“George, dear…”
“Now, Mary, hold on a moment. I have the tally right here. Do you think we might try it for half a year on say, five five three? Only half the year, mind you. Oh, drat, I forgot to figure in colic.”
The voice of the man and his wife argued back and forth as Archibald stood, rooted in place, wondering at their strange conversation. As this was his normal route home, he walked by No. 27 every evening. He half-hoped this financial dispute might possibly involve their dog. If it did, he would be more than willing to step up and offer to solve their financial dilemma. He lived alone and the thought of the trim Newfoundland he had seen carrying in bottles of milk from the front steps bolstered his spirits.
The talk of colic, however, kept him from knocking on the front door.
“Shall we say one pound? Yes, that is what I’ll put down. But what of mumps? I’ve heard that can be quite taxing. I daresay that should be twenty shillings there. Don’t give me that look, Mary.”
It was at this point a sharp cry of an infant pierced their conversation and Archibald was quite certain that Nana the Newfoundland was most assuredly not the topic of money, colic, mumps, and their current distraught state. He shook his head, wondering about the sanity of the Darlings in No. 27 as the silhouette of a woman he presumed to be Mary shut the window and the voices muted.
Poor Nana, Archibald thought, to be stuck with people such as that.
He didn’t even want to think about the child whose fate rested on the odds of her contracting whooping-cough and so he openly wished the inhabitants of No. 27 would not be so lucky as to have any additional offspring. He voiced exactly that, and in that same instant, heard that funny peal of bells again. This time it sounded suspiciously like laughter.
He spun around, searching for the source, and saw a crone of an old woman who stepped out of No. 31. She heard his wish and didn’t agree with his rather bold assessment. Archie was sure she hadn’t laughed a day since she had been born, and moreover, he was certain that glorious day of her arrival had been at least a century earlier.
“Well,” she puffed up, looking much like a wrinkled, ancient bullfrog before she croaked, “I never!”
“Yes, madam. I should hope for precisely never as it seems the most promising period of time,” he smiled and bent, giving her an elaborate, low bow to thank her for her agreement. “For to wish them more mouths to feed, when one seems to be their undoing, would be bad form, indeed.”
The old woman gaped at him, mouth working like a fish out of water. Then, she clamped it shut in a fierce scowl, and proceeded to slam the door with as much vigor as her frail limbs could muster.
Archibald smiled to himself, silently touching the brim of his hat in mock farewe
ll before he spun, leaving the occupants of both No. 27 and No. 31 to their own devices and ignorance. He continued his stroll down the street in much better spirits, knowing that he bested the old woman and possibly even the Darlings without their even knowing it, though he was certain his sentiments would be relayed by their observant neighbor.
Ah, well. They should have known better than to trifle with something such as a child. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless if it caused them to think of someone other than themselves.
The breeze picked up and proceeded to burst insistent, frigid puffs that threatened to dislodge his hat. He clamped one hand on top, squishing it down around his lean face as he resolutely lengthened his stride and marched on, determined to make it home before the storm set in.
He’d almost made it to the corner, to the place where he normally made the left on N. Westburl, and then a right onto 43rd, followed by a various assortment of other long deviations that would get him safely home, when a large crack of thunder shook the air. He decided that just this once he might consider taking the most direct route, albeit dangerous, foreboding, and possibly life-threatening. He stopped right on the bend of the street, uncertain for a fleeting moment, until the next jolting crack of thunder made up his mind for him. He headed straight along Market Street, which followed the length of the Thames River, hoping that the seedy individuals who lurked around the pier were as mindful of the storm as he, and would not cause him trouble on this particular evening, for even though he was quick-witted and could talk himself out of most troubles, sailors tended to be a harder breed of people. They were a sharp and cunning lot, and Archie did not know if he could outsmart anyone else that day, and didn’t wish to press his luck.
The Untold Stories of Neverland: The Complete Box Set Page 4