Six Points of Light:Hook's Origin

by Kalynn Bayron

  He ducked inside and looked around. He and Peter had spent so many days and nights reading, talking, listening to Peter play his Pan flute.

  Peter had fallen face first into a puddle during a rainy afternoon, and James had almost died laughing. Peter had laughed and rooted around in the mud, covering himself, then throwing his arms around James.

  “Put 'er there brother!” Peter had said. They’d descended into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

  Even when Peter was chattering away about Neverland and causing James a headache, he enjoyed it. Peter’s stubbornness and quick temper were vexatious, but James saw it as nothing more than a defense mechanism put up by a boy who was too scared to open himself up to anyone.

  James stood in the warm hollow of the great tree. He looked up and saw the inside of the trunk twisted high above his head. He tried to think of everything they’d done and what they’d discovered. He thought about the day when he’d seen Peter hover above the ground in that very spot.

  He paced back and forth several times before taking up the same position where he had been standing that day. He closed his eyes. Peter had pulled from a secreted little space a bag of some fine powder. He went to the spot in the floor where Peter had hidden it. It was empty. James knew full well that Peter had taken it away. He’d even asked him about its whereabouts, to which Peter had stormed off, mumbling about James not “believing enough.”

  James sighed. He knew what Peter wanted from him. Peter was a believer in the truest sense of the word. He believed every word his mother had written; he believed that Neverland existed; he believed that he could go there; and he expected the same blind faith from James. But James was a rational young man. The harsh realities of his experiences had left little room for fanciful thinking. He wasn't chasing the ghosts of his parents or the specter of the life he should have had. Promises had never been made to him. Peter's mother had left him with an unending number of questions to which James feared Peter would never find the answers.

  That Peter would not allow James to examine the substance that appeared to make him fly was the first sign, in his opinion, that Peter was hiding something. And no matter how many times he reminded himself that he had been present to see Peter's ascension with his own two eyes, he still doubted it.

  He would get to the bottom of it here and now. James spun around and began to examine every nook and crevice of the hollow.

  Perhaps he used a length of rope or wire, he thought.

  He ran the palm of his hand over the rough surface of the tree's interior. Peter had carved several small shelves in to the wall, and each one was filled with books and drawings. Peter loved to draw and lately had taken to drawing maps of Neverland based off of the renderings his mother had made in her diary.

  Neverland. James huffed to himself. He thought Abigail was a tormented soul, someone who daydreamed too often and may have been ill for most of her life. He didn't dare say these things to Peter; he didn't want to upset him. He would surely come to accept the truth one day, but James would not be the one to impress it on him. He felt a stab of pity. He’d never wanted to hurt Peter, but it was becoming harder and harder to go along with the things the boy wanted to do.

  James, after battling illnesses his entire life, had found himself free from sickness for many months now, and he wanted to spend time doing the things that made him feel alive.

  Father Johnson, the head of a neighboring parish, took him to the stables and taught him to ride a beautiful bay stallion, a Clydesdale with the most magnificent feathering around its hooves. Father Johnson borrowed the horse from a friend because James was simply too tall to comfortably ride any of the other horses in the stable. He’d fallen the first time he’d mounted the horse but, after some prodding, had been convinced to give it another go. The wind in his face and the sun beating down on him had almost brought him to tears. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d made the three-mile journey to Father Johnson's stables twice a week on foot.

  Peter spent his days walled up in the library. James understood how comforting that place could be. When he was sick and forbidden to leave St. Catherine's, he’d spent all his time there, too, but things were different now. Now it was James who longed for the outdoors and for adventures great and small.

  James dusted his hands off on the legs of his trousers. Nothing seemed amiss in the hollow. He looked up and craned his neck to see if he could decipher anything that would hint at how Peter had made himself dangle above the floor. It had to be a ruse of some sort, he was sure of it now.

  James sprawled out on the floor of the hollow and rested the back of his head on his crisscrossed arms. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a peaceful sleep.

  “James... James.”

  James opened his eyes to see Peter's face hovering over him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Peter. What are you doing?” asked James groggily.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” said Peter.

  “I needed some time to myself.”

  “I thought you said you were helping at the rectory.”

  “I changed my mind,” James said, avoiding Peter’s eyes.

  “Well, I have something to tell you.”

  James stood up and stretched, yawning as he nodded to Peter.

  “Do tell.”

  Peter planted himself on the floor. “I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I have found a way to get to Neverland.”

  “Is that so? Let’s hear it then.” He thought this would be interesting.

  “My mother gave very clear instructions. We need to lure a fairy here to take us.”

  James laughed.

  “Are you laughing at me, James?” asked Peter. He seemed hurt.

  “No, I'm sorry. I just... I don’t know how the thing can be accomplished, Peter.”

  “Haven’t you been paying attention, James?” Peter shouted. “It’s all right here in the diary. The children, the children laughing and singing and clapping—that is what draws the fairies near.”

  “Calm down,” said James. “Peter, I don't know if you've noticed, but you have turned into a recluse. You're always holed up in the library or in your room. Even your group of merry followers has moved on to more... grown-up things.”

  Peter moaned in disgust. “Don't speak to me of growing up, James,” he spat. “You haven’t even heard me out! It’s already taken care of.”

  “What do you mean?” James was concerned now.

  “Well, Maddie, dear sweet Sister Maddie, would do anything for the children here. You know that.”

  “I do. What has that to do with anything?” James didn’t like it when Peter spoke of Sister Maddie. There was always an undercurrent of resentment in his tone.

  “Well, I suggested that maybe the Sisters should do something to raise our spirits. You know, something new and fun.”

  “What did you suggest?” asked James.

  Peter stood up and pulled from his pocket a wadded up piece of paper and tossed it at James. He caught it and smoothed it out in the palm of his hand. It was a large piece of paper, a poster to be more specific. Elephants in bright collars and horses with bells on their saddles dotted the colorful page. Letters in bold black ink were scrawled across the paper.

  Borelli Brothers' Traveling Circus

  James looked at Peter.

  “That's right!” said Peter. “The circus is coming! And they are setting up right here on the grounds of St. Catherine's!”

  James looked at the paper again. The circus claimed to showcase a variety of animals: an elephant, tigers, lions, exotic birds, and even an alligator. James saw that there were a variety of acts accompanying the animals. Juggling clowns and a man on something called a unicycle. He folded the poster and placed it on the shelf.

  “James, don't you see? This will bring a measure of happiness and celebration that is sure to draw in these magical creatures! This is how we find Neverland!”

  “Peter, I—” James stopped himself. He
saw the wild glare in Peter's eyes; the smile that always seemed to be hiding something was different now. He saw that Peter was sincerely excited. Maybe, just maybe, this gathering, this circus act, could help Peter see that there was plenty of fun and adventure to be had without traveling to some far-off place. Maybe Peter could focus on something real, something tangible that he could touch and see and feel. That is what he needed more than anything, James was sure of it.

  “What? What is it?” Peter fidgeted anxiously.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Peter,” said James.

  Peter leapt up and playfully punched James in the shoulder.

  “Come on,” said Peter. “We should get back to help with the planning.”

  He skipped out of the hollow. James lingered for a few moments, taking one last look around. He hadn’t found a shred of evidence to suggest how Peter had appeared to levitate, but he was convinced it was a gambit. Peter needed him to believe so that he wouldn’t be alone in his imaginings. He needed a partner. James was happy to read to him, to help him study the mysteries of the ancient world and the legends of dream worlds shared by so many cultures across the world, but James understood that Peter would have to give up his daydreaming to focus on more practical things one day. Of this he was certain, even if he was certain of nothing else.

  CHAPTER 8

  FUN AND BLOOD UNDER THE BIG TOP

  After nearly a month of anticipation and preparation, the day had arrived for the traveling circus to set up camp on the grounds of St. Catherine's.

  James and Peter went out to sit on the rocks and watch the colorful tents go up. James watched as people in costumes and with painted faces descended on the grounds in droves, pulling carts filled with animals from all corners of the earth. Peter held his hands over his nose.

  “It smells awful!” he said.

  “I would hate to be the one to have to pick up after him,” James said, motioning to a large elephant wearing a frilly blue and white collar. A man stood behind the great animal, shoveling up a gargantuan pile of its dung.

  Peter laughed. “Ugh! I can’t take it anymore. I'm going to go get something to eat, if I can keep myself from throwing up.” He hopped down and hurried toward the kitchen.

  James clambered down, intending to follow him, but saw that Sister Maddie was approaching. They hadn’t seen much of each other lately, outside of Mass or meals. She always seemed to be in the chapel or in her room, deep in prayer or otherwise occupied. As she approached him he saw that there were tears in her eyes. He held out his hand to her, expecting her to grasp it as she always did. Instead, she stopped short, looking confused for a moment.

  “James, I was hoping you might do me a favor,” she said, her voice rough.

  “Of course.” He was puzzled by her demeanor.

  “There is a man who is traveling with the circus, and he’s having a hard time hauling in his things. I was hoping you could assist him.”

  “Yes, of course. Is something wrong?” James asked. He closed the gap between them and took her hand in his squeezing it tightly.

  “Oh, James, you aren't angry with me?”

  Now it was James's turn to be confused. “Angry? Why in the world would I be angry with you?”

  Sister Maddie dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Oh, it’s silly. I never should have listened... Well, don't you worry about that now,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  He was about to question her further when a loud clanging sound echoed from the walkway.

  “Oh dear!” said Sister Maddie. “I hope it’s not too late.”

  James rushed towards the sound to see an elderly man crouched down on the ground. A small cart was tipped on its side, its contents strewn all about.

  “Please, sir, let me help you,” said James. He picked the cart up and righted it.

  “Oh, thank you, young man. Thank you very much.” The man was tall; his face was angular. He was all knees and elbows. His suit was tan and dirty from overuse, and his brown leather shoes were dull and looked to be almost as old as he was. “I thought I could manage. I guess I'm not as young as I used to be.” He smiled. A row of yellow teeth poked out from between his thin lips. He thrust his hand straight out. James returned the gesture, and they shook hands vigorously.

  “O'Malley's the name,” he said in a chipper voice.

  “James Cook.”

  “If you’re not too busy, James, I could use a hand collecting my things.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  They started picking up items that had fallen out of the man's cart and putting them back in their rightful places. James grabbed up a short wooden sword and glass orb of some sort.

  “What's your act?” he asked. “What I mean to say is what is your, uh, gimmick?” James figured a man traveling with a circus ought to have an act.

  “Gimmick, you say?” The man laughed. “Well, I guess you could say I'm a collector of strange and unusual things, but I wouldn't call it a gimmick. No, not a gimmick.”

  The man picked up several small objects that had rolled into the walkway.

  “You see this?” He held up a small jar. “This, my dear boy, holds a magical item. Something so rare... Well....” The man paused.

  He extended his hand, motioning for James to have a look. James hesitated. The man seemed harmless, but he was off-putting in his dirty suit and talk of strange and unusual things. The man nudged the jar closer to James, so he reluctantly took it in his hand.

  It was a simple Mason jar with a fitted lid secured tightly to the top. The glass was foggy and looked as if someone had smeared some type of paint on the inner surface, making it almost impossible to see anything inside. James held the jar up and peered through a small area of the glass devoid of the hazy substance.

  Just then, a group of two or three young girls came clamoring down the walkway. James looked up and watched as they passed. Little girls were so strange to him—always laughing and giggling, making daisy chains, and going on and on about fairy tale things. They rushed past him, squealing and giggling, one of them singing a little nursery rhyme, ”Sing a song of six pence a pocket full of rye...”

  James watched them disappear down the hill towards where the circus performers were setting up camp. He turned his attention back to the small jar and saw that it was now glowing brightly in his hand. He dropped it immediately then braced himself for the shower of broken glass that was sure to follow the jar hitting the ground. But before it did so, the old man swooped down and caught it just an inch or two above the ground. He stood up slowly, looking James directly in the eye with a disapproving glare.

  “A little caution, young man,” he said.

  “I'm sorry. It caught me off guard.”

  The man inspected the jar. The intensity of the light inside had dimmed but was still glowing. It reminded James of the fireflies he used to capture when he was young. They never lasted long in those jars, he thought.

  “The world is wide, young James,” said the man, tucking the jar back into the cart. “The world is wide and strange, and there are mysteries as deep as the ocean.”

  James felt a shiver run through him. Something about the man chilled him straight through to the bone.

  “What is in the jar, if you don't mind my asking?”

  “Oh, well, where's the fun in spilling the secret, James?” the man replied. “Tell you what, you come find me after we've all set up shop, and I'll show you what's inside.”

  James walked over to the man's cart and placed the small glass orb into the back. As he placed the small wooden sword on top of various other items, he saw something scrawled onto the hilt.

  “What do you say there, James? Should I be expecting you?” the man asked.

  James's gaze was fixed firmly on the writing scratched rather crudely onto the sword. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened as he read the inscription.

  “To my beloved Tigerlilly, for love and eternity in Neverland.”

  James was stru
ck silent. He looked at the man who was patiently waiting on his response. The man pulled from his jacket a large pocket watch and flipped its face open.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

  The clock’s second hand was so loud, it cut through James's thoughts.

  “Yes... Yes, I will be there,” he stammered.

  “Splendid!” said the man. “I think I can manage it from here.”

  The man tottered off, his cart navigating the walkway, perilously close to tipping over again.

  James could scarcely believe what he had just seen: the word “Neverland” written in a place other than Abigail's journal. It seemed impossible.

  I have to find Peter, he thought.

  James ran as fast as he could manage towards the east end of St. Catherine's. He bounded through the rear entrance into the kitchen. Smells of boiled vegetables and fresh bread wafted into his nose. He rushed straight through and caught a glimpse of Peter turning the corner at the end of the hall. He raced after him.

  “Peter!” he shouted much too loudly.

  Peter turned on his heel and grinned at James.

  “Peter, I need to talk to you. Now!” He grabbed Peter by the arm and pulled him into a small room that was used for storing brooms and dish rags. He closed the door after making sure no one had seen them enter.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked.

  “Shhhh! I have to tell you something important.”

  “Well, get on with it. It smells just as bad in here as it does outside.”

  “I met a man. He's with the performers, and he’s very odd. But you'll never believe what I saw.”

  “A dancing elephant? A bearded lady?” Peter was giggling uncontrollably.

  “Shut up!” said James. “I’m serious. He collects things, strange objects and artifacts. He had a jar and there was something inside, and he had this sword, all made of wood with an inscription on the side. It said Neverland, Peter.”