by Andrea Jones
OTHER ISLANDS
Book Three of the Hook & Jill Saga
Andrea Jones
Other Islands Copyright © 2017 by Andrea Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system— except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper— without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover design by Erik Hollander
www.ErikHollanderDesign.com
The Reginetta Press
www.ReginettaPress.com.
Andrea Jones
www.HookandJill.com
LCCN: 2017946862
MAGIC DWELLS HERE…
“Lush and enthralling, Other Islands pays brilliant homage to J.M. Barrie’s Neverland. In elegant prose, Jones embellishes the classic with her own singular vision….a bold tale of love and of power, commandeered by two intriguing women ensnared in Captain Hook’s world of piracy.”
—Mary Lawrence, author of The Alchemist’s Daughter
“Other Oceans is a masterpiece…This is a five-star recommendation.”
—Satyros Phil Brucato, BBI Media
“Andrea Jones creates a filigreed, razor-sharp Neverland, with no end to its depths of characterization. Hook and crew play deadly games, and intrigue roils beneath the surface.”
—S.J. Tucker, Songwriter, author of “The Wendy Trilogy”
“A series that turns your childhood upside down….With the Hook & Jill Saga, Andrea Jones shocks and entertains in turn.”
—Amy Nelson, Games Fiends
“I am feeling the character of Hook. I feel dashing and dangerous and sly and sexy. He gets into you.”
—“Thee” blurb from Thee Bluebeard, Pirate Entertainer
The Hook & Jill Saga
by Andrea Jones:
Book One
Hook & Jill
Book Two
Other Oceans
Book Three
Other Islands
*
CONTENTS
Harsh Mistress
A Family Man
Fair Warning
Stolen Pleasures
Dispossessions
Knowing the Foe
Predatory Creatures
Idolatry
Solitary Practitioners
Escapes and Escapades
Secrets of Unity
Love Birds
A Pilgrim’s Progress
Odds— and Ends
Of Mers and Men
The Forest Fleet
The Indulgence of Divergent Forces
Something from Nothing
A Touch of Irony
Golden Trophies
Scenes of Dream and Nightmare
Wicked Victims
Silent Huntress
Medicine Women
‘Phallusies’ and Fantasies
Shades of Promise
Birds of a Feather
Water Craft
In the Tepee of Mother Birch
To Honor and Betray
Invisible Visions
Giving Ways
Island Offering
Thorn of the Rose
Eyes of the Tigress
Bigger Games
Widows’ Wings
The Wider World
For those who walk in two worlds.
CHAPTER 1
Harsh Mistress
David didn’t get to the Island in the usual, unusual way. He didn’t fly, like the other boys— and the girl— with arms flung wide, squealing with glee to see the mountaintops shining under a bulbous sun, the cerulean seas glimmering over the shores. David didn’t get there like those earlier children did, by choice or by guile.
He arrived on the Neverland in the same way he did everything: by necessity. He drifted ashore like the remnants of his splintered craft— soaked, swollen, beyond repair. Magic had nothing to do with it, or so he believed.
Except for the beauty, there was little of magic to be seen when he opened his eyes. A long C-shape of sandy beach, thick forest behind it and lush tropical foliage on either side. Bright exotic birds screamed in the trees, taunting him. Once, when he thought he heard a lion roar, the sopping hair at the back of his neck rose stiff. The air he inhaled was fresh and clear, except for a streak of red smoke away off over the trees. David rolled himself out of the surf and closed his scratchy eyes. The tears, when they came, helped to wash the salt from his stinging lids. David was young, but he was not quite a child. He knew no magic could wash away the sorrow.
Alone and alive. He understood it was a blessing, to be alive. The alone part saddened him. Those he’d left behind were not alone in their watery tomb. All his mates, his four officers. And his uncle. For all their fears, it wasn’t the pirates that finished them. It was the sea. As his uncle had declared with his last, labored breath— all sailors served a harsh mistress.
The words sent a flash of memory through the young man’s mind. An emerald green gown and golden, flowing hair. A laugh like drops of diamonds, a sound that sparkled over even the darkest gloom. David could only think of the woman in terms of jewels. Eyes like sapphires. Even her teeth were set like pearls. Yet she hadn’t seemed harsh. And she wasn’t a mistress any more. She was a wife, and David had witnessed her wedding. But it was her fault that David languished on this beach. Her fault that all the merchant sailors whose pulses had quickened as they watched her, so avidly, were pulseless dead men now. She was like a sea siren. She was a temptress, presaging disaster.
Red-Handed Jill.
Her image sent a jolt through his body, fighting the chill of the ocean. If she hadn’t captivated David with her charm and her beauty, he never would’ve given up his shamrock, his lucky piece. Not even if those pirates shot him for it. He was just a cabin boy, but he was a sailor. He knew the necessity of luck. Yet, like the men, David was unprepared— blindsided— by the force of her loveliness. She’d reached out that hand, vividly crimson with bloodstain, and, unscrupulous though she was, David had yielded to his need to touch her, setting his hand upon hers and settling his silver charm in her palm. Unlike the pirate she proved to be, the lady had squeezed his hand, smiling, and thanked him. Then she leapt into the arms of her lover, her new-made husband, that gold-plated gypsy brute of a captain, and soared away across the chasm between ships. Pain had stabbed at David’s heart as she disappeared under the sign of the grinning black flag. Pain, and worry.
His uncle had believed the trouble was over then. But just as hope returned to his breast, within only an hour, Jill’s vultures descended to pick the helpless Unity clean. Boarding with the promise of succor, the Frenchmen had robbed even the old surgeon of his instruments. That second assault proved too much for David’s ailing uncle. He died before the storm reached its full intensity, leaving his shaken mate to contend with the tempest. The temptress had vanished, taking with her not simply David’s shamrock, but the Unity’s fortunes as well. Tasting the bitter brine in his teeth, David spat in the sand.
He only hoped she was gone forever.
Superstitious like all sailors, David blamed his luck. But he had felt the power of enchantment already. It had changed what was left of his life. He just didn’t know about the magic yet. He didn’t understand the usual, unusual way it worked— like a woman. By choice, or by guile.
CHAPTER 2
A Family Man
White Bear looked to the pale light seeping at the edge of the tepee door. His heart felt heavy, his body unsatisfied. Raven lay raised on one elbow, clutching the blanket to her breast. Her black eyes wa
tched him, full of caution. He knew she wasn’t afraid. Her courage annoyed him. Under her submission, she wasn’t cooperative; she was simply careful. White Bear’s growl of a voice spoke softly so as not to disturb his wife, nor awaken the others slumbering in the encampment.
“Tell your sister when she wakes. I am hungry.”
Raven understood him, but chose to answer literally. “I will cook your breakfast.”
“You do everything I need. But you do not allow me to approach you.”
“You are a patient man, White Bear. When the right day comes—”
“The right day came yesterday. And the day before. You turned away.”
“I am sorry. It is not easy for me.” Raven didn’t look in her brother-in-law’s hard, gray eyes. She wished to avoid challenging him, but she had to make her point. “There has been no ceremony.”
“No ceremony is necessary. It is custom. A good man cares for his family.”
“You are a good man. You care for my sister, and I am grateful. But she is near her time. I am respectful of her feeling.”
“It is because her time is near that she sent me to you. It is she who asked, so many moons ago, that I provide for you.”
Raven kept her eyes cast down. She beheld his leggings and moccasins, made of soft-worked buckskin, elaborately beaded with designs of her sister’s making— the finest beadwork in the camp. Willow’s pride in her husband showed plainly in her work. She was a skilled woman and she loved her husband. Why should she not? White Bear was a fearless warrior, a plentiful provider. He was not a young man, but already he sat upon the council, its youngest member. And, as Raven had reminded him, he was patient. White Bear had chosen Willow among all the other girls, then waited for her to come of age. At the time they spoke their ritual vows, he hadn’t known her older sister would need a husband, too. No one had known.
Raven blinked back the tears before White Bear might see them. He might mistake the reason for them. She laid the blanket aside, gently, rising without a sound. Without a sound, she served him his morning meal. Using her hands to useful purpose lessened the sadness.
When he finished, she received his bowl. He reached out to thank her, the way he so often did for her sister. But before his fingers could touch her cheek, his arm stopped in midair. Raven’s words hung there, too.
“You are welcome…Brother.”
His eyes narrowed. Raven saw the muscles on his lean body go taut.
“I hear you,” he said. He rose and flung open the tepee door. Stepping into the morning air, he turned to stand straight and tall. The bear claws on his necklace gleamed ivory-white, and an early breeze stirred the feathers that Raven herself had woven into his scalp lock, where the long hair was gathered at the peak of his shaven head. The slanting sunlight highlighted the battle marks on his copper skin. Raven wondered if he knew how her eyes were drawn to him. The drum of her heart beat faster. White Bear was a formidable man. A man any other woman might desire. And she had called him ‘Brother.’
When he dropped the door flap, Raven shoved her hand through her close-cropped hair and considered her sweet, sleeping sister. Willow lay on her side under the prized white bearskin, dormant in the exhaustion of late pregnancy, her legs drawn up beneath her swollen belly, a trace of a smile curving her pretty lips. Even with her hair shorn, Raven knew herself to be handsome, like her sister. But she was not as openhanded as Willow.
Today, Raven addressed her sister’s husband as ‘Brother.’ What would she call him tomorrow?
CHAPTER 3
Fair Warning
The old oak near Peter Pan’s hideout bore more battle scars than a fortress. The arrowheads had chipped away at its bark so that a wide, bare, notched spot lay exposed, like a shorn patch of skin on a bison hide. A target showed there, painted and repainted in diminishing sizes of bloody red circles. Every so often a breeze kicked up and the oak would rattle its branches at its assailants in a threatening sort of way, withholding the sunlight and casting its mammoth shadow over those boys. But the oak was hardy. When the breeze died down, the tree settled in again to grit its leafy teeth and endure. It bled a bit of sap to blend with the blood of its target, then scarred itself over in gnarly scarlet lumps. Even Peter’s treatment couldn’t kill it.
Most of the old oak’s wounds were inflicted by Peter himself. Today his boys were doing their part, but still he crossed his arms and shook his unruly head; marksmen they were not. Only one other boy could zing an arrow straight on target. He was a chip off Peter’s block, right down to his appearance, and that’s what Peter had named him.
Peter smiled with pride as he watched Chip stand posed, commanding every inch of his four-foot height, his back straight, one green eye squeezed shut. His arm strained to stay the bowstring. Chip was almost as smart as a Peter. He had adopted Peter’s customs, all of them, beginning by sporting a bright sharp knife in his belt. Like Peter, Chip exhibited the air of a champion. Habitually, he tossed his head of wild golden hair and crowed in a bold little voice. Chip hadn’t been a Lost Boy very long— one season, Peter guessed— but already he’d absorbed Peter’s genius and could shoot the wings off a dragonfly. Peter was proud to be Chip’s father. Or his chief, his king, or his captain, depending what game they played at the moment.
Today they were playing Indians. The four of them had foraged in the forest and rounded up a parcel of sturdy sticks. The earlier part of the morning was spent hunched over with tongues between teeth, attaching tips and feathers. Peter had relished impressing his boys over breakfast. With a flourish, he had opened his Wendy-pocket to reveal a cache of arrowheads he’d confiscated as he prowled the People’s hunting grounds. He could shape his own arrowheads of course— no one did it better— but at times like this he missed the Twins, who used to perform the labor for him, even experimenting with innovations and improving all his weapons. But today, and every day now, the Twins, too, were Indians.
Peter didn’t like to think about the Twins. It brought a sour taste to the back of his throat. The Twins had broken his law. They’d grown up. Now they were known on the Island as the Men of the Clearing, and they were big and bronzed, considered to be real Indians by the outcast native ladies who had taken them in. Peter got a feeling he wasn’t used to feeling— a writhing in the pit of his stomach— when he remembered that the Twins and their ladies lived in the house Peter had ordered built for his Wendy. Like everything the Twins touched, the little dwelling had been reinvented by the pair, and now it comfortably held two men, three women, and four children. Or Peter supposed it was comfortable. He wouldn’t know. He wasn’t welcome in that house. Nor did he wish to be: it held too many grown-ups.
Chip’s arrow sped away with a spitting sound to strike the oak in a ‘Thunk!’ A shout followed from Chip himself. Not to be outdone, Peter threw back his head to discharge his signature crow, drowning out the other boys’ voices. Bertie and Bingo dropped their bows and joined hands to circle round, celebrating Chip’s superiority. Their bare feet thumped the forest floor. “Hurrah, huzzah, for the prince, the warrior brave!”
Two less-competitive boys didn’t exist, in the Neverland or not. Full of the joy of living, Bertie and Bingo embraced the world. Peter smiled at them, approving as they cheered. These boys were the perfect foils for his own perfection, and for Chip’s rising star. They followed their leader’s commands and applauded everything he accomplished. Unenterprising if left to themselves, yet they entered into Peter’s every scheme with enthusiasm.
A few weeks after Chip was discovered in the park in London, Jewel’s cousins there, the park fairies, had found these two little boys after Lock-out Time. One was dark and chubby, the other a hungry carrot-top. They now wore cast-offs the burly boy Tootles had outgrown, rapidly, during his tenure as a Lost Boy, and they swam about in Tootles’ oversized shirts and breeches. Once he’d named these children, Peter could never remember which was Bertie and which was Bingo, but they answered to either. If Peter stopped to think about it, he be
lieved the three boys of his latest band were created specifically for his benefit, just like the plot of one of Wendy’s stories. Sooner or later, her tales always came true. No doubt she invented these two as she told his legend to the pirates she’d run off with when, true to her story, she stained her hand with blood and changed her name to Jill. Peter hadn’t liked that idea at first, but now he preened to think how her tales of Peter Pan must impress those scummy buccaneers. He doubted they’d trouble him again soon. The pirates had sailed away with Jill and two of Peter’s boys, and they’d tried to filch his fairy, too, a while ago. But Jewel couldn’t live without Peter. Even before he swooped in to rescue her, she escaped to fly home to him. He was her wonderful boy.
“Peter,” Chip’s eyes glowed green, like his own. “You’re thinking of a story. Tell it to us!”
Bertie and Bingo jumped up shrieking, “Yes!” then plumped down cross-legged on the damp, grassy earth of the forest. “We’re listening.”
“You two need more target practice. The story I’m thinking of is about pirates, and you never know when they’ll attack.”
Bingo, the carrot-top, piped up, a note of disappointment in his voice. “But they’re off sailing the high seas. We haven’t spied a single pirate since we got here.”
Chip suggested, “We only suppose they’re off on a voyage. They could be making use of a ruse to catch us off guard. Right, Peter?”
Nodding wisely, Peter put on his best father face. “Exactly right. You’ve been paying attention.” He unslung his quiver and bow to drop them on the ground. With a bound, he leapt to the low, bench-like branch of the old oak tree. Here he perched with one knee under his chin, ready to hold forth with his own variation of one of Wendy’s stories. It was a pirate story on the surface but like all the best tales, it was, in fact, about himself.