Hook & Jill Saga 3: Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  “Nature, Sir! Aye, you’re looking natural enough.” Smee, too, was a cautious man, and he tamped his humor down. “A quick dip in the bay ought to wash off the worst of it. Then the lady will tend you in your quarters.” He stepped backward, waving a hand before his nose. “Woosht! That clay fairly reeks.”

  “Rowan and Lightly are under strict orders. They are never to reveal to me what this foul substance is.”

  “A fine job they made of you, too. And what were you seeing as you guarded her, Commodore, perched up there in the treetop like He of the Eagle’s Claw, in your eyrie?”

  Hook smiled, half-way, and the earth that had dried on his lips crumbled, to tumble back to its source.

  “I saw another husband. And his curse.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Water Craft

  Battered, barely seaworthy, the boat nosed slowly into the Lagoon. Its crew looked ragtag and tired, its captain grizzled, yet the great man stood proud at the prow, eyeing the waters for enemies. Pointing with his cutlass, he directed his oarsmen toward his destination. Huddled behind him was a prisoner who trembled to see it. Marooners’ Rock was a bleak place to die, cold and uncompromising— like the captains who used it.

  Before the boat bumped against the islet, the captain hobbled up upon the rock. “Hoist him up,” he cried, and his men bustled to obey. They secured the craft by means of rusty rings driven into the rock. Then the ruddy-cheeked bo’sun grasped the malefactor by the shoulders and, without a twinge of pity, delivered him up to his doom. He inspected the prisoner’s bonds, making sure his hands were tied behind so that swimming was impossible, and he tethered him, too, to the rings.

  The crew were grim, and even the Lagoon looked hostile to them, this late afternoon. Tall moss-covered cliffs enclosed the place, stark and stoic, offering no escape but for birds. With a whiff of kelp, the wind assailed the sea, sending waves to chop the shelves of the shore. Caves and fissures gaped along the coast. To the prisoner, those openings seemed to stare, like hollow, hopeless eyes. No merfolk lounged about the shore to brighten it with color and, even if they had, by their very nature they would offer no succor. When the water rose with the tide— soon, at sunset— any creature who could not swim must drown.

  “Hath the prisoner last words?” asked the captain. Judging by the look on his face, he did not encourage a statement.

  Surrounded by shipmates, the condemned one knelt on the punishing rock. Although he was unable to clasp his hands before him, still he appeared penitent. His voice quavered as he begged, “Please, Cap’n! Show some pity, Sir. I never meant no harm, and that’s the truth!”

  “Belay that. If ye have no words worth hearing, stow your gab.” The captain flourished his cutlass. With it, he tapped the tender underside of the wretched man’s chin. “Or wouldst thou rather die by my steel?”

  The bo’sun caught the captain’s arm. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but this bit of scum ain’t worth the work o’ wiping your blade.” The others guffawed, although nervous quivers ran up their backbones, and they watched their commander for signs of displeasure. None of his men wished to keep his victim company here on this rock. The bo’sun was a brave one, ruthless in his captain’s service, and much admired by the seamen, yet even he felt weak at the knees.

  “Bo’sun,” a suspenseful pause followed. “Ye speak true. Let us abandon this scalawag to justice.” So saying, the captain thrust his cutlass in his belt. “ ’Twon’t be long now, heark ye, before the waters mount to swamp thy gullet.” He stood tall, to gaze toward the lowering sun. “Behold, even now the light be changing.”

  Kicking his men aside, he began to stroll the solid surface of the rock. Back and forth he stumped in his Navy coat, like Nelson on the Victory. It became apparent to his men, and to his prisoner, that justice must wait. Deliberation occupied their officer. Before long, his brow unfurrowed, and his weathered face turned nearly youthful.

  “By gad, I almost envy thee, ye scug.”

  The bo’sun’s boot poked the prisoner, who grasped that he was expected to respond. “How’s that, m’lord?”

  “Why, look about thee, boy. Here ye lie, on the rarest of isles, surrounded by sea and sky and the creatures that inhabit ’em. Here ye lie, faced with the great unknown. Rip my jib, boy! If I were thee, I’d have some utterance worth spitting out, at the end.”

  The crew passed glances around, stymied. Mermaids’ Lagoon was, however, a magical cove. As if suddenly inspired, the prisoner flung off his lethargy and leapt to his feet. Turning, he confronted the torchy orb of the sun. He squinted in defiance, and the company gasped to see him twist his wrists to break his bonds. The severed cords fell to his feet; he set his fists on his hips. With his heart pounding as hard as the surf, he said, with flair, “To die…will be an awfully big adventure.”

  Captain Pan gazed upon his victim, his green eyes wide with wonder. “That’s prime, Chip!” He clapped the boy on the back, all thoughts of execution over. Erupting in a crow, Peter jumped in the air and soared to the height of the cliffs, where he flipped and frolicked. Zooming down to the rock again with his golden hair wild, he managed to muster a fraction of his former dignity. “Odds bobs, hammer and tongs,” he vowed, “Bo’sun Paleface be brilliant, but Chip triumphs again.”

  All the Lost Boys whooped, glad the grim scene was ended. They felt gladder still that it won success in Peter’s opinion. Chubby Bertie hopped in the boat, nearly capsizing it and causing a drowning after all, and Bingo, with his orange hair flaming in the slanting sunlight and his stomach roaring for supper, followed to fetch out the picnic, before it, too, got deluged. He plunked the basket on the rock. “Marooning is hungry work. Can we eat now, Cap’n?”

  “Aye, aye, sailor. Bo’sun, swab up the deck, and we’ll have a square meal.”

  “Yes, Sir!” David Paleface kicked the frayed braids of weeping willow into the sea, the remnants of the condemned man’s bonds. They floated around the rock like a derelict Neverbird nest while the Lost Boys devoured their supper. This meal happened to be material rather than make-believe: breadfruit and bananas, with cocoa-nuts to crack noisily upon the rock. As usual, Bingo ate one too many mouthfuls, and, as Wendy wasn’t there to hold him back for half an hour, he challenged Bertie, “Race me to shore!” and down he splashed, holding his nose.

  Spooked by the mood of the Lagoon so late in the day, Bertie was wiser, and declined to submerge himself. As Bingo’s carrot-top bobbed away, he called, “Come back, Bingo, the tide’s a-rising!” Helplessly, he looked through his dark, bushy bangs to the others. Peter and Chip were smoking imaginary after-dinner pipes, reclining opposite one another like diminishing mirror images. They seemed absorbed in watching dragon flies flit through their smoke rings. Bertie appealed to David, who was tossing bits of cocoa-nut shell off the rock to plop in the Lagoon. Neither boy saw the scaly-backed hands that caught those bits, nor the pearly teeth that nibbled them.

  “All right, I’ll fetch him back.” David had mastered flight by now, and felt really quite proficient, but here at the Lagoon it seemed only right to swim, so in he slid, and he ducked after Bingo. Shadows had fallen upon the rock ledge that made up the shore, and its grottos appeared blacker than before. Already, the tide was seeping into them with unearthly gurgles. It was time to turn homeward. Even the Lagoon knew it, and, accordingly, sped its agenda.

  Almost to shore, Bingo looked back to shout out his victory. As he opened his mouth, a curl of surf smacked him in the face. He choked and gagged, and, weighted with his dinner, soon he sank down. Some yards behind, David saw him go under. Executing a dashing maneuver, David propelled himself into the air, like a porpoise. He caught up to the spot where Bingo disappeared, then dove down to find him. Had Peter been paying attention, he’d have blazed with pride to see David fly with such style— just like his tutor. But Peter wasn’t paying attention. Only Bertie and the lurking mergirl saw.

  Spotting Bingo by his flaming hair, David seized the boy and pulled him up to the r
ock shelf. Bingo coughed, winking the sting from his eyes. Clinging to the ledge, he recovered, but when his sight cleared and he looked for David to thank him, David was gone.

  How far gone, even David didn’t know. Something held his ankle in its grasp, and tugged to tow him under. When it let go, his surroundings seemed dim and distorted. Through the wavering water, he gazed at a sea creature, and she stared back at him. Even submerged in tepid waves, David felt his cheeks flush hot. The depth filled his ears with pressure. He ignored it. Floating upward, the mermaid’s hair was weaving with the currents, and her eyes seemed almost to glow. In the hues of the sea, David couldn’t determine the color of her hair, nor her tail, nor the more remarkable parts in the middle. He simply goggled. He’d believed, of late, that he had become accustomed to the Island’s trickery. He should have known better. Always, the place offered marvels, and menaces. This time, the opposites met, in irresistible combination.

  David wasn’t capable of thinking at the moment, but he formed a strong impression: a body— feminine— that fluxed in fluid contours; a soul as old and as young as Peter’s himself; and a face whose glory rivaled Red-Handed Jill’s. If he lived through this wonder, David knew he’d have a story to tell— and no one to believe it.

  At the periphery of his vision, David saw Bingo’s feet thrashing, and he was reminded of his mortal need to breathe. With his lungs afire, he gestured to the mermaid, pointing upward, and although he expected to feel her grip on his ankle again, he surfaced. She followed him, bobbing between the sea and the air, her hair now slick against her head, and her indigo eyes curious. If she planned to dispatch him, he figured, she’d toy with him first. The prospect appealed to him.

  Spitting saltwater, he flopped on the rock shelf. The surf sloshed in the caves, and he opened his eyes to see Bingo’s freckled face looming above him. “Get back to Peter, Bingo,” David panted, “And you’d better not swim.” He sat up and wiped his eyes, then searched for the mermaid. His pluck returned once he saw she was gone, but his heart submerged with her, and David sagged with disappointment. With an ache in his insides, he barely noticed when Bingo pushed off to fly.

  David had glimpsed mermaids from the air, when in flight over the Neverland, but he’d avidly hoped to view one up close. Peter enjoyed David’s new nautical games so well that he’d salvaged a rotting boat from the riverbank, and commanded his boys to help David patch it up. Always one for drama, Peter felt that David’s first experience of the Lagoon should be staged to reflect its character, and a marooning on the rock seemed such an admirable scheme that Peter bent Wendy’s rule about curfew. The other boys were excited to stay out so late, but David’s excitement derived from something more potent than mischief. It had to do with destiny. Now, his intuition was confirmed. David Paleface felt it in his bones; Fate meant for him to be here.

  He had seen a mermaid! But why should Fate send such a slender adventure? David spent days toiling on the boat, building his anticipation along with the craft. Surely the Island intended something more substantial than a mere sighting? The other boys had assured David that these creatures, so eccentric in their tastes, would scorn him. They might try to kill him for sport, but merfolk made time only for Peter, who played with them, or for pirates, who offered some other form of fascination. Instead, this mermaid deemed David interesting. Perhaps she still watched, even now. As the breeze chilled his sodden clothing, David cast his gaze, like a fishnet, over the Lagoon. The other boys romped on the rock, the amber sun burned low, and still, he detected no flash of fins beneath the water, nor any movement but the waves that crept craftily over his knees.

  He slumped. And then every hair on his head prickled up. A sigh sounded behind him, and he felt her breath on his cheek. David turned to behold the beauty, lolling at his back. Her purple lips puckered as she blew on him, then she opened them to smile. He saw now that her hair was so black it shone blue. Like her eyes, her tail was indigo, and she wore only a gem in her navel. In spite of its glistening, he felt his eyes drawn lower, to witness the seamless V where her belly changed from flesh to fishtail. In such an unnatural creature, that place of joining seemed natural. If he dared to touch her, how might that spot feel? Soft, no question. Slippery? Or was it filmed with grains of salt? His mouth began to salivate as he considered how she’d taste there. As he balled his fingers to hold them back, his gaze wandered upward again, and, clammy as his skin was, he felt a feverish heat.

  As a sailor, David heard tales of her kind, and he’d heard the warnings. They proved true enough. Face to face with her now, he was dazed by the blatancy of her nakedness. When he’d watched her underwater, her bosom floated, weightless and free. Now, subject to gravity, her breasts swelled heavy at their bottoms, curving upward to peak at their middles. David’s experience was limited, but he was certain most females’ nipples weren’t blue. He flushed, then, as her shining eyes took him in, and he grew aware of his own body. He felt the rigidity that hid in his britches. He wondered if it were not quite polite to be clothed when one’s company was not. It seemed oddly proper to cast off his garments and let this mermaid view him, too. But in the primordial lexicon of the Lagoon, no ‘polite’ nor ‘proper’ existed. Emotion ruled over utterance, and, with eloquence, David’s body expressed what he felt. He knew she understood; she slithered near, smiling, and brushed her breasts along his arm. Wordless, will-less, and helpless against such divinity, David surrendered. He knew he was doomed.

  The mermaid gazed at his face. With one pallid hand, she reached out with a touch that felt warm as the air. Midnight blue, her scales glimmered on her forearms and the backs of her hands. He soon understood what aroused her curiosity. She dragged a finger over his left cheek, outlining the mark Jill had made. As her fingertip traced it, thrills trickled up and down his spine, like jets of a fountain. Then, with a knowing shine in her eye, she laid her hand flat upon Jill’s brand. She seemed pleased to find that the woman’s handprint matched her own. But her interest didn’t end at David’s cheek.

  While her right hand held his face, her left caressed his body. Starting at his shoulder, she traced the length of his arm, then she abandoned his limb to stroke his torso. From there she moved to his belly, and next to his hip. As her indigo gaze confined his eyes, she found his thigh. The tidewater was rising, covering him up to his ribs now, and all David wanted was her touch. He was hyperventilating, growing dizzy, waiting for the ultimate sensation, for the pleasure she promised, in full.

  She slid her fingers up his mast, where he pulsed with desire. He thought his passion would burst within her grip. With her blueish breasts, she made it worse, pressing her flesh upon his chest. She leaned him backward, to recline. He lay back, low, and lower, agog at her lovely face as the water came between them. Again, he disregarded the pressure in his ears, manfully striving to hold back the force at his loins. Liquid sea slipped over his eyes, swirling her image but, if anything, enhancing her charms. Her chin joined him below the surface, becoming firm again, her lips slid in, then her nose, and…

  She sat up, abruptly, turning away with a hiss. She released her hold on his privates. A fresh grip seized his shirt, and that grip yanked him up, to the right side of the tide. He gulped a breath he hadn’t known he needed, and, astonished, found cheeky Peter sitting squat on the mermaid’s tail.

  “Not this one,” Peter declared to the creature, in his captainy voice. “Not yet.”

  Indignant, the mermaid tugged toward escape. Peter held her down, to show who was boss, finally allowing her to float free. The water lay so high above the shore now that she swam, gliding right into a cave, swishing her indigo scales. Still drawn to her, David saw her bright eyes peering out at him. He launched himself to paddle her way but, with a firm grasp on his belt, Peter pulled him back.

  “No you don’t, Paleface. I need you to work the ship.”

  Blinking, David set his feet on the ledge and stood, his masculine glands throbbing, and he stared down to see the tide above the level
of his thighs. “Oh,” he cried. On Peter, the water came to the waist. Recalled to duty, David looked where Peter pointed, to the boys on Marooners’ Rock.

  “The little ones are up to their necks.”

  “Peter, the boat’s about to break moorings!” He and Peter joined hands to gain traction, and shoved off, dripping, to recover the others.

  The adventure wasn’t over yet. Peter’s plan was twofold. Now that the salvaged boat had served its role in the playacting, it was destined to sink a second time, as host for diving missions. Dressed anew in his French blue jacket, the captain took up his stance on the prow, commanding his crew to “Heave ho!” At the edge of the cliff, by the northern entrance to the Lagoon, they shipped oars. Here, as ordered, the boys lined up, balancing on both gunwales, and they jumped up and down, alternating port and starboard. The craft rocked, creaking in protest until it gave up, burbled water to its gills, and yielded to the brine. Bubbles rose to the surface while the sun sank at last. In the ragged remains of its nimbus, Peter drew his cutlass once more. He scored an X on the cliff side to mark sunken treasure, and pointed the route to his crew. “Homeward, ye lubbers. To hammocks!”

  Up they rose, one by one, to follow the stars, like the ancient mariners they were. The Lagoon lay submerged now, its only sound the slurp of the surf, and a haunted song pouring from a grotto. At the tail of the line, lagging behind, a young man trembled to leave it.

  Marooners’ Rock was a bleak place to die. Older and wiser tonight, David Paleface left part of his heart there.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Deliberations in council this morning had tested the Old One’s patience. Since then, she rested and reflected. Now prepared to resume her responsibilities, she set her staff aside, settling on a log to stretch her toes in the pure, cool course of the stream.