by Susan Adrian
If it really happens. We’ve been waiting a long time. Maybe he’s not coming back. I tap my fingers, the rhythm soothing, easing the worry in my mind.
I asked Grandmother all about what Neverland was like, but she said it’s different for everyone. She loved horses when she was little, so she had an adventure saving a wild horse from a dragon. She says you can’t plan for it. I wish I could, though. I like to know what’s going to happen, and what a place looks like. I like to know what I’m going to be expected to do.
What am I going to be expected to do?
“Clover,” I whisper. “It’ll be okay, won’t it?”
Her eyes shine in the lamplight. She’s sitting stiffly on the edge of her bed, her feet flat on the floor. “I hope so. Grandmother will explain to Mom, after we’re gone, and Grandfather. And we’ll be back soon, she said. It’ll be okay.”
“I can see we need to teach you about the Neverland.”
I gasp. Peter stands in the window, one hand braced on the top, like the illustration in the book. He’s wearing clothes made of brown cloth, not leaves like in the picture. He leaps softly into the room. A light follows him, the size of my little finger, then another bigger one, zipping around his head, and another. Light blooms out from them. “Pixies,” I say under my breath. I’m glad I know now what they are.
Peter stands between us, arms crossed, legs spread wide. “We do not,” he says sternly, “go to the Neverland worrying about parents or when we will come back.” His voice is high, but it doesn’t bother me like high voices sometimes do. It fits him. “I will not have that kind of talk. If you go to the Neverland, you go for fun. Adventure. Freedom. Will you go?” He looks at Clover, then at me, and it feels like he’s judging us.
Then he flings his arms out wide and he laughs, loud. “Of course you’ll go. We will have such a marvelous time. It has been long and long since we had a Wendy to mother us.”
“I’m Clover,” my sister says sharply. “Not Wendy. I’m not going to mother anyone.”
One of the lights dives toward her and hovers in front of her face. She squints but doesn’t move. That’s her sour face. I recognize it.
Peter raises his eyebrows. “But you will sing for us, yes? Your singing brought me here last night. Better than the mermaids, though don’t tell them I said so. And you are a fine mother, I think.”
He looks at me. I squirm, feeling like I should do something, say something. I don’t know what I should do. I look down. “Pan,” I whisper. “Hermes and Pan.” One of the other lights comes close to my face, and I shut my eyes against the brightness. I wish I could see the pixie instead of just the light. It’s warm, though, like before.
“You,” Peter says slowly, “are not a John. You are a Lost Boy.”
I open my eyes, and the pixie darts away. “I am Fergus.”
“Just so. You are Fergus. And I am Peter Pan.” He grins, showing his small teeth, and this time I do grin back. I can’t help it. Even Clover smiles a little, her sour face melting away.
“Your color is green,” I say. I clap my hands. It fits so well. Even his eyes are green. “You’re deep green all over, like a forest.” I wonder if he is a god, if he is Hermes’s son. Do all the gods have colors, like everyone else?
Peter nods. “Of course I am green. I come from the forest and the garden.” He frowns. “Your voice…both of you. You sound strange. Flat.”
“We’re American,” Clover says.
He shrugs. “You will have to explain ‘American.’ But you are from Wendy, I feel that.”
He tilts his head at Clover. “You will come, won’t you? The last Wendy…” He makes a funny, tight face. Suddenly he springs up next to Clover on her bed, grabs her hands, and pulls her to her feet. “Jump!” he shouts. He starts bouncing with her on the bed. “Jump! Jump!” He laughs. At first Clover looks nervous, but then she laughs too, a laugh like I haven’t heard from her in a long time, loud and free. Her bun bobs up and down.
“Happy thoughts, now,” Peter says. He laughs again. “Think of the happiest thing you can.”
Clover’s face scrunches for a moment, like she’s trying to think of something while still bouncing. Then all of a sudden it clears, and she smiles, wide and sunny. Then she sings a long, sweet note, her arms spread wide.
“Now, Nari! Donar! Gla!” Peter cries.
One of the pixie lights buzzes around Clover, from her head to her feet, then the others, and on one of the bounces Clover just doesn’t come down. Her feet don’t touch the bed. Suddenly she’s near the ceiling, floating just like Jane in the book. She looks happy, too, like Jane did. “I’m flying!” she shouts, spinning in the air. “Fergus! I’m flying!”
I jump up on my bed. “Me! My turn! My turn!”
Peter flies over and takes my hands. I don’t mind, though his hands feel rough, like tree bark. We bounce and bounce and laugh, and the lights zip around me. “Happy thoughts!” Peter calls, and I’m ready. I had my happy thought ready to go, and I let it fill my head.
I imagine being in the British Museum alone, after hours, all the artifacts surrounding me. It’s calm, and quiet, with just enough light to see by, and I can look at the Hermes exhibits as much as I want.
Before I know it, I’m floating near the ceiling too.
I feel so free. Nothing is touching me, nothing holding me down. It’s the feeling of spinning, but better. I swoop, and laugh at the air on my face. My hands fly from pure joy, and it makes me go higher.
“Away to Neverland!” Peter calls. Without looking back, he flies straight out the window.
Clover looks at me, then dives down and grabs her backpack.
I fly down and pick mine up too, and wriggle it onto my back. I check to make sure my voice recorder is secure in my pocket.
“We follow the North Star,” I say.
Clover smiles. She knows it’s from Clash of the Titans, when they leave on their adventure. I say it a lot when we’re setting off somewhere. To me it means We’re ready. Let’s go. But now we’re really going out into the stars.
“We follow the North Star!” she repeats. She sings again, a little “la-la-la!,” and giggles.
We fly after Peter into the night. It’s scary when we cross the windowsill, the ground dropping out under us. But one of the pixies does a swoop in front of me, so I try one. Joy bubbles up inside me. This is better than I ever imagined. Flying is even more fun out here, in the night, with the lights shining bright below.
The pixie zips forward, like it’s reminding me that I need to keep up with Peter, so I do what it does, pushing with my feet like I’m swimming. There’s nothing restricting me. I feel as if I’m swimming in the ocean, letting the waves carry me. Except I won’t get salt water in my eyes.
I could fly forever.
Clover hovers next to me, her arms wide, her face squinched up against the wind.
I laugh and do another spin, and we fly on, over the city of London.
I’m worried again.
In the book, it took days to get to Neverland. I remember reading about how they flew on and on and on, and they kept falling asleep and almost crashing into the sea, or almost getting lost going through clouds. I don’t know if we can do it. I don’t know if I can do it. I look at all the lights of London far below. It’s beautiful, for sure. But how can we possibly make it so far?
How can we possibly be flying at all? We shouldn’t be able to. It goes against all the laws of nature.
I drop a few feet, and before I even have time to scream, Peter is next to me, his red curls blowing back in the breeze.
“Wendy,” he scolds, “your doubt is a poisonous cloud, and it’s spreading. You cannot doubt while you are flying. You must think happy thoughts. Believe.”
“But it’s so far,” I whisper, and I drop lower. I see Fergus above me now, shooting this
way and that, pixies dancing by his head. He seems fine—happy, even. But the worry spreads in my chest. “Does it really take days and days to get there?”
Peter reaches out and catches my hand. Instantly I feel better, calmer, the tightness loosening a little. His hands are warm. Maybe they’re magic.
“It takes as long as it takes,” he says with a shrug. “Be here now, instead of worrying about the next part. Look at the view around you.” He points to Big Ben, not far away, its big, round face shining bright, and the Thames curving like a snake through the city. “Above you.” He points at the stars, which seem so close I could touch them if I tried. “Second star to the right, and straight on till morning.” He winks. “There’s your clue for how long it takes. Now. You had a lovely happy thought to begin flying—I could see it on your face. Think it again. Let it fill you.”
I close my eyes and imagine it again: standing on a stage with a full choir, singing, the notes coming out perfectly, exactly the way I want them. I’m doing a solo, and it’s perfect. The packed crowd cheers wildly, and I bow.
Yes!
Peter lets go of my hand and soars up and up and up, and I follow him easily. I push through a little cloud, cold mist on my face, and laugh, surprised. How many people know what it’s like inside a cloud?
We fly on until the city changes to countryside below us, and villages. Everything is quiet, with only a few lights here and there shining in windows. England is so pretty, even at night. I try to think only of that, of singing, of being happy…instead of worrying about what’s next. We keep on to the towns on the coast, houses piled up on the edge of the rocks. The smell of the ocean sweeps over us like a different kind of wave, seaweed and salt water crashing together, and I relax more. It smells like San Diego, like home.
I stretch out my arms and try a little swoop. Peter joins me, and then Fergus, and we swoop around and over each other like wild dragonflies. We fly for a long, long time over the ocean, until the sun starts to peek through the edge of the sky—and I’m not tired at all, or scared anymore. I’m just there, skimming through the air, free.
When a green island appears through the clouds, Peter points and the pixies dart away from us. I stare down at it, fascinated.
We’ve come to Neverland.
* * *
—
From the air, the island looks mostly like it did in the illustrations in Peter and Wendy. There are two big mountain peaks in the middle with snow dusting the tops like powdered sugar, and two round coves, one on the bottom of the island and one on the side. The water in the coves is pure turquoise. I don’t see any pirate ships from up here.
I fly next to Peter, as close to him as I can. “Are there still pirates? Crocodiles? Mermaids?” I feel like I should’ve asked this before.
He laughs, high, and leans in, his breath tickling my ear. “The mermaids are always there. My pirates are long vanquished. Margaret told you that story, yes? Captain Hook is well and truly dead, and the crocodile with him. But who’s there now? It depends on you. We’ll see.” He wiggles his eyebrows and dives down, fast, to the far end of the island away from the coves. As we get closer I can see it’s an old forest, packed with trees. Fergus shrieks happily and dives down too, and I can’t do anything but follow.
Of course it’s only then I start to wonder about how we land.
Peter lands lightly on his feet, in the middle of a clearing covered in long grass, his hands on his hips. Fergus and I pretty much crash. I slam down on my side and roll all the way across the clearing, coming up hard against a big tree.
I lie there panting for a minute, sure I’ve broken all my bones, before daring to wiggle my fingers and toes.
Surprisingly, I’m fine. “Fergus?” I call. “Are you okay?”
No answer.
“Fergus?” I sit up. He’s on his feet next to Peter, bouncing, his hands flying happily. He’s okay. Neither of us was shot by an arrow, like Wendy was when she first came here, so that’s good. We’re both still alive. I close my eyes and breathe pure relief.
Until I hear a growl, close. A terrible low growl that makes me instinctively freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears. The grass rustles, and there’s a strange, loud huff of breath.
“Peter?” I squeak. “What is that?”
A second later he’s next to me—the next second he has a bow in his hand, an arrow notched in it, ready. I don’t know where he got it from. He creeps behind me, his bare feet making no sound. Without looking, he waves for me to get out of the way. I stand and scurry over to Fergus, who’s watching, eyes wide.
The growl changes to a yowl, definitely catlike. A big cat. I recognize that sound from trips to the San Diego Zoo. They have a recording of it by the cat exhibit, where you can push a button and play it over and over.
It’s a mountain lion.
The lion darts from behind the tree where I was sitting, straight at Peter, and I scream. But Peter backs away in time, the arrow still aimed at the cat.
The cat is huge, easily as big as Peter, its fur the color of sand. It has huge, powerful-looking paws and a swinging tail. And sharp predator teeth it’s baring at him.
Peter doesn’t look worried at all. “It’s all right, then, cat,” he croons. He moves left, away from us, and the lion follows him on its big feet. “You do not want to tangle with me, then, do you? I’m surprised the other lions did not tell you about me.” He laughs, which stops the cat for a moment, before they move together again.
“No lion has ever beat me, nor bear, neither,” he says. “But I do not want to kill you today. I just returned home. I am not of that mind.” He stops moving and stares at the cat, hard, then takes one step toward it, arrow still notched. The cat doesn’t move; only its whiskers twitch. Peter steps closer again, within striking distance of those claws. I clench my fists. “Now go on. Get you away from here, and we shall do this another day when we are both ready.” He stares at the cat, and the cat stares back, neither of them blinking.
Suddenly a ball of light—a pixie—shoots straight down out of the sky and zips around the cat’s head. Another comes, and another. The cat shakes its giant head as the three pixies buzz around. It slaps a paw at them, confused.
“Enough,” Peter says. The pixies fly to Peter, hovering near him. “Go!” Peter shouts to the cat, pointing to a path that leads toward the mountain. “Go!”
The lion leaps, and I scream again, sure it’s going to cut Peter to pieces. Fergus screams too. But the cat flies right past, onto the path and away just like Peter told it to, its yellow tail flicking as it disappears into the brush.
Peter lowers the arrow and turns around. “I have not ever seen that kind of cat. You must’ve brought him with you.” The pixies skitter around his head. “Yes. Nari, Donar, Gla. You did help. Very well done. Oh, hello, Lost Boys. I’ve brought one of you, and a new mother.”
I spin, and behind Fergus and me, in a tight group, are six kids, our age or younger. Boys and girls both, all wearing dirty, scraggly clothes, their hair wild, staring at us.
“Hello,” one of the boys says, a boy with dark skin and curly brown hair.
“Hello,” Fergus echoes.
I nod, not sure what to say. Though I want to say what I keep telling Peter. I’m not anyone’s mother. Just Clover.
I don’t want them to expect Wendy and get me.
Even with the sun not all the way up, Neverland is bright. All the colors are more intense than at home, or in London. The grass is a deep jewel green, the trees the color of hot cocoa with Hershey’s syrup swirled in. Though every tree, every blade of grass, is the exact same color as the others, as if a little kid colored it all in with one box of markers. That’s funny.
The smells are stronger here too—the forest pine smell is almost overwhelming, mixed with the wild scent of the lion. I gag a little at how strong it is.
&
nbsp; My blood is still flying around my body too fast, and my head is pounding. I was happy in the air, and when we landed, but I didn’t like the lion at all. I don’t like lions even at the zoo. They pace back and forth, trapped, and stare at people like we’d make a good mouthful if they could only reach.
Now I’m standing in front of a group of kids who are staring at me like I’m the one in the cage…like at home. Groups of people are always scary, and other kids can be the worst. I look away and rub my hand hard against my lips, back and forth, back and forth. It helps distract from the scariness, to feel my fingers on my lips, familiar, soft.
When I look up, they’re all rubbing their mouths too. They’re making fun of me. My heart sinks in my chest.
But then Peter does it too, and not one of them is laughing.
I frown, trying to understand. Maybe they just think that’s what we do when we meet people, and they’re being polite. I look at Clover. She laughs and rubs her mouth too, and then I laugh and laugh, my belly full of laughing. A few of the kids laugh too. As soon as I stop rubbing, everyone else stops.
“I’m Fergus,” I say, feeling suddenly bold.
“And I’m Clover,” she says.
They make a circle around the three of us, Peter and Clover and me, and say their names. The pixies make big swoops in the air. The tall boy who spoke first is named Friendly, and there’s a girl named Shoe and another girl named Rella, but I get caught up thinking about how your name could be Shoe, and I don’t remember the rest. Hopefully, they’ll say them again later. I should’ve recorded them, so I’d know.
“We saw the cat run away,” Rella says. She’s very small, with pale skin, freckles, and straight coppery hair. She shoves it out of her eyes. “Well done, Peter.”