by A. C. Wise
“What is this place?” She finally manages to put words in order, and they’re far gentler than what she meant to say. She wants to call him a rotten thief and shout at him until he tells her where her parents are.
“It’s Neverland, of course. Where else would it be?” Peter says the words like she should know what he means, even though he’s speaking complete nonsense. She’s studied every single part of the globe her father gave her, and there’s no such place as Neverland.
“How could you forget?” Peter says.
She shakes her head, too frightened now for words. There’s a cold crawling feeling in her stomach, something important she’s missing.
“I’m Peter.” He points at himself, speaking slowly and loudly now. Then he points at her. “And you’re Wendy.”
“That’s not my name.” The fear spikes, scrabbling in her chest. “That’s my mother’s name. I’m—” But when she reaches for it, her name is gone again.
Her voice wobbles. She has a feeling like she’s looking at a puzzle—pieces are there, only she can’t fit them together. Peter’s smile flickers, a candle guttered with darkness, but returns an instant later just as bright.
“Of course you’re the Wendy. I found you and brought you back to Neverland so you can be our mother again. That’s the way it works.” He tilts his head again, making her think of a bird. Not pigeons this time, something sharper and cleverer, like a starling or a crow.
He’s still smiling, but it’s a hard smile. He isn’t making any sense, but she’s afraid to ask him to explain himself again, or tell him that he’s wrong – there’s no such place as Neverland, there can’t be, and he needs to take her home. She looks closer. Peter isn’t a starling at all, he’s a different bird, one with a beak hooked for hunting. A hawk, maybe. Why does she think of birds every time she looks at him? The answer is almost there, she can feel it, but every time she concentrates on it, it slips away from her.
She doesn’t want to think about what she doesn’t know. It’s too big and too frightening. If she tries hard enough, perhaps she can convince herself this is all a bad dream. Her mother and father will come for her soon and everything will go back to the way it’s supposed to be. They’ll wrap her up in a warm blanket and set her in front of the fire. Cook will make scones with clotted cream and jam for tea, and they will all listen, rapt, as she relates the story of her strange adventure.
Perhaps her mother will even bring out the special china, the set that belonged to the grandmother she never met. It will be a proper celebration, to show how happy they are that she’s home. Her mama smiling, the light her papa gets in his eyes when he’s listening to someone tell a particularly good tale. Her eyes prickle, but she forces a smile to show she isn’t afraid, and lifts her chin.
“I brought you more to drink.” Peter reaches outside the shelter to retrieve a tarnished silver cup stamped with a pattern. “It’ll make you well again, so you remember Neverland.”
He extends the cup toward her with an encouraging expression. Is this what he gave her before? It doesn’t look like medicine, and it smells sweet. Despite Peter’s claim it will make her better, she isn’t certain she wants to drink it at all. How can it help her remember a place she’s never been, a place that doesn’t even exist?
She stalls, examining the cup, aware of Peter watching her with impatience growing in his eyes. She recognizes the insignia stamped upon the cup’s side – His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Her papa took her to see the ships in the harbor once, bright sails fluttering from their tall masts, so beautiful and proud. How is it she can remember that and not her own name?
“Drink.” Peter nudges her fingers, and the cup is halfway to her lips without her even realizing she’d taken it from his hand.
He pushes at the bottom of the cup, tilting it so she has no choice but to swallow the liquid or choke on it. It’s thick and sweet. It tastes good, and even as she’s drinking it, it makes her thirsty for more. She drains the cup and Peter watches in approval. She knows it isn’t wise to take things from people she doesn’t know, especially not food or drink, but with the cup empty, she does feel better. Perhaps Peter isn’t dangerous after all. Perhaps he really does want to help her. The crawling feeling inside her calms, fear receding. Even sitting on the cold, wet sand, she feels safe and warm, like floating in a hot bath. She yawns widely.
“You can sleep now, if you’d like,” Peter says. “We’ll play a game when you wake up. I bet you have all sorts of new things to teach us.”
Before she can ask what he means, he’s gone, quick as a flash, scuttling out through a gap in the branches. She wants to call after him, but her tongue feels even heavier than before. Maybe she will lie down after all. Her insides feel warm from the drink, even better than the tea Cook makes. It’s like being wrapped in a blanket, tight like a cocoon. Maybe when she wakes, she’ll be a butterfly. The thought makes her smile, already drifting. She is safe here. There’s no reason to be afraid at all.
SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT
Wendy pulls the pins from her hair one by one and sets them in a precise line on top of her dresser. That done, she twists her loosened curls into a simple braid. Strands of gray thread the coppery-brown. Even though she was barely more than a child at the time, the first ones appeared when her hair grew back after the nurse at St. Bernadette’s shaved her head to stubble.
From the back of her wardrobe, Wendy retrieves the wide-legged trousers she sewed for herself last year. She promised Ned she wouldn’t wear them outside of the house. Like their furniture, like her agreement to call Mary by the title Cook whenever anyone else is around, it’s another concession to her father-in-law. Trousers are too modern, too mannish, not becoming of a proper lady. As if somehow the clothes Wendy chooses to wear might reflect on the tastes of her husband and his father, and not simply her own.
She pulls the trousers on, then slips her needles, her thread and her scissors into their deep pockets. She sewed them deeper than the pattern required, and she could fit several more items, but what else would she bring? What does one bring to the imaginary land of their childhood to rescue their daughter from a boy who refuses to grow old?
Wendy presses her lips together, trapping bitter laughter behind her teeth. There’s an edge of panic to it; if she lets it out, she might never stop. Everything about this is absurd, and yet it’s terrifyingly real. Her stomach twists around itself so she forces herself to focus on her wardrobe instead. She selects a blouse with long sleeves. It’s inadequate, but it will have to do. She digs out an old pair of low-heeled boots, worn but in good condition, and last, a shawl. She’s been freezing since Peter took her daughter away.
Wendy pushes opens the window then climbs onto the small sewing desk beneath it, bracing her hands on the sill and leaning into the night. Reflexively, she pats her pockets again, though she knows nothing will fall out. She crouches on the windowsill, gazing out at the London night. It’s time to bring her daughter home.
LONDON 1917
Wendy sits by the window in the common room, exhausted and numb. True to his word, Dr. Harrington kept the door to her room locked all night long, but in no way did it make her feel safe. She spent the night jumping at every sound, every shuffled footstep in the hall. Now, despite the tension singing through her, she can barely keep her eyes open. Her chin dips toward her chest, and between one over-long blink and the next, the girl who isn’t Tiger Lily drops into the chair beside her, an accusation on her lips.
“Why were you staring at me?” The violence of the girl’s motion startles Wendy, and she scoots sideways in her chair involuntarily. The legs scrape, and one of the nurses glares at her.
“I wasn’t.” Wendy drops her head, staring at the floor, her answer barely a whisper.
The girl leans forward to peer into Wendy’s face, her eyes narrowed.
“Not now, yesterday, in the hall.”
Wendy risks a look at the girl. Instead of Tiger Lily’s shining plaits, the girl’s black
hair hangs loose about her face. It isn’t tangled, but it’s un-brushed even though the distinctly clean smell of soap hangs about her. Her skin is darker than Wendy’s, but now that she’s inches from Wendy’s face, it’s clear the resemblance to Tiger Lily ends there. This girl’s face is rounder, and there are scars pock-marking it, like the ghosts of some childhood illness. There’s a gap between her teeth, which she bares in something that’s closer to a challenge than a smile.
“You reminded me of someone, that’s all.” Recovering from her initial surprise, Wendy lifts her head farther, hardening the line of her jaw. Neither of them has any choice in being here; why should she let this girl intimidate her or chase her away?
“There’s no one here who looks like me.” The girl’s chin juts out, defiant. “My people are part of the Kainai Nation, and now that my mother is dead, I’m the only one in London.”
She speaks the words as if the sheer force of them could make them true. Wendy is taken aback, but there’s hurt behind the anger the girl wears like a cloak, and that’s something Wendy understands. Now it isn’t so much Tiger Lily the girl reminds her of, but Peter’s boys, so very far away from home, not daring to admit they miss their beds and mothers.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is the Kainai Nation?”
Wendy can’t guess at this girl’s age. In one instant, she looks younger than Wendy, the next much older.
“They’re my people.”
“Is that… I mean, you’re an Indian, aren’t you?”
“Kainai. The Blood Tribe. Part of the Blackfoot Confederacy. I don’t know anything about India.” She draws the last word out, glaring, and Wendy’s cheeks flush hot.
“I’m sorry,” Wendy says quickly.
To her relief, the girl doesn’t leave. She settles back, arms crossed, but under her annoyance Wendy sees a glimmer of curiosity, and she seizes on it.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, and I truly am sorry. How did you end up here if…” Wendy stumbles over the words, feeling as though she’s stepping onto a frozen lake, uncertain whether the ice will hold.
The girl snorts, a sound almost like laughter.
“Do you mean here?” She gestures at the room. “Or London?”
“Both, I suppose.”
Wendy fights the urge to smile, afraid it will cause the girl to turn sullen and angry. This girl may not be Tiger Lily, but in this place with its screams and its glaring nurses and attendants, she’s the closest thing Wendy has found to a friendly face. The fact that the girl hasn’t gotten up and stormed away makes Wendy think she might feel the same way. Under all the bluster and bravado, maybe she’s lonely too.
The girl rolls her eyes as if telling Wendy her story is an imposition. But there’s an edge to her voice that makes Wendy think it’s been a long time since anyone listened to her.
“My father died when I was a baby. An Englishman married my mother when I was ten years old. He brought us to London from Canada. He didn’t want to bring me, but my mother wouldn’t leave me behind.”
There’s a fierceness to the girl’s expression as she speaks of the man who married her mother. Wendy doesn’t blame her. What sort of a man would ask a mother to leave her child behind?
“A year after we came to London, my mother died giving birth to my baby sister. The baby died too, before she even had a name. My mother’s husband kept me with him for a while. I slept in a room with the maidservants where he could pretend I didn’t exist. Then he met an Englishwoman he wanted to marry, and she didn’t like being reminded that he’d been married before, so he sent me here. I was fifteen. That was four years ago.”
Wendy’s mouth drops open, a sick feeling in her stomach. She can’t imagine anyone treating another person that way, let alone a child, but the girl shrugs when she’s done speaking, as though the story doesn’t cut at her anymore, at least not on the surface.
“That’s terrible.” Wendy reaches to touch the girl’s arm, but the look of disdain the girl throws her stops her cold.
The ice on the imaginary lake shifts under her feet and she drops her hand into her lap, examining her nails as if that’s all she meant to do. The nurse who helped her change her clothes yesterday also trimmed her nails painfully short, another measure for her supposed safety, just like her locked door.
“What about you? How did you end up here?” the girl asks.
Now it’s Wendy’s turn to make an unladylike sound that’s almost a laugh.
“I make up stories. Lies. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s make-believe.” Wendy’s lips twist; it’s all so absurd when she says it aloud. “At least that’s what my brother and Dr. Harrington tell me.”
“What kind of stories?” The girl uncrosses her arms, her expression unguarded now, but Wendy can’t stop the rage she felt on the girl’s behalf hardening into a knot of fear. She promised herself to keep Neverland safe. What if this is a trap? What if the girl reports back to Dr. Harrington?
The girl surprises Wendy by touching her hand when Wendy was afraid to touch her before. Her eyes aren’t what Wendy would call warm, but there’s a sincerity in them. She looks young again, younger than her nineteen years, and somehow much older at the same time. Wendy can’t imagine growing up in this place. It would be so easy for St. Bernadette’s to make a person hard, spiteful, but Wendy doesn’t see that in the eyes meeting hers. Resolve. Strength. Maybe a little bit of hurt and resentment. But not cruelty. Not a snitch or a spy.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” the girl says.
The words loosen the fear in Wendy’s chest. She wants to trust this girl. And more than that, she wants to show St. Bernadette’s that it can’t make her afraid either. She’ll tell her story, but only when and to whom she chooses.
“There was—is—a boy called Peter. When I was younger, he took my brothers and me away to another land, far away. There were mermaids and pirates and Ind—”
Wendy catches herself. She tries to think back—did Tiger Lily ever say a name for her people? Or were she and the others simply Indians and nothing more because Peter named them so?
“Go on,” the girl says, and Wendy finds a new kind of self-doubt blooming, suddenly shy. She wants this girl to like her; she might even dare let herself hope they could be friends.
“You won’t laugh at me?”
“No. I want to hear. But here.” The girl bends and takes something from a basket sitting on the floor next to her chair. She pushes an embroidery hoop, dangling with colored threads, into Wendy’s hands. “The nurses and attendants usually won’t bother us if we look like we’re busy doing something they approve of. If we’re just sitting around talking, they might get suspicious.”
“I’ll only make a mess of it.” Wendy tries to push the circle back into the girl’s hands, thinking of her mother’s attempts to teach her sewing as a child. She knew it to be an essential skill for a young lady, but she’d always made a mess of it, too impatient, always eager to be doing other things like reading or making up stories of her own, corralling her brothers into performing little plays for an audience of toys in the nursery. As a result, Wendy’s stitches had always come out crooked, her threads tangling and breaking. The only real success she’d ever had was sewing Peter’s shadow back on, and even that had withered and faded as soon as they’d reached Neverland.
“I’ll teach you,” she says.
“I don’t think the nurses will let me have a needle.” Wendy glances at her clipped nails. The idea of them allowing her even a tiny sliver of metal sharp enough to draw blood is unthinkable.
The girl waves a hand, dismissing Wendy’s concerns.
“The nurses bring their own embroidery and sewing to keep themselves occupied, but they’re forever losing and misplacing things. It shouldn’t be too hard to get you your own supplies. I’m very good at keeping secrets and hiding things.” She flashes a grin. “I’m Mary, by the way, Mary White Dog. Mary is the name my mothe
r gave me. My grandmother gave me the name White Dog, but they don’t like me to use it, so on all the papers here I’m Mary Smith.”
The torrent of words leaves Wendy feeling breathless, but giddy as well. She gathers herself, offering her own name in turn.
“I’m Wendy. Wendy Darling. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Wendy.” Mary grins full on now, a crooked and charming thing. “Tell me a story.”
LONDON 1931
The night air catches at Wendy’s hair, tugging strands loose from her braid and blowing them against her cheeks. She looks down. It isn’t that far to the courtyard below her window, but it’s far enough. If she fails, if she falls, she’ll break a bone at least, probably more than one.
When she and John and Michael had first returned from Neverland all those years ago, Wendy had been dreadfully sick. She’d spent weeks in bed with a fever, as if something there had infected her and her body could no longer tolerate the London air. Her parents had been patient at first, bringing cold cloths for her forehead and warm broth to drink, holding her hand gently and asking her where they’d been. They’d been gone nearly two weeks, and then suddenly reappeared in the nursery again as though they’d never left.
She’d tried to explain, but it had sounded like a fairy tale, which is just what her mother and father had thought it was. They’d thought her confused, delirious with her fever. When the fever had faded and the story persisted, they’d grown frustrated, even angry. She remembers the way John and Michael had looked between her and their parents, doubtful and a little afraid, wanting her assurances but not knowing what to believe.