by A. C. Wise
“But.” The words still remain halting and unsure, but she forces herself to go on. “I believe… that is… I think there are more kinds of love in the world than most people speak about out loud. I love you.” She meets Mary’s eyes, hoping desperately she will understand. “And I could love Ned in time. I want… I want us to be all together, like a family.”
She searches Mary’s expression frantically for any sense of what her friend is thinking. The world is no longer beneath her feet. Wendy is free-falling, and she no longer remembers how to fly.
“I want you with us, but more than that, I want you to be happy. I want you to have whatever it is you want, even if that’s a life apart from me.” Wendy finally runs out of words.
She feels on the verge of tears, and at the same time, wrung out, hollow. Perhaps she does belong here after all. Perhaps she is mad, but not for the reasons John and Dr. Harrington thought. It’s strange, perhaps not what she was raised to believe, but she can understand men loving men and women loving women. But not loving anyone at all? At least not being in love with anyone? Not feeling that desperate flutter, the skip and beat in the pulse so many poets speak of?
She’s afraid to look at Mary now, and turns her attention to the window instead. With the chill in the air, no one is outside, but if she allows her eyes to lose their focus, she can easily conjure herself and Mary, running across the lawn. In her mind, she wills the wall and the hedge and the fence to vanish so the two figures can run forever, dwindling to black smudges against an endless horizon.
“You’ve told your husband about me?” Mary asks.
Wendy risks a glance back at her.
“Some. Not…” She waves her hand vaguely. “Not everything I said just now. I suppose I hadn’t realized until just this moment exactly what it is I want. I’m still not entirely sure I do know.”
Warmth colors Wendy’s cheeks and she resists the urge to put her hands against them to cover the blush. Why is this so difficult?
“I still want to open a shop,” Mary says. Her words are careful, considered. Wendy glances at her again and sees the light gleaming in her eyes. It reminds Wendy so much of the expression Mary would get when they planned their escapades of old that it almost undoes her. Only now they aren’t planning a theft, or an impossible escape, but their futures, real ones.
“Do you think you and Ned might help me?”
“I…” Wendy opens her mouth, but no words follow the first.
The question catches her off guard, almost as though Mary hasn’t heard a word she’s said. But of course Mary has heard her, and she’s taken it all in stride, finding nothing strange in Wendy’s desires at all.
“The rest we can figure out in time.” Mary grins, showing the gap between her teeth, and Wendy’s heart turns over.
Tears threaten again, hot and full behind her eyes, making them itch. This time it isn’t fear though, but hope that they might all be together after all. A family. She blinks rapidly to bring them under control.
“I can speak to Ned. I’m certain he would agree to help, though we’ll have to find a way to hide it from his father. Perhaps my brothers might help as well—”
Mary holds up a hand, cutting Wendy off. Surprised, Wendy falls silent.
“I won’t take charity.”
Wendy’s cheeks flush, stung, as though Mary has struck her. Mary continues, light glinting in her eyes again and one corner of her mouth going up.
“But,” she says, “I will come work for you, if you’ll hire me at a fair wage.”
Wendy stares, stunned all over again. Of all the things she might have expected Mary to say, this was not one of them. The way Mary’s eyes glint, it almost seems as though she’s laughing at Wendy, but there’s no malice in it.
“If your cooking is as bad as your sewing when we first met, I imagine you’ll need someone helping you with every single meal, someone living with you and not just coming in to cook every now and then.” Mary’s smirk turns into a full grin, and Wendy can’t help it, she finds herself smiling in return.
“If room and board is part of the wage, I can save up, and one day I’ll have money to open the shop all on my own.”
Wendy seizes Mary’s hands again, squeezing them hard.
“I’m certain Ned will agree to those terms. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
“I look forward to it.” Mary pauses a moment, considering Wendy. “Am I right?”
“About what?”
“Your cooking?”
Relief bubbles through Wendy and comes out as laughter. Tears finally stream from her eyes, and she wipes them away.
“Absolutely. I’m a dreadful cook.”
“Lucky for you I’m brilliant, and an excellent teacher, too.”
PETER’S SECRET
Tiger Lily stands and beckons Wendy back to the cave wall with its black and red paintings. She runs her fingers over them—Pirate, Mermaid, Ship, Boy—crouching as the ceiling slopes down, crab-walking. Wendy follows, unease growing into a physical pressure against her skin as the pictures grow more abstract. Tiger Lily stops, her fingers resting against the wall.
“Here,” Tiger Lily says, but she’s angled in such a way that Wendy can’t see the image her fingers rest against.
Tiger Lily glances over her shoulder, then shifts, letting Wendy see. Wendy has to get on her knees, shuffling closer. Tiger Lily draws her hand away, and it’s as though the cave floor drops out beneath Wendy, sending her stomach into free-fall.
I’ll show you a secret, Wendy. A really good one.
She can’t make sense of what she’s seeing. Horns. Claws. A jagged shape that makes the skin at the base of Wendy’s spine crawl. Even without firelight, the drawing seems to ripple, warm to the touch.
“What is this?” Wendy hears her own voice, breathless and strangled.
Tiger Lily shakes her head. Their shoulders touch in the cramped space.
“An old story. A very old one.”
“Tell me.” Wendy grasps Tiger Lily’s wrist, her grip tight enough that her friend flinches. “Please.”
Wendy tries to gentle her tone, but her voice is barely under her control. This… whatever it is, she’s seen it before. She knows. Or she almost knows. There’s a hole where her memory should be, a door in her mind slammed over it long ago. Now, the door rattles, assaulted by a violent wind. No, not a wind. A breath.
“It’s a story of the monster at Neverland’s heart,” Tiger Lily says.
Wendy relinquishes her grip, as though all at once Tiger Lily’s skin burns. She looks down, expecting to see the seams of fire beneath Tiger Lily’s flesh again, but there’s only her ash-colored skin in the dark.
“The monster.” Wendy repeats the words; they taste of heat, charcoal still smoldering and laced with smoke.
Tiger Lily shifts, so she’s sitting. Wendy sits beside her, but even seated the space is claustrophobic, and her breath sounds over-loud in her ears. Tiger Lily draws her legs up against her chest, and wraps her arms around them, resting one cheek against the bony points of her knees. Her face is cast in shadow, but even so, her eyes are unnaturally bright, shining with a hint of the fire Wendy saw beneath her skin, from when Peter made her burn. Her voice is quiet, sorrowful almost, and her gaze focuses on nothing in particular. Wendy draws her legs up too, and listens.
“There are many stories about the monster, but all of them start a very long time ago, before there was a Neverland. None of the stories are clear on exactly what kind of creature the monster was to start off with—not an animal, or a man, or a raging fire, but all of those things mixed together, with blunt teeth and sharp horns, hooves and wicked claws. Or maybe it only became those things afterward. Stories that old tend to change over time.
“One thing all the stories agree upon is that it was already ancient when Neverland was born. Some claim the monster is the seed from which Neverland grew, and others that it was simply the first creature to step foot on the island, calling it into being.<
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“The way it came to the island, or created the island, is that it committed an unspeakable act, and it was sent into exile. Because of the act, the creature was split in two. Part of it was buried deep underground, and part of it lived on the surface in the light. The two halves were never meant to know the other existed.”
Tiger Lily shifts her gaze slightly to look at Wendy, her eyes gleaming in the dark. Wendy’s breath catches; she can almost feel the monster in the cave with them, hot breath rolling over her, claws and horns scraping the stone over their head, drawing sparks. It is too big for the space, and it makes the cave feel even smaller, the sloping stone bearing down as if to crush them. Wendy fights back a moment of panic, forcing herself to breathe as Tiger Lily goes on.
“Sometimes the story is different entirely. Sometimes the creature wasn’t a monster, but a sadness, cursed with the ability to see the future. The creature saw that one day it would do a terrible thing, an unforgiveable thing, so it tore itself in two to prevent this fate from ever happening. It buried all the dark parts of itself deep underground and hid the rest of itself in a body it stole. It hid so well, it didn’t even know itself anymore, and it forgot it had ever been anything other than what it chose to become.”
Tiger Lily shivers slightly, like a cold breeze passing over her skin. Wendy feels it too, but at the same time she still feels a strange heat on her skin, like something breathing against her, and sweat prickles her skin. The light dims in Tiger Lily’s eyes, leaving them pained. Wendy has seen the same expression in Michael’s eyes, a simultaneous longing to remember and to forget.
“I don’t remember anything else.” Tiger Lily lifts her head and meets Wendy’s gaze.
“It’s all r—” Wendy starts, and her words lodge in her throat, thorn-like and tearing. She remembers. She shouldn’t remember, can’t possibly remember, but she does. A terrible creature, separated from itself, locking away all its darkness, like a skin shed. No, not a skin—a shadow.
Wendy puts her hands to her head, digging trimmed-short nails into her scalp beneath the weight of her hair as if she could pull the information out by force. The door in her mind rattles. The wood creaks, a weight leaning on it from the other side. She listens. Something breathes, a terrible wheezing sound like bellows.
Wendy draws a ragged breath, doubling over at the waist. Her head aches, a simultaneous weight at the door, demanding to be released, and her own fear pressed heavy against it from the opposite side, holding it shut. Tiger Lily touches Wendy’s shoulder, concern in her voice lost in the roar of blood filling Wendy’s ears. Wendy shakes her head, the barest of motions, and even that sends pain spiking through her skull. There’s more pain waiting for her if she opens the door, but she can’t keep it closed.
Whatever lies on the other side might be the missing piece that helps her protect Jane, that lets her stop Peter once and for all. She straightens, as much as the sloped ceiling allows, and offers Tiger Lily a strained smile.
“It’s all right.” But her voice is as husked as Tiger Lily’s.
Inside St. Bernadette’s, there was no lock she and Mary couldn’t open, no space barred to them within the walls. There were consequences for their sneaking and stealing, but they never let those consequences stop them. They never let fear stop them. And they never let something as simple as a door stand in their way.
The truth has been hidden from Wendy for years, but suddenly it seems so simple. This lock, this door, is like any other. With everything that’s been taken away from her, everything she’s fought to reclaim, she will not be denied her own memories. She will steal this piece of herself back. Peter has held it for too long.
She feels Tiger Lily watching her, but Wendy focuses her attention on the drawing on the cave wall, the creature of horns and claws. This time, when the door rises to block her, when instinct tells her to draw back, she throws her weight against it instead. She isn’t the child who left Neverland, or the frightened girl waiting for Peter to save her. She’s grown; she’s faced terrors Peter could never imagine. She is strong enough to face this too.
Wendy throws the full force of her will against the door. The wood shudders. It cracks. It splinters, unable to hold her back, and Wendy tumbles through.
NEVERLAND – 27 YEARS AGO
“Come on, Wendy, keep up!” Peter pulls her so fast along the forest path it’s like flying.
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” Wendy’s voice is breathless as she struggles to keep from falling. She wants to be annoyed with Peter, but her excitement betrays her. He’s taking her somewhere special, somewhere just for her, where John and Michael don’t get to go. It almost makes up for not being able to join in the war.
“I told you. It’s a secret.” Peter glances over his shoulder, flashing a grin.
Shadows flicker over his skin as they run. Feathers, falling leaves. They change the shape of his face, making it into the muzzle of a fox, the beak of a bird. Wendy’s breath catches on wonder, then the underbrush grows denser, and she has to concentrate on her feet again so she doesn’t trip.
“Up here.” Peter lets go of her hand, jumping to grab a twist of root protruding from the side of a cliff there before them so suddenly it may well have dropped out of the sky.
He looks back at her once, then without waiting, he leaps again—nimble as a mountain goat—catching stunted trees and hidden handholds. Wendy watches him climb. The cliff face looks very high.
“Come on!” Instead of flying, Peter shows off a new skill, his feet always landing exactly where he means them to, his hands never failing to find a hold.
“Wait for me.” Wendy reaches for a thick, jutting branch, testing it against her weight.
Climbing trees is one thing, but this is something else altogether. She cranes her neck, but she can’t see Peter anymore. She focuses on the cliff, pulling herself up and finding the first foothold. Barely a foot off the ground, she’s dizzy, giddy with a sense of adventure, her nerves tingling with fear. What if Peter is taking her somewhere dangerous, somewhere they shouldn’t be?
She has to stretch for the next handhold, groping with her fingers while keeping her eyes on the rock ahead of her. Sweat gathers, sticking a strand of hair to her forehead. Peter makes it look so easy, Neverland always there to help him every step of the way. Branches scratch at her skin and her muscles tremble, but she’s determined not to be left behind.
“Hurry up, Wendy!” Peter’s voice trills with laughter. Wendy has the impulse to say something very unladylike, but she needs to save her breath for climbing. Loose dirt and pebbles slide under her feet. When she reaches for the next handhold, Peter catches her wrist, startling her. Her feet slip, leaving her hanging over empty air, but Peter hauls her up as easily as though she were a rag doll.
She lands in an ungainly heap, gasping like a caught fish. When she’s able to sit up, she sees they’re on an outcropping of rock. Peering over the edge, she’s amazed to see how high she’s climbed. Neverland spreads like a patchwork quilt below them, the lagoon glittering, the beach curling pale around the borders of the island.
“In here.” Peter lays a finger to his lips, then points, his expression mischievous.
If he hadn’t shown her right where to look, Wendy would have missed the crack in the rock entirely. In fact, if she turns her head even a bit, it vanishes. It’s only a shadow, surely not big enough for a boy to fit through, but Peter turns sideways, slipping in as easily as water. Wendy hesitates, but she knows without having to be told that it’s like flying—she has to believe. As narrow as the gap is, there’s no room for both a girl and her doubt to fit through. Taking a deep breath, Wendy plunges into the dark on Peter’s heels.
The moment she does, she regrets it. Pitch-black air clogs her chest, rock walls hemming her in. Wendy can’t see two inches in front of her face. She wants to let her breath out, but she’s afraid if she does she’ll become wedged. What if she’s trapped here forever without John and Michael ever kno
wing what happened to her?
But there’s no space to turn around, and she isn’t certain she can back out either. Besides, she can already hear Peter’s taunts if she even tried. She forces herself to keep going. All at once, the tunnel widens. Wendy stumbles forward, a cork shot from a bottle.
The first thing she notices is it’s strangely warmer inside the cave. It’s as though there’s a fireplace burning somewhere, just out of sight. Wendy’s eyes adjust slowly. The ground slopes away, smooth and uneven at once, like cooled, melted wax. It’s like standing in a cathedral, or a forest made of stone. Pillars of rock divide the space, dripping from the ceiling and growing up from the floor. She can’t see every part of the space, and in fact, Wendy has the dizzying sense she’s only looking at a fraction of the cave. It might extend forever in every direction, another impossibility, larger than it seemed from the outside. She turns to look at the narrow entrance behind her, but she can’t make it out anymore.
“Come on.” Peter grabs her hand again, making her jump. His palm is sweat-slick against hers, and she feels his pulse rabbiting through his skin. What kind of secret could be worth all this?
Peter tugs at her, but Wendy drags her feet. She wants to slow down and see everything, but Peter is a force of nature, unstoppable. He continues to pull at her, and reluctantly, she follows him.
As they move deeper, a ruddy light colors the rock pillars burnt orange, like a sunrise. It’s as though the un-trees around them are on fire. Crystals glimmer, embedded everywhere, winking as stars in the dark. Wendy catches glimpses of niches and alcoves scattered about in unlikely places, making her think even more of a church, though she can’t imagine Peter or any of the Lost Boys ever gathering to pray.
Off to one side, she catches a glimpse of a chamber, and in its center, a pyramid of pale-colored, rounded stones.
“Keep up, slowpoke!” Peter tries to hurry her on, but Wendy digs her heels in, her breath catching. And all at once she sees they aren’t stones at all, they’re skulls—human skulls, a whole pile of them, and when she looks closer, she sees other bones stacked in niches in the walls.