The Navigator

by Sky, Erin Michelle; Brown, Steven;

  Since she and Charlie had studied the stars.

  “Permission to try it with Mr. Hawke, sir?” Wendy asked.

  “If you wish to continue, Miss Darling, you’re welcome to do so. I’ll be in my quarters. Try not to get us all killed.”

  “What should I do?”

  Charlie and Wendy stood next to each other on deck, beneath the stars. John and Michael were there, too, but far enough away so as not to be able to hear them. Wendy had insisted.

  “Don’t do anything yet,” Wendy said. “Just look up at the stars.”

  He did, standing next to her as they had when they were children, marveling at the wonders of the universe.

  “They never move here,” he said. “I don’t understand why they don’t move.”

  “I don’t either,” Wendy agreed. “It must be part of the magic of this place. The day and night never changing.”

  “It’s strange,” he told her, “to work so hard to learn about something, only to find that everything you thought you knew has changed in a single moment.”

  “You haven’t changed,” Wendy said.

  “That’s not true.” Charlie looked down at her and smiled. “I’m much taller now.”

  Wendy laughed. Charlie had always been able to make her laugh, even in the middle of their most difficult lessons. Even when she felt trapped by her station in life, running out of hope, he had always made things seem … less impossible.

  “Wendy, I’ve been meaning to tell you …”

  “Yes?” He looked so serious all of a sudden. “Is something wrong?”

  “No!” he said quickly. “No, that’s just it. Everything’s wonderful. And I’ve been meaning to thank you. I just haven’t known how.”

  “Thank me? What for?”

  “For this!” he exclaimed. He waved his arm through the air, taking in the whole world at once. “For The Pegasus. For Neverland. For my commission. If it weren’t for you, I’d be a house servant, slopping out piss buckets in London. Instead, I’m first mate on a ship in the Royal Navy—an officer, Wendy, serving under one of the most respected captains in the fleet. You changed my life.”

  “Oh, Charlie, I didn’t do those things,” Wendy protested quietly. “You did. You studied as hard as I did. You learned everything Mr. Equiano taught us. You earned this all on your own.”

  “Not on my own,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Never on my own. You found Mr. Equiano, and you shared him with me. You didn’t have to do that. You believed in me, Wendy. And that made me believe in myself. You gave me so much more than the stars.”

  “Charlie, I—” She hardly knew what to say, but whatever it might have been, he interrupted her with a whisper.

  “It’s warm. And … and it’s moving.”

  “What?” She looked into his eyes, then followed his gaze to his hand. “Oh!” she said softly. “Oh, I knew it would! Think up,” she told him. “Slowly.”

  Charlie gazed into her eyes, and then he smiled. And the ship moved.

  After that, Wendy and Charlie were inseparable for days—or what would have been days, had there been such a thing in Neverland. Technically, they were inseparable for one very long night, which was even worse as far as John and Michael were concerned. But the night was about flying, and the flying was for England, so they held their peace on the matter.

  Between their sessions, Wendy tried to show the other men how to fly. Hook was thrilled with Charlie’s success and still hoped to find another capable pilot among the crew, but the effort proved fruitless. (If Wendy was secretly pleased that Smee, in particular, couldn’t do it, one can hardly blame her. She knew it was petty, but she didn’t want to share the skies with Mr. Smee. Not even for England.)

  In any event, they had what they needed to rescue the croc ship from its swamp. Charlie would fly The Pegasus, and Wendy would lift the new ship out of the mire.

  Assuming they could find the ship’s trinket, that is, Wendy thought wryly. And assuming the ship wasn’t too badly damaged. And assuming the croc didn’t eat them alive. On that note, Tigerlilja, having stayed to watch the preparations, had sent for reinforcements.

  As busy as Wendy was, she was fascinated by the clanswoman who led the Norsemen. Fascinated, and a little intimidated. Tigerlilja was both self-assured and self-contained. Wendy had not seen her speak to anyone but her brother ever since they had returned to The Pegasus, and she had refused a berth in the ship, sleeping instead beneath the night sky. Wendy knew almost nothing about her, but one thing was certain: She held the profound respect of her people.

  What would it have been like, Wendy wondered, to be raised in a place where women were respected as leaders and warriors? It reminded her again of Mr. Equiano, and Wendy thought how much he would have liked Tigerlilja—how she might even have reminded him of his own mother. But it wasn’t until she was out taking Nana for a walk, during one of her rare moments of solitude, that she found the opportunity to speak with her.

  Or, rather, the opportunity found her.

  Tigerlilja approached them as Nana was sniffing through the grasses and wildflowers of the night meadow. Wendy looked around, surprised, but there was no one else the woman might have been coming to meet. Suddenly nervous, Wendy moved to smooth her dress, remembered that she didn’t wear dresses anymore, and tugged lightly at the bottom of her vest instead.

  “Hello,” Wendy said. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” She felt foolish immediately. Habitual English greetings didn’t apply in Neverland, where an evening seemed always to be an evening, but Tigerlilja didn’t laugh.

  “It is,” the woman agreed. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown either. She simply was. Like an element of nature. A tree, perhaps. Or the sky. Or the calm before a storm.

  She moved to stand next to Wendy, so that they were shoulder to shoulder, watching Nana together, and she was quiet for quite some time, gathering her thoughts. Finally, she said this: “How long have you known Peter?”

  The question surprised Wendy, and then the answer surprised her too. She had first seen him in Dover only a few short months ago. So much had happened since—it felt like years. Sometimes it felt like a lifetime.

  “Not long, I suppose,” was all she said in reply. She glanced at the other woman, but Tigerlilja gave no indication of her thoughts, her expression as unchanging as the night.

  “He brings them here to save them,” she said.

  “The orphans?” Wendy asked.

  “All of them,” Tigerlilja clarified. “The ones who have no safe place to call home. Or who don’t quite fit. Or the last of their kind. The orphans. The lost creatures. Perhaps even you.”

  Her? Peter hadn’t brought her here. Had he? No, she had brought herself here. She had followed the compass.

  The compass, she suddenly realized, that he had given her.

  Before Wendy could respond, Tigerlilja continued. “My clan was the first. We few were all that remained of my people. But we were only the first of many. He brings them because they remind him of himself, I think. In his own way, he is trying to save himself from a fate he does not deserve.”

  “Save himself?” Wendy asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Peter lives under a curse,” Tigerlilja said, her eyes never leaving Nana. “A gift from his mother. An intentional act with unintended consequences.”

  “His mother? He acts as though he never had a mother.”

  “All creatures have mothers,” Tigerlilja told her. “Or, at least, all that I know of. But Peter’s mother is dead, as is his father. There are others like him, or so I’ve been told, but in a very real way, he is the last of his kind.”

  Hook is my enemy! He is death to all my kind! Peter’s words echoed through her mind—the only time she had ever seen Peter angry. The sudden implication left her reeling.

  “Did Hook …” She could hardly bring herself to ask the question. “Did Hook kill his parents?”

  “What? No. His parents died long before you were b
orn. Centuries ago. What would make you ask that?”

  “Nothing,” Wendy said. “Just … something Peter said once.”

  Tigerlilja waited in silence, but when Wendy chose not to elaborate, she finally continued.

  “Peter gets confused about things. It’s part of the curse. His parents were killed by one of the Old Ones. The oldest, in fact. A …” She paused, obviously searching for the right words. “An Old One named Buri. He was spurned by Peter’s mother and jealous of what he couldn’t have for himself. But she was a powerful dryad, and on her deathbed, she gave Peter what she thought was a gift—from that moment on, he could remember nothing that brought him grief.”

  With those words, a dozen memories flashed through Wendy’s mind. Seeing Peter after their argument at Hook’s estate, and how he had already forgiven her. How he refused to believe she had stolen the thimble from his ship, even though she clearly had. How he treated prison like a game.

  It made perfect sense, but more than that, it felt true. She found herself nodding without even realizing she was doing it.

  “So, you believe me,” Tigerlilja said. It was not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you would. I didn’t want to tell the others. They stand at the very precipice of what they can believe, just being in this place. But Blackheart is only a gateway to a greater evil. Buri has found some way to use him. To reach his icy tendrils into Neverland. I don’t know how, but I’m certain of it.”

  “But if Buri already killed Peter’s parents, why would he care about Peter? Is he really that jealous of a woman who died so long ago?”

  “He was never as jealous of her love as he was of her power. And she has thwarted him, even in death. Buri controls the ice and all that lives within its domain. But as long as Peter carries his mother’s dryad magic, Buri cannot expand his realm. And with her dying breath, she tied Peter to Neverland. As long as there is a single blade of green upon its shores, Peter remains almost invincible. He cannot age, and those he brings here do not grow old. My people and I have been charged with protecting this place, but Buri has finally found his way in. And now we are all in danger.”

  “Not just Neverland,” Wendy realized.

  “No,” Tigerlilja agreed. “If Neverland falls, Peter will lose its protection. Buri will kill him, and he will spread his ice across the world.”

  t was a lot to take in. Old Ones and dryads and curses and ice that could swallow a planet. But, mostly, Wendy’s thoughts kept returning to Peter himself. It seemed sad that he couldn’t remember his own parents. Not that Wendy could remember her parents, but if she had known who they were, she would have wanted to remember them.

  Or would she?

  What if they had been cruel? What if they hadn’t wanted her? Would she want to remember that?

  But then she thought of Nicholas. His loss haunted her. It probably always would. And yet, if someone had offered to erase his memory from her mind, she would have fought tooth and nail against it. Even if, afterward, she would not have known what she had lost.

  That, she thought, was the saddest part about Peter. The not knowing. The people whose lives had touched his—their tender moments burned away along with the sad ones. How much love had he forgotten across the centuries?

  She had wondered aloud to Tigerlilja, before they had parted ways, whether anything might be done to cure him. The Norsewoman thought not. She had been searching, she said, all this time, but to no avail. Still, she had not been unkind to Wendy’s hopes. She would like to believe it was still possible, she had said.

  It would certainly make her life easier.

  The biggest problem with the curse, Tigerlilja had pointed out, was that it prevented Peter from learning from his mistakes. Everything was a game to him, which was tremendous fun for Peter, but far less so for the clan that had sworn to protect him. By definition, the only missteps he remembered were the ones he didn’t mind repeating.

  It also made it difficult to include him in working against Blackheart. The very idea that Buri might prevail—that his ice might cover the world and everything in it—was so miserable and depressing that Peter always forgot it immediately. He had no idea why they were doing anything, so he could not be relied upon to take his part seriously.

  Which was why Wendy volunteered to brief Peter on his role in salvaging the crocodile ship, to Hook’s obvious relief.

  She found the everlost on his own vessel after calling up to the watch for assistance in coming aboard. (It wasn’t as though an everlost ship needed ladders, and the ship’s cradle raised the deck quite high in the air.) It was Curly who heard her call, but he relayed the request to Peter, who flew down to her at once.

  “Hello, the Wendy,” he said.

  “Hello,” she said in return. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

  “Permission granted!” he exclaimed. He seemed very pleased by the way she had formed the request.

  He picked her up in his arms, just like the night he had flown her from Hook’s estate to his ship off the coast of Dover, and she realized suddenly that even here on Neverland, when he was very close, she could still smell the forest-and-pickle green scent of him—a fact that made her happier than she would have cared to admit. But she hardly had time to appreciate it. They reached the deck in mere moments, and before they even touched down, the crew was shouting out to her in excited greetings.

  “The Wendy! Oh, good form! The Wendy is here!”

  “They missed you,” Peter said, smiling at her fondly. He set her feet gently upon the deck, where she was mobbed immediately.

  They laughed and grinned and touched her arms respectfully, even timidly, like old friends who hoped they would be considered close enough for a hug but weren’t entirely sure. Curly was there, of course, as well as the twins—and the tall one who had shed a single tear off the coast of Dover when Peter had mentioned mothers. She didn’t know most of their names, but their faces were familiar. She found herself suddenly hoping she would get to know them all.

  “Where’s Tootles?” Peter asked Curly. “He was just here a minute ago.”

  “He went to find berries for dinner. Cook wants to make fresh tarts.”

  “Of course he did,” Peter said, and then he laughed. “Tootles always misses everything.”

  They invited Wendy to stay for dinner, so, of course, she did. The tarts, it turned out, were not for dessert but were dinner themselves. They were filled with a mixture of thick-set custard and the most delicious berries Wendy had ever tasted—tiny orbs of brilliant, powder blue that burst between her teeth, filling her mouth with the taste of roses and lavender and honey all at once.

  As incredible as the dinner was, the company was even better. The crew begged her for stories, so between great mouthfuls of honey custard she told as many as she could remember. Stories of princes and dragons. Fairy tales—both romantic and cautionary. And, of course, the story of how The Pegasus had escaped from Blackheart’s grasp, complete with the part in which Peter and his crew had arrived in the nick of time to scare him off.

  And although they all cheered and clapped each other on the back at the end, congratulating each other on their wonderful cleverness and bravery, Peter was as attentive as the rest through it all. He did not try to interrupt her with his own stories or claim to be any more clever than the rest, and Wendy found herself enjoying the evening more than any she could remember in a very long time.

  She realized, then, that at least part of it was due to the fact that not one of the everlost ever spoke down to her. They never suggested she had gotten a part of the story wrong. Or interrupted her to comment that wasn’t it “just like a woman” when the witch or queen or princess was cruel or livid or foolish.

  They simply listened, happily yielding the floor, which made her realize, by contrast, just how hard she had been working to fit in with Hook’s crew. And how much she wished for quiet, simple evenings like this one, with people who made her feel welcome.


  Dinner had gone so well that recruiting the everlost for the mission of the crocodile ship was as simple as telling them what she needed them to do. Because they were the fastest, and because they could fly without a ship, it would be their job to distract the beast while the rest of them freed the crocodile’s ship from the swamp. They all agreed immediately, and because only Peter was affected by the curse directly, Wendy had no doubt they would see their part through no matter what sort of game Peter might decide to play.

  She was about to take her leave of them, albeit reluctantly, when Peter said, quite suddenly, “Did I ever tell you the story of how Hook lost his hand?”

  His crew erupted into cheers. “Story!” they shouted. “One more! Tell us, Peter!”

  But he hadn’t been asking them. He had been asking Wendy. Her eyes met his across the table, and she said quietly, “Why, no, Peter, you haven’t. But I would very much like to hear it.”

  “Well then,” he began, “it goes like this. Once upon a time, there was a boy. He was born with two hands, as are most boys, but this particular boy was unusual in that he was born into a very important family, of the surname Hook, and having two hands was something of an embarrassment. His father had a hook, you see, instead of his right hand. As did his father’s father. And his father’s father’s father, and so on. That’s how they had gotten their name. From one of those fathers very far back. I don’t know how far back, but very far, and at any rate it isn’t important to the story.”

  If Wendy already suspected that Peter’s version of the story was not going to be entirely accurate, she kept that thought to herself.

  “Now, young Hook begged his father time and again to take his hand and give him a hook instead, like his father’s own. It was a beautiful steel hook, polished and cruel, and far more imposing than a mere hand could ever be. It commanded respect. But the father refused.

  “‘No,’ he told the boy. ‘You were born with a hand instead of a hook, and that is who you are meant to be. Be proud of who you are, and stop asking me to cut off your hand.’