by Carey Corp
SHADES OF NEVERLAND
Carey Corp
Based on characters and previous material by J.M. Barrie
When you fearlessly follow your inner child with hope, trust and a dash of pixie-dust, all things are possible.
Shades of Neverland by Carey Corp
Copyright © 2013 by Carey Corp
Digital ISBN:
Published by Carey Corp
Cover by Carey Corp
Photos used to design cover were legally obtained from iStockphoto.com
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or retransmitted in any form in whole or in part without written permission from the author, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical articles.
Digital Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, or actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. J.M. Barrie material and characters are fit for use under US public domain laws.
This book contains a discussion guide for classrooms and book clubs at the back.
For Gram
PREFACE
For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses.
“I thought you would want it back,” he said bitterly, and offered to return her the thimble.
“Oh dear,” said the nice Wendy, “I don’t mean a kiss, I mean a thimble.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like this.” She kissed him.
“Funny!” said Peter gravely. “Now shall I give you a thimble?”
“If you wish to,” said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.
Peter thimbled her…
Come Away, Come Away!
Peter Pan
J.M.Barrie
CHAPTER 1
The Night of the Thimble
(London Town 1907)
All children grow up. Wendy Moira Angela Darling was no exception.
She promised herself she would never forget what is was like to be a child, but being still young she could not foresee the toll that growing up would have on her. The way it happened was this.
It started the night she left the nursery for good on the eve of her thirteenth birthday. Thirteen, of course, is the beginning of the end. At first, she returned each evening to recount to her brothers the stories of their grand adventures in the Neverlands. Over time, however, she came to the boys less and less frequently. When the boys were sent away to school, she stopped telling stories altogether.
Peter, I am most sorry to report, was witness to it all. In the shadows outside her window, as faithful as the chiming of Big Ben, Peter watched as his Wendy Darling put away her childhood dreams one by one. Lately, he wondered if she could recall even the slightest detail about the Neverland or himself. If the name Peter Pan were mentioned to her in passing, would it have any effect? Could the thought of an eternal boy still stir the girlhood in one so nearly a woman? Peter felt sure he would soon be no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she kept her toys.
Weighted by a profound sense of loss, Peter flew through the midnight London skies. Tonight he was to have his last glimpse of his—Wendy. Being yet a boy, he had no other name to describe what she was to him. She was his other half, his very own and dearest. For as long as he lived, he would never have another Wendy.
On the morrow, she would be sixteen…and a woman. So it was time, Peter decided, to abandon her to adulthood. Tomorrow, he would forget.
Engaged as he was in fortifying his decision to forsake her, Peter almost flew past the Darling house. Accustomed to stealing upon it in full slumber, he nearly failed to recognize the residence awake and ablaze. The change elicited in him an involuntary shiver. It seemed to be a bad omen. He hovered in indecision until the feel of the cool object in his hand recalled him to his purpose. A kiss. If he were never to see his Wendy again he would not leave until he had given her a final kiss.
He alighted to her windowsill cautiously. The brightly lit room was empty—another first for the boy and it vexed him. Previously, he had never been denied the object of his visits. Lit by softly glowing moonlight, his Wendy had always been accessible to him. His cocky nature, furthermore, led him to believe it would always be so.
Puzzled, Peter descended into the garden below. Deep in shadow, he peered through the great French doors at a bustle of activity and finery.
A party!
With growing fascination, the boy watched a dozen or so young men twirl their partners across the polished walnut floor. In the hall beyond, there seemed to be a banquet table and even more people making merry. Such activity made the wary Peter anxious to depart, but he would not, indeed could not, leave until he had satisfied the purpose of his mission. He squared his chin in resolve; he would not go until Wendy had received his gift.
Peter did not have to look far for that which he sought. In fact, without his knowing, she had been in his sight the entire time. As he watched the dancers, a young lady in a shimmering pink gown drew his eye.
Observing her first from behind, he followed the form of her dress up to her bare shoulders. He traced her slender neck to a mass of honey blonde curls worn high on her head in the fashion of the day. She wore pearls on her earlobes and her hair was adorned with tiny pink rosebuds. As the fine lady turned around, he noticed her high brow, the deep blush in her cheeks, and her full red lips half open in a laugh.
Despite her remarkable beauty, she meant no more to Peter than any other partygoer. It was not until she had completed her turn and the boy was able to regard her eyes that he knew her.
For the third time that night, the boy was confounded by the unexpected. Could that stranger in pink really be his own, true Wendy? For some unknown reason he had the urge to laugh at the absurdity of her costume. Instead, but equally as inexplicable, the boy developed a lump in his throat and his eyes commenced to produce great tears that rolled down his boyish cheeks.
To Peter’s surprise, the creature in pink crossed the room to the very window behind which he was spying. Had she seen him? Was she coming to explain to him the circumstances that caused her to be almost unrecognizable? The boy shrank back into the darkness even as the door opened in front of him. There was a momentary rush of music before the young lady shut the door and crossed out into the quiet of the garden.
Peter held his breath as she took a few steps across the courtyard and then turned to seat herself on the garden bench. Her cerulean eyes met his across the darkness, as she fixed her gaze on the exact spot where he was hiding. Not daring to move, he waited for her to address him. Instead, Wendy’s gaze shifted dreamily to the stars and she sighed to herself.
Peter’s mouth opened in disbelief. Was it possible? Did she really not know he was there? If truly ignorant of his presence, could she not feel him so near? That moment confirmed the boy’s worst fears. His Wendy had forgotten him. Therefore, it was time to say goodbye. He would give her his kiss and then go.
Before the boy could move from the shadows, music once again imposed on the stillness of the garden. A smartly-dressed young man passed through the door and approached the bench. Peter, his stomach beginning to ache, shrank back further into the darkness, all the while never taking his eyes off the youth who was now seati
ng himself on Wendy’s bench.
The youth was pale and delicate looking, appearing more female than male. Peter felt certain he could take him in a duel. During his time in the Neverlands, he had bested many a blackguard. Next to that unsavory lot, the youth would be an easy conquest.
Poor Peter. Being still a boy, he had not yet learned there were many ways to best one’s opponent and that violence rarely worked in competitions of the heart.
All the while looking on, he watched as the youth took Wendy’s hand in his and said something to her in low tones. A light musical laugh escaped from her lips. The boy crept closer straining to hear.
“I do not know where they come from,” said Wendy. “I just know that I have received one as a gift every birthday for the past three years.”
“A secret admirer?” inquired the youth. Wendy smiled, a most beautiful smile, and turned to face him.
“When I was still a girl I used to think they were birthday gifts from the fairies.” She nearly added that she did not believe in fairies but some unnamed superstition had always kept her from uttering those words.
Inching closer, Peter’s hand tightened on the gift clutched within.
“And now, Miss Darling,” proclaimed the youth. “I have a gift for you that I hope you will find equaling as pleasing.” With that, the young man placed his free hand upon Wendy’s cheek and, leaning in close, preceded to give her—a thimble!
Peter watched the thimble with horror. His chest convulsed and his hands clenched into fists until the item in his grasp broke in two. Of their own volition, his feet propelled him across the little garden until he was nearly upon the couple; but since they both had their eyes closed, he remained unseen. Wendy opened her eyes first and gasped. In the same instant, the boy took off like a rocket into the starry London sky.
Wendy leapt up causing the youth to do the same. Alarmed by her abrupt behavior, he put his hand on her shoulder, demanding, “What’s happened, Miss Darling?”
“A boy,” she replied, stepping into the courtyard and looking wildly about. “I thought I saw a boy.”
The youth looked about the deserted garden and then took her trembling hand in his, assuring her in gentle tones, “There’s no one here, dearest.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Wendy looked down. And fortunate for her that she did so, because at her feet appeared to be a ragged bit of glass or shell. Whatever the tiny object was, it certainly had not been there moments ago. To get a better look, she bent down and retrieved the item with an unsteady hand. Examining it in the moonlight, she realized she held half of a beautiful porcelain thimble. The damaged trinket had appeared as magically as the boy had vanished.
Peter hurled himself through the air above Wendy’s house. His entire body knotted with emotions for which he had no words. He clenched his fists, his sharp nails creating little half-moons in the tender flesh of his palms. Blinking rapidly against the wind and the sudden wet stinging in his eyes, he flew higher and higher.
A sob wretched itself free of his throat, but whether born of anger or sorrow he could not say. He wanted to cry, scream, and fight all at the same time. He wanted to hurt Wendy and to save her. Most of all he knew beyond certainty that he could never forsake her and that he would surely die if she belonged to another!
In that instant, Peter Pan felt himself begin to grow up. Then he began to fall…
CHAPTER 2
The Morning after the Party
The boy!
Wendy Darling awoke with a start. She flew to the open window searching for some sign of his presence. The sun was not yet visible overhead and the house remained heavy in slumber due to the past evening’s frivolity. She leaned forward straining to peer over the garden wall. There was some commotion in the next street over, which, despite her best efforts, remained hidden from view. A thorough scan of the skies yielded nothing further except a few fading stars in the West.
“It was just a dream,” she murmured to herself. But in truth, these were the shades of Neverland, which persist after we’ve lost our way to remind us of what once was.
Returning to her bed, she mused over the strange visions that troubled her sleep. She recalled beautiful mermaids, fierce Indians, and magnificent swordfights. There was a terrible pirate with a hook for a hand—and her brothers were there. She’d been forced to walk the plank at knifepoint. Shivering, she remembered the horror of falling—then not falling—flying!
She’d been flying—and not alone. There was a boy, strong and sure and brave. Moreover, he had saved her from certain death. He came to her often in her dreams and at his side, she had the grandest of adventures. Last night she had given him a kiss—no not a kiss, exactly—a thimble. In the world of the boy, a thimble was called a kiss and a kiss called a thimble. The recollection made Wendy smile. She willed herself to conjure up the image of the boy but the more she concentrated the more elusive he became, like the morning mist.
After a moment, she shook her head. How foolish she was being. Clearly, the events of the previous night had been the basis for her strange dream—James’s kiss in the garden, the boy who vanished into thin air, the little thimble.
The thimble! Wendy jumped out of bed and hurried to her dressing table. Reverently she pulled a small box out of the drawer. The box was black and glossy with beautiful exotic markings. It had been a gift from the orient given to her by her father and it kept her dearest treasures. She set the box on the table as if suddenly afraid to open it. Still trying to sort out dream from reality, she was unsure what she would find within.
Almost reverently, Wendy lifted the top. Nestled among cards, ribbons, and pressed flowers was a little collection of thimbles. The first was golden and had appeared on her windowsill without explanation on the morning of her thirteenth birthday. For her fourteenth, shiny silver, followed by deep copper on her fifteenth—both left to be found in the same mysterious way. And yes, next to them the object which she sought, half a porcelain thimble.
Wendy picked up the trinket feeling its coolness between her fingers. It was exquisite, creamy white with tiny hand painted pink roses. Where is the other half? she wondered. She pressed the delicate porcelain to her cheek. Closing her eyes, she meditated on its smoothness, its coolness. She carefully ran a finger along the break as if trying to memorize every detail of its ragged edges. Somehow, she felt sure that her fate, even her very life, depended on this thimble. Only when the other piece was found and the two halves restored to wholeness would the true course of her life be revealed to her.
From somewhere deep below, the muted clank of a pot signaled the house beginning to stir. Reluctantly, Wendy put the broken thimble back into the box and the box into the drawer. It would not do to be in her nightdress when Aunt Mildred called for her. She needed to be properly attired and looking every bit the grown woman her family expected her to be…even if that woman was an elusive stranger.
Today she turned sixteen, yet she felt no different than the she had last week or last year. She felt trapped in a curious limbo between selves, no longer the child that once inhabited the family nursery, nor fully the young woman who’d just been introduced into London society. What Wendy didn’t realize is the magic of her youth was already slipping away, and in her haste to grow up she had already begun to lose the best part of herself.
Ringing for Liza, she admonished herself for indulging in girlish fantasies. Enough, she chided. Today, I am grown. Still, before dressing, she could not help but take one last look out the window and into the morning sky for the figure of a flying boy.
One street over, Peter awakened to a sharp, persistent rapping against his right shoulder. In a state of deep sleep, his head swirled with disturbing visions; the specifics of which he would be unable to recall, but whose shades would cling to the edges of his consciousness like spider webs filling him with vague apprehension.
The first thing he felt upon waking was the cold, then the dampness. Gradually he became aware of various aches and pains, unf
amiliar sensations caused in part by sleeping in a doorway. He was possessed by an overall trepidation and in the pit of his stomach lodged a tight ball of fear. Try as he might, the boy could never recall feeling such a lack of arrogance about himself or his circumstances. The experience was foreign and uncomfortable, like wearing new shoes.
Disoriented, he rolled over to find two men regarding him with a mixture of concern and distrust. One, undoubtedly the source of the tapping, wore the uniform of an officer of the law and clutched a nightstick. The other was clearly a businessman. Both men had come upon Peter at the same time from opposite directions and each had his own reasons for rousting the sleeping boy. For the former it was obligation to his duty and for the latter, obligation to his doorstep.
“You boy,” demanded the constable. “What are you doing there?”
“I don’t know, Sir,” replied the boy in earnest.
Leveling his nightstick at the boy’s chest just under his chin and raising it steadily produced the practiced effect of forcing the boy to his feet. “Where do you come from?”
“I do not know, Sir,” repeated the boy looking from one man to the other.
The businessman, a kind and gentle old soul, bent down and inquired of him, “Lad, where are your parents?”
“In truth, I have none,” answered the boy. Although he could not offer why, he knew this to be true with a certainty that bordered on insolence.
Upon hearing the boy’s reply, the constable pushed forward. “An orphan is it? Well, back to the orphanage with you!” You see, the officer, who possessed no patience for vagabonds or children, had been looking for a reason to seize the boy.
