Wendy Darling: Volume 2: Seas

by Colleen Oakes

  “Forget I said anything, will you? Regardless, It’s a lovely little prison though, isn’t it, and no better way to see Neverland than from this deck right here. At night, when the clouds hover just over the surface, and the twilight comes in hungry, you can’t tell the difference between the sky and the sea. You’ll never see anything like it again.” He gave a curt cough, wiping his mouth with one of his blackened hands. “Well, Darlings, shall we continue the tour?”

  Wendy barely heard him as her heart had made its way slowly down her body, through the Sudden Night, and was now resting on the bottom of the voracious blue sea at her feet, so deep was her disappointment. Was Peter truly the only one who could Wendy Darling—Seas leave Neverland? Would she truly never see her parents and Booth again? She was tumbling down into herself now, her hands shaking as they clutched at the deck, uttering a quiet cry under her breath. Booth. Booth. I am trapped forever. Barnaby watched her reaction with interest, absolutely misjudging the reason for her sorrow.

  “Oh, do not fear, my lady, I will be going with you on the tour. I shall protect you from any untimely advances.”

  Wendy nodded, swallowing the sob that was making its way up her throat. “Thank you, Barnaby, I would much appreciate it.”

  Barnaby took them towards the rear of the ship, “aft to the stern,” and said he’d show them the “poop deck,” to Michael’s juvenile delight. “The quarterdeck is usually reserved for the ship’s officers,” Barnaby told them as they mounted the stairs to the raised deck. Wendy thought it was actually quite beautiful. There, Barnaby even allowed the Darlings to look upon the cherrywood wheel that loomed over the entire ship, a singular eye of God, manned by Smith.

  “See the wood? See how smooth it looks? It’s because it has bent under the captain’s fingertips. That wheel, it knows what he wants before he does, mark my words. This ship knows its captain, and if you try to do something that he doesn’t agree with, it’ll fight you.”

  Wendy did enjoy looking at the wheel, the rich wood glistening in the sunlight. When Smith turned it, she could feel the tiniest adjustments under her feet as he moved the wheel back and forth. The boat rocked a bit, and Smith looked up, annoyed at their presence.

  “Barnaby! Get those landlubbers off this deck, or so help me God, I will feed your entrails to starfish. Show them the rest of the ship and be done with it. The men have work to do, and so does she.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “Barnaby! How many days away are we from Port Duette?” Barnaby took a minute to look at his compass, looked out at the sea, looked at an ancient gold pocket watch, and then out to sea again.

  “I would say we are within three days of Port Duette, Smith.”

  “Port Duette?” Wendy’s ears perked up.

  “Yes, my dear. Captain Maison wants to have a little chat with Captain Hook.”

  Smith reached out from the wheel and roughly grabbed onto Barnaby’s hand, twisting it sideward. The older man yelped and fell to his knees.

  “I’ve had about enough of your prattling voice today. Shut your gossipy schoolgirl mouth and go about your business.”

  Wendy’s brain was leaping from idea to idea. Port Duette? Would it be possible to escape this ship, with its filthy men and staircase of bones? Barnaby limped away from Smith, and Wendy could see a bitter anger simmering behind his eyes. She tried to distract him as they went below deck.

  “Only three days until Port Duette? Can that be true?” Three days until they could escape this hell. Anyone could make it three days.

  “Aye. We’re about two hundred miles out.” Wendy looked up at the sky. The idea of escape was tantalizing, but Port Duette was practically a neighbor to Pan Island. And Peter Pan. She shivered at the thought. Barnaby reached out his arm for her.

  “Do you need a coat, my dear?” Wendy shook her head. Michael, who had been miraculously silent for most of the tour, now piped up.

  “For heaven’s sake! More of the ship! C’mon, Wendy!”

  Wendy took one last look at the sea before ducking below the deck, loath to enter again into its dark hallways and lurking corners. Barnaby was a chipper guide, asking questions about Wendy’s history and entertaining Michael with gruesome pirate facts.

  “Did you know, that Captain Horatio once sliced off a man’s lips and sewed them to his back, since he was always speaking of mutiny? Did you hear the one about the pirate who fell in love with the sea, and filled his lungs every night with seawater, in hopes that it would one day make him able to be with her forever? He drowned in his own body.”

  Michael’s face was pinnacle of delight, but Wendy found these morbid tales turned her stomach. What once had fascinated her now disgusted her. Death was real, violence was jarring, and she had seen enough horrors to know that these tales were based on dark realities.

  “That’s enough, Barnaby” she whispered as they climbed the staircase of bones, Michael jumping happily on each step.

  “This is where the captain stays—his room is at the end of the hallway here.”

  “Oh yes. I’ve seen it already.”

  Barnaby narrowed his eyes at her.

  “No one gets to see the captain’s quarters, but Keme, our esteemed cook, and Smith, on the rare occasions. No one gets to see where the captain sleeps, not even his many whores.”

  Wendy didn’t know what to say, so instead she just turned her head to look out the porthole window on the starboard side of the ship.

  “You must be important, then.”

  Wendy shook her head, her voice dull. “I’m just a girl.”

  “I heard you are much more than that. I heard that Peter Pan is in love with you.”

  Wendy let her eyes drop to the floor. “Perhaps.”

  “And that love was so terrible that you ran to Hook?”

  She shook her head. “Hook came to me.”

  “Well, isn’t that a nice coincidence? That the captain just happened to be there when you needed him.” Wendy’s eyes widened. She hadn’t given too much thought to how Hook knew she was escaping that day. Her concerns had been survival and Michael, the only things in her head that she had room for. She whirled on Barnaby.

  “Hook has a spy!” Her eyes widened. “Abbott!”

  Barnaby made a slow movement of zipping his lips. “Now that ain’t for me to say, Miss Darling. Best ask the captain on one of your special visits. Can you really be surprised? We are pirates, after all.”

  There was a surprising venom in his voice, but when Wendy looked back at him, he was smiling and cheery, showing Michael one of the many dumbwaiters that brought food up from the belly of the ship to the deck.

  “Now, this leads down to the kitchen, where you’ll be working, least, that’s what Smith said. Shall we go take a gander?”

  Wendy couldn’t think of anything she would like less than cooking meals for these filthy men who took pleasure in killing children, and yet, found herself nodding all the same as the Night roared toward Port Duette, parting waves in its stead, slicing the Neverland sky into two with its towering black mast.

  “Put us to work,” she repeated, remembering Hook’s warning. “Nothing would please me more.”

  Barnaby gave her a strange look. “I doubt that’s true.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The kitchen was located below decks, on the port side.

  “This is where the captain says you’ll be working.” Wendy looked around with a grimace. The room was tight, small, and dark, with grainy wooden walls, riddled with knots that seemed to look at her with curiosity. Cast-iron pots and pans swung overhead, and a tattered box of mixed silverware rattled on a shelf. A large tapestry flapped back and forth on the wall, its elaborate embroidery piquing her curiosity. Wendy walked over to it, tilting her head to read the inscription as she brushed dust from the fabric with her hand. “The Jolly Rodger and the Atlantic.” A brown ship with a fiery-red jewel as its figurehead battled the waves in the scene depicted, its sails at full mast in a curled wind. The same flag th
at she had seen in the captain’s chambers, a white skull on a black background, flapped at the top of the mast. As she looked at it, she remembered Peter’s story about burning the Jolly Rodger, told high above the trees in Centermost. She had been so dazzled by him then, his presence, his charisma. It had all been a glamourous show.

  “The Jolly Rodger? Peter burned that ship, correct?”

  Barnaby nodded his head.

  “Aye, and about a dozen good men with it. ’Twas a dark day, that was; a massacre.”

  He shook his head, the memory darkening his face.

  “I wouldn’t bring that day up to the captain, though, that being the day he lost his hand, and his father’s boat. That’ll get you thrown overboard.”

  Wendy swallowed her next five questions and continued looking around the room.

  Fifty or so barrels lined the walls, each roped to the walls with the same thick black netting that had pulled her from the sea. Barnaby was much less interested in the kitchen tour than he had been about the above-deck tour. He pointed aimlessly to the barrels. “Got your salted and dried meat and fish in there. The men like them spiced pretty well. Apples and some root vegetables are kept in that room there, past the barrels. We’re probably pretty low, but we’ll stock up at Port Duette. You can ask Keme about it.”

  “Keme?”

  “The cook.”

  Barnaby leaned forward, his voice hushed. “Don’t be afraid of him, my lady. He’s big but harmless, and can cook a fish fifteen ways till Sunday, which is all that matters to the captain. Also, he doesn’t speak, but he’ll let you know what he needs.”

  “And I’ll be his assistant?”

  “Yes. You and the boy, both.”

  Wendy looked over doubtfully at Michael, who yanked a dead fish out of a barrel with a delighted squeal. That meant her. No need to pretend otherwise.

  “I’m sure we will be fine. Why doesn’t he speak?”

  Barnaby smiled, his small nose twitching. “Well, there are a number of theories, but my favorite is that he is bound by some ancient Pilvi curse.”

  Wendy looked at him. “Pilvi? As in Pilvinuvo Indians?”

  Barnaby gave her a grin. “Ah, yes, I’m sure you’ve heard of them, heard Peter mention them a few times, have we?”

  He rubbed his hands together.

  “I’m glad you are surprised. You’ll find the Sudden Night is full of happy surprises.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows at Wendy in a way that made her uncomfortable. She turned away, pretending to inspect the barrels, which were meticulously labeled in a language that she could not read.

  “Yes, it’s true—we have the last Pilvinuvo Indian on our ship, though he is mute as a rock. I’m sure Peter Pan would love to get ahold of him, which is why he stays below decks most of the time. It isn’t safe for him anywhere else in Neverland—well, he’s sort of like you in that way!”

  Wendy curdled inside.

  “Keme is loyal to the captain though—cooks his meals, delivers his food right to his chambers, most of the time. Rumor is that the captain has something on him, something that made Keme commit his life to serving the Sudden Night.”

  Barnaby laughed before rubbing his black hands through his white hair. “Don’t we all.” He paused, and the air hung awkwardly between them. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Keme will probably be down in a few minutes. Darlings, would you like one last stop on the tour? The weapon room?”

  Michael sprinted to the door, screaming yes. Wendy turned away, wanting a minute to herself.

  “I’ll pass, Barnaby, thank you.”

  He looked immensely disappointed, but Wendy found that she couldn’t care less. Barnaby gave a short bow and left with Michael in tow. The girl from London let out a long breath and sunk down at the rough wooden table. She stretched out her arms along the grainy wood and let the tears she had been holding in fall silently from her eyes, puddling on the knotted wood. No way home. No way out. How would she ever get her brothers home, if you couldn’t leave Neverland without Peter Pan? She blew the air out of her lungs, wishing for the nine hundredth time that this was all a dream.

  An apple rolled down the table, stopping in front of her arms. Wendy jumped up from the bench, slamming her head hard into one of the cast-iron pots that rocked above her. She opened her mouth, and let an undignified word fall from her lips. “Damn it!” She rubbed her head with her hand, instantly ashamed of her language before looking up. A giant stood silently in front of her, shrouded in shadow. Wendy let out a cry and backed up slowly. The giant stepped forward. He was well over seven feet tall, and massively round. He dwarfed the kitchen around him as his monstrously huge figure tried to make its way towards Wendy. Wendy continued to back up.

  “Are you …?” She sniffed sadly, struggling to regain control of her emotions. “You must be Keme.”

  He silently moved towards her, pushing her backwards until she was pushed back over a barrel of fish, their silvery scales sliding over each other with a nauseating flapping sound. Wendy raised her hand, hoping her politeness would ward off whatever was happening. Her heart pounded in her ribs.

  “I’m Wendy, I hope that I can be a help to you.”

  The man continued to stare at her silently, his body pressing her up into the barrel, so far that her hands were slipping over the fish, their scent permeating her skin. She raised her chin, unwilling to be pushed any further.

  “Back up! Now! Please!”

  The man stared at her before nodding his head once. A large finger, easily the length of her face reached out, hovering in front of her nose before reaching up to swipe the tear from her cheek. Wendy stopped breathing for a moment, resuming only when he stepped back from her with a sad smile. His face was soft and pliable, the same doughy substance as his large body. Round, saucer-like eyes peered out at her, the dark brown core flecked with strands of gold. His skin was the color of tree bark, a soft brown, peppered with freckles. Long black hair was swept under a red-and-white rag, and he smelled of pepper and salty sea air. Even though he obviously wasn’t in his prime, Wendy could see that the genes of the Pilvi Indians were strong, carried through his handsome features and exotic coloring. He smiled shyly at her before backing up with a bow. Wendy dislodged her hand from the bucket of fish with a groan, shaking it in front of her. The gentle giant opened his mouth in a soundless laugh, throwing his head back and pounding his hand on the wooden counter block twice before turning away from her. Wendy cautiously circled back around the counter to where he was standing.

  “I’m supposed to help you, down here. In the kitchen.”

  Keme nodded once and handed her a huge kitchen knife. Wendy had never in her life been allowed to hold a knife that large, certainly not when she had rarely joined Liza in their kitchen in London. Keme walked over to the barrel and plucked up a dead fish by its tail, its mouth hanging open, its red lips stained with mottled blood. Wendy held back a gag. Keme plopped the fish in front of her and then motioned for her to cut it with the knife. She shook her head. He grinned, shook his head back and forth, and then proceeded to show her how to slit the fish up the belly, its insides spilling out across the wooden counter top. Wendy gagged, once and then again.

  “I cannot. I cannot. I can do potatoes, but …” She uttered the word that she had been yearning to say to this entire ordeal. “No. No.”

  Keme watched her silently before taking the fish from her with an understanding nod. With long strokes, he pulled the scales back from the fish easily, and laid down a much less disgusting sight of two cleaned fillets. He gestured to a bucket of water and made the motion of washing. Wendy let out a sigh of relief.

  “Yes. Yes, I can do that, at least.”

  Keme slapped her cheerfully on the back and moved his head side to side, as if he was hearing silent music in his head. Wendy decided that she liked him very much, very much indeed. She took the sickly looking fillets from him and doused them quickly in the bucket of fresh water. Keme showed her how to rub an onion pe
el quickly over the skin, how to sprinkle a handful of seasonings over the bunch and top them off with a dollop of yellow salt, and how to line the fillets up in front of a dangling iron cauldron. When Wendy had washed her hundredth fillet, Keme motioned her over to watch him load the fillet into a spherical iron cauldron that dangled from several large silver chains. Using his hands, he gestured to the cauldron and then swung his body back and forth, his hands in a circle. Wendy understood immediately.

  “It moves with the motion of the ship.”

  Keme nodded before motioning to Wendy that it was hot. She shook her head. “I don’t believe we have these where I come from.”

  Keme shook his head and then crooked his little finger before pointing to his head.

  “Hook’s invention?” Wendy grinned. “I’m not surprised. Have you seen the weapons on deck?”

  Keme opened his mouth to laugh again before shaking his head and getting back to work, prying open a barrel of apples and setting onto them with a serrated knife, his skilled strokes perfectly slicing the apples in just four deft moves. A burst of crisp apple skin filled Wendy’s nostrils, and she breathed it in like air. Here, in this tiny ship kitchen, she had somehow found one thing that smelled like home. Her eyes teared up, but she kept on working, helping him now with peeling potatoes, thankful for this thoughtless task that let her linger on a particularly delicious memory: Booth, winking at her slyly before tossing her an apple from his bag, like it was some sort of extravagant gift. She caught it in her hands and looked up at him, but he was already walking back to his father’s shop, whistling a lilting tune, his bag full of books before disappearing at the corner. She looked down at the apple. He had taken a bite already, and the white of his teeth marks were shiny and wet. Wendy had looked around fervently to see if anyone were watching. No one was, and so she lowered her mouth to the apple, pressing her lips against the spot that she knew his had been. Her heart pounded and her knees gave a quiver as her tongue traced the grooves in the apple, feeling like such a naughty girl.