Hook raised his right hand, stars peeking out from between his fingertips.
“A purple light, glistening off the pillars of ice that surrounded it, whirled, the ice around it turning to shadows. Ice mountains hovered above the deep, somehow a part of the water and not of it at all. My father was screaming for the Jolly Rodger to turn, but it was a moot point—the light had begun pulling the ship towards itself, and our nautical instruments went mad. The ship came about and was being pulled in backwards.” He shook his head. “Our ship was swallowed by the light as though an egg through the serpent’s mouth. My father …”
His voice faltered once, before he coughed and continued. “My father at the very last moment, abandoned the wheel and threw his body over mine. That was the last thing that most of the men remembered. But I didn’t. I saw …”
“You saw the portals? The windows?”
Hook turned his head towards Wendy. “Yes. I saw the windows, the whirling stars, the circling light overhead, like fragmented glass. I watched as our world of ice and black water dispersed in a haze of stars and light.”
He spun the wheel back to the starboard side, resting his hook easily on a worn knot in the wood.
“When we woke, we were here, in Neverland, in these turquoise waters, about three miles off the mainland. We had gone from a frozen hell of death, to a warm paradise that was ripe for the taking. The crew was delighted—my father was not. He realized that he had not been searching for treasure all this time, but he had been the experiment of a rich nobleman, and that we were trapped in Neverland forever, unable to sail away, trapped in this godforsaken land for all eternity!”
He slammed his hook down on the wheel, chipping a tiny piece off one of the handles. Then his eyes found Wendy, sitting at rapt attention.
“That’s when Peter Pan arrived, a flying boy! Imagine our rapture! He landed on our ship perhaps a year after our arrival, bearing fruits and treasures from the mainland. The crew fell all over him, astonished at his power of flight, at his gifts, and his knowledge about Neverland. My father, unfortunately, was one of them. He was charmed by this boy, as was I, and we quickly became the best of friends.”
Wendy gasped. Hook and Peter? Friends?
“Don’t look so shocked, Miss Darling. Remember, I was fifteen years old and desperately lonely for anyone my age, and here came a boy who could fly, who could fight! We spent months as each other’s only companions, and he taught me to master different weapons—the sword, the spear, the bow. In confidence, Peter told me how he had gotten his power, how he had saved the fairy Tink and she had gifted him with her powers—flight, speed, and strength—a bond that can never be separated, not as long as Tink lives. Peter and I grew closer, and it delighted my father that I had a friend my age, as I had only been around grown men all my life. Peter took me flying every afternoon, showing me the different parts of the island, though we never landed. The Neverland Sea from above is a rare delight, is it not? I still remember it to this day.”
Wendy swallowed, remembering the first time that her eyes swept over the vast ocean of turquoise and the creatures that wiggled beneath its clear surface, like shimmering green glass.
“Yes. It is.”
Hook’s smile disappeared.
“I have never laughed so much in my life than those first few months that I knew Peter Pan, and likely never will again. It was a golden time, although I see now that Peter’s seeds of evil were already being planted. Like a creeping root, Peter and my father became closer and closer. Peter took a great interest in learning nautical charts and mapping the stars, something that my father was passionate about. They would spend hours together, while I pulled my weight on the ship, bitter that I still had to work while Peter flitted about. Peter had never been close to his father—the wealthy Scotsman who had hired us …”
“But Peter was poor!” Wendy felt guilty for interrupting, but felt her objection burst out from her lips. “Peter told me that he was poor, that his family lived under a wealthy Scotsman, and that his brothers had pushed him into the river by his house.”
Hook scowled. “Clever boy. Peter Pan is a liar, but he is also quite intelligent, and so he always mixes his lies with truths, so that details sound clear and confident. Peter was born the only son of Davis Wickerly. He was a spoiled brat, who enjoyed bullying the children of serfs. His father was a cruel man, and so Peter was a cruel child, even then. He clung to my father, and slowly, I began to see that it wasn’t a friend that Peter wanted. No, Peter Pan had enough friends already, in fact, Pan Island was full of friends that Peter had brought here for himself. What Peter wanted was a father, and he wanted mine.” Hook’s voice changed.
“I am still unsure of the details of that day, but I woke to the sound of yelling in my father’s cabin and the breaking of glass. I heard my father tell Peter to get off the ship and never return, and Peter saying that he would live to regret this. I had barely climbed out of my bunk when my father came bursting into my room, his sword drawn, his eyes wild. He cradled me in his arms and told me to come back to his chambers and to stay there all day. He wouldn’t talk about what happened with Peter, but told me to stay put. And so I did, out of respect for my father’s fear. Two days passed, and finally I was allowed to come onto the deck. The Jolly Rodger was never quiet, and yet all was still when I emerged. I turned to look and was surprised to see the mainland, but even more surprised at what I saw next—another pirate ship. The Sunned Shore was manned by a small group of friendly chaps from the surrounding islands—good men with families and truly terrible pirates. Still, my father enjoyed their randy company.”
Hook seemed disturbed at the memory, his throat croaking.
“And what had silenced the noisy crew of the Jolly Rodger? It was that the Sunned Shore—a fairly large vessel—had been turned upside down and was now resting on the tops of the trees just off the shore, their branches crumpled underneath its great weight. Water still streamed from the boat, and from the mouths of thirty or so dead men, some hung upside down, some dead on the ground thirty feet below it, their bodies trapped between branches and the broken boards of the ship. Painted on the side of the boat, in bright-yellow paint, were the words ‘From the fatherless.’”
Hook yanked the wheel of the ship angrily, and a wave splashed over the side.
“My father’s mouth was agape as he reached for my hand. ‘Peter Pan could not have done this. He could not have. How could he …?’ He was cut off, for Peter Pan landed hard on the ship’s hull. Standing atop the upturned vessel, he glared as if he had his foot on the throat of a felled opponent. Wisps of black steam wafted off his skin. His navy eyes were narrowed and his face seemed more angular, like an angry wasp. He drew his gold sword and charged at my father. My father was many things—a navigator, a captain, a pirate, a lover of gold—but sword fighting was not one of his strengths. I screamed for him to let him fight me, but my father would not. The crew gathered around, their weapons drawn, but they weren’t quick enough. Peter sliced at my father, once and then again, before leaping up in the air. He was so fast. His kick caught my father in the chin, throwing him off balance. My father stumbled backwards, and Peter took that opportunity to shove a sword through his heart. It was over in seconds. The old man never had a chance.”
Wendy closed her eyes and wiped the tear from her cheek, imagining her own papa, unevenly matched against Peter’s unnatural prowess. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
Hook’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened around the wheel.
“Don’t be sorry. I have no use for pity. My father died in my arms. Words were said, blessings given, foreheads kissed. Peter Pan watched it all from high in his sky, watched as my father passed away from this world, a man who had shown him only kindness. And then he flew away, and I would not see him again for years. I vowed that I would build on my father’s legacy, that I would one day run Neverland, and I would force Peter Pan into hiding, into shame. And when that was done, I would kill him. I fou
nd out later from Smith, my father’s young first mate, that Peter had asked my father to kill me, so that he could be his only son. My father had laughed in his face, before seeing that he was serious. He then banished him from the ship and told him never to come back. My father had chosen me, and paid for it with his life.”
Wendy continued to wipe tears from her eyes. She understood the allure of Peter Pan, how his presence was like the sun, and when it was pulled back, you found yourself in a cold darkness. She also understood what being the target of his rage—or his lust—could do.
Hook reached down, pulling up a bottle of wine from a small knapsack resting against the railing. With his teeth he yanked out the cork, spit it out, and took a deep, refreshing gulp. Then he pulled out two glasses and poured some of the dark red wine, a heavy tonic that sloshed with the movement of the ship. After handing a glass to Wendy, he paused and raised his glass.
“To Arthur Tiberius Hook.”
Wendy thought a moment before raising her glass.
“To papas.”
She drank long and deep before she felt the tip of the captain’s hook press down her glass.
“Easy girl, I don’t need you feeding the fish tonight.”
Wendy nodded, feeling the warmth of the wine coating her throat and filling her belly.
“That must have been hard, losing your father like that.”
“Yes, well, that is how it is that I came to meet Peter Pan. It is important to our future that you understand this story.”
Wendy tilted her head. Her thoughts came one after another, but there was one in particular that stood out.
“How did the Sunned Shore come to be upside down? Certainly it couldn’t have been the Lost Boys?”
She had asked the question hoping to look naïve. Of course it wasn’t the Lost Boys—they could barely get dinner on the table for themselves. Hook shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t the Lost Boys. Even with all of them, they could not have lifted the ship. And how would they get it out of the water?”
“Tink?” Even as Wendy uttered her name, she knew that it wasn’t Tink. Tink was fast and powerful when she wasn’t kept under Peter’s thumb, but she didn’t think the fairy could carry a ship.
“Then how was it—”
Hook leveled his eyes at her, and she held rapt by his intensity.
“Since you have come to Neverland, there has been a question on your heart, a question that presses on the soul of every person in Neverland. You might not recognize it yet, but it is ingrained in the shores of the island and the waves of the sea. Something is off here. You know it. You felt it with Peter.”
Wendy shook her head out of frustration. Everything he was saying was true. There was something in the water, something in the air. A whispered secret. When she had been under Peter’s spell, it hadn’t been obvious, but now that she had been away from him, she found herself repeating a strange phrase: What is …? What is …?
She opened her mouth to say it now, but was cut short by a shrill whine from above, as Owl whistled down three strained notes, followed by a cry. “PAN!”
“Get down!” shouted Hook, pushing Wendy the ground, crouching over her, pulling his sword quickly from his scabbard.
“Bayonets to the helm! COME ABOUT!”
Wendy heard a grinding sound ring up from the deck below her cheek and the spears on the deck spun clockwise until they all were pointed inwards, their sharp barbs gleaning in the moonlight, focused on the space directly above Wendy and Hook. Every weapon on board was now turning.
“Fire a warning shot!” Voodoo sprinted over to a large black cannon and pulled a lever on the side before shifting it upwards dramatically. A blossom of blue fire erupted from the top of the mizzenmast, shooting straight into the sky. Its fire caught onto a long coil of rope that hung loosely from the peak of the mast. Voodoo began turning the lever hard and the flaming rope began to whirl in a wide circle, its flaming length enough to cover the width of the Sudden Night, like a protective flare. Wendy saw the shadow of a figure, arms folded, high above the flaming coil.
“Fire only if necessary! I will not waste weapons on his childish antics,” Hook ordered. “But if he comes any closer, shoot to kill!”
Wendy’s heart hammered. The Sudden Night was still, with only the sound of lapping waves, the thrumming of the sea. Then Wendy saw something falling from above them, a white diamond in the night, a dim flickering against the star-filled sky. It was tracing its way down from the stars, the flaming coil showering her face with light as she watched it fall.
“Get your weapons men!” Hook ordered. “Be ready!”
Wendy watched as the white object plunged towards the deck, passing through the whirling flame from above, now bringing with it a shower of tinder. Wendy lunged for the bucket that rested upon the helm before feeling the captain’s hook on her arm.
“We have nothing to fear from fire,” he hissed. The object fell down to the deck, where it landed hard in the middle of the ship, its hard impact echoing up the deck, its pieces exploding outwards. Wendy took a step forward.
“Wait,” ordered Hook, as the pirates descended onto the object. “Wait. I want him to see it burn out.” Wendy watched silently as the flaming object flickered a few times. Finally, it gave a flutter and went dark, the shiny gloss that covered the Sudden Night doing its intended job. Hook reached down and picked up the object before turning to Wendy.
“I believe this is for you, my dear.” It was still smoking in his hands, and covered in small flecks of ash. A necklace. Creamy white pearls were strung together with silver wire. After looking at the necklace, they both raised their heads to the sky, Wendy flinching when she saw a shadow pass over the moon. Peter was a boy whose lips she had kissed, whose hands had felt her form, a boy whose every muscle she had worshipped. He now filled her with deep horror. There were a few minutes of silence and then Owl called down, “He’s gone.”
Wendy stepped forward. “Let me see the necklace.”
Tied around the base of the pearls, its singed corners flapping in the wind, was a small note. Wendy unfolded it slowly.
“To Wendy,” it read, in Peter’s messy scrawl, “I dream of you.”
At the bottom of the note was a bloody fingerprint, and with a whimper, Wendy noticed that the note had been tied to the necklace not with a brown ribbon as she originally thought, but with a lock of stringy brown hair, a brown that wasn’t too far a shade off her own. She and John both had their mother’s hair.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two days passed at sea for Wendy, two days of cooking fish, shelling oysters, mixing spices, and picking rotten apples from a barrel, thus bringing light to something her father always said, “One bad apple ruins the whole bunch.” There was an exhausting routine to cooking for the crew, and Wendy fell into it easily, enjoying the mindlessness of it all, and also Keme, who was a comfort even in his stillness. The quiet of their work, with the sluice of the knives, the slap of salting fish, gave Wendy time to think, to linger over what had happened to them since they had arrived in Neverland. Mostly, her thoughts lingered on three men: Booth, Peter, and John, but her worry about John far surpassed her worry about the other two: the guilt in her heart was like a dull thud that colored everything around her. He was a little shit, to be sure, but his damaged heart had been open wide enough for Peter to stroll right in. Desperate for information, she had, against her fears, made her way to Hook’s chambers on her third night on the ship, her hands tracing over the grand carving of the fairy king before she knocked twice. The door yanked open; Smith glowered down at her.
“It’s the girl,” he said, clearly annoyed. “Should I kill her?”
“Not today, Smith. Perhaps later,” replied the captain dully from inside the room. Smith turned back to her.
“What in bloody hells do you want?”
“I need to speak with the captain, please. It will not take long.”
“Captain’s busy, as you can see.”
“What is it, girl?”
Wendy raised her voice, refusing to be intimidated by these men even though they had most likely killed someone in the last month.
“May I speak with you privately, Captain?”
“Not now, perhaps tomorrow before we dock at Port Duette.” Wendy tried to defer.
“Yes, that would be fine, except that—”
“I am very busy!” Hook snapped. “As you can see! So if you please …”
Wendy was done being polite, so she practically shouted her request into the room, knowing that it would get his attention.
“I would like to have your spy on Pan Island send back a report about my brother. I cannot live anymore not knowing his fate.” She paused and took a breath. “Please.”
The two men stopped talking and looked over at her with amazement—and annoyance—at her boldness.
“You have interrupted a meeting of great importance for a boy of little,” Hook snapped. “Your brother’s loyalty lies with Peter right now. We know that he is alive, but that he has been missing as of late, probably being held and maybe tortured by Peter. I would say your useless prayers loudly, Miss Darling, for things are not looking good—for any of us.”
He stood up abruptly, and thundered towards her, where, with a rough shove, he sent her reeling out into the hallway, his hook scratching the bridge of her hand. Once she was outside his chambers, he sighed with exasperation before whispering in her ear.
“I’ll look into it more, but do not ever interrupt me again, or I’ll let you watch your brother walk the plank, I swear it.” His eyes focused on hers with unnerving intensity. He wasn’t lying.
Wendy Darling: Volume 2: Seas Page 8
