by Andrea Jones
“Pierre-Jean is protected,” he said. “But your own well-being, I do not warrant.”
Roughly, he pulled her toward his cabin. The lookout kept his distance, but while the bay’s breeze caressed him, he sniffed a soupçon of exotic cologne. Monsieur de Lerroné watched in the half-light of the moon as the captain and the lady sped for privacy, the officer’s boots stamping in urgency, Madame’s bare feet silent, but fluttering to keep up.
As the door banged shut, de Lerroné saluted Captain Cecco. A true Frenchman, the sentry didn’t wonder at the power that had drawn the commodore’s lady back to her spouse.
“Alors, l’amour.” He shook his head, chortling, and counted the minutes until his shift should be over, and he might find his own kind of love on the beach.
He was curious, too. The commodore’s temperament was notorious. Monsieur de Lerroné was intrigued to see how James Hook would compensate himself for the loss of his lover.
✽ ✽ ✽
Staring around him, David sat up fast, seeking the foe. His ears hummed with the sound of war whoops. Were the Indians striking at last?
The attackers’ torches soon resolved into flickering orange, from the hearth. Snug in their hideout under the ground, the other boys lay limp, as spread out as they could manage all together in the one big bed. Far from a battle scene, the earthen walls closed comfortably round the children, the roots forming sheaths for their weapons and shelves for their treasures. The loamy smell that was becoming familiar to David pervaded. Warm furs covered him, soft against his skin. He sighed in relief, knowing he and the Lost Boys were safe in their home. And it was no foe who woke David, but Peter himself.
Peter was dreaming again. With his eyes open but unseeing, he challenged some terror. His arms flailed as if fighting, and his fist clutched an imaginary dagger. As David had witnessed another evening, Peter, engulfed in his nightmare, was not afraid, but blazing.
“Have at thee, all seven of you!” he cried. His patrician face glowed with gallantry as he fell to, defending the bed. As far as David could ascertain, not one of Peter’s seven adversaries advanced beyond its edge, and the littler boys slept on, unwitting.
During Peter’s hauntings, David wondered if he should wake the boy. But Peter appeared so pleased with himself as he struggled that it seemed a shame to deny him his triumph. Further, David reflected, Peter didn’t know the difference between what transpired in his imagination and what happened in truth. It made no odds if he woke or he slept.
When the battle was won, Peter crowed and stowed his weapon, as cocky as ever he behaved in the daylight. His life, it seemed, night or day, consisted of fantasies. Depending on your point of view, David thought, Peter was the lucky one fated never to outgrow them. Perhaps Peter’s land, the ‘Never-land,’ was named so for that reason. But dreams might be delightful, or they might just as likely turn dreadful.
David, who had experienced real peril at sea, found Peter’s courage appalling. Seen another way, though, Peter took childish risks. The boy wasn’t mature enough to appreciate the dangers he faced on a daily basis. So David puzzled: was Peter a hero, or simply ignorant? Either way, he was fun to follow. David grinned. He had picked up the habit of grinning, and he found that fact a little appalling as well.
Without choosing to do so, David discovered the charm of these shores. In his more prosaic moods, he rationalized the Neverland’s magic as the lure of a childhood he’d never enjoyed. But when his soul filled with Red-Handed Jill, David pandered to the Island’s mystical properties. In those moments, the burn of Jill’s blood-mark scored him, and his cheek flamed with her passion. He got plenty of opportunity to adore her, because Peter and his boys were addicted to Island lore; the story-telling girl who as their mother mended socks and pockets remained as large a legend as the Pirate Queen. Even now she ruled their hearts. And, still in thrall to her, David found himself, by extension, beguiled by the enchantment of her Island.
He was old enough, and, owing to Peter, young enough, to recognize Jill’s wisdom in banishing him to boyhood. Although exiled from her presence, he worshipped her. Yet so many occupations possessed his time and his mind alongside of her that he assigned his hoped-for gratification to a future era. He was, in effect, a child again. His business now was play, with a man’s estate awaiting.
Occasions arose when David contemplated the responsibility that had pulled him here. He recalled his conversation with Captain Cecco, and the purpose for which he and his packet wrapped in oilskin were saved from the sea. Like the other boys, David hid treasure.
But unlike the shells, antlers, sling-shots and feathers tucked tenderly in the roots forming the walls, David’s artifact seemed too grown-up to enter the hideout. It was too weighty, even, to glorify the mantel beside Peter’s trophies. In contrast, David himself did belong here. And he did intend to honor his obligation to his uncle and his shipmates. But while he played a Lost Boy, duty’s urgency diminished. As for his part to play as Jill’s rescuer, he hadn’t forgotten, and he cared just as deeply. But the lady was safe with her pirates, for now. His secret would keep.
Peter had lain down again, one arm slung off the bed, and one leg arched. His mouth fell slack, displaying his perfect little teeth. No mother under the influence of a nightlight might resist such a child. The riddle in David’s mind was how Peter, who had just fought off a squadron, could lie so seemingly defenseless. Only his victims could fail to love him, when he was asleep.
In all these respects, tonight, Peter’s hideout under the ground remained its usual, unusual self. It was the next stage in the dream that caused David unease.
“You can’t make me,” Peter declared. Then, more piteously, “You can’t make me go there. The wind told me— I’m banished.”
The only place on the Island that David knew to be forbidden to the Wonderful Boy was the House in the Clearing. Peter himself had escorted David to the area, where only the big house was off-limits. They’d basked in the place, made friends with the native children, and were petted and fed by their mothers. David could think of nothing in the Clearing to affright Peter so. Perhaps the nightmare conjured up something sinister there. But, at Peter’s next words, David quailed, too.
“They’re not buried.” Peter flopped on his tummy, as if turning his back on someone, or some thing. “No…no, I can’t go…Halfway…halfway there is the rule!”
It was clear to David that this adventure was no longer fun. He reached out from the blankets to nudge Peter’s shoulder, but the boy recoiled from his touch.
“They’re only bones on the sacrifice mat…lain in their tomb.”
And David got an inkling of the trouble. Peter, like David, dreaded a certain location. A place David had learned he should shun.
This foreboding was one reason David deferred his duty, delaying his return to civilization. The first step toward home lay concealed in the Tomb of the Lost Boys. In spite of the weeks in which David denied the horror of the place, sheltering there, it retained a shuddery aura. Yet if Peter himself— the bravest boy in creation— avoided the grotto, it was more grotesque than David conceived.
As if to confirm the fact, Peter whimpered in his sleep.
Only once more, David told himself. He need only enter that cave one last time. But when? His toes grew chilly, and he realized he’d stretched out beyond his fur blanket. David shrank himself small again, and stopped formulating the future. He trusted in Jill. When the right time arrived, he’d know what to do, and he’d be grown up enough to do it.
Behind his eyelids, the darkness changed shades, from the warm of orange to the cool of blue. A flutter passed over his head. When he opened his eyes, Jewel was sitting on Peter’s shoulder. Her little hand patted the child, and her whispers made music in his ear, as if she strummed a harp strung with his golden hair. The sound was like a chiming of bells, low, and ever so pleasing. Peter’s furrowed brow smoothed, and David watched him descend into slumber.
Drowsy again, David grinned.
His ears filled with the hum of the lullaby.
Neither boy noticed when Jewel ceased her singing. They were sunk in the realm of Morpheus when she sat up, abruptly. She arched her back. Her wings burst into radiant blue. With her eyes half closed, she smiled a smile of joy. She lingered, languorous, in the pleasure of the moment. And then she tidied her hair, brushed down her gown, and zoomed to shoot up the hollow of the tree chute, flying toward the nighttime sky.
Jewel, too, harbored dreams. Tonight she’d been summoned by one of them.
✽ ✽ ✽
Monsieur de Lerroné sprang from the skiff and scurried toward the casks, leaving his companion to beach the boat. Sand flew from his feet. “Mes amis,” he shouted, “have you heard?” His shipmates handed him a bottle, but he didn’t pause to drink. “For our captain this night, a dream has come to life. Madame, she has joined him!”
“Mrs. Hanover?” wondered Noodler, taken aback. Then he began to rationalize, “Well, I suppose it had to happen.”
Poor de Lerroné couldn’t fit another word of English into the hubbub, and the assumption met with mixed emotions. No one but Pierre-Jean cared for Mrs. Hanover, exactly; she’d caused too much trouble for the company, although considering her upbringing, they felt sorry for her. “Aye,” Cookson offered, “she be a female, and females be in short supply.” Captain Cecco, as the men knew only too well, had been lonesome since the commodore came back to life and came back to Jill. The girl’s attention might help.
But Mason protested, “Rumor is he found a native woman. A widow. I thought she’d be his one, from now. Barring our lady, of course.”
“Aye, so I heard, too. Are you sure it be Mrs. Hanover, de Lerroné?”
Yulunga overheard his mistress’ name as he strode into the crowd. He appeared displeased. “What nonsense are you spreading, de Lerroné?”
He’d just returned from Flambard’s death scene, where Tom Tootles confided the news of Jill’s abandonment. His first priority was to locate Mr. Smee, confined by the commodore’s ban to the edge of the beach. He did so immediately, and one glance at the bo’sun’s red, anxious face told him Smee had learned of the development. No doubt Jukes and Mullins described the events in detail to Smee, once they’d carried Nibs back for nursing.
The two first officers exchanged troubled looks. Tacitly agreeing to handle the changes one task at a time, they carried on with their respective duties. At the moment, Smee had the charge of Nibs. It fell to Yulunga to join the men again, and he turned his formidable bulk toward de Lerroné.
Mr. Yulunga was known for his predilection for stirring things up when a ship got too quiet. Thanks to Jill’s defection, a shake-up was certain. Before Yulunga became an officer, this turn was just the kind of chaos he relished, but as Cecco’s first mate, and even as his friend, he couldn’t see a long-term bright side to Cecco’s new bliss. The situation cast Yulunga in a gloomy humor, and his men backed a bit as he lumbered toward them.
He said, “Mrs. Hanover is here, on the Island. She won’t bother Pierre-Jean, or anybody else tonight.” He only wished it were his mistress with Cecco. But reality was dismal enough. The company didn’t need another rumor. Monsieur de Lerroné’s gossip was true, and no threat from Yulunga could thwart it.
“No, no, indeed, not the little one,” de Lerroné verified, “The Lady herself, Red-Handed Jill. I saw her with these eyes. She and the captain— they locked the door to his quarters.”
Stunned by this declaration, the Rogers eyeballed Yulunga for a denial, but the look of reluctance on his broad black face confirmed their fears. Their shoulders slumped, their hands hung by their sides.
The mariners of the Red Lady, though, gave a cheer. After the sad story of Flambard, they could look forward to something pleasant— the presence of Red-Handed Jill aboard. The Frenchmen took pride in their Italian captain who, with his persuasion and prowess, had won the lady back. Cecco’s mood would be lighter, and his crew members clapped de Lerroné on the back, toasting one another as they anticipated the ship’s more amiable atmosphere.
The Rogers, however, saw the situation in a different light. One and all were dumbfounded, not because Jill accepted Cecco— she’d done it before— but because she’d forsaken Hook. Solitude was a curse to him, one that slung round to scourge his crew, too. Once the Roger’s sailors found their voices, a few words set the Frenchmen to considering the repercussions.
“Mates,” declared Mason, his back to the bonfire, “You’re sworn to the commodore. If the lady’s choice cuts a rift between captains, be you men of your word?”
At this question, the Frenchmen murmured amongst themselves. Hook was a shrewd commander. He had demanded an oath of allegiance from each of his underlings. Cecco himself had so sworn. Any breach between the two officers placed the crew in an awkward position. No, not awkward. The realization hit them; their position could be fatal.
“See what has happened to Flambard,” lamented his tie-mate. “His death, it may be only the start of the trouble.”
Mullins, Hook’s own second officer, intoned, “You Frenchies, you never knew Hook before Jill. May you never know him.” His crewmates bore grim faces, nodding. Their dejection cast a pall on the gathering— the shade of Hook’s legend, remembered.
The Red Lady’s sailors looked to Guillaume, who strove to pacify them in French and in English. “Attendez, mes amis, we will learn more tomorrow. Come, let us settle now, and enjoy the last of the kegs.” With Yulunga’s looming mass to shepherd them, the men subsided into groups, to roost cross-legged in the sand, tossing dice on driftwood, and waiting for sunrise.
Banished from Hook’s side, Mr. Smee felt more worry than both crews combined. He was anxious to resume his station, looking after the commodore. The pavilion stood only yards across the sand, its gay, colored stripes glowing from within. It might just as well have been pitched on the moon, so distant did Smee feel from his commodore. On this nightmare of nights, Hook must be needing his first mate and confidant. Smee was all too familiar with Hook’s volatility. Jill’s coming had restored his humanity. Her departure might bring the reverse: the old days, the old ways.
He waited, hoping for a summons. Alongside Lelaneh, he tended Nibs’ wound, and with Lily he comforted Red Fawn. The moon moved on, and Smee’s worries only compounded, because Hook’s summons failed to occur.
Equally disturbing to him was the idea that the lady’s loyalty stood in question. “Lily,” he said, once they paired off at the woods’ edge, and were able to speak privately, “They say the commodore witnessed it. Red-Handed Jill turning away with her husband— and not a word for himself to soften the blow. I can’t be believing it.”
With her tender touch, Lily soothed him. “The Lady Jill knows her heart, and the commodore’s. All will be well, Smee. We must trust her judgment.”
“I’m that vexed about Nibs, too. It’s a nasty knock he took. I’m thinking he won’t wake ’til daylight.” A wail of woe rose up from Red Fawn, where Lelaneh rocked her in her arms near the warmth of the fire. Smee looked their way. “Lelaneh has a job to do, consoling Red Fawn. The poor woman set her heart on Flambard, and she’s sobbing as if she’d murdered him herself.”
“Come,” Lily urged him, “We have done all we can for our cherished ones. Lelaneh is good medicine for Red Fawn, and the Men of the Clearing watch over Nibs. Let us lie on my blanket, until Commodore Hook sends for you. And in the meantime, Mr. Tom attends him. You need not fear for your master.”
Grateful for her wisdom, Smee kissed her and, reclining on the blanket, he sank into her soft embrace. “You’re a wisewoman, Lily. I’ve always known it.”
Lily smiled for her lover, but she couldn’t help feeling troubled. The Lady Jill knew her own heart, but her act of abandonment struck false. Jill adored Cecco, and she deeply loved Hook. Until tonight, she had directed her energies to upholding harmony between the two. And to renounce either one for the other required a parting with words. Jill was a woman of words, a storytel
ler. Surely she should have spoken before disappearing?
Smee lay silent for a while, and Lily dared to hope he slept. The evening had been trying for him, physically and emotionally. Tomorrow could bring only worse. But, far from slumber, he raised up on his elbow and said, “Look at you and me, Lily. Why can’t they be doing like us?”
Lily waited. She sensed what her dear one would say. He was a generous man.
“Why can’t they let her love both of them?”
Lily pulled him down to her, and made love to him. She was generous, too.
When their heartbeats had calmed, Lily spoke one more time. “This Island is one of mysteries, Smee.” She sighed. “And mysteries may not be trusted. Let us hold close together, my dear, while we may.”
As she lay, beloved in her lover’s arms, Lily’s thoughts flowed to Captain Cecco. How content he must be, right this moment. To hold his wife was the wish of his heart.
For one man, at least, she believed, this nightmare was a beautiful dream, come to life.
CHAPTER 22
Wicked Victims
Mrs. Hanover was receptive to sound. The slam of the door thumped in her ears, and the bolt clicked home. A scratching noise, and light flared at the bedside, growing as the flame in Captain Cecco’s fingers licked the lamp wick. In her eagerness, her breaths came panting. He must have heard her because he turned his head her way, and the light danced upon his earrings, swinging.
She braved his gaze. As his face became illuminated, it remained strained and severe. Captain Cecco was a strong man, suffering strong emotion. She was part of the reason he suffered, and his intensity vibrated at her center. At this moment, she felt that she signified. His eyes skimmed from the twist of her hair to her barefooted toes. Then he took his first full observation of her tunic, patterned after Jill’s. He turned his back, but she sensed he still saw her.
Ready to insinuate herself in his quarters, Mrs. Hanover glanced around. This cabin was smaller than its counterpart aboard the Roger, but nearly as comfortable. Paisley drapes hung long at the windows, which were open to the air. The bedstead was large, the rest of the furniture diminutive, at odds with the captain’s physique. He had cleared away LeCorbeau’s more effeminate trappings, but the remainder showed quality craftsmanship: ripe polished woodwork; thick-woven fabrics. The rug beneath her feet felt lush, and the air was spiced with leather. His cabin was orderly. She imagined that it had changed since its previous captain’s tenure, now allocated to business rather than pleasure. Watching Cecco settle in, she felt just at home here as he. It was the kind of place Mrs. Hanover found most familiar— it was a man’s room.
