“I said,” yelled the boy in the front, small but bulky, with a tangle of red hair. “What’s SHE doing hyah?”
Wendy instinctively took a step backward, so that John stood in front of her. John looked amused at her discomfort. Peter stepped up to the front of the platform and raised his hands. The rumbling crowd of dirty boys below fell into a reverent silence. He grinned and spoke.
“Boy oh boy, I missed my boys!” The boys erupted into cheers, several of them crowing into their hands. “And I have good news for you boys! I have found two more brave soldiers to join our ranks, two more men to stand at our side when we knock on Hook’s door!” He grabbed John’s hand and raised it up. “This is John! He’s very smart. In fact, he’s so smart that I have decided to make him a General!” There was an audible whisper that ran through the crowd. Many of the smaller boys jumped up and down with excitement, but Wendy noted that several did not, most noticeably three older boys who stood at the front, arms crossed at the chest, two of them staring at John with sneers of contempt.
“And this . . .” Peter swept Michael out of Wendy’s arms and held him up in front of the crowd. “Is baby Michael!” Michael scowled at being called a baby, but he obviously loved the roaring of the crowd at his name. He wiggled and waggled in Peter’s arms.
Peter put him down gently and reached his palm out to Wendy. “And now I have one more person to introduce to you.” Tentatively, Wendy put her hand in his, feeling the warmth of him and the tingle of power that came with it. Peter pulled her closer, and as she neared his side, she could hear the confused grumbling of several boys. “Peter?” “A girl?” “This was unacceptable.” Peter turned his brilliant green eyes on the crowd, daring those voices to continue their dissent. They didn’t. He waited a moment before smiling again.
“Generals, Lost Boys, and Pips: May I introduce to you, Wendy Darling. She is here to share with us in our adventures. She is our friend, and when she is here, on Pan Island, she is under my protection. No one is allowed to touch her or hurt her. She is our honored guest, sister to John and Michael, and we will treat her with respect. We protect who?”
“Our own . . .” echoed back the dull voices of bored boys. Peter jumped up, taking to the air and flying low over the crowd, reaching out his hands to touch some of their heads, patting them with affection, tugging on their ears.
“I said, we protect who?”
“Our own!” they screamed back, leaping and reaching for his hand. He laughed joyfully.
“And to celebrate their arrival, I’ve just made the decision that in two days, we shall help relieve Hook of his generous bounty of alcohol. A raid is needed! What do you think? Are you ready for an adventure?” The boys were frenzied now, hugging each other and clapping. Peter rose up above them, his feet dangling near their heads. “And tell me, whose name shall he cry to the skies when we take it?”
The throng of boys fell silent and then a whisper pierced the group. “The Lost Boys.” The whisper grew among them until it had grown into a scream. Peter sailed above them, his face aglow with pride. Wendy felt a flare light inside of her chest as she watched him. He was dynamic.
“That’s right! Hook will cry for the Lost Boys. Not Pan, not you, but us, the Lost Boys. For it is all due to your courage, and let’s not forget, your quick swords and arrows!”
The boys erupted in laughter. Peter flew back up to the overhang, where Wendy and the boys stood perfectly still, mesmerized by this God-child who obviously commanded the worship of hundreds. The yearning eyes of the Lost Boys looked to Peter in that the same worshipful way that the faithful looked toward their God. Except that this was a different kind of church, a sanctuary of leaves and branches, their stained glass remnants of tattered fabric that hung and blew in the breeze. And Peter, well . . .
Without warning, he grasped a young boy from the crowd and pulled him into the air with him, the boy granted the power to fly, just as the Darlings had been.
“Do you all know who this is?”
The boys cheered.
“This is Thomas. Even though he is just a Pip, I have decided that Thomas will be a companion to Michael, but if he does his job well, he will be joining the Lost Boys and the Generals when we borrow from Hooky!”
The crowd erupted with cheers of encouragement that concealed a simmering jealousy at Peter’s attention. Thomas, who looked to be about seven, was beside himself with happiness, the blush rising from his sallow cheeks a complement to the curly blond hair that cascaded down his back in a ponytail. Aside from the occasional street urchin, Wendy had never seen a boy with curls quite like that. Peter flew back up to the platform, taking Thomas with him and placing him down beside Wendy.
“Hallo,” Thomas whispered to Wendy, the joy in his voice touching something deep within her. She placed her hand on the back of his head and smiled, and the mass of dirty boys seemed to relax a bit. Without warning, Thomas took her hand and squeezed it. Michael narrowed his eyes before Wendy giggled and poked him. Peter flew up to rest upon the dilapidated wooden banister that separated the Darlings from the rest of the boys below, his hands upon his hips.
“Now, the Darlings have had a very long night of flying, and they are probably tired. Tomorrow night we will celebrate their arrival with a grand feast, but today . . .” His eyes rested on Wendy. “We’ll let them sleep.”
Wendy found herself beyond thankful, for nothing sounded more terrible at the moment than feasting with hundreds of loud and curious boys. Her eyes were barely staying open as it was, and she found that moving her head too quickly resulted in a lingering light-headedness. Peter waved his arms out over the boys, their eyes rapt on his figure.
“Now, go about your day and do whatever you please! That’s the freedom of Pan Island! Generals, stay—we have an adventure to talk about!” He turned his head to the three older boys who were still staring at John. “Abbott, Oxley, and Kitoko—join me in a one clock turn? John will be joining us as well—unless he’s too tired.” He gave John a tempting grin, one eyebrow cocked.
John shook his head. “No—no, sir. I’m not tired at all.”
“Sir?” All the Generals laughed. John did look raggedly tired—the bags under his eyes spoke to his lie, but Wendy was secretly pleased to see him included. Michael gave a huge yawn, throwing his arms up.
“Peter, I’m very tired.”
Peter laughed and rubbed his towhead. “Indeed you are!” The boys had begun to disperse silently into the gentle folds of the tree that cradled the buildings around them.
Peter turned to Wendy. “Shall I show you to your private hut?”
Wendy nodded. “That would be lovely, Peter, thank you,” she said, taking Michael’s hand.
“First I’ll show you the basics of Pan Island so that when you wake, you’ll know where to find everything you need!” Alternating between flying, leaping, and walking, Peter led the Darlings down several descending levels of branches until they reached a very wide and large rope walkway that linked two large structures together at the very heart of the tree. Peter gestured to the space.
“We call this the Centermost. It’s the heart of Pan Island.”
Wendy nodded, taking in the shower of petite yellow flowers that dotted the canopy overhead and the elaborate nautilus carved into the trunks that arched above their heads. Peter touched her arm with a tender brush of his fingers before pointing.
“These are the two main gathering rooms: the Table and the Teepee. One is for eating, and the other is for storytelling. Ox will show you those tomorrow.” Peter’s tone implied that the purpose of these rooms was obvious.
Wendy nodded. She felt swallowed by the tree, by its branchy folds and twisty corners. They walked down several more walkways, Peter leading Wendy by the hand, his skin warm and soft against her own. This little adventure so far had been nothing if not improper, through and through, but strangely enough, Wendy found herself not caring.
“I think,” he said, running his hands though his thick r
ed hair, “that we will head down to where the Pips sleep at the base of the tree. Michael can sleep there. John will take his rest here.” He pointed to a group of hammocks that swayed just underneath the Teepee, each strung with red and purple nets, the beds swaying ever so slightly of their own accord, strung between two smaller branches. Michael looked at Peter and then back again at Wendy before shaking his head no and clinging to Wendy’s leg. Wendy laughed and looked back at Peter.
“I would much prefer Michael to sleep with me, if that is all right. He’s had a long night and is in a strange place. You understand.”
Peter’s quizzical look told her that he didn’t, and for just a moment, he looked almost disappointed, but then the look disappeared, and Wendy wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating in her exhaustion.
“Of course. You’re . . .” He looked at Michael and searched for the words. “Little.”
Michael stuck out his bottom lip. “I’m not little.” He paused. “But I’m maybe a little little.”
Peter laughed. “That’s fine, Michael. I have a very special place in mind for Wendy. Hold on tight to her!”
Wendy gripped Michael’s hand tightly, her other hand still holding Peter’s, and suddenly they were soaring up through the tree, upward to the tips of Pan Island. Wendy watched as the light brightened as they rose, washing its sea tone all over the thrusting branch tips as Peter pulled them closer to the light. At the tip of the tree were two small huts, separate from the rest, a tree branch snaking through the middle of them, both invasive and supportive. Peter pointed.
“That’s yours, Wendy, and that one there is mine!” They landed with a bump on a wooden platform that ran around Wendy’s charming little bungalow. The small but perfectly round room was bordered on all sides by open archways that let the warm breeze float in and out. Dyed fabrics shuttered the archways, blowing and curling in the breeze. The tree ran through the center of the room, a silent but benevolent giant, a strip of trunk so impassable that it took Wendy ten steps to walk around it. Tethered from the tree to the wall was a single large hammock, bright blue, with hundreds of brightly colored ribbons tied on the bottom. The hammock rocked endlessly as if moved by an invisible hand, the ribbons brushing the floor back and forth with a soothing whoosh sound that made Wendy long to plunge heedlessly into sleep right then and there. In the corner sat a clear bowl made of some sort of translucent shell and filled with water, and next to it sat a small wooden bowl. Wendy curled her lip when she realized its purpose. Peter saw her expression and giggled.
“It’s surely not as nice as your previous home, but there will be a Pip sent up to clean it every morning and evening.”
Wendy didn’t know what to say to that, so instead she reached out and ran her fingers down the hammock, feeling the impossibly soft fibers. She closed her eyes, afraid to wake from this enchanting dream. When she turned back to Peter, his eyes fixated hard on her face, and she felt her skin come alive under his gaze, something inside of her pulling toward his touch. She blushed and turned back to the hammock.
“It’s perfect, Peter. Thank you. We shall see you when we wake, I suppose.”
Peter smiled at her. “And when you wake, we will have a welcome celebration!” Peter saluted them both and began making his way out to the platform. Wendy splashed some water on her face, and when she looked back, he was gone, his absence marked by the sudden longing to see him again. Although—she truly was very tired. Wendy lay down in the hammock, pulling her nightgown tightly around her body. Michael leapt up onto the hammock, his little body causing it to rock wildly.
“Shhhh . . .” Michael immediately curled next to Wendy, his soft breath on her cheek.
“Wendy?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember my teddy bear’s name?”
Wendy had to think about it for a minute. “Miles, wasn’t it?”
“I think so. I miss him, I think.”
“I know you do. But I’m here with you, and I’ll keep you safe.”
There was a moment of silence. Wendy struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Wendy?”
She groaned. “Yes, Michael?”
“I like Peter.”
“I do as well. Now go to sleep.” She heard the shushed whispers of the ribbons as they dragged on the floor below her, and she felt her consciousness fading into a blissful blackness.
“Wendy?”
“What, Michael?”
“We didn’t say our prayers.”
“You’re right.” She took his little hand in her own and there, in Neverland, they repeated their prayers to the bright afternoon sky, though she struggled to remember the words. Michael was already asleep by the middle of the Lord’s Prayer, and so Wendy was left alone with her own sleepy thoughts, marveling that just that previous evening, she had climbed into her own bed. How could that be? That was a lifetime ago. A lifetime ago . . . she felt Booth’s name was just on the tips of her lips like a hot coal. Her mind whirled on the memory of his face, shutting down, turning in. Just before Wendy fell swiftly into the void, she thought she heard a slight wail carried in on the wind. Faint as it was, she heard it clearly: an unearthly, distinctly female voice crying with a heartbreaking abandon. Who could that be? The cry wove its way deep into her dreams, where stars fell from the sky, each one burning bright with longing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT A FANTASTIC DREAM.
Wendy woke slowly, her body putting up a mighty struggle to return to slumber. She felt as though she could sleep for a thousand years. Her body was sore, her wrists cramped, and her legs tender and numb. Why was she sore? It couldn’t be real—the flying boy who made her heart race, the emerald island, the face of Big Ben. With a groan, Wendy opened her eyes, a scream catching in her throat. Twelve boys stared down at her, their bedraggled faces all rapt with fascination. Wendy swallowed and let her eyes sweep over the round hut, the open archways letting in the late morning light. One of the boys grinned, a high-pitched voice making its way through a mouth of scattered and grimy teeth.
“MORNING!”
Not wanting to move too quickly, Wendy slowly reached down and pulled the ratty blanket at her feet up over herself. Her body screamed at her for what she had done to it, and she knew it would be a long day of trying to coax it back into its normal state. The boys continued to stare at her as she cleared her throat.
“Hello, boys—may I ask, where is my little brother?”
“I’m over here, Wendy!” a voice in the corner chimed, and Wendy let herself exhale. The boys stood silent and still, watching her like a frozen group of deer.
“If you wouldn’t mind just backing up so I may get out of bed, yes?”
The boys looked at one another and then took a few steps back, perfectly in sync with each other, as if they were of one mind. Wendy found herself unnerved by it, but she still sat up, rubbing her sleepy eyes. The boys clustered in the corner, whispering to each other as she delicately climbed out of the hammock, trying all the while to be ladylike about it, which in the end didn’t happen. She ended up on the floor on her knees, with her nightgown piled up around her thighs. With a blush, she yanked it back down and stood up, her body wobbling back and forth as it readjusted to Neverland’s strange gravitational pull. A chocolate-haired boy scampered over with some sort of rubbery flower in his hands.
“Here, Wendy. This is for you. I’m Brock!”
Another one followed him with a small cup of water.
Wendy nodded her head. “Thank you.”
A tiny boy with toffee skin and impossibly big, dark eyes crept up beside her. “I’m Naji!” Suddenly, she was swarmed again, with boys all around her, handing her gifts. They placed a dark green crown of leaves upon her head and looped vines around her wrists. The boy Brock was touching her hair, lifting and watching it fall, while an adorable ginger-haired boy named Tally stuck his finger curiously between her toes. Two small boys were trying to climb her arms, and another had wrapped himself around her leg.
The names bounced off the room like the patter of rain: “Paran!” “Marcus!” “Alfonso!” “Lok!” “Vasha!” Collectively they smelled like earth and sweat. Wendy squirmed, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, a normal feeling when being buried in a pile of small boys. To her relief, an authoritative voice rang out through the tiny hut.
“Oy! Boys! Get off her!” The boys scampered away like mice, out the door and into the tree or up onto the open window arches. Wendy looked up and saw one of the three Generals poking his head through the door. The boy shook his head.
“Sorry about the Pips. They’re young and usually quite bored.”
She stared at him intensely, but then she was aware that he noticed her staring, and she ducked her head down, ashamed. He laughed.
“It’s okay to stare. I’m guessing you’ve never seen anyone who looks like me.”
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”
He grinned. “Well, take a good look. Not everyone on this island is this handsome. You might as well get your fill now.”
Wendy smiled as she raised her eyes to look at his face with fascination. Michael had scampered over as well.
“What are those lines on your face, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . what’s your name?”
The General laughed. “I’m Oxley. You can call me Ox. And these lines on my face are the markings of my tribe where I grew up. I got them when I was very young, about your age.”
“Did it hurt?”
Oxley gave Michael a patient smile. “Yes. It did. But I barely remember it. These marks, where I came from, they told strangers things about me that they wouldn’t know right away.” He bent down, and Michael cautiously ran his hands over them.
“They are bumpy!”
Wendy couldn’t tear her eyes from his face. His skin was so dark that it was almost black. She had seen the Africans in London, the telltale packs of foreigners across their strong backs, their brown skin like cocoa shining in the sun. But she had never seen one that was this dark, like ebony. The scars stretched up from the corners of his mouth, hundreds of tiny dots that spread out like constellations across his cheekbones and up toward his ears. Across his forehead were several variations of dotted lines, stretching from one temple to the other. Down his chin was a single line of the dots.
Wendy Darling Page 9
