Wendy Darling

by Colleen Oakes

  Wendy held perfectly still, knowing that an incorrect step in the darkness could lead her off the walkway and down into the sharp tree branches below, right into the hungry mouth of death. Moving as slowly as she dared, she leaned over to clutch at the ropes with desperation, feeling the frayed ropes in her soft hands, her heart hammering at the knowledge that something—or someone—was there with her on the bridge. She could feel it. There was another whoosh of air above her head, and then more twinkles were cascading down around her, throwing tiny refractions of light across the bridge.

  A whispered voice in her ear, “I know the walkways can be a little . . . unstable sometimes. They’re really not a place for little girls to play. Especially in the dark. They can be very dangerous.”

  The voice was singsongy and sweet, though undercut with a seething hatred. Wendy had to swallow several times before finding her own voice.

  “I’m not . . . a little girl. And I was invited here by Peter.”

  “You say his name like you know everything about him, but you DON’T!” The voice was rising in cadence now, angry and bitter, bouncing through the tree, louder than it had any right to be. “You have no business being here, Wendy Darling. Pan Island is for boys.”

  Wendy whirled her head around in the darkness, and she caught the slightest hint of—she stifled a gasp—a wing! Opaque with a lustrous glow, it had the same texture as a dragonfly wing, with delicate veins running up toward the tip. When the wing flapped, the luminous dust tumbled down from its highest edge. Then, as quickly as she had seen it, it was gone.

  “But you aren’t a boy either,” Wendy said clearly to the black night, her shaky voice betraying her courage. “I had hoped that we may be friends, since we are both women. I would very much like to be friends.”

  “I would very much like to be friends.” The fairy repeated her last phrase, mocking her with a sweet voice. “I have never heard something so laughable. If you had any sense in that pretty little head of yours, you would take your brothers and leave this island.”

  There was a hard thump that vibrated up the wooden bridge, and Wendy stared hard into the darkness, watching a glowing silhouette of wings, fluttering almost too quickly for her to see. Her sweaty hands grasped hard to the ropes at her side, and she planted her feet firmly.

  “What do you think of Peter?” The voice laughed. “Do you think he thinks you’re pretty? So plain, I told him, plain brown hair, the color of dung, pale skin that has never seen the sun—what could he possibly see in this plain girl from London? You think you can come here and steal what is mine?”

  Wendy cast her gaze down. “I don’t know what Peter sees in me, if anything. I did not come here with the intention of stealing anything from you.”

  There was a long pause, then a hissing that sounded more animal than human.

  “I don’t believe you.” The bridge rocked hard to one side, and then Wendy felt her presence growing closer, the glow of her wings the only thing Wendy could see. “But we’ll see.”

  She gave a low whistle, its sound melancholy and sad. At that, all the lanterns on the island relit themselves, only this time they flared brighter, so bright that Wendy found herself temporarily blinded as the being walked toward her, only a slender shadow in the blinding white light. The wooden bridge began to creak and pitch uncontrollably, and Wendy let out a scream as she flew to one side, almost skittering off into the darkness. She pulled herself up to her knees, clutching hard a long piece of red fabric that someone had tied to one of the handles, wrapping it several times around her wrist, ready to plunge off the side of the walkway. As the fairy approached, Wendy felt a wave of heat coming toward her, washing over her again and again, each time growing in strength. The waves crept up her body, and suddenly there was an uncontrollable burning sensation in her hands. Another wave of heat washed over her face. It was as if her skin were blistering, though her trembling fingers confirmed there was no outward sign of it. She let out a moan as the invisible flames engulfed her body. The fairy leaned closer, and Wendy, her body seemingly on fire, emitted a curdling scream.

  “Do you feel that? That is the feeling of magic, and it burns white-hot. If you so much as touch my Peter . . .”

  “TINK!” Wendy heard Peter’s voice, and then a scuffle ensued. She closed her eyes and heard their voices arguing. Something hit the bridge with a loud thump, and then the heat disappeared, dissipating just as suddenly as it had washed over her.

  “Wendy?” The voice was John’s, coming from the end of the rope walkway, back toward the Table. Wendy raised her blurry eyes and looked behind her. John stood at the end of the bridge, his arms tight around Michael. When he saw that she was okay, he turned away with a shake of his head. Something in her chest unclenched itself, and she found herself grateful for her brother’s concern, even if it was fleeting. She turned her head and looked up to see Peter’s concerned face looking down at her. He gently helped her to her feet. She looked at her hands—they were perfect, no burns of any kind, and when she touched her face, she felt only her own flushed skin. Peter’s face was contorted, his eyes vivid navy.

  “Wendy, I’m so sorry! Are you all right? Oh, my darling, you must feel like everything in Neverland is trying to kill you.”

  Wendy brushed her hair out of her face before noticing that the ends were singed, her patience short. “Indeed, I do.”

  “Oh, poor Wendy, what can I say? Fairies are notoriously territorial.” Peter wrapped his arms around her. “Tink wasn’t trying to kill you. She was just trying to intimidate you. She can be quite jealous when she wants to be. I promise I’ll take care of it.”

  Wendy leaned against him. “Peter, don’t leave me again tonight.”

  He let out a happy breath at her invitation. “I won’t. You will sit by my side in the Teepee.” With a suppressed laugh, he touched the ends of her singed hair. “We will have to maybe find some scissors though. I’ll ask Ox to bring some around.”

  Wendy sighed, and in spite of her thrumming heart, she dissolved into Peter’s smile. “Neverland is an exciting place.”

  Peter slipped his hand around her hip, and Wendy straightened up, uncomfortable with his familiarity. “You have no idea.”

  “What is she?”

  “She is the last fairy in Neverland, and I’m afraid she’s a bit fond of me.” He gave a lighthearted chuckle, as though Tink had just shoved past her at a gala, not tried to throw her off a bridge. Wendy narrowed her eyes in the murky night, looking for any sign of Tink.

  “She’s gone,” Peter added. “I scared her off, I think.”

  Wendy whirled on him. “Where did she go? Does she live on the island?”

  Peter laughed. “I would love nothing more than to tell you all about Tink . . .” He looked past her shoulder. “But we have about a hundred Lost Boys heading this way, and they are a fairly impatient bunch.”

  Wendy turned around. Peter was correct—a large stream of boys was coming out of the Table now, their loud voices carrying up the rope bridge and into the night. The bridge began to creak with their weight as they all headed up toward Wendy, their eyes lighting up when they saw Peter. Three little ones ran up the bridge toward him, each of them waving something in their outstretched hands.

  “Peter! I found this!”

  “Peter, look at this bone! I found it in the water.”

  Thomas, the young boy with the long blond hair who had been sitting by John, slowly poked his head around Wendy’s dress.

  “I picked this for you. I’m going to give you a flower every day.”

  With a blush, he handed over an exotic flower—its head a sunset orange with deep red spikes protruding from its slip. Wendy put it to her nose and inhaled its pungent scent. She grimaced.

  “Thank you, Thomas, is it?”

  He grinned, a lock of yellow hair falling into his eyes. He started running down the rope bridge, against the tide of boys that now swarmed around them like bees.

  “Peter! I saw a silver fish t
oday, just like the one you showed me!”

  “Peter! Could you let me fly on the next raid, please?”

  “Peter, Abbott said that I couldn’t climb up to fetch the rainwater today because I spilled it yesterday.”

  “Peter . . .”

  Peter looked over toward Wendy with a bemused face. His eyes twinkled mischievously, and she felt an uncontrollable blush rising in her cheeks as he reached for her hand, the throng of boys pushing around them. He wrapped his hand around her own, and she gave a small nod, and then they were flying up, up toward the Teepee. She enjoyed the wind on her face, cooling the parts of her that she felt were still warm from Tink’s unholy blaze. Peter gently put her down on the wooden deck that extended outward from the base of the hut and leapt up into the air again.

  “And here is the Teepee.”

  At least that name had some merit, Wendy thought. Stretching high overhead, this hut had a vertically slanted roof that came together at a sharp peak. Adorned with Peter’s flag that flapped overhead, the sides of the Teepee came down, each decorated with leaves that draped from its steep roof. Ribbons blossomed out from its sides, each one tied to a nearby tree, giving the Teepee the look of standing in the middle of a rainbow sun. Wendy pushed open the wooden door and peeked inside. The room was empty, save a large wooden chair in the middle of the room, carved from the same bark as the tree that made up Pan Island. The back of it was a perfect circle, the same shape as the moon on the flags.

  “That is Peter’s chair,” Oxley whispered over her shoulder. He had herded in a handful of boys. “No one touches it but him. It’s where he tells us stories of his adventures.”

  Light filtered in through the holes in the roof.

  “Come in, boys, sit down!”

  Dozens of Lost Boys had already gathered on the floor around Peter’s chair and now were shoving each other for closer proximity to Peter’s throne. Boys continued to pour through the open doorway. Wendy silently took a seat close to the wall, leaning her head back against its muddy texture, and waited, knowing that any minute now her lap would be occupied by a certain five-year-old . . . and yes. Michael curled up on her legs and leaned his head against her shoulder. He reeked of turkey and spices, and Wendy could see in the fluttering lamplight that his face was smeared with berry jam. He gave a happy sigh against her.

  “What happens now? I just followed all the other boys here.” His happy face turned sour. “John didn’t talk to me at dinner. I’m mad at him.”

  Wendy smiled, pushing his hair back from his face. “I’m mad at John too. But I think that Peter is going to tell us a story, and then we can head to bed.”

  Michael gave an exaggerated yawn. “Good, ‘cause I’m tired.”

  Dominant footsteps echoed through the room as Kitoko, Abbott, and Oxley shooed the boys forward into a large circle. When they turned around to see Wendy, Ox winked in her direction, Kitoko kept his distance, and Abbott regarded her with a silent and menacing stare.

  “Move forward,” Abbott grumbled, tipping his head toward where the rest of the boys sat. Wendy brushed herself off, shuffled Michael off, stepped forward a few steps, and sat back down. She had barely settled when ten boys swarmed around her, the strong scent of their sweat overwhelming her sensitive nose. Some just stared at her with curious eyes, while others shyly reached out and just barely brushed their fingertips along the edge of her dress or her shoes. Wendy felt a sharp pain on the side of her head.

  “OW!” She turned around to look at a tiny Asian boy, who sheepishly held a single strand of her hair in his hand. When she looked at him, tears gathered in his eyes.

  “I wanted to smell it.”

  Wendy smiled in spite of herself. “It’s okay. Just ask next time. What is your name?”

  “Little Sun.”

  She reached out her hand, and he carefully took it. “Nice to meet you. I’m Wendy Darling.”

  The boy stared at her for a long moment and then sat behind her, leaning his head against the small of her back. She looked around at her group of boys, all piled around her like puppies, and realized that they were all very young, the youngest of the Lost Boys, and they watched her with sad, wishful eyes. A palpable longing filled the space, and Wendy wondered what they could possibly want from her. A small boy with glistening black skin was staring up at her face, and then she understood with a jolt. They missed their mothers. Questions flooded her mind. Who were these boys?

  Where did they come from? Did she have a mother? Where was her mother?

  Peter jumped up, his toes barely brushing the seat of his moon throne. He gave a shrill trill of his lips before snapping, “Quiet now, settle down, boys!”

  The excitement in the room boiled down to a rolling simmer, save the occasional shout that was quickly shushed by Abbott. Peter reached out his hand.

  “My crown, Naji?”

  A beautiful small boy, his skin the color of caramel, darted forward and handed Peter a crown of olive leaves that he proudly settled on his unruly red hair, tufts rising up and over the leaves. The moon rose over Pan Island, and the holes cut out of the thatched roof filled with moonlight. Peter snapped his fingers, and the lanterns that hung around the room dimmed until their light was barely a whisper. The wooden circle behind Peter was illuminated with moonlight, casting a dark shadow over Pan’s face. Still, even in the dim room, Wendy could see his white teeth, his feral and charming smile.

  “Boys. Generals.” His eyes lingered on Wendy and Michael. “Honored guests. What tale should I spin this fine evening in celebration of our raid?”

  The room erupted with suggestions, some boys leaping to their feet with excitement.

  “The time you got lost in the Forsaken Garden!”

  “When you sunk Neptune’s Plague!”

  “When you buried Piers on the great mountain!”

  Peter floated up in the air until his toes touched the top of his throne. Stroking his chin, he walked up and down the edge of the circle, looking contemplative at each of the boys’ suggestions.

  “Why, yes, that is a good story! I had forgotten about that! Ha! The Neptune’s Plague did sink quickly, didn’t it, Waylan?”

  Finally, he settled himself on the brim of the chair, folding his legs underneath him and leaning down over the crowd. He reminded Wendy of a stone gargoyle, perched on the buildings of . . . she frowned. Of . . . that place she lived once. That town, with its gray skies and stinking streets. Why couldn’t she remember its name?

  “Those are all good tales, surely. But I think, since the Darlings are here tonight, I will tell the best story I know . . . the story of how Hook lost his hand.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE WAS A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH in the room. Wendy surmised that this was not a story Peter shared often—its importance had filled the space with sudden awe. Michael leaned forward and put his hands on his cheeks with a sigh, the way he always did when being read a story. Peter’s green eyes glinted in the moonlight as he began his tale.

  “I’ve been here in Neverland for many, many years. Longer than any of you have been alive. Imagine, if you will, a Neverland untainted by the Sudden Night. Our beloved seas so clear and open, all without the Night bringing horror to all who see it. It was a different time. Port Duette was nothing more than a small harbor where locals sold their fruits and the Pilvi Indian children ran shrieking through the street.”

  Wendy turned to Oxley, who was leaning against the wall next to them, his eyes riveted on Peter. “Pilvi?” she whispered, remembering that Peter had off-handedly mentioned them before.

  Without even looking down at her, he answered, “Pilvinuvo Indians. The people of the earth and cloud. They used to be the main inhabitants of Neverland.”

  “And now?”

  He gave her an enigmatic look. “Gone.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Shhhhh!” hissed one of the Lost Boys near the back, and Peter’s gaze came to rest on Wendy. She gave him a sheepish shrug and mouthed, �
�Sorry,” at which he grinned, and she saw a faint blush creep up his cheeks. He continued.

  “As I was saying, I spent most of my time exploring the corners of Pan Island with a small group of Lost Boys and trading goods with the Pilvi. I had a very close relationship with their princess, the beautiful Lomasi. And I tell you, boys, the rumors of her beauty are true: Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, but softer than the finest silk that you could find in Port Duette. Her eyes were the same color as rich chocolate, her skin like the bark of this tree, a warm cocoa that glowed in the sun. She was born in Neverland, the pride of her people, their ambassador . . .” he paused. “And my friend. My dearest friend.”

  Peter’s eyes betrayed that he had seen her as more than a friend, and Wendy felt a surprising pang of jealousy in her chest. She immediately felt ashamed for it, for it was already clear that this story would not have a happy ending, not if the Pilvi tribe had gone missing. Peter took a moment to collect his thoughts, absentmindedly clenching his hands and giving his fists a shake before continuing. Wendy saw him blink back tears, wrestling with his sudden onset of emotion. The entire room was silent as they watched their leader struggle to find his words. Finally, Peter took a breath before adjusting his crown and moving on. Then he gave a quick twist of his head, as if he were physically shaking the memory loose.

  “Forgive me, friends. I have not thought of Lomasi in a long time. I’ll continue.” He coughed into his hand and raised his head. “It was one of those days where the sun rose over our beautiful Neverland Sea, and everything in the world felt possible. I began my morning circling around Shadow Mountain—as I’m known to do. When you fly around the mountain counterclockwise, you can watch the sun hit each rock just perfectly, watch the shadows crawl away from their crevices and make their way to the peak. After I watched the sunrise, I spent the morning down in Port Duette, trading with some of the Pilvi children, eating a ripe pineapple, and—I must be honest—teasing some of the drunk pirates who were pouring out of the tavern after their nightly debauchery.”