by Terry Brooks
Peter shook his head vehemently. ' 'Just wait, just hold on one minute!" He steadied himself. "Whatever this is all about, whatever is happening here, I'm still me! I can't fly. I'm not going to fight anyone."
He spun away from her and strode toward the door. "Where are you going?" she called after him.
"To find James Hook, Captain, and get my kids back and go home!" he shouted back.
"No, Peter, it's too soon!" She flashed in front of him, trying to bring him to a halt. "Hook is waiting for you. It's a trap! He planned it this way-the kidnapping, the whole business. He'll kill you! You're not ready for him!"
Peter brushed past. He'd had enough of this nonsense. "I'm as ready as I need to be." He paused at the kitchen door. "Besides, my kids can't afford to miss any more school."
Tinkerbell stomped her foot on an imaginary floor, hands on hips. "Oh, Peter Pan!" she muttered. "You are as stubborn as ever!" She whipped past him as he tried to go out the doorway, seized hold of his shirt collar, and held him fast. "A look, then!" she hissed in his ear. "Just a look, though. Then you decide. But first let's dress you up a bit."
As he grunted irritably, she dragged him back inside.
Pirates, Pirates Everywhere!
When Peter emerged again from the dingy kitchen, he was dressed in a hodgepodge of pirate garb-a scarlet cape across his shoulders, a black tricorne hat atop his head, and a black eye patch beneath his brow-all lifted from the unfortunate pirate cooks disposed of by Tinkerbell. He also wore a peg leg, laced to his kneecap by leather straps, his own good leg tied up behind him under the covering of his cape. A crutch supported him. His disguise might have been more comfortable if he had been willing to part with the remains of his tuxedo, but he couldn't quite bring himself to give up the last vestiges of the now departed real world, and he wore them still hidden underneath everything else.
Stepping out into the light, he gazed around tentatively. Pirates sauntered past without so much as a glance at him, engaged in their own activities. There were big pirates and little pirates, pirates with missing eyes and ears, with peg legs and empty sleeves, with scars that crisscrossed their faces and necks, with beards and mustaches and sideburns and muttonchops. There were dozens of them, all armed with flint pistols and sharpened blades, a whole arsenal of death-dealing weapons. Peter tried not to think too much about what that meant as he steeled himself for the task that lay ahead. Whatever this was all about, whichever world it was that he had been cast into-Neverland or dreamland or wherever-he was not leaving without Jack and Maggie.
He hobbled down into the pirate town, working his way carefully past its inhabitants, trying to act inconspicuous in his outlandish garb, hoping against hope that he looked like he belonged. The eye patch was a nice touch, but hard to get used to. Whenever he needed to see clearly, he found himself lifting the patch to do so. Shouts and laughter rose from every quarter-from within the many taverns and alehouses where glasses were being raised and purses lifted, from the blade shops where edges were being honed on whetstones, from the stables where horses were being shod and groomed, and from the streets themselves, where hands and arms were being linked in rough camaraderie.
Inside the tricorne hat, Tinkerbell bounced about, righted herself as best she could, and peered out through the hole cut for her in the brim.
"You don't act enough like a pirate!" she snapped at him irritably. "If you insist on seeing Hook and intend to stay alive in the bargain, then you have to do better than this! Let's practice. Do exactly as I say. Make your right arm limp. Pretend it is dead and useless. Let it hang by your side. Try it."
Peter grinned, amused by the idea. He let his arm hang limp. "How's that, little bug?"
She bristled. "Don't call me that! Call me by my name. Like you used to. Tink."
He shrugged. "Okay. Tink."
A pirate so hunched down he appeared to be searching for worms bumped into him drunkenly and careened away.
"Crack your mouth and drool," Tink ordered.
Peter twisted his mouth out of shape and let his tongue loll. Kind of fun.
"Now growl."
"Rwwlll."
"No, no! I said growl!"
She darted from his hat in a flash of light, dagger drawn, and jabbed at his posterior.
"Groooaahhh!" he howled.
A pair of fierce-looking pirates with blades strapped everywhere wheeled about. "Groooaahhh!" they responded, and waved in greeting.
Down through the pirate town went Peter and Tink, past the jumbled hulks of the ships that had been cannibalized and turned to makeshift shops and shelters, past a group of shabby musicians playing fiddles and flutes who were fronted by a gnarled fellow in ragged knee-length pants and a jersey singing a pirate shanty.
They were passing a blacksmith standing over an anvil at his forge when Tink said, "Hsssstt! Look, Peter."
Peter stopped.
The blacksmith was holding up a metal hook, the end still glowing redly from where it had been resting in the forge's fire. Sunlight glinted off its point as it was turned this way and that for inspection.
Next to the blacksmith stood a stubby, bespectacled pirate in baggy sailor pants, soiled tunic, and a striped vest that looked like it had found its way onto its wearer's back off the streets of Tijuana. His nose was as blunt as a marlinspike's tip, and his eyebrows were as bushy as caterpillars. A broad, cheerful smile wreathed his weathered face, and a brimmed, feathered bosun's hat was perched rakishly atop his head.
Cautiously he reached up to touch the hook's point, then flinched away.
"Ohhh, sharp as a shark's front tooth!" he declared, sucking on his finger. "I think the captain will be pleased indeed."
"That's Smee!" whispered Tink in Peter's ear.
The blacksmith dunked the glowing hook in a pail of water, held it under while it steamed, and then brought it out again. He wiped it off carefully and handed it to Smee, who laid it carefully on a satin pillow.
"Good work, Blackie!" said Smee, tipped a hand to his cap, and was off.
"After him, Peter!" hissed Tink.
Down the wharf Peter limped, peg leg stubbing and dragging and chaffing mercilessly as he followed the bobbing feathers of Smee's cap through the crowds. From time to time they could see Smee loft the hook overhead, balancing it precariously on the satin pillow. He hummed and he whistled as he went, and pirates all around him called out.
"A floggin' good morning to ya, Captain Smee!" cried a carpenter engaged in building what appeared to Peter to be a gallows.
"Any news of war, Captain?" asked another.
Smee smiled broadly, apparently missing the sarcasm in their voices, pushing on as if the greetings were not only sincere but his due. All the while the hook glinted and shone in the sun.
A group of women whose profession was unmistakable whistled as Smee went past.
"Put on your faces, girls," cried one. "Here comes Captain Smee!"
They darted out to greet him, dancing about, their skirts lifting rakishly.
"Look, look!" they chimed. "It's got to be the Captain's hook!"
"Hook's hook, right enough!"
"Well, girlie, you should know, shouldn't you, now?"
"It's 'is symbol of fortune and fame, yoho!"
"Keep the fame, it's the fortune for me!"
They spun and danced about Smee and back through the crowd, a dozen more appearing from nearby doorways to join in. Peter, anxious to keep Smee in view, had gotten too close and was suddenly swept up in the whirl of skirts and cheap perfume.
"James Hook, son of a sea cook!"
"Hey, that's not all, he's a son of a…"
"Jimmy Hook, our claim to fame."
"Him and few hundred more I could name!"
"Swordsman, poet, and debauched Sailing to plunder and torture!"
"James Hook, Captain Hook, the sharpest blade on the seven seas! Our Hook!"
They sang and danced away, leaving Smee flustered and smiling and Peter trying desperately to avo
id being seen, even though he had ended up almost nose to nose with the pirate. But Smee seemed not to notice, turning away with a blissful sigh and continuing down the walk.
A moment later he veered into the door of a barber shop. "A bad-boy chop," he ordered of the barber, who swung him into a chair, hacked a bit with a razor and knife, and stepped away. Smee rose and tossed the barber a gold coin. As the barber reached eagerly for it Smee jerked it away again-a string bound it to his finger. "Have to be quicker than that, mate." Smee grinned and tossed him a copper coin instead.
Back down the walkway he went, Peter and Tink in pursuit once more. Pirates shoved and jostled Peter as they passed, a few offering curses and promises of dreadful things to come. Peter tried to ignore them, his eyes on Smee. His peg leg was killing him by now, enough so that he really did feel like growling. He was beginning to wonder if he had any idea at all what he was doing.
Smee slowed and turned in to a tavern where a player piano was hard at work and a collection of rummies sang lustily before a sagging wooden bar. The rummies were an aged and worn lot, pirates possessed of an entire inventory of glass eyes, peg legs, false teeth, wooden hands, and other replacement parts.
Their voices rose raggedly in song.
Smee sauntered up to the crowd, displayed the hook imperiously, and announced, "Drinks are on Smee, for all those who've got a knee that was once a tree!"
He tossed down some coins amid shouts of acclaim and bounced out the door again, nearly running over a harried Peter, who was hanging on the frame, exhausted from trying to keep up.
Ahead, the pier tunneled into a cluster of old ships, a hazy corridor of torchlight and smoke. Smee skipped along, the hook balanced on the pillow, and disappeared into the gloom. Peter hurried after, growling now and again when other pirates approached, losing enthusiasm for the whole business. But Jack and Maggie depended on him, so he could not turn back. He groped his way along the tunnel, his eyes watering. Ahead, he could hear pirates singing and shouting, "Hook! Hook! Hook!"
Peter pushed clear of the tunnel, free of the haze of stinging smoke, and blinked against the sunlight. Smee was just ahead, slowing at a pen tended by two rangy pirates wielding whips. Within the pen were four cowering boys in the process of having their shirts stripped from their backs. They whimpered and cried out pleadingly.
"Misters Jukes and Noodler," Smee greeted cheerfully, nodding first to the one whose muscular body was as black as ebony and then to the one whose blond hair and beard had the appearance of a rat's nest. "Top of the morning, mates!"
He skipped on, whistling once more, but Peter slowed in spite of himself, horrified at what he was seeing.
"They're just children," he whispered up to Tink.
He could hear her hiss with disdain and anger. "Hook's a scummy slaver. He makes his prisoners count his treasure for him-over and over and over again."
Suddenly there was a roar from behind Peter, and a flood of pirates surged out of the smoky tunnel, singing and chanting. Peter had no time to get clear of the rush, and he was quickly caught up and swept along. Down the wharf front the crowd flowed, past the collection of scavenged ships that formed the town's entrance, out from the huge sign that hung over the tunnel and read in bold letters good Form pier, to the end of the dock and the gangplank leading up to the only vessel moored in the entire harbor.
But such a dark and sinister craft it was! A brigantine, fully rigged and outfitted, cannons bristling from its gun ports, its hull rakish and gleaming in the light. A skeleton with an upraised sword formed the spine of its prow, its death's-head grinning with the anticipation of its next victim's demise. A huge cannon, four times the size of any other, sat alone atop the aft deck behind the wheel, its massive barrel swung about to guard the harbor entrance, its cradle mounted on a revolving base. Below, the captain's quarters were framed by a stern crafted like a huge skull with windows forming luminous eyes and gilt the outline of its jaw, nose, and brows. The railing above was shaped like a captain's hat with serpents hissing at the corners. The hull was painted red and black with gold trim, and brass fittings gleamed in the sunlight. The pirate ship looked fast and wicked, like a cat prepared to pounce.
Atop its highest mast flew a gold shield and crossbones on a field of black with banners proclaiming good form and jas. On the port side of the main deck, protruding like a tongue, was the dreaded plank.
The pirates about Peter chanted wildly: "Show us the Hook! Hook! Hook! Show us the Hook! Hook! Hook!"
One thing Peter Banning was not was a coward. But he also understood that at times discretion was the better part of valor. He found himself wondering if now wasn't one of those times. Perhaps Tink had been right. Perhaps he wasn't ready for Hook.
Unfortunately, it was too late to worry about that now. The pirates were sweeping up the gangplank and onto the ship, and Peter was being swept right along with them.
Hook Confronted
Crammed port to starboard and bowsprit to mainmast aboard the brigantine Jolly Roger, the pirates roared out, "Hook! Hook! Hook!" Arms raised, some brandishing weapons, some bare fists. The pirate ship rocked with their cries.
Atop the quarter deck, Smee stepped forward and signaled for silence.
"Good mawning, Neverlaaaannd!" he bellowed, cheeks puffing out, belly shaking. "Tie down the mainsail, mates, 'cause here he is-the cunning kingfish, the baaad barracuda, the sleaziest sleaze of the seven seas, and a shipshape dresser to boot, a man so deep he's nearly unfathomable and so quick he's even fast asleep! I give you our very own steel-handed stingray-Cap'n James Hook!"
A pirate named Tickles pumped wildly at a concertina white cannons exploded in sheets of fire and the cheers of the pirate crew rose to new heights.
From behind Smee, the doors to the captain's cabin burst wide and out strode the infamous James Hook.
At first glance he looked very like his ship-or perhaps it was the other way around. He was sleek and narrow and wicked looking from his sharp-nosed face to his pointed toes. His captain's coat was cut from red and black cloth and trimmed in gold filigree. He wore a gold-fringed sash across one shoulder with a cutlass sheathed at its loop. Ruffled white lace hung at his neck, and the angular face above it was reminiscent of a ship's prow cutting through a sea's white froth. His black hair hung down about bis shoulders in ringlets like the rigging from a mast. His captain's tricorne was broad-brimmed and tailored and looked exactly like the aft railing of his vessel save for the absence of serpents hissing at its corners. What was lacking in serpents, however, was more than made up for in Hook's face. Cruel, hard, sneering, with mustaches that coiled like vipers and eyes that could freeze a bird in flight, he was a formidable-looking figure standing there before his riotous band of brigands.
At the end of his left hand he had affixed the dreaded hook for which he was so well known, its newly sharpened hook point gleaming in the sunlight.
His sneer firmly in place as he faced the crowd, he lifted his lace-sleeved right hand condescendingly in acknowledgment of their adulation.
"See how greatly the men favor you, sir!" prompted Smee, beaming.
Hook's lip curled and out of the corner of his mouth he whispered, "The puling spawn. How I despise them."
Two hundred strong, and not a man among them could read past the second grade, only one or two could distinguish a spoon from a fork, and less than a handful could count to ten. It was disgusting.
Hook sighed. Still, they were his to command.
"Gentlemen!" he called out. "You ignorant, flogging, sorry, parasitic sacks of entrails!"
His crew cheered wildly at the praise.
Hook's claw slashed the air. "Revenge!" There was instant silence. Hook beamed. "Is mine. I have baited the hook-so to speak-with the fish's children. Peter Pan's kids will bring him to me. At long last I will be rid of that loathsome boy who cut off my hand and…" His voice lowered into the darkest recesses of his throat. "And threw it to the crocodile."
He choked on the wo
rds and could not go on. Smee quickly leaped into the gap.
"And who was it killed that cunnin' croc?" he demanded.
"Hook! Hook! Hook!" roared the pirates as one.
"Who stuffed 'im and quieted 'is clock for good?"
"Hook! Hook! Hook!"
"Who went 'round the world to snatch Pan's kids, all the way to England, sailing' uncharted waters and bravin' unknown perils?"
"Hook! Hook! Hook!"
The captain had recovered himself sufficiently to realize that Smee was usurping his speech. He collared his bosun roughly and shoved him aside.
"It's my show, Smee," he hissed. "Go away." He turned to his crew once more, and his gaze turned dark. "Now then-which of you doubted me?"
The raucous crowd quieted uneasily.
"That's right!" Hook snapped. "There's a doubter out there. Where is he? Who among us does not belong? Someone here does not belong."
He let his eyes flit across their terrified faces.
"A stranger amongst the loyal! He must be weeded out!"
Now there was utter silence. All the pirates stood frozen in place, not daring the twitch of an eyebrow, not the flicker of a lash. No one wanted to call attention to himself now. You could have heard a pin drop…
And suddenly one did. A pirate foolish enough to attempt to wipe the sweat from his brow loosened a silver stickpin from his cap and sent it tumbling to the deck.
Ping!
Every eye turned toward the unfortunate.
Hook snarled. He started to descend the quarterdeck stairs and abruptly stopped, horrified. His gaze settled on Smee.
"Where's my carpet, Smee?"
Smee gulped. "Sorry, Cap'n. Sorry, your worship." The bosun stamped on the deck purposefully. Gears groaned and squeaked, and the stairs flipped over to reveal a red carpet tacked beneath. Hook smiled and continued down. A long finger lifted and pointed.
