The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  "Help me!" howled Peter.

  "Help me!" howled the Boys.

  Ace rushed to the forefront of the pack, notched an arrow in place on his bowstring, aimed, and fired. The arrow fastened onto Peter's rear, bobbing as he ran.

  "Poop Shoot-five thousand!" Ace cried jubilantly, cocking back his top hat.

  Don't Ask propelled Thud Butt and the point chart up beside him. "Nope. Butt Tick-two hundred."

  Ace whirled about angrily. "I complain of you!"

  "I double complain of you!" Don't Ask snapped back.

  Tink darted between them and sent the point chart spinning. "I complain of all of you! Pan's your captain! He needs you!"

  Up ahead, Rufio was aiming a slingshot at a fleeing Peter. Tink flew to stop him, grabbing his red v-tipped black hair and pulling him to the ground. "Rufio, you're the best with a sword! Teach him! We have to make him remember who he is!"

  But her efforts were for naught. The Lost Boys continued in pursuit, harrying Peter through a bamboo gate that led to the Nevertree's inner sanctuary. Bursting through the graffiti-covered gate, his strength almost gone, his breath so short he was certain he was on the verge of a major heart attack, he found himself trapped and encircled by Lost Boys. Many of the Boys were on makeshift skateboards and roller skates now, darting and dodging about him, zipping up and down banked walls, yelling and whooping and jumping about. Someone with a basketball dribbled past. Someone leaped on a trampoline, vaulting over his head. Vines swung down with Lost Boys attached. Peter ran this way and that, but there was no escape.

  Finally, he turned back to the entrance he had come through-only to find Rufio standing atop the bamboo gate, waiting. Down the leader of the Lost Boys leaped, his sword drawn and held high. Peter faltered, stumbled and gave it up.

  Rufio came to a skidding halt before him and tapped the sword playfully on his shoulder. "You're dead, jollymon."

  Peter blinked. "What the heck?

  Now Ace swung down as well, clutching a vine. He released his grip as he landed, brought up his war club, and tapped Peter a second time.

  "Bangerang!" he yelled.

  Rufio grabbed an astonished Peter and shoved him into the fence. Peter tried to climb, completely confused now, beginning to think he was in a madhouse. He grappled unsuccessfully with the bamboo and ended up sliding down again,/trapped as the Lost Boys closed about, war clubs thumping, feet stamping, voices taunting and howling in victory.

  Rufio jerked Peter back to his feet contemptuously. "Look, if you're the Pan, prove it. Let's see you fly!"

  There was a whisper of "fly, fly," which grew quickly to a shout. "Fly! Fly! Fly!" they all cried, and waited expectantly.

  Peter stared back helplessly.

  "Can you fight, then?" demanded Rufio.

  The Lost Boys drew their swords and knives and pointed them at Peter. Ace shoved a broadsword into Peter's hands. Peter stood holding it, a blank look on his face, until Rufio knocked it away.

  "Last question, Pops," declared Rufio. "Can you crow?"

  Peter took a deep breath and let out a sound that closely resembled a chicken's cluck. Rufio plugged his ears in disgust. Lost Boys groaned and jeered.

  Tink reappeared, confronting them all. "Silly asses! I could have told you he can't do any of those things! He can't even play simple games! He's forgotten how! What matters is that Hook's got his kids, and I've got three days to get him ready to fight the captain! He needs everyone's help!"

  From somewhere among the sea of Lost Boy faces came a low, astonished voice. "Peter Pan's got kids?"

  "A family, responsibilities, and a few extra pounds," Tink advised solemnly. "But he's still our Pan."

  Rufio growled something unintelligible, backed the Lost Boys away from the fence, and drew a line in the earth with his sword. He crossed the line to stand alone and pointed at Peter.

  "He can't fly, fight, or crow-so any of you says this ain't the Pan, cross over to me!"

  Peter immediately started across the line, but Tink grabbed him by his suspenders and yanked him back. "You're embarrassing me!" she snapped.

  The Lost Boys looked from Rufio to Peter and back again and then crossed the line one by one until only Pockets was left, peering out at Peter from under his floppy hat. He approached hesitantly, reached up to tug on Peter's shirt, and kept doing so until Peter bent down so that they were face-to-face. Solemnly, Pockets stared into Peter's crumpled, worn visage, then methodically began to smooth out the wrinkles and lines, to push back the sagging cheeks and chin, to knead and prod the flesh of Peter's face. Suddenly he stopped, hands held carefully in place, and a huge smile appeared.

  "Oh, there you are, Peder," he announced.

  Several of the Lost Boys pushed forward, peering at the rearranged features intently.

  "Is it him?" they whispered to one another. "Is it the Pan? Peter, is it you?"

  "Mfftt, mmrrwft," said Peter, his mouth distorted.

  "But Peter, you've grown up!" complained Latchboy. "You promised never to grow old!"

  "His nose got real big, didn't it?" observed Don't Ask.

  "Welcome back to Neverland, Pan the Man," said Too Small.

  There was hope in each face, and it spread quickly to the faces of those still standing with Rufio on the other side of the line. They began to edge forward.

  Rufio alone refused to be swayed, anger flaring in his dark eyes. "Don't listen to that gnat-brained faerie and that sag-bellied grown-up. I got Pan's sword. I'm the Pan now. You think this guy's gonna take it away from me?"

  Ace, No Nap, Thud Butt, and Latchboy crossed back to Rufio.

  "Wait," said Pockets. "If Tink bleeves, mebbe he iz."

  The four Lost Boys crossed back to Peter.

  "You gonna follow this drooler against Capytan Hook?"

  Everyone crossed back to Rufio this time, save for Pockets, Thud Butt, and Too Small.

  "Whads he doin' here if he's nod Peder Pan, huh?" asked Pockets solemnly. "He don't look habby here. Who are dose kidz Hook's got? Gib him a chancz."

  Peter straightened, alone with his three supporters. "Those are my children, and Hook is going to kill them unless I do something to stop it. Help me, please!"

  Pockets stared up at him. "You said the p-word," he whispered with a frown.

  Shadows were closing fast about the courtyard now, laying down their nighttime patterns through the branches of the Nevertree. The sun was almost gone, sunk so far into the ocean's waters that it was little more than a glaze of orange frosting melting rapidly away. Tink flew overhead in the silence, lighting lanterns to chase the dark. The Lost Boys and Peter watched wordlessly.

  When she was finished, she settled comfortably on Peter's shoulder. "When Peter Pan's away," she said solemnly, "don't you always ask the same question: What would Peter do?"

  The eyes of the Lost Boys went wide. "Yeah, what would Peter do?" they repeated the words. "Let's do what Peter would do!" Frowns and chin rubbing. "What would Peter do?"

  "I know, I know!" Ace exclaimed excitedly. "He'd get the Lost Boys back!"

  "But aren't you the Lost Boys?" Peter asked.

  "Oh, yeah," agreed Don't Ask, frowning. Then he brightened. "But not all. Hook's got lots of us. He snags us when we're not looking. Then he shoots us out of cannons.''

  "And chains us to rocks and lets the tide roll over our heads," Latchboy added.

  "Or makes us walk the plank!" declared Ace.

  "The little ones have to crawl!" whispered Too Small. He glanced cautiously at Rufio. "We're afraid to rescue them without the Pan." His voice got very quiet. "Even Rufio."

  Rufio spat. "Survival of the fittest. Hook gets the slow ones. Slow legs, slow minds. We're better off without em.

  Peter glanced around, seeing for the first time since they had begun chasing him the children hidden beneath the garish outfits and dirt, seeing the uncertainty mirrored in their eyes, doubts of who they were and of how to stay that way. Whispers passed from mouth to mouth in the darkness.r />
  They're all I've got, he realized helplessly. Kids. But like it or not, I need them if I want to save Jack and Maggie.

  He stepped away from the bamboo fence cautiously. ' 'Look, I got off on the wrong foot with you. I admit that.'' He took a deep breath. "Things are turned a little upside down here, but I'm getting used to it now. And I can tell you this-I'll do whatever it takes to save my kids. If I have to eat crow, I'll eat crow."

  Thud Butt tugged at his sleeve. "You don't have to eat crow, Peter," he said. "You just have to crow crow."

  "Okay, fine. I'll crow crow. I'll do anything I have to do. If I have to fight, I'll fight. If I have to fly, I'll fly…" He trailed off, reconsidering. "Or I could run real fast," he muttered. "I could at least do that."

  Pockets grinned up at him. "Yup! Peder would say that! Yes, he would! Yes, he would!"

  Peter grinned back.

  Rufio sneered, threw up his hands, and walked away.

  The rest of the Lost Boys shuffled after him, muttering uncertainly among themselves. Finally only Pockets remained.

  "C'mon, Peder," he said quietly, and beckoned.

  Chastened and bone weary, Peter followed. It was clear he had convinced nobody.

  The Ultimate Revenge

  The sun disappeared finally, dropping beneath the horizon, sinking into the ocean's vast waters, and the dusk faded to a summer night's darkness-warm, soft, and filled with pungent smells and intriguing sounds. The darkness was a blanket of hidden life that buzzed and flitted and crept about, a world of mystery and adventure that small boys searched for eagerly in their dreams.

  Aboard the Jolly Roger, Captain Hook was thinking about one small boy in particular-or, rather, one small boy who had grown up.

  "How could he do this to me?" he muttered to himself disconsolately.

  He was seated in his cabin at the dinner table. All about him lay the ill-gotten gains of his many conquests-gold, silver, and jewels in all shapes and sizes; furniture stolen from kings and queens of first-rate nations; tapestries and paintings from the private collections of greedy men from six (or was it seven?) continents; hand-crafted weapons used by gentlemen to murder one another; bolts of silks and English wool from garment districts and boutiques; brass instruments of navigation, some of them rumored to have belonged to Columbus; and leather-bound books by the world's foremost authors-Sir James Barrie was one of his favorites.

  At the back of the room sat a three-dimensional map of Neverland, complete down to the last detail, including replicas of his ship and the pirate town, of the Indian village, of the Mermaid lagoon, and even of the Nevertree, the whole of it floating in a pool of real water.

  But Hook had no eye this night for any of it. He sat staring blankly at the lavish, steaming dinner Smee had just set before him. Roast warthog, Indian-skin corn, tender new potatoes, pirate jelly sprinkled with fish eggs, and good-form crumb cake-all of them his favorites. Smee stood close at hand, awaiting approval, the hopeful smile pasted across his chubby face threatening to falter with the passing of each second.

  Finally Hook bent to sniff at the food, took fork in hand, prepared to take a bite, and then stopped. He placed the fork back on the plate.

  "How can I eat!" he lamented. "Smee, do you know what it's like to look forward to something so badly that you can taste it? Do you have any idea what it's like to anticipate an event with all your heart and soul?"

  Smee thought he might, but he wasn't sure what sort of answer the captain was looking for. Experience had taught him that with Hook if you didn't know the correct answer, it was best not to speak.

  Hook was still staring at the table. "The day before yesterday I couldn't sleep, so great was my anticipation. I wished to sleep, of course-that would have made the next day come quicker. Yesterday, I could only think of how long it would be until today. And today? Today I was knotted into knots, all jumbled up inside. The sheer, unbearable anticipation, Smee! Pan's arrival and the commencement of my glorious war!"

  A smile crossed his features and his brown eyes lit up with delight. For an instant the wrinkles of despair departed and he was the old Hook, cunning and ruthless.

  Then the brightness departed, and the frustration returned. Gloom built upon his brow until it was a thunder-head. Up he rose with a roar, and his claw raked the wooden surface of the table before him in fury.

  "I'm so disappointed! I hate being disappointed! I hate Neverland! I hate everything!" His voice rose to a scream. "But most of all I hate Peter Pan!"

  He wheeled from the table and yanked a gold-inlaid, diamond-studded dueling pistol from his sash.

  "Not again," groaned Smee.

  "My life is over!" Hook declaimed dramatically. "I'm not going to have my war! Pan stole it! My lovely, glorious war! I could smell the cannons and taste the steel! Now it's gone! My war is gone!"

  He put the barrel of the pistol to his heart and cocked the hammer.

  "Cap'n, stop that," scolded Smee, hands waving.

  Hook straightened, rising to his full height. "There will be no stopping me this time, Smee. Farewell!"

  His jaw jutted forth and his finger tightened about the trigger. His eyes squinched shut, but he managed to peek surreptitiously out of the corners. Seeing Smee hesitate, he screamed, "Smeeee!"

  Smee lunged, jammed his finger between the cap and hammer as the trigger released, and yelled in pain. Hook hissed in response, pried the offending finger loose, and jammed the barrel of the pistol into Smee's nose. Smee grabbed the gun with both hands, trying to turn the barrel away. Around and around they danced, grappling with the pistol and each other.

  "I want to die!" howled Hook. "There's no more adventure in Neverland! I've been cursed with a fat Pan! Death is all that remains for me!"

  "Cap'n, that's not the answer, Cap'n," Smee huffed into the pistol barrel.

  They careened into the dinner table and toppled onto it. The table held them for only an instant, then collapsed, wood splinters flying everywhere. Hook's pistol discharged with a deafening roar. Smee, fortunately, had moved the barrel off his nose. The pistol ball whistled past his ear, struck the replica of the Jolly Roger at anchor, and sank her on the spot. Hook and Smee stared in shock as the tiny ship disappeared in a cloud of bubbles. They faced each other, still locked together in a tangle of arms and legs, panting from their struggle.

  "Even this," whispered Hook, "isn't as much fun as it used to be."

  He disengaged himself, rose, brushed away the crumbs and smoothed the wrinkles from his coat, straightened his mustaches, righted his chair, seated himself, and began the painstaking process of reloading the pistol.

  Smee rolled back his eyes, exhaled wearily, and followed his captain up from the floor. There was crumb cake in his beard and jam on the end of his nose. When the reloading process was complete, Smee reached over quickly-trying not to appear too anxious-and extracted the weapon from the captain's hand. Patting the other solicitously, he placed the pistol in the drawer of the Queen Anne bureau and locked it safely away.

  "There now, Cap'n," he said soothingly. "Things will look better in the mawnin'. Let's get you off to sleep. Smee will tuck you in. That's a good cap'n. You know you look a Marley poop without your proper rest."

  Hook looked up gratefully, the weariness apparent in his eyes. Smee moved to a large wooden crank set in the wall and began to turn. Slowly Hook's bed lowered out of the ceiling, settling in place finally over the map of Neverland.

  Smee crossed back again. "Now, I ask you," he posited. "What kind of world would it be without Captain Hook? Aye?"

  He led Hook across the room like a small child and sat him down on the edge of the bed.

  "Good form, Smee," Hook announced softly, something vaguely akin to gratitude in his eyes. "What would the world be like without Captain Hook?"

  And overcome by a sudden rush of emotions, he clasped Smee to him, hugging him as he would a long-lost friend- had he any.

  Smee disengaged himself carefully, one eye on Hook's claw.
"Cap'n, methinks you need a little mischief to take yer mind off this Pan business."

  Nose to nose, they stared at each other. Smee reached up to lift off Hook's tricorne, then bent down to pull off his boots. Hook lost almost a foot of height in the bargain.

  "First thing tomorrow mawnin' let's you and me go shoot some Lost Boys out of Long Tom. That should do the trick."

  Long Tom was the monstrous cannon mounted on the aft deck. It was Hook's favorite weapon. Hook thought it over for a moment, then shook is head dejectedly.

  "We can always kill Lost Boys," he whined. "I don't want to kill Lost Boys. I want to kill Pan!"

  Smee worked the buttons loose on the captain's coat and slipped the garment from his shoulders. Within was a framework of padding designed to make the captain appear twice his real size, brawny and tough. Bereft of it as he was now, sitting hunched over on the bed, he looked very small indeed.

  "Don't torture yourself, Cap'n," Smee went on, oblivious of what he had seen countless times before. "It doesn't do a skewer's worth of good. Besides, you can't let the men see you this way, now, can you?" He paused in his endeavors. "Lookit the bright side, Cap'n. You still get to deep-six his ruddy curtain climbers."

  Hook shook his ebony locks, so that they swished like snakes. "Oh, Smee, terribly bad form. Terribly bad. To kill the defenseless children of a defenseless foe? I should think you would know better."

  Smee shrugged, bent close, and began pulling off Hook's bushy eyebrows.

  "Gently, gently," Hook admonished.

  ' 'Quickly,'' Smee replied, and yanked them free.' 'Better a sharp stab than a lingrin' pain, you always say."

  Hook grimaced. "Don't quote me, Smee." He rubbed the nearly hairless patches of skin that remained. "Oh, I wish I could devise the most lingering of pains for Peter Pan!"

  Smee considered the prospect as he lifted Hook's wig from his head. Hook was almost bald beneath. Sitting there bereft of his hat, hair, eyebrows, padded coat, and boots, he had the look of a frail, wizened Lost Boy. Smee gathered up the captain's discarded clothing and carried it behind the dressing screen at the far end of the room.