The Hook (1991)

by Terry Brooks

  Rufio's sword kissed his own with a click.

  "Lik dis, mon," the other said, smiling. "Uno, dos, tres …"

  And his blade flashed inside Peter's like a striking snake. Peter heard a shredding of cloth and felt a draft. When he looked down, he found his pants in a heap about his ankles. Cries of disapproval went up from the Lost Boys.

  "I complain of you!" they shouted as one.

  Rufio ignored them. He lifted the Pan sword, threw back his head, and crowed.

  "Ya can't fly, ya can't fight, and mon, you rally can't crow!"

  Pockets shoved forward, floppy hat bobbing. ''Thad's nod fair. He hasn't dun nuttin' to make himself proud. How cud he crow?"

  The Lost Boys shouted in agreement, coming to Peter's defense. Rufio eyed them sourly for a moment, then smiled wickedly.

  "So tell me, then. Wot coul' de fat mon do?"

  Pockets's small face tightened. "Lods of tings," he insisted enthusiastically. "He cud swallow fire!" Peter's hands came up to his throat in horror. "He cud write a letter or draw a picture! He cud play Lost Boys and Indians!" The dark eyes went wide. "I know! He cud go into town and steal Hook's hook!"

  Peter's gasp of dismay was drowned out by the howls of approval that erupted from the Lost Boys. They surged forward excitedly, crowding about, clapping him on the back, trying to slap hands with him, all the while yelling, "Steal Hook's hook! Steal Hook's hook!"

  Standing apart from the others, certain that his fondest wish was about to be fulfilled, Rufio grinned like the proverbial cat.

  Another dumb idea, thought Peter bleakly. The dumbest yet.

  Nevertheless, here he was, going along with it as if he believed it nothing of the sort. It was as if he had lost all sense of proportion in his life, as if he would do anything that anyone suggested simply because he didn't seem to have any ideas of his own. Removal from the real world to Neverland had stripped him of his ability to think and act like a rational person. How else could he explain sneaking into the pirate town to steal Hook's hook, all for the purpose of impressing a bunch of raggedy, dirty-faced Lost Boys so that they would believe he was someone he wasn't and help him save his kids from a lunatic?

  Of course, there was more to it than that, but Peter Banning was in no position to reason it through. He was an adult cast back into a children's world, where dreams were real and adventures the order of the day. Peter had spent too much time immersed in rules of law and legalese, none of which makes much sense to the average person and most of which is written by people who skipped through their childhood as quickly as they could so that they could be adults. Peter was not one of these, but he had spent sufficient time among them to begin to think as they did, and he had forgotten all about being a little boy. Making money and closing deals had replaced building sandbox castles and riding merry-go-rounds. Winning lawsuits had supplanted watching Fourth of July fireworks. Playing board games had assumed a completely different context. Peter had been too long without any real understanding of what makes life worth living, and he was struggling badly to survive the lessons that would give that understanding back to him.

  So all he could think about on what would turn out to be the most important morning of his life as a grown-up was how foolish he was to let a bunch of children manipulate him.

  The four pirates lurched down the town's rotting boardwalk, three of surprising height, the fourth shorter but meaner looking. They wore tricornes, greatcoats, sashes, and boots. An eye patch and scraggly beard hid most of one's face, and a bandanna and scars hid most of another's. The shortest of the four had a face so twisted and lined that no pirate cared to give it more than a passing glance before hurrying on. An arsenal of weapons was strapped about each one, cutlasses and flintlocks tucked in belts, daggers and dirks poking out from everywhere.

  As they passed a candy store the three larger pirates swung about abruptly, and a familiar face peered out from between the folds of one coat just above the belt.

  '' Sugarplums!'' breathed Thud Butt before a hand shoved his face back inside again.

  For the pirates were not pirates at all, of course, but Peter and his Lost Boy followers. Thud Butt and Pockets made up one pirate, Ace and No Nap another, Latchboy and Don't Ask a third, and Peter the fourth. Too Small, who really was, had been left home. Tink rode in the brim of Peter's tricorne, issuing directions.

  "This way!" she would insist. "No, that! Slow down! Stop! Over there, away from that floozy! Watch your step! Growl! Growl!"

  Peter had no trouble growling. If an opportunity had presented itself, he probably would have been happy to bite as well.

  They had slipped down along the beachfront and into the town through the back alleyways, dressed in their disguises, appearing big and tough enough that no one wanted anything to do with them. They had searched for some sign of Hook and quickly discovered that everyone was gravitating toward Pirate Square and the crocodile clock.

  Now, approaching along the walkway, swaying and weaving like drunkards as they tried to keep upright on one another's shoulders, they could hear cheers and shouts. Ahead, dozens of pirates encircled the square. On reaching the back of the crowd, Peter mounted a barrel and peered curiously over the sea of heads.

  He could scarcely believe his eyes. Pirate Square had been transformed into a baseball field!

  Gone was the debris of countless nights of pirate revelry. Gone the pushcarts and jewelry stands. Gone the pickpockets and sleight-of-hand artists (or at least they were keeping out of sight). Everything and everyone had been pushed back to make space for the field. Neat white lines had been painted to indicate base paths and a batter's box. Fluffy satin pillows that fairly dripped with jewels had been set out as bases. Bleachers had been erected in the outfield, back between the ship hulks of the buildings, and even the crocodile tower was in use as a scoreboard.

  But most amazing of all were the players-a whole team of pirates, every one of them dressed in a turn-of-the-century baseball uniform with PIRates lettered boldly across the front. They wore gloves and caps. A few wore spikes, although most had chosen to stay with boots. Some even carried pistols and daggers stuck in their belts.

  Smee was on the mound-a rather narrow, oblong rise with a tombstone stuck at its back end-warming up with Jukes as catcher. Far out in the centermost section of the bleachers sat Hook, a buxom tavern wench at his side.

  As Peter and the Lost Boys stared wide-eyed at the scene a gnarled little pirate streaked onto the field, snatched up the jeweled pillow that was serving as second base, and bolted for the crowd.

  "Look out!" cried Smee from the mound. "He's stealing second!"

  A bulky pirate acting as plate umpire took a step forward, pulled out a blunderbuss, and shot the thief dead in his tracks. Second base was retrieved and returned to its proper place.

  "Play ball!" growled the umpire.

  Peter and the Lost Boys were already making their way out to the bleachers. When they reached them, they abandoned their disguises and crept under the iron stanchions and wooden planking, keeping carefully back in the shadows and out of sight. When they had reached a position almost directly beneath Hook, they lifted their heads and peeked out.

  Jack Banning was stepping up to the plate. He wore the same old-time uniform as the pirates and carried a peg leg as a bat. He was flushed with excitement, his smile huge with anticipation. He swung the peg leg confidently, eagerly.

  Peter started to his feet and might have leaped right out onto the field and gone for his son, except that Hook suddenly shouted, "Jack, Jack lad, this is the ultimate makeup game. It makes up for all the games Daddy missed. Old Hook would never miss your game."

  Peter flinched at the sneering way Hook referred to "Daddy."

  Jack paused at the edge of the batter's box and waved brightly in acknowledgment. "This one's for you, Captain!"

  "Tear the leather right off 'er!" Hook shouted back, laughing gaily. "Rip that bauble, son!"

  Peter sagged back in disbelief. There wa
s no disguising the camaraderie that existed between his son and Hook. There was no hiding from what he had seen in his son's face-the joy, the excitement, the anticipation. Jack was having fun. Jack and Hook together.

  Hook led a sudden cheer as pirates seated in the bleachers to one side began to flip cards that flashed crude drawings of first Hook's face and then Jack's.

  "Jack! Jack! Jack's our man! If he can't do it, no one can!"

  The cards flipped again, and a huge message read: run home jack! Jack, standing at home plate with the peg leg gripped tightly in both hands, stared at the message in confusion, a hint of doubt creeping into his eyes. Smee paused, turned, saw the sign, dropped the ball with a gasp, and raced out to the stands, yelling and waving his hands.

  Moments and a few bruised heads later, the order of the cards had been reversed to read: home run jack!

  Smee stood poised on the pitching mound, eyeing Jack steadily. He held Jack's own autographed baseball, working it around in his fingers. Jack stepped into the batter's box and then out again. He scratched his head and adjusted his cap. On the field, all the pirates scratched their heads and adjusted their caps. Jack spat. The pirates spat. Jack tugged at his belt and the pirates tugged at theirs.

  Jack stepped back into the batter's box, peg leg cocked. Smee straightened, ready for the first pitch.

  "Hold on, Smee!" Hook yelled to his bosun. "I need a glove!"

  He turned to the woman beside him, who gingerly unscrewed the captain's claw and replaced it with a glove. Hook beamed. The tavern wench placed the hook on the bleacher seat next to the captain.

  And inches from Peter's face.

  The eyes of the Lost Boys went wide. Never had there been such a glorious opportunity as this! They had come looking for a way to steal Hook's hook, and the hook had practically been presented to them on a platter! Take it, Peter! they mouthed, gesturing wildly, jumping up and down in excitement. Take it! Take it!

  But Peter wasn't listening. He barely noticed the hook in front of him. His attention was focused entirely on his son, standing in the batter's box with his peg leg cocked and his face flushed and smiling.

  Smee threw a ball, high and wide. Jack barely gave it a look. Smee threw a second ball, low and away. Jack was not tempted. He was all business now, all concentration.

  Smee reared back and released.

  It was a wicked, sweeping curveball.

  No, Peter thought in incongruous dismay. He can't hit a curve ball!

  Jack tensed, the peg leg came back an inch or two, and he swung.

  Crack! He caught his prized baseball squarely on the fat part of the peg leg and sent it winging skyward. It continued to rise, sailing up and away, out of the ballpark, out of Pirate Square, out of the town itself, and completely out of sight. Never had a baseball been hit so far.

  Hook jumped up, his eyes shining. "Did you see that!" he cried out. "Did you see it! Oh, my Jack! You hit the curveball. You did it! Jack, my son!"

  Down the stands he bounded, flinging his glove into the air, calling out wildly. Jack was trotting around the bases, leaping and hooting every few steps, shaking every pirate's hand he passed. Hook caught up with him at home plate, lifted him up, and swung him around, both of them smiling and laughing ecstatically. Pirates appeared with a huge barrel marked "CrocAde" above a picture of a grinning crocodile and dumped the contents all over Jack. The entire town cheered wildly.

  Hook hoisted Jack onto his shoulders, spun him about, and led the entire procession of players and fans back through the town in celebration.

  Beneath the stands, Peter watched in shock, a single, terrible thought running through his head: He's having so much fun. I've never seen him have this much fun.

  He turned then and stumbled away, forgetting everything that had brought him there, everything that he had come to do. The Lost Boys stared after him in astonishment. What was the matter with him? What was he doing?

  Finally, seeing that he indeed had no intention of returning, that he really had lost all interest in finding something to crow about, they exchanged looks of disgust and disappointment and followed after.

  A Welcome-Home Party

  Peter wasn't quite sure how he made it back to camp. A good eye and a clear memory would certainly have helped had he possessed either, but since he lacked both, it was most probably luck that saw him safely through. He ran the entire way, and the Lost Boys never did catch up to him. He believed he'd left Tink behind as well, for he neither saw nor heard from her during his flight. Pursued by demons he recognized all too well, he charged down the winding island trails with blind disregard for his safety, heedless of the heights he scaled and the drops he descended, consumed by bitterness and despair. Everywhere he turned, in shadowed woodland niches, in the mirrored surface of a pond, in the clouds that sailed peacefully overhead, he saw Jack with Hook.

  I've lost him, was all he could think. I've lost him.

  He couldn't bear to consider what had become of Maggie, what Hook might have made of her. It was a parent's worst nightmare-his children stolen away by a terrible influence, a bad habit, lured to a life that was doomed to end badly. Peter railed against himself furiously, laying on blame in thick layers, salt on his wounds. He knew he had failed, that Hook had won, that he had lost his fight for Jack and Maggie. How awful to realize the truth, to see clearly for the first time that things might easily have been different. A little more time spent with his children, a little more attention paid to them, a little extra effort to be there when they needed it, and none of this would be happening. Jack and Maggie were with Hook because Peter had chosen too many times not to be with them.

  It was irrational thinking, of course. But then Peter Banning was in an exceedingly irrational state, a parent stripped bare of the armor of Parental Responsibility, an adult bereft of childhood memories, an authority figure only marginally in command of himself.

  He crossed the rope bridge from the island to the atoll where the Nevertree stood straight and tall against the blue waters of the ocean, and he raged anew at fate and circumstance, at missed chances and poor choices, at heaven and earth and Hook. He did not fully know where he was as he stumbled on, grasping now in belated hope at the promises Tink had made him, at the wishful looks in the Lost Boys' eyes, at the dreams of rescue that seemed to have eluded him forever. He lurched about in a fog, muttering words of power that had gone empty and flat, now spreading his arms as if they were wings and jumping up and down in a vain effort to fly, now crouching to thrust and parry with an imaginary sword. Back and forth, left and right, hither and yon he staggered, descending into a madness that shut him away within himself as surely as barred doors and latched windows close an empty house. Tears blurred his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and the bitter taste in his mouth choked him until he could barely breathe.

  And then, suddenly…

  WHAP!

  Something hard smacked him squarely on the top of his head. Down he went in a heap, his arms and legs outstretched, his body limp. He lay without moving for a time, stunned and frightened, drifting on the edges of consciousness, curling up within himself and hiding away from the pain of the world.

  When he finally opened his eyes again, he found himself sprawled at the edge of the Nevertree pool. He took several deep breaths to clear his head, then struggled to his knees and bent over to splash water on his face. He remained kneeling when he had finished, watching the waters clear before him. As they did, the face of a boy appeared. The boy was perhaps fourteen and had wild, blond hair and mischief in his eyes. The boy, Peter thought, seemed familiar.

  For though he wasn't, he looked very much like Jack.

  Jack! Jack! Jack!

  In the distance somewhere, the pirates were chanting his son's name, over and over.

  He reached down and touched the reflection in the pool, tracing the lines of the boy's face. The water rippled slightly with the movement, and the image changed.

  Peter caught his breath. The face had become his o
wn.

  Jack! Jack! Jack!

  He caught sight of something beneath the image, something round and solid that rested at the bottom of the pool. He reached down into the waters and carefully extracted it. He held it wonderingly in his hand. It was Jack's autographed baseball, the one his son had hit out of Pirate Square.

  Understanding flooded through him. It was the baseball, falling at last out of the sky, that had struck him.

  Jack's baseball.

  Come somehow to him.

  It was a small thing, really-a meaningless circumstance, some would argue. But Peter Banning held that ball aloft as if it were a trophy, and something primal came alive in him, something so feral he could neither understand nor contain it. He reared back and screamed. But the scream did not come out a scream at all, but a crow as wild and challenging as any given forth by Rufio.

  Peter surged to his feet, galvanized by the sound, backing away from the pond in a crouch until he was up against the trunk of the Nevertree. A voice whispered. Here! Here! He whirled around, searching for the speaker. A shadow thrown against the shaggy old tree was poised to flee. Peter moved and the shadow moved.

  Then he saw that the shadow was his own.

  He stared down again at Jack's baseball, and as he did so he saw out of the corner of his eye his shadow move, gesturing to him, beckoning anxiously. The voice whispered again. Here!

  Peter glanced up hurriedly and the shadow froze. Peter traced the shadow's legs downward to its feet, finding them attached to his own. He lifted his leg and so did his shadow. All well and good.

  He rubbed his head where the baseball had struck and took a step closer. This time his shadow did not follow, but actually charged ahead, waving him anxiously on, calling out to him to hurry. Come on, Peter, come on! He went obediently, not bothering to question that such a thing could be, wondering only where it would lead. The shadow pointed downward to a gnarled hole. Peter pushed back a tangle of vines and grasses that half masked the wood and bent close. What he saw was the outline of a face, revealed by just the right slant of the sun's bright light, the image etched clearly in the worn bark, eyes and nose and a mouth that stretched open as if it were…