by Jenni James
“We commence here, and we end at the mainland.”
“Third star to the left?”
“Whichever star thou desirest.” Scoots had no plan to finish the race. His monocled eye shifted in its socket with some plan he devised.
“It’s a race, then!” Peter cried. “What’s the prize?”
“The winner shall have a new gang of children, kidnapped from the mainland.” The captain smirked. “And a mother who shall sing a lullaby at bed-time.”
His greatest and most constant error was to think he could outwit Peter Pan.
Of course, Peter knew that Scoots had hatched some deadly plot, and he was an expert at matching the old boy scheme for scheme.
Tink had been whispering in Peter’s ear, angry that he was still playing instead of rounding up the children that she found for him. Peter brushed her away, and she buzzed in wide angry circles around him and the pirate. A hundred other fairies joined her.
“Well then, dear chap,” Scoots said. “Take your mark. Get set...”
When Scoots uttered go, Peter, in a single movement, drew his sword and spun in a loop. He sliced the headband that attached the pirate’s monocle, and slashed his boot straps and suspenders. Scoots, always slower than Peter from the starting line, left him just enough time to perform this mischief. When he burst toward the third star to the left, off came his monocle and his trousers, and his boots along with them. The boots and the monocle fell like stones to the sea, while the trousers fell in fits and starts, this way and that, as if trying and failing to fly.
Neverland’s rules of warfare dictated that any warrior who lost his trousers during battle had forfeited the fight. That is the reason why sword fights between pirates in Neverland often did not end in death, but in humiliation and ruined trousers. And aside from that humiliation, Scoots was without his monocle and he would be useless battle. Scoots knew all was lost—this battle, his dignity.
Peter, who wore no trousers, had won. He cupped a hand behind his ear and listened until he heard the pirate cry out in defeat. Then he grinned his devilish grin, put his sword away, and crowed his victory into the heavens.
Peter and Captain Scoots fought many more times afterward, and Peter heaped humiliation after humiliation on the pirate. Whether Scoots ever had the upper hand is a story for another day.
Tink left Peter little time for crowing. “We have to beat them home.”
“We’ll just catch them—”
Tink corrected Peter. “It’s easier to lure children away from home than to keep them from returning there.”
The children continually told stories about home, about school, about each other, and about their mother as they wandered across the sky. They knew they could not stop remembering, or they might forget, and so they vowed to keep their mother always in their minds during the flight. If one child forgot, the other children told stories until everyone remembered.
When sunrise seemed just beneath the edge of the ocean, and the orange light of pre-dawn nearly forced the children to shade their eyes, Peter Pan, led by his Tinker fairy, struck past them in a burst of wind, and was gone as quickly as he came.
The first rays of sunlight shone from the horizon, and the world seemed to change before them. The endless sea disappeared and took the form of land. Houses and trees soon appeared, and cars moved along the roadways. Gray clouds moved in and darkened the world. Rain sprinkled down and covered everything with its droplets, and it soaked the childrens’ hair and clothing.
The children turned toward the river, toward the trailer park.
Chapter 7
P eter and Tink waited at the bedroom window for the children to return. After two hundred years Peter and his Tinkers still blocked windows instead of doors whenever his captives threatened to return home. A hazard of never growing up was that Peter rarely learned from his mistakes.
“This seems a good place to live,” Peter said. For a moment he recalled having been there. “We listened to stories at this house, didn’t we?”
“Yes,” Tink said.
“About pirates and lost boys and...Hook?”
“Yes, you silly boy.”
“Those trees there, at the river. Haven’t we been there before?”
“Never,” she lied.
“Do you think we ought to stay there awhile?”
“No.”
“But it looks lovely.”
Just then the children descended from the sky and their feet patted softly on the wet pavement. They were soaked head to toe, and water dripped from their noses and chins.
Peter did not remember them. He only saw three strangers who might want to play. “Hullo!”
The oldest girl held tight to her siblings and frowned at him.
“Want to play awhile?” Peter asked.
“No!” the oldest girl said.
“Go away!” The youngest child stepped in front of his sisters. “Leave us alone!”
The older child let go of her sister’s hand. She went to Peter and she placed her hand on his shoulder. Her kind brown eyes seemed familiar and gentle. Peter reached for his sword, but did not draw it.
“Don’t you remember your mom, Peter?” the girl said.
He backed away and told her the only thing he recalled about his mother. “I came home from Neverland, and when I looked through my bedroom window, I saw another boy in my bed. My mother didn’t want me anymore.”
The girl seemed pained at hearing Peter’s little story, and her eyes filled with tears that mingled with the droplets of rain on her face.
“Girl, why are you crying?” Peter asked.
Just then the door opened and a grown-up woman stood on the doorstep. Her face was like a window with the curtains drawn shut.
“Ghosts.” she said. “I see the phantoms of my children.”
“Mama?” the little boy said.
“I hear my little William’s voice.”
The woman stepped down onto the gravel walkway and onto the pavement and reached out to her children. They ran to her and embraced her. The oldest girl kissed her cheek. “We’re home, mom. It’s okay now.” “I love you mama,” the boy said. The other girl only wept.
The woman and her children cried sadly, and then they cried happily. The children touched their mother’s face and kissed her on the cheeks, and embraced her again and again. Peter watched for a long time, and he didn’t care that Tink’s bells rang in his ears pleading for him to come away again to Neverland. A teardrop swelled on the inside corner of his eye, and it lingered there and did not fall.
The woman turned to him. “Hello Peter,” she said. “Do you remember me? I remember you.”
Peter backed away. Her eyes were familiar to him, and for a moment he imagined her much younger—a child he had thought about many times—flying over the trees in Neverland, and telling wondrous stories to the Lost Boys...
“You’re crying, Peter,” the woman said. “Come and let me hold you.”
“I’m not crying!”
The woman’s voice was sweeter than any mermaid’s. She kneeled in front of him and wiped a strand of wet hair from his brow, then placed a soft warm hand on his cheek. “Isn’t it time you come home and find your mother?”
“I don’t have a mother. And I don’t live anywhere.”
“You poor, sweet boy,” she said. She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around him. “When I was alone, you took me in, Peter. You were my home when I had none. You were my brother, my father, and my friend—my family.”
Peter rested his chin on her shoulder and closed his eyes and let her hold him tight as if she were his mother. He almost let his teardrop fall—this new teardrop that remained in his eye. But just then, Tink’s bells woke him from the woman’s spell, and he pulled away.
“Mothers are rubbish,” Peter said. “All I want is to always be a little boy and to have fun!”
Tink rang pleasantly, reminding him that he was Peter Pan, the bane of pirates, and the friend of mermaids and fa
iries—and wouldn’t it be fun to fight pirates right now?
“Yes Tink,” Peter said. “I would very much like to fight pirates.”
Tink rang out some more and rose into the air, leading him along.
“I think stealing food from the never-eagles would be very much fun about now,” Peter said. “And with luck, I’ll find a dumpling among them!”
He hissed at Miriam, and turned to the children with a smile that was made of all his adventures, which so many children wished to see. Then Peter and Tink shot into the sky.
Jane, Emilia and William told their mother everything, and they showed her how they had learned to fly. William got carried away and launched like a rocket into the air, but he was back before Miriam could become too worried. Jane chided him for his irresponsibility and told him to be more careful.
Jane watched Miriam closely in the days that followed, because something had changed. It wasn’t her hair or her clothes, and it wasn’t her smile or the way she went about her work. She puzzled over it for days, then she remembered—the teardrop that always lingered in the corner of her mother’s eye was gone. And it never returned.
James Elliott
James was born in Idaho, grew up in Southern Nevada, and has lived in Utah for most of his adult life. He graduated from Southern Utah University with a B.A. and received a master’s degree from Utah State University. His first book, Dead On The Corridor, was published in 2017. He wrote a tale for the anthology, A Medley of Fairy Tales, published in 2017 by Serenity Brooke Press. He is currently working on several other creative writing projects scheduled for release in 2019. Find James on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter, or contact him at his website www.AuthorJamesElliott.com
Bird Hat
By Lawrence Gardner
Bird Hat
I n the US of A, in the state of Utah, in the county of Sanpete, in a pioneer settlement called Springtown, there stands an old one-room schoolhouse. It was built in 1893, mostly by volun-teer labor from the citizens of the town. It has a sturdy concrete foundation, which accounts for the fact that it stands true and straight even to this day. Its walls are nearly two feet thick, made of Oolite limestone blocks. This stone was not only one of the main structural materials found in numerous pioneer homes and public buildings in the county, but believe it or not, it was the very stone newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst had shipped to the central coast of California to build his Hearst Castle.
This one-room schoolhouse has a strong, steep pitched roof to shed the winter snows, with a belfry perched on top. In the early days, the bell would ring every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp to call all the kids to school, as well as every afternoon at 3:00 p.m. to signal school was out for the day. It rang every night at 8:00 o’clock to warn that the curfew was in force and it rang vigorously to call the volunteer fire department together whenever there was a fire in town. Even nowadays, the sharp, clear tone of that bell can be heard across town when the occasional tourist is persuaded to pull the rope that sets the bell in motion.
When the new two-story eight-room schoolhouse was opened at the turn of the century, the old one room schoolhouse became a public building. It was used for a multitude of functions by nearly every club and organization in town. As one might expect from a structure of this age, its walls had seen some interesting and unexplainable events over the years.
Eventually, the building was given to the Canal Creek Camp of The Daughters Of The Utah Pioneers, otherwise known as the DUP. Besides using the building for their meetings and gatherings, the Daughters opened a small museum. They gathered many photos and artifacts from local citizens, which they proudly put on display. The timeworn artifacts brought a musty, old library book smell to the room that competed with the more than faint odor of the bats that were known to make a home in the attic and belfry each summer.
The museum collection boasted of relics from both World Wars, old pioneer furniture, a spinning wheel, a hand cranked washing machine, a Singer treadle sewing machine, a butter churn, and the very first J.H. Bunnell telegraph key and sounder from 1864, when Wells Fargo brought the telegraph to town. They had a number of dresses from several different periods displayed on papier-mâché mannequins, including the elaborate white lace wedding gown worn by Judge Jolstien’s first wife Lila, but it had yellowed considerably from the depredations of time. There were numerous other pictures and artifacts on the walls, on tables, shelves, and in display cases around the room, but the center was left open so the Daughters could set up their wooden folding chairs for their meetings.
Now, the story I am about to tell is not strictly about the building, but what happened in it on a very hot day in August of 1964. The DUP was holding their monthly meeting and luncheon. There were about 18 Daughters present. The windows and doors were all open in a vain attempt to ward off the scorch of the day, but the breeze was severely lacking, so the open windows did little more than invite a greater number of flies into the room. Flies were always a nuisance, and two of the ladies were tasked with shooing them off of the food. The pot-luck goodies that graced the two card tables were set off to the side in front of a much-prized display case that held a walking cane, waist coat, white shirt, string tie, and top hat allegedly worn by Brigham Young.
In the sweltering heat, the food was past sweating. The ice in the punch bowl was long gone, the jello salads were melting, the lettuce was wilting, the tuna fish casserole had crusted over, and the frosting on the two cakes was dripping. It was questionable whether the food would still be edible by the end of the meeting. Part of the problem was that the meeting had started somewhat late, as everyone was feeling casual. It was as if their presence was motivated more by the opportunity to escape the duties and chores of a sizzling summer day than an actual interest in what might take place in the meeting. There was barely a pause in the buzz of gossip and general chatter long enough for a quick prayer offered by Irena Sayers and a pledge of allegiance led by Colleen Wilcox. After some short announcements, the floor was turned over to Josie Adams, the Artifacts Chairperson.
Josie was a tall, slender woman in her late fifties. Her hair was salt and pepper gray, which she always wore in a bun at the back of her head. This day, as most, she was wearing a drab, pale blue skirt down past her knees and a short-sleeved white blouse that her slight figure barely filled out. She was a shy person who married late to a man even more temperate than herself. They had no children and, with no other major concerns, her whole life’s passion was now centered on her assignment as Artifacts Chairperson. Unfortunately, her talent lay far more in her knowledge of pioneer relics than her ability to present that knowledge in a way that was exciting and engaging for her listening audience.
The prattle about the room only reduced to an undertone of whispering as she rose to speak. In fact, the swatting of flies and one of the Daughter’s new Velcro strap shoes commanded more attention than Josie as she donned a pair of white cotton gloves and lovingly took from a glass case, a woman’s hat.
She placed the hat atop a head-shaped wooden pedestal, which stood on a long iron rod with a large round base allowing it to stand free in front of her on the table. It was a hat made of bird feathers. It was round and flat on top and the entire thing was covered with various types of bird feathers with several long pheasant tail plumages protruding out the back. Perched on the flat top were three very small dried birds. One was a Goldfinch, another was a speckled brown and white Titmouse, and the last was a Bronze-Headed Junco.
Now, one might think this to be an ugly amalgamation for a woman to wear on top of her head but, aside from some fading and ruffling due to the ravages of time, it was extremely colorful, skillfully arranged, and quite beautiful.
In her typical monotone voice, Josie began, “Now ladies, this hat was made some time around the turn of the century by the widow Lavinia Rasmussen who kept a millinery shop on the west side of main street in the building that is now the town pool hall. Lavinia lived in the back of the store with her only son, Glad
stone, and made her living selling hats, gloves, parasols, and other woman’s finery, much of which she made herself.”
As Josie spoke, there were few in the room that actually paid any attention. Most of the ladies had seen the hat many times as it had been a cherished relic of their museum for a very long time.
“Apparently,” Josie continued, “Mrs. Rasmussen was persuaded by a woman in town named Needa Beckworth to make the hat. Mrs. Beckworth kept and raised quite a number of small birds and those on top of the hat were three of her favorites. After they died, she convinced Mrs. Rasmussen to make the hat using the dried bodies of the three little birds so that when she wanted to be near them, she could simply wear the hat. It was—was—oh! Oh!”
Few took notice that Josie’s discourse had abruptly stopped mid-sentence.
“Oh! Oh!” she exclaimed again.
At that, several did take notice of the stunned look on Josie’s face as she stood staring intently at the hat in front of her.
“Oh no! Ahhhh—!”
Suddenly, all took notice as she let out a shocked squeal and slowly retreated from the hat until her back was up against the old school blackboard on the wall behind her.
The mysterious sound of chirping birds began to fill the room. For the first time since the meeting started, a hush fell over the entire group as everyone became aware of the chirping and wondered at its source.
All of a sudden, Gloria Mathis, who was sitting on the front row near the hat, clasped her hands to her cheeks and let out a high-pitched scream.
Behind her, Mary Anne jumped up and yelled “Look! Look! Look!” as she pointed at the hat. Her eyes were wide and fixed on the hat, which now seemed to be moving. The silent gawk of every eye in the room confirmed the same. The wings of the three tiny birds on top of that hat were now moving. They began to flap wildly as the birds stood up, struggling to free themselves from the threads that held them bound to the hat. Suddenly, one bird broke loose; then another, and finally the third! To the absolute amazement of all in the room, the three tiny birds chirped enthusiastically as they danced happily around on top of the hat. Then, lining up in a row and facing their stunned and awe-struck audience, they began to sing in unison. When their little ditty reached a fever pitch, they abruptly and swiftly took flight around the room, chirping and singing the entire way.
