Gwen listened to Bard tell Spurt about all the bombings she had sat through without a scratch, and her fear slightly ebbed away. Bard talked and talked and talked, which started Gwen thinking about how long the young girl must have been here on the island. Forever young in Neverland, who was to say if Bard had come here a year ago or ten? Or perhaps even longer ago. What if she had come here years before Gwen herself was even born?
The other children had all been through bombings like this before. Rosemary and Gwen were at a distinct disadvantage for dealing with this. Rosemary’s entire morning was spent safely underground, so she did not fear the event as Gwen did. Like so many of the other children, she took her cues from Peter. His lighthearted nonchalance dismissed the majority of the lost children’s concerns.
He was not somber, even as he dealt with Gwen’s burn. There was a shade of seriousness to his voice and motions, but even that did not obscure his carefree nature. On the wall of the underground house, there were drawers that Gwen did not realize were drawers, inlaid seamlessly into the earthy wall, covered again with a fine layer of dirt. Misshapen and oddly sized, Peter opened them up by their rock-knob handles until he found one that had what he was looking for.
With a transparent, blue bottle and a thick, white handkerchief, Peter came back to Gwen. She’d sat down on one of the taller toadstool seats, its spongy, orange-and-white top compressing slightly under her. She held her hand up, not letting anything touch her forearm, not moving it at all. The pain reminded her of a summer long ago when she had unknowingly ventured too near a wasp nest in the park and left with no less than four throbbing stings. Gwen had never been badly burned before, and she numbly wondered if this was what it felt like to be burned, or what it felt like to be touched by the sort of surreal flames that could only rain down on Neverland.
Peter soaked the handkerchief in the blue bottle’s contents, which smelled like equal parts oranges and honeysuckles. Gwen winced, preparing to feel the pain of an antiseptic, but when Peter draped the damp cloth over her burned forearm, it only felt cool and calming. It continued to smell sweet, lightly perfuming her arm and the room.
Rosemary was curious and somewhat frightened by the inflamed skin and strange words now printed on her older sister’s arm. They discussed it quietly, but the others came to gawk when they grew bored of the bombing and the present emergency. When Jam eagerly asked, “What is it?”
Peter answered simply, “The reason we stay down here until it’s over.”
Gwen took the damp cloth off in order to flip it over, as per Peter’s instructions. As she did, Rosemary struggled to read the words. Bard, the only other child who knew how to read, seemed to know better than to desire to know what Gwen’s arm said.
“Let me kiss it and make it all better!” Rosemary declared, doing so before Gwen could object. To her surprise, the pressure of Rosemary’s lips against her burned skin did not hurt, but actually did make it feel considerably better.
“Me too! I want to kiss Gwenny!” Spurt announced, leaping away from Bard to do so. It became an incredibly popular idea. Soon, Gwen found that all the young children had kissed her arm with a joyful desire to help her. Perhaps the strange, perfumed medicine was finally reaching its full effect, or maybe there was something to be said for the medicinal value of affection.
She looked to see where Peter had wandered to and saw him up in his hammock, whittling away at some new project. As wood shavings fell to the floor, he seemed preoccupied with his own work and apathetic to Gwen’s condition, now that he had done his part to help her through it. While the others dissolved into a flurry of conversation and playful speculation as to how Gwen got her tattoo-burn, she watched Peter until he turned himself over in his hammock and looked back. “It’s over.”
The assault had subsided. Several minutes had ticked by without another quake of any size. A military, somewhere far away and close to home, had depleted its arsenal for the time being. Whatever damage was done was done, and the children waited for Peter to shoot up the oak tree before they scrambled into their own tree shafts to follow after.
Gwen was slow to animate, but Rosemary tugged at her, pulling her older sister along until she remembered how to move on her own. She glanced at her tattoo burn; the dark lettering had faded only slightly after Peter’s treatment. “Come on, Gwen!” Rosemary insisted, getting ready to ascend to the grove.
A jarring feeling hit Gwen, as if reality had struck her and was struggling to climb over her. “Rosemary,” she began, uncertain what rubble or decay would be left from the attack. “This is why we can’t stay.”
Rosemary smiled sadly, as if amused and disappointed at her older sister’s response. Gwen had never seen such a knowing, pitying look from her sister. Little Rosemary! How could that girl look at her as if she knew so much more than her older sister?
“No, Gwen. This is why I have to stay.” Rosemary stepped into the hollow tree, sucking in a huge breath that inflated her cheeks and shot her up to the surface before another word could be said.
Reluctantly, Gwen followed suit and zipped up the oak tree. She possessed no desire to return outside, having just survived the firestorm of reality that she’d been caught in.
Peter was still standing on the oak tree branch outside of its entrance hole. He leaned an arm against a higher branch, propping himself against it morosely as he surveyed the ravaged landscape of his Neverland.
Gwen gasped, trying a moment too late to suppress the noise. Peter glanced at her, the unhappy look of his face unchanged by her presence. He turned his attention back to the smoldering countryside.
Neverland, so bright and green, had been buried under a layer of ash grey newspaper, but Gwen saw now the purpose of that malicious paper. She’d been a proud girl scout once, and had earned her campfire badge stoking fires. She knew it took kindling.
Covered in flammable, ashy newspaper, the land had been easy to raze once the real bombs detonated. The pine trees drooped down, their branches weighted with dark ash. Palm trees had become toothpicks. Entire natural orchards seemed to be wrought iron sculptures in the distance. The fires had put themselves out, but birds circled en masse overhead: songbirds, hawks, ravens, two peacocks, and their golden cousin the phoenix. Their screeching cries and tweeting laments were echoed by creatures of the Neverland forest-jungle. It all seemed distant and dreamlike to Gwen. The sky had cleared of clouds, but the outpouring of sunlight only gave a glow to the destruction.
Silly girl, have you forgotten that there’s a war going on? You’d better hurry back before it finds you, Gwen.
Lasiandra’s words sounded in her mind for the first time since she had left the lagoon. The mermaid had warned her, but Gwen could not abate the suspicion that she had not made it back in time. She might have been safe from this storm within the comfort of the underground home, but there was no denying that the war had found her. With a painful longing to revise the past, Gwen wished that she had departed from Neverland yesterday, or the day before, or never come at all. Her heart was torn in half a dozen directions, every piece of it screaming for something other than this sight of wartime ruin.
Laughter distracted her. Taking her eyes down to the grove, Gwen saw the children. Already, they were discovering the strange oddities of a burned environment. She could barely make out Newt and Sal chasing after Jam with charred sticks, all of them scream-laughing with glee while Bard and Blink picked at charred flowers for black bouquets.
Feeling her burn wound throb under its bandage, Gwen angrily muttered, “They don’t know better. They don’t understand the way we do.”
Only as she spoke did she see what was in Peter’s eyes as he watched his compatriots below. There was no rage—no frustration with their childish irreverence. There was envy.
His jealousy of the children turned to anger with little prodding. “Who’s we?” he remarked, his curt tone conveying his bitterness.
Wishing she could redact the remark for reasons she did not yet f
ully understand, Gwen answered, “You, me. Us. We see it differently than the kids do. We know what it is, because we’re ol—” She stopped, not wanting to finish the word when she became conscious of what she was really saying.
“We’re what? We’re older? Like the people who did this?” He looked back to his friends in the grove. “Of course they know better, better than us, at least. They’re what will breathe life back into everything the bombing ravaged. They’re not the ones moping in a tree. It’s us. We’ve forgotten better. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry.”
Peter didn’t look at her. His words cut through his teeth, making it clear that he was not apologizing to her, but to the island he called home. “Me too.”
A shrill cry from below took their attention away. “Peter!” Gwen might not have been able to recognize the other children’s sound of panic, but she knew Rosemary’s voice anywhere.
“Rose!” she called, compelled to answer the call even when it was not directed to her. She and Peter leapt off the tree branch like synchronized divers. Shooting straight to the ground, Gwen surprised herself by how seamlessly she managed to pull out of her freefall and into flight. She didn’t even stop to think about it, the instinct to get to Rosemary just carried her.
The others gathered around Rosemary in a nervous circle, but they parted to let Peter and Gwen in. The girl was not visibly hurt, and everyone’s attention was on what she held cupped gingerly in her hands. Tears inched down her cheeks as she held the creature out for Peter and her sister to see.
It’s a mouse, Gwen thought as she approached. When she saw wings, she assumed it was a dragonfly. Countless speculations flashed through her mind as she neared, but never once did she stop to think it was Bramble, because Bramble was a fairy and fairies glowed, and the little body that Rosemary held was not glowing.
Gwen had never heard a fairy cry. It was a beautiful and heartbreaking noise that Hollyhock made, like the ringing of crystal, the hum of bees… the sound of anything and everything when heard from underwater. For once, Gwen understood the fairy language, not because she could discern the words, but because she could identify the feelings that were trying to be communicated.
Peter had taken Bramble from Rosemary and laid him down on a patch of grass that still held a green color. He sat down cross-legged beside his tiny friend, plucked one of the crisply burned flowers within his reach, and laid it down over Bramble, whispering as he did so, “I do believe in fairies.” The brittle, black dandelion sprung to life with these words, and a yellow blossom grew back out of the ash and destruction. The other children did the same, pulling the charred flowers and piling them on Bramble’s body, whispering the words that brought the blossoms back to full bloom and color.
A wisp of hope entered Gwen, thinking that this was somehow a process to revive Bramble, but only the flowers sparked back to life. Before Gwen could make peace with the thought that this was merely a goodbye, that I do believe in fairies was only whispered in homage, to honor one who had been, Hollyhock arrived. Everyone stepped back to make way for the fairy, tiny in form and large in grief. Only Peter stayed where he was, seated beside Bramble as Hollyhock dug through the flowers, tossing them off him so that she could pull his little body close to hers.
The children bore the loss with quiet pain. Bard stood between Blink and Spurt, holding their hands so that she was the only one of the three who did not have a free hand to wipe away her tears. Jam squatted down, an angry look of betrayal on her face, but tears seeped out of her eyes just the same. Sal and Newt did not cry, but Sal bent over to wrap himself entirely around Newt in a hug. It was impossible to say which boy derived more solace from this embrace. Rosemary only looked confused, slumped down and sitting in the charred grass, her legs spread wide apart, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Gwen went and sat with her, taking her little sister in her arms and kissing her hair. The confusion did not leave Rosemary’s face.
Hollyhock’s weeping continued, and there was an unspoken understanding that she was the only one allowed to be demonstrative with her grief. Gwen looked around and suddenly realized that the children all understood this exactly as she did, as any adult or human being would. Youth was not a blanket of naivety; it could only shelter them from so much. Somewhere in her growing, Gwen had forgotten to realize how little change had actually occurred. She might have argued that, intellectually, Bramble’s death registered with her in a way it didn’t for the others, but there was no denying that they all had the same emotional capacity. Age did not—it could not—have any real effect against the nature of a human life.
After a while, Peter could not take it. He stood up and walked away. When he was halfway across the grove, he took off flying. The rage and sadness blurred on his face was the last thing Gwen saw before he turned his back to them. She thought to chase after him, but she was not so egotistical as to think there was anything she could say to help him. Gwen hugged Rosemary tighter, knowing that her little sister was the one who needed her now.
Hollyhock continued to cry, but it was not long after Peter left that Dillweed arrived. He brought with him another fairy that Gwen did not recognize. With somber grace, they landed beside Hollyhock and the body she cradled. It was a painfully long process, separating Hollyhock from Bramble, but once they had done so, Dillweed and the other fairys lifted Bramble up between them and fluttered away with him. Hollyhock trailed behind, quietly sobbing as they disappeared into the jungle.
Peter did not return. The children set to work cleaning the grove. It was a mellow, melancholy sort of play. Long branches from pine trees became brooms to help the girls sweep away the ash and paper that covered the ground. Others pulled pots, pans, buckets, and the laundry basket out of the underground home and raced to the stream to fill them up with fresh water. They came back to sprinkle it over the grass and flowers, watering the scorched land. At the touch of Neverland’s water, all the plants seemed to be revitalized. They unfurled back into vibrant green tendrils, leaves, and stems, as if the water promised that all the unpleasantness was over and they could come back now.
Still, Peter did not return. As evening began to set in and the grove grew golden from the glow of the sinking sun, Gwen suggested that they have a nice dinner outside before it got dark. Everyone was in favor of the idea, but it was Blink who articulated the sentiment best, when she announced that they could have all the foods and fruits Bramble had loved best, and put a little aside for him even though he was gone.
Newt and Sal went off, monkeying in the trees and filling up the good wicker basket with all the fruit they could find. Bard took Blink with her when she went to find the Neverland Bird and ask for some milk. Jam was eager to light a fire, but reluctant to stay and actually cook the rice once the campfire was lit. Rosemary kept her company, and together they brewed a rice soup with little grains that were every color of an impossible rainbow. Spurt picked berries because he knew where the best bushes were, and Gwen brought the mismatched dishes and picnic blankets up from the underground home so that she could set everyone’s places outside.
No fairies joined them for dinner, and even by the end of it, Peter still had not reappeared. They ate without their usual exuberance, but there was a quiet hum of joy that gradually seeped into their conversation. It was a reverent, cautious joy, but it felt natural. Gwen struggled to recover from the bombing and all its repercussions, wishing she had not forgotten whatever it was that prevented children from dwelling on the misfortunes of life.
When they finished dinner, plates and dishware were stacked lazily in the wicker basket that had previously been filled with fruit. Without any vote or discussion, it was unanimously decided that dishes could wait until tomorrow. Everyone moved closer together, clustering in front of Gwen and wrapping themselves up in the picnic blankets. She massaged her arm, both curious and afraid to peel back the bandage and see what the wound looked like now. It still stung under pressure, but Gwen trusted that it would heal well with time�
� something which would begin moving again once she returned home.
“Are you really leaving tomorrow, Gwenny?” Spurt asked.
Gwen nodded until she found words. “I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Jam muttered, disgruntled that Gwen could still be so tied to the adult world.
“You could stay,” Rosemary whispered, but only her sister heard the suggestion, and Gwen would not dignify the possibility by rebuking it.
“Will you tell us a story?” Bard asked. “One more? Before you go?”
“Yes!” Spurt exclaimed, bouncing on his haunches and pounding the ground in excitement.
“Another story!”
“One with lots of adventure!”
“A princess! Put a Princess Eleanor in it!”
“Tell us a story, Gwendy!”
She was flooded by their desire, and could hardly corral their requests even by consenting to them. “Yes, yes, I will, alright.”
The children settled down, their eyes widening as the last drowsy rays of daylight dipped out of the sky. By the glow of an even half-moon, they watched Gwen as she began to tell the story they had mercilessly begged of her.
“Once upon a time, there was a kingdom isolated from all the rest of the world by the largest ocean. A great ring of mountains encircled it. The kingdom was called Fardonia. It was so far away that it was where the very word ‘far’ comes from. The people lived in the valley at the center, surrounded by the towering mountains. The mountains were so tall and treacherous that no one had ever crossed them to either leave or enter Fardonia.
“The tallest of these was not a mountain, but a volcano. It bubbled with magma lava deep at its core, but it was dormant for the most part. On the rare occasions when it did begin to seep hot lava, the citizens of Fardonia picked up their belongings and headed to the far side of the valley, evacuating their homes and rebuilding after they were sure that the tiny eruption was over. This was a reality of life for them; they could not have left the island if they wanted to, so there was no other option but to evacuate and rebuild each time the volcano erupted. It was never a very big eruption, so the people of Fardonia lived mainly without fear.
The Neverland Wars Page 19
