Hook & Jill

by Andrea Jones

  Tink belonged to Peter. He must never grow up and away from the fairy world. Better that he never understand his Tink than that he should grow away from her. She didn’t care that he didn’t guess her secrets; he had secrets, too. As long as she remained his fairy, her hope persisted that one day, with the cleverness of which he boasted, he might unpuzzle her mysteries. But even if he never learned how to touch her, she belonged!

  Swerving over the Island, Tinker Bell bounced from point to point, first high, then low, and always moving. She circled the house in the clearing, pulling faces and shaking her fist. She itched with an urge to pick it apart, leaf by leaf, but finding no satisfaction in threatening the girl’s shell of a dwelling, zipped on again toward rarer scenes. She didn’t slow, and some while later found herself zooming up the steep contour of the Indian mountain.

  The air grew chillier toward the top, and Tinker Bell paused to pant and fan her cheeks. Perching at the pinnacle, she gazed on the mountainside, spying stone circles around cooking fires, waiting tepees and a long, low lodge built of pine logs. All uninhabited now, until the fields fell to harvest and the People moved with the seasons.

  The Indians were Peter’s enemies. Maybe she should run away and join them. Tink might be the first fairy to befriend the People, and how priceless a prize she would be to them! Conceiving in her bitterness what a trophy Peter’s golden scalp might make, the fairy soared down the far side of the mountain to follow the river, watching for the telltale smoke that would lead an exile to the village on the plateau. For once, Tink would venture where Peter forbade her to go.

  She heard it before she saw it. Chanting song, and flutes. Dressed in deerskin shifts, women knelt before their tepees, shaping dough for their dinners. Others were winding in procession about the camp, playing some game with the black-haired children in their wakes, and old ones with white hair sat on broad-striped blankets, cross-legged, and laughing at their antics. All the villagers took up the chant, even the men in buckskin leggings, congregating on the edge of the encampment to drop the fruits of their hunting and unsling their weapons. The note of harmony in their music struck so jarringly on Tinker Bell’s mood that she grimaced, reversed tack, and buzzed away. Cautious only to avoid the pirate ship in Neverbay, she tore in the opposite direction, careless of where it would lead, as long as it took her away from the noises of contentment.

  Instinct eventually headed her homeward, toward the Fairy Glade. Dusk was falling as she neared it, and she glimpsed the webs of light her cousins wove as they flew about their homes and halls. Patches of buds and tall grasses lit up and dimmed as the lights passed over them, making the glade gay and rippling. The fairy community was enclosed by a ring of toadstools, more symbolic of a magic place than of fencing, as it kept nothing in or out. Fairies were not particular with whom they kept company, providing that the company was merry. Their musical language played on the air and echoed in their hollow tree stumps. Greeted by the sights and sounds of home, the wanderer approached.

  Yet Tinker Bell wanted none of it. She closed her eyes and ears to shut it out. Had she not, she would have heard the squelch. A toadstool lay crushed.

  The glade was full of life. Tink didn’t want life. She yearned for stillness tonight. She veered away to rest on a knot in the apple tree. Often she sat here, watching Peter’s fingers at work when he came to pick the fruit. The red apples were luscious and wholesome, but Peter sometimes picked one or two of the green ones as well. Protective of his safety, Tinker Bell had warned him of their potency, but he picked them anyway. The fairies tasted the unripe apples when they wanted to sleep before long nights of feasting. Just a bite or two would do it. To swallow any more assured that a fairy would never partake of future feasts, for although the glade possessed many healing properties, none could counter a lethal effect.

  Desolate, Tink cast about for a fat green apple, one sure to be full of the fairy sleeping draught. She selected one, then hovered next to it, bracing her hands on it and rubbing her cheek against its skin. Its rotundity promised respite, of whatever duration she chose. But at length she sighed, shook herself, and headed instead for the garden, where her people grew herbs and flowers to flavor their dispositions.

  She skimmed over the wild holly border and on above the blooms, finally sinking into a rose. It was cool, soothing. Pulling its petals around her as high as they would reach, she hid herself from the world. Her light faded to its faintest glow. The flower’s fragrance overpowered her, but she wanted to be overpowered. She didn’t desire merely to sleep. She wished to be taken over, completely, by some force of nature. She wanted her body to be so full of sensation that she wouldn’t have to sense anything at all. Like her heart. So many emotions, and so little space for them. Subsiding, she laid her untidy head on her arms.

  A shushing sounded in the grasses. Tinker Bell had no room in her heart to hear it.

  She remembered living here, among her people. They were a joyful race of creatures, even flippant. They had never understood the moody Tinker Bell. She felt everything more deeply than others of her kind. They didn’t experience life solidly; they breezed through their emotions, one of which was revulsion at Tinker Bell’s intensity. They marked it and then they were gone, like bees from a bitter flower. In time she divined that she would never belong here.

  So Tinker Bell had ventured into the woods alone, and there among the trees and tendrils was Peter, his green eyes enticing her, never letting her go. Her heart pounded, remembering. She hadn’t even attempted to resist him. In him she saw a light burning with the same intensity as her own. She understood. It was because he was a boy.

  She understood something else, too, that the Wendy was just discovering. As long as Peter was a boy, he would never fully experience the grown-up emotions he felt the beginnings of now, intense as those feelings were. But he didn’t want to grow old, ever, and Tink was content. He and Tink were alike, were together— until the Wendy came.

  The weaving lights within the fairy village stopped moving. They held still for one instant, then streaked in all directions and disappeared into trees, stumps and holes. The glade fell silent.

  At last Tinker Bell pushed the rose’s petals open. She swung over its lip and climbed down the stem to the earth below, stepping from thorn to thorn as if descending a ladder. She felt too heavy for her wings.

  Her gaze fell upon a patch of herbs, and her feet began to roam among the stalks. She would gather some chamomile to brew herself a drop of tea. Medicinal tea to heal her heart. She selected a petal and plucked it, folding it to fit her pocket.

  Sighing again, she let her eyes wander. A soothing tea might remedy her pain.…

  In the next instant, her gaze sharpened and focused. On something else. On another kind of remedy.

  The Wendy liked medicine, she took it every day.

  Tink could brew a medicine for the Wendy. A tonic that would make her want to go away. Something to kill her love for Peter, maybe.

  Or, maybe, something to kill the Wendy herself.

  A poison!

  Tinker Bell’s wings sprang apart, fluttering so wildly she rose several feet off the ground. She hovered for a moment, grinning. Her small heart held joy again, and she shot up high over the garden, her energy illuminating it. Eyes darting, she searched for the leaf, just the right shaped leaf, the deadly foxglove, that she would pluck and carry so carefully home to Peter’s hideout. She was no innocent.

  She saw nothing but the leaves. She laughed her shiny-bell laugh. She heard nothing but the laugh.

  To think of herself being careful, like the Wendy! It served the girl right, Tink would use her own medicine against her! She thrust her hand in her pocket and yanked out the chamomile petal. She crushed it in her fist and flung it at the ground.

  The right medicine, to cure both of Peter’s girls. Like a snake, the lethal leaf slid into her pocket. She tossed her head to laugh again, her every sense restored.

  The laugh died in her throat. She took it
all in at once— toadstools lying crushed, a path of violated grass, the dwelling place dark and silence screaming, the pungent smells of salt and tar, gold teeth gleaming in her own blazing light.

  Next came puzzlement, for the huge hands that seized her were all wrong.

  Chapter 9

  Beasts’ Accord

  Peter’s hands wiped his dagger clean, but did not sheath it. He stood, legs apart, surveying the skins stretched and pegged to dry in the clearing near Wendy’s house.

  “This game’s too tame, Wendy. Not enough adventure in killing beasts with arrows.” He grinned and jerked his head toward John. “Even John brought one down.”

  “And skinned it!” John stood tall with the breeze mussing his hair, wishing he had a dagger to clean. He had borrowed Nibs’.

  Celebrating his brother’s victory, Michael twirled a zebra tail over his head. “John, the Mighty Hunter!”

  Wendy appraised John with a keen look. She hadn’t imagined it; he did remind her of their father this afternoon.

  She sat on the willow bench Peter had made for her, her back against the leafy wall of the house. A gentle wind rippled the leaves so that the little dwelling looked as if it were shivering. The top hat chimney emitted blue fog now, to match the sky, as it always did when Wendy was at home. Its lid flopped soundlessly up and down, mouthing alarm as the smoke pushed past it.

  A creek concealed itself in the woods behind the house, forgetting the silence necessary to safeguard its hiding place. It gave itself away in constant babble. Wendy listened to it for a moment, counting the Lost Boys as they returned from washing there. “It was only fair to come down from the trees.” Peter had his new-idea look on his face, meaning she must ask. “What’s your plan now?”

  He tossed his knife up, sending it revolving, and plucked it out of the air by the handle. “Hand-to-paw, boy to beast. That’s adventure!”

  “I don’t doubt it, Peter, but the little ones have had enough adventure for one afternoon. Let them stay here.” The mighty hunters, now all accounted for, were very glad to have a mother at times like this. They had hunted beasts with Peter hand-to-paw before, but sometimes now they wondered why they had done it.

  “You’ll come with me?” Peter’s smile was beguiling, and Wendy’s heart leapt. The idea of wandering the forest alone with him tempted her. But a parrot screeched its warning high in a tree across the clearing, its flaming feathers a reminder of the morning’s disastrous campfire. Regretful, she shook her head.

  “Best if I keep an eye on the boys. And my house! Will you mind going alone?”

  “Favor me with your token, Lady, and I’ll ride to hounds after my fox.”

  Wendy laughed. He knew so many stories nowadays that several often got jumbled together, but he posed exactly like a knight errant embarking on a quest. “With my compliments, Sir Knight.” She proffered her handkerchief, sewn and scented for just such an occasion. “Make haste, Sir, darkness approaches.”

  Sir Peter bowed, the lady inclined her head, and the valiant strode into the early evening shadows, toward the creek. Wendy watched until he disappeared, then she stepped to the edge of the clearing and searched the trees all about it for signs of lurking danger. Seeing none, she turned back to the boys. “Shall we play hide-and-seek?”

  There was no hesitation. “You’re It!” The boys shouted, pelting toward the woods to shin up trees and burrow down holes, making enough noise to frighten off any unseen threat.

  “Not too far from the clearing, boys!” Wendy leaned against a tree and buried her face in her arms. As she counted, she breathed in the dusky bark scent.

  Tiptoeing, the Twins doubled back through the forest to slip into the house. They needn’t have sneaked; Wendy knew they could always be found there, planning improvements. They recently built two chairs for her use, and a table to compliment her china tea service. A slight chinking sound escaped the house, from which Wendy surmised nimble fingers were invading the sugar bowl.

  After the flurry of activity, the forest hushed. Wendy smiled to hear stealthy, rapid breathing. “Twenty! Here I come, ready or not!” She dropped her arms and immediately spied from the corner of her eye Slightly hanging by his knees several trees over, trying to blend in with hanging creepers. A clump of leaves attempted to disguise Tootles under the same tree. She pretended not to see, and stole into the clearing where Nibs was making himself skinny under the stretched remains of the zebra. The thought struck Wendy— these boys weren’t as adept at hiding as they’d once been. Their secret places were growing smaller. Or the boys were growing bigger. The realization stole Wendy’s lightheartedness away.

  She sought to regain it. As if preparing to fly, she dreamed of Peter. Her prince. Closing her eyes, Wendy lifted her face to soak in the last warmth of the sunshine. Here she was, living in the woods just like Snow White. But after a moment, Wendy sighed. That princess looked after a pack of dwarves, too, “But Snow White’s prince wasn’t sleeping.” Would Peter ever awaken? Surely then their story would be complete, and they would live happily ever after.

  An outburst of giggles located the Twins for certain. “You mixed it up, Wendy!”

  “The prince never sleeps!” Two sets of identical brown eyes peered at her from behind the viney shutters of her window. “He kisses the princess and wakes her up.”

  “I’ll tell it differently tonight.” Wendy’s smile broke through. “Snow White will give the prince a kiss before he goes looking for it. Maybe he’s too busy adventuring to know he wants it!” She laughed. “There’s still hope.” She hunched down like a predatory animal and rushed at the two boys. “And I’ve found you, Twins!” They screeched and ducked out of sight.

  The spirit of the game returned to her, and she dashed about dispatching her quarry. “Nibs! Tootles! Slightly! I’ve found you, too!” They emerged and began beating the bushes for the others. The shadows lengthened and the recesses in which they searched grew darker. One by one, those who hunted returned to the comfort of the clearing.

  Then Wendy stopped seeking boys and listened.

  Tootles jerked his head up and gaped at Nibs. Nibs returned his look, and they both froze. Slightly and the Twins gawked at Wendy, who stood tensed, all senses alert, staring into the woods behind the house.

  “Curly, Michael, John! Come out at once!” She cast about frantically, searching for them, but they all heard it now. The three still in hiding hurried out, Michael rolling from a cluster of tree roots, John and Curly sliding down from high treetops on vines that burned their hands.

  “Everyone! Into the house!” Wendy ran to it, yanked the door open, and waved them in. Throwing herself after the boys, she slammed the door behind them, becoming aware for the first time how insubstantial the bark over the entrance really was. She had always felt safe here in the house Peter ordered built for her, and her first instinct was to run for his protection within it. Now, as Wendy’s blood turned chill, the wind whipped through the leaves of its flimsy exterior. Too late, she recognized its frailty.

  The eyes peeping at the window this time were several different colors, and all the eyes looked terrified. The children listened. Through the rustling of the foliage came a rhythmic beat. A beat not found in nature. The sound emanated from the woods behind them, and even the babbling of the careless stream seemed hushed to listen. The beat tapped constantly, mechanically, accompanied by the softest swish as a powerful tail dragged along the bank of the creek. Tick, tick. Tick, tick. Tick, tick. Tick, tick.…

  The children deserted the windows to huddle together in the little house. Wendy held Michael, her hand over his mouth. It was a needless precaution. No one uttered a sound. There was no need; the ominous ticking of the crocodile was sound enough.

  They waited.

  And as the beat faded at last into distance, still none of the children had to speak, for Wendy’s words spoke for them all, soft and terrible.

  “Peter’s in danger!”

  * * *

  With the ste
alth of a predator, Peter moved in the underbrush along the creek. An odor of decaying leaves hung in the air as his feet picked a path among roots and muddy patches. Hanging willow branches made his skin itch as he pushed through them. Leafy whispers blended with the stream’s chatter. Detecting another sound above these, he halted to be sure.

  A steady metallic cadence. A ticking clock. He turned around, a satisfied smile on his face.

  Peter withdrew to a respectful distance, but did not hide himself. Instead, he squatted next to a tree trunk, knife at the ready. He had taken to the woods hunting his next adventure. Here it came.

  The ticking drew closer. Close enough. Peter whistled once, low, in warning of his presence. He watched the edge of the creek as the rain of willow boughs trembled and gave way to a snout, then slid apart, exposing two florid eyes. The crocodile was already looking Peter’s direction. It hauled its bulk along the mud bank into view. Such a creature had no need to hide from such a boy. It opened its mouth wide, a gesture at once yawning and acknowledging, and its teeth stuck up in contrast to their bedding of rosy gum. The ticking struck much louder now.

  Peter’s nod was curt, but he kept his voice low. “Hello, old brute. Shall we slay each other today?”

  The ticking diminished as its jaws closed. The reptilian eyes remained watchful, but unafraid. A moment passed, then the croc shot forward— suddenly, effortlessly. It paused, one body length from the boy.

  Peter hadn’t moved. Here at last was a game that suited him. Not too tame. “Only one beast is safe from the blade of Peter Pan.” He crept the least bit nearer. “One beast who is my ally.” The crocodile blinked.

  With slow footwork, the boy advanced, close to the ground. “We are bound, you and me, by a common enemy.”

  The stream tripped over itself, running, but couldn’t escape the tick. Peter gazed steadily into the croc’s ruby eyes. “Wendy wants me to keep away from pirates, but you’re free to hunt them. And Hook has one hand left!”