Hook & Jill

by Andrea Jones

  “The Beauty has sailed with me forever. And the day I watched her forsake the water to follow an eagle and catch the sky, the moment I stood in Darkness beholding her face in sunshine, I knew that she is you, and you are me.”

  * * *

  Jill’s tear collected gold-dust granules as it cleared its path down her cheek. “She is your storyteller.” She took his face in her hands and looked into her own eyes. “She dreamed her life into you, all her desires. But she had to grow up before we could become one.” And, inspired and inspiring, she kissed him.

  He pressed her hand to his cheek. “A story and the truth. A perfectly matched set.” Hook abandoned the couch and plucked her from it, drawing her toward the door, but in front of the bookcase, she paused. In the full light of day, their reflections bounced back rich in color. The books behind the glass were real, clothed in leather, and the letters clearly legible. Neither the books nor the lovers took precedence; the images did not supercede, but enhanced one another. Opening every door of every shelf, Jill uncaged the contents, sending sunbeams flying. She snatched up her feather and twined it into the Pirate King’s hair, alongside his earring. “Our stories have woven together, and it is I who have come alive, here in the Neverland.”

  “My dream, alive.”

  The lock slipped easily now, and the door opened to favor their escape. A trail of magical sand marked their progress, ending where their feet kicked the deck of the companionway out from under them. Unnoticed except by a similar light twinkling in the crow’s nest, Hook and Jill flew, hand in hand, into the blue sea sky, up, and over the starboard rail. Hook flew as if he had always held the power, not a skill to be relearned, but a memory awakened. They dove down, rolling once, and flew ahead, past the forward anchor still coated in the moss of Neverbay and dripping with moisture. Here Hook pulled himself upright. Drifting alongside the ship, the pair kept pace with her, and their feet were dewy with the spray she tossed as she harvested the waves. Hook shook the blacker waves from his face. The feather flapped in the air.

  “Follow me.”

  Jill followed, flinging herself along with him to face the dipping bow, with the wind leaping into their arms and filling the sails all above them. And then she saw the sickle, reaching for the sea. She saw the open hand. She grasped it, letting the wind flutter her against the hull as she stared at the figurehead. The captain linked his own hook with the wooden one and braced a foot against the ship where it glistened with damp. His white shirt billowed like the sails as he watched her face.

  “My Beauty, carved from my visions.”

  It was like looking up into a beloved old mirror, brown and aged, but still reflecting truth. The Beauty leaned eternally, yearning for the edge of the horizon, her eyes clear and seeking the adventure that waited there, longing, perhaps, to tell its story. Her hair swam in the air, and at the end of a lovely looping pathway, her tail trailed in the sea. Her smile, Jill’s own regal smile, bade the sea to claim its kiss. Everything about her was tempting, was true.

  Jill looked closer, and her lips opened in surprise. Her hand rushed to her throat. There, on the Beauty, every bit as dark and weathered as the carving of the face, was her scar. Jill reached out to feel it, a gash smoothed by the trickster, Time.

  “Has it always been there?”

  Hook inclined his head. “Like my hook. A mark, blending with your beauty to form your soul.”

  She remembered. “The end of my story, as I wish it. As you told it.”

  “No, only the beginning. You are a work of art that lives on forever.”

  Her eyes beheld the mermaid again, and she held her head erect. “Am I really so beautiful?”

  Hook smiled wryly. “Yes. We are.” He bent his knees and shoved off from the hull, and like the perfect pirate she had made him, he stole the woman away. He took her soaring then, cleaving the air with his hook and spiraling high into the shoreless ocean of the sky, where even the white wings of his ship could never venture. He looked down where it skimmed below, spreading its feathers of spray, a water bird promising flights to spirit Hook and his Jill onward to other oceans, other islands.

  Hook had won the few things he held dear. Now he secured them in his heart like the treasure in his coffer. The legendary captain of the Roger locked his Beauty in his arms while she leaned back and spread her golden wings, and they danced as one in the wild music of the heavens, and would not be captured by the wind, or Time, or blind monsters, or even little boys who just want to have fun.

  Chapter 30

  The Seas of London

  The London moon rode high and bright on the waves of the sky, crisply casting the boy’s shadow. Legs wide, hands on hips, the familiar image pressed against the curtains. Closed curtains.

  The shadow cocked its head, listening. A stutter of hooves on cobblestone bounced up from the street. Like the moon, the midnight clock floated in the heavens, ticking inaudibly, and having struck the hour, its gonging dissolved in a sea of stars. No further stories could be heard.

  Black arms reached out and felt at the sash, secured a grip and pulled to lift the window. The arms were strong, but the casement declined to yield. The fingers flew to the latch and worked at it, rattling. Immediately, a dog barked within the recesses of the nursery. A glow leapt up and shone through the fabric of the drapes, as if it had been waiting for Peter. Approaching slowly, it refined itself. Its gleam burned through the insubstantial belly of Peter’s shadow. He grinned, expectant. The candle’s light glided up to the curtain, and there it stayed, a constant little fire unruffled by any errant breeze from any open window.

  Peter waited. He peered at the light. It abided. Peter rattled again. The dog barked; the dog hushed. The mischievous boy pounded the glass with the flat of his hand, but to no avail. Like the flame, the parent holding it remained resolute, unwavering.

  Peter’s face tensed and he sprang back from the window. He hovered. Not a breath stirred the candle’s light. He shook his head, then he stilled and hung there. All alone.

  The sky shimmered around him. Something wet rolled down his cheek, something he’d felt before. He dashed it away. Then he felt something he’d never felt before. It lifted the golden hairs off his forehead and rustled through his leaves. It whistled a little as it touched his ears. It was cool, even refreshing. He couldn’t help but feel it, and it stirred him somehow, like Tinker Bell’s wings. Like Wendy’s words. It dried his tears.

  The wind.

  Peter lifted his arms to welcome it, to let it in, to inhale it deep in his lungs. He sensed that this was his only opportunity; it would never catch him again. And when the wind released him, he turned away, arms still upraised, falling back into the ocean of the London sky. He didn’t look back, but he determined to return. He’d remember. He would always remember.

  * * *

  Behind the curtain, Mr. and Mrs. Darling would remember, too. The unflagging flame sustained them. They had traveled through darkness to understanding. They were grown-ups, and they had to accept the truth, however disappointing. They now harbored no hope of retrieving their Wendy. Except in memory, except in myth, she was lost to them.

  They told her story, over and over again. In their fondness for the girl they embellished the tale, they made up legends about her. But the family knew: these new stories weren’t real. Not without the magic of the Wendy.

  For she was no ordinary girl. From the time the fairies spied the open nursery window and returned her to Number 14, the Darlings had known she was only on loan. It was just a question of Time. As the first little girl ever to venture from her pram in the park, Wendy had nonplussed the winged creatures of air. The fairies hadn’t known what to do with her. They had brought her home.

  The Darlings had opened their hearts to her, however briefly, and Time had not been on their side. While she lingered, dreaming dreams and weaving stories, Wendy kept strict track of Time, gazing over the sunken city at the clock tower and listening for its chiming; rocking her baby brothers to
the rhythm of the pendulum on the mantel; counting the minutes to grown-up, and never knowing why. Some thing, maybe some one, called to her, demanding her presence elsewhere. Whatever it was had hooked Wendy’s heart and pulled with a powerful grip. Fearing she would fly too soon, the Darlings never reminded her of her first adventure in the park. Now it was too late. Time had run out.

  Their own spinnings were only stories, phantoms, like the Darlings themselves must seem to a bunch of boys who lived in the Neverland. Only the Wendy’s words were golden, infused with arcane powers, like grains of enchanted dust. Wendy had been touched by the fairies. Some of their magic rubbed off on her, and all unknowing she had spun dreams into reality, truth from tales. Her fantasy had come alive, in the Neverland. Now its waiting time was over, and she had answered its call. And wherever she was now, her parents still believed in her.

  But Mr. and Mrs. Darling had learned. They were taking no chances on losing the three colorful youths she’d sent to them not in her stead, but with her love. From now on these boys would fight pirates in the park, they would bubble and bob about mermaids in London’s lagoons. They were whole and happy. They were home.

  Peter Pan and his shadow could come and go. He could rattle like the skeleton tree at the door of Dark Hunting, he could pound until the ill-omened leaves dropped from his clothing to litter the doorstep. The nightlight would burn, steadfast. But until young men chose to fling it open, the nursery window would remain closed.

  * * *

  Peter had to go hunting again. He needed weapons. Michael had flown home with the dagger that had been Slightly’s. The hidden cache hoarded plenty of knives, but Peter prided himself on keeping an even score, one for every Lost Boy. And another dagger and two swords were missing in the recent engagements with pirates. One plundered, two confiscated. They had to be replaced.

  Peter knew where to harvest them. A visit to the wharves under cover of night, and he had plucked a brace of knives. A speedy foray across town to the palace guardroom, and Peter gleaned two sturdy swords. He tucked them all in his belt, a steely bouquet he might once have presented to his Wendy— he smiled shyly— his ladylove. The wind had told him what she was to him, and it was safe to admit it now… she was gone. He remembered that she’d thought weapons were romantic, she’d once requested one in exchange for a kiss. But he hadn’t given it to her, and now she was gone. Peter’s smile waxed grim. There was plenty of steel aboard the Roger.

  And two new men. Hook played a dirty trick on him, stealing his boys. A worse trick, unforgivable, to steal his fairy! Peter would never make peace with him. Nor with the Indians. They’d taken his boys and left him all alone to fight their enemies. As well as things worked out, it could have been better if he’d had braves behind him.

  Being alone was no fun. He missed Wendy, he missed his band of boys. Peter had already visited the House in the Clearing. He’d gone there to get the Twins back, but he hadn’t found them. Pungent ashes smoldered in the fire pit and footprints danced around it, small, medium and large. Wendy’s little place still stood, and the chimney poured out its smoke. Red, now. Peter could see it wherever he flew on the Island. When he landed in the clearing, he’d heard a parrot squawking in the trees, and over the lusty laughing of the stream rose a sound of children’s voices. But he didn’t seek out the muddy stream bed. After the wind departed to leave him alone, he had known. He wouldn’t be following that path again.

  Peter had paced all around the big new house the Twins had built, and seen no one. The nursery window was open and draped with an Indian blanket woven in vivid colors. Peter had listened outside in case one of the native women was telling a story, but he’d heard nothing.

  Yet the boy had been determined to find the Twins. He’d stalked back over dry sprinklings of sawdust to the face of the house and confronted the door. It was a handsome one mimicking those in London, made of oak, and warm in the sunshine. The door boasted a shiny brass plate with a knob and a keyhole. Peter peeked through the keyhole, and all he saw was the stub of the key. Someone had to be at home, but when he knocked on the door, there was no response. He tried the knob and it was smooth and solid in his hand, but although it turned easily, the key had done its work. The Twins’ door was bolted.

  Peter had stepped back from the doorstep to the long grass of the Neverland that tickled his ankles. He looked to the second-story window. It was open and a lazy green curtain waved at him, but no one else. Above it, the red smoke steamed its way over the clearing and swirled above the trees. In its own kind of cursive, it spelled out its message: many would be welcomed here, but except in story, not the wonderful boy. Peter Pan must never enter here.

  So Peter missed his boys, all lost again. And right now he missed Tinker Bell as he made a quick round of the park. Tink and Peter used to visit her cousins here, collecting the boys they’d found. Now it was after hours and the gates were closed. The park was lit by fanciful moving lights— fairies, stringing ribbons along the pathways to mark passage to their ball. They fluttered their bright little wings, like matches struck and flaring. One of those matches was a bit brighter, bluer, a bit broader than the others. It flamed in a secret spot surrounded by greenery, and shed its rays on the withered remnants of little discarded sweaters. Lost sweaters.

  Peter blinked. He slowed his flight and descended to the dewy grass, then jumped in the air to perform a back flip. “Tinker Bell!” She’d come back to him! She must be glad to be back, her aura shone more intensely than ever before. Even her wings appeared fuller somehow. “Tink!”

  She jingled when she saw Peter. She zoomed up to meet him, and the two swirls of gold circled and chased, speeding over the treetops. They skirted the boundaries of the park, rattling the cage of its fencing, and as they rushed over old haunts, their draft stirred feathers on the nesting birds in the trees of the island. The pair of pixies dove and coasted, and they grinned at their reflection in the pond as it broke into silver pieces under the plinking of the fountain. Peter crowed, and Jewel laughed her shiny-bell laugh.

  His voice was bold. “I’m glad you’re back, Tink!”

  But at his words she slowed to a halt, becoming strict with him. In musical terms she let him know who she was, and who he was. She was Jewel, and he was her boy.

  Peter scoffed. “Tink, you don’t mean it.”

  She leveled a stare at him.

  “Why didn’t you come with me? Why did you sail away?”

  With her chin in the air, her language resonated. Jewel had responsibilities. She had people who relied on her. She might be called away; she might perform important duties elsewhere from time to t—

  “You just had an adventure. I’ll keep you with me from now on.”

  Jewel narrowed her eyes and rang out as plain as speech. Watch yourself.

  When Peter’s laughter subsided, he struck a pose in the air, grinning. “Make me!”

  And she did, easily. She flew away from him.

  “Wait!… Tink… Jewel?”

  The fairy stilled.

  “Jewel.”

  She straightened.

  “…Jewel!”

  Jewel smiled. She turned around.

  “Does Hook still think you’re his fairy?”

  Her light pulsed, and the smile curved her lips. Then she grew cool. She drifted toward her boy, eyebrows raised, trailing a frosty vapor of snow stars. Icily, she folded her little arms and intoned the lesson. Some things, a girl keeps secret.

  Peter laughed. “Let’s see what we can find in the garden!” He turned tail to race her back. With her new wingspan, she eclipsed him.

  Jewel’s light led the way through the shrubbery. It was a hidden circle, the secret garden where the park fairies tended Lost Boys. There were plenty of decomposing sweaters and a blanket or two, which the birds mined for nesting material. Once arrived at the heart of the ring, Jewel’s radiance illuminated something Peter hadn’t noticed before. A compact face. The face of a new one, a smallish one, with restless feet a
nd the air of a miniature knight errant bound upon a quest. Jewel hailed him with music, and the new one put out a fist. Peter touched down and cocked his head, regarding the fist and its owner for a moment. Then he shook it, saying, “Hello, green eyes!”

  The little boy, too, cocked his head, and looked sideways at Peter. “I been waiting. That pretty fairy told me you’d come for me.” He grinned. He had a bold little voice. “She can cuss like a sailor!”

  Jewel piped up as if to prove it.

  Peter’s voice held a touch of pride. “I named her Jewel.”

  The child tossed the hair out of his eyes. “Where are the adventures?”

  As he grinned back, Peter’s eyes flashed under his own hair. “You’re in one now!”

  The boy almost crowed in his excitement. “Then I’ll be needing one of those weapons!”

  “We’d better get on home, now, Chip.” Peter hunched down. “Hop on. I’m your father.”

  Chip scrambled onto Peter’s back. Before he got a grip for traveling, he raised himself up and pecked Peter on the cheek. “That’s a kiss for you.” Then he hung on tightly, ready to go.

  But Peter stood with a ghost of a smile on his face, unable to move. Like an arrow, Chip’s kiss darted straight through his heart. Peter’s weak spot, since Wendy went away.

  Chip urged him with a leading question. “Are we going to the Neverland, Father?”

  Peter’s smile came fully alive. “There isn’t anywhere else! Hold on.”

  Jewel whirled around Peter’s head as he hiked Chip higher onto his back, and she blew a handful of golden sparks over the little boy. Having thought it through, she was sure her master would allow it; all Lost Boys should be able to fly. And her fairy dust matched the child’s hair perfectly. Jewel wasn’t surprised Peter took a shine to this new one. Chip was a tiny piece of Peter.… Almost as if he’d been made to order, by some clever storyteller.