Faerietale

by Stephanie Rabig

  It didn't work.

  "Not a good idea," Hook slurred. "Not a good idea t'all. Smee, tell her. She's busy not listening to me again."

  "It's the only idea," she retorted. "Look at you! Your-- your hand gone over an idiotic misunderstanding."

  "Wasn't a misunderstanding," Hook said, and though he was still out of it because of the painkilling potion and the alcohol, his dark eyes glinted sharply. "He meant to do what he did. Don't forget that as you go making peace offerings."

  "I won't," she said. And she knew he thought her foolish for this, but what else was she to do? Peter and the rest of the Boys-- John included!-- had come to the ship looking for a fight, apparently thinking she need rescuing or some such nonsense. She was going to go set things right, tell Peter the way things were now, and then nothing this horrific would ever happen again.

  Soon enough she was at Peter's home, her eyes tracking Tinker Bell as the small glowing fairy darted this way and that as she spoke, told her that Peter was just heartbroken over everything that had happened and had been dearly hoping she would come by.

  She walked inside.

  Peter leapt to his feet at the sight of her, the wide grin on his face that she knew so well and that now made her heart hurt, because she would have to make it disappear.

  "You could have killed him," she said quietly.

  "And he could've just as easily killed me!" he retorted. "I-- no, no, this isn't about all that. I'm sorry, Wendy, all right? I am. But you're home now? You're back?"

  "That's what I wanted to tell you. I'm . . . well, I'm with James now. I love him, and he loves me in return. I'm staying with him. So there are to be no more ill-advised 'rescue' missions! I am in no need of rescue. Understood?"

  "Yes, yes, of course! But I mean, that's not it, is it? You didn't just come here to tell me that and then go? I don't want to say goodbye to you this way, Wendy, come on. Please? Here, sit! Sit, you can even have my chair. Want some tea?"

  Bemused, she sat down in his chair. This was the first time he'd ever offered to make tea for her-- usually he asked her to make it for him or, on his more vexing days, told her to make it. It had come at a horrible cost, but perhaps if she could talk to him and truly make him understand, maybe the long-running feud could finally be put to rest.

  He came back into the treehouse after warming the cup over the fire, and then paused in the doorway. "You are sure you're not coming back?"

  "I'm sure, Peter," she said gently. "My place is elsewhere now."

  He nodded, and then handed her the cup of tea and leaned against the wall as she took a drink.

  "It doesn't mean that I never want to see you again," she said. "In fact, I'd love to come visit, and for you to come visit me on James's ship." She took another drink. "Might wait a few weeks for him to settle down, but he truly isn't one to hold a grudge, I--" Her hands involuntarily tightened around the cup, hard enough to make it break. She stared down at the blood on her hands and tried to get up, tried to ask Peter what was going on, but her legs wouldn't hold her up.

  Peter jumped back into the doorway, looking terrified, and then yelled. "Tink!"

  The small fairy didn't appear. He screamed her name again, and then pulled an empty vial out of his pocket.

  "What. . .?" Wendy whispered, and then everything turned black.

  Voices.

  "You said you could help. Why isn't she awake?"

  "I said that I would do everything I could, not that it would work. Don't confuse the two, my boy."

  A hand holding hers. She wanted to squeeze it back, wasn't entirely sure why. Didn't matter anyway. She couldn't. Couldn't speak, either, or even open her eyes.

  "You should go."

  The hand around her own tightened. "No. Why?"

  "The potion she took is very unstable in such a large dose. The cure is as well. If she manages to awaken she-- she may become violent. Deranged, even. If I have to take care of that problem you do not need to see it."

  "You're right. Because you won't be-- be taking care of her. If she needs help I'll help her."

  "Depending on what condition she comes back in, there may be no help. Are you prepared for that?"

  The voices stopped for a long moment, and she concentrated on her breathing, on trying to at least open one eye. Nothing.

  "Derangement is only one possibility. She may be struck permanently blind. May not remember what happened. May not even remember you, or anything in her life thus far. And if that is the case, you pouncing at her the moment she wakes up might hurt her worse, too much information might send her into shock. Or make her come out like me. Don't want that. I promise that I will send you news of her, but you need to--"

  "No."

  "There is an offchance that she will be fine. That she'll wake up and know everything and be perfectly well and ask for you. And in that circumstance I will send for you immediately. But please. You got her to me in time, which was a miracle in itself. Do not destroy her chances now. Please go."

  "I'm staying until she wakes up. I won't say my name. I won't ask her any questions. But I have to see her open her eyes." The voice lowered, moved closer to her. "Jill? Sweetheart, please. Look at me. Just look at me."

  She took a deep breath, concentrated as hard as she was able, and opened her eyes.

  Everything was a little unfocused. But in front of her there was a man, a stranger's face but in some odd way not, dark eyes shining with tears and red-rimmed from not much sleep and though she didn't know him, she wanted to reassure him.

  Then he smiled, and she almost followed the expression and smiled back, but it would've taken too much energy.

  "Thank you," he said quietly, and whether he was speaking to the owner of the other voice or to her she didn't know, and then he moved out of her sight and, soon after that, completely out of her memory.

  She blinked a few times, adjusting to the candlelight and trying to make clarity out of the blurry multitude of objects in the room. Finally, she realized that one of those objects was a man, dressed in clothes of such drab colors and with so many vials and gadgets hanging off of him that at first her faltering eyesight had mistaken him for part of the room. "Hello?" she rasped. "Who. . .?"

  "Don't fret. I'm the White Rabbit!" he said, giving her a smile. Had white hair, a snowy beard to match. Wondered if that was where he got his name. Then she shook her head, trying to refocus as he continued. "You were in a spot of trouble, and I helped you out. How do you feel?"

  "Didn't mean-- who are you," she managed. "Meant who am I?"

  The man's smile faltered. "Oh dear. I was afraid of that."

  Wendy stared out across the clearing, tears running down her face. She realized that Tinker Bell was still there, still watching her, and she quickly gained her feet.

  "You okay?" Tinker Bell asked.

  "Yes. I-- I think so, anyway. I will be." As soon as she got to James's ship.

  ***

  Wendy raced to the edge of the Lagoon, skidding to a stop as her toes touched the water. There was no rowboat.

  She cursed, paced away from the water, and then went back. There was always a rowboat, something to let the Queen's emissaries-- and visitors such as herself-- come aboard. Now when she needed it most it was--

  There. She could just see its silhouette under the water about six feet out.

  Stifling a scream of frustration, she stared out at the ship. She didn't know if the mermaids or one of the Lost Boys had sunk the rowboat, but it didn't matter. There was only one way to get out to that ship.

  A passing shadow had her looking up. Peter. And all of the Lost Boys followed.

  Think a happy thought and you can fly, she thought dizzily, but could find no reason for joy, not on this night. "Peter!" she screamed. "Wait! Stop!" She shouted his name again, waving her arms, but there was no response from any of them.

  Feeling like the cold water of the Lagoon had already enveloped her body, Wendy took off her shoes and stockings, then removed her heavy skir
t. Praying to Scheherazade to let her make it to him, she waded in.

  When she was almost to the ship, in far over her head, a hand closed around her ankle and pulled her down.

  She twisted in the water, trying to remove the icy fingers, couldn't. Just as her chest was getting unbearably tight, when she knew she'd have to take a breath, the hand let go.

  Surfacing, Wendy found herself face-to-face with Blondie. The mermaid swam lazily back and forth in front of her, grinning. "I never thought I would see a sober human behave quite so foolishly."

  "Please," Wendy said. "I have to get to Hook's--" The word 'ship' was clamped off when she felt fingers around her ankle and quickly closed her mouth before she was once again pulled under. This time the hand didn't let go quite so soon, and she took in a gulp of water. Choking and trying not to let the terror overtake her completely, she regained the surface.

  Playing, she realized, as Purple-Tail surfaced next to Blondie. Now she could hear shouts of pain and the clang of metal striking metal coming from the ship, and they were playing with her.

  Purple-Tail's black hair was plastered to the sides of her head until it reached the Lagoon, where it pooled around her and melded with the dark water. She seemed relaxed, but she did dart a glance or two towards the sounds of the fighting.

  Wendy wondered if Smee was already hurt, or worse. She remembered the clear love and affection in his voice when he spoke of this woman, of the way his breath caught when she leapt out of the water in play.

  "Peter isn't up to his games this time," she gasped. "He and the Lost Boys plan to kill everyone on that ship. If you ever gave the slightest damn about Smee, you'll let me go."

  "And what will you do once you get there?" Purple-Tail asked.

  Wendy took in a shuddering breath. "I haven't any idea."

  She was dragged under again, and this time she kicked out as hard as she could, connecting with some part of Green-Tail and earning a temporary freedom.

  Green-Tail surfaced alongside her, an amused smile on her face. "There was a pirate once who got very, very drunk and wanted to come give me a kiss," she said pleasantly. "Would you like to come see his bones?"

  Knowing that any answer would be the wrong one, she returned her gaze to Purple-Tail. "He gave up eternal youth for you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

  "It means he is a fool." But this time Wendy was certain she saw a flash of worry on the other woman's face. Wendy started to say something else, but suddenly Blondie and Green-Tail disappeared and she felt two pairs of hands grab her ankles and calves, jerking her down.

  They didn't let go. And didn't let go.

  Then she heard a voice. Her ears were clogged with water, her mind seemed clogged with it, couldn't pick up anything, but she felt it.

  "She goes into battle with no weapons and no plan. Let her go, sisters. We will claim her body soon enough."

  Then she was released. Coughing and sputtering, she finally managed to catch her breath. Blondie was beside her, arm around her shoulders in a mock display of concern.

  "Best hurry," she said, her dark eyes dancing. "The Grinning One knows you're here."

  Then she pushed her away, and Wendy looked around frantically. The Grinning One. The crocodile.

  The waters around her seemed empty, but she knew better than to push her luck. She swam as hard as she could for the ship.

  There was a rope trailing into the water, a frayed piece of the rigging that had come loose. Arms aching from the efforts of her swim, lungs burning from the mermaids’ murderous antics, Wendy began to climb. She thought of James, of her James, the man who had already lost so much thanks to Peter Pan. She thought of him and willed strength into her body. Too much time had been taken from them already. She was not going to lose him now.

  The sounds of battle were loud overhead, shouts and screams and the clanging of swords. And above it all was Peter’s braying laugh, which she had once thought charming and roguish. Now her blood chilled at the sound because she knew why he was laughing. He’d found his target.

  She pulled herself over the railing and half-fell onto the deck. There was a pirate lying beside the cannon, a dagger protruding from his chest, his eyes glassy, wide, and staring forever into nothing. Wendy pulled the dagger free and took stock, flinching as a flintlock gun went off by her shoulder.

  “Jill? Is that really you?”

  She knew that face beneath the soot. Memories long blocked by that infernal potion were resurfacing. “. . .Allan?”

  “Hellfire and holiness! Red-Handed Jill!” A Lost Boy swooped down, laughing as he swung his sword, and Allan was quick to counter his blow with the now-empty gun. “Watch yourself-- they’re in a right murderous mood tonight.”

  Wendy stared out across the chaotic deck and marveled at the magnificent cruelty of youth. The Lost Boys were slashing and stabbing gleefully while most of the pirates were simply deflecting and dodging. Even pirates have limits, and purposefully killing children was a line many refused to cross, no matter how vicious said children were. She wondered if the Boys truly understood what they were doing; if they knew they were actually killing, or if they simply thought this another rousing game of pretend. It chilled her, how warped Peter’s influence could be.

  She had once thought it marvelous good fun. Why would anyone want to grow up if they could stay a child forever? But now she knew how dangerous such thinking was, how it could distort and stunt a person. How it could turn them into something monstrous.

  She started across the deck, wet feet slipping. Wet now with more than seawater, she realized, looking down at the pools of blood gathering around fallen pirates. A Boy ran past hooting like an animal; she side-stepped him and swung her arm low, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. She straightened quickly and ran straight into Smee. He stumbled and grabbed at her arm to steady himself.

  “Jill,” he gasped, staring wide-eyed at her face. “The old Jill. Isn’t it? Captain’s Jill?”

  “Yes, Smee. I’ve come back. I’ve remembered.”

  “Thank Scheherazade.”

  “Where's James? Have you seen him?”

  “No, miss. Lost sight of him right at the first. You’re soaking wet.”

  “I swam.”

  “Across the Lagoon?” His eyes bugged. “They let you come aboard?”

  “I told them I had someone to protect. Your lady sympathized,” Wendy said, squeezing his arm. “So you take care of yourself, Smee.”

  He looked absolutely stunned by this revelation and swayed slightly. “You do the same.”

  A shout rang out for Smee; he unsheathed his sword and dashed off, leaving Wendy to resume her desperate search. There were a dozen duels playing out around her, the air ringing from the clashing of steel. An oil lamp had been smashed near the powder kegs and several men were desperately hauling up buckets of water to douse the flames. The smoke stung her eyes, blinded her, and when she opened her mouth to scream his name she choked instead, sulfur burning her throat.

  A war cry stabbed her ears, and she spun with dagger raised just as the sword swung down at her neck. The blades met with a vibrating clang, and she instinctively grabbed the other arm that swung forward with a second sword. Then she looked into the face of her attacker and her mouth dropped with shock.

  “John?” she gasped.

  He had war paint smudged across his face, a red bandanna tied around his head, and was dressed in a ragged nightshirt. And he was still the same boy she suddenly remembered from the nursery, unchanged and so young. Only a boy, screaming for blood and death-- and she was a grown woman now, looking at the past in the present. It was a surreal and shattering moment, and she felt her heart break in that second when he stared at her with blank eyes.

  And then it was like a switch had been thrown, because his eyes widened with recognition and he drew in a ragged breath.

  “Mother?”

  Her heart broke again. “Wendy, John. I’m Wendy. Your sister. Tell me you remember that.”

&nbs
p; “Wendy?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s me, John.”

  A powder keg exploded, spraying chips of wood and shrapnel, knocking most of the combatants to the deck. John’s swords fell from his hands as Wendy covered his body with hers.

  When her ears had stopped ringing and the shock had worn off enough to tell her she was uninjured, she pushed herself up. “Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, staring up at her.

  “Then I want you to leave. Go straight back home. This isn’t a game anymore, John. This isn’t fun or pretend. And I don’t care what Peter told you-- it isn’t worth getting killed over. Now go. Now.”

  John hesitated, and she knew he wanted to argue. But she’d used the tone that had mother harmonics in it; the tone she’d learned was the only way to stress importance to the Lost Boys. And he closed his mouth, nodded shortly, and leapt into the night sky.

  She staggered to her feet, fingers tight around the dagger hilt, and surveyed the damage. Everything was eerily quiet in the aftermath of the explosion, a few figures beginning to stir and groan in the smoky gloom. And some figures remained silent and still, vague humps across the deck.

  All of this because of Peter’s immaturity and spite, she thought.

  And then the triumphant shout rent the lull, and she spun around to see James leap down the steps, sword aloft and parrying Peter’s snake-like stabs. It would have been a beautiful spectacle, the expert swordsmanship and athletic display, if not for the fact that each was determined to kill. There was a red light in Peter’s eyes, a light that was not simply the reflection of the dancing tongues of flame. And Hook’s face had gone stony and cold, lips pressed into a tight line and eyes shuttered with the intensity of his focus. This was a battle that would not end in a stalemate: it would only be satisfied by blood, on one side or both.

  Wendy’s heart leapt with the force of her terror. She wanted desperately to shout out James’ name, to scream for them to stop, but she also knew that alerting them to her presence could prove disastrous. If his focus slipped in the slightest, that could be all it took for Peter’s dagger to find his heart.