Peter Pan

by JM Barrie

  He signed to her to listen.

  The two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their captain to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of profound melancholy.

  “Captain, is all well?” they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow moan.

  “He sighs,” said Smee.

  “He sighs again,” said Starkey.

  “And yet a third time he sighs,” said Smee.

  “What’s up, captain?”

  Then at last he spoke passionately.

  “The game’s up,” he cried, “those boys have found a mother.”

  Affrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with pride.

  “O evil day!” cried Starkey.

  “What’s a mother?” asked the ignorant Smee.

  Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed, “He doesn’t know!” and always after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be her one.

  Peter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying, “What was that?”

  “I heard nothing,” said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters, and as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest I have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird was sitting on it.

  “See,” said Hook in answer to Smee’s question, “that is a mother. What a lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother desert her eggs? No.”

  There was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent days when—but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.

  Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but the more suspicious Starkey said, “If she is a mother, perhaps she is hanging about here to help Peter.”

  Hook winced. “Ay,” he said, “that is the fear that haunts me.”

  He was roused from this dejection by Smee’s eager voice.

  “Captain,” said Smee, “could we not kidnap these boys’ mother and make her our mother?”

  “It is a princely scheme,” cried Hook, and at once it took practical shape in his great brain. “We will seize the children and carry them to the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our mother.”

  Again Wendy forgot herself.

  “Never!” she cried, and bobbed.

  “What was that?”

  But they could see nothing. They thought it must have been but a leaf in the wind. “Do you agree, my bullies?” asked Hook.

  “There is my hand on it,” they both said.

  “And there is my hook. Swear.”

  They all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook remembered Tiger Lily.

  “Where is the redskin?” he demanded abruptly.

  He had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of the moments.

  “That is all right, captain,” Smee answered complacently; “we let her go.”

  “Let her go!” cried Hook.

  “ ’Twas your own orders,” the bo’sun faltered.

  “You called over the water to us to let her go,” said Starkey.

  “Brimstone and gall,” thundered Hook, “what cozening is here!” His face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their words, and he was startled. “Lads,” he said, shaking a little, “I gave no such order.”

  “It is passing queer,” Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably. Hook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.

  “Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night,” he cried, “dost hear me?”

  Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He immediately answered in Hook’s voice:

  “Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you.”

  In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but Smee and Starkey clung to each other in terror.

  “Who are you, stranger, speak?” Hook demanded.

  “I am James Hook,” replied the voice, “captain of the Jolly Roger.”

  “You are not; you are not,” Hook cried hoarsely.

  “Brimstone and gall,” the voice retorted, “say that again, and I’ll cast anchor in you.”

  Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. “If you are Hook,” he said almost humbly, “come tell me, who am I?”

  “A codfish,” replied the voice, “only a codfish.”

  “A codfish!” Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then, that his proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.

  “Have we been captained all this time by a codfish!” they muttered. “It is lowering to our pride.”

  They were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had become, he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it was not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He felt his ego slipping from him. “Don’t desert me, bully,” he whispered hoarsely to it.

  In his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the greatest pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried the guessing game.

  “Hook,” he called, “have you another voice?”

  Now Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own voice, “I have.”

  “And another name?”

  “Ay, ay.”

  “Vegetable?” asked Hook.

  “No.”

  “Mineral?”

  “No.”

  “Animal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man?”

  “No!” This answer rang out scornfully.

  “Boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ordinary boy?”

  “No!”

  “Wonderful boy?”

  To Wendy’s pain the answer that rang out this time was “Yes.”

  “Are you in England?”

  “No.”

  “Are you here?”

  “Yes.”

  Hook was completely puzzled. “You ask him some questions,” he said to the others, wiping his damp brow.

  Smee reflected. “I can’t think of a thing,” he said regretfully.

  “Can’t guess, can’t guess!” crowed Peter. “Do you give it up?”

  Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants saw their chance.

  “Yes, yes,” they answered eagerly.

  “Well, then,” he cried, “I am Peter Pan!”

  Pan!

  In a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his faithful henchmen.

  “Now we have him,” Hook shouted. “Into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind the boat. Take him dead or alive!”

  He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter.

  “Are you ready, boys?”

  “Ay, ay,” from various parts of the lagoon.

  “Then lam into the pirates.”

  The fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who gallantly climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was a fierce struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate’s grasp. He wriggled overboard and John leapt after him. The dinghy drifted away.

  Here and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash of steel followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck at their own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the fourth rib, but he was himself pinked in turn by Curly. Farther from the rock Starkey was pressing Slightly and the twins hard.

  Where all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.

  The others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing from the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water round him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.

  But there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter that circle.

  Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock to breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than climb. Neither knew that the other was coming. Each feelin
g for a grip met the other’s arm: in surprise they raised their heads; their faces were almost touching; so they met.

  Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell to they had a sinking. Had it been so with Peter at that moment I would admit it. After all, this was the only man that the Sea-Cook had feared. But Peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he snatched a knife from Hook’s belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw that he was higher up the rock than his foe. It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help him up.

  It was then that Hook bit him.

  Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but he will never afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot it. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.

  So when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just stare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.

  A few minutes afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking wildly for the ship; no elation on his pestilent face now, only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary occasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the dinghy and went home in it, shouting “Peter, Wendy” as they went, but no answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids. “They must be swimming back or flying,” the boys concluded. They were not very anxious, they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because they would be late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy’s fault!

  When their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and then a feeble cry.

  “Help, help!”

  Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay on the boy’s arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more.

  As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to tell her the truth.

  “We are on the rock, Wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it.”

  She did not understand even now.

  “We must go,” she said, almost brightly.

  “Yes,” he answered faintly.

  “Shall we swim or fly, Peter?”

  He had to tell her.

  “Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my help?”

  She had to admit that she was too tired.

  He moaned.

  “What is it?” she asked, anxious about him at once.

  “I can’t help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim.”

  “Do you mean we shall both be drowned?”

  “Look how the water is rising.”

  They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying timidly, “Can I be of any use?”

  It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.

  “Michael’s kite,” Peter said without interest, but next moment he had seized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.

  “It lifted Michael off the ground,” he cried; “why should it not carry you?”

  “Both of us!”

  “It can’t lift two; Michael and Curly tried.”

  “Let us draw lots,” Wendy said bravely.

  “And you a lady; never.” Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a “Good-bye, Wendy,” he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.

  The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.

  Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A tremor ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

  CHAPTER IX

  THE NEVER BIRD

  The last sounds Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the nicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.

  Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only thing moving on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to drift ashore.

  Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of paper.

  It was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making desperate efforts to reach Peter on her nest. By working her wings, in a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time Peter recognised her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.

  She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her what was she doing there; but of course neither of them understood the other’s language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this was such a story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but truth is best, and I want to tell only what really happened. Well, not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their manners.

  “I—want—you—to—get—into—the—nest,” the bird called, speaking as slowly and distinctly as possible, “and—then—you—can—drift—ashore, but—I—am—too—tired—to—bring—it—any—nearer—so—you—must—try—to—swim—to—it.”

  “What are you quacking about?” Peter answered. “Why don’t you let the nest drift as usual?”

  “I—want—you—” the bird said, and repeated it all over.

  Then Peter tried slow and distinct.

  “What—are—you—quacking—about?” and so on.

  The Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.

  “You dunderheaded little jay,” she screamed, “why don’t you do as I tell you?”

  Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly:

  “So are you!”

  Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark.

  “Shut up!”

  “Shut up!”

  Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she propelle
d the nest against the rock. Then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.

  Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs.

  There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected. The bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of them; but she could not help peeping between the feathers.

  I forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried treasure. The children had discovered the glittering hoard, and when in mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully.

  The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her admiration of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in one direction, and he was borne off in another, both cheering.

  Of course when Peter landed he beached his barque in a place where the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that she abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her again, it may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now build in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an airing.

  Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed. This so inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, “To bed, to bed,” in a voice that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and carrying their arms in slings.