by A. C. Wise
“Enough.” Peter grabs her arm again, nails digging in, and she can’t hold back a small, startled noise.
When he lets go, crescent moons of red linger, imprinted on her skin. As quick as his smile vanished, it returns, and it’s the sweetest thing in the world, sugar melting in a copper pot. She finds her cheeks warming again, inexplicably wanting to forgive him just as badly as she wanted to push him a moment ago.
“Cooking is easy,” Peter says, his tone gentle, coaxing, patient. “Look, I’ll show you.”
He looks at her from beneath his lashes, his smile curling at the edges and encouraging her. Curious despite herself, she moves closer. When she has lessons with Cook, there are precise rules to follow, but what Peter does now is the opposite of scientific precision; it is utter chaos. He snatches handfuls of leaves and throws them haphazardly into the pot. She tries to catalog them, giving herself an anchor to hold onto—oak, rowan, ash. Those are common enough, but there are also leaves that look like coral wood and Java plum, leaves she’s never seen in person but has spent hours studying with her father from the books in his library. They aren’t leaves that should be growing all together in one place.
Peter adds a handful of gooseberries. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. There are stones in his hand, too, smooth and salt-crusted from the sea. She wants to protest, but her voice has abandoned her again. Peter’s movements are mesmerizing. Her stomach growls, and she realizes how long it’s been since she’s eaten. As Peter stirs the whole mess with a stick, a smell wafts from the pot, delicious and impossible.
“See?” Peter’s eyes twinkle, sly and merry, but with a knapped-flint edge, daring her to contradict him. “I told you it was easy.”
“But that’s…” Her words trail off. Instead she nods, agreeing. The meal does smell nice. A little taste couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Now, you serve supper, and afterward we’ll all play a game.”
Peter’s words don’t sound like a suggestion, even though it doesn’t seem fair. She’s more of a guest than any of them, and guests aren’t meant to be put to work. But she nods again, collecting a stack of bowls from next to the cook fire. It’s easier to go along. Her head hurts less when she does.
The bowls are hollowed coconut shells, and something about this strikes her as terribly funny. Everything about this place is absurd. She can’t help laughing as she scoops bowls into the pot, filling them and handing one to each boy.
“See? Now we’re having fun!” Peter’s laugh echoes her own, light and delicate like a falling leaf brushing her skin. She shivers.
As she hands out the last bowl, the boy who takes it gives her a pained look. There’s a bruise on his cheek just below his left eye, and the skin is tight and swollen. Before she can ask what happened, Peter slurps loudly, drinking down the contents of his bowl in one go, smacking his lips.
“Eat up, everyone. While we eat, Wendy will tell us a story.”
“I don’t know any stories.”
“You must,” Peter says. “All mothers know stories. Otherwise what’s the good of them?”
Again, there’s that glint of something dangerous in his eyes. She swallows around a lump in her throat and looks down.
“May I at least try some of my soup first? It smells so good.” She wants to seem reasonable, like she’s going along with him. Perhaps by the time she eats, Peter will forget about her telling a story.
She glances around at the others. The boys eat, some heartily, some looking afraid. She turns her attention to her own bowl, confused. It looks just like the mock turtle soup Cook makes at home, only she knows it’s nothing more than leaves floating in water gone cloudy with mud. She watched Peter put everything into the pot, but somehow she can’t hold the image in her mind. There are two truths, one sliding over the other, like the moon in eclipse.
Her stomach growls again. She brings the bowl to her mouth and sips tentatively. To her surprise, the soup is rich and warm. Maybe that’s the trick of it, believing that the soup is soup and not giving herself time to doubt.
She’s about to take another sip when Peter touches her arm, stopping her from lifting the bowl. His eyes are bright as he peers at her face, intent in the way that makes her think of an animal— maybe a fox—watching from the underbrush. Even though he casts no shadow, the leaves do, carving his face up into sections of light and dark. She has the sudden impression that bits of his skin might lift away, like a mask hiding something terrible underneath.
“You can eat later. Now you must tell a story. That’s the proper order of things.” Peter’s tone insists, even though his voice is soft. There’s a soothing hum to it, like a note played on a flute, too low for her to properly hear. She feels it nonetheless, thrumming in her breastbone. It’s like the wind blowing through cattails and dancing in the tops of the trees. It makes her want to go along with everything he says, though she has no idea why.
Perhaps she can remember one of her mother’s stories about the Tailor and the Little White Bird. One story couldn’t hurt, could it? She takes a breath, thinking how to begin, but all the tales she’s heard over the years go tumbling out of her head. She knows the Little White Bird is always tricking people, from emperors and kings all the way down to stable boys and the other birds he claims are his friends. But beyond that, she can’t think of a single specific detail—not one of his adventures or his tricks or anything at all.
She thinks about the Clever Tailor instead. Maybe she could start the story there. Sometimes the Tailor is the Little White Bird’s friend, helping him with his traps and games, but in other stories, the Tailor is the one trying to stop the Bird from getting what he wants. Or is she remembering it wrong?
“I think…” She pauses. The idea of stories makes her sleepy, makes her think of her mother tucking her in, and now she wants to lay down. She yawns, her jaw cracking as her mouth stretches wide. Peter shakes her shoulder, and she sits bolt upright.
“Once upon a time,” he prompts.
“Once upon a time.” She repeats the words dutifully, even though her tongue feels thick and clumsy. “There was a Bird who wanted to go to the king’s palace. So the Bird asked the Tailor to make him a suit of all the feathers he could find. The Bird couldn’t fly anymore, so the Tailor helped the Bird build a kite.”
She stops, shaking her head. She’s getting the stories mixed up. Those things happened in two different tales. She wants to snuggle down into her blankets and listen to her mother tell the story right. It would be raining outside, and every now and again a big crash of thunder would make the story more delicious. All the angry scary things outside, like the storm, and her safe inside with her mother.
When she was very young, some of the stories about the Little White Bird would scare her. She could never work out exactly what sort of bird he was supposed to be. Sometimes he seemed fierce, like a hawk, and other times he would strut around proud like a peacock. Still other times, he was as small and gentle as a dove, and he seemed terribly sad. The way the Bird kept changing so she could never tell exactly what he was, so that at any given moment what he pretended to be might be a lie, frightened her most of all. Beside her, Peter taps his foot impatiently.
“You aren’t telling it right.” His voice is snappish.
Her shoulders hunch automatically, forgetting Cook’s lesson and shrinking in on herself. How has she managed to get it all so wrong? There are other stories, aren’t there? Stories where the Little White Bird is sweet, where he is the kindest, most gentle creature in the world.
She can almost see her mother’s face, alight with a mix of wonder and melancholy, as though her heart was breaking with too much joy and too much sorrow all at once as she mimed cupping the Little White Bird in her hands as the Clever Tailor did in her story, rescuing the Bird from a nest of thorns. It’s the story of how they met, how they became friends, when the Tailor saved the Bird’s life. A happy story. Perhaps Peter would like that better.
“Come on.” Peter
taps his foot again, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out air.
His annoyance sharpens her focus, calling up annoyance of her own. How would Peter know her own stories better than she does, or whether she’s telling it right or not? She straightens her shoulders, clears her throat and tries again. Even if she gets it muddled up, she knows one thing—right now she doesn’t feel like telling a story where the Little White Bird is kind and nice at all.
“The Bird went to the market where all the other birds were selling pies they’d baked or wooden toys they’d made.” Her voice grows clearer, stronger. “He went in disguise, rubbing ashes on himself, so he could steal a feather from every bird at the market and turn himself into the most beautiful and strongest and fastest bird of them all.”
Around her, the boys set down their bowls, watching her intently. They look interested. Only Peter doesn’t seem to approve at all. He scowls, brows lowering over his strange-colored eyes.
She thinks she remembers the next bit, where the Tailor goes in disguise too, sneaking around to all the other birds to tell them the Little White Bird’s plan. They turn the Bird’s trick around on him, and by the time he reaches the end of the market, it’s all his feathers that have been plucked. He looks so foolish he can’t possibly go to the king’s palace, so he goes away to hide on an island in the middle of the ocean until his feathers grow back.
Except she can’t remember exactly how the trick works, even though the stories where the Tailor gets the best of the Little White Bird were always her favorite. They feel important, like her mother was trying to teach her something, trusting her to be clever enough to puzzle it out. She wants to be clever, like the Tailor, but right now she doesn’t feel clever at all. Especially not with Peter watching her, his eyes narrow and sparking with hard-edged bits of light.
“I don’t like this story. It’s boring.” He jumps up. “We’ll play a game instead.”
The words fall like a blow. Her mother’s stories aren’t boring; they’re the most wonderful things in the world. She opens her mouth to object, but something in Peter’s expression stops her. It’s like her mother’s expression, when storm clouds roll in, closing down her face, but worse. A suggestion of hurt lingers in his eyes, but it’s buried deep.
She glances around the fire for the boy with the bruise on his cheek, suspicion over how he got it filling her with fresh dread. Peter is exactly the kind of boy to lash out in his pain, like an animal cornered but still possessed of its teeth and claws.
“I want to hear the rest of the story.” It’s the youngest boy who speaks up, the one who sucked on the tail of his shirt on the beach and hid behind Peter.
His expression is open and guileless, eyes shining with hope as he looks between her and Peter. Peter rounds on the boy, but the boy who called himself Arthur reaches him first, cuffing the boy hard enough that he tumbles off the log he’d been sitting on to eat his supper.
Peter nods approvingly. Pride straightens Arthur’s spine even as the fallen boy struggles against tears. His face is a picture of misery, but she can see that he doesn’t want to cry in front of the others. She can only imagine what they would do to him if he dared. She wants to go to him, comfort him, but Peter brings his hands together in a sharp clap, drawing all attention his way.
“Everyone get up! No more sitting around. It’s time for games.”
He twists his head around, owl-like, to look at her. The boys get to their feet, even the one Arthur pushed. They mill around, full of nervous energy, the camp suddenly charged with the storm that is Peter. She’s the only one left sitting. She looks to Peter, but his anger is gone, replaced by disappointment, as though she’s gravely wounded him.
The considering frown on his lips now is like the sweet way he smiled at her before, only in reverse. It takes the air from her lungs, leaving her throat thick. She tastes salt, her frustration returning and threatening to overwhelm her. What does he expect of her, and why does it change from moment to moment? Why can’t she remember her mother’s stories right? What if she never sees her mother again? What if there are no more stories and she forgets more every day? What if one day she finds her mother is gone completely, not just her stories, but everything about her, vanished like her own name?
She vows silently to tell the stories to herself every night until she finds her way home, as much as she can remember. She won’t let Peter take them away from her, and with them, she’ll hold onto her mother too. As she moves to stand, her foot nudges her abandoned soup bowl. She scoops it up, tipping the bowl back and swallowing it all in one go, wincing as she does.
It’s gone cold, and worse, something catches and scrapes in her throat. She coughs, doubling over, and puts her hand to her mouth. Another violent cough expels a tiny stone into her palm. She stares at it, her eyes stinging and watering. Peter swoops to her side, thumping her back. She closes her fingers quickly, hiding the stone, and squints up at him. From this angle, he looks much taller, the shadows from the firelight carving into his face and changing its shape.
She blinks. Shadows and firelight. When did it get dark? She doesn’t remember the sun going down.
“All better,” he says. “Come along, Wendy. It’s time to play.” There’s no trace of anger, no disappointment either. He spins on his heel, all innocent joy as he skips away.
“I’m not Wendy, I’m—” But her name sticks in her throat like the stone, raw and scraping, and she coughs again.
The boys follow Peter, some eager, some dragging their feet. As he steps among the trees Peter seems to flicker, solid and real one moment, slipping out of the world the next. She squeezes the stone in her hand. She must keep trying to remember. Nothing here is what it seems. Peter may look like a regular boy, but in truth, he’s a dangerous thing. He may not be human at all.
STRAIGHT ON ’TIL MORNING
Wendy lands at dawn, both tired to the marrow of her bones and more awake and alive than she’s been in years. Her body aches as though she truly did fly all through the night, even though she knows time moves differently in Neverland. The sun rises and sets according to Peter’s whims; the weather changes with his moods. Days might pass with only the soft light of the moon and stars, or the sun might blaze high overhead for weeks at a time. And all the while, only an hour or two might go by in London.
How long has she been gone? Has Ned missed her yet? Has Mary? And what about Neverland? It’s been twenty-seven years for her, but how much time has passed here?
She surveys the long stretch of beach. This is the first part of Neverland she ever saw, tumbling breathless to the sand with her brothers all those years ago. The terrain looks unchanged, and yet everything is subtly different. There’s a loneliness, seeped into the very grains that make up the shore, hushing in the relentless tide.
On her first visit, a gaggle of boys waited to greet them, hailing Peter like a conquering hero come home. Hook’s pirate ship loomed in the distance, a ragged black threat against the horizon. The beach, the woods, the tide—everything had been full of danger and adventure held in equal balance then. But now the beach is utterly empty. Wendy might be the only person left in all the world.
She pushes a lock of hair—sticky with salt and tangled with flight—behind her ear. Sunrise paints the waves a creamy orange-gold, too perfect to be real. The air is sweeter here, like ripened peaches warmed on a window sill, or hot, fragrant tea on a cold day. She breathes deep, the salt-tang invigorating her, carrying no hint of rotten fish and green weeds the way it would back at home.
Home. The word stops her. As she leapt from the window and into the sky, she had thought of herself as going home. But isn’t home the life she’s built with Jane and Ned? With Mary? There was a time she would have given anything to be back here, but she isn’t the child Peter stole anymore. That time is long gone. Or it should be.
She knows the pride of seeing Jane take her first step, watching her grow and learn new things every day. She knows the warmth of Ned’s hands in hers
on their wedding day, and the feel of Mary’s head resting against her shoulder. She knows what it is to have her brother look at her with respect instead of fear, not like she’s a child about to break something, or a wild animal to be caged. She fought hard for the life she has now. How could this place ever be home?
Yet her blood hushes as the tide hushes, the rhythm of her pulse matched to the waves lapping the shore. She cannot deny part of her still belongs here, the part that raged against John, Michael, St. Bernadette’s, and Dr. Harrington. The part that refused to accept their truths in place of her own. Neverland is as much stitched to the fabric of her being as London. She cannot belong to one place or the other, but both together, a thread stretched between worlds.
Wendy feels it—a thrum along the length of her, the tension anchoring her both here and there. She’s always been divided, since the moment she landed on this beach twenty-seven years ago, since the moment she arrived back into the nursery in her parents’ home.
Is that why she was so sick when she first returned home? Her body rebelling, as if a piece of her had been cut away, a feverish infection come to rest in its place?
She can’t help but wonder—what would it be like if she’d stayed? If, like Peter, she’d refused to grow up? She could have spent a lifetime breathing this air. Running and jumping and flying. She would never have known the horrors of St. Bernadette’s. And she never would have known the new weight of Jane in her arms, rocking her to sleep and murmuring lullabies.
Her pulse falls out of time with the tide, beating a more complicated rhythm—half love, half fear. Wendy unlaces her boots, strips off her stockings, and steps gingerly onto the sand. It’s cool against her soles, just the right firmness for building sandcastles. This is the place her heart belongs; this is the place that stole her daughter away.
