Wendy, Darling

by A. C. Wise

  Her eyes fly open, her breath coming fast and hard. There’s something there. Something in Neverland she’s forgotten, something terrible. There’s a bit of darkness lodged inside her like a splinter, digging and digging, infecting her blood.

  Shaking, Wendy rises and creeps to the door. Despite the nurse’s punishment and her shorn head, it is unlocked. Perhaps the nurse forgot, or perhaps she expects Wendy to be broken and properly cowed, subdued without any need to lock her in. She eases the door open and peers down the hallway in either directions. No attendants or nurses in sight.

  Wendy’s pulse trips. Her back teeth ache, unspecified dread filling her. Whatever she saw… No. It must be a lie… Neverland was a beautiful adventure. Peter was and is her friend. Nothing terrible happened, and there are no monsters. If she could only taste the sweet air once more to remind herself, if she could just see Peter’s smile one more time, then she could endure an entire lifetime in St. Bernadette’s and never lose faith.

  She hurries down the hall, almost running, her bare feet slapping lightly at the tile. She can fly. She just needs to see the sky; she just needs a little height to get her started.

  As she approaches the common areas, Wendy lowers her head and slows her pace. Luck is on her side; three women emerge from the large common room as she passes. Wendy falls in behind them as they climb to the second floor where the rooms are nicer, larger, more elaborately furnished. It’s where patients who have committed themselves voluntarily, or patients whose families have more money than sense, are housed.

  Wendy snuck up there with Mary once. They’d spent hours exploring and spying on the “patients” there who had their own dedicated staff and were treated more like hotel guests. They were so sure they’d be caught, laughing behind their hands the whole time and sneaking tea cakes and sandwiches from an unattended tray left behind. They’d never been discovered, slipping in and out like ghosts. Wendy will be a ghost again now.

  At the landing, she turns away from the women. There are windows overlooking the lawn at the opposite end of the hall, and she makes for those. Through the glass, Wendy can see false balconies just deep enough for a single person to stand. The windows are locked, but unlike the windows downstairs, they don’t have bars.

  From one of the many pockets secreted in her clothing, the ones Mary taught her to sew, Wendy pulls a set of hairpins stolen from one of the nurses. The lock is easily picked. She pushes the window open and climbs onto the tiny balcony. A fresh breeze greets her and she spreads her arms, almost weeping with relief. She’s so close. Neverland is just on the other side of the painfully blue sky.

  Wendy rests her hands on the stone railing, soaking in its sun-warmth for a moment before pulling herself up. The stone is just wide enough to allow her to balance on her bare feet. She crouches, peering over the edge. It’s not that far down, yet the emerald lawn looks impossibly distant. She peels one hand off the railing, then the other, holding her arms out to either side as she straightens.

  Just one quick trip, and then she’ll come right back. Even if she doesn’t see Peter, she needs to feel the wind against her skin, to fall through the sky and see the stars from the wrong side. Just a sip of Neverland’s air, then she’ll return and stay as long as John and Dr. Harrington want; she won’t complain or misbehave ever again. She leans forward ever so slightly, waiting for the shift in balance, the sky to catch her weight, her feet to lift from the stone.

  “Wendy.” Mary’s voice is low and tense.

  It isn’t a shout, and maybe that’s what saves Wendy from wheeling around and losing her balance. Mary stares at her, eyes wide and dark. Wendy had been so intent on not being seen she hadn’t noticed that she was being followed.

  “What are you doing?” Accusation in Mary’s expression, a hard edge under her level tone.

  Leaving.

  Wendy doesn’t say the word aloud, swallowing against a sudden painful lump in her throat. Oh, she promised herself she’d return, but Wendy knows deep down that once her feet had touched the sands of Neverland’s beach, she never would have looked back. How long would it have taken her to forget Mary? To forget her brothers? Forget everything? She would have run and kept running and never have thought of England again.

  Because that’s what Neverland is—running away, cowardly, without even saying goodbye. It’s leaving behind everything you claim to love to embrace purely selfish joy. No responsibilities, no consequences, and nothing matters or ever changes.

  Wendy chokes on the knowledge, a sound between a cough and a sob. The rift inside her widens. She feels exposed. Standing here with her shorn head, she’s proving Dr. Harrington right. She’s sick, a danger to herself; she needs help.

  “I don’t know.” It’s barely a whisper.

  She can’t make herself move, not to step down from the railing, not to let herself fall. Mary holds out a hand. A lifetime passes, but Wendy finally closes the distance, one that seems immense, and places palm against palm. The touch grounds her, and she winds their fingers together, clinging tight. Mary’s skin is warm; there are calluses from her needlework, and from baking in St. Bernadette’s kitchen.

  “I’m sorry. I thought…” But she can’t get farther. The words lodge in her throat like broken glass. What was she thinking? Mary holds her steady, and once Wendy climbs down, she folds Wendy in her arms.

  “I thought if I could fly—”

  “Fool,” Mary whispers, and Wendy stiffens in her arms, but Mary doesn’t let go. After a moment, her body softens against Wendy’s, and Wendy finds herself relaxing too.

  “Shh.” Mary runs a hand over Wendy’s bare scalp. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You can fly, but if you let them see, they’ll only try to tie you down and break your wings.”

  Wendy pulls back, staring at her friend. Mary’s eyes remain hard, defiant, but glittering with an edge of mischief.

  “Do you think I don’t know I’m better than this place? Every time the nurses speak more slowly, assuming I’m dull because I wasn’t born on English soil, or with white skin, don’t you think I want to scream at them and slap their terrible faces? I know better, and so should you.”

  Wendy catches her breath. Mary is right. The harder she fights, the tighter the bindings will grow. But that doesn’t mean she can’t resist—their small thefts, the temporary pockets sewn into their clothes, picking locks and slipping beyond sight, those are the ways they will fight back.

  Wendy uses her sleeve to wipe her cheeks and nose. Mary knows her better than anyone, and she’s right. Neverland is hers, it is precious; she will not give it to anyone to use as a weapon against her. It’s enough that Wendy knows, deep in her heart, that if she’d jumped, the sky would never let her fall. And one day, she and Mary together will fly.

  * * *

  Wendy scans the canopy of trees for a glimpse of the brightly colored birds she remembers from when she was a child, the ones she heard chattering as she stood on the beach. They’re eerily silent now, and she sees no sign of them, as if when she stepped beneath the trees they all fled. Wind sways in the treetops, a rippling hush. She catches a flicker of motion, but it isn’t red or blue. It’s a brownish-gray, vanishing through the branches too fast for her to track. By the time she focuses on the spot where it was, it’s already gone.

  She pulls her shawl closer, but the motion doesn’t come again. The leaves cast shadow patterns on the forest floor. They shift with the breeze, but everything else is stillness. The air feels haunted, and Wendy feels watched. Even the trees seem paler, washed of their color somehow, the leaves almost translucent, like ghosts of themselves. She hurries her steps until she’s out from under the trees, looking at the rocky caldera surrounding the lagoon. It’s right where she expected it. At least this part of Neverland hasn’t changed.

  Tiny shells and fossils of starfish and insects stud the porous stone that surrounds the water and hides it from view. Wendy runs her fingers over the stone. Jane would love this. She would prob
ably know the name of every species embedded in the rock. She pulls her hand back, and it’s a moment before she can breathe again for the ache in her chest.

  She removes her shawl and ties it around her waist, then unbuttons her cuffs and rolls her sleeves to her elbows. She checks her pockets; everything is secure. Wendy reaches, and as she does, the rock molds itself to her grip—just as she remembers. She pushes off with one foot, pulling herself up, and searches for a spot to wedge the toe of her boot. Her limbs aren’t as flexible as they used to be, but her fingers still find holds in all the right places. Like Neverland’s trees, the rocks here understand adventure, a desire to be higher than everything else. King of the hill. Or queen.

  There’s a pleasant burn to climbing, and Wendy revels in it—the stretch of her muscles, the sweat gathering beneath her clothes. She welcomes the way her breath comes harder. It’s so unlike anything she would do at home in London. There her greatest exertion might be a stroll in the park or a game of croquet, but here, she is the Wendy again. The girl who flew.

  Exhilaration fills her, and just as soon, dread comes on its heels, tripping down her spine. A memory nags her—climbing a rock to a secret place. Something Peter showed her, but what? Something that made her afraid.

  At the top of the caldera, Wendy pauses. The breeze picks up a foul smell, one teetering on the edge of rot, carrying it to her from below. She should be able to hear the chatter of mermaid voices, the drifting melody of their song. There’s only more silence, like there was on the beach. Light sparkles on the water below so that Wendy has to squint her eyes against it, but the water itself seems empty. Are the mermaids hiding from her? Or are they afraid and hiding from something else?

  Instinct screams at her to turn back, but even if she wanted to, gravity takes the choice from her hands. Her grip falters, and she slides, tumbling down the incline toward the blue eye of the lagoon below.

  The breath rushes from her, and all Wendy can do is shield her face and try to slow her descent. Her foot catches on something, pain jolting up her leg, and for a moment she’s airborne—falling, not flying. Then she’s crashing through the long grasses and wild sea roses bordering the lagoon, the bruising violence of her impact driving the rest of the breath from her body. She rolls to a stop just at the edge of the water.

  A whine emerges and she sucks in a breath, coughing, and for a moment she’s sure she’ll suffocate, drowning on dry land. The blue sky mocks her from above, clear and perfect and bright, but every part of her body aches. It’s a moment before she can roll over, planting her hand to lever herself up. Her palm slips in slick weed and foul mud, the source of the stench, plunging her arm into the water and bringing her eye to empty eye socket with the skull glaring up at her from the shore.

  Wendy scrambles back, pain momentarily forgotten. The skeleton lies with one arm flung outward, the other tucked beneath its chin, head pillowed on sun-bleached bones. The lower half of the body trails into the water, which is still so painfully clear that below the torso she can see the bones of a powerful tail, stripped of its shimmering scales.

  Wendy crawls forward, stopping just short of touching the skull. It’s impossible. She can’t be seeing what she’s seeing, despite the evidence in front of her eyes. Nothing can die in Neverland. Peter told her so.

  But here is the skull, incontrovertible, her own truth against Peter’s, and she’s done taking other people’s word for how the world functions. Her fingers hover in the space above the pale curve of bone. There should be thick, shining tresses, bound with seashells, woven with coral and sea roses. She lets her hand fall. Who was this? Wendy struggles to call to mind each mermaid’s face, almost human, but at the same time strangely other—their pointed chins, their cheekbones sharp and canted, and their eyes shimmering like mother of pearl.

  The memories were so clear once, but now, when she needs them the most, she finds them dulled, slipping away the harder she tries to hold on. Voices raised in song ring in her head, paired with the musical tones of their names, sung to her from the water the first time she met them—Sea Bloom, Salt Rose, Coral Bramble.

  In the lagoon’s depths, there are more skeletons. Dozens of them, some entangled, some alone, some seeming as though they simply dropped through the current as they swam. A gull screams, and Wendy jumps. The cut-out shape of the bird’s wings passes across the cloudless blue as she looks up, and she shudders to think what the curved tip of its beak has been feeding on.

  Grief-fueled rage leaves her arms trembling, but she scoops up the first stone she can find and hurls it at the bird. The stone goes wide, arcing back into the water, breaking the still surface so wavelets lap the bones at her feet. A choked sob catches in Wendy’s throat as the bird glides on, oblivious.

  She closes her eyes, breathing against the tightness in her chest. And now, when she no longer wants it, memory comes flooding back, conjuring the feel of fingers combing through her hair, the susurrus of gossip passing as flashing tails fan the water. The mermaids knew every inch of the secret underground tunnels lacing through the water beneath the island. They could cross it in a flash, carrying news from one shore to the other. There was a time when the birds were their allies, bringing scraps of news in a language Wendy couldn’t understand. Now Wendy imagines those tunnels clogged with more bones, death under her feet threaded through every part of the island.

  It isn’t just the mermaids’ deaths; she selfishly mourns their knowledge, their news. She’s certain they could have told her where to find Jane.

  She opens her eyes. The memory of a song hangs over the lagoon, the last note on a wind instrument, unplayed. Wendy brushes at her trousers ineffectively, only succeeding in smearing more mud on the fabric. She remembers sitting with Mary in the parlor window, planning alterations to the pattern, stitching everything by hand as Mary told Wendy her grand ideas for the bakery she would open one day. Another choked sound, half laughter, tasting of salt, and Wendy scrubs at her eyes.

  What could kill so many, so quickly? And why didn’t Peter stop it?

  She turns away from the water, irrationally angry at herself, at Peter, at the mermaids. She shouldn’t have delayed so long on the beach, and now she’s wasted more time. Neverland may not be big, but there are ever so many places for a clever boy to hide. On top of that, Peter could rearrange it all on a whim. Jane could be anywhere.

  So, where next, then? The pirates or the Indians? Weariness and fear clamor inside her, and she pushes them both down. She’ll go inland, cut across the island toward the shipwreck. If she’d been thinking more clearly, she would have started there—the beach is the first place Peter brought her. Why wouldn’t he do the same for Jane?

  She circles the lagoon, climbing up the other side of the caldera. There’s less joy in it this time. The rock still shapes itself for her grip, but her body aches from her earlier exertion and from the fall. She feels bruises forming, and on top of that, she isn’t a girl anymore. She’s too old to play queen-of-the-castle.

  At the peak, Wendy pauses to push sweat-stuck hair from her face, scanning for the strange smoke she saw earlier. From this side of the lagoon, she can see over the tree tops. She’s about to start her descent, when all at once, a group of branches shiver with a violence that has nothing to do with the wind. The leaves ripple, marking the passage of something unseen. The motion jumps from tree to tree, bending them with an invisible weight.

  Wendy’s pulse stutters. Whatever it is, it’s too big for a bird, or a squirrel, or even the little golden monkeys with white faces that Peter showed her how to look for on their hidden perches. It’s moving away from her, but that doesn’t stop the fear locking her in place.

  Ghosts. The word comes unbidden. Neverland was never haunted before, but there was never death here either.

  Another thought follows close on the first’s heels, closing like a fist around her heart. Not ghosts, monsters.

  Running, with her hand in Peter’s hand, breathless and trying to keep up. I’ll
show you a secret, Wendy, something I’ve never shown anyone.

  There’s something terrible at the heart of the island. Something Peter showed her once. But when she reaches after it, it’s like a door slamming shut in her mind, so abruptly she stubs her fingers against it, leaving her blinking and dazed.

  The shaking in the trees stops just as suddenly as it started. She was… There was something…

  Wendy shakes her head, letting several heartbeats pass. Whatever it was can’t have been important. She scans the trees, trying to see what caused the motion, but there’s no sign of anything. The shaking doesn’t reoccur, but there’s no birdsong either. No gentle creak of branches in a regular wind.

  Haunted. Neverland is haunted. The lagoon is full of skeletons in a place where nothing is supposed to die, and her daughter is out there somewhere. She has to find Jane. Wendy turns her back deliberately on the trees, and descends the rest of the way to the ground.

  HIDE AND SEEK

  All around her, boys sleep, their bellies full of more soup made from dirt and stones. This time, she didn’t eat, and now her stomach growls, hollow and sick. How will she survive here? How do these boys live on nothing but dirt and bark and leaves? She pushes the thought away, unsettled in a way she can’t name.

  Didn’t one of her mother’s stories have the Clever Tailor traveling to a land filled with the ghosts of children? The boys around her seem solid enough, but maybe they’re really ghosts. Maybe that’s why they don’t need to eat the way she does. She wishes she could remember how the Tailor in the story tried to set the children free. Then she could help the boys, send them home. Surely they ache for their own mothers and fathers as much as she misses hers.

  Peter keeps telling her she’s here to be their mother. That must mean there are no other mothers here, no sisters, or fathers, or aunts, or uncles either, she supposes. Only her and the boys. Which means there’s no one here to help her, or tell her how to get home.