by A. C. Wise
She surveys the camp. The last embers of the fire glow dark orange, threads of smoke whispering away from the ash. There was smoke earlier, wasn’t there? She peers up, but sees nothing but a full moon shining over the trees, unnaturally bright. In fact, there’s nothing natural about it at all. It’s a smooth, silvery disc, like a coin hanging in the sky, or a hole cut in the paper-dark with a bright light shining through, nothing at all like the real moon.
The thought rips through her, and just like that, she’s crying. She’s furious with herself; it’s such a silly thing, but she misses her moon, seen through her window.
Her grandfather took her on a trip to the Royal Observatory on her last birthday. She’d felt very special and very grown up, particularly when he’d arranged for one of his friends there—a proper scientist just like she’ll be one day—to let her look through a telescope at the moon. She remembers how big and close and impossible it seemed—all the shadows and dips and craters not visible without the special lenses the telescope had.
How is it she can remember that moment so clearly, but her own name keeps slipping away from her? It’s as though someone has pulled a curtain over part of her mind; she’s aware there are things there, hidden from view, but they’re gauzy and distorted. If she doesn’t concentrate, they start to vanish. Worse than that, at times she’s found herself not minding the forgetting at all.
After the meal Peter had declared supper, he had dragged them all down to the beach again for a complicated game with rules she never quite managed to grasp. She’d been cross at first, but then hours had slipped away as she ran and tromped with the boys, stamping their feet into the sand and calling to each other. The sun had reigned overhead the whole time, full and blazing and not moving once in the sky, despite the twilight that gathered while they ate. Only when Peter had grown bored with the game had she noticed her exhaustion, and how grubby she’d become, her nightgown stiff with salt and her hair tangled.
What would her grandfather say? The thought almost makes her giggle, but the sound turns into a hiccup instead, and she smudges the tears from her eyes. He’s quick to praise her when she sits up straight, her knees together and her hands carefully folded in her lap. When she forgets and slouches or fidgets, or bounces excitedly, wanting to show him the latest samples from her collection, he turns silent and presses his lips together in a frown. He doesn’t believe science is a proper pursuit for a young lady. But then he took her to the observatory, so maybe deep down in his heart there’s some softness in him after all, despite what her mother believes.
Sometimes, if she’s able to catch her mother in just the right mood, she’ll do the perfect scowling impersonation of her grandfather. She knows her mama doesn’t like her grandfather, even though she’s never said as much aloud. With her father, she’s less sure. Sometimes both her mother and her father look sad after her grandfather visits, but some instinct tells her it’s one of those subjects she shouldn’t ask about.
Thinking of her mother brings a fresh pang to her chest, so sharp it almost steals her breath. She wishes her mother were here now to brush the salt tangles from her hair, to tell her one of her stories properly. Maybe she’s getting too old for fairy tales, but right now, it’s the only thing she wants in the world. The thought makes her cry even harder.
She might never see her mama or her papa again, or Cook. Or her grandfather, who she would be happy to see even if he scolded her or sighed in disappointment at her for looking an unladylike mess. There are so many things she hasn’t done or seen yet. What if she never gets the chance to go to a university and study to be a scientist, or travel around the world?
She scrubs the tears from her eyes and wipes her hands on her nightgown. To her relief, her eyes stay dry, even though they feel hot and achy. She’s sick of feeling sorry for herself. So what if no one is coming to save her? She’ll just have to save herself.
She stands, listening for any change in the breathing around her. At least the too-bright moon makes it easy to see, so she doesn’t step on any of the boys lying scattered around the remains of the fire as she picks her way to the edge of the camp. Should she return to the shore? All ships have lifeboats, don’t they? Perhaps there’s a lifeboat near where she woke up. Could she row herself all the way home? Even though she doesn’t know where Neverland is on a map, if Peter flew her here without stopping it can’t be all that far from London, can it?
At the barricade, she pauses and glances over her shoulder. None of the boys have moved, dark shapes on the ground, draped in hammocks strung between trees, and curled up on platforms tucked among the branches. She squares her shoulders and steps over the invisible line separating Peter’s camp from the woods. A thrill runs through her, making her feel brave and dangerous.
With luck, the boys won’t notice she’s gone right away. She hurries her step. The sun could come up at any time, as she’s seen, but if she’s quick, perhaps she can escape while darkness holds and before anyone has had too much of a chance to miss her.
A terrible shape drops onto the path in front of her, and her heart jumps into her mouth along with a startled shout.
She can’t make sense of it. All she can think of is a massive spider or crab, angled limbs sticking up in wrong directions. It blocks the path completely; there’s no way to get around it. Are there monsters in Neverland?
Should she run back to the camp? Wake Peter and the boys? At the moment, she can’t do anything at all. It’s like being stuck in one of those dreams where you want to run but your legs won’t move. Eyes shine at her through the dark, a hint of a smile beneath them like the thinnest crescent moon.
All at once the shape resolves into Peter, but she feels no relief. There’s a wrongness to him, the way he’s crouched on the path, angled limbs like a marionette, like a wooden doll, all jumbled in a pile. He throws his head back, letting out a crowing call, a weird, warbling echo that makes the skin prickle all up and down her spine.
She takes a step back, and Peter leaps up, catching her wrist as the sound echoes across the camp, calling the boys awake. She has the sudden impression that they mean to tie her up, burn her like a witch. Perhaps they will eat her.
“Wendy has thought of an excellent new game!” Peter exclaims as sleepy-eyed boys join them, the menace vanished all at once, his expression pure delight.
Fear still hasn’t loosened its grip on her. She feels unsteady, struggling to keep up.
“A game?” She repeats Peter’s words dumbly.
“Moonlight hide and seek,” Peter says, his expression sly. Is it possible he doesn’t realize she meant to leave? Or does he know and he’s already forgiven her?
He darts forward, tapping a boy of middling height with pudgy cheeks and large hands.
“Tag! You’re it!” Peter dances away, spinning out of reach. “Everyone run and hide and Bertie will come find us.”
Then he’s gone, rabbiting away into the dark. A beat and the other boys scatter, leaving her and Bertie blinking at each other. Bertie rubs a hand over his face then shakes himself; she thinks of a bear waking from a long winter sleep.
Bertie’s smile when it spreads across his face is slow, and nowhere near as wicked as Peter’s, but there is a calculating gleam to it. They come to the same realization at the same moment—if he can tag her before she runs, she’ll be it instead of him. He swipes at her, but the motion is clumsy and she twists away. His fingers just miss her. Part of her knows that being it would give her more chance to escape, but instinct—the ingrained rules of the game that tell her being it is bad—takes over, and she bolts. The terror of being caught—the idea of being forced to hunt through the dark for all the boys who must know this island far better than she does—sweeps everything else from her mind.
She darts among the trees, running a zig-zag pattern, hoping to throw Bertie off her trail. Unlike the boys, she may not know the best places to hide, but she’s certain she can at least outrun him.
She hears boys crashing thr
ough leaves and branches, making no effort to be quiet. Sound distorts oddly among the trees, so she can’t quite tell which direction it’s coming from. She wishes Bertie would break off to pursue one of the others, but he remains focused on her, lumbering after her through the brush—a terrible, heavy sound. She doesn’t dare look back, pushing herself into an extra burst of speed.
Finally, the sound of pursuit grows more distant. She doesn’t slacken her pace yet, pulling even farther ahead. Instead of feeling tired, the longer she runs, the lighter, faster, and more agile she feels. It’s like the beach all over again. She no longer cares where she’s going. The air is sweet, almost like the tea Peter gave her to drink when she first arrived. Fear drops away, and she runs for the joy of it, forgetting about finding a place to hide as she leaps over fallen logs and dodges roots and stones.
Her blood sings, giddy, and she gives herself over to a wonderful sense of freedom. Being up past her bedtime. Being clever. And perhaps most importantly, not being it. Imagine Peter’s face when he sees she’s evaded being caught. Perhaps he’ll even declare her the winner of his ridiculous game!
She must have run clear across the island by now, and she feels as though she could go on, running forever, but she slows. There’s an ache in her legs, but in a pleasant way. She can’t hear any of the others, which makes it the perfect time to look around on her own without Peter rushing her here and there.
Plants rise on either side of a faintly visible path, massive dark green leaves glossy in the moonlight. They remind her of elephant ear plants, but even larger, and with blooms nearly as big as her head. She pauses for a closer look. The petals are all coral and sunset at the edges, deepening to purple-red at the flowers’ hearts.
There’s nothing like it in England. It might be a whole new species, and she could be the first one to discover it. Excitement thrills though her, and she touches one of the delicate stamens. Her finger comes away dusty with bright yellow pollen, and she has the sudden impulse to lick it. She imagines it would taste like crystallized honey, like the sweet drink Peter gave her.
“Don’t.” The word startles her, a rustle among the leaves followed by a small, pale face, and she jumps back.
The youngest of the boys, the one who sucked at his shirttail, gazes up at her, eyes wide and frightened.
“The flowers are bad.” One hand is clapped over his mouth and nose, as if he’s trying to stay quiet, or trying not to breathe too deeply, and his words are muffled.
She looks down at her finger, smeared in pollen, and hastily wipes it on her nightgown. Was she really about to taste it? Whatever would make her do such a thing? She knows far better than to put strange plants in her mouth. It could be poison. But the heady scent of the flower, making her feel warm and safe and…
She lifts the collar of her nightgown over her mouth to stop from breathing the intoxicating smell. Where is she? She’s never seen this part of the island before. She was in the camp and… and she ran. Peter on the path, and then the game. She stares at the boy, but he makes no move to tag her, or give her position away.
“Are you all right, Wendy?”
“That’s not my name. I’m…”
Oh, she wants to shout in frustration, but if any of the other boys are near, she’ll give them both away. She tucked the stone from her soup, the one that was almost in her throat, into her sleeve earlier, and she slips it free now, squeezing it until her hand hurts and her eyes sting.
“Did Peter make up a new name for you too?” Above his fingers covering his nose and mouth, the boy’s eyes are wide with curiosity now instead of fear. “I used to be called something else, but I’m called Timothy now. Peter gave me a name, but I didn’t like it so I chose a new one. We’re allowed sometimes if…”
He darts a glance away down the path, body tense. She follows his gaze to a scrap of shadow shifting beneath one of the trees.
“What—” But Timothy is already gone, flying down the path and leaving her alone.
She squints, but she can no longer see the shadow. Maybe it was only her imagination. An insect chirrs, a sound like a cricket, but also like rubbing a finger around the rim of a dampened glass to make it sing. If only she had her collecting net and specimen jars. She takes a step forward. The sound cuts off abruptly and a sudden chill passes over her. Between one footfall and the next, the sense of someone watching her creeps over her, certain and unshakeable. She spins around, expecting to find Bertie, or even Peter, ready to leap out and tag her. But there’s no one. It’s like hearing someone call her name in an empty room, except worse, because she doesn’t even know her name right now.
She puts her shoulders back and lifts her chin. She will not cry again, and she will not let the weight of what she doesn’t know crush her. And she will certainly not let any of the boys play tricks to scare her just because she’s a girl.
“Hello?” She makes her voice loud, stepping forward as she calls out. “Is someone there?”
A branch cracks. She turns toward the sound, but she can’t make out anything in the dark. The path narrows ahead, trees leaning in to form a tunnel. There’s something ominous in the way the trees bend unnaturally close. They make her think of a deep hole burrowing into the earth, or the mouth of a great beast waiting to swallow her, like Jonah and the whale. But what if the path leads to a way out?
She takes another step. Something strikes the top of her foot. She jumps back, and something else hits her shoulder, sharp as an insect sting. She whirls in a circle, but she still can’t see anyone, and anger rises in her, making her shout.
“Peter, is that you? Stop it right now! You aren’t being funn—” Her words are cut off as the next blow just misses her, the flying object skipping into the fallen leaves covering the path.
Her mouth hangs open, stunned. Then all at once the projectiles fly thick and fast, like hard, pelting rain, driving her back from the tunnel-like path.
She ducks, covering her head with her arms, managing to snatch up a few of the missiles without being hit. She raises an arm, meaning to throw them back into the trees and show that she isn’t defenseless, but she can’t even see her attackers to aim.
She backs along the path, and once she can no longer hear projectiles hitting the ground, she pauses to look at the objects in her hand. Stones, and among them is an arrowhead. She has one in her collection at home. Cook gave it to her. She had it sent specially from Canada. A long time ago, her people used to make them, and use them to hunt. Now they still make them, but they don’t use them for hunting as much anymore.
The one in her hand isn’t sharp, but still she feels lucky that none of them hit her with more than a glancing blow. Perhaps whoever threw them wasn’t trying to hurt her, merely scare her away.
She drops the stones and turns the arrowhead in her hand, studying it more closely, wishing she knew more. Maybe then it would give her some kind of clue. She’d tried to ask Cook more about the arrowhead she’d given her, but unlike the stories Cook told—passed to her by her mother—talking about real history seemed to make her sad. She’d been surprised as well, as though she’d never expected anyone to ask. It was only when Cook hadn’t been able to answer all of the questions, admitting she didn’t know as much of her history as she should, that she’d left Canada so young and hadn’t been back since, that she began to look troubled.
Her mother had come into the kitchen then and told her to stop pestering Cook, shooing her away despite Cook’s protests she didn’t mind. She’d peeked back in from the doorway and seen her mother and Cook with their heads leaned close together, whispering. They’d both looked sad then, in a way she didn’t know grown-ups could be, and she’d hurried away.
“Ha! I found you.” A hand closes around her arm, and she lets out a cry of surprise. “Now you have to help me find everyone else. Those are the rules.”
“Bertie?” She covers the arrowhead quickly, holding it tight.
Sweat dampens Bertie’s forehead, and he breathes heavily.
That, and the way he avoids her eyes keeps her from correcting him to say that she’s it now, and he has to run and hide. He’s afraid; he doesn’t want to hunt through the dark alone, though he would never admit it, especially not to a girl. A thought strikes her then—if the game of hide and seek is still going on, who threw the projectiles?
“Have you found anyone else yet?”
“No.” Bertie looks a little bit relieved, but pushes his chest out, a bossy edge creeping into his voice. “You’re the first. Now you have to help me.”
His hand is still on her arm. There’s a dampness to his fingers, clammy fear seeping from his skin to hers. She glances behind her, but there’s no sign of whoever did the throwing. Maybe they weren’t trying to hurt her or scare her; maybe they were trying to warn her. But about what? Could there be something dangerous at the end of the path? Or something that needs protection?
“Come on.” Bertie tugs her arm insistently.
There’ll be time to unravel the mystery later. Besides, having Bertie along would only bungle things up. He’s too loud, and right now, too jumpy. His need to get away is palpable. She can feel his pulse in his fingertips, and it’s almost infectious. It makes her want to run, too.
“Okay, let’s go find the others.”
She follows him, ignoring the shivery feeling like a hand brushing across the nape of her neck, telling herself it’s for Bertie’s sake they’re leaving, not her own.
LET’S PLAY WAR
There’s something terrible at the center of the island.
Wendy comes to with a violent jolt, the knowledge in her mind as sure as she knew there was a boy at her daughter’s window. Her pulse beats too fast, and for a moment she’s disoriented. She wants the whole thing to have been a terrible, beautiful dream, but no—she is still here in Neverland.
She didn’t intend to sleep. She isn’t safe here, and neither is Jane. She’d only meant to sit for a moment with her back against the smooth trunk of a tree and rest her aching eyes. But her traitor mind had lulled her with images of home, Jane and Ned and Mary, all of them safe and far away from Peter’s grasp. Then she’d woken among tangled roots, her pulse racing, feeling some horrible thing, just out of reach.
