Wendy, Darling

by A. C. Wise

  She remembers shouting for her mother. Then shouting for Peter to let her go, even though she didn’t know his name then. As soon as she’d made the demand, she’d become terrified that he would comply and she’d plummet out of the sky. She’d swallowed her voice, squeezing her eyes tight shut so it had been a surprise when they finally landed, thumping down hard on the sand.

  When she’d opened her eyes, she’d been dazed by bright sunlight, another impossibility, for a moment ago they’d been flying through the dark. She’d felt bruised from striking the ground, but she’d scrambled up as fast as she could, kicking at Peter, scratching, trying to bite him, trying to throw sand in his eyes. She’d called him names, screaming at him, unladylike things that would horrify her grandfather if he could see her, but which might, just might, make her mother proud though she would never admit it.

  All the while Peter had only laughed at her, as if it were all part of a game. Every time Jane had lunged at him, he’d dodged neatly, or leapt into the air, flying a circle around her, swooping and cawing. She remembers being humiliated, tears of frustration burning in her eyes, feeling powerless and small. When at last she’d exhausted herself, sitting down to catch her breath, Peter had landed and crouched beside her. Even though they were the same height when she’d been trying to fight him, he’d seemed so much bigger then, looming over her in a way she couldn’t understand.

  “There now, Wendy. Why are you so upset? You should be pleased. You’re back home in Neverland where you belong.”

  “I’m not Wendy. I’m Jane!” She’d shoved him then, as hard as she could, bursting upward and trying to kick him again even though she was tired, hurt, and frightened.

  The grin he’d worn as he looked down at her vanished, his face closing up like storm clouds rolling over the sun. He’d gripped her chin with one hand, his face inches from hers, holding her so there was no way to look anywhere but at him. She couldn’t even close her eyes, though she tried; it was as though they had been stitched open.

  “No more fighting. It isn’t fun anymore. You’re Wendy and you’re here to have fun, but only so long as you follow my rules.”

  He’d been angry, but at the same time, his voice had been strangely soothing. Jane remembers that, the contradiction. Even shouting, he’d been whispering, and he sounded reasonable, even nice. Despite everything, she wanted to keep listening to him. She wanted to do as he said, and at the same time, her heart kicked against her ribs.

  She tried to squirm in his grip, spit in his face, scream at him, but every part of her felt heavy. For all the thrashing in her mind, she hadn’t been able to move at all. Peter’s eyes, fixed on hers, turned a color she’d never seen eyes go before. It was like staring into a fire, or looking directly at the sun. Light had flowed across his irises, like a ring of flame crawling across a log.

  “Be good,” he said, then he’d let go of her so suddenly she’d stumbled back to a sitting position.

  She remembers the bruising jolt of her tailbone hitting the ground, biting her tongue as her teeth snapped together. There’d been a moment, incandescent as a flash, when she could no longer remember her name. It was as though Peter had cut it out of her, so swiftly she hadn’t even felt the pain, hadn’t even thought to miss it until later. Then there’d been the ship, and the heavy coil of rope, and the sweet, sticky tea that had only made it harder to remember. And then everything else. Hide and seek and the boar. The weight of it crashes into her like a wave, smashing into her first, then trying to pull her out to sea with its undertow.

  Peter took her name away from her.

  Her stomach hurts, simultaneously hollow and full. Peter took her name. He tried to make her forget herself. Jane clenches her jaw so hard her teeth ache. He made her want to hunt. He even made her want to devour what they killed.

  She crawls to the edge of the path, bringing up all the hot, crackling meat she devoured moments ago. The chaos of boys fighting each other and frightening Rufus continues behind her. She pulls herself up, gingerly testing her weight. Nothing broken, only bruised. She limps away, moving as fast as she can, welcoming the pain. It helps her focus, helps her remember herself, and she will not forget again.

  She is Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane.

  Her name is a rhythm, matched to her heart, matched to her ragged breath. A stitch laces up her side, hot and fast, and brings her to a halt.

  “Are you alright?” Timothy’s voice comes out of the dark, soft and frightened, and Jane looks up, startled. Tree shadows dapple his skin as he emerges from beneath them. In the moonlight, he looks like a ghost.

  She shakes her head, then nods, wiping at her tears and smearing them all over her face. She laughs, a huffing, uncontrolled sound that makes her stomach ache all over again, and it’s a moment before she can get herself under control.

  “No, but I will be.” She straightens, makes herself smile for Timothy’s benefit, and some of the doubt and fear unwinds from him, his shoulders relaxing.

  She looks around, realizing where she is. She’d found a hammock in a pile of salvage from the ship and strung it up outside the camp so she could sleep away from the scatter of boys. She sinks into it now, exhausted, and after a moment, Timothy sits beside her. She’s glad he’s here and not with the shouting mess of boys.

  They should return for Rufus, try to help him. But even the thought makes her pulse seize, her eyes burn. What can she and Timothy do against all of Peter’s hunters? Better to let them grow bored, forget. They’re bound to sooner or later. She has to believe it’s true.

  Timothy’s added weight—slight as he is—makes the hammock sway. His feet don’t even come close to touching the ground as he dangles them over the side.

  Tiny lines crease the skin between Timothy’s brows. He looks like he’s trying hard to remember something as they sit in silence, Jane gathering herself, thinking what to do next. She can’t run off and leave him to look for a way home. She has to help him, and Rufus too, and any of the others she can convince of Peter’s wicked ways.

  “Why were you running?” Timothy asks after a moment, his expression clearing from troubled to wide-eyed curiosity. “Is it because you saw a monster?”

  The question catches her off guard, and she almost laughs, but Timothy’s expression is so serious she swallows the sound down.

  “No, I wasn’t running from a monster.” Except, she thinks, she was, just not the kind Timothy means. “There are no monsters here.”

  She makes her voice firm as she says it, as if will alone could make her words true.

  “Is that because you’re here to be our mother? That’s what Peter said.” Timothy looks up at her.

  “I’m not…” Surprise at his words turns into something else as she sees the hope in Timothy’s eyes.

  “Peter says that’s what mothers are for,” Timothy goes on. He says the word “mother” like it’s a strange creature out of a fairy tale, one he’s only heard stories about but doesn’t really understand. “Mothers cook and tell stories, but the best thing is that mothers scare monsters away.”

  “I…” Jane hesitates. The way Timothy looks at her makes her think for a moment that it could be true, she could be big and safe enough to protect him. Not a mother, but a big sister. At the same time, she feels terribly small. She misses her own mother, and she only wants to go home.

  “No.” She lets out a breath, and it hurts; maybe she should have lied. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh.” The disappointment in Timothy’s voice is clear, but like before, there’s a quicksilver mood change and he looks up again, grinning. “That’s okay. We can still be friends.”

  “I don’t belong here.” She didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the truth rings in her and she can’t keep it quiet. “I need to go home.”

  Timothy looks like he might cry.

  “You could come with me,” Jane says quickly. The words expand inside her, feeling wild and dangerous, and she finds that she absolutely means them. “An
d Bertie, and Rufus, too. We can all go somewhere safe.”

  Peter stole her, he stole from her; she will steal from him in turn.

  “Bertie and Rufus won’t go with you.” Timothy picks at the edge of the hammock, deflating some of the hope growing inside her.

  “Why not?” Jane can’t imagine Rufus would want to stay, not after what he’s been through.

  “They never remember.” Timothy’s weary expression suddenly makes him seem like the older one between the two of them. “I tried to tell Rufus how it was good of him to stand up for me against Peter, and how I was sorry Peter hit him, but he didn’t even remember that.”

  “How could he forget being hit?” Jane thinks of the bruise on his cheek. She glances back in the direction of the camp, thinking of Rufus on his knees, squealing. Will he forget that too?

  Perhaps, for his sake, it would be better if he did.

  “It’s the tea Peter makes. We all have to drink it, but if no one is looking, I spit mine out. I think Rufus does sometimes, too, but sooner or later he always drinks it again. I don’t think he likes remembering.”

  Jane thinks of Rufus hunched and miserable by the fire, warring against himself, wanting to hold on and wanting to forget himself all at once. She’s seen what happens to people who resist Peter. And part of her understands—forgetting is so much safer, so much easier.

  Timothy’s frown deepens, his bottom lip sticking out. Jane sees the moment the troubled expression in his eyes becomes something else, fear, like the edge of the moon peeking out behind the clouds.

  “When I don’t drink the tea, sometimes I remember scary and bad things.” Timothy’s voice is a hush, barely a whisper, so Jane has to strain to hear him.

  “But no one else remembers the things I remember, so maybe they’re just a story I made up in my head.” Timothy looks to her, his eyes wide in the moonlight. And for a moment, they aren’t eyes at all, just darkness, and Jane thinks of ghosts again and her heart lurches terribly.

  He blinks, and his eyes look normal again. Just a little boy.

  “Tell me,” Jane says. She makes herself touch Timothy’s wrist, to reassure him, and to prove to herself she isn’t afraid.

  “Once upon a time,” Timothy starts, as if he really does mean to tell her a fairy tale, “there were other boys here who aren’t here anymore.”

  Jane’s pulse trips, unease settling around her like a cloak, but she holds her tongue and lets Timothy continue.

  “One boy was called Edmund. He would stick up for me sometimes, like Rufus does. Except since Peter gives us different names sometimes, maybe Edmund is still here and I just forgot, but I don’t think so.”

  Timothy looks down at his hands, knotting his fingers together, then unknotting them, digging his nails into the rope of the hammock as though to pull the whole thing apart. Jane watches him. Should she put an arm around him? What would a good big sister do? He seems so fragile that she fears he might break.

  “A long time ago, when Edmund was here, he said that Peter shouldn’t get to be leader because he isn’t even a real boy. He doesn’t have a shadow, and that proves it, that’s what Edmund said.

  “They got into a fight about it, a really big one, but Peter never got tired or hurt, and Edmund did. Peter would jump up in the air where Edmund couldn’t reach him and fly in a circle, sticking his tongue out, laughing, and calling Edmund all sorts of names. Nobody even tried to help Edmund.”

  Timothy blinks, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Then all of a sudden Peter clapped Edmund on the back like they were good friends again and he said he wasn’t cross anymore. I was still scared though, because Peter had the look he has when he thinks of a really good game. He said he and Edmund were going to go someplace secret and no one else was allowed to follow.”

  “What happened?” Jane whispers.

  Distress is clear in Timothy’s expression, like he’s holding something big and terrible inside him and it’s pressing out against his skin.

  She’s afraid he will wail, and draw the attention of the others. Once Peter grows bored with tormenting Rufus, he might come looking for her.

  “It’s okay,” she says, trying to make her voice soothing, trying to sound like she believes her words, and there is nothing to be afraid of at all.

  “I did a really bad thing.” Timothy’s eyes fill, tears over whelming them and hovering on his lashes. “I followed even though Peter said not to, because I wanted to see the secret, and I wanted to make sure Edmund was okay. I tried to be really brave and really quiet and…”

  Timothy’s lower lip quivers. Jane hugs him close, presses her nose to the top of his head, feeling his body tremble against her. But the cry she fears never comes and Timothy takes a deep breath, squirming away so he can look up at her. There is determination in his eyes now, and she can see that he’s trying to be very brave and very quiet all over again, and her heart aches for him.

  “Peter took Edmund to a place where there’s a little stream running out of a cave and into the sea. I climbed up a tree to watch. Peter made Edmund wait outside, then he went into the cave and came out holding a thing that was maybe a stone, or maybe a knife. I don’t know.” Timothy picks at the hammock’s ropes again. “I didn’t like looking at it. It made me feel bad, like there was something wrong inside my chest. Peter kept looking at Edmund, right in the face, and I think he was talking to him, but it was so quiet I couldn’t hear them…” Timothy falters.

  Jane imagines the worst, seeing Peter falling on the boar, blood joining his freckles like constellations traced between stars.

  “Did he… Did he kill Edmund, like he killed the boar?”

  Timothy shakes his head, tears spilling, and now his expression is one of frustration as well as fear. It’s like there’s so much he wants to say, but it’s too big to explain. It’s the same expression he wore when Jane asked him about his mother and father, like he’s trying to remember something, and the remembering hurts.

  “Peter touched Edmund with the stone, the knife, and then Edmund wasn’t there anymore.” Timothy’s brow scrunches, fingers clenched and twisting between the rope so it cuts into his skin.

  “I mean, he was still here, but he was all empty inside. He wasn’t Edmund anymore. Peter pulled something out of him. It was dark and shiny like smoke and water, but like something alive and—” Timothy’s voice rises in pitch, and Jane pulls him close, cutting off his words before he gives them away.

  “Shh. It’s okay.”

  After a moment, when she’s certain he isn’t going to shout, she relaxes her hold.

  “I ran away. I didn’t help Edmund even when he helped me.” Timothy’s words are muffled, the side of Jane’s nightgown wet with his tears.

  “There’s nothing you could have done,” she says. “It’s not your fault.”

  Timothy pulls back. She sees in his eyes how much he wants to believe her, but there’s misery there too, telling her he cannot. How long has Timothy been here? He looks like a little boy, but he might be older than her mother and father, or her grandfather even if what he’s saying is true, and all this happened a long time ago.

  “After, Peter came back to the camp and Edmund wasn’t with him,” Timothy says. “He was carrying a sack and I just knew somehow that the dark thing Peter took from Edmund was inside it.” Timothy leans back, putting space between them again. He looks emptied out himself now, like the telling has drained him. “Peter looked very proud of himself and he told everyone he was going to go away and bring us back a mother, and she would make it so he had a shadow again and no one could say he wasn’t real.”

  Jane rubs at her arms. Her skin feels too tight, wrong on her bones, and she wants to brush the sensation away but she can’t. Timothy’s eyes make her think of an owl, too round and too bright, taking up so much of his face.

  “Nobody else even seemed to notice Edmund was gone, and after a while, it was like he wasn’t ever here. There are other boys who wen
t away too, like Roger and Tootles, and I don’t know what happened to any of them. Sometimes I’m afraid Peter will make me go away too.”

  Timothy’s shoulders curl inward so he looks even smaller, simultaneously old and young.

  “I won’t let that happen,” Jane says, taking a breath. “We can look out for each other, you and me. That’s what friends do, they protect each other.”

  “You won’t tell, will you?” Timothy says. “About the tea, or Edmund, or Roger, or any of it?”

  “Of course not.” Jane feels her heartbeat, the rhythm of it, uneven and rapid in her chest. There’s a feeling like she can’t get enough air, and she can’t decide whether she wants to run or laugh or cry, or all three.

  “How long have you been here, Timothy?” Jane hates to ask it, but she feels like she needs to know. There are all these puzzle pieces in her head, but she can’t quite line them up. She can’t see the picture they make, just bits of it, all broken and scattered around.

  “Always, I guess.” Timothy shrugs, an air of defeat hanging on him.

  Jane can understand why Rufus would want to forget, why all the other boys would want to forget, too. It’s so much easier, so much safer for them to go along with Peter and live in a land of endless games and fun. But she is determined to remember. Peter stole her name. He stole her. He hurt people. She will not let that truth go.

  “Do you remember…” Jane hesitates. There’s another piece of the puzzle she can almost see but she’s afraid to look at. Peter keeps calling her by her mother’s name. Timothy’s answer might mean she doesn’t know her mother at all. “Did Peter bring back a mother like he said he would?”

  “Oh! Yes!” Timothy nods, beaming, as though he’d forgotten until the moment Jane asked, a happy memory to replace the bad ones.