Title: Memories and Pixie Dust
Author: bookworm
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I promise no characters were harmed in the writing of the story and were all returned to their original locations with minimal trauma
Summary: When does a memory become a story?
Author's Note: For Lynse
"What story do you want to hear tonight? Shall it be about Princesses and Heroes? Or Red Indians, maybe, or Pirates? Shall we wander over to Fairyland or dive down below the Ocean waves?"
"How about a story of me?"
Tooth has missed this, being out in the field. She's over Europe now – old Europe, with its whispers of older magic, old tales woven into the very fabric of the land – some of them recognise her, some of them don't, with legends and fairy tales going back even further than the Guardians (they are tamer here, a little, than in the wilder lands of her youth, tied to generations of stories told to children). The European division has things well in hand, so she keeps going, crossing the narrow stretch of sea to England, and the streets of London. Oh, but Tooth loves London – for all its crowded bustle and modern trappings, the city is old, so old and crowded full of stories (that way, lies Baker Street, over there, is Sherwood Forest, here, stands the Globe Theatre, Camelot lay yonder) – at the end of the day, Tooth loves England because her story is English too, for all that she is from faraway lands, and London is England's heart and stories are its lifeblood.
"Once upon a time, there was an island, and its heart was a boy who never grew up. Everyone knows this island, for all of us have been there, and still we can hear the sound of the waves on the beach, even if we can no longer go ashore. The island was perfect for any game you wanted to play, but no one save the boy ever stays there for long. It isn't fun to play alone, and so he left the island to look for playmates"
For a moment she simply looks – it is late and Sandy's golden streams thread gently amongst the glow of windows and streetlights. There are teeth to collect, but just for a moment she takes the time to simply look; and perhaps that is why she sees it.
"There was a girl, living right here, you know. Maybe she stayed in this very room, telling stories to her brothers."
"What was her name?"
"Don't you remember?"
"I think… I think her name was Wendy"
"Yes"
Over in the Bloomsbury district, a light gleams in an upstairs bedroom, far past the time that most children should be in bed. Of course, these days such lights are as like to be teens or adults staying up late, but there is a young boy perched precariously on the windowsill. For the briefest of moments she thinks that it is Jack, but then she realises that he's far too young (besides, it's spring, and Jack will be busy elsewhere by now).
"She told the most marvellous stories, and after night after night listening to them, the boy determined that she would be his mother."
"Oh, the cleverness of me!"
It isn't Jack, but the boy perches there with the same careless unconcern, seemingly unaware (or uncaring) of the drop below and the narrowness of his seat. Even as Tooth watches he tosses his head back and leaps to his feet, and despite the distance she lunges to catch him instinctively, only to stop, for he dances easily on the narrow beam, as sure-footed and careless of gravity as Jack as he crows pridefully. He laughs and Tooth is instantly captivated, for he has a complete set of baby teeth, like perfect little pearls. He clearly isn't Jack, but Tooth thinks they might almost be brothers, if Jack had a brother, for he has the same careless smile, with that hint of wickedness in the corner.
"He took her and her brothers to the Island where they had, oh, such grand adventures… but. Eventually, all children, save one, grow up. So he brought them home again. Before he left, she promised never to forget him, and he promised to come and fetch her every year for spring cleaning."
"I came back, but she had forgotten how to fly"
"We all do, eventually. You need to be gay and innocent and heartless to fly – no adult has the faith to do so, for the minute you begin to doubt you lose the ability forever, or so my mother said."
"I brought her fairy dust, but she told me not to waste it on her."
"So you took her daughter with you in her stead, and her daughter after…"
"It's springtime, mother – the little house needs cleaning, and the Lost Boys are waiting for more stories. The Pirate ship has docked off the shore and the Red Indians have left their winter haunts. Will you come?"
"Always, Peter."
Even as Tooth watches, the boy bows cheekily and offers his hand to the young girl who has come to the window. She is a sweet little thing, all dimples and curls with a hidden smile in the corner of her mouth, and seeing her face Tooth suddenly realises who she is (Her name is Moira, she almost always flosses, she will be twelve this summer, and all the girls who have lived at Number 14 have had remarkably consistent dreams, and one memory that is the always the same)
"Do you remember the way?"
"Second to the right, and straight on til morning"
She curtsies to him and takes his hand, and he blows the golden dust on it in her eyes.
"Don't forget to think happy thoughts!"
And with a laugh they are off, so swift that any passerby looking up would have only thought they saw a shooting star. They wave at Tooth as they go past, and Peter flashes her a grin that almost makes her swoon.
Tooth does not usually look at the memories held in the teeth, as there are simply too many. But every now and then, there will be a story that stands out. Every girl who has lived at Number 14 has the same memory – she dreams of an island, and a boy who never grows up. And she remembers flying, and adventure, and stories, and that the boy with ecstasies innumerable lacks one last one – he has no mother.
"All this has happened before, and will happen again."
Every year, so long as he remembers, Peter comes to Number 14 to fetch his mother for spring cleaning. And every daughter of the house since Wendy has been waiting for him. They all love him, this boy who will not grow up – and perhaps it is because of that, but all of them grow up wise, and beautiful, and raise daughters and sons who never stop believing in fairies.
When does a memory become a story? Perhaps when the story repeats.
All children grow up, Tooth knows, except for two; but not all of them stop believing.