Tucked away in a little corner of Wendy Darling's mind, out of the sight of her waking thoughts, was a little nursery.
It was only small, but so was Wendy, and it was strung together from light and ribbons. It was not really big enough for the dozen or so boy-children who played there but as always, they made do. They boys rolled around on the floor, screaming and yanking and kicking at each other violently. They were having a wonderful time.
Another boy sat apart from the rest. He never played at all any more, for he was too big and too clever to play the games properly, or so the others told him.
His first name was James, and he had no last name yet. He sat in one pinched corner feeling very, very lonely. You see, it had not always been this way. Only a little while ago, a few days perhaps, he had been small and stupid enough to join in. But up he had shot like a bean sprout and so here he was. The other boys had almost forgotten that they had ever played together, even that he existed, unless he stood up and reminded them.
It was a far cry from the days of carefree frolicking he had known before now, and James hated every minute of it. As he always did when he was sad, he began to cry, and right on time came Mother, breezing into the bower with a patient smile, sunshine following on her heels.
"Young man, why are you crying?" Wendy Darling, their Mother, sweetly sang.
James sniffed and scrubbed his tears away with closed fists. Now that Mother was here, everything would be right again.
"The others won't let me play with them, Mother." He told her petulantly. "I hate being so big. I want to go back to normal."
Mother reached out a hand to him and he stood up to take it. His heart lurched when he saw that he could almost look her in the eye. How horrible, how unnatural it was to be almost as tall as Mother!
She only laughed to see his lower lip trembling. "Oh, my angel," Mother said in her best grown-up voice, "You are not done yet. You will be a giant before you're finished."
Oh no. He felt very cold all of a sudden. "Not… not bigger than you?"
She grinned mischievously. "Much."
James was too big now to throw tantrums, but at that heartless announcement he came perilously close. Instead he only pulled his very first scowl and ground his little teeth together.
"But Mother, why? Why do all the others stay the same, but not me?"
Tugging on his hand, Mother took him for a turn about the Nursery. Of course the Nursery was too small for a proper walk, so all the other boys had to cram themselves into the middle to make room.
"You see, James," Mother began seriously, "It has to do with your Father."
James almost fell over in shock. "My Father? I don't have one, do I?" He did not know what a Father was exactly, but he knew he didn't like the sound of it.
"Of course you do." Mother said crossly. "Everyone has Fathers. The reason all the other boys will stay as they are is because they only have one Father each, so there's only a little of them to go around. You have many Fathers, so there is more of you to grow into. Do you understand?"
"I… think so." Though to James, this all seemed like another one of Peter's games, silly and hard for him to understand.
"I knew you would!" Mother crowed and gave his darkly curling hair a little pat, and for a moment James forgot all about being sad, and basked in the love of her pride in him.
Innocently, he asked, "But, even though I do understand, could you maybe give an example?"
"If you like. Take Slightly, there." Mother pointed. "His Father is Faith. That is why he goes along with everything so easily." And, true to form, Slightly was at that moment being squashed by a pile of four or so other boys, only sticking his head out every few minutes to complain good-naturedly.
"And Nibs," she went on, "His Father is Bravery. The Twins are from Friendship and Play. and Peter…" she smiled a smile he did not understand, "Peter's is Youth."
"What about me? Who are my Fathers?" James did not like to hear her talk of the other boys so much, especially Peter. It made him feel unimportant. And since he had so many Fathers and everyone else only had one, shouldn't that make him more important? Even a little special?
His question rewarded him with Mother's full attention. Her eyes settled on him and her smile was gone. "You, my cherub? Your Fathers were everything else." A frown marred her forehead. "You will become them, in time. We all become our parents."
Fear ran through him. "What will I be when I grow up?"
She stopped walking and face him. "My future. You were born of Despair. Loneliness. Duty and helplessness. The bitterness of all my dreams that I know will never come true. The shackles around my feet that I can never break free of. The first time I ever hated someone, you were born. The first time I ever tried to take a toy that did not belong to me, you were there. And you'll grow, and grow, until you're as big as I am. You cannot be like the others. You never were. Only now you know it."
James was crying again. He couldn't help it. How horrible. How could it be fair that everyone else came from such wonderful traits, while he was set to be a villain? Why couldn't things go back to the way they had been? "But Mother, I don't want to be any of those things. I want to be-"
She silenced him. "It doesn't matter what you want, just like it doesn't matter what I want. Now, I've made you some friends to replace Peter and the other boys. Here." She waved a hand and there they were, popping into existence at her command. The walls of the Nursery lurched away to make room for them all.
James knew straight away that he did not like them at all. Almost as big as he was, they stood in silent readiness; like puppets hanging from their strings. Their clothes were grimy and the Nursery seemed to grow dimmer with them in it. Looking at them, James felt very afraid.
He managed to whisper. "Mother, I do not want to be their friend."
"You will do as you are told." All the warmth fled her, and the love was gone from her eyes as she stared at him. "Go. Play."
Her words had a force behind them that took his courage away. His legs moved of their own accord, away from Mother and Peter and all the rest, and he went to stand by the new boys who were to be his friends.
One of them, a soft boy with hair white as the snow he had never seen, offered him a wooden sword hilt first. It was the first time any of them had moved. James took it in his shaking hands. It felt so much heavier than the twigs Mother had conjured for them. The older boys, his boys, had not said a thing. He wondered if they could speak at all.
He hesitated and risked a glance back at Mother, hoping it would all be a joke, a trick. But if it was a game he was not invited, for the little boys had untangled themselves and she and Peter were gamboling about together. She was laughing, but he could see her watching him. Her eyes pierced him, waiting for him to disobey as the distance between them grew.
The shining light of the Nursery walls faded until only pinpricks shone out between vast swathes of a darkness he had never known. The ribbons thickened and became trees crowding all about him, suffocating, menacing. And worse, the rest of the boys were beginning to come to life with twitching jerks of their heads and their hands.
And somewhere, somehow, he knew that Mother was still watching.
James took a deep breath and stood up straight. Better. He hefted up his sword, and played.