A Painful Memory

Angela opened her eyes. She shouldn't have been awake. It was still dark out; not even the first sign of dawn showed on the horizon, not even the earliest bird was awake. She sat up on her elbows and squinted at the old grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the nursery, ticking time away. It cast its shadows on the wall, and for a moment Angela was almost reminded of another shadow, a human one. Her hand instinctively went to the book that lay on her bedside table, but she snatched it back, shaking her head. No time for faery tales, not tonight.

She glanced at the clock again and shivered. Midnight. Things happened at midnight.

Angela's eyebrows snapped together. No, she told herself fiercely. Not tonight. It's over. Tomorrow you're moving out of the nursery and into your own room, to make way for the baby. No more faery tales.

But there was still a chance…

No!

Angela punched at her pillow and lay back down, turning her back to the clock. Determined, she closed her eyes and willed sleep to come. She was going to sleep.

It wouldn't come.

No matter how long Angela lay there with her eyes closed, sleep would not come. The grandfather clock ticked, unbearably loud. There was no other sound, and Angela began to wonder…

No!

She shut her eyes tighter, as though some invisible person was trying to force them open. The dark was smothering, frightening…

I am not afraid. I will never, ever be afraid.

Never.

The clock continued to tick, taking time away. The time was going, going…

Is it still midnight? Angela wondered. No. Impossible. It couldn't be. There is no way that it's…

Her eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright. It was still dark, velvety dark, as though there would be no dawn. The dark of a moonless night.

Angela stared through the darkness, trying to make out the hands of the clock. Then suddenly he froze. No. No way. She leapt out of bed and stumbled over to the clock, her eyes staring wide at the two long hands.

Midnight.

'It's stopped,' Angela whispered. 'Yes, that's it. It's stopped.'

But from somewhere deep inside the gears and bolts, somewhere far within the mahogany wood, the clock was still ticking. Ticking time away.

Midnight.

Angela's heart began to beat faster, and she laid a hand on her breast as though she could slow it. She turned and strode to the window, her nightgown whispering about her bare legs. Slowly she drew back the curtain and opened the window, leaning out into the black night. She had been right. There was no moon. Only stars. Millions and millions of shimmering stars.

Maybe, just maybe…

'No!' Angela said aloud, slamming the window shut. She sat heavily down on the floor and shook her head fiercely, s though trying to clear it of unwelcome thought. 'No,' she whispered, her hand in her hands. 'No more faery tales.'

She stood up again and opened the window wide, just in case…

Angela shook her head, smiled a sad sort of smile, and looked back at her beloved nursery. It was not hers anymore, she knew. It was the baby's. Tomorrow she would be moving her things to what had once been the guest room on the other side of the big old house. A grown-up room. 'For a grown-up girl,' her father had said earlier that day.

But Angela didn't want to grow up. Who did? She wanted to stay a child forever, just like…

No.

No more faery tales. Tomorrow she was moving to a grown-up room, and to Angela that meant she would have to grow up.

'But that's tomorrow,' said a small voice in the back of her head. 'What about tonight? There's still a chance…'

'No!' Angela cried, stomping her foot. A stray tear rolled down her face.

And that was when the sound of bells filled the room. High, shrill, tinkling, silvery bells rang, echoing around the nursery. Angela stared into the darkness, her misery forgotten.

Bells.

And then a light came into the nursery, hurtling in through the opening window, the curtains flapping behind it in an unseen wind. The golden light filled the nursery, outlining everything in glowing light and velvety shadow. And with the light came a warm breeze, fluttering Angela's nightgown so it twined about her legs. She could smell the forest, could taste the sea, could almost see it, the island, the magical island floating before her.

The ball of golden light came closer, and Angela could see that it was really a faery, a tiny creature with butterfly's wings and long golden hair. 'Tinkerbell,' Angela whispered, and the faery nodded, speaking again in her lovely, silvery language of bells.

After a moment Angela shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Tink,' she murmured. 'I can't understand a word you're saying.'

Tinkerbell stared at her for a moment, her tiny brow knit in frustration, and then she flew forward and yanked Angela's hair.

'Ow! Stop it!' Angela cried. 'What do you want, anyway, you crazy creature?'

Tinkerbell drew back, and Angela could see worry and weariness on her small face. The faery turned slowly to leave.

'Wait!' Angela called. 'Tinkerbell!'

The faery returned to float before Angela, shaking her head slowly. Tink began to speak before she realized again that Angela couldn't understand her.

'I could go back with you,' Angela suggested. 'To see what the problem is.'

Tinkerbell hesitated, and then nodded eagerly. She shook some of the faery dust from her hair and sprinkled it over Angela, who immediately began to float up into the air. Tink looked at her, puzzled. 'Let me guess,' Angela grinned. 'Think happy thoughts, right?'

Tinkerbell laughed and flew out the open window, motioning for Angela to follow her.

Angela hesitated for a moment, clinging to the windowsill. Shouldn't she tell her parents where she was going?

Tink looked back and saw Angela's reluctance to leave. The worry returned to her face and she motioned again for the girl to follow her.

Angela looked at the anxiety on Tinkerbell's face and hesitated not a moment longer. She let go of the windowsill, flying after the faery, out into the night.

'Second star to the right and straight on till morning,' Angela whispered, an expression of pure joy lighting up her face.

Below, the curtains of her bedroom window fluttered in the night breeze, looking almost like beseeching arms, groping in the darkness, calling Angela back home.

The windborne girl paid no heed to the calls of flapping muslin curtains, and flew with Tinkerbell into the night.

If one had not closely examined the forest clearing they would have passed it by, dismissing it as just another of Neverland's many clearings. One had to look closer to see that this one was special. The trees that ringed it round each had a hollow in the center of their trunk, a child-sized hole, long unused. It was difficult to believe that this clearing was anything out of the ordinary. That is, it was difficult to believe until one stepped into the edge of the clearing and felt a rotting board snap under their feet. The red wood boards lay scattered around the clearing, mouldy and rotting but still dripping with the resin that had once held them together. And among the boards was a green moss, long dead and as rotten as the wood, but still recognizable.

And in the middle of it all, lying in the center of the clearing, was an old, crumpled felt top hat, the bottom having long since been punched out so the unfortunate hat could serve as a chimney.

This clearing, these trees.

They were special.

Special because of what lay beneath them.

Past the sparse grass and creeping mushrooms, down past the roots of the old, old trees, beneath beetle and worm, hidden away from the world, was the Home Under the Ground. The large room, with its bed and hanging basket, was empty now, long abandoned when the Lost Boys had returned to the real world with Wendy and grown up.

Or at least, the Home Under the Ground was almost abandoned, but not quite. One boy still lived there, when it took his fancy. He was there now, sitting on the bed that had once held Tootles, Nibs, and the rest of the Lost Boys.

The boy had golden hair and emerald green eyes, hooded beneath lowered eyelids. He was clothed in skeleton leaves and his slender feet, filthy with dust and dirt, brushed against the floor. He held a set of beautifully carved pipes, but they hung useless in his lap, along with his hands and their tapered fingers. a mouth that had once crowed so loud it shook the highest peaks of Neverland was turned down in a grimace. Eyes that had stared down death were lowered to the floor. A head that had once been proud hung down in despair and loneliness. His shoulders drooped.

For a moment the boy lifted his head, showing sharp features, haunted and lonely, and brought the pipes to his lips. A few hopeful, glancing notes wavered into the still air, and for a moment the boy smiled, his face lighting up like the moon, his eyes carrying a shred of hope themselves. But then the notes wavered off into silence and Peter Pan dropped his head once more, gazing dully, unwaveringly at the dirt floor.

Seconds passed into minutes, and slowly Peter's hands tightened on the pipes. Still he stared at the floor, proud, despairing, lonely.

He looked up as the sound of bells entered the room. Tinkerbell was back. Peter tried to smile for her, to show her everything was fine, but found he couldn't.

Tinkerbell began to speak. 'Peter,' she said excitedly, 'I've brought someone to see you.'

'Who?' Peter cried, leaping to his feet, clutching tight to his pipes. 'A Lost Boy?'

'No,' Tinkerbell giggled. 'Not a Lost Boy.'

'Then who?'

'She's coming down now,' said Tink.

'She…?' Peter whispered, the smile fading from his face. He leaned past Tinkerbell and stared for a moment at Angela who, having just slid down the hole that had once been Slightly's, was brushing herself off.

'I've found you a mother, Peter!' Tinkerbell squealed in delight.

'No,' Peter whispered.

Angela glanced up. 'What was that?' she asked.

'No!' Peter yelled. He grabbed a rusty sword that up till that moment had lain on the ground and, leaping forward, held it to Angela's throat.

Tinkerbell's grin was fading fast. She had been worried about Peter for a long time. Wendy's daughter Jane had grown up and disappeared from London. When Peter and Tink had return to the nursery to find no one there, not Wendy, not even Jane, Peter had been heart-broken, though he would never admit it to anyone. Tinkerbell had thought, had reasoned, that if only she could find him a mother he wouldn't be so sad.

But Peter was holding a sword to Angela's throat!

Angela stared down the half-gleaming, half-rusty metal of the sword and gulped. What was happening?

'No!' Peter cried again, and Angela was astonished to see a tear roll down his face. Peter Pan had sat still while Wendy sewed the shadow back on his feet, but now… 'No more mothers,' he said fiercely.

'What's wrong?' Angela asked softly.

She saw Peter's eyes harden into chips of emerald stone and felt the tip of the sword press painfully into her neck. 'Don't move,' whispered Peter Pan.

Angela's eyes flicked from left to right, searching for anything that could save her, anything that could help.

As Peter saw the girl desperately searching for anything that could be of aid to her, his heart gave a wrench. Could he really hurt a girl? He had crossed swords with Wendy more than once, but that had been in jest.

Peter gulped as he saw a drop of blood slide from the tip of the sword down the girl's neck.

Angela looked around the room, fearfully eyeing the sword Peter still held. The only thing within arm's reach was the basket Michael had slept in so long ago, and—

What was that?

There was a sword sticking out of the basket!

Angela, quick as a flash of lightning, reached over and snatched the sword from the basket, easily flicked the sword from and shocked Peter's hand, and held her own sword to the boy's throat. Masking her relief, she rubbed her neck and found that a drop of blood came off on her hand. She looked at it and sighed, then turned to Peter, who was staring at her, bewildered. 'Were you really going to kill me?' she asked, feeling a strange sense of betrayal. What had Tinkerbell gotten her into?

Waiting for an answer, Angela was astounded when Peter gave a surprised laugh. His green eyes crinkled at the corners and he whooped with glee, doubling over and laughing harder still. (Tinkerbell gave a sigh of relief.) Angela's sword dropped to her side, forgotten.

In a flash Peter's sword was at her throat again. 'En garde,' he said cheerfully.

This time it was Angela who began to laugh, Peter following her. They both dropped to the floor and crowed with laughter, while Tink giggled from the air.

'You know,' said Angela when her breath returned, 'I don't want to be your mother, anyway.'

In a moment Peter's smile was gone and his eyes hardened again. 'I know,' he said quietly, getting to his feet and gathering up the two swords, placing them on the bed next to his pipes. 'Yes, I know you don't.'

Angela sat up and stared around her at the stools and beds, at the dust that had gathered at the corners over time, at the moth-eaten covers that still ay on the big bed that had been shared by all the Lost Boys. 'This was not what I was expecting,' she murmured.

Peter stiffened and turned to face her. 'What were you expecting?' he asked sharply.

Angela hugged her knees to her chest. 'I don't know,' she whispered.

Peter looked at her for a moment, sitting curled on the floor. She didn't look frightened, but then Peter had always hidden his own fear. He sat down beside her and stared at the dirt floor. 'Tinkerbell will take you back,' he said after a moment.

Angela leapt to her feet. 'Never!' she cried. 'I won't go back, Peter!'

Peter looked at her and a hope lit in his eyes. 'You want to stay?' he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He'd been alone for so long.

'Of course I want to stay,' Angela replied, pulling Peter to his feet. 'I'll become a Lost Boy if I have to, but I'm staying here.' She dared not voice her fear of going home.

Of growing up.

Peter shook his head. 'No, that won't be necessary.' He gave a bow. 'I'm Peter Pan,' he said. Glancing up, he added, 'But I think you already knew that. What's your name?'

'Angela.'

Peter's face turned to stone and he froze halfway through rising from his bow.

'Wendy Moira Angela Darling.'

Then he shook his head, as though to clear it of some unwelcome thought, and smiled. 'All right, then,' he said. A gleam entered his eye and a grin stole slowly across his face. 'Are you ready for an adventure, Angela?'

'Yes!' Angela cried, a light glowing in her eyes that was brighter even than Tinkerbell. 'What shall we do? Battle with the pirates? Visit the Red-skins' camp?'

'I'm afraid the pirates have been gone for a long time,' Peter laughed. 'So… have you ever spoken to a mermaid?'