'Wendy?'
It is an ungrateful daughter that suffers her mother to wait, sleepless, for her return. But, as Mrs. Darling stood before the window, her pale hands warm against the snow atop the pane, such a fact never crossed her mind. For all children are ungrateful, but the blind parents never accept this, especially when said children are not safe in their beds.
She searched the heavens with eyes full of tired worry, snatches of Wendy's clear little voice ringing as prettily as sleigh bells in her ears.
'He is Peter Pan, mother! He tells my stories to the stars, and plays his pipes for me while I sleep.'
'Does he, precious?'
How silly to doubt her daughter when she spoke so matter-of-factly! She hadn't even taken time to warn the girl of boys who would lure her from her bed, for she thought it much too early. Her brow wilted.
It seemed, in such a dreary state as hers, that the stars were growing muddled. Great clusters of them would flicker out, quite suddenly, like candles extinguished by gusts of wind. Telling stories to the stars, indeed.
In truth, what the children were doing was a far cry from the pleasantries such as story telling. Peter had caught Wendy by the hand, and demonstrated quite capably the steps one took to blow a star out. This angered the pinpricks of light, but they could do little more than quiver in indignation, or burn nastily when the children crept too close. The re- ordering of the heavens that Mrs. Darling witnessed was, in fact, this horrid game.
Mrs. Darling sighed and stepped away from the window. She had already forgiven Wendy this carelessness, this time when the girl thought so little of her mother that she fled from her without so much as a note. She stepped to each bed in order, the sheets turned down and pillows plumped. And there, on the third pillow, Wendy's pillow, laid a glittering bauble.
If Wendy would not return for her, perhaps she would come for that, thought Mrs. Darling. Wendy gave the loveliest of soft little cries whenever her mother wore it, sparkling like a chain of stars on her delicate wrist. And on the occasion that her mother had given it to her to wear while she played at home keeping, Wendy had whispered soft thanks. Not to Mrs. Darling, but to the bracelet, though the mother knew the meaning, and locked the gratitude away so she could gaze upon it during the long stretches when such words were sadly lacking.
Her long, cool fingers touched the bracelet then traced a soft path along the pillow. The gently sloping lines of her curls, absent though they were, seemed for a moment present beneath Mrs. Darling's fingers. She smiled, a sad, spectral smile, and her eyes closed, though it was not soon enough to dam the tears.
Now, one might think that Wendy was doing just as we have told you, and playing without the dreadful weight of longing for her mother. Granted, she should have that weight, but common knowledge makes that quite impossible.
But Wendy, as we will grow to learn, is a most extraordinary girl, for only extraordinary girls can hold the attention of Peter Pan hostage. And while this abuse of the stars was fun to the devious little boy, Wendy found it quite cruel, and so watched and admired him, sitting on a cloud, trailing her fingers through the sky like water.
The stars were quite keen on this docile little girl, and so gathered about her small fingers, their touches kissing instead of burning. Wendy gave a soft cry of 'Oh!' and glanced down, smiling as sadly as her mother did miles below. And here is where Wendy defied us all, and we are left with no choice but to love the little girl.
For her thoughts had wandered to the figure beneath London's rooftops, with the mocking mouth and the nightingale's voice. With unobtrusive little hands, Wendy scooped up the obliging stars, gathering them in one palm. With two fingers, she plucked a star from the radiant pile, and as it rose, more clung to it. With utmost care, she wrapped the brilliant chain around her minute wrist, shaking the remaining stars from her grasp and holding it out for the night to see.
She was deaf, only for a moment, to Peter's boisterous crows, her eyes and sad little smile shifting to the trinket she had fashioned for herself. How lovely it was against her white skin, though its weight was not as comforting as the real jewels. Wendy's head canted, and she blinked away her tears. They fell patiently, waiting, as Mrs. Darling did, for Wendy's return.
But that was far off yet, and so to sate the sadness that pressed so suddenly, her lips parted, breathing a last word to the London sky before Peter caught her by the wrist and tugged her away to begin the business of forgetting.
'Mother.'
It is an ungrateful daughter that suffers her mother to wait, sleepless, for her return. But, as Mrs. Darling stood before the window, her pale hands warm against the snow atop the pane, such a fact never crossed her mind. For all children are ungrateful, but the blind parents never accept this, especially when said children are not safe in their beds.
She searched the heavens with eyes full of tired worry, snatches of Wendy's clear little voice ringing as prettily as sleigh bells in her ears.
'He is Peter Pan, mother! He tells my stories to the stars, and plays his pipes for me while I sleep.'
'Does he, precious?'
How silly to doubt her daughter when she spoke so matter-of-factly! She hadn't even taken time to warn the girl of boys who would lure her from her bed, for she thought it much too early. Her brow wilted.
It seemed, in such a dreary state as hers, that the stars were growing muddled. Great clusters of them would flicker out, quite suddenly, like candles extinguished by gusts of wind. Telling stories to the stars, indeed.
In truth, what the children were doing was a far cry from the pleasantries such as story telling. Peter had caught Wendy by the hand, and demonstrated quite capably the steps one took to blow a star out. This angered the pinpricks of light, but they could do little more than quiver in indignation, or burn nastily when the children crept too close. The re- ordering of the heavens that Mrs. Darling witnessed was, in fact, this horrid game.
Mrs. Darling sighed and stepped away from the window. She had already forgiven Wendy this carelessness, this time when the girl thought so little of her mother that she fled from her without so much as a note. She stepped to each bed in order, the sheets turned down and pillows plumped. And there, on the third pillow, Wendy's pillow, laid a glittering bauble.
If Wendy would not return for her, perhaps she would come for that, thought Mrs. Darling. Wendy gave the loveliest of soft little cries whenever her mother wore it, sparkling like a chain of stars on her delicate wrist. And on the occasion that her mother had given it to her to wear while she played at home keeping, Wendy had whispered soft thanks. Not to Mrs. Darling, but to the bracelet, though the mother knew the meaning, and locked the gratitude away so she could gaze upon it during the long stretches when such words were sadly lacking.
Her long, cool fingers touched the bracelet then traced a soft path along the pillow. The gently sloping lines of her curls, absent though they were, seemed for a moment present beneath Mrs. Darling's fingers. She smiled, a sad, spectral smile, and her eyes closed, though it was not soon enough to dam the tears.
Now, one might think that Wendy was doing just as we have told you, and playing without the dreadful weight of longing for her mother. Granted, she should have that weight, but common knowledge makes that quite impossible.
But Wendy, as we will grow to learn, is a most extraordinary girl, for only extraordinary girls can hold the attention of Peter Pan hostage. And while this abuse of the stars was fun to the devious little boy, Wendy found it quite cruel, and so watched and admired him, sitting on a cloud, trailing her fingers through the sky like water.
The stars were quite keen on this docile little girl, and so gathered about her small fingers, their touches kissing instead of burning. Wendy gave a soft cry of 'Oh!' and glanced down, smiling as sadly as her mother did miles below. And here is where Wendy defied us all, and we are left with no choice but to love the little girl.
For her thoughts had wandered to the figure beneath London's rooftops, with the mocking mouth and the nightingale's voice. With unobtrusive little hands, Wendy scooped up the obliging stars, gathering them in one palm. With two fingers, she plucked a star from the radiant pile, and as it rose, more clung to it. With utmost care, she wrapped the brilliant chain around her minute wrist, shaking the remaining stars from her grasp and holding it out for the night to see.
She was deaf, only for a moment, to Peter's boisterous crows, her eyes and sad little smile shifting to the trinket she had fashioned for herself. How lovely it was against her white skin, though its weight was not as comforting as the real jewels. Wendy's head canted, and she blinked away her tears. They fell patiently, waiting, as Mrs. Darling did, for Wendy's return.
But that was far off yet, and so to sate the sadness that pressed so suddenly, her lips parted, breathing a last word to the London sky before Peter caught her by the wrist and tugged her away to begin the business of forgetting.
'Mother.'