Mrs. Mary Darling lay asleep by the window. Outside, the azure sky dimmed while she sunk into pillow-deep dreams, her head drifting among fantastical shapes and forms. The constellations flashed ahead, brightly visible in the clarity of a moonlit night. Farther ahead and higher up she soared, buffeted by the frigid winds.
Wendy and John and Michael floated pass, their nightgowns catching gusts of air like the bulging sails of errant galleons charting volatile routes through the sky. As they tested their newfound wings with wobbly delight, a small earthen-brown figure hurtled from sky to earth and back again in breathless bounds. Mary watched her gaggle of children follow their princeling towards the boundaries of this world, watched them forget everything wholesome in their wild pursuit and idolatry. Some leader he must be. He should be wise enough to not set such tempting baits only to fall short, in the end.
But the little russet imp must have caught a glimpse of her, for his delighted grin soured and he came to a standstill in midair. For a second they locked eyes, mother and boy, in bitter enmity. Then he made a rude gesture, turned his back, and called upon the winds—she heard his crowing, even at such a distance—to carry the children quicker to their destination. With one deep-throated gurgle of air, they spun into the midnight and out of sight, safely tucked away behind the stars.
The next morning, she woke up and rose to re-open the window, which had been blown shut last night by the wind. She looked down and saw her children, all three of them, on the ground with their sails windless and masts bent awry, their bodies crushed in flight.