Jonah

by tragicbeauty1991

"Oh, God," Hook thought, "I am INSIDE the crocodile!" The scream stuck in his throat as though he had swallowed a mouthful of sand. "Scream as loudly as you like," a voice seemed to say. "No one can here you down here."

Author's Note: This piece was inspired by a conversation I had with the lovely concordia-cum-sinistro over on Tumblr regarding how Disney's interpretation of Hook (who has more close calls with the crocodile than any other version of the character and who has a fairly close relationship with Smee) might react to actually finding himself more permanently closed within the croc's jaws. That being said, while I had essentially Disney's Hook in mind while writing this, there are also some definite references to the book and the sequel, Peter Pan in Scarlet. Hope you all enjoy! (P.S. - To my loyal readers following other works in progress, they will continue shortly. I just needed to write this while the inspiration was still fresh.)

He awoke in darkness.

It was not an unusual occurrence for the captain to wake before the dawn, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, his breathing harsh and ragged as he struggled against the sheets wound around his body in a tight cocoon that seemed to constrict with his every move like the gullet of some horrible beast. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the stench of the rotting remains of whatever the ship's cook had forgotten to throw out. He would have to have a word with the cook about that later….

He shifted uncomfortably. The tingling, burning sensation of the hand that was not there seemed to have spread up his arm to the rest of his body, his skin prickling with pins and needles so fiercely that he wondered whether perhaps he was feverish. He made to call out for Smee but stopped when he realized that something was terribly wrong.

Smee was nearly always there when he awoke from such a dream. More often than not, it was the bosun who had roused him from his sleep, shaking off the terror of the night only to receive the cold metal curve of a hook pressed against his throat as a show of thanks. But Smee was nowhere to be found, and the silence was unnerving.

Life aboard a ship was never truly silent. There was always some noise in the background, even at night—the lap of the waves against the hull, the muffled voices of the crewmen on watch, the clanging of the ship's bell, the quiet hum of Smee's sewing machine…. But now, there was nothing. Not even the dreaded ticking that so often troubled his tortured mind.

That's odd, he thought. Perhaps I am still dreaming.

It was difficult to tell dreams from reality on an island shaped by children's imagination. He remembered the first time he had tried to map the island only to discover—to his dismay—that although the island seemed to maintain the same general shape and major landmarks, many of the smaller details changed from day to day. A path that led to the river one day might go off in another direction the next. Ancient fortresses and ruins that appeared to have been around for centuries suddenly showed up overnight and disappeared again the next morning. It was enough to drive a man mad…and one of the many reasons why he'd had such a difficult time finding Pan's hideout.

He had been to this particular place many times before, in the belly of the beast—both in his dreams and during his waking hours—but somehow he had always managed to escape, to claw his way out of the pit and find his way back to light and air and freedom and life. Every time he faced such an encounter, he always thought it would be his last, but somehow it never was. He supposed he had Smee to thank for that. Though he certainly wasn't the brightest or most competent crewman aboard, he was undoubtedly the most loyal. He was the only man the captain felt he could completely trust, and though he was loathe to admit it, he found the humble bosun's company a familiar and comforting presence which he too often took for granted.

Blast it! Where is that idiot when I need him?! He should have been here by now….

Slowly, a faint memory began to stir in the back of his mind, and a look of horror passed over his face as the realization dawned.

This is not a dream!

They had been out on Marooner's Rock—the very same location where that first fateful battle had taken place—when the Lost Boys had attacked. It was an unfair fight, the boys far outnumbering the pirates, as he and Smee had taken a dinghy and left the others to guard the Jolly Roger while they rowed the captured Pan out to sea and tied him to the rock. How sweet it would have been, he'd thought, to have the boy meet his end where it all began. But, of course, things had not gone according to plan. He'd been wounded in the fight, the slash of Pan's dagger slicing through the fabric of his coat and leaving an angry red line that extended from his right shoulder to the top of his left hip. The cut was not deep, but it had bled significantly more than he'd expected, and at the sight of his own blood—in the same spot where he had lost his hand, no less!—he fell faint. His knees buckled beneath him, the world spinning out of control until he could not tell the sky from the sea and his vision blurred, fading to black as he slipped out of consciousness and lost his footing. He could not recall whether he'd hit his head on the rocks or fallen into the water below, but he remembered an ominous shadow circling just beneath the waves. He recalled thinking it strange that he had not heard the beast approach….

Oh, God. OhGod, ohGodohGod. I am INSIDE the crocodile!

Panic seized him, and he began to struggle but found that the more he fought back, the tighter the walls closed in around him.

NO! No, this can't be happening! I can't move! I…I can't breathe!

"SMEE!" he cried out.

He isn't coming.

"SMEEEEEEEE!"

He can't hear you.

The scream stuck in his throat as though he had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

Scream as loudly as you like. No one can here you down here.

Down…here…? What do you mean 'down here'? Where IS here?

Listen.

Oh… Oh, no….

The eerie silence that had engulfed him before now gave way to another sound. It was a mournful, high-pitched series of whistles and clicks. If he had been on land or aboard the ship, he might have thought it rather beautiful, but down here, in the darkness, it sounded like the wailing of lost souls.

Whale song. We're underwater. We could be miles beneath the surface…. And you're alone. You're going to die slowly, painfully…and alone.

And then another, worse thought occurred to him.

What if this IS death?

He recalled the teachings of his youth on the afterlife. He had never quite taken religion as seriously as he supposed perhaps he should. Belief in the unseen had not come as naturally for him as it had for his beloved mother. But then, he had not believed in fairies or the Neverland back then, either. He had not been a faithful member of the church for some time, but he recalled the scriptures on hell as vividly as though he had read them that very morning.

"And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones that believe in me, it is better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he were cast into the sea. And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off: It is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to go into hell, into the fire that shall never be quenched: where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched…"

"…[They] shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth."

His stomach was in knots. Was this torment to be eternal? Was he forever doomed to go on like this, buried alive in a watery tomb, suspended between life and death in this nightmarish realm? The air around him reeked of death and decay and (his own?) rotting flesh, and he had the sudden overwhelming urge to vomit. But confined as he was, he found that he could not turn his head aside to spit and so swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat, shuddering.

It was then that he broke completely, as shuddering gave way to sobs. His pride no longer mattered, the helpless desperation and paralyzing fear that gripped his heart consuming all other emotions until he could feel nothing but dread. What did it matter, anyway? It wasn't as though anyone was there to witness his moment of weakness.

Had space permitted, he would have curled into the fetal position. He wanted to make himself as small as possible, to disappear into himself and shut out the rest of the world around him. As it was, he was not allowed such small comforts and could only shut his eyes against the darkness, the hook biting into his skin on one side, the remaining hand pressed firmly against the other so that even the dignity of reaching for a handkerchief to brush the tears from his cheek was denied him.

He tried to envision himself back in the comfort of his cabin. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, a heavy blanket thrown over his shoulders. Smee was preparing a tub of hot water for his feet and a cup of tea—chamomile with hints of lavender and lemongrass—to soothe his nerves. During such intense moments of panic, the stout little Irishman could always calm him down, his cheerful chatter a welcome relief from the terrible ticking that often preceded an attack.

He remembered, once, when the crew had been ready to turn on him, Smee alone had stood by his side, ready to die with his captain if that was what it took to prove his loyalty to the end.

"There's a Jonah aboard," he remembered saying, meaning to point the finger at the Darling girl for bringing them a run of bad luck.

"Aye," the crew had responded. "A man wi' a hook!"

He had attempted to deflect their accusations, but truth be told, he couldn't dismiss the possibility that they were right. Luck was rarely ever on his side, and he wondered if, like the crew of the proverbial prophet, they might not have been better off if he had stopped fighting his fate and thrown himself into the sea.

Again, the words from the scriptures of his childhood came flooding back.

"Out of the belly of hell cried I, and thou heardest my voice. For thou hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about: all thy billows and thy waves passed over me…. The waters compassed me about, even to the soul: the depth closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head…. When my soul fainted within me I remembered the Lord: and my prayer came in unto thee…."

He recalled his catechism, the words he'd spoken so carelessly as a boy, neither truly understanding nor caring about their meaning (For all children—even the child that he had once been—despite their innocence, are guilty of being foolish and heartless.) and spoke them again with renewed fervor, the last words on his lips as he slipped back into the blackness.

xxxx

There was a tightness in his chest, as though all the air was being squeezed from his lungs by a gigantic, unseen hand. If he had found it difficult to breathe before, it was now impossible, the cramped space inside his floating tomb growing smaller with each violent contraction of the walls around him, the chamber filling with foul-smelling bile. His skin was on fire. He would have cried out in pain if he hadn't been smothering, drowning.

This is it. Oh, God, please! Please let it end! I can endure no more!

But it was not the end for Captain James Hook…at least, not the end that he had expected. Death, it seemed, was not his fate after all, but instead a perverse sort of rebirth. The crocodile coughed, convulsed, and spat him out onto the shore, a bit worse for the wear but alive. Upon emerging, the captain immediately backed away, expecting another attack. For a moment, their eyes met, and he froze. The beast glared at him, grunted, then slowly turned and retreated back into the water, leaving a frothy trail in its wake.

As the shock began to wear off, the captain collapsed into a little heap, shaky and weak. The ordeal had left him completely drained, but the tide was rising, and despite his body's desperate plea for rest, he knew that he could not remain where he had fallen. And so, mustering whatever strength he had left, he dragged himself further up along the beach into the shade of a palm tree and laid his head back on the sand.

A light breeze ruffled his hair and rustled the branches overhead, carrying with it the smell of the sea. He drank it in greedily—the fresh air, the warmth of the sunlight, the dappled shadows dancing across his skin. A vine that had wound its way around the trunk of the tree caught his eye. It was a native plant of some sort, unlike anything he had ever seen in England, its soft pink and cream-colored flowers giving off a sweet-smelling aroma. He had never noticed it before.

Pity, he thought, that I have been surrounded by such beauty all this time and unable to enjoy it.

Against his will, his eyes fluttered closed. And for the first time in a long time, James Hook slept soundly.

xxxx

It was late in the evening when he awoke with the strange sensation that he was being watched. Someone—or something—was hovering over him. For a brief moment, fearing that the crocodile had returned, his heart seized within him, but he quickly recovered when he recognized a familiar voice. It was Smee, fussing and fretting over him like a worried mother hen. It sounded as though he had been weeping.

"Oh, Cap'n! I tried to save ya, I did, but I was too late! Oh dear, dear Cap'n!"

At long last, Hook groaned and opened his eyes. He attempted to sit, gingerly propping himself up against the trunk of the tree. But Smee, caught up in his sorrow, had turned away and continued his wailing. Hook huffed irritably.

In truth, the captain was greatly relieved to see the ordinarily cheerful bosun, but he had never been very good at expressing his softer emotions openly, and so he addressed the man the way he always had.

"Stop your blubbering, Smee," he said gruffly. "It's giving me a dreadful headache. I'm not dead, you idiot!"

"C-c-cap'n?!"

The poor man practically leapt out of his skin at hearing the captain's voice, and being the superstitious type (as many sailors were), it was little surprise that he looked as though he'd seen a ghost. Hook had not yet seen himself in a mirror, but he was fairly certain that at the moment, he looked more dead than alive.

"I am not a ghost, Smee," he assured the man. If I were, I wouldn't still be in so much pain. "Now stop gawking and come help me up, would you?"

"Cap'n!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It really is you! You're alive!"

"Of course I am, you fool!"

Instantly, Smee was at his side, carefully draping one of the captain's arms around his shoulders while extending his own arm behind Hook's back so that he bore a portion of the other man's weight as he stood.

Hook hissed at the contact, the lightest touch bringing forth agonizing waves of pain that nearly took his breath away. He swayed on his feet, staggering from the extreme effort and the nausea it brought on.

"Steady now, Cap'n," Smee encouraged him. "You take your time and rest for a bit. I ain't going nowhere."

Hook did not appreciate being addressed in such a patronizing manner, but he was grateful for the support and too tired to make any real effort at reproach. As he leaned against the tree to catch his breath, he noticed that the flowers on the vine had wilted in the heat of the afternoon sun. It saddened him that he had not had the chance to enjoy them a bit longer. As a young man, he had always carried with him a notebook of sketches—mostly of flowers, but also the occasional bird or other animal. He had never quite regained the same level of talent after the loss of his dominant hand, and with Pan and the crocodile always about, he hadn't had the time to practice such leisurely activities. He sighed.

So much time…wasted….

It was then that he happened to look up and realized, with a start, that although he should have been able to see where the ship was anchored from this part of the island, it was not within his line of sight. He straightened up.

"The ship, Smee! What has happened to my ship?!"

The older man wrung his hands nervously, twisting his cap between them. "She's…she's gone, sir."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"Oh, dear…. Well, the boys…they…they thought you were dead, and…and they left."

"Left…?" He could feel the anger rising. "You mean to tell me that I have no ship, no crew, and NO other way off this cursed island?!" His tone was dangerous, menacing.

Smee was shrinking back before him. The sudden burst of rage had given him renewed strength, and he raised the claw, as if to strike.

"Mutiny!" he cried. "How could you have let this happen?! How dare you call yourself a loyal crewman?!" he growled.

"I-I'm sorry, Cap'n. I…I was out lookin' for you!"

The claw dropped to his side, the anger fading as quickly as it had come. He sighed heavily and turned away.

"Forgive me."

Forgive me for losing my temper again. Forgive me for returning compassion with bitterness. Forgive me for mistaking your lack of education for a lack of being worthy of respect. Forgive me for ever thinking that I knew what it was to be truly alone in this world. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

A shudder passed through his body.

"Cap'n?" Smee asked timidly.

"I am tired, Smee. So very, very tired of it all…."

The words were spoken with such great sadness that the bosun couldn't help but wonder that there was more to be said. He gently took the captain's arm.

"Come along, Cap'n. Let's get you cleaned up. You'll feel better in the morning. A nice change of clothes and a good night's sleep, and you'll be good as new!"

Smee led the way through the forest to a little makeshift camp in the edge of a cave. As they approached, the captain noticed the remains of a small fire smoldering near the entryway. A large log had been dragged up next to the fire to serve as a bench, and he obliged only too willingly when the bosun gestured for him to sit down. An old piece of sailcloth was stretched partially across the mouth of the cave as a sort of curtain for privacy. Smee momentarily disappeared behind the curtain and returned briefly with a handful of rags, a small basin of water, and a newly mended set of clothes that he had brought along from the Jolly Roger on their latest venture in case this sort of occasion occurred.

"There, now. You go on and get dressed, and I'll see what I can do for supper. You must be famished!"

But when the captain approached the entry to the cave, he paused, unable go any further. It was completely irrational, he knew, but the thought of entering another dark, cramped space so soon after the events of the previous day made him terribly claustrophobic.

He looked down, too ashamed to meet his bosun's bespectacled gaze. He shook his head.

"I…I can't."

Smee, understanding at once what the problem was, carefully detached the sailcloth from the doorway and draped it around a few low-lying branches so that it hung like a dressing screen in front of the rock wall that formed the outer part of the cave.

The captain nodded his thanks and ventured behind the curtain to tend his wounds and assess the damage. It was not as bad as it might have been, what remained of his coat and undershirt having received the worst of the damage on his upper body before the acid had reached his skin, though there would definitely be scarring. His legs were a bit worse. It would take more than a bit of water and some rags to properly clean the wounds and dress them, but for the moment, it was all they had. As he went to dip one of the rags in the basin, he caught sight of his reflection and grimaced at the almost unrecognizable face he saw staring back at him. He had always taken pride in his appearance—from his well-groomed mane and mustache to his perfectly polished boots. The loss of his hand had dealt a blow to his pride, but this…this THING looking back from the basin hardly even looked human—a frazzled mass of frizzy hair and torn clothing unravelling at the seams with burns so severe that his face appeared almost deformed. Even the once shining silver hook was rusted nearly all the way through. It made him weep to see what he had become. A change of clothes and a good combing of the hair would help some, but his face would never look the same.

After a great deal of time had passed, he emerged, looking somewhat subdued but refreshed and feeling a bit more like his old self. Smee had started the fire again and prepared a simple meal of roasted fish and fresh fruit. They ate in silence, the quiet crackle of the flames and the neverbird's night song the only sounds to be heard as the shadows grew longer and faded into the darkness.

Despite his earlier respite beneath the palm tree, Hook was exhausted, yet he could not bring himself to willingly fall asleep for fear of what might haunt his dreams, and so he remained sitting by the fire throughout the night. Smee, aware of the captain's apprehension of the cave, chose to sit up as well, recognizing that although he would never say so aloud, Hook did not want to be alone in this time of vulnerability. He knew what Smee was up to, of course, but he was grateful for the company and the tact with which the bosun acted upon his sympathy, so he made no objection.

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had completely risen, the sound of movement in the brush reached their ears. Hook tensed, his eyes scouring the blackness of the forest for the source of the sound. At long last, he decided that the creature responsible for disturbing the vegetation was far too small and light to be the crocodile…perhaps a bird or a deer…or a boy.

"Show yourself, Pan," he called into darkness. "I know you're there."

The boy, who had been silently observing the pair from behind a dense thicket of vines and bushes, stood to reveal himself, his dagger drawn and at the ready glinting in the firelight.

"Come to finish me off, have you?" Hook, too, stood to his full height and advanced toward the boy. "I wonder…. How do you expect to kill someone who has come back from the dead?"

He doubted Peter would be fooled by his attempt at deception, but his appearance alone was terrible enough to make the boy falter, and as his face became more fully illuminated by the firelight, he heard a small gasp.

"What's the matter, boy?" he sneered. "Don't like what you see? I'd have thought you would have been proud of yourself. After all…this is all your doing."

Peter blinked, eyes wide with confusion and horror. "Hook…what…what happened to you?"

It was rare for Peter to ever appear frightened, and Hook was enjoying this particular moment of triumph immensely. The boy would not be flying away anytime soon. He was as white as a sheet, his feet firmly on the ground. The captain did not have his blade, but the hook would suffice. He took a step closer, and Peter took a step back, lowering the dagger.

"What do you think happened, Pan?" he snarled.

Peter shook his head. "I…I don't understand."

In an instant, the hook was at his throat. The dagger fell from his hand, and the captain kicked it aside. He wanted to rip the boy open and watch him writhe in pain. He wanted to tear into the skin slowly and hear him scream. He wanted the boy to know exactly how it felt to endure the torturous existence of teetering on the verge of death until he begged to be put out of his misery.

"Any last words, boy?"

The captain intentionally avoided looking over his shoulder where his bosun still sat by the fire. He knew that Smee would not approve of him killing the child in cold blood, but neither would he interfere. This was not his battle to fight.

"You were supposed to come back," Peter said quietly.

The captain frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

The boy stared at the ground, kicking up a small shower of dirt with the toe of his shoe. "You always come back. That's how the game works. We fight, the crocodile chases you off, you go away for a little while, and then you come back. This time you didn't…. I guess I always knew one day it would be real, but I just never thought…." He looked up. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to go that far."

You weren't supposed to die. I wasn't supposed to be the villain, but right now, it feels like I am. I'm sorry.

It was then that Hook realized that the boy was not frightened of him but rather frightened of what he himself had done. For perhaps the first time in his life, the boy was acting very grown up, and yet he had never seemed so small and fragile. All traces of cockiness were completely gone, replaced by guilt and shame, and he truly looked like the child that he was. In that moment, the fire went out of him, and Hook knew that he could not bring himself to kill the boy.

Before he had the time to reconsider, a low, guttural growl stopped him in his tracks. The sun was now just above the horizon, and the crocodile, who had been resting along the banks of the river, had wandered back down toward the beach to sun himself on the rocks. And the camp just so happened to be in his way.

Hook stumbled backwards. The realization that the crocodile had been able to get so close without him being aware of its presence was terrifying, and he fairly tripped over his own feet trying to back away.

"Smee," he cried hoarsely, "help me."

But the crocodile seemed to have other things on his mind and, with the captain out of his way, passed through the camp without so much as a snap in his direction. And Hook, still shaking from the encounter, breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's alright," Peter said, "he won't hurt you anymore." He moved to pick up the dagger, pondering it for a moment before tucking it back in the sheath. "And…neither will I. So long as you don't cause any trouble."

As Peter flew away, Hook could have sworn he saw the boy grow a few inches taller and his shadow trail a little bit longer behind him.

After a few moments, Smee spoke up. "Shall I after him, Cap'n?" he asked reluctantly.

Hook paused. To say that he had forgiven the boy would have been grossly inaccurate, but revenge, it seemed, was no longer a priority. He was free now—free from the crocodile and free from Pan—and to jeopardize that freedom for the sake of retaliation seemed incredibly foolish.

"No, Smee," he answered finally. "Let him go. I believe we are finished here. It's time we moved on."

"Er…Cap'n?" Smee asked hesitantly. "Do you hear that?"

The sound was so subtle that he barely noticed it at first, but as he listened more closely, he could just make out the faintest ticking. The clock had started up again. And although he could not explain it, rather than filling him with dread, it filled him with another emotion so foreign that he hardly recognized it. It was the tiniest seed of hope.

"Aye, Smee," he said. "'Tis the sound of a new day dawning."