"Peter was not quite like other boys;
but he was afraid at last.
A tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea;
but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them,
and Peter felt just the one."
~J.M. Barrie
"Don't go too far, John!" Wendy called out, even as the three youngest boys took off running in the direction of Kensington Palace. Michael remained near Wendy's side, walking along with them as they traced the edge of the lake.
"I don't remember the park being this large," Peter commented, glancing about. Everywhere, there were crowds of people gathered in small groups, milling about on the neatly manicured lawns while looking at maps or snapping photos.
"Things must appear smaller from the sky," Wendy pointed out.
"I suppose so," Peter replied.
"Peter," Michael said, "when you leave Neverland, do you ever go anywhere else?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, besides London," Michael said.
"Oh, sure," Peter replied. "Loads of places. I once went to America."
"America!" Michael said, looking suddenly quite fascinated.
Wendy rolled her eyes. "Now you've done it," she muttered.
"What's it like?" Michael asked.
"It's incredible," Peter said, his eyes glowing. "The large cities are quite similar to London, though the buildings are so tall that it's difficult to fly over them. One must fly around them instead, or else risk bumping into the stars. And the people! They are everywhere, all at once, all doing different things. I once walked down the street and passed a man juggling fire on the curb for no reason."
"Wow," Michael breathed.
"There is a bridge made of gold, and the pyramids are so old that one false step can cause them to crumble into bits. And—"
"Pyramids?" Michael asked.
"Of course! America is known for its pyramids," Peter said knowledgeably.
"Those aren't in America," Michael said. "They're in Egypt."
Peter paused. He drew a breath, held it for a moment, and replied, "America has pyramids too. They must have copied Egypt."
Michael narrowed an eye as though to protest, but then shrugged.
"There is nothing that Michael wants more than to live in America one day," Wendy said. "He's already picked out where he wants to attend University, though he still has years to go."
"Brown," Michael said proudly, lifting his chin. Peter tried very hard to look suitably impressed, though he had never heard of such a place.
"He's been stubborn on this subject for years. A brochure was sent to him in the post, probably by mistake, but he's had this plan in his head ever since," Wendy explained.
Michael frowned. "Better my way than yours," he grumbled.
Wendy's face fell. Peter looked between the two of them, noting that the air had suddenly taken on a chill.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Michael cleared his throat, focusing now on his shoes. "Nothing," he said.
"Go find John, Michael," Wendy said. "Make sure he hasn't wandered to the bottom of the lake."
Michael kicked a pebble, but then turned around and began walking in the direction they'd come from. Wendy crossed her arms, looking straight ahead.
"What was he talking about?" Peter asked.
She shook her head. "Michael has a particular idea about what people should do with their lives. Anything different, he disapproves."
"He disapproves of you?" Peter asked, wondering how such a thing could be possible. Wendy had always been the example. The concept that she might do something worth disapproval was foreign to him.
Wendy looked at her watch, then smirked sidelong at Peter. "Come on," she said, reaching out and grabbing his hand. Peter only had the briefest of moments to realize that she was changing the subject before his heartbeat kicked up at the touch of her skin, and the gleam in her eye captured his attention. "We don't have much time. Let's get away from all these tourists."
"And go where?" Peter asked, though he was perfectly willing to follow her anywhere.
"I know a place," she said, looking as mischievous as a fairy. Without warning, she tugged at his hand, and led him on a sprint down a pathway of trees.
Peter was entranced by the images of the park as they flitted by him. The tunnel of trees cast a vibrant green glow overhead as the branches jutted out across one another, strewn with lush summer leaves. The lake rippled with the breeze, reflecting the soft cream clouds overhead. As they ran, the noise of the crowds became distant, and finally it disappeared altogether. When at last they stopped, puffing with breathlessness, Peter heard nothing but a lark in some nearby bush. Wendy stood, her fingers still entwined in his, looking out across the water as her chest rose and fell in rhythm with his. In that moment, he was struck with a total, nearly overwhelming sense of peace. Just for a second, it was as though time stood still, and he was in exactly the right place.
What was even stranger: he enjoyed this feeling. He didn't mind the lack of excitement. In fact, he found himself wishing that he could stay in this place, in this position, for a very long time. It wasn't an adventure, not like he was used to. But, for some reason, he suspected that it might be better.
He'd never felt satisfied before unless he was chasing some new excitement, eternally bored unless he was embroiled in battle. But there was something in the familiarity of Wendy, something about the way she looked at him—as though she knew all of his secrets. She was the loveliest creature in either of their worlds.
She flushed, feeling his gaze, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward in a shy grin. With a backward tilt of her head, she turned and drew him toward a bench behind them.
"This is where the man found you…er, the baby," she corrected herself. "I checked the picture against all the benches in the area after I first read it. This is the one."
"It may not have been me," Peter pointed out, just for clarity's sake.
"I know," she said, too quickly.
Peter drew a deep breath, then circled the bench. With each step, he took in the features of the wood, the iron casting on the sides, the gaps between the planks, as though searching for clues. When he'd reached the front again, he sat down, warily, testing for solidity. "You think they left me here?" he asked Wendy, glancing up at her now.
Wendy hesitated, then sat down next to him. "I don't know," she admitted. She seemed to know, without being told, that he was referring to his parents. Furthermore, she must have sensed that the very thought that anyone would abandon him would be unfathomable to Peter. He wasn't used to relying on anyone for acceptance; people had always looked to him for approval. The notion that he, too, was susceptible to rejection…something close to nausea rolled through his stomach.
"I've never thought of myself as having parents before," he mused, more thoughtful than sad. "I always thought I'd simply run away. The lost boys, they'd talk about their parents all the time. Even if they'd never really known them. I never saw much use for those conversations."
"Because they'd been abandoned?" Wendy asked.
"Because what was the use?" Peter countered. "What was the use of missing them? We were fine by ourselves—better, really. Parents give you rules and lessons and limits. Why should we want those when we have the whole world to explore, all on our own, without anyone telling us what to do with it?"
Wendy was silent. Then, quietly, she asked, "So is that why you always assumed you'd run away?"
"I didn't assume it. Tink told me," Peter said.
Wendy's eyes snapped wider. "What?" she asked, that one word brimming with accusation. "You never told me that. I thought it was your story."
"It is. Tinkerbell was just the one who reminded me about it," Peter said.
"No…Peter, if you were a baby, there's no way you could have remembered the night you were born. I always thought you'd made the story up."
"I don't make things up!" Peter said, his brows furrowing.
Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yes you do. But it's only because you like to tell stories, so there's no harm to it."
"I don't!" he insisted, feeling like a child being admonished. The feeling didn't sit well with him.
"Peter, there are no pyramids in America. You've never been," Wendy said, sounding much too matter-of-fact for Peter's liking.
"How would you know?" he asked.
"And what about yesterday?" she continued, ignoring the jibe. "You told the boys that story about your battle with Hook. It was complete bullocks."
"If I remember correctly, aren't you the one in the habit of telling stories?" Peter spat.
"Sure, nursery stories," she said. "I tell them to the boys to help them go to sleep. You tell them because you've never been interested in reality."
"What do you mean?" he asked. He felt as though he were losing his footing in this conversation. All of a sudden, the fact that Wendy knew him so well seemed a very frustrating fact, indeed.
"It's true," she said. "Isn't it? It's the reason you hide away in that world of yours, untouched by time or rules or anything that could possibly be disappointing. It's why you tell such tall tales, because you would rather the endings to your stories be up to you, rather than up to fate."
Peter drew a breath to speak, but shook his head. He didn't know if she was right—it was like she was holding a mirror up to something that was vaguely familiar, but that he'd never seen before.
"What does this have to do with the story about my running away?" he asked, trying to change the subject. "I didn't make it up—it's the truth. Tinkerbelle knows it, too."
"I don't know if she knows it, or if she made it up," Wendy said.
"What, she's a liar, too?" Peter asked acidly. He heard the sour sound in his voice, this new voice that was still so foreign to him. His words carried more weight now that they were carried by this low timbre.
"I never called you a liar," Wendy said gently. He heard something akin to apology in her tone. "I'm suggesting that Tinkerbelle found you here, and tried to protect you."
"Protect me?" he asked.
"I don't know, but if I had to guess—I'd say she took you away to Neverland, then told you that you'd run away. She was trying to spare your feelings."
Peter frowned. "Tink wouldn't do that. She's too impulsive. Fairies aren't very bright you know. They can only keep one thought in their heads at a time. The truth would have slipped out in the years that we've known each other."
"Tinkerbelle loves you, Peter. If you want my opinion, I think she'd do just about anything if it meant sparing you from harm."
Peter glanced at the girl beside him. He didn't know why she elicited such strong emotions from him. He'd never gone from awe to anger to appreciation so quickly before, especially not in the course of one conversation. So why with her?
He swallowed, and watched as she played with the silver ring on her finger, gazing at the grass. Even when he was angry with her, he couldn't help but find her beautiful. And that was when he understood what she meant. There was very little he wouldn't do if it meant sparing Wendy.
She glanced at her watch, then rose to her feet. "We should go and find the boys. We'll have to leave soon."
"Wendy," he said softly, his eyes still locked onto her face. She turned and looked down at him.
"Yes?"
A hundred words welled up inside him, each more vital and imperative than the last, and he could have said them all to her at this very moment. There was no one around. But as he tried to choose which to say first, all he could think to ask was, "Do you really think it was me?"
She paused, then moistened her lips. "Truthfully?"
He nodded.
"All I think is that anyone would have to be crazy to have given you up, Peter," she said. "Nothing short of gravity could have kept me away all these years."
He grinned a little sadly, and stood when she extended her hand towards him. They strolled through the peaceful place in silence, contemplating all that had been shared. As they went, they passed a strange statue of a little boy blowing his trumpet, and Peter sensed that there was, in fact, something familiar about this place.
