It was a quiet day in Neverland.
Well, as quiet as it could be with a gang of Lost Boys on a summer's
day. With a picnic basket under Wendy's arm and a song from Peter's
pan-flute, they were headed to Mermaid Lagoon for a day of sunshine
and swimming.
Wendy spread out a checkered blanket on a dry bank and set up their
lunch. They had fresh fruit and venison jerky and a pie Wendy had made
just that morning. It was no matter though. The boys were too excited
to eat. Nips and the Twins were taking turns skipping rocks, much to
the annoyance of some nearby mermaids. Tootles tripped and fell
face-first into the water. Slightly was lounging under a coconut tree,
carving up fruit with his pocket knife. Curly and Cubby were busy
doing cannon-balls and trying to tackle Tootles back into the water.
Tinkerbell sat perched on the picnic basket, haughty, and disdainful
of the noise.
All the while, Wendy was relaxing on the picnic blanket. With plenty
of food and fun to keep the boys distracted, she could have some time
to herself that didn't involve mending socks or cooking. She sat with
her legs crossed, a large book open in her lap and a blade in her
hand. A bouquet of island flowers sat at her left. Sharpening her
knife, she cut the thick buds and stems in half and pressed them
between the pages. She was quite proud of her handiwork. This was the
second volume of flowers that she had prepared. In her heart, it was a
way of taking a bit of Neverland with her everywhere, stealing away
the radiant shades of blue and gold and orange for her eyes only.
Peter, as usual, sat removed from the cannon-balls and splash-fights.
Wendy had only ever seen him join in on the hottest of days. The boys
were used to it. They supposed that he enjoyed hovering above them
all, catching the cool, salty breeze.
He laid across a thick section of branches, high in a lotus tree.
Every so often, he would play a short-lived melody on his pan-flute.
Something about swimming days at Mermaid Lagoon made him uneasy. It
wasn't the mermaids, of course. They were always pleased to see him,
despite the boys accompanying him. It wasn't fear of the close
proximity to the Jolly Roger. No, an invasion from Hook and his crew
would only make the day more interesting. And it surely wasn't the
weather. It was a perfect summer's day, with a constant breeze and a
crystal-clear sky. The feeling squirmed through his stomach and
rippled through his skin, leaving needle-points in its wake. And so he
removed himself from the crowd, assuring himself that he was simply
bored of such common games.
His eye caught the light glinting off of Wendy's knife. She was
working on a batch of Luna lilies. They were tall, thin flowers with
silvery petals, translucent in the sunlight. At night, when the
fairies danced under phases of the moon, the lilies would open and
attract lightning bugs and Luna moths, sending light skipping about
the hollows. When he couldn't sleep, which was more often than not, he
would watch the fairies dance among the lilies, entranced by the
silver shadows climbing high to meet the night sky. Wendy and the
boys, he hoped, knew nothing of this. He rolled his eyes whenever
Wendy asked questions about his time with the fairies, as if he had no
time for such fantasies. He could scarcely hide the corners of his
mouth tugging upwards as she pressed him for information about the
fairy dances, their languages, and the happenings of their courts. He
relished the way her eyes lit up with inspiration as he described the
fairy hunts, when young fae would mount dragonflies and take flight to
capture falling stars.
But such niceties were old news to the Lost Boys. After all, living on
an island full of fairies, mermaids, and tick-tocking crocodiles
gradually numbs you to the fantastical. Peter snickered at this
thought as the mermaids starting throwing skipping stones back at Nips
and the Twins.
Yet his eye still wandered to Wendy's book of flowers. Little did he
realize, in his reverie, that Wendy matched his gaze.
"Peter, is something wrong?"
He blinked and realized that he was no longer lounging across the
lotus limbs. He was hovering inches above her head. He straightened
himself out and folded his arms.
"I...wanted some lunch" he said, as casually as he could muster.
Wendy smiled and scooted over. Peter carefully picked up Tinkerbell
and sat her on his shoulder, helping himself to a piece of jerky.
Wendy watched his expression change from neutral to the face Michael
made taking his medicine. She turned her eye to Tinkerbell. They had
their moments of ire, but they both couldn't stand when Peter was in
one of his moods.
Wendy took a deep breath and sighed. Peter kept chewing, staring out
at the water. Tinkerbell waved her arms at her, as if to say "go on."
Mustering all of her storyteller dramatics, Wendy put her head in her
hands and groaned, gripping at her hair. Peter frowned and finally
swallowed.
"What's the matter, Wendy?"
Wendy threw back her head once more and sighed. "I've been trying to
press these Luna lilies, but I just can't get them cut the proper
way!" She looked up at him with the most sickening puppy eyes he had
ever seen. "Can you help me?"
In an equally ridiculous performance, he groaned and rolled his eyes
and sighed. Wendy hid a smirk as she turned to give him a fresh
bouquet. She had him. The boys that were close enough to hear shook
their heads. The things Father did to please Mother!
Peter made short work of the lilies, quickly helping himself to
Wendy's pile of flowers. He didn't notice that Wendy had traded her
knifework for lunchtime. That he never noticed that she always brought
extra lilies to these picnics was an endless source of amusement for
her. That he thought she never noticed the glittering petals clinging
to his feet after moonlit walks was equally entertaining. He'd creep
into the treehouse, the scent of the lilies stirring her from her
usual midnight sewing break. It was a soft, clean scent, like the
ground after it rains crossed with fresh linen.
As the sun reached its peak, the boys filed out of the lagoon. Peter
shielded the books from the rampaging mob by taking his place in the
lotus tree. Tinkerbell was soon displaced by the boys assaulting the
picnic basket for pie. Wendy waded through the water and left a pie on
one of the rocks. She hoped it would be enough of a peace offering to
keep the mermaids from dragging the boys underwater.
Peter sat hidden among the lotus blossoms, hugging the book to his
chest. He shimmied up to the canopy, until he was enveloped in pink.
Curling up against the branches, he opened the book. He had nicked it
from Wendy's quarters more times than he could count. He didn't bother
with the island flowers. The pages he loved the most featured London's
best: Tudor roses and lavender and thistle and daffodils and four-leaf
clovers, all pressed and labeled with Wendy's tidy print. He brought
the book to his face and inhaled. The faint scent of old paper,
vanilla, and dried petals sent a shiver down the back of his neck. He
couldn't justify the fascination to himself. It was just a bunch of
dried-up plants wedged between the pages of an old book. Even worse,
he thought, it was a book bound with pink ribbon, with a lord and lady
making eyes at each other on the cover. He felt he could scarcely look
at it in front of the boys without Wendy at his side. Flipping back to
a page of photographs of Kensington Gardens, he decided to stay in the
tree. The boys wouldn't miss him when they had each other...and
several slices of Wendy's mango-coconut pie.
After the picnic basket was properly raided, Wendy convinced the boys
to go visit the Never-Never-Tribe's village. "It's a beautiful day,"
she said, "and I'm sure they could use a few extra hands fishing."
"First dibs on the long spear!" cried Slightly, running toward the
foot-path. The boys' protests echoed through the woods as they chased
after him: "No fair!" "You're too short!" "You called dibs last time!"
Wendy sighed and folded up the picnic blanket, tucking it away in her
basket. She looked out on the water. The pie was gone and so were the
mermaids. The water was mirror-smooth, shimmering in the afternoon
sun.
She closed her eyes and summoned a happy thought. Slowly, she rose
through the branches and wriggled her way up to the canopy.
Peter had not left his perch, but he sat slumped over, dozing. The
book laid open in his lap. Wendy crawled to his side and peered over
his shoulder. The page was open to a section where she had drawn
ladies and pasted dried petals onto them like fancy dresses. She
lifted the book from his lap and tucked it back into the basket,
brushing a few stray lotus petals from his hair. Her touch was enough
to stir him.
"I wasn't asleep," he mumbled, eyes still half-closed.
"Of course you weren't," she said, "you were just resting your eyes."
"It's quiet. Where are the boys?" he said, sitting up and rubbing the
sleep from his face.
"Spear-fishing with the Never-Natives. It should keep them busy for an
hour or two, especially if they decide to fight instead of fish." She
leaned back against the branches to give him time to wake up.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the breeze rustle
the tree-tops. Wendy scooted closer to him. She couldn't avoid it any
longer.
"Do you want to try again?" she said, placing a hand on his knee.
"Can't say I know what you mean," he said, lurching his knee from her touch.
She wouldn't be ignored. "There's no one here but me, Peter. I'll keep
watch. No one will see."
He didn't look at her. He couldn't bring himself to. He could feel his
throat tightening, and he couldn't bear the thought of her feeling
sorry for him.
She let the moment sink in. She knew better than to apply too much
pressure at once. He'd shut down.
Peter turned his gaze to the water. What she said was true. The
mermaids were gone, likely dozing in their underwater grottos. The
boys were long-gone, half-way across the island with the Natives. He
hadn't seen Tinkerbell in hours.
His mouth was dry, and his ears were ringing. Still, he turned to face her.
"Let's try," he said.
They climbed down from the tree and made their way to the beach. Peter
disappeared behind a bush. Slowly, his fingers found the buttons of
his tunic. The cloth leaving his skin reminded him of a snake molting:
a writhing, burning, slimy feeling. He rolled up the legs of his
trousers to his knees, took a breath, and met Wendy at the edge of the
water. Wendy laid his tunic on top of the basket and offered her hand.
She wouldn't say anything until he needed it. Hand in hand, they took
their first steps into the water.
At first, the water felt pleasant. It was the perfect temperature for
a summer's day, just cool enough to refresh and just warm enough to
relax. The sand felt silky between his toes. Wendy gave his hand a
series of gentle squeezes, beckoning him a step farther out.
All was well until the breeze brushed his chest. He could feel the
hair on the back of his neck stand up. They were waist-deep in the
lagoon and fast-approaching chest-deep waters. His throat was tighter
than ever, but he couldn't choke out that he wanted to turn back. Was
everything this loud before? The tide, the breeze, the birds floating
overhead, all that served as uneventful background noise before, now
burrowed into his ears and beat against his brain. The trees, swaying
in the breeze, seemed to have eyes. They surrounded the lagoon like a
stadium of spectators, watching, laughing.
He broke free of Wendy's hand and dropped his chin to his chest,
covering his head with his arms. He wanted to hide, to snap shut on
himself like a clam and disappear under the waves. Everything was a
blur of blue water and white sand. His feet moved on their own as he
felt a gentle hand guide him back to shore.
When he came back to reality, he found himself sitting on the sand.
Something was around his shoulders. He blinked and realized that he
was wrapped in the picnic blanket. Wendy was beside him, her arm
wrapped around his shoulders. He looked around and, once reassured of
their solitude, laid his head on her shoulder. He only half-heard what
she was saying. Something about how he "did better than last time" and
that she "was proud of him for trying" and that she was here for him.
Words didn't matter, only that she was there did. Her fingers found
their way through his curls and stroked his cheek. The feeling
lingered, but her touch always softened the edge.
The sun melted away around them. The lightning bugs appeared by the
time they broke their embrace. Peter donned his tunic, with her help,
and gladly turned his back to the lagoon. They walked hand-in-hand
down the foot-path back to Hangman's Tree, pointing out Luna lilies
along the way.
It was a quiet evening in Neverland, but Peter's night had only just begun.