Ch. 13
I Can't Sleep
His fountain pen, starved of ink and no longer replenished, lay on the furthermost corner of where his wrist and hand had previously been.
A good leather binding...
The hard cover bearing the respectable title, "Peter and Wendy", was blatantly emboldened to catch the eye of a reader, like a jeweler if offered the rarest hoarded wealth of jewels left on the face of existence. The binding held together with the strongest paper glue available and covered with the same material of the cover and also outlined in gold. The pages sparkled with a lustful shine, and perhaps even fraudulent glimmer, as if it awaited eagerly and itched for its spine to be cracked open and revel the last of its tantalizingly new secrets.
It was finished. Complete. Fulfilled.
His work, the work that took him his whole life to realize, to accept, was sitting in front of him, and just looking at the opulent cover and elementary title, he came to the ultimate conclusion of how lamentable his life really had been.
A mother who had only acknowledged him when he was pretending to be someone else.
And a brother...
A friend who had gotten lost like the loose leaves of autumn, dancing in the breeze...never to return again.
He had lost them all... but the one that had only really mattered perhaps was David, and he wasn't even alive for the majority of his life.
David was lucky, perhaps, he thought.
David had got away. Got away before life had gotten a firm hold on him.
David never really knew suffering... never really understood sorrow.
Never knew what it was like to feel the scorching burns of a vindictive glare or the bruising after effects of simpleton jests as it scorched the very contours of the heart, despite the bitter, unmitigable winds of frosty December.
Never comprehended what fear was. How it lurked and clung to the very skin on one's bones. How it sucked every meaningful and lighthearted memory from you, and only left in its wake, that acerbic feeling of utter calamity and panic that erupts, cascades, and plummets into our lower region like a vexing dip in crystal water.
Never understood what it truly felt like to judge and be judged for nothing more than a simple reason of loathing.
Never felt the unfathomable theory of love. To love to the heart's content, and to know, that despite other influences that tried to invoke pure havoc, there is only one answer to solve that problem in which we have been tangled by mortal's web. That love will always prevail. For without love, they would be no other feelings that which we associate with everyday.
Like Sorrow.
Compassion.
Loneliness.
Grief.
All these, mixed together, form a concoction so deadly, even Satin would curl up in a perfectly, symmetrical sphere, scuffle to his most comforting corner, and rock to and fro, back and forth, in a rhythm set only for himself, as he waited for the unknown to pass. Very much like the Jews had done, when waiting for the Spirit of Death to befall on those other then themselves.
But that is what we always expect. We always expect the worst to pass; never linger. We always expect there to be a tomorrow to look to, another opportunity to begin again.
But what if we didn't?
What if we only had one chance, one shot, to make everything right?
Or else...all was lost.
David, ultimately, never lingered long enough to know the undeniable feeling of loss.
To lose is to never gain again. Its permanent, set in stone.
A loss is never really healed, for like a broken bone, once constructed back into its rightful position, it may be healed, but you realize it will never be the same. Like a perfect, imperfect balance. Almost right, but not quite. Never fully reaching the end...always stopping a scant breath short of the goal.
A loss is the feeling of utter remorse...oversimplified sorrow. A person always clings to compunction...for reasons no one shall ever know. One would think, that one's true meaning in life was to strive for true happiness, utter satisfaction. No one really thinks or believes that sorrow and grief can overwhelm them into the bittersweet confines of the broken hearted. But when it comes down to it...the truth of it all is...
No one can ever really let go.
David never had a chance...but David was the lucky one.
The luckiest one of all.
For James knew all these things.
Experienced them anew, like a babe doing the first of everything.
He knew happiness.
He knew sadness.
He knew compassion.
He knew suffering. For without suffering there would be no compassion.
He knew what it meant to live. To breath each breathe like it was his last.
And ultimately, he know what it was to love. To love without a care. To know that love was endless...completely and utterly blissful. He knew the best of love, and perhaps even its worst. But he never considered it as the worst, for that is a horrible word.
Tough.
He knew tough love. And the sacrifices that were destined to be fulfilled.
And he knew loss like a second brother. Perhaps even a second skin.
He had learned to take loss as an escape. An escape to a land.
But it wasn't enchanted. Wasn't full of faeries and mermaids and pirates, and boys that emphasized the irrepressible spirit of youth .
No...
It was known as the Shadow Lands.
He called it the Shadow Lands, because all his life, to him it seemed the only way to describe what he was going through, was to refer to them as shadows.
He believed this because it seemed, that where he was, he lived in the shadows and the sun always shined... somewhere else.
That was until he had met Sylvia Llewelyn Davies, and her four charismatic young lads.
They showed the way out of the shadows and into the delightful warmth, and radiance of the sun.
They taught him there was always a reason to love...to live.
They taught the meaning of innocence, and deceit.
They taught him the reasons for loss, and conclusively, the escape that always held the sunshine.
Neverland
He sat still, staring at the masterpiece of a lifetime.
And yet, something was missing. Something perfectly imperfect.
Something lost, but soon to be found.
Something uncompleted.
Something left unsaid.
He wanted to give those who read his book, the feeling of the unrestricted sunshine. The paradise that he had searched all his life, and found in the simplest and clearest of ways.
And it started off like this...
Neverland.
Your ultimate dreams. Your wildest fantasies. Those thoughts that can never be spoken out loud except to the picturesque mermaids that decorate the lagoon's bank. Never written down, for that adult-like fear that it would be discovered.
And it continued well on into the night. His hand unrelenting. His mind searching fervently for the words he wanted everyone to know and understand. Before it was too late.
Neverland.
The one place where you could take your escape from the too hard, the too exhausting, and the too real reality that you're living in and haunts you everyday, until you pass on.
A Neverland is never limited to one part of your imagination, and each one is different to the beholder. Neverland has no faults, no differences, no problems, and no cracks that you can slip through if you lost your way… just pure bliss. Just your happy memories. Just…paradise.
Some people might think of it as heaven, you know, the place you go when your soul leaves Earth and becomes immortal.
Maybe that's what Neverland really is. A haven. A place where we start over. Where, instead of dying, we truly live. A place full of warmth and security. Perhaps security from the world we once knew. Yes. You the know world I'm talking about. If not, I'll explain.
That world full of problems and obstacles, that when you look at it from Neverland's point of view, wasn't really that important. Wasn't really that critical. For instance, those unfinished bills, those ceiling piled papers you forgot to sign, those impressions you tried to make on people, when in fact, those people didn't really matter.
A place where crying is unheard of, fictional. Tears in Neverland, if there ever is any, are called love drops. Love drops are those tears in the stream in ones eyes that are held for the most pleasant occasions. Occasions full of jollity…laughter…happiness. These drops are only produced by the most gay, but everyone has them. The only reason that some do not perform them is because they have forgotten. Because they have grown up.
People say that you grow up, because you don't want to be a child anymore. And I suppose that's true. Some people don't want to be children anymore. Some people find that childhood is just a waste, a loss of time when you could have been doing more serious things like going to work. And they're entitled to that opinion, that frame of mind. But, adults pay the ultimate sacrifice when they choose this. In the span of up to thirty seconds, which humanely is not considered a lifetime, a lifetime is forgotten. Boys become men and girls become women, and they lose their former self completely. They loose the things that are valued the most in children. Their gaiety…their heartlessness…and the one thing that separates them from adults… their innocence. When people die, there last few moments, save for their thoughts of their special haven, they usual reflect on what it was that went wrong in their life. Where they went wrong. That is not so in children.
Children are, if anything, more complex to understand than adults, and despite adults greedy intentions, children are not so easily won. Children know what happens. They feel it before they see. They can read through the contours of your voice, and they can make your expressions seem transparent. Secrets are the only elements of pretend that children do not believe in. And that is why secrets die so fast; no child is there to believe them.
The most complex thing about a child is their mind. Everyday a child grows older, grow wiser, and with that comes the elements of adulthood, of knowing. Have you ever tried to read a child's mind? No I suppose you haven't. You can't. It's impossible! A child's mind is not like a map that you can open and close constantly and refer to as your ultimate reference, and know it shall never contain or reveal new information. Doctors can create maps of other parts of your body, like your circulatory system for example. They create a map for those just in cases, in case anything is ever wrong or out of place. That is unheard of in a child's mind. Imagine them trying to conjure a map of a child' mind. I'd like to see them try. For a child's mind is not only confused, but keeps going and working and seeing all the time. It's always registering something, no matter what it is. Nothing is out of place there. Everything is taken in, never sorted out. In their mind they have all the adventures of that day, the things they heard, the places they'd seen, and even though they them stow away in the back of their mind, they never forget. Until they're an adult of course.
When they become an adult, they are able to now sort out those memories and things that they don't want or don't find necessary anymore. They pack them up in boxes and just like a woman who is divorced and does not wish for the husband to contain his things in her presence anymore, they throw it out through the window in the part of their brain that contains their mentality. Most of the time, those boxes, contain their imaginations. The one thing that adults keep, for reasons that I am unsure of, is the ability to pretend.
Now, even if you can't see it, there is a difference from imaging to pretending. To imagine is to see yourself as you wish you could be. You have no other frame of mind, no other thought besides your wanting, your need, and your happiness. Imagining is forgetting the consequences, the problems and just remembering that there is a way to escape. Pretending is like the qualifications of murder, although not that drastic. To pretend means that you know full well that there is a world beyond which you pretend. There are consequences; there are rules. To pretend, you make an artificial escape, believing that as long as no one knows, you can keep pretending. But, when someone discovers the truth, you can't pretend anymore. And that is why children grow up so fast when they find that all adults pretend to them. In reality all mothers suffer a death of a child. They loose them when they grow up. They loose them when they start pretending.
Neverland
The place where adults find their imaginations again. A place where adults don't need a status to be accepted. No one is rejected.
Neverland
A place where you never get older and never get tired from those things that you thought unimportant. The place where adults stop growing up and truly start living. Adults see the truth in things, not the price. They see the things they rejected to see because they were to busy, too tired, or too old. Neverland is the place where they realize they never get older and never get tired from those things that they thought unimportant. These being mainly their childhood. They embrace it with open arms and they realize that their forgotten childhood imaginations, wasn't really a barrier to happiness in life. That their life might have been better if they just believed in their imaginations and didn't throw it out their glass frames.
My name is really of no consequence to those living in real life, but to them I am known as James Matthew Barrie. I know what your thinking. Since I know so much about Neverland, you think I invented it; that I made it up. But that is not so. The first baby, known as Cain, was the first child to open its eyes and embrace his imagination and create his ultimate escape, his Neverland. The first Neverland.
Neverland was created by God, and is his final gift. Heaven. But Cain, being human and mortal and containing God's gift of free will, he was also known as the first boy to become a man, and to throw his imagination away… to stop believing.
You don't know me, so you don't have to believe me, but Neverland is real. It exists, whether you accept it or not. I did not invent it; I just named it. And in Neverland, I have my own name. A different one. One that is not judged or classified in status. One that reflects my imagination, which I have never lost even though I am thirty-three years of age. I have never grown up, although because of how I appear, that is what adults believe. I say adults because they have suffered the loss of their imagination. But children, who still have their precious imaginations, and know the truth of Neverland, disregard my born name, and bless me with this one…
Before it was lost...
Forever
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The door creaked open, its hinges protesting, as the familiar squeak was heard amongst the unnerving silence of the room.
The scene which was laid to the eyes was that of the still impeccably clean room of James Matthew Barrie. His desk to the right which contained his files, manuscripts, and most importantly, a solitary book that was infinitely new and out of place beside the taciturn colors of the aging papers and envelopes. The rest of the room unfolded and crackling hearth, and a crimson bed with a man enfolded inside its majestic comforts.
The four boys, all of which we supposed to be in their peaceful slumber, found they couldn't indulge in their sweet fancies, and so, resisting the unforceful ties of sleep, they crept closer to their unaware ,and hopefully peacefully asleep, loved one.
As the gingerly stepped closer, (some steps longer, some steps shorter) they breathed a sigh of relief as they noticed their guardian breathing heavily the sweet warm air billowing in from the open window, and mingling in with that of the air coming from the hearth.
But what was once a feeling of relief, sharply changed to that of anxiety, for the youngest of the four, Michael, had abruptly erupted into an acute , silence-breaking, sneeze.
They all glared quickly at Michael, and then rapidly turned their attention toward their father with apprehension. But being far from disturbed, a small smile crept on his peaceful face.
Even with his eyes closed, he still appeared happy.
And almost giving off the impression of knowing. As if...
He knew they would come.
"What are ye lads doin' out of bed. If I was lookin' at the clock right now, how much would ye like to bet, it be a wee bit passed your bedtime." the Scottish baritone, laced and drunk with the effects of slumber, said with the smile evident in his voice.
"We couldn't sleep father. " George said, with a guilty but honest voice.
"Yeah, we wasn't tired." Michael piped in, and then scurried back into his meek look of secrecy.
"Oh, ye weren't were ye?"
They shook there heads in unison.
"All right, since it seems I am suffering from the same aliment as you all, I think we should all spend the obvious resentment in each other's company," he emphasized this word with a wink, "Everybody in."
Jubilant, they all literally jumped into the bed with James.
"So what shall we do, father." Peter asked.
"Well, how about we listen to a story?"
They were sudden cheers ranging from "Yeah!", "Story!", and "Oh please!"
"But are you feeling up to a story?" George asked, with enough common sense to see through James' obvious misdemeanor.
"I'm feeling better than I have been in a long time. Peter," he said turning to his right and asking, "Could you grab the book siting on my desk."
He came back obediently and placed it on James' lap.
"That's a good lad."
He stared down at his lap, and reached to lift the cover, but some unnatural force seemed to hold his wrist in place.
"Whats's wrong, father?" Peter asked, worry controlling his emotions.
"Here."
Peter stared up in disbelief.
"Read it. I want to hear it...once more."
And so, clearing his throat, Peter began, with the opening full of eloquence and raptured integrity.
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way that Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother, I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh why can't you remain like this forever!' This is all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.
Time passed like magic in the room, and evoked the family in a phantasmal web that lingered in their hearts, and filled them with a sense of satiable freedom. From the contours of Neverland, to the escape to that magical star to the right leading straight on until morning, from dastardly pirates, and evil intention of trickery and death, to the ultimate chance of believing.
They experience it all, through one man's mind and heart. They way it was supposed to be read and loved.
The way that it still is.
And so, with much regret, Peter turned to the last page and began to finish the story. Little did they know, the Davies boys and James Barrie were about to embark on their last risky venture.
And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the floor, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and whiled she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped on the floor.
He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth.
He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
'Hullo Wendy,' he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.
'Hullo Peter,' she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. Something inside her was crying 'Woman, woman, let go of me.'
'Hullo, where is John?' he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
'John is not here now,' she gasped.
'Is Michael asleep?' he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.
"No." James teased Michael as he tickled him slightly, before allowing Peter to continue.
"Yes,' she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as Peter.
'That is not Michael,' she said quickly, least a judgement should fall on her.
Peter looked. 'Hullo, is it a new one?'
'Yes.'
'Boy or girl?'
'Girl.'
Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
'Peter,' she said faltering, 'are you expecting me to fly away with you?'
'Of course that is why I have come.' He added a little sternly, 'Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?'
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring-cleaning times pass.
'I can't come,' she said apologetically, 'I have forgotten how to fly.'
'I'll soon teach you again.'
'O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.'
She had risen; and now a fear assailed him. 'What is it?' he cried, shrinking.
'I will turn up the light,' she said, 'and then you can see for yourself.'
For almost a moment the only time that I know of, Peter was afraid. 'Don't turn up the light,' he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
'What is it?' he cried again.
She had to tell him.
'I am old Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago.'
'You promised not to!'
'I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter.'
'No, you're not.'
'Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.'
'No, she is not.'
But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she had done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try and think.
Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed, and was interested at once.
'Boy,' she said, 'why are you crying?'
Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
'Hullo,' he said.
'Hullo,' said Jane.
'My name is Peter Pan,' he told her.
'Yes, I know.'
'I came back for my mother,' he explained, 'to take her to Neverland.'
'Yes, I know,' Jane said, 'I been waiting for you.'
When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy.
'She is my mother,' Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his side, with the look on her face that he liked to see on the ladies when they gazed at him.
James stared fondly at Jack as he ruffled his hair in obvious enjoyment, and laughed heartily when Jack swatted away his hand and began grooming himself.
'He does need a mother,' Jane said.
'Yes, I know,' Wendy admitted rather forlornly; 'no one knows it so well as I.'
'Good-bye,' said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about.
Wendy rushed to the window.
'No, no,' she cried
'It's just for spring-cleaning time,' Jane said; 'he wants me always to do his spring cleaning.'
'If only I could go with you,' Wendy sighed.
'You see you can't fly,' said Jane.
James calmly coughed in an apologetic, but attention grasping matter, and gently removed the book from Peter's hands and confused gaze. He closed it on it's hinge, took a deep hearty breath, and recalled the last page from memory, for it had been the last thing he had written.
"'Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.
"' As you look at Wendy you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago. Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to the Neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly. '"
James breath becomes short and limited as he inhales deeper to get more air. He swallows gently and inhaling once more, he finishes,
"'When Margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be Peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay...innocent...and heartless.'"
James bowed slightly at the waist and said with a stunning smile, "The End."
They applauded loudly, Peter loudest of all. He was so proud of his father. And he knew now he always would be.
He remembered now what it felt like to fly. The rush, the speed...and yet there was a grace to it. Even more than 'falling with style.' No there was a certain religious feel about it. A commitment.
A test of faith.
"All right boys. Time for bed."
He kissed each one of them on the head and bid them goodnight. They waved to him one last time, and headed toward the nursery.
However, Peter was the only one who stayed behind.
The reason for his almost immediate, but delayed departure, was that he heard a small squeak, and sharp intake of breath that resembled something close to that of a sob.
And indeed, James was curled up in his bed, his arms around his head, his head resting on his knees and the sound continues.
He was crying.
"Boy, why are you crying?" Peter answered, and James looked up suddenly, surprised and then not so surprised to see Peter there.
He smiled and whispered, "Come here."
Immediately he was at his side and with the same fervor, James pulled him into a hug.
His hugs used to be so fruitful and powerful. Now it seems he can barely hold me.
"What's the matter father?"
He couldn't answer him. The pain was far too strong and it wasn't resisting.
"I just love you all so much."
'We love you too."
"Peter, will you promise me something?"
"Anything."
" Don't grow up faster than ye have to."
"What?"
"I know I'm not young enough to know everything, and I've spent me whole life regretting it. Don't end up with me regrets Peter. Live each moment as it comes. Don't let anyone bring ye down, and keep on doing what ye think is important to you. You are only as young as ye let yerself believe. Never stop believin' Peter.
"There is always a key to every portal, which always leads to a secret. Find that key and you'll find me."
"What does that mean?"
He smiled wryly, "You won't know now, me wee bonnie lad. But you will soon. I promise ye that. And I never will lie to you."
"I know."
"Then please Peter, whatever you do, don't stop, " his breathing catching in his throat, " don't stop...believing."
"I won't"
"Promise me Peter. Promise you will believe."
He stared into those chocolate eyes, the warmth that had once rivaled the hearth's majestic glow, was now smoldering right before his eyes.
"I promise."
He smiled, hugged him one last time, and said as he held close, "I shall never forget you Peter."
"Nor I you father."
He laid James down on the pillow, and smoothed his hair from his sweating tear shed face.
No words were spoken.
None were needed.
His breaths became more deep and less. Peter held his hand tightly in his, but the man on the other end was barely holding on.
To lose.
In the end, all that matters is not how it happened, or why, it's about the times where you could forget what happened, and remember why those that you loved mattered to you most. No words were spoken, because visions of remembrance flashed like clockwork in the two children that occupied a once broken man's bed.
The play.
Long days in the park.
The infamous chase of the shoe-stealing dog.
The lesson on stars
The tears shed for the loss of their only lost girl.
Fights with Grandma
Dancing dogs pretending to be bears.
How they first met.
And how James had taught them all to fly.
To believe.
He was slipping away. Getting lost amongst the dancing leaves that swayed in the persistent winds of autumn. But Peter smiled through it all, and felt every tremor of life pass out of James' body as he prepared to go home.
To Neverland.
"It's finished father. It's okay , you can go home now."
"Peter..."James said, no forced used, and he sounded like a frail old man.
"Shh. Sleep now.
"Neverland is waiting for you father. Go to it. They're all waiting for you."
"But Peter..."
His took one last gusty sigh and with a wet smile he whispered mischeviously,
"I can't sleep."
And so ended the lamentable tales of James Matthew Barrie and his four wee little lost boys, George, Jack, Michael, and Peter, as his hand slipped from the once solid grasp of Peter's hands.
Peter watched a tear roll from the corner of James's right eye.
Second star to the right... and straight on until morning.
They would have adventures again.
When he didn't know.
And he didn't want to know.
One day, though, soon, they would be together again.
Just like James had promised.
And just like he had promised, Peter walked over to the window seat, glanced back at the bed and then gazed back up into a star-filled, midnight blue sky.
A solitary star stood conspicuous from the others.
One star that was the brightest of all.
He stared at it and smiled, and with one tear silently rolling down his face, he answered the stars gentle and welcoming twinkle.
"I'll always believe in you Peter Pan."