Eternal

It was late and Wendy couldn't sleep. Her bed was so empty since her dear husband Edward had died less than a year ago. She sat propped up on pillows, her withered fingers, stiff with arthritis, straining to turn the yellowed pages of the scrapbook she had started when she was a child. They dug up long-forgotten thoughts and images.

The first pages were the stories and descriptions she had written of Never Land. Many decades had passed since Wendy had thought about Peter Pan and his magical land, but now that her great-grandchildren were visiting from the United States, the memories flooded back. Tucked in between were letters and drawings from her erstwhile school friend Alice.

Shortly after Wendy had returned from Never Land with her brothers, their father had shipped her off to a boarding school, something she'd initially dreaded. "It is high time you grow up," George Darling had insisted. "I've been soft for far too long."

It was there she had met Alice, who had also visited a fanciful place, which she called Wonderland. They became instant friends who shared their adventures, causing their fellow classmates to think they were mad.

Wendy chuckled at that. Alice had been a gifted artist who created detailed drawings of flowers with faces, men with playing cards for bodies, a large, angry queen, a Mad Hatter, a smug caterpillar smoking a hookah, a striped cat with a crescent moon grin, and a rabbit with a pocket watch. Wendy struggled to draw scenes from Never Land, but they came out simple and childish, nothing like what she saw in her mind. Instead, she wrote long, descriptive passages in her journals, which she had later shared with Alice.

Tears touched Wendy's eyes. She didn't see Alice much after they graduated. Wendy was in London while Alice lived miles away in the rural countryside. She hoped Alice was happy . . . if she was still alive. Losing people was certainly the downside of living so long.

But it had also given her opportunities: to fall in love, travel, teach school, open orphanages, and, of course, have children of her own, followed by grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Wendy slowly turned the pages in the thick scrapbook, studying pictures from these various phases of her long, long life. The early black and white photos were faded and grainy, of her with her hair in ringlets topped by a bow, her brother John in his top hat and round spectacles, and little Michael clutching his teddy bear. Their loyal nursemaid dog Nana was in nearly every photo. That was the time when Peter Pan had whisked them all to Never Land.

A tsunami of emotions struck her chest. It's hard to believe we were once so young, and for such a short time. So much has happened since then. John had become a professor of ancient history at Cambridge and Michael a barrister, but now were retired. They each had families of their own.

Wendy was startled by a tap on her window. Who could that be at this hour? And why the window? It couldn't be . . . could it? Her sluggish heart gave a leap. But he wouldn't be coming for her. Not after all these decades. Her great-grandchildren were on the top floor, in the room that had been the nursery Wendy had shared with her brothers when they were all very young.

A familiar shadowy figure stood before the window, peering in.

"Peter?" Wendy's voice came out as a breathless rasp. She dropped her scrapbook onto the crumbled covers.

Just getting out of bed was a Herculean effort. Every joint, every muscle screamed in pain as she moved. She grabbed her cane, which had been leaning against the wall next to her bed, slid her bare feet into her slippers, and shuffled to the window.

As Wendy pulled on the latch, she was acutely aware of how much she had changed in the many decades since she'd last seen Peter. She was a withered old woman while he was still a slight, impish boy with deep auburn hair, a tunic woven from leaves, and a jaunty feathered cap.

"Wendy?" His dark, slightly slanted eyes widened as they looked her over. "You've grown so—"

"Old." Wendy finished for him as she stepped aside, allowing him to glide into the room. He smelled of the wind and distant seas. "I've grown up."

"I'll say." His feet settled on the carpet. He continued to stare at her.

She self-consciously ran a hand through her wispy white hair and tugged at the front of her flannel nightgown with her free hand. The other continued to grip her cane, causing the thick veins poking through the wrinkled, mottled skin to bulge even more. "You haven't changed a bit, Peter."

Her legs ached. It hurt to stand so she limped slowly back to her bed and sat down on it, placing her cane back against the wall. Why was Peter surprised? Wouldn't he know that she wouldn't stay a young girl forever? Especially since he had occasionally returned to take her children and then grandchildren on Never Land adventures. Why did he choose to visit her now?

There was something missing. Was it Peter's shadow? Wendy looked behind him. No. The glow from her bedside lamp caused his shadow to loom large and elongated on the wall behind him.

It was something else. Wendy searched the room, looking for a tiny golden flicker of light and listening for the tinkling of bells, but didn't perceive anything. My sight and hearing aren't what they used to be, she thought. Perhaps she's here, but I just can't see or hear her.

"Where's Tinker Bell?" Even though the little fairy hadn't liked her much, Wendy had still found her adorable.

Peter rounded his shoulders in an uncharacteristic slouch. He sank onto the foot of her bed.

"Tink is gone."

"Gone?" Horror struck Wendy's heart. In the years since her visit to Never Land, when Peter came for her descendants, she had learned that, if a child stopped believing in fairies, a fairy somewhere dropped dead. It might have simply been a rumor, but the fear that such a thing was possible remained. Did that happen to Tink?

"She returned to Pixie Hollow."

"Pixie Hollow?" There was something familiar about that place. Was it from something she read, or had one of her grandchildren told her about that? She strained to remember.

"The fairy colony she had belonged to when we first met." Peter's tone was wistful, so unlike him. "Pixie Hollow was lost for many, many years, after a volcano erupted in Never Land. But Never Land is always shifting, protecting all of us who live there. Pixie Hollow was safe, but hidden for years and years and years. Tink had been out on an adventure with me when that thing erupted. She was sure the other fairies were lost or dead . . . until recently."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, knocking his cap askew. "She wanted to rejoin her friends and go back to tinkering. She's now the Head Tinker of her guild. Can you believe it? She'd rather work than continue to have endless adventures with me." He placed his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. "Just like a grown-up!" Revulsion soaked his voice. He shuddered.

Joy bubbled in Wendy's chest. No wonder the little fairy had been so jealous and clingy toward Peter back then! The boy had taken the place of her erstwhile fairy friends. He was all she'd had for a very long time. Wendy couldn't help but feel happy that Tink had rejoined her own kind, even if it upset Peter.

"At least Tink and her friends keep me supplied with pixie dust." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of sparkling gold dust. It glimmered like sun-shimmers on water and lit up the room.

Wendy's heart jumped at the sight. Would she still be able to fly if he sprinkled her with it?

Cold disappointment pulsed through her as Peter slid the dust back into his pocket. Of course, it was silly of her to think, even for a second, that he'd take her to Never Land now. She was so old that she could barely walk, let alone fly. Her body felt limp, weary. The excitement of seeing Peter again left her exhausted. She lay back on her pillows.

"That's good," was all Wendy could weakly whisper. Although Peter hadn't aged a day since she'd last seen him, the twinkle in his mischievous eyes had dimmed. Peter was now all alone, just him and his shadow.

Or was he? Wendy took a deep breath and gathered what little strength she had. "What about Foxy, Rabbit, Skunk, Cubby, and the Racoon Twins? Certainly they—"

"Who?" Peter looked at her in confusion.

"The Lost Boys," Wendy prompted. Hadn't she been their surrogate mother, who told them stories and sang to them? They had been her inspiration for founding those orphanages where children who didn't have anything were clothed and fed and educated. Many had even been adopted into loving families. Certainly, Peter wouldn't forget his own team. Perhaps it was her memory that was fading. That had been happening a lot lately.

"I've gone through dozens of Lost Boys, and some Lost Girls." Peter's eyes flashed with indignation. "They have fun for a while, but then they want to return to the Mainland and grow up. Can you believe that?"

I've probably helped some of them, Wendy thought. Before she could respond, Peter leaped to his feet and planted his hands on his hips. His shadow followed suit. "At least Hook's still around." Peter drew the knife at his belt and slashed it about, fighting with his shadow. "I love humiliating that old codfish over and over and over. I always win. It's gleefully fun!" There was something behind Peter's wide grin and glittering eyes that Wendy could faintly sense. Something that lay beneath his eternal cheerfulness. What was it? The word that came to her mind was ennui.

Wendy struggled to keep her eyes open. She weakly reached for her scrapbook and flipped its pages with her aching fingers. Her vision was blurring, but she could make out the pictures: her parents, brothers, and Nana; Alice and her Wonderland; Edward, their children and grandchildren at various stages in their lives; places around the world where she had traveled; all the orphans she had helped, the children she had taught.

Her life was fleeting next to Peter's youthfully eternal one. But richer.

Pity for him slid through her as she allowed the pages of her scrapbook to fall closed next to her pillow. He remained the same, year after year, decade after decade, perhaps even century after century, while everyone around him changed and moved on. She strained to keep her eyes open, but she was tired, so, so tired, her years weighing heavily against her body. Her head sank into her pillow.

"Wendy . . .?" Peter's voice held a rare note of concern. His hand, rough with calluses, gripped hers and held it tight. She was too weak, her fingers too arthritic, to squeeze back. "You're so cold. Are you okay?" Even though he stood over her, he sounded distant, faint.

She licked her dry lips and forced the words out. "Just remember to bring my great-grandchildren back . . . after their adventure . . . just as you did. . . with the rest. . .," she drew in a long, shuddery breath, "of us."

Wendy pried her eyes open. Her lids were much too heavy. Peter's face loomed before her. A single tear trailed down his cheek.

"I promise, Wendy."

Her eyes fell closed. She felt Peter's soft, warm lips against her forehead as she slid into blackness.

A bright light, similar to the Second Star to the Right, burned in the distance. Wendy, suddenly weightless, as if she had been sprinkled with pixie dust, sped toward it.

The End