Chapter 1 – Changes
Five years later, 1st April 1909, England, North-West-Surrey
The tires sent wet soil and dirty snow flying as the motor car left Waverly Lane and slipped to the side of the road. The motor of the Wolseley howled as the driver got control over the vessel again; swearing grimly, teeth clenched. A moment later the vehicle drove along the road full of old snow and mud, and the driver threw a worried glance at the bottles clattering loudly in the box on the floor beside her, but none of them appeared damaged.
Sighing, the old woman looked through the split front window and murmured a useless oath against the heavy snow nearly obscuring her view. It was almost exactly the same weather as last year, only this year the heavy February snowstorm had affected the entire southeast of England through March. Then, after a brief reprieve in the form of a thaw, winter returned to the island. Even now, the first of April, the snow was almost two feet high, with no change in sight. If last year was an example, snow would last another two or three weeks longer before melting. After that, they would face a cold wet summer.
Of course, she couldn't know the weather that lay ahead. The years of 1908 and 1909 were the coldest and wettest summers yet recorded.
It was fortunate for all that the newest motor cars were made with roofs that protected the passengers against the bad weather. Earlier models still copied the horse-drawn open carriages, with passengers and driver exposed to the weather. Still, the new roofs did nothing against the cold – especially for the driver whose seat was still open to the temperatures outside due to lack of side windows.
Biting her thin lips, the driver concentrated on the uneven, slippery road. She was fashionably dressed in a high collared coat and a veil that held the wide-brimmed hat on her head, yet it didn't cover her wrinkled face, frowning in concentration. Her gnarled hands held tightly to the wheel and her pale eyes hung on the road that wound along fields and gentle elevations. Small woods, a few marshes, wild fields could barely be detected. On sunny days, it was a beautiful drive, even near the eerie ruins of Waverly Abbey which lay behind her. But at this moment the deep grey clouds created a dark twilight that dimmed the brightness of the snow. It made you truly wish to be home.
And this was exactly how the old woman felt. But she did not regret the risks she had taken to be out today. She looked forward to reaching her destiny as soon as possible. She passed a few side roads and continued to onto Charles Hill rising in front of her. The motor of the vehicle whined as it climbed the hill, tires swerving for solid purchase, until the car finally reached the top.
Beyond the hill was the village of Elstead, nestled into the valley beside the River Wey that issued into the Thames. The estate the old woman wanted to reach was at the the top of Charles Hill.
Turning to the left, she followed a side road through the woods and the manor came in view. It was built in the Jacobean style that had followed the Tudor and Elizabethan architecture at the beginning of the 17th century. A trained eye could still see Renaissance elements and some Italian influence. The heavy style of a main hall and two attached cross-wings with Hammerbeam roofs were still in place. Another change from the past century was the addition of more columns framing the stair from the drive to the main entrance (and side entrances), giving the mansion a more graceful image. The main portion of the building had a flat roof with open parapets, and the two levels had rectangular, mullioned windows. There were a lot of brick chimneys – smaller and larger ones. Smoke could be discerned wafting sluggishly through the falling snow. The manor, made of reddish brick with grey adornments, looked inviting and yet gloomy in one.
The old woman steered the motor car around the blessedly cleared driveway that ended in a patio. Sighing with relief at attaining her destination, she exited the vehicle. Her ankle boots were dirty and wet like the hem of her coat. Bending down she took the precious bottles out of the footwell and headed to the main entrance, where one of the servants opened the door.
"Good day, Miss Lunette. The Viscount just finished his lunch and is expecting you in his study," the keeper of the keys said; an older man with a grey hair crown, brown eyes and a soft voice.
"Thank you, Howard," Brynna Lunette responded. "Please move the car to the garage before it fills with snow." The high-ceilinged entryway spoke loudly of the mansion's nearly three hundred years history. One could almost hear the voices from the last three centuries whispering in the corners around her. Ignoring those voices, she cleaned her boots on the boot scraper by the door, crossed the entrance hall, then turned left before the curved staircase to the upper level and the gallery there. Down the long corridor she came to a closed door and – arms full of the box of bottles – knocked her right booted foot against a door.
"Enter!" came the answer.
"My arms and hands are full, Dalton, so open the door." Her voice was strong, yet rough, her Welsh accent muted.
A moment later the door opened and a man in his mid twenties stood in the doorway. He had thick blond hair, cool grey eyes and an even, attractive face that made most young girls sigh adoringly at him. He was clad in tweed trousers, an open-collared shirt and a smoking jacket of dark velvet. Paperwork in his home office and no visitors were the excuses he had for such casual attire.
"You are late," he said stood back for the old woman to enter. "It's already past lunch."
"You needed the water. I would have been back earlier, but the road is a mess," she told him. "You should use your influence in Farnham to get it paved."
"It's the weather. The snow makes travel difficult," he sighed.
"There is a wonderful new invention called 'asphalt'," she said drily, "and it's marvelous at keeping roads drivable. We may be in the district next to Nowhere-At-All, but we're close enough to London to deserve civilized roads!"
Viscount Dalton Harvey Ashford, first (and only) living son of Earl Ashford, grimaced and took the bottles from the woman, placing them on the oversized desk, then leaned back on it. Because electricity had reached their district a scant eight years ago, said desk was illuminated by an electric desk lamp, and another fixture by the ceiling was also lit. A well-tended fire crackled in the large open fireplace, sending a warm glow over the wood paneled walls, ceiling, floor, bookshelves and thick carpets. The young earl was backlit by the desk lamp; there were shadows under his eyes that weren't completely caused by the bulb overhead. An old oil painting, showing a man in his mid forties, dressed in the style of Napoleon, hung over the open fireplace. The desk was positioned in front of large windows overlooking the gardens.
"I see you were successful," he commented, while Lunette removed the veil from her hat and sat in a chair by the desk.
"Of course," she murmured and opened her wet, dirty tweed coat. Under it was dark woolen dress with a high collared white blouse. "The way to the Mother Ludlam's cave is dangerous during such weather, but the cave itself has not changed since the days she supposedly lived there." She pointed to the water. "Just drink one bottle, the rest I will store in my special chamber. Perhaps we should send your father a few of them. His stock must be running low by now, as well."
Dalton pressed his lips in a firm line, before he replied, "I received word that he suffered yet another fit – the second this month. Mother called me half an hour ago." He indicated the tall, skeletal telephone on the desk, and a recent new convenience to certain homes. (A direct wire to the person you were trying to reach wasn't necessary anymore. This had been replaced with a telephone 'exchange' at a telephone station close by that you could reach by lifting the receiver and dialing. You gave the lady at the exchange the number of the person you wanted to speak to, she linked you to his or her town and there the telephone station linked you to the one you wanted to reach; it created jobs for many women of that time.)
Brynna lifted two grey eyebrows. "Your father is most fortunate to feel the effects of the illness only now – at the age of fifty. His father was already under the curse when he turned forty."
"Yes, and yet the affliction grows. I can already feel its effects," Dalton growled. "I need this mysterious cure you told me about. You said you found the recipe for it, but you still need one more element. Any chance that you'll find it soon?"
The old woman watched him closely. The pale skin and shadows beneath his eyes weren't only signs of no outdoor exercise, but also revealed that he was not completely healthy.
The Ashford Curse, they called it.
The Ashford family originated in the village Ashford in North-Surrey, where the rivers Ash and Colne crossed. Its roots reached back to the Bronze Age, but it was first mentioned as Exeford in the middle of the 11th century during the Norman Conquest. It was when the brother of William the Conqueror seized the area. Afterward, the land belonged to different earl or barons, but was most forgotten by them. Except for some agriculture, a lot of marshes and a small manor, there hadn't been much in the surrounding landscape when Earl Gilbert Ashford received pocket of land as a gift from Elizabeth I for his bravery in one of the battles with Spain. Yet true wealth was not won in the first generations, but from ruthless family politics.
During the many conflicts such as the War of the Roses, the Civil War and the struggles after them, the Ashfords managed to maneuver to the side of the winners – whoever they were – and had bested another noble family of higher rank, south of Guildford, by clever tactical rumormongering during the political chaos surrounding around Queen Anne's death in 1714. The Ashfords' reward for their 'service to the crown' was the gifting of the manor of said higher ranking family which had fallen from favor – the manor they occupied since then.
The advancement of the Ashfords during the first years of King George I was rapid, but wealth and influence earned by iniquitous methods always comes with a high price. For this family, beginning the following generation, soon learned that every male born to that bloodline came down with an unknown illness that first weakened him until he could no longer walk nor stand on his own, then killed him during middle age. During the last centuries the illness seemed to pass from father to son, and so on. Modern medicine of the beginning of the 20th century was better than it had been only two or three decades earlier, but still could not cure this curse.
Earl Marlow Ashford, Dalton's father, now suffered from it, forced to lie down during the day for increasingly longer periods. And Dalton now felt its creeping weakness growing in him, having nothing to do with work.
Opening a bottle, the young viscount took a few swigs directly from it, and then looked at the old woman.
"You are right," she scowled. "I must find it as soon as possible – but time is a complicated thing. Especially at the place where those essential ingredients are found."
Dalton took a deep breath. "Brynna, I've known you all my life-"
"Of course, after all, I was your nanny," she remarked.
He smiled wanly. "But what I want to say is: you searched for years for a cure and you said you found it – but ingredients must be mixed or brewed or whatever with a special substance, but you never told me what that substance is – or where we can find it. The healing waters of Ludlam's Cave here," he lifted the bottle, "is only a provisional solution. It helps only somewhat, but not enough. It's certainly not enough for my father. It's high time you 'sail or get off the ship,' my dear."
"I understand," she replied and – in a rare display of affection – rose and cupped his cheek with a thin hand. "The element I need belongs to an animal – a beast – you cannot find in our world anymore." She saw his eyes widening and lowered her hand. "But it still exists in other realms."
"In other … realms?" he asked, perplexed. "Brynna, I know you have powers other women do not. And I know that you are experimenting with … well … you only can call it magic, but …"
"What is magic, Dalton? Magic is but a word people use for whatever they can't explain. Look at all these new scientific devices." She pointed at the lamp and the telephone. "You have lights without fire, you can hear people speaking miles away – even all the way to the continent. What do you think people would have called that a hundred years ago?"
The young man sighed. His Welsh nanny often talked in riddles, and he knew that she had collected knowledge others would call 'eerie' and 'mysterious.' As a young boy he had been fascinated by it and by her, but now he was old enough to doubt things that belonged to the world of 'witchcraft'. Yet she had proven repeatedly that there were indeed "more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of" in his own worldly philosophy.
"Well, those people would have called it magic, I agree," he admitted. "But these new devices were developed by humans, Brynna. They can explain them. There's a big difference between them and what you refer to as another realm. There is-"
"They do exist." She saw his skeptical expression and continued, "Certain places contain a portal through which you can step into another realm. One of those portals is nearby. All I need is someone who has already been there and been touched by its magic. Then I can open the portal and we can retrieve the ingredient necessary for your and your father's cure."
"A portal to another realm?!" Shaking his head, Dalton looked towards the open fireplace. "This isn't an April-joke, right?"
"I wouldn't joke about such things," the old woman replied.
Dalton nodded. "You do understand how crazy that sounds, don't you?" he asked flatly.
"Yes, and yet you've already seen the Little People, and you know of the existence of beings that most people today don't believe in anymore – at least not out of the countryside."
He pressed his lips into a thin line. Oh yes, he remembered when Brynna took him with her to Dartmoor during one of his stays in Dartmouth. He was twelve – a boy struggling between childhood and manhood, and all that was expected of him and his title. That trip to the moor exposed him to a world beyond the one he lived in. Since that trip, he knew that the faery folk were more than legend, for he saw pixies riding on the wild Dartmoor Ponies. But it was one thing to share stories of fairies, pixies and gnomes, of a whole separate realm that existed beside this world, and quite another to talk of visiting and using that realm.
"So, assuming this is real – how do we find someone who has been there?"
"Good question. Folks today don't usually go about telling others of visiting such places, or seeing the magical folk. No one would believe them and-"
He laughed, remembering. "What you say sounds a lot like the stories Victoria's friend tells. If I understand Vicky correctly, her friend has even written them down."
Brynna tensed. "What stories? What did Vicky tell you about them?"
Dalton shrugged. "My dear cousin is rather vague when telling of her friend's hobby. I think, she fears that her friend will be laughed at." He saw the woman's piercing query in her gaze, and reached into his memories. He sighed, closing his eyes. "There is an island, full of mystical creatures and a boy who won't grow up. And-" He stopped and opened his eyes as Brynna gasped, shock on her face.
"A boy who won't grow up?" She repeated slowly, then took a deep breath. "The island of eternal youth," she whispered. "So 'tis true!"
"Beg pardon?" The young viscount was confused.
She took a very deep breath, collecting herself. "It's a legend – one of those tales which refuses to go away. It tells about a special … Faery Realm, I don't know what else to call it. It's full of the Good People – and bad ones. And a boy lives there. A boy who won't grow up." She narrowed her eyes, thinking fast. "Perhaps this girl has been there. Perhaps she's the one I've searched for – the one, we need."
Dalton waved a hand dismissively. "Well, it's possible she just heard the same stories you have. You can ask her yourself. She and Vicky arrive late afternoon tomorrow in Godalming, traveling directly from Roedean-school. I invited the girl to stay overnight here, then continue to London together with Vicky and me the following day."
"You invited her?" Brynna lifted both brows.
"Of course," he replied wryly. "It's common hospitality. Classes end midday, then the girls will go to Brighton, then to Surrey. There's a ball Saturday evening in London, and I've promised to accompany Victoria; naturally I thought it a good idea to invite her friend stay here. Otherwise she wouldn't reach her home before evening, and the two are nearly inseparable. I was quite glad to see that Vicky found such a good friend after her parent's death-"
The old woman raised her hand to halt the explanation. "It's all right, Dalton. You don't have to answer to me for your decisions. That time is long past."
"I know," he grumbled, yet sometimes the boy she'd known slipped in and out of the young man's older features.
Brynna chuckled quietly, then she grew serious again. "So, Victoria and her friend will arrive tomorrow. This is good news. I must know if this girl is the one we need to open the portal, some way into the land of eternal youth."
"Eternal youth – you know how that sounds, old girl?" Dalton frowned. For a moment he asked himself if his old nanny had lost her mind, but she appeared completely serious and in her right mind. Truly, she looked sharper than many of the adults he had to deal with as an viscount. And, by the way, she was the one with the knowledge of magic.
"Yes, I know. Trust me, my boy, I know exactly what I'm doing." She clapped his shoulder "What's the name of Victoria's friend?"
"Um, it's an odd one I'd never heard before. Something like Winslow, Winifred, Windy. No! Wendy! Wendy … um, Darling."
*** PP *** PP ***
Neverland / date: Unknown (because no-one cares)"PAN!"
The enraged voice roared through the peaceful early morning haze and startled several seagulls nesting on the high cliffs near the fearsome four-masted Spanish. "You damned useless BRAT!"
High-spirited laughter answered this assignation, followed by a cheerful, "I only wanted to spare you a walk to the water closet!"
Peter carelessly hovered over the bed of the soaking, infuriated captain, but the man reached up suddenly with his good hand and grappled the boy's ankle, dashing him to the hard deck between carpets. "Did you have to be so rough?" he asked indignantly, rubbing the injured parts and trying to sit up.
As always he was clad in knee length trousers made of leaves, which wrapped around his upper body and held up over his left shoulder. A vine was slung over the right one as a kind of weapon sash, another one decorated his left arm and a third one was used as belt and held his musical pipe and a knife at his hip. The sandy-gold locks were something of a mess but somehow only added to his mischievous, sunny appearance. One could tell at first glance that you were looking at a child who spent ten thousand summer days in the sunshine, free of parental discipline or control. He was free in spirit, soul and body, and the crystal blue eyes spoke of the many adventures he'd already had in the wilderness of the island, where jungles, woods and high cliffs were visible through the open windows of the captain's cabin on the Jolly Roger.
James Hook, occupant and captain of said ship, had leapt from the bed, dripping wet. Flinging his drenched locks out of his face, he glared at the boy. Wearing only his breeches, the water ran over his bare back, chest and arms, and dripped onto the thick carpets. The bedclothes were also completely soaked, an empty jug on the nightstand.
With two panther-like strides he was at the boy, who quickly rolled away, but too late. The strong hand of the buccaneer gripped the sash and dragged him to his feet. Instantly Peter's hand reached for his dagger, then left it, while he kicked Hook at the shin, but it was no use – after all, he was barefoot. In the next second, he was hurled against the large dining table that trembled with the blow. Several of the dishes fell to the floor, but this time, Hook did not care.
Peter gasped and steadied himself on the heavy table. "How can someone be in such bad mood on such a good morning?" he grumbled and turned around – only to face the pointed end of his eternal opponent's long sword braced at his throat. Instantly he grew stiff. Okay, that hadn't happened since they'd fought side by side against the wizard.
Hook gulped air like a bellows and fire blazed in his forget-me-not-blue eyes. "Now you have gone too far, Pan! I have had a bellyful of your childish, wicked pranks, boy!" he spat.
For just a moment, Peter swallowed. A furious Captain James Hook with a sword wasn't a good thing. Then he grinned, once more the careless, mischievous child. "I prefer to fill my belly with a nice breakfast!"
A cynical smile played around Hook's lips while his moustache jerked. "Always ready to make jokes, aren't you, Pan? You can never tell when the situation is serious!" His voice was low and dangerous. "It is about time that you are taught a lesson again, my boy." He closed the distance to Peter and glared down in the widening eyes of his young foe.
Suddenly, Peter wasn't there. He'd dropped away from the balde to roll under table to safety, but he hadn't calculated on Hook's anticipation of this maneuver. The captain simply kicked over the table so that the boy was caught between the large wooden legs and the underside of the table. The dull blow of the heavy furniture on the carpeted floor seemed to echo through the whole ship. And for once it didn't bother Hook that its contents were strewn in multi-colored disarray of dishes and foodstuffs on his floor. Usually he loathed disarray.
Peter had almost hit his head at the heavy wooden tabletop. Hastily he turned around and realized that he was, indeed, trapped, table-legs on both sides, tabletop behind him, and before him a furious James Hook with a sword. The boy swallowed hard as an uneasy feeling awoke in his guts, and he began to wonder if dumping a jug of water over the sleeping pirate hadn't been one of his best ideas.
It had been some time now that he and the new Lost Boys (whom he he'd brought with him from his sporadically visits to London) had started to play pranks on the pirates again. The understood truce between him and Hook had taken several serious blows since then. And it just … might … possibly … seem as if this truce had reached its end.
He tried again. "Don't be so dramatic, Hook. It was only water…" He tried to calm the enraged pirate, but the result was – of course – the opposite.
"Dramatic?" Hook snarled. "My whole life is one drama after another since you, you little pest, stepped into it!"
Peter gulped. Why had he told Tinker Bell to stay in the hideout instead of coming with him? Ah yes, to keep an eye on the new Lost Boys. And now here he was – Peter Pan, caught by an enraged Hook. To tell the truth: he was getting nervous. The buccaneer hadn't been in such a murderous mood for a long time now. Not since they had defeated the dark warlock together and spent a day side by side at sea. And facing the 'old' James Hook again wasn't much fun after all, he had to admit. "Calm down, Hooky, it was only water-"
"Calm down?" the pirate exploded, and the boy pressed himself against the tabletop as he felt the sharp point of the sword stinging the skin at his throat. "First you polluted our fresh water with sea water, and it took half the crew hours to replace it with new water from the island! Then you wet our firewood so that Cookson was unable to cook a decent meal, and we had to sleep in cold quarters! Then you unhitched our yards, so that we had a full day to put the riggings back in order. And now you pour out a full jug of water over me! And all this in the last five days. And you have the nerve to tell me to 'calm down'?"
For a moment Peter felt concern – listening to that listing of his pranks pulled the past week sounded excessive, even to him – but then he stubbornly stuck his chin out. "And what about you? First you spoiled the warriors' buffalo hunt. Then you interrupted the wedding of Strong Bear when you barged in with your hunting party! Then you frightened the gnomes half to death by threatening them when they crossed your path. And now you're hunting my friends again!"
"You friends!" Hook's lip curled in a familiar sneer. "Is that what you call that gang of filthy vagabonds that flock around you?"
Peter's temper suddenly surfaced, and ignoring the blade at his throat he hissed, "At least I have friends – unlike you, codfish!"
Suddenly Hook grew calm (a very bad sign), and dropped to one knee before the boy, his mutilated right arm propped on his right knee, sword still at the youth's throat. Peter swallowed. It was quite rare that he saw that old injury, and a bad feeling gnawed his conscience. He'd never asked, but he was certain that the man's right arm still pained him. One look at the stump with the deep scars on its uneven end where the skin had been sewn together seemed to prove that thought correct. Then his eyes found Hook's again, and he felt his body grow cold. The center of the captain's eyes had grown … red, a certain sign he was ready to kill, truce finally forgotten.
"I may have no friends, Pan," the man growled quietly in a sepulchral tone. "But these cannot leave me!"
It was a verbal slam, and it was successful. Peter winced, remembering yet again Slightly, his former second in command; Nibs, his strategist; Curly with his mass of curls and freckles; Tootles, who always seemed to be eating and late for the adventures; the Twins, who completed each other sentences; John and Michael and their new ideas. And, of course, he thought almost every day of the mother, Wendy – the girl who had won his boyish heart.
It still hurt, knowing they'd chosen to return to London, but he always banished those thoughts to the forgetful part of his mind.
Hook saw the change of expression. "Well, well! Such a sorrowful look of grief! I never thought that you were capable of it, but then I've seen your puppy dog eyes before. It hurt to lose them, didn't it, Pan?"
Hearing the mockery in the man's voice rallied the boy. "What do you know about friendship, Hook?"
"More than you think, boy! Friends stay with you, no matter what. Well, where are your old friends now? Have they found another, better life instead of staying in a jungle, playing pranks every day – or fighting against enemies you have unnecessarily provoked?"
"They-"
"They haven't come back." He spat out the words slowly. "The question is: why? You've been in London since our battle against S'Hadh – after all, that pack you call friends now came from there. So why have your 'old friends' not returned with you, but instead decided to remain?" Hook truly was curious about this detail. He'd expected to see the boys and Wendy back in Neverland before now. But every time Pan had been to London, he always he returned alone or with a new Lost Boy in tow. And it made Hook suspicious.
Peter glared, "They wanted to-"
The heavy door to the captain's quarter slammed open, and a breathless, half-dressed Smee stormed in; Akeele, the huge black dreadlocked pirate; the tattooed gunman, Billy Jukes; and homely Cookson, the ship's cook nearly tripped over each other storming the cabin.
"Cap'n, you a'right?" the old Irishman wheezed. "Jukes heard noises coming from yer quarters, and-" He halted, rocking back on his heels when he saw the chaos of the overturned table and the mess of food and dishes on the carpeted floor. And there in the center sat a small dirty figure, clad in leaves. The boatswain moaned, realizing what happened. "Whataya done this time, boyo?"
Peter pointed at Hook, smirking. "Can't you tell!" The captain was still dripping.
Smee sighed. The boy must be suicidal to mock Hook, who looked more than angry.
"I am not impressed at how quickly you gentlemen came to your captain's rescue. How long has it been? Three minutes? Four?" Hook's exasperation was greeted by bowed heads from the four men.
Smee started in on their excuses, but was impatiently interrupted by his commander. "No details, Mr. Smee." He threw the others a quick glance. "You three, return to your duties – fall asleep and you'll be flogged. Smee, remain!"
Smee turned to wave the other three out the door, and threw the boy a glance – 'Ah, lad, what are ya thinkin'?' Out of earshot, the other three made bets about Peter's chances over the next few minutes. Cookson and Akeele guessed that the tentative truce between their short-tempered commander and the ageless boy was over, Billy Jukes held against it.
Back in the cabin, Hook had returned his attention back to Peter, who still was still trapped between tabletop, table legs and the captain's sword. "So, where were we? Ah, yes, your friends. They haven't come back until now – why?"
Peter stared at him. "Nothing you need to know about!"
"Au contraire, I think I do," Hook replied and added pressure from the blade against the boy's throat. "Or are you really going to challenge me?"
The youth gulped, glaring. "They… they couldn't come with me," he admitted.
"They couldn't? Pray tell, WHY?"
An image crossed Peter's mind: an image of John reading, Slightly and Nibs, sitting together in a room (that once had been the nursery) after dark, well-dressed, neat, and clean and surrounded by valuable (matching!) furniture, books and maps for school on their laps and on the table. They had been surprised to see him, had greeted him as always, full of joy and affection – but something had been different. Something he couldn't understand, but which became more obvious the last time he was there. They had grown older – even Peter could see it, and he was well practiced at ignoring what he didn't want to see.
"At my last visit John, Nibs and Slightly were so … tall, a least half a head higher than me," he heard himself saying. "And Michael and the Twins were up to my nose. And they used to be more than a head shorter than me. Tootles is about my height now, and John, Slightly and Nibs… their voices sound like they have colds." He bit his lips. "That's the reason I picked up new boys to join me." His voice had grown soft as he recounted that visit – especially when he saw Hook's face.
"Voices like a cold?" the pirate asked baffled, knowing exactly the reason for it. "Interesting. It seems they preferred to grow up rather than come back," he taunted.
Peter shot him another glare. Of course the man had to put the finger on it and cruelly re-opened the well-hidden wound. "Why did I ever think you'd changed?" the boy growled. "How could Wendy think it? You are nothing but a filthy, old, mean, black-hearted villain, who-"
"SILENCE!" Hook thundered, who had jerked slightly at the girl's name. There were so many things he missed on this island, and one was that sweet madcap. He missed the clever banter with her and her curiosity about everything. He missed her blossoming female charm, so infatuating in her artlessness. He missed her cheerful laughter and the shy smiles she had given him. And he missed her temperament and her stubborn fighting spirit that had led to their mock sword battle the first time she'd returned.
He had waited for her to come back to Neverland, for she'd promised during their farewells. But days had turned into weeks, and weeks had turned into months, and still there was no trace of her. Now Pan mentioned the gruff voices of the older boys, and the growth of the smaller ones. Something was changing or had already changed – he felt it in his bones. And it made him uneasy.
He focused again on the boy, for Peter had used the momentary distraction of his opponent to make a move for his dagger. "Draw it, and you are history, brat! This time for real!" Hook growled threateningly, and Peter knew not to provoke him in this instance.
"You wouldn't kill me," Peter said calmly. "If you really harmed me, Wendy would never forgive you. She'd never speak to you again, but would learn to hate you all over again!" Only one who knew him well could hear the trembling his in his voice as he played the new 'card up his sleeve'. He knew that Wendy's opinion was important for the man in front of him. Maybe it was important enough to calm Hook down.
Peter's words struck home, Hook realized unwillingly. Brimstone and gall! That little devil knew his weak spot, for certain! He took a deep breath, feeling some of the anger leaving him at the mere thought of the sweet storyteller, bringing out the mercy he thought he'd lost long ago. "And how would she learn of it?" was his frustrated response. "After all you didn't bring your precious Wendy back here again."
"That isn't true!" Peter protested. "I wanted to, but… The first time I was there after the war, Wendy was ill, and the second time she was with her aunt in some other town. Parent or something – in a land called Frank."
Hook lifted a brow. Red-handed Jill had been ill? And why, the devil, did he care? Of course, she was healthy again, otherwise she wouldn't have traveled later.
Hold it – what town? "Where?" he asked astonished.
"Parent – in a land called Frank," Peter repeated. "An odd name for a land, don't you think?" he added.
Hook and Smee exchanged glances, but while the bo'sun only blinked in confusion, the captain inferred what the boy was referring. "You certainly mean Paris in France," he said.
Peter shrugged. "Well, that sounds like it," he admitted.
Hook groaned. "You cretin! Paris is the capitol of France – one of the largest and most civilized countries on the continent. Hell and gall, boy, your concentrated ignorance could dull an entire continent!" He shook his head, then he realized what Pan had told him: Wendy was traveling with her aunt – Paris, for God's sake, city of lights! This was a certain sign that she was growing up and… and …
… And was forgetting Neverland … and him.
And why, by all the devils in the Seven Seas, should this thought bring him pain? 'No, she will not forget! She has the bracelet!' the voice that was the heart of James whispered in him. 'And even if she has started to forget, then, her memories had to be refreshed!'
"So, she was in Paris," he murmured. "And you were only twice in London?"
Peter shook his head. "No, more than that. But she always was at this boring school that she didn't want to go to when I brought her back to Neverland the second time. She even sleeps there, John told me."
"Of course," Hook sneered; making a face. "Only you could call school boring." Then he frowned. Just a moment, Wendy slept there? In a school? That could only mean… "Or do you mean a boarding school?" he asked carefully.
Again the boy only shrugged, carefully mindful of the blade at his throat. "Maybe that's what John said," he conceded, then he frowned. "And Wendy, too, before I brought her back the last time. She was afraid she would be sent there."
Hook blinked in surprise. A girl in a boarding school? There were a few boarding schools in England, of course – Eaton, Charterhouse were two – but they were for boys. When were girls allowed to attend boarding school? Since when did they exist for girls at all?
"In ot'er words, ye didn't meet her again, only a few of her brodders, old enough now ter have their lower voices," Smee recapped what he'd just heard. "Well, it seems dat dere childhoods be as good as over."
Hook nodded slowly, as he heard Smee's assessment. Damn! Damn it all to a wizard's hell! Wendy and the rest of Pan's gang were growing up – and he was sitting here like a 'pig in a poke' on this cursed rock in the middle of nowhere…
A shrill jangling jarred him from his reverie and a golden flash raced through the open window. The next moment Hook felt himself yanked backwards by his hair onto his backside.
"Blasted fairy!" he shouted; glaring at the star-fairy Tinker Bell; Peter Pan's loyal adorer (and caretaker, if you looked closely enough at their relationship).
Seeing his prison opening, Peter leapt forward, foot colliding with the man's damp shoulder as he took to the air. "You are still slow, old man!" the cocky voice crowed as he disappeared out the open window.
A frustrated growl escaped the captain, and he threw his sword aside. Even without the fairy's intervention he knew he would have given Pan the chance to escape without him – James Hook – losing face.
Because that brat was still his only link to the Mainland – the world Hook and the others came from.
Yes, he truly yearned for the opportunity to teach the boy some manners, especially after the last … well, months? But he'd lost his raging desire to kill the youth, lost it up there, on the top of the 'Mount of No Return', after the boy had thrown himself on the dark wizard to save his life, knowing exactly that one touch of the warlock's hand was fatal. Then, as the volcano was surged toward eruption and he, James Hook, was too weak to move, the boy hadn't left him. Peter remained at his side and held him as the end of their lives approached. But it had been his tiny friends, the fairies, yet again that had saved them both, but Peter had been ready to give his own life for him, James Hook. Even more: he had been ready to face death with him together, something Hook would never forget. Hell's bells, they had even shared jokes together, after the war was over and spent a day together at sea, as Hook had promised him.
Yes, the boy was still a pain in the neck – most of the time – but still he couldn't muster the hatred he once had felt for the little churl. With all the power of a new conviction that he desperately wished would shut up, he'd grown the slightest bit attached to the child. And he knew that was the reason he couldn't have hurt him or even given him the thrashing of his life – despite the soaking he received. Besides, Wendy would be angry with him if she-
Angels and ministering spirits, defend him! What did it matter if a little girl was angry with him? He was a pirate captain, by Neptune's trident, and, by all the fish in the sea, who cared NOTHING about the opinion of a small lass!
But oh, that look of reproach in her large dove-blue eyes, her hurt and disappointment on her lovely face, and-
He was weary of the conflicting thoughts that bounced around in his head, and he sighed. Argh… such a dangerous pirate! The whole Caribbean would burst into mocking laughter if those thoughts ever became public!
"Don' be bo'dered, Sir. Ye'll get him someday!" Smee tried to comfort his superior, misinterpreting his mood. Bryan Smee didn't know why, but the soggy man who sat on the carpet and looking forlorn was more than his captain. He felt a friend's or even a father's urge to protect Hook from the day they first met. O' course the man was more than capable of defending himself, but Smee knew that deep below that apparent wall of steel, a very vulnerable human heart beat, subject to injury. And considering all of the circumstances of his life here in Neverland, and the fact that he shut himself away from the others, inspired in the loyal Irishman the constancy to be something like a friend to him. And even if Hook never thanked him, he knew that his commander appreciated it.
"I know I'll get him someday," Hook answered quietly and rose gracefully. Sighing, he moved to the window, feeling the breeze cool his drying clothing, and let his gaze wander over the waves. Over there, toward the open sea, long sleek bodies rose unexpectedly out of the water and, flipping over, returning gracefully to the deep. He knew they weren't the mermaids, because those beautiful, dangerous creatures remained in the lagoon during the mornings. No, these were dolphins.
Dolphins…
Wendy had adored those animals, and was delighted when she learned how to swim and had play with them. For a moment, he could picture the small shape in a short leather dress and long walnut-brown hair tied back, but it was simply the morning sunlight dancing on the waves, playing tricks on his eyes. Even the sun and the waves were speaking of her to him.
"God, James, get a grip!" he whispered. "She is a child! Even if months have passed and she visits Paris with her aunt, she can't be older than fourteen!"
"Beg pardon Sir?" Smee rasped, who was attempting to right the table for the third time. But the furniture was massively heavy. And so the old boatswain failed again. This time Hook recognized the thump, rolled his eyes and turned, moving past the mess on the floor, bent down, and took the edge of the table with his left hand. "Now!" he commanded, and a moment later the table stood as it should: on four legs.
"Thank ye, Sir," the Irishman sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Ye definitely have more strength than me old arms."
"But, regrettably, not every problem can be solved with physical strength," he murmured and walked over to his wardrobe to fetch a towel. The water still dripping from his curls was beginning to get on his nerves, and nearly trod on broken glass. Oh… damn it all to hell.
Smee smiled reassuringly and pushed his spectacles higher on his snub nose. "I get a broom t' clear this mess 'ere." He went to the door. "And afterwards I'll be sure y' get a good breakfast. You'll see, Cap'n, everything becomes shinier with a full belly."
Hook restrained a humorless laughter as Smee left. Yes, he was hungry. Hungrier, it seemed, than ever before in his life. But this hunger would not be sated with bread, wine, rum nor any of the delicacies of the world. No. This hunger would only be satisfied by an angel face and a pair of pouting lips which were out of reach … and the bell-like laughter that once had warmed his not-so-black heart…
But she was far away, at home. And he was here, on this blasted island and…
And was still wet!
"Damn!" Hook cursed and finally strode to water closet. Such was his start to this new day!
TBC…
This was the first chapter and I hope you enjoyed it. In the next one you'll meet Wendy again and learn more about what happened to her in those five years, and you'll meet her friend, Victoria, who is going to have an important role in everything. And then there are new arrivals in Neverland – newcomers some people may find interesting, like Peter does, and others will be shocked, like Hook and his men.
I hope you liked the chapi and I'm curious what you think about it.
Love
Yours Lywhn / Starflight