Work Text:
Chapter 1:
In Which Peter Eats His Vegetables
"He was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees but the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the little pearls at her." -J.M. Barrie
Peter had given Wendy his biggest goodbye. It was his largest by the measure of how hard it was to say it, and still as he flew towards his Neverland home, he felt it tugging him back to that bright little window in London. Never again would windows be the same to him, and he felt he could now tell all windows apart from Wendy's same as you could tell a person from far away simply by their gait.
Even in his deep underground home, Peter felt the goodbye still tugging at his heart. Distance seemed to faze it very little. In the silence of the empty hollow tree, Peter listened to his aching heart-beat. He thought he should play his pipes, to break the ticking and tocking, but it reminded him furiously of time. Not because he was at all familiar with referring to a clock for time, but because it reminded him of the crocodile, who had so recently swallowed Captain Hook once and for all. It was frustrating for him, to have killed Captain Hook, for in a way he missed his playful quarreling with him. Of course, he could bring him back, if only he wished it. It was a land of make-believe after all. Yes, he thought, I would like to bring back James, when I am no longer cross with him for trying to kill me. He knew he would not be cross for long, for he was aware of his outstanding talent for forgetfulness. He had forgotten, after all, what it was that had made them enemies in the first place and it was not three days that passed that the Jolly Roger fired old Long Tom in celebration of Hook's return.
The one thing he must not forget, though, was to visit Wendy for her to come back for her yearly spring cleaning. Wendy was a thought he could not, and would not forget. He was so pressed to not forgetting, that he forced himself to drink his medicine every night to remind him of her. Of course, he forgot to refill it with water, so now the medicine was wholly pretend. He would wrinkle his nose at it, and stick out his tongue in disgust before 'swallowing' whole the saccharine stuff. And although he really couldn't taste anything, it was still a chore to remember doing something all the time, every time. He could not, like before, trick one of the Lost Boys to take it for him since the Lost Boys had never come back. He had wished them to, but they must have not been from Neverland in the first place, for he could not summon them. Loyal companions no more! Traitors and mutineers! They had left with Wendy, and his heart still smarted from the wound. Let them not come back! He had thought, feeling the most treacherous feeling he knew of yet. Whether he knew it or not, and we daresay he did, Peter's Neverland always adjusted itself to his will. Thus, in being so cross at the Lost Boys, four new pirates boarded the Jolly Roger, known as Noodler, Slightly, and a pair of conjoined twins (for he had always been confused on the existence of twins and had forgotten how to portray two different people as one). But Peter could not bring himself to make Wendy board the ship, even though almost half of him wished it. His other, larger half stayed deafeningly silent on the subject.
The Island was a constant state of autumn, now. With warm-ish days, and cold frosted nights. His leaves no longer kept him warm and he began to wear some old stockings and shirts Wendy had mended for the Lost Boys. He so loved wearing the things she had mended, for it reminded him of her. Sometimes he would wear two pairs of stockings at once just to feel the clumsy stitching poking at his feet while he walked. He had even poked a few holes in a pair and set it by the chair to see if Wendy would come by and mend it for him, if he wished hard enough. No such thing happened, and it saddened him. His prideful complexion was melting into that of a sorrowful lump. He had adventures, still, but most of them benign. Alone with his thoughts, in his world of wonderland, he became fascinated with the turning of leaves, and began to question things that went away and never came back. The things that he wondered about ranged from butterflies to seashells, but all the while, in the middle, he thought about Wendy. All this thought, was of course due to his loneliness. He had frightened himself, one night, thinking about how he had ever even met the lost boys. It seemed to him they had always been there, now he thought there must have been a time when he had not known them, and he was alone.
I wish to be a father, so that I could fly to Wendy and tell her to be the Mother. He thought. Only that, would be reason enough to pull her away from her world, and come play with him in Neverland.
To that thought, he resolved to find out how to make children of his own. The Pirates, not yet holding any quarrel with him nor the Natives, did not mind when Peter came stalking by, one day. He greedily headed straight for the Jolly Roger's kitchen and began to partake, without asking, in the delicious meal prepared by old Smee. It seemed it would not be long, then, that they should be enemies once more.
"Manners, Peter!" He could almost hear Wendy scolding. In his sudden embarrassment, he replaced the fruit he had bitten in the bowl and cleverly turned in a way that the missing chunk in the fruit was hidden. Smee had witnessed, of course, but was soft natured, and not keen to fighting when not necessary. He simply wiped his hands on his little smock and questioned Peter's presence.
"I want very much to become a father." Peter spoke.
Smee's eyes widened with surprise.
"Why, Peter, you must be grown to have children!" He said, as if it was quite obvious. Instantly offended by the idea, Peter retorted,
"But it is just pretend! I was father to the lost boys for a whole year once!" Of course, he didn't really know how long because he had forgotten, but he truly believed he was giving it a good guess. Smee furrowed his brow, gathering all the largest and most serious thoughts to lecture Peter Pan with.
"Children are a serious matter, Peter! You cannot go around making them as you please!" Smee said, straightening a bit, as he felt so much more knowledgeable on the subject. "It's a great responsibility!"
Peter scoffed. The word 'responsibility' meant nothing to him, for if something did not go right for him, he simply pretended it would, and it did. Except for Wendy of course. She always did as she pleased no matter how it infuriated him.
"Tell me, Smee!" He snapped, and then faintly remembering his manners he added, "… please." Completely warmed to the gills by the boy's small attempt at kindness, Smee could not restrain himself. After all, he so liked telling others about things they did not know, it made him feel so important.
"Ay, boy, alrigh'." He said in his Scottish tone. "Babies, as you should know, come from cabbages."
"Cabbages?!" Peter exclaimed. He had never heard of cabbages. "I've never seen a baby in a cabbage!"
"Well they lie in middle, you see, tucked in nice and warm…" Smee said. They both tried to seem like they knew more than the other, but let us make it clear that Smee knows as much of babies, than Peter knows of cabbages.
"Could you… maybe make me some cabbage, then?" Peter asked. Smee gleamed, for he was being asked on a subject in which he was actually proficient.
"Why it would be my pleasure! I…" He paused, suddenly cautioned. "But it's only for grown-ups, you see." He warned darkly. What mystery! What suspense! Sensing adventure Peter could wholly not resist. He would not admit that he had never actually eaten a cabbage but to taste a forbidden fruit… er... vegetable… was too great a tease.
"I shall pretend to be so, then!" He exclaimed gleefully. "At least, only for supper time."
"What? Pretend to be a cabbage?!" Cried smee.
"No! A grown-up, you cod!" Peter chided rudely. Smee should have drawn his sword at that, but knew he would be far more impressive cooking a cabbage, than bearing a sword. It is a curious thing, cooking, as secret ingredients are added all the time. Love being one of the most famous and delicious. But malice, anger, and pain? Well, whatever their affect on food, Smee accidentally slipped some inside of the cabbage stew which Peter now happily carried away with him.
That evening, Peter set the table as if he were expecting guests. Positioning chairs so that if a Lost Boy were to tumble from any which hole in the ceiling, he might land rump first into a seat. But what if they came head first? Thought Peter. A small bit of knowledge in him told him that children usually came head first, and were considered naughty for coming in the other way. Finishing his preparations for his dinner, Peter began to think about growing up just for the evening, and tied a stocking around his neck like a tie. Tinkerbell, who had seen the whole affair, was flush with the idea of having a proper dinner with Peter. She made herself a guest, sitting at his right-hand side where his pretend wife should have been sitting.
"That's all fine, Tink! You may be my wife for the evening, it will make the whole dinner ever more grown up!" Peter exclaimed. Completely taken with her role as his wife she shone even more brightly.
Peter unveiled the dish and at once held his nose. It was putrid. Tink pretended to not notice, as she liked so much to play the wife.
"Making children smells awful!" He moaned, but the smell could not deter him. He scooped some slimy translucent leaves on their plates and shuffled it about hesitantly with a stick he used for a fork.
"You don't suppose," He said unsure. "We could just pretend to eat it?" At that she shrugged.
"I don't know how people make babies, but us fairies do it very differently." She squeaked. Piqued by curiosity he almost asked her to tell the story to him, but grown-ups did not listen to stories, they told them, and Peter had to wholly pretend to be grown up.
I will tell you, dear reader, because I know that you are dying to know. But I cannot tell you yet, because we are at dinner and it would be uncouth.
And so, in one swift movement, he shoved the cabbage in his mouth. He swallowed as quick as he could, not even daring to let himself taste the stuff, but it couldn't be helped. It was salty, and bitter… the texture was awful. Resolved to finish his plate, as he knew grown-ups always finished their plates, he sat chewing a tasteless chunk much longer than he should, delaying the next bite. His baby teeth were sore with the chewing, but he did not stop. It was his duty, no, his responsibility, as a father. As he swallowed his last bite, he looked hopefully up to the opening of his underground house, but nobody came. He sat staring for a while longer until he was resolved it had not worked. A wave of loneliness overtook him, and he suddenly ripped off the makeshift cravat he had made from stockings and kicked over a stool, which had not been filled with a Lost Boy. He retreated to bed and began to cry. When all of a sudden, he felt his tooth pop out of his mouth. It shot out of him and onto the floor with a tiny clink. With shock and fear he scattered to pick it from the ground. He felt in his mouth where the tooth had come out and found instead a large, clumsy tooth in its place. He moaned, holding dearly to his fallen baby tooth.
"That's what comes!" He said, much like Mr. Darling, "From eating your vegetables, and having a wife!" He said scornfully. Tink shrank in her chair, her light dimming to a hush.
Chapter 2:
In Which Peter Seeks Advice
"But above all [Hook] retained the passion for good form. Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this is all that really matters. From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one cannot sleep. "Have you been good form to-day?" was their eternal question." J.M. Barrie
The next few days were dreadful. His teeth popped out every which way, and big awful ones grew in. He had resolved to think that Smee had tricked him, and immediately set on avenging his precious baby teeth by smearing strawberry jam over all the surfaces the pirates might touch without thinking. Door handles, toilet seats, even inside their shoes. Groans and screams of frustration could be heard from the Jolly Roger for days. Satisfied with his revenge, he of course forgot all about it.
At the forgetting of this most recent adventure he was left, once again, alone in his home. He began to think of his unhappiness, he began to think on Wendy. He was afraid that she had left him quite useless without her. He groaned. Even if he would not admit it, he knew that this was a symptom of Love. Not being able to live without the other. How dreadful. He would never, ever admit it, but Peter knew that he was very much most probably in love with Wendy.
"Stupid cow…" He cursed stubbornly, although he regretted it right away. Wendy was the prettiest Mother he had ever seen. With a great sigh he thought of enticing her with mermaids to come back, but she knew now that mermaids were quite awful, and no longer intrigued her.
In their usual moods, mermaids were testy and rude, and made quick work at sassing others for their own gain, but in the moonlight, they became something otherworldly. It was a shame that Wendy had never come with Peter to Mermaid Lagoon after dark, since she had such strict rules for bedtime, and would not be caught dead out of the house past 7 o'clock.
Maybe the dark wisdom of the mermaids was what Peter needed. If anything mysterious ever happened on the island, the mermaids would know. He wanted to ask them about babies, and how they come to Neverland. Mainly, how to get one. But given the opportunity to ask a possibly omniscient creature anything he liked, Peter was tantalized with other questions to ask that had never before occurred to him. Questions such as 'have the sun and the moon ever met each other?', 'how do you tie one's shoelaces?', and even 'when will Wendy come back to Neverland?'. But all of those questions demanded Peter to swallow his pride, and admit that he never had learned how to properly tie a shoe, and so he would just stick to asking the one. Tink went with him, of course, although somehow jealous that he should set eyes on creatures of any kind of beauty comparable to hers.
Together they marched on to the lagoon, where the mermaids were lying about lazily after playing their strange games all day. The tide was slowly crawling in, and the creatures were preparing themselves to succumb to the moonlight. Peter neared the water and played his pipes, enticing the creatures. A watery bulge made its way towards him and a mermaid appeared from it, splashing him in the face quite intentionally. The sun had not quite set, and they were still full of sass.
"We know why you're here." She said, as if cross.
"Then… you may give me some answers?" He asked. He smiled his new grin full of teeth, and the mermaid pulled a face as if disgusted by this. Peter pulled his lips over his awful teeth and turned quite scarlet.
"You're hideous." She spoke "You've grown." Peter's heart slammed against his ribs, for he had forgotten all-together about Smee's cabbage and did not know why his teeth had grown so suddenly. It certainly did not mean that he had grown, he told himself. It was strange then that in the same thought he yearned for fatherhood.
"I want to become a father." He said dejectedly.
"Well, then you must grow." Said the mermaid. Smee had given him the same answer, and not liking receiving the same unsavory answer from two different people, he pretended not to hear her.
"Where do babies come from?" Peter tried again. The mermaid laughed at him.
"Where did you come from, Peter?" She asked. Peter was stricken. Where did he come from? Well, quite obviously he could not remember, as memory was ill-suited to him. But there was always one little memory to which he so secretly clung to. The bars on the window, and the baby in the pram which was not him. The large round pond of Kensington Gardens…
Did all children come from there? Were all children abandoned by their mothers in a park? Wendy was a mother, and she had abandoned him. He felt himself fill with an awful feeling. It was a strange mixture of pain and longing. He was terribly inexperienced in it, and reacted sourly to it.
Peter had no more to ask from the mermaids, but they had grown bored of him anyways, and had already retreated to the waters while he was distracted in his thoughts. Thoroughly displeased, Peter threw a stone into the water, and then another. Useless fish. He thought.
Peter walked dejectedly back to the tree house, his tongue sliding over his new large teeth uncomfortably. He cared very little about whether the mermaids thought him ugly, but what would Wendy think? Peter was lost in his jumbled thoughts as he passed the mouth of a cave on his way home.
"So, you wish to have children?" A booming voice called forth from the cave. It echoed mercilessly into the air. It was a phantom, Peter was sure of it. What cursed spirit resided inside the chasm? Peter drew his dagger to meet the danger.
"Come forth, Spirit! Show yourself!" He said, bracing a most brazen pose. He was not afraid, at least, that is what Peter would have said of himself. The spirit cackled and the booming voice quieted as a figure emerged from the cave. It was Captain Hook, twisting his long beard around on his hook.
"I am no spirit, boy, merely a man with excellent form. Bear witness." The Captain said as he dipped most gracefully into a bow. Peter was unsure whether to return the gesture, but Hook had bowed with such showmanship that Peter felt compelled to applaud it. Feeling so appreciated, the captain offered him another bow. Hook sighed with happiness, beaming at feeling wholly accomplished in his bowing. The Captain then approached Peter, twisting his mustache all the while.
"You wish to have children, my boy?" He asked again. Peter nodded, refusing to speak for he was so ashamed of his teeth. The captain sighed happily.
"To have children, you must have love. You must have a wife." He said. The captain held Peter close to him by the shoulders then, his menacing hook curling around Peter's arm. Peter had been offended by not one, but two words in Hook's declaration and soured at the prospect of taking a wife and making himself a… husband. Putrid, awful word. He could not even stand to think it!
"And what if I don't want to have a wife?" Peter said quietly, his lips pursed over his large teeth. Hook cackled evilly and whispered devilishly into Peter's ear.
"There is always theft, my boy." The thought twisted into Peter's mind, and Peter found that he quite liked the idea.
He could steal a child, and he knew just the place.
Chapter 3:
In Which Peter Becomes a Father
"That the birds know what would happen if they were caught, and are even a little undecided about which is the better life, is obvious to every student of them. Thus, if you leave your empty perambulator under the trees and watch from a distance, you will see the birds boarding it and hopping about from pillow to blanket in a twitter of excitement; they are trying to find out how babyhood would suit them." J.M. Barrie
Back to Kensington Gardens Peter flew. Tink jingled mischievously in his ear, feeding off of his naughty intentions. With him he brought a knapsack stuffed with all the stockings a mother could mend. It was not guaranteed that he would visit Wendy, in fact, he was not quite sure he even wanted to. No, he told himself, he would simply drop by out of convenience, since it really was just on the way. He flew, determined and enthralled to the Kensington Gardens, which had grown so bittersweet to him. Of course, he had forgotten completely why the place left him feeling such sadness, but he never thought long enough on his feelings to decipher their meaning.
First, he must empty the sack of the stockings, and so he made his way to the little window to which he had grown so fond. For behind this window, his Wendy lived. He landed on the ledge quietly, and gently pulled the window open. She had left it unlocked for him and he was filled with pride that she thought of him still. He would not wake her, not tonight, and certainly not when he looked so ugly with his huge teeth. No, tonight he would simply leave her a small gift; his old smelly stockings which badly needed mending. He laid them carefully on the chair beside her bed, and decided that a Mother would require him to write a note. He had no idea how to do so, but Peter was always one to try anyways. He found a slip of paper on the commode and a pen inside a drawer. Peter sat on the floor in silence, the pen-tip pressed to the paper. It seemed so simple to everyone else, they simply wrote things down as if they were just thinking them out loud. He thought it was magic, rather than a skill, that had yet to befall him, and he hoped that maybe if he thought the thoughts really hard, that they would pour out of the pen willingly. The pen did not budge, and so he and began to drag it across the paper. He made loops when he felt he should, and poked dots as he saw fit. At finishing the note, he held it up to examine it. He certainly could not decipher its meaning, but he left it on the chair anyways for Wendy to find. Softly he made his way back to the window, not without glancing back longingly at her sleeping face. All too clearly he remembered her thimble and it shook him to his core. It was not in Peter's nature to receive thimbles, much less understand their meaning. No, this thimble was a dreadful weight upon his being. With his sack empty, Peter held no more reason to stay and flew out the window, forgetting completely to close it back again.
He flew for the gardens, now, all the while looking out for brave young boys to bring back to Neverland. He landed beside a very large pond, and looked about. Peter withdrew his pipes and piped softly in the night.
"Yoohoo!" He called occasionally about. But no one would answer. Only a chirrup from a bird could he hear. Chirrup chirrup! It cried as he piped his pipes. The bird's call seemed strange to him. Not because a bird was calling in the nighttime, but because he swore he could understand words in its chirping.
"Is there a child here?" He called out.
"Chirrup chirrup, I am a child!" Cried the bird, in the strange bird-language. Peter rushed about to find it, and found a bird by a tree. The bird had no wings and flopped clumsily about. Peter held it softly in his hands and found that it grew into a human baby. He carried it, now in his arms in they way fathers carried their children when they were first born. The baby was heavy and soft, and Peter was stricken by the realness of it. He felt he was now a real father, and Peter smiled more widely now than ever before. But, what kind of adventures could Peter have with a baby? It certainly could not brandish a sword. What an inefficient child he had found! Peter looked down upon it, and tried to be disappointed, but felt a surge of Love that for once he did not feel the need to run away from. Despite the child having no adventures to offer Peter (at least none with a solid body count), he loved it anyways.
"How did you get here?" He asked the baby.
"I fell from my pram, chirrup chirrup, and without wings, I cannot fly." It said. Peter looked up to see a bird's nest above them.
"I can teach you to fly!" Peter said. "Will you fly with me to Neverland?" The baby cooed happily and Peter put it carefully into his sack, taking care that his head was sticking out and not his ass, so that the baby may enter Neverland the right way around, head first. Tink poured fairy dust upon them and Zoom!
Away they went! Peter had taken his first child, and he found that he did not feel the least bit bad about it. He had become a father, and all on his own! He had no need for a wife, or to grow up, he simply took a child for his own! In his glee he twisted and flipped in the air.
All the while back to Neverland, he thought of what to call the child. Little Bird, he thought. It was very important to him to name all things in Neverland. He had named all of the Indians, and all of the Pirates only because he could not bear to try to remember their names if they should pick it out themselves, but alas, he forgot most times anyways. Little Bird would be different, though, for this was his first child that would not be pretend. This would be Peter's first journey into true fatherhood. And although he did not wholly mean to be a real father, the thought suited him very well.
When Peter landed in Neverland he felt the knapsack strangely slacken. He looked to see the baby, but the baby's head was gone! A strange and struggling thing flopped about in the sack. Carefully, he opened it, and out flew a most beautiful bird! Peter was dumbfounded as he watched it fly into the tree-tops. The bird had tricked him into thinking it had been a child, all so that Peter would teach it how to fly. He felt a fool, and he rarely let others have one over on him. Yet, he looked at the gleeful little bird and saw no ill-will in its flight. No, the bird had not tricked him, after all. Peter had imagined it had turned into a baby, simply because he wished it to. Peter stomped away to cry in fury. The bird, wholly confused, went to follow.
"Thank you for teaching me to fly!" He said after Peter.
"Don't even mention it!" Said Peter, cross.
"Why are you so cross, boy?" The bird chirped.
"You were meant to be a boy! Not a bird!" Peter said, pained. The bird took great offense.
"No, I am not a boy!" It said, "I am a girl!" And it flew off, quite enraged. Peter did not care, he was more upset now that he could ever possibly remember, and he shut himself inside of his underground treehouse. He tantrumed all night, leaving Tink in quite a sorrowful mood. He could not pretend himself cheerful again, and it made him feel all the more horrible. The treehouse felt lonelier now than ever, and he wished desperately for companionship. He wished that he had stolen Wendy instead. He knew she would not turn into a bird, and she had been an excellent Mother. He pined horribly for her, and he felt consumed by a feeling completely against the nature of Peter Pan.
Chapter 4:
In Which Peter Takes His Medicine
"'I don't mean a kiss,' she said hurriedly, 'I mean a thimble.'
'What's that?' Peter asked.
'It's like this,' she said, and kissed him.
'I should love to give you a thimble,' Peter said gravely, so he gave her one. He gave her quite a number of thimbles, and then a delightful idea came into his head! 'Will you marry me?'" J.M. Barrie
Peter had wallowed so thoroughly in his own misery that he had exhausted himself, and fallen asleep. He awoke the next day feeling completely unlike himself. The spark of adventure which caused him to rise and play in Neverland, barely ignited. He felt sorrowful for the first time in his life. Little did he know that the Indians, curious about his seclusion, had gathered about the tree-house to spy on him. They meant no harm, but they were curious by nature, and followed their nature without question. When Peter finally emerged, the Indians hid quickly behind bushes and trees, their feathers sticking up above the greenery.
"I can see you." Peter said glumly. The Indians poked their heads out, and then approached him closer to examine him. They picked up his arms, as if feeling their weight and rubbed their chins curiously. They pulled at his curls, and tested their bounce; poked at his cheeks and examined his teeth. The Tribe Healer approached him as well, and turned Peter's head this way and that. She dared even to look up his nose and stared hard into his eyes. She wore long white braids and her ancient face scrunched itself in her assessment of him.
"Peter Pan is very ill." She concluded. The Indians whispered darkly to each other, and Peter gasped in horror. He had never before been ill, and he did not feel wholly so. He could not deny that he was feeling unwell and different, but hardly sickly. But, then he remembered… his medicine. He rolled his eyes. How could he have forgotten? He had not turned up his nose at it in quite some time and dared not even count how many nights he had gone to bed without performing its ritual swallowing.
"Ah, Healer! I have not been taking my medicine!" He groaned. The Healer arched her brows in question.
"Medicine?" She asked. "What kind of medicine cures lovesickness?" The Indians all took in a gasp of shared horror, and Peter shrank in shame. He had no idea that there was such a thing. Being sick from love? It certainly explained a few things, but to have anything to do with that big and frightening word made Peter wince in distaste. How could she have used that awful word, and in front of the whole tribe, too? Now they looked upon him with sorrowful eyes, and Peter was not one to be sympathized. In fact, the only other person who had ever looked upon him with such concern was Wendy, when she declared how badly he was in need of a Mother. It was just now that Peter realized that she had meant in need of Love. Quickly he wondered if lovesickness was a symptom of an excess of love, rather than a deficiency. Ah, but Wendy had also declared him deficient.
"I do not have lovesickness!" He shouted in denial. Peter was very cross at the Healer, and his solemn mood quickly dissipated in his anger. He stomped away from them, feeling suddenly quite like himself. He was not full of lovesickness, he was not! Denying it angered him further and his face turned red with it. The Indians watched him curiously as he stormed off, reluctant to follow.
The leaves had continued to fall in Neverland, and everyday became a bit colder. Peter had left all of his stockings for Wendy to mend, and found that he had grown quite cold. How strange, and how awful that Neverland neared its first winter? Peter felt stuck. He retreated to his underground home, and was left to contemplate without any distractions to relieve him. It was not his habit to think about feelings, and he certainly did not enjoy it, but what was he to do? It simply wasn't true that Peter Pan felt nothing. He did, he felt for Wendy. The healer was right, he was sick with it, that wretched word; Love. He took to his bed, and felt all too snug in his tiny cot. Everything felt uncomfortable and new.
Neverland fell quiet as it experienced its first snowfall. Peter could only remember snow from the first time that he had brought Wendy to play in Neverland, and it made him long for her even more. He was once told that in hard times, one had to listen to their hearts. Feeling quite desperate and awful, he quieted his breathing and listened very intently. The snowfall muted everything around him, even the birds high up in the trees. His ears rang from the silence, and he tried with great effort to listen to his heart, but all he could hear was the ticking and tocking of its beating. It reminded Peter of the crocodile and he was back again at the beginning of his journey.
"Everything is awful!" He moaned. A great wind began to howl outside. Peter shivered in his underground tree-house, and hoped that Wendy would hurry with her mending so that he may don all of his shirts and stockings at once.
"Hurry up, Wendy!" He would have said to her. He could imagine her tut tutting at him.
"Only a bit longer." She would say. "You must have patience."
And so, Peter tried his patience. He waited so very long. He even imagined that it became night, then day, then night again. It was not wholly the truth, but Peter was so in the habit of pretending himself about that he truly believed he waited nearly a week before checking up on her. Really, it had only become late afternoon.
The snowfall ceased, and he took off into the sunset, forgetting Tink behind. He did not mean to, but his mind was so full of seeing Wendy again that he had no room left to remember to take Tink.
When Peter flew over the London skies, he was pleased to find that it was summer there! He basked in the warm night air, and forgot completely why he was going to see Wendy. Without feeling cold, he no longer needed stockings, and without stockings, he had lost his reasoning. But he knew that he was heading there, and that he always had good reason to do things, so he hoped that he would remember when he got there. He landed on her sill, and the window was already open for him! His heart beat in his chest. She was expecting him, she was beckoning him inside. He did not sneak, then, since he felt so invited, and walked to her bed to observe her.
She slept peacefully, if not clumsily, with her blankets and sheets strewn about in the heat of the night. He touched her cheek with what he hoped felt like a butterfly's touch. She seemed so fragile to him. Why was he here? He begged himself to remember. Her eyes slowly opened and she looked up lazily at him, as if she were still dreaming. With a sudden realization, she gasped, and her kiss in the right-hand corner shone ever so brightly. Peter could not help but smile the largest smile he could ever remember smiling. He wondered swiftly if he had come for another thimble.
"Hello, Wendy." He said. The words were so sweet to say, and it seemed to Peter that secretly, he had been longing to say them. Her big blue eyes looked him over then, and suddenly, Peter remembered his ugly large teeth, and he pursed his lips in embarrassment.
"Hello, Peter." She said sweetly. His face fought to smile again, but alas, his embarrassment won out. He turned away from her in shame, and spotted the stockings on the chair. They had been mended and folded neatly for him. Finally, he remembered the purpose of his visit, and felt horrible that he had woken her.
"You've mended my stockings." He said plainly, making sure his face stayed turned from hers.
"Yes," She said. Wendy waited for him to thank her but he didn't. Peter was too distracted by his ugliness. "You're quite welcome, of course, but usually you are meant to give tokens of thanks after being shown a favor." She said.
A token of thanks? He remembered the kiss he had given her after she had sewn his shadow back to him.
"A kiss?" He asked, finally turning back to face her. She turned scarlet.
"If you like." She said softly, closing her eyes and leaning towards him strangely. He had no more acorns to offer her, but a dried leaf clung to his hair, and he figured it must do in a pinch. He tucked the dried leaf behind her ear, and she opened her eyes in surprise.
"Oh," She said, remembering what Peter thought of kisses. Her face fell. Peter groaned. He knew the leaf was not payment enough, and now Wendy thought him awful, he was sure of it.
"I'm sorry," He began. "I had forgotten to bring you a kiss." He confessed. Wendy shrugged nonplussed.
"Well, I guess then…" She said, looking awfully at his mouth. He covered his mouth with his hands, remembering again his teeth. "I guess a thimble will do." Peter gasped in shock. How he would love another thimble! But then he remembered his ugliness.
"I cannot give you a thimble." He moaned.
"Why?" She asked, crestfallen.
"Because… I am ugly." He said. Wendy chuckled.
"Peter, I do not think you ugly at all!" She said. He could not help smiling again, and he bared his awful teeth to her.
"You don't?" He asked. "My smile does not offend you?"
"No!" She said, returning his smile. "In fact, I think it is the most beautiful smile I have ever seen in all of my days." Peter looked greedily upon her smile and found that her mouth was filled with large teeth also.
"Alright." He said, his embarrassment turning to nervousness, he did not know very well how to give thimbles, but Peter was always one to try. "I will give you a thimble." He said. Wendy smiled, and Peter felt suddenly that he had many more to give. If she had asked for two, he was sure that he could manage. Wendy closed her eyes and leaned her face forward again, waiting for his thimble. He leaned into her, unsure, and closed his eyes as well. His lips met hers and the thimble was sweet and warm. He did not wish to separate from her, but felt he was making the thimble much too long, and pulled back, unsure. When he opened his eyes, Wendy looked upon him with such… feeling. Horribly he felt it too. How had he not noticed it? It had snuck around his heart and now squeezed it painfully.
"I hope it was a good thimble." He said, his throat strangely tight.
"It was wonderful." She said, her face turning red.
"Good, then I shan't need to give you another." Peter said, regaining his pride. He made to pick up his things and Peter felt his legs strangely heavy. Wendy's face fell.
"Did you like the thimble, Peter?" She asked. He stopped suddenly to look at her. He certainly did like it, but the thimble had been for her, and not him. She was the one who had mended his stockings, after all. The feeling squeezed his heart again and he found that he could not lie if he tried. It pushed words out of his mouth without him even meaning to.
"I did." He said. She smiled and approached him, blushing.
"Might I ask for another?" She said shyly. Peter was stricken. Well, of course she could have another, but he had no more stockings that needed mending, and no favors to ask of her.
"What for?" He asked. He had meant for what in exchange, but to Wendy, she thought he had meant 'to what purpose', and she felt she had no answer. Peter had gathered his things, and was ready to make his way back, but Wendy fought desperately for reason to keep him.
"The note you left…" She said fetching it from her nightstand, "Did you mean what you said?" She asked. Peter furrowed his brow. He had forgotten what he had meant to write on the note, and when she presented it back to him, it seemed complete nonsense to him. Had he said something offensive in the note?
"What does it say?" He asked.
"Your feelings, Peter." She whispered. The blood drained from his face. How stupid he was! He did not know how to write and out of ignorance had written down his feelings for her to see so plainly. He had confessed something to her that he could not even confess to himself. He had told her that he loved her. All the symptoms of his illness came suddenly rushing back. He felt light-headed, heavy, and confused. He fell dramatically to the ground, clutching at his heart.
"Ugh… Wendy…" He moaned. Shocked, Wendy bent down to him. "Wendy I need… medicine!"
"Medicine?!" She asked confused. "Are you ill?"
"Yes!" He groaned. "I'm… lovesick." He said between clenched teeth. Wendy smiled at him.
"Medicine will not help lovesickness I am afraid…" She said. Peter groaned. That is exactly what the Tribe Healer had told him.
"Then I must die…" He whispered. He nearly cried, for he felt so helpless, but then Wendy laughed at him.
"Peter you will not die!" She said. "In fact, I am lovesick too!"
"You are?!" Peter said, straightening. How wonderful that he was not strange or unusual.
"Yes, and there is a very simple cure." She said. He looked at her expectantly.
"What is it?" He asked.
"You must speak your feelings." She whispered. Peter felt the feelings tighten around his heart, and he could feel the words pushing to come out of his mouth. Ah, it all made sense then. All he had to do was… let go.
"Wendy, I love you." He said in a rush. "Wendy, I love you, and I am so sorry that I did not tell you before." Peter was shocked to find that she gave him a thimble, right there and then, without even asking. He let her linger to him as long as she liked, not minding that the thimble took a very long time.
"Peter I love you too." She said. He looked at her and took a thimble, too, from her without asking, as it was what he thought he was meant to do. He felt filled up with happiness and warmth, and the heavy feeling fell away from him. Finally, he had been cured. How thankful he was for the cleverness of Wendy, and how clever he was to have let himself speak the words. And although Peter really hated to say goodbye to her, the sun had begun to rise in London, and he could not return to his Neverland blinded by it, for how would he see his star? He stood, not gallantly or proudly like he was so accustomed, but for once humbled and content. Wend rose with him, and watched him as he gathered his stockings.
"Thank you." He said, before bowing low, like Captain Hook had shown him, and flew out of the window.
Chapter 5:
In Which Peter Stops Believing
"But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he sometimes fell into sad thoughts and then the music became sad also, and the reason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the Gardens, though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. He knew he could never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be one, but oh, how he longed to play as other children play, and of course there is no such lovely place to play in as the Gardens. The birds brought him news of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in Peter's eyes." J.M. Barrie
The flight back was the most exhilarating he had ever experienced. He felt… feelings. Such soaring feelings. He delayed his journey by swerving over and under the clouds, and somersaulting across the sky, in which the sun rose daringly high. It was with pure luck that he reached Neverland before daybreak, as he surely could not make his way by remembering. The snow had begun to melt, and the sun shone brightly in the whiteness of it all. Peter landed in the forest by his treehouse, and saw to his surprise, Captain Hook.
"I know, I know." Soothed Hook. "What a conniving little beast…" He said quietly to someone much smaller than he.
Hook was nodding sympathetically with a jingling ball of light which was all too familiarly Tinkerbell. She was furious, and her glow shone red from it. Peter suddenly remembered, now, that he had left her behind. He must apologize to her quickly.
At that moment, Peter made himself known, and stepped forth from the woods. Hook took in a breath at the sight of him.
"My, oh my." Hook said. Peter looked about him in confusion. "My, how you have grown." Hook whispered. Grown? Peter? Impossible! But yet, he looked down at his feet, and felt they looked awfully large. His heart raced in panic.
"I have not!" Spat Peter in denial.
"You have." Said Hook, standing to meet him. Hook placed his remaining human hand upon Peter's head to gauge his height, and Peter looked up at him horribly to realize that he needn't look that far up. Their heights nearly matched. Peter stepped back in shock and desperately pretended to be little again. He closed his eyes and stomped about in effort. He hoped, he imagined, to be a boy again. But when he opened his eyes, those big ugly feet were still stuck on his legs. He screamed in horror, and Hook laughed maniacally at him.
"You wanted to be a Father, Peter. Well, there you have it. Now you can go on and grow up like the rest of them." He teased.
"I will not grow up, I will not!" Peter chided.
"Oh, but you have! And you did it by choice, my boy." Hook began to circle Peter, like a predator before striking. Peter turned about himself, feeling the all too familiar fear that Hook inspired in him. But strangely, in that fear, he felt strength. He straightened himself, testing his newfound height.
"Explain." Peter said.
"You left your Tinkerbell behind." Said Hook. Peter's brow furrowed in question, and Hook continued.
"You met with your Wendy, didn't you?" He said darkly. "You gave her a kiss."
"I did not." Peter said. "I had none to offer." Hook laughed, amused by Peter's innocence.
"But you gave her something…" Hook said. "Something that your Tinkerbell had stopped you from giving her before?" Peter all at once recalled how awfully Tink had pulled at Wendy's hair the first time she had tried to give him a thimble, almost the same as when Tinkerbell had swallowed Peter's poisoned medicine instead of him. His dear Wendy, could she really be the reason that he had grown up?
"A thimble." Peter said darkly. Hook cackled. Peter shrank in shame. He had given her three in fact, but now was not the time to reveal such horrible information. Softly, Peter began to cry. Hook suddenly took him about the shoulders and shook him in an embrace.
"Oh, dear me… no, no. You must not be upset, Peter." Hook cooed. "It was not your fault, they are terribly tempting… those thimbles."
Peter continued to cry, and wished that he had never set eyes on Wendy at all.
"I was so lonely…" Peter confessed. At this, Hook endearingly wiped Peter's tears from his cheeks.
"Peter, how could you be lonesome while we are all here for you?" Hook said shushing Peter's cries. "Neverland is your home, and we are all your family, little prince." Peter's tears stopped and he looked to Hook questionably. Family? He had been a father, made Wendy a mother… that was his family, but it had been all pretend. Hook was even pretend and Peter pulled deep from inside of him the memory of killing Hook.
"I've imagined you all." Peter said. The ground of Neverland quivered, and Peter felt an odd sensation course through him. A detachment of some sort, as if strings had been cut from his feet.
"Nonsense!" Hook cried. "I am your loving father, Tigerlily your troublesome sister… Even the mermaids are all your friends. Peter… we are all you need." Hook cried. He meant to soothe Peter, but his hook had buried itself dangerously into Peter's arm, and Peter pushed him away.
"No!" Peter said defiantly. "The only thing that is real…" Peter thought to himself. What could he not have imagined? The lost boys, the bird (although he had pretended it to be a child), and Wendy. Everything else had been pretend. Had Peter even ever had been a boy for very long? The constructs of his being began to crumble, and with it, the earth of Neverland shook. All the while Hook's eyes turned an icy blue.
"I will cut you, boy, if you dare say any more of this. I am NOT pretend, I am real, and I am fearful!" Hook cried, drawing his sword. But Peter did not move. He had filled with such… clarity, and he looked about himself now at his Neverland. It was beautiful, it was his, but it was… imaginary. It was pretend. Peter was now faced with a dangerous decision. To keep on playing pretend… or to move on… wherever that was. He thought of his loneliness here, and he thought of Wendy and the Lost Boys. No, he did not want to pretend any longer. He needed something real. He thought of the thimble he shared with Wendy.
"I am not afraid of you." Peter said. "You are all pretend. I don't want to play anymore."
At his words the ground began to dangerously shake and grumble. Hook dropped his sword and fell to his knees at the quaking of the earth.
"Foolish boy!" Hook cried. And suddenly, the ground began to tilt sideays. The rocks cracked, and the mountain burst into a pile of dust as Neverland fell dangerously askew. The waters of the ocean spilled into the sky below, and careened hopelessly into dark storm clouds. Peter became frightened, and he saw all around him the fairies flying off in desperation, their lights dying out like firecrackers. The Indians, then, all came tumbling down the hill from their camp as Neverland was pushed horribly more vertically. Peter lost his footing and grabbed at a tree, watching the Indians cling desperately to similar greenery. The ones that did not hold fast were swept towards the shore, and they popped off the edge into nothingness. Peter closed his eyes tightly.
"It's just pretend, it's just pretend!" Peter repeated to himself. But Neverland was not wholly pretend, for it had been pretended by an extra-ordinary boy, and it twisted further past vertical and began to turn upside down. The rocks and dirt fell into the sky, and clumps of sand and soil were pulled from the ground. Peter held fast to his tree, his heart racing as he experienced for the first time, true and honest fear. More fear than any that Hook had inspired in him. More than the thrill of any of his adventures. The island flipped still until it had completely capsized like a dungy with the centreboard jutting straight up into the night sky. Peter looked down at his feet, and saw that the sky had turned dark, and the stars had come out to witness the great falling of Neverland. Below, he spotted the Earth, where Wendy knew nothing of his troubles. He could let go, and be dropped towards her, but he was scared, and he no longer believed he could fly. He held on with resolve. The loose earth and rocks continued to crumble into the sky, and fell towards the earth in great burning lights before disappearing completely.
You must let go, whispered a chirping voice deep inside of him. You must. The roots of his tree began to weaken with the disappearance of the ground, and as it pulled free, Peter released the branch. His precious tree, and himself falling freely into the sky below.
He was so used to flying, that he had never truly experienced falling. At first there was nothing but the feeling of Neverland drifting farther away, but then he began to hear a wind howling past his ears, and he fell faster towards the Earth. He thought hard of Kensington Gardens, and Wendy's window. He wished to land on one of them at least. He searched the approaching planet below him to guide himself.
But the air was so fierce that he was forced to shut his eyes, and his body, racing so quickly through the atmosphere began to burn bright like a shooting star.
The people of London below gazed curiously at the sky, which had darkened into an eclipse in mid-day, and were suddenly gifted with a meteor shower in which spots of dust and Neverland were sent burning in the atmosphere. Some watched in awe, and some hid in fear.
No one's fear was greatest now than the fear of Peter Pan, for which if he were not so extra-ordinary would have been burned up into the atmosphere with the rest of his Neverland. But he was such a special boy that Peter, the shooting star, burst through the cloud cover and landed with a great splash into the big round pond at Kensington Gardens.
Chapter 6:
In Which Peter Meets an Old Friend
"'I think I shall go back to mother,' [Peter] said timidly.
'Good-bye,' replied Solomon Caw with a queer look.
But Peter hesitated. 'Why don't you go?' the old one asked politely.
'I suppose,' said Peter huskily, 'I suppose I can still fly?'
You see, he had lost faith.
'Poor little half-and-half,' said Solomon, who was not really hard-hearted, 'you will never be able to fly again, not even on windy days. You must live here on the island always.'
'And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?' Peter asked tragically.
'How could you get across?' said Solomon. He promised very kindly, however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned by one of such an awkward shape.
'Then I sha'n't be exactly a human?' Peter asked.
'No.'
'Nor exactly a bird?'
'No.'
'What shall I be?'
'You will be a Betwixt-and-Between' Solomon said, and certainly he was a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out." J.M. Barrie
The pond water swallowed Peter whole, and as he had never cared to learn how to float, sank straight to the bottom. He should have pushed against the bottom to hurl himself from the water, but then thought against it. He watched the ducks above him on the water's surface, and saw their frantic feet paddling against the waves he had caused. Their petty complaints were drowned by the suffocating water. Just a bit longer, he thought, then he would surface. Surface to what, he did not completely know. And so, he stayed put until his lungs began to itch for breath. Part of him wondered if he could stay at the bottom of the pond, with the tadpoles and waterlily stems, but he did not stay long enough to ask either one of them how to breath underwater as his lungs now positively burned.
He came up sputtering. The eclipse had passed, and Peter was bobbing around in the great big pond feeling quite self-conscious of himself. He was not in the habit of being in Kensington Park in the daytime. Thankfully, no one was currently paying him any mind as they were all too occupied in watching the crumbling remains of his star streaking by in burning strands across the sky. The only ones paying him any mind were the stupid ducks.
Quack quack quack! The ducks cackled.
"Look at this silly looking boy, he doesn't even know how to float!" They said in their strange duck accents.
"I do so!" Shouted Peter defiantly, and he held his breath to make his belly float up above the surface to prove himself. The ducks were not accustomed to boys understanding their insults, and retreated to the edges of the pond, without another quack.
"Look!" Said a voice from the edge of the pond. It was a small boy with a boat in his hands. A group of children turned to his attention, and at once, tens of small eyes were watching Peter in the middle of the pond. The children all looked back at their nannies and nurses, who were occupied in gossiping about the developing meteorological drama, then looked back at Peter. He looked back at them, quite confounded. Was he doing something strange? The children looked at each other now, and a communal mischievous smile came over them.
They all shouted and pulled their shirts above their heads, and kicked off their shoes to splash ceremoniously into the pond. The ducks flew away spitting and hissing insults at them. The nurses shrieked as they saw their wards mudding up their best suits and rushed to the edge, but none of them dared to jump in, save one. The great Newfoundland dog leapt into the water to paddle ungracefully towards a boy of nearly eight years old.
"Nana! No!" He moaned. She pulled at his shirt with her mouth and paddled him back towards the edge. The rest of the boys and girls booed at Nana, mourning the loss of their comrade.
"Splash the dog!" Shouted one. The boys cheered and all began to splash about wildly. The nurses had no choice but to retreat, some even retreating home to fetch some towels and dry clothes from their cupboards hoping their patrons would not discover their mistake.
Nana was not deterred by the splashing, and brought the boy from the water with her head held high, feeling proud that she had been the only one successful at retrieving her child. The boy was not at all pleased to be the only one pulled from the water, and looked upon his playmates with sorrowful eyes as they now played gleefully without him. Peter could not resist the fun, and played along with them all, forgetting completely his recent fall from his Neverland. Once again, he had been thrust into a world of fun and it felt natural to partake in it. His laughter filled the pond and burst over the cacophony of play, and the boy sitting at the edge recognized it at once.
The boy's name, if you remember, is Michael. And Michael fought, all at once, to return to the water. Nana growled and pulled at his pant leg as Michael screamed 'Peter, Peter!' to the splashing hoard of children in the pond.
But Peter did not hear, and Nana had lost patience with poor Michael. She began to head for home and barked loudly at him as he dragged his feet away from the Gardens. He never did catch sight of Peter, only heard his laughter. Maybe it had been his imagination after all.
The nurses were forced to make camp, and wait for the sun to set for the children to come out of the pond. Their wards emerged, wrinkled and muddled into towels and blankets while fingers wagged in their faces and their ears filled with 'Well, I never's. Peter emerged as well, sharing in the retelling of the splashing and fun that was had at the pond. All the children were dried off, and Peter took a towel from one of the nannies to dry with. One by one, the children were ushered from the gardens, and soon Peter was left alone. The gate creaked closed, and Kensington Gardens quieted into night.
"My, my…" Peter heard from a tree. He looked up into it, and saw a rather large thrush. "My, how you have grown." It said.
"You know me?" Peter asked.
"Poor little half and half." It said, coming down to perch on Peter's shoulder. "You don't remember your old friend Solomon Caw?"
"Well, of course I do!" Peter said, although he did not wholly remember. But miraculously he found that he did remember just a little. It was the thrush who read the letters from mothers to be, and supplied them the birds for them to turn into little boys and girls.
"You were so small when you left us. You used to fit so nicely in our nests." The thrush tut-tutted as he stepped back to view Peter. "No, now we cannot have you in our nest, you are almost grown." Peter looked down at himself and suddenly felt strange in his own skin. All at once, he remembered himself as the small week-old babe that had flown from his window. He remembered his little white nightgown which grew shorter and shorter the longer he had spent with the birds, until it had completely been replaced by leaves. And now, he saw a strangers' legs carrying him. It was also a stranger's mind he was inside, and he did not recognize himself. He had come back to Kensington Gardens, and he remembered now, the little boy who he was. He remembered his little pail, which he used to bury the children who got lost in the park. He remembered being shy, and scared, and lonely. Ah, so loneliness was not a stranger to him after all. He had buried the children two by two, always, so that they would not be alone either.
"Well, I know why you've come back." Said Solomon Caw.
"I've come back because I have fallen." Replied Peter.
"Fallen from your nest? Then surely, it is time to leave it." Solomon said wisely. "We all must grow up. Some of us jump into it, some of us fall."
"But I… I am the boy who would not grow up!" He protested.
"Well, surely you have. And even in your time here you grew quite naturally, if not a bit slowly." Said the thrush. "Little half and half, it is time to build your nest."
"Why?"
"To become a father, of course." Said Solomon. Peter said nothing. After everything that had happened, he was not quite sure if he even wanted to become a father anymore. Was it all worthwhile to not be alone? Was it all worthwhile to win himself a family? He found that it was. Peter bowed at Solomon in quite a grown-up way, and thanked him for his wisdom. Solomon Caw nearly teared at the sight, as he felt so fatherly towards Peter.
In the morning, Peter would build a nest.
Chapter 7:
In Which Peter Meets an Old Enemy
"But why does Peter sit so long on the rail, why does he not tell his mother that he has come back?
I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in two minds. Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and sometimes he looked longingly at the window…Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate, his mother woke up, for he heard her say "Peter," as if it was the most lovely word in the language. He remained sitting on the floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had come back. If she said "Peter" again, he meant to cry "Mother" and run to her. But she spoke no more, she made little moans only, and when next he peeped at her she was once more asleep, with tears on her face." – J.M Barrie
In the morning, Peter would begin building his nest, but tonight, he sought to rest. It was with happy surprise that the fairies had all remembered him, and as he laid down into the grass to sleep, they all set to work to build around him the largest home they have built to date. Walls were erected around his legs, and a chimney was built by his ears. The whole thing was topped with a roof built from acorn husks, and when Peter awoke, he found he could simply pop it off and place it back on the house as he left it. He looked at the long strange house in the shape of him and it seemed more like a palace than a quaint abode.
The gates creaked as the Gardens opened for the day. Nurses with their prams shuffled in, beginning their daily turn about the baby walk. Peter looked for sticks to build his nest, and found himself among the fig trees. He ate the figs that he found, and made a large pile of his sticks in a clearing. By mid-morning, Peter had gathered a pile larger than himself. The children arrived carrying their toy boats, kites, and balls.
"What are you doing?" Asked a girl whose kite fell by Peter's pile.
"I am making the largest nest in the world." Said Peter. The girl's eyes positively lighted and she ran to tell her brothers. Her brothers ran to tell his friends, and they ran to tell a whole lot more of children. Soon, most everyone under the age of twelve (apart from the babies in their prams) were gathered to help build the largest nest in the world.
Michael had come to the Gardens that morning as well, his bat and ball in hand. He had planned to play sports, but as soon as he entered the field, a girl whispered into his ear that they were building the largest nest in the world.
They all worked collectively and determinably almost as if they were building an ark. Some of the children pretended they were, and the whole project became much larger than Peter had originally planned. The nest could fit most twenty children inside, and for no reason at all, a mast was raised in the center. It was just an old umbrella, you see, but to them it was a mighty mast, and they all pretended to be hurled forward when Peter opened it to catch the mighty sea winds. The nest became a ship, then a great sled, and finally a nest again. Peter counted the heads of all his children.
"One, two, three four five…. Twelve! I've never had so many children before!" He exalted. The children all gladly accepted him as a father and he began to tell them to sit up straight, or he would lower anchor and make them walk the plank. Among them were Michael, and he stood up stiff to please Peter.
They played all the way through lunch, and almost through dinner. Some children began to slip away at hearing their nannies offering them tea time sandwiches. Peter scowled every time he lost a child to the call of the nursemaids, and named them sirens. He lost four children, then eight, then eleven. Only Michael remained, who tried to ignore the barking of Nana calling him.
"Will you also become a mutineer?" Peter accused of Michael.
"I do not wish to, Peter, but I must go home soon."
"You can stay here tonight and eat figs with me." Peter offered. "We can dance all night with the fairies!" Peter was being sincere, for he truly meant to dance with the fairies in the park, but Michael believed he was offering more pretend and would rather go home to have some dinner.
"Are you staying in the Gardens tonight?" He asked.
"Well, of course I am." Scoffed Peter. "It is my home."
"You can come back to my house. All of the other Lost boys have." Michael offered. "I'm sure Father wouldn't mind another guest for dinner." Peter had yet to remember who Michael was and saw no profit in going home with him. What was more, Michael had dared to speak of his real father and Peter did not like the idea of being a pretend father anymore.
"No." Peter said. He then crossed his arms and looked away from Michael. And just like that, Peter lost the last of the children he had made that day.
He looked about him and found that every child in the park belonged to somebody. They were all going home, two by two, sometimes by threes and fours. Peter waited to see if a nursemaid would come and claim him, too. But none were left in the park, and the gates once again creaked closed.
The iron gates looked offensive to him because they reminded him of the little window from which he had flown so very long ago. He thought of his mother, how she had sweetly called to him. how he, selfish and young, had stayed away just a bit longer to play in the Gardens. It was his greatest regret. Why had she not called him just one more time? One more time and he was sure to have come home to be the sweet boy she knew he was. But she hadn't, and instead she barred the window and took another. The sky darkened with his thoughts.
The fairies had planned to dance tonight, and they had placed mushrooms all in a circle in preparation, but now the sky turned grey and threatening. So, even though they planned to dance, the fairies carried off the mushrooms and took shelter under their caps.
"What shall we do if not dance?" Peter asked one.
"We shall cry." It exclaimed, and suddenly burst into tears as the thunder rolled over the clouds. Peter did not feel much like crying, and retreated to his nest where he opened up the umbrella and curled up underneath. All throughout the Gardens he could hear the fairies moaning and crying as raindrops began to plop onto the ground. The summer storm came quickly and the rain began to fall in sheets. It carried with it a hefty windy and Peter had to hold on tightly to his umbrella.
There was barking in the distance, but Peter did not hear. His ears were filled with the turbulent pattering of raindrops on the umbrella, so it was to his complete surprise when Nana bounded towards him to sniff him behind the ears. The surprise of it all made him let go of his umbrella and away it flew into the stormy winds. He looked at her accusingly, and Nana pawed at him apologetically. but there, in the distance, came bobbing up and down another umbrella. It was running full force towards him and he felt glad that something, even a ruddy old umbrella, had come to fetch him from the Gardens. The umbrella brought with it a girl sloshing about in her father's rubber boots.
"Peter!" She called, and he immediately knew who she was.
"Wendy?" He called back. She climbed into the nest and threw her arms open to embrace him. Never had he ever been taken into someone's arms so intimately. Peter thought of fairy weddings, and how jumping into someone else's arms meant you were married. Did it matter if the boy or the girl jumped into the other's arms? He was too embarrassed to ask, and patted her on the back unsure. He should count himself lucky, for he had nearly found himself married.
"Peter what are you doing here?" She asked.
"I'm home. This is my home." Peter said plainly. "Have you come over for dinner?"
"No, Peter. I have come to fetch you!" She said smiling at him. Peter would not admit it, but he became very glad. Someone had come for him, after all.
"Alright." He said, feigning resistance. Wendy then held out her hand to him, and he took it gladly. Nana had had enough of this rain and pulled Wendy's skirts towards home. But Wendy did not run for home, instead she looked at their hands clasped together, then up at Peter. Peter felt his chest clench at his heart, and it nearly pained him to look back into her face. What miraculous curse had she bestowed on him. What wonderful feelings she plagued him with.
They walked slowly back to her home, hands clasped together, and Wendy holding the umbrella over them. It forced them to walk quite closely together, and Peter noticed for the first time how electrifying it was to walk beside her. He had never felt this way when they were just playing, but he wondered softly if she felt it equally thrilling to walk beside him as well. All of a sudden, he wondered if this was a feeling only grown-ups feel. He looked back solemnly at his nest and wondered at which point he had had stepped into manhood. He checked the bottom of his feet for evidence of it.
Nana walked ahead, turning back to make sure her wards were following her properly. She rolled her big dog eyes as she felt she would never retire to being an old family dog, and always be a nurse to boys flying in through windows, or being picked up in the rain.
When they arrived at Wendy's little home, Peter had already swallowed several sweet words that had crept up in his throat, and did not feel very hungry at all. Should they offer him dinner, he would have to sadly refuse. He looked up at the tall house, and saw the familiar sill which he had landed on so frequently. Now, he faced a large ominous front door and he wished that they could silently enter through a window more accessible than the third floor. It suddenly reminded him that he could no longer fly, and fear took hold of him. Right now, in this very moment, he felt anything but extra-ordinary. In fact, he felt less than plain. Nana barked at the door, rather than ring the doorbell, and Mr. Darling opened it hastily. Already jumpy and uneasy, Peter suddenly withdrew the dagger from his leaves at the sight of Mr. Darling, for he looked exactly like Captain Hook.
"Goodness me!" Shrieked Mr. Darling, nearly slamming the door on the nose of his daughter and her soggy friend. Peter had never met Mr. Darling before and studied him with great concern. How was it, that his natural enemy be the father of Wendy? Strange indeed. Peter tucked the dagger back in his leaves, and bowed low to him. This, at least, put Mr. Darling at ease and he almost stepped aside to let them both inside. But the state of the boy; wet, nearly naked, nearly grown, and holding the hand of his only daughter kept him from doing so.
Instead Mr. Darling stood up very tall.
"Who is this, Wendy?" He demanded.
Wendy pushed Peter forward to stand under the nose of Mr. Darling. The boy's smell certainly did nothing to improve Mr. Darling's opinion.
"It's Peter, Father." She said softly. A look of horror struck his face.
"Peter?" Mr. Darling was well acquainted with the idea of Peter, and did not like it one bit. The way Wendy spoke his name deeply disconcerted him. Mrs. Darling had also found some not very wholesome thoughts about the boy in Wendy's mind that made Mr. Darling thankful that Peter was only girlish fantasy. And yet, here at the threshold of his home, the boy stood before him.
"Where are your clothes, boy?" Questioned Mr. Darling
"I had a nightgown once when I was just a week old, but I gave it to the birds to build their nests." He replied. Mr. Darling poo-pooed the answer as it was complete nonsense to him. For even if Peter was a Lost Boy, at least the others were decent enough to not be naked.
"Where are your parents?" He asked. Peter's face darkened at the question.
"Forgotten." Peter answered. Once more, Mr. Darling assessed him, and found he had great pity for the boy. 'Forgotten', he had said. How strange? How sad. Sad little boys, it seemed, softened Mr. Darling with great ease. He looked down at Nana, and her watery eyes gazed up at him in a reproving way as if whispering 'don't you do it…'. But Mr. Darling, never liking much to be told what to do always did the opposite.
"I think." Mr. Darling began pensively, "That we have a few corners about that house with which to spread a cot."
Wendy was elated, and her elation grieved Mr. Darling but it was none the matter as now Mr. Darling wished to see if Peter would show gratitude, as Mr. Darling felt he had made a great gesture towards him. But Peter did not show gratitude. In fact, as Wendy pushed him through the threshold, Peter's face showed fear.
Chapter 8:
In Which Peter Gets Tucked In
"He went in a hurry in the end because he had dreamt that his mother was crying, and he knew what was the great thing she cried for, and that a hug from her splendid Peter would quickly make her to smile. Oh, he felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always to be open for him.
But the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it, and peering inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with her arm round another little boy.
Peter called, "Mother! mother!" but she heard him not; in vain he beat his little limbs against the iron bars. He had to fly back, sobbing, to the Gardens, and he never saw his dear again. What a glorious boy he had meant to be to her. Ah, Peter, we who have made the great mistake, how differently we should all act at the second chance. But Solomon was right; there is no second chance, not for most of us. When we reach the window it is Lock-out Time. The iron bars are up for life." J.M. Barrie
Of course, as a guest must always be fed the Darlings invited him to dinner. Peter did not feel hungry but he was too frightened by the scowl on Mr. Darling's face to do otherwise. Mrs. Darling had insisted he wear clothes to dinner and mocked him terribly when the nightshirts of the other lost boys were too small for him.
"My you're a tall one!" She had meant with compliment. He soured at the statement, and pulled his arms glumly through one of Mr. Darling's nightshirts which had a distinctly grown up smell about them, such as a balm for general aches. Seeing as he was so glum, she tied a bow tie about his neck which Mrs. Darling felt would cheer him up.
Peter, completely ignorant of customs such as what to wear for dinner, was nonplussed by the addition.
Wendy, Michael and John on the other hand, had nearly fallen from their chairs when they saw that Peter would dine in a nightshirt and bowtie. This made Peter turn a crimson shade of red, and deepened his dislike for having to attend dinner at the Darlings'.
"The shirt has pockets." He had grumbled to Wendy as he sat in the chair beside her. It was a testament to how grown up a shirt it was. Pockets were for people who had too much to carry about. Pockets were for checking the time on watches. Pockets were for stuffing handkerchiefs and pens.
Wendy watched him with awe, as she had never really seen Peter in such an environment and it fascinated her. All the while Peter looked glumly at his plate, and only stole quick glances of Wendy, who tried to smile comfortingly to him, but nothing could comfort him for the dreary and dreadful dinner conversation that was afoot. Relentlessly, Mr. and Mrs. Darling took an interest to him.
'What will you be when you grow up?'
'Do you plan to marry, Peter?'
'Where are you from?'
All of these questions he responded to with utter nonsense:
'A chocolate cake.'
'Mary? Who's Mary?' (as he spilt soup on his nightshirt)
'A large nest.'
In strict politeness, the Darlings received the ridiculous answers with an accepting nod, which further confused Peter as he was certain that it really was nonsense and simply said whatever came to his mind.
The nature of the questions did not wholly bother him, but it was the fact that he could not eat and speak all at once, well not very well anyhow, and it made such a mess of his nightshirt. Michael and John could hardly retain their snickering but Wendy fought hard to keep polite as she was so sensitive to Peter's feelings. Wendy tried to steal the conversation back to alleviate Peter, but the droll of dinner was not over, for the next course was translucent, slimy leaves. Cabbage. Oh, he could nearly die!
After dinner, Peter was fitted with another of Mr. Darling's nightshirts, as he had spilt so much soup on the first, and ushered down a hall. Wendy disappeared into a room and to his horror, Peter realized that he was being sent to another room alone; It was bedtime. Mrs. Darling sensed his discomfort and spoke quietly to him about nothing much in such a comforting and motherly way. He had never been spoken to that way before, other than when he went to visit his own mother so long ago to hear her whispering to her new babe in the same soothing manner. She placed her hand supportingly on his back and led him into a strange room which bore within its walls an identical window to the one which he had visited so often before. Lulled by the soft voice of Mrs. Darling, and the absolute warmth of her character, he did not object when she pulled back the blankets from the bed to invite him to sleep. He laid down into the softness and for the very first time, was tucked in by a real mother. The nightlight illuminated her and she sat next to him to kiss him softly on the cheek. For a moment, maybe only a second, the shadows in the room shifted to recreate an awful memory of someone else tucking him in.
A horrible sense of belonging overtook him. Peter looked up at Mrs. Darling to see her smiling sweetly down to him, and within her smile he could spot Wendy's. A serious feeling came over him. A feeling as if he were in a comfortable box, but a box nonetheless. He looked quickly to the window to check that it was not barred. To his relief, it wasn't.
"Could you keep the window open please?" Peter asked in a sweet voice that was almost alien to him.
"Of course." Mrs. Darling replied in her motherly tone, and stood to open it. She sat back down next to him and began instinctively fussing about with his thoughts. It was a habit of all mothers, to sort her children's thoughts out before bed. Toss out the bad ones, and dust off the ones which needed reminding. She picked up a few and whispered 'my oh my' at the state of them, but as she tried to place them in order, Peter pushed her away, quite shocked.
"Stop that!" He nearly shouted. It was a horrible an uncomfortable thing to have his thoughts sorted and felt completely betrayed by her warmth. Again, he looked towards the window to make sure it was not barred.
"I'm sorry, Peter." She said sincerely. Never had she met a boy like Peter and she found that he was really very unusual, but had yet to see what was extraordinary about him. She had been too curious to look into his mind. "How about… a goodnight story instead?" She offered.
"Which one?" He asked, still wary.
"How about Rapunzel?"
"Alright." He said meekly, even though he had no opinion on the story. So, Mrs. Darling began with 'Once upon a time' and her soft mesmerizing voice created the magical feeling of a story being told.
Peter relaxed into it, and halfway throughout, lost sense of the tale and was merely enjoying the sweet timbre of Mrs. Darling's voice, which all melted quite nicely into a dream.
All about him there was swaying, a rocking of some sort and he imagined he was in the arms of someone. He was small and warm, and from the background of his dream, he could hear his mother's soothing voice. It sounded like the ocean.
The rocking continued into the swaying of a ship, and he could hear the waves crashing on the hull. He could hear other voices now, voices of pirates.
He was fully on the ship, now, and he felt a sword clenched in his palm. He began to swing it and the swords of pirates met his with a clanging. Hollers and groans all around, Peter turned here and there to meet the blades of faceless adversaries. Peter was having an adventure.
He knew this ship, it was the good old Jolly Roger, and in recognizing the ship, the Pirates became recognizable. Noodler, Jenkins, and Smee all thrashed about in the battle. The Lost Boys were there too, cheering and gaily fighting the men. He had returned to his Neverland! He imagined things just for the pleasure of imagining things. He imagined a cake, and one of the pirates fell over it. He wished for a bird, and one swooped down and pecked a pirate on the nose. Home at last!
But it was better than his old Neverland because everyone was there. Wendy, too, was strapped onto the deck reaching for a blade just out of grasp, and he never imagined to be pleased by Slightly's haughty grimace as he struggled to free her.
For the first time in a long time, Peter felt all was right, and he felt an urgency to cut Wendy loose and thimble her. He would fight for her. And so, he fought on through the cloud of enemies before him, his prized fight contained within a billowing cape of red. It was Captain Hook, and he was flinging away the swords of the Lost Boys, and kicking them off the ship into the waters below, leaving his boys defenseless.
"You're mine, Hook!" Bellowed Peter, and he leaped forth, blade outstretched to meet the red caped man, whose black beard and blue eyes marked him. Hook raised his arm to grasp Peter's blade in his metallic claw, but instead a hand emerged, and plucked his blade from the air. Weakened by surprise, Hook pulled the blade from Peter's grasp. It had not even cut his skin.
"Look at me, boy!" Grumbled Hook, and instead of fighting with Peter, pulled him by the shoulder to look him square in the eyes. The eyes of Mr. Darling looked back at him. "Why do you fear me?"
Peter, paralyzed by the sharpness of his gaze, struggled to answer.
"Because… because…" He sputtered. Peter's gaze fell to Wendy tied to the mast. "Because you have stolen Wendy from me!"
"You may have her," Said Mr. Darling in his pirate guise. "If you ask me nicely. But what will you do with her?" This question stumped Peter. He had no particular plans, he just wanted to rid himself of the loneliness.
"Make her into a mother." He replied. Mr. Darling nodded approvingly.
"Ah, so you are asking to marry her." He stated. Peter said nothing. He could all and well pretend to be a father, but had never considered husbandry. "Let's take a look at your bride."
They both turned to look at Wendy who seemed preoccupied with cutting herself loose with a dull blade.
"A funny looking bride, she looks more yellow than white." Mr. Darling stated, and it was true that Wendy's nightdress was dirtied from battle, but Peter could not see strangeness in her being a bride. No, Wendy seemed as good of a mother, as she would be a wife. But Peter's hands seemed far too little to hold so much responsibility as becoming a husband, becoming a man.
He looked at his empty hands and stretched out his fingers. They were no longer so little as he remembered. It inspired great fear in him, and yet, they still seemed far too little.
"I won't grow up." Peter whispered to himself. Mr. Darling shrugged.
"Well, then you can't marry Wendy. Oh, well." Said Mr. Darling, who then kicked Peter square in the chest to fling him off the ship and into the waters below. Peter would have died in the dream, save for the tap-tap-tapping that he heard coming from the window.
When the tapping did not cease, Peter regained his senses, and looked about his unfamiliar surroundings. He was in the Darling house, and there was a bird at the window.
Tap tap tap. It pecked gently onto the window pane. It was clearly well mannered, and patiently waiting for Peter to come to the window, and when he finally stood to open it, he saw with glee that the bird was none other than Solomon Caw, come to visit him.
Chapter 9:
Solomon's Goodbye
"Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think it rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity him now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. He thought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think you have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played without ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or Mary-Annish. He could be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do you think he is to be pitied for that?" J.M. Barrie
Oh, he was merry. He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as you are merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top, from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences of the Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them.
"Little Half and Half, Is it really you there on the other side of this window?" Caw exclaimed as he stepped precariously on the ledge. Peter nodded and Solomon laughed in the only ways bird really can; by flapping their wings, and clipping their beaks.
"How wonderful, Little One! You have done it, even if I thought it could not be done!" He exclaimed.
"What have I done?"
"You've come home Peter! Do you not recall when you were little, that you could not fly back to your window, and when given the chance you did not take it, and instead went into the Neverland? I feel so horrible now, but I fear I had told you that there are no second chances after the Lock Out Time. Yet, here you are! You've been given what most have not. A second chance."
"You mean for me to stay here at the Darlings'?" Cried Peter in sudden urgency. "Oh, but I couldn't- I can't! I have to return to-"
"To where? Do you not recall when you came into the gardens? You were lost, Peter. You wanted so badly to return to your window, and now you are here! Back where you belong. I dare say, you shouldn't be half and half for long. You will be quite whole soon!"
"And what of the Gardens?" Gushed Peter, with building urgency. The open window seemed now so tempting to jump out of, to flee out of, but Solomon Caw's impressive size kept him from leaning out too far past the wall. With a guiding, outstretched wing, Solomon guided Peter back into the warmth of the room.
"Now, now, you naughty little bird!" He said, in a tone which was not completely serious. "The Gardens will always be there, and you can always come down to visit. But you must promise me, Peter. Never stay in the Gardens past the Lock Out Time. As I said, there are not second chances. You have been granted one. Don't seek a third." Now Peter was consumed in tears. He looked about through his foggy tears at his surroundings. The dresser, which must contain all his little dress things. The bed, which now he could claim his own, and finally, his window which overlooked the Gardens.
"Fare thee well, Peter Pan." Caw croaked. Birds do not know how to show much physical attention, yet Peter yearned to hold him. It was harsh evidence that even now, Peter was becoming more and more whole, and less half. As Peter reached for Solomon, he flew away into the night and Peter was left alone at the window.
He cried out then, as so much had happened to poor Peter in such a short while, and he longed for Wendy to soothe him. But, alas, when the door opened it was Mrs. Darling who came for him, and she held him like a genuine mother only could until his crying slowed.
"Whatever is the matter, Peter?" She asked curiously. So, Peter told her. He told her of the night he flew out from the window, how he got lost in the Gardens. In the whole, he told her the entire story of Peter Pan thus far. It was then that Mrs. Darling knew that Peter must stay, as much as Peter also knew he must too.
He peered through the window again at the shadow of the Gardens, and said 'goodbye' to them in his little mind.
He began, now, his second life. A life at the Darlings. Should he become a poet? Or a banker? Perhaps Peter will simply be the man who sweeps up the leaves by the pond. That would be his most favorite becoming. But most importantly, he did become a father, and when his little fledglings visited the Gardens, Solomon Caw looked on from above with faith in his heart that maybe, sometimes, we are offered a second chance.