Never, Never (3 page)

He trudged up to his room and sat heavily on the bed, laying his head on Meggie's warm stomach. He would so miss Meggie if he left, and Mother and Father. He was quite certain they would miss him, too. Forever was an awfully long time to miss a person.

A thought struck him, then. Peter had never explicitly said it
was
forever, had he—this relocation to Neverland? Peter Pan went back and forth, after all. Perhaps he could just go there on holiday, before his term at Eton started. That seemed reasonable, didn't it? Now, Mother would have a conniption, but that would be forgotten soon enough. Honestly, a week or two of being grounded was more than worth the big adventure he would certainly get if he were to take Peter up on his offer. So he sat straight up, which set Meggie to barking, and leapt from the bed to stare out the window, waiting for darkness to fall, more eager than ever to go to Kensington Gardens.

W
HEN HE GOT THERE, HE FOUND
P
ETER QUITE EASILY
, retracing his steps as he had every night before, to the Fairies' Wood.

“Peter! Peter, I'm here!” he said, running toward the boy, breathing in the damp, earthen smell of their spot in the Gardens.

“So you are.” Peter nodded, not giving much away in his expression.

“Are you leaving tonight?”

“Yes. Quite shortly.” The fairies bobbed and wiggled around Peter, playing in the fog and on his hair and lighting up the blackness. James wished, as he often wished, that the fairies would pay him some attention.

“I should like to come with you, I think,” James said, turning his head to smile brightly at the lone little fairy that had landed on his shoulder.

Peter cocked his head at him. “You're sure?”

He rubbed his arms over his threadbare white shirt, attempting to soothe the cold from his skin. He was shifting excitedly, avoiding Peter's eyes. “Well, I thought that maybe I could just go there on holiday. Just for a little while. If that's all right with you.”

Peter was quiet for a minute, and he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger, batting a fairy away from his face as he thought. James bounced nervously before him.

“Yes, all right. To Neverland, then.”

James thought he might faint from excitement.

“How do we get there?” he asked, inexplicably out of breath.

Peter threw his head back and laughed. “We fly, of course.”

James grimaced, for he had no idea how he would manage that.

Peter stopped laughing and raised an eyebrow at him. “You
can
fly, can't you?”

James found that he was suddenly, unreasonably embarrassed. “I—I don't think I can.”

“Anyone can fly, James.” Peter crossed his arms and leaned back against a tangle of low-hanging branches and greenery.

“I can't!”

Peter shook his head and rolled his eyes at the sky. “You Lost Boys can't do anything by yourselves. Not a brain among you.”

James wanted to say that he wasn't a Lost Boy, but chose to be quiet. He was much too busy watching Peter to be protesting. Peter then floated up to the tip-top of a nearby tree and whispered something into its branches. A little light popped out and fluttered its way over to James, who just stood there, having nothing else he could possibly do. The little light was a fairy, of course, and as it bobbed and hopped, a smattering of fairy dust fell onto James's head. He sneezed and wondered if it were possible for someone to be allergic to fairy dust. That seemed a stupid question. He chose not to be so foolish as to ask it.

“Now what?” asked James, hands hanging lamely at his sides.

“Now, you think of the happiest thought you've got. Get a running start. Then, you just float up into the sky.”

“That's it?”

“That's it. Anyone can do it.”

James scrunched up his face and set his chin upon his fist, trying very hard to come up with a happy thought. Not just a happy one, the happiest. He was loath to disappoint Peter in any capacity. Then, a face popped into his head. It was that of his father, just returned from a voyage at sea. Rough, tired, smiling, the creases around his eyes and mouth making themselves apparent. Low,
rumble-scratch of his voice lulling James to sleep with a story of an adventure on the waves. Then, like it was nothing, he found that he was face to face with a treetop.

He beamed. “I didn't even have to run!”

“It seems you didn't.” Peter pursed his lips and shrugged. “Of course, I don't either.”

James raised an eyebrow, but ultimately ignored that rather silly addendum, too overcome with happiness at his newfound skill.

“Now, follow me!” Peter cried, bursting up through the branches.

James quickly, and rather gracelessly, followed him. He didn't need to be told that last part; he was terribly frightened of being left behind somewhere over the Atlantic or whatever magical oceans they probably crossed along the way, and following Peter was the only way to ensure that didn't happen.

James was a shadow trailing behind Peter's ankles. He smiled despite the fear, relishing the exhilarating feeling of the wind wrapping around his limbs and the weightlessness floating him up into the sky.

The flight seemed to take an eternity, and maybe it did. They flew like little birds over the top of London, and then over places James didn't recognize at all. Places filled with color and sparkling bursts of light, places that made him feel like he was tumbling, and then like he was slogging through wet sand. Peter seemed quite familiar with them, however. He darted in and out of clouds and mountains and who-knew-what like this was something he did all the time. Probably because it was.

Sometimes, James would find himself getting tired, but usually, just then, a cloud would envelop him or Peter would kick him in the chest, and that would wake him up. His lungs were burning and his arms and legs started to
get very tired, though they weren't doing much flapping, when Peter stopped short in the sky and crowed.

James stopped short behind him, because it was his only real option, and stared down at the landscape below. His jaw dropped and his eyes flew open. There, hundreds of feet beneath him, was a vast jungle, twinkling with life, dotted with little oases here and there. There was a sparkling blue lagoon and a sea at its edge, occupied by a large and wicked-looking pirate ship, one that from this distance, he could barely make out—but it gave him a faint tickling in his chest.

“Is it—is this, is this it?”

“Yes, James. This is it. This is Neverland.”

I
T OCCURRED TO
J
AMES THAT BRAKING MID-FLIGHT
was not yet something he'd mastered, so he clung to Peter during the descent. His arms and legs tingled as they floated down to the ground, that odd sense of vertigo making his stomach flip in terror and excitement all at once. After a minute, the boys landed easily on the ground of the giant, shimmering forest that was Neverland.

James tried to camouflage his wide eyes and frantic head-bobbing, but he found he wanted to look everywhere all at once. At the trees, whose leaves were all sorts of ever-changing shades of purple and pink and blue. At the sky, so deep and dark that the thousands of stars stood out like glitter. At the moons, of which he could currently make out three.

The air here was light, as though he would just float up off the ground if he wasn't paying attention, and he swore he could taste it on his tongue. The faintest hint of vanilla, a breath of gingersnaps. He smacked his lips curiously.

“I expect the Lost Boys should show up any minute now,” said Peter.

James stood straight and brushed himself off, in a show of decorum that would've made his mother proud, pulling his attention from the air around him.

Peter eyed James strangely and cupped a hand to his mouth, letting out a crow that echoed among the trees. It was as though, in that moment, the whole of Neverland came to life. There were snaps and rumbles coming from the wood and little howls and chirps taking over the silence of the night. The leaves fluttered and flipped, changing manically from purple to gold to green to pink, as though they were so excited they couldn't decide what season they wanted to be, and the whole place around them lit up as fairies descended from the treetops to flit around Peter. James thought he had never seen anything more beautiful in his whole life.

One fairy in particular was bobbing around Peter's head and landing on him everywhere and chattering excitedly, which to James sounded like nothing but the frantic jingling of bells. He didn't speak fairy, but at that moment, he wished he did.

“James, this is my fairy.”

It flitted toward him, paused in front of his face giving him a once-over, and James smiled brightly, wanting desperately to hold it. But it hastily returned to fretting over Peter, who seemed to be very much enjoying all the attention. He beamed, his delicate elfin features lighting up as James had never seen them do before.

Then, there came a crashing through the woods. James instinctively shrank back, not accustomed to dark, magical woods and things crashing around in them. Peter crowed again, and shot up into the air, right past his fairy, then came down again just as a troupe of boys came barreling before them.

“Peter!” they all cried simultaneously. “You're back!”

“I am indeed.”

They were a bumbling lot, and they sort of just crashed around, each trying to reach Peter first. Peter grinned with one corner of his mouth, but very quickly
turned deadly serious, taking on the air of a drill sergeant. “Boys! Tennnn-hut!”

The boys scrambled into a line in front of Peter, all standing perfectly still. James chewed on his cheek, standing there awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do with himself. Peter clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered back and forth in front of the line, inspecting each boy. For what, James had no idea. He suspected that neither Peter nor a single one of the boys knew either.

“Lost Boys, we have a new recruit. This is James Hook, a Lost Boy I found in Kensington.”

A frown flitted across James's face at the title. He thought he'd made it quite clear that he was more a Boy on Holiday than a Lost one, but he chose not to remark on it.

“He's old!” cried out the tiniest boy.

Peter whirled around to him and glared into his face. That was enough to shut him up nearly instantly. “Now, sound off!”

The first in line was tall, little more than an inch shy of Peter. “Bibble!” he cried.

The next one, who could have been Bibble's twin, but was shorter because he hunched, shouted, “Bobble!”

The next, “Slightly!” James thought this boy's name ironic, for there was nothing slight about him.

The next, who had an excessive amount of freckles covering him all over, yelled, “Simpkins!”

And the last, the tiny one who had remarked about James's age, “Tootles!”

James stood there, blinking, having no clue as to what had just occurred. It sounded to him as though the boys had simply shouted out the first gibberish words that came into their heads.

“Well?” said Peter, turning to James, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well what?”

“What do you mean,
what
?” Peter narrowed his eyes.

James threw his hands into the air. “I mean, what?”

Peter shook his head and peered at the ground. “As I said, you Lost Boys. Not a brain in the lot of you. Get in line with the rest. When I say, ‘Sound off,' you sound off.”

James did as he was told, but it embarrassed him greatly, because he hadn't the foggiest idea as to what exactly he was supposed to say when he “sounded off.” This embarrassment was compounded when he realized he would have to stand at the front of the line, for he was clearly the tallest of the Lost Boys (barely, and he guessed that Bibble was a bit older, but still.) He took his place, and Peter shouted, “Sound off!”

James squirmed and looked at the boys and then again at Peter and said the first nonsense syllables that came into his head. “Boofin!”

The whole company erupted into a fit of laughter, but stopped abruptly when they saw the look of anger on Peter's face. He got very close to James and screwed up his features so that he looked like a caricature of himself.

“What did you say, James Hook?” he hissed.

James blinked and recoiled. He'd never seen Peter like this, crimson-faced, eyes terrible little slits. He'd never seen Peter in any state other than happy.

Peter inched closer to him, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to say.” James looked at the ground, concentrating on breathing, and on disallowing his heart from stopping beating altogether.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Daft, all of you. When I say, ‘Sound off,' you say your name. None of this ‘Boofin' nonsense in my ranks.”

James drew in a deep, vanilla-flavored breath, and tried very hard to appear taller and straighter as Peter
turned away from him and paced back and forth. Then, he snapped his body toward the boys. “Sound off!”

“James!”

“Bibble!”

“Bobble!”

“Slightly!”

“Simpkins!”

“Tootles!”

Peter smiled. “Now, James, if you're to be a Lost Boy with the rest of us, there are some rules you'll have to follow.”

James nodded, pushing away the voice in his head that thought it slightly concerning that Peter kept referring to him as a Lost Boy, in a more permanent sort of way than they had originally agreed.

“Number one, you're not allowed to know things that I don't know.”

James frowned, unsure how exactly he was supposed to keep this rule. He was a pre-Eton man, and even pre-Eton men knew a great many things he was quite sure Peter didn't. He nodded anyway, wishing to seem agreeable.

“Number two,” said Peter, pacing about and thrusting a finger into the air, “you're not allowed to be taller than me.”

This seemed a fair rule. As he was only planning on staying a week, two at most, he didn't plan on growing any taller while he was there.

“And lastly, and most importantly,” Peter lowered his voice and spoke very intensely, so that James had to listen quite closely to catch what he said, “absolutely no growing up.”

There was a rumbled noise of enthusiastic agreement, coming from the Lost Boys. James nodded gravely,
thinking that this rule shouldn't be too difficult to follow either, as growing up was not on the week's itinerary.

“Can you follow all of those rules, James Hook?”

“I can.”

“Do you solemnly swear not to grow up at any cost?” Peter asked, coming within a hair's width of James's nose.

“I solemnly swear.” James hoped Peter didn't recognize the trembling in his hands, or on every single part of him, honestly.

“Then,” Peter said, smiling widely, “welcome to the ranks!”

James broke into a great smile, nearly matching Peter's, at this announcement. The others, he noticed, did no such thing, every one of them but Bibble showing him a sort of cool indifference, arms folded, staring down the tips of their noses at him, even the tinier ones. Bibble at least turned toward him and offered him his hand. James shook it and thought that this one had decent form.

“So,” he asked brightly, determined to have every last drop of adventure he could before the week was up, “what do we do first?”

“The first order of business is—” Peter paused grandly. James thought that perhaps it was because Peter had no idea what the first order of business was, but kept quiet, not wanting to break the first rule already. “The first order of business is this. How many hooligans and sea dogs and pirates have you seen roaming about lately, boys?”

“Too many!” responded the boys in chorus.

“And what do we hate more than they?”

“Nothing!”

“Then, boys, tonight, we shall kill a pirate.”

James swallowed hard, heart assuring him this was an exaggeration, gut whispering that his heart was a liar.

It was indescribably savage and disturbing, seeing boys as young as five painting themselves up, preparing
for battle. James felt rather sick at the thought of it, at the little piece of doubt that this was only pretend, but allowed himself to be painted, nonetheless. They gave him a little dagger and smeared clay on his face in squiggly lines and designs. He could only imagine what his mother would say if she saw him.

“Come on, troops. It's time to pay a visit to the
Spanish Main
.”

James felt a tiny jolt in his chest, a spark of recognition, but it was vague and quick, and it faded away before he could fully pay it any sort of attention.

They crept in a straight and silent line through the foliage, all except Bibble and Bobble, who crawled next to each other. Some of the boys held blades in their mouths and others had bows strapped to their backs.

James growled as now blood-red leaves tickled his back, and when he glimpsed their sudden color and sharpness, his hair stood on end. Little fairies bobbed around the company, darting this way and that, courteously lighting their path. The otherwise black air got denser and denser the closer they got to the sea, and it smelled strongly of saltwater, dissonant with the still-present flavor of vanilla. James coughed and shut his eyes, trying to clear his head of the feel of altogether too much sensation at once.

The whole line stopped slowly as they reached the massive ship, and James's jaw dropped. It was hulking and shining, carved of the most beautiful wood, swirls and sheen and rich brown coating it. There was a breathtaking, massive skull and crossbones carved into the ship's front, leering at him. James fought the urge to gasp.

He looked away from it and back to the boys when he felt them begin to move again. There was blood thirst in Pan's eyes when he turned around and motioned for them all to slip aboard. James felt a great disquiet at this, partially made up of guilt and partially of something he
couldn't put a finger on. Something whispering to him that none of this was right, that this was, inexplicably, betrayal—or something closely related to it. He shimmied on the ground over to Peter, before the older boy could get a chance to climb aboard, and whispered in his ear, “Why are we killing a pirate tonight, Peter?”

Peter looked at him as though he was daft, as though he was terribly foolish for even thinking to ask the question. “Because he's a pirate, Hook.”

James didn't understand and crouched there, not knowing what else to say. But when Peter made a move toward the ship, something desperate clawed at his insides, needing very much to stop the whole endeavor. He grasped at the first trivial question his mind gave him.

“Where does the captain sleep, Peter?”

The group of boys behind them began to wriggle and rustle, confused, impatient murmuring rising up in the air.

“Nowhere,” said Peter through his teeth. “These pirates haven't got a captain.”

James furrowed his brow. “No captain. That doesn't seem very sporting, killing pirates who haven't even got a captain when we have.”

“Have you?”

“Why, yes, of course. You, Peter Pan.”

Peter's entire face lit up at this. “Captain I am. Captain I am.” Then he turned back to the ship as though the rest of the conversation hadn't taken place and he'd forgotten all about it.

“Peter, you promised I wouldn't have to kill—” James went to tug on Peter's shirt, and Peter thrust a hand out to stop him.