Peter swung back again toward Tinkerbell. "I can't accept this! It's not rational adult thinking! It's not possible!"
Tinkerbell darted from the shelf to land on his hand and began wrapping a handkerchief about the cut. "Listen to me, Peter. Jack and Maggie are here. And you've got to do battle with Captain Hook to free them. For that, you'll need the Lost Boys. And your sword. And you'll have to fly!"
Peter shook his head vehemently. ' 'Just wait, just hold on one minute!" He steadied himself. "Whatever this is all about, whatever is happening here, I'm still me! I can't fly. I'm not going to fight anyone."
He spun away from her and strode toward the door. "Where are you going?" she called after him.
"To find James Hook, Captain, and get my kids back and go home!" he shouted back.
"No, Peter, it's too soon!" She flashed in front of him, trying to bring him to a halt. "Hook is waiting for you. It's a trap! He planned it this way-the kidnapping, the whole business. He'll kill you! You're not ready for him!"
Peter brushed past. He'd had enough of this nonsense. "I'm as ready as I need to be." He paused at the kitchen door. "Besides, my kids can't afford to miss any more school."
Tinkerbell stomped her foot on an imaginary floor, hands on hips. "Oh, Peter Pan!" she muttered. "You are as stubborn as ever!" She whipped past him as he tried to go out the doorway, seized hold of his shirt collar, and held him fast. "A look, then!" she hissed in his ear. "Just a look, though. Then you decide. But first let's dress you up a bit."
As he grunted irritably, she dragged him back inside.
Pirates, Pirates Everywhere!
When Peter emerged again from the dingy kitchen, he was dressed in a hodgepodge of pirate garb-a scarlet cape across his shoulders, a black tricorne hat atop his head, and a black eye patch beneath his brow-all lifted from the unfortunate pirate cooks disposed of by Tinkerbell. He also wore a peg leg, laced to his kneecap by leather straps, his own good leg tied up behind him under the covering of his cape. A crutch supported him. His disguise might have been more comfortable if he had been willing to part with the remains of his tuxedo, but he couldn't quite bring himself to give up the last vestiges of the now departed real world, and he wore them still hidden underneath everything else.
Stepping out into the light, he gazed around tentatively. Pirates sauntered past without so much as a glance at him, engaged in their own activities. There were big pirates and little pirates, pirates with missing eyes and ears, with peg legs and empty sleeves, with scars that crisscrossed their faces and necks, with beards and mustaches and sideburns and muttonchops. There were dozens of them, all armed with flint pistols and sharpened blades, a whole arsenal of death-dealing weapons. Peter tried not to think too much about what that meant as he steeled himself for the task that lay ahead. Whatever this was all about, whichever world it was that he had been cast into-Neverland or dreamland or wherever-he was not leaving without Jack and Maggie.
He hobbled down into the pirate town, working his way carefully past its inhabitants, trying to act inconspicuous in his outlandish garb, hoping against hope that he looked like he belonged. The eye patch was a nice touch, but hard to get used to. Whenever he needed to see clearly, he found himself lifting the patch to do so. Shouts and laughter rose from every quarter-from within the many taverns and alehouses where glasses were being raised and purses lifted, from the blade shops where edges were being honed on whetstones, from the stables where horses were being shod and groomed, and from the streets themselves, where hands and arms were being linked in rough camaraderie.
Inside the tricorne hat, Tinkerbell bounced about, righted herself as best she could, and peered out through the hole cut for her in the brim.
"You don't act enough like a pirate!" she snapped at him irritably. "If you insist on seeing Hook and intend to stay alive in the bargain, then you have to do better than this! Let's practice. Do exactly as I say. Make your right arm limp. Pretend it is dead and useless. Let it hang by your side. Try it."
Peter grinned, amused by the idea. He let his arm hang limp. "How's that, little bug?"
She bristled. "Don't call me that! Call me by my name. Like you used to. Tink."
He shrugged. "Okay. Tink."
A pirate so hunched down he appeared to be searching for worms bumped into him drunkenly and careened away.
"Crack your mouth and drool," Tink ordered.
Peter twisted his mouth out of shape and let his tongue loll. Kind of fun.
"Now growl."
"Rwwlll."
"No, no! I said growl!"
She darted from his hat in a flash of light, dagger drawn, and jabbed at his posterior.
"Groooaahhh!" he howled.
A pair of fierce-looking pirates with blades strapped everywhere wheeled about. "Groooaahhh!" they responded, and waved in greeting.
Down through the pirate town went Peter and Tink, past the jumbled hulks of the ships that had been cannibalized and turned to makeshift shops and shelters, past a group of shabby musicians playing fiddles and flutes who were fronted by a gnarled fellow in ragged knee-length pants and a jersey singing a pirate shanty.
They were passing a blacksmith standing over an anvil at his forge when Tink said, "Hsssstt! Look, Peter."
Peter stopped.
The blacksmith was holding up a metal hook, the end still glowing redly from where it had been resting in the forge's fire. Sunlight glinted off its point as it was turned this way and that for inspection.
Next to the blacksmith stood a stubby, bespectacled pirate in baggy sailor pants, soiled tunic, and a striped vest that looked like it had found its way onto its wearer's back off the streets of Tijuana. His nose was as blunt as a marlinspike's tip, and his eyebrows were as bushy as caterpillars. A broad, cheerful smile wreathed his weathered face, and a brimmed, feathered bosun's hat was perched rakishly atop his head.
Cautiously he reached up to touch the hook's point, then flinched away.
"Ohhh, sharp as a shark's front tooth!" he declared, sucking on his finger. "I think the captain will be pleased indeed."
"That's Smee!" whispered Tink in Peter's ear.
The blacksmith dunked the glowing hook in a pail of water, held it under while it steamed, and then brought it out again. He wiped it off carefully and handed it to Smee, who laid it carefully on a satin pillow.
"Good work, Blackie!" said Smee, tipped a hand to his cap, and was off.
"After him, Peter!" hissed Tink.
Down the wharf Peter limped, peg leg stubbing and dragging and chaffing mercilessly as he followed the bobbing feathers of Smee's cap through the crowds. From time to time they could see Smee loft the hook overhead, balancing it precariously on the satin pillow. He hummed and he whistled as he went, and pirates all around him called out.
"A floggin' good morning to ya, Captain Smee!" cried a carpenter engaged in building what appeared to Peter to be a gallows.
"Any news of war, Captain?" asked another.
Smee smiled broadly, apparently missing the sarcasm in their voices, pushing on as if the greetings were not only sincere but his due. All the while the hook glinted and shone in the sun.
A group of women whose profession was unmistakable whistled as Smee went past.
"Put on your faces, girls," cried one. "Here comes Captain Smee!"
They darted out to greet him, dancing about, their skirts lifting rakishly.
"Look, look!" they chimed. "It's got to be the Captain's hook!"