Smee disengaged himself carefully, one eye on Hook's claw. "Cap'n, methinks you need a little mischief to take yer mind off this Pan business."
Nose to nose, they stared at each other. Smee reached up to lift off Hook's tricorne, then bent down to pull off his boots. Hook lost almost a foot of height in the bargain.
"First thing tomorrow mawnin' let's you and me go shoot some Lost Boys out of Long Tom. That should do the trick."
Long Tom was the monstrous cannon mounted on the aft deck. It was Hook's favorite weapon. Hook thought it over for a moment, then shook is head dejectedly.
"We can always kill Lost Boys," he whined. "I don't want to kill Lost Boys. I want to kill Pan!"
Smee worked the buttons loose on the captain's coat and slipped the garment from his shoulders. Within was a framework of padding designed to make the captain appear twice his real size, brawny and tough. Bereft of it as he was now, sitting hunched over on the bed, he looked very small indeed.
"Don't torture yourself, Cap'n," Smee went on, oblivious of what he had seen countless times before. "It doesn't do a skewer's worth of good. Besides, you can't let the men see you this way, now, can you?" He paused in his endeavors. "Lookit the bright side, Cap'n. You still get to deep-six his ruddy curtain climbers."
Hook shook his ebony locks, so that they swished like snakes. "Oh, Smee, terribly bad form. Terribly bad. To kill the defenseless children of a defenseless foe? I should think you would know better."
Smee shrugged, bent close, and began pulling off Hook's bushy eyebrows.
"Gently, gently," Hook admonished.
' 'Quickly,'' Smee replied, and yanked them free.' 'Better a sharp stab than a lingrin' pain, you always say."
Hook grimaced. "Don't quote me, Smee." He rubbed the nearly hairless patches of skin that remained. "Oh, I wish I could devise the most lingering of pains for Peter Pan!"
Smee considered the prospect as he lifted Hook's wig from his head. Hook was almost bald beneath. Sitting there bereft of his hat, hair, eyebrows, padded coat, and boots, he had the look of a frail, wizened Lost Boy. Smee gathered up the captain's discarded clothing and carried it behind the dressing screen at the far end of the room.
Suddenly he stopped dead, his shadow behind the screen straightening. "Sir! Lightnin' just struck me brains! Cap'n, you could make the little buggers like-no, mo'rn like-you could make 'em love you! Love you like, like…" Here, words failed him.
Hook buried his head in his hands, dejected anew. "No, no, Smee. No little children love me."
He peeked through his fingers at the screen concealing Smee, reached surreptitiously beneath the pillow on his bed, and removed a small key. Slipping the key into the bureau lock, he turned it, pulled open the drawer, and removed his pistol. Hand on the butt, hammer cocked once more, he placed the barrel to his heart.
Behind the screen, Smee was eyeing Hook's boots. With a cautious glance over his shoulder, he slipped them on. "Cap'n, that's the point! The ultimate revenge, doncha see! Pan's kids in love with Cap'n Hook! The perfect payback!"
Hook looked up slowly, thinking. His forehead furrowed, adding ten years to his apparent age. The pistol lowered. Just maybe…
Smee, busy behind the screen trying on the captain's coat, turned to admire himself in the mirror. "Can you imagine the look on Pan's face when he returns and finds 'is kids standing beside you!" Smee pirouetted rakishly, the captain's coat flaring. "The two of them ready to fight for the sleaziest sleaze of the seven seas? For Cap'n James Hook? Oh, I tell you, Cap'n, it would be beautiful, it would!"
A light came into Hook's tired eyes. "I like it,' he whispered. "It has a certain symmetry."
"And you'd make a fine father, too, I might add," encouraged Smee, fitting Hook's wig on his head.
"Me?"
"Oh, yes, Cap'n, if I do say so meself."
"Really?" Hook considered the idea. "1 do know a little about neglect."
"A very fine father," said Smee, setting Hook's tricorne in place.
Hook leaped to his feet, suddenly animated, and clapped his hands together in delight. "Oh Smee, what a fine idea I've just had! I will not only destroy Pan, but 1 shall have his own children-except they'll be my children, by the bones of Barbecue-lead the battle against him! I shall be so loved, Smee! James Hook, family man!" He took a deep breath. "James Hook, father!"
Smee eyed himself in the mirror, then picked up the cigar holder with its twin stems and placed it in his mouth, puffing contentedly. " 'Tis the wickedest, prettiest plan I've ever 'eard," he declared with a smile.
The object of all this villainy was miles away, curled in a ball in the crook of a limb not too high up in the branches of the Nevertree, cold and hungry and discouraged. All around him the Lost Boys were sleeping, each of them sheltered in the tree house that had been built for him when he had come to Neverland. There was no house for Peter, of course; he had arrived too late to have one built, and besides he wasn't a Lost Boy. He wasn't anything much at all, he thought dismally. He was odd man out in this ridiculous world.
Overhead, Neverland's moons hung like giant Japanese lanterns against the night sky, crowding so close that they seemed in danger of falling into the ocean, their brilliant light hiding the stars beyond. Peter stared at the moons and wondered what had become of Moira and home. He wondered if he would ever see either again.
A light flashed out of the darkness and Tink settled beside him. He looked up at her, lost and lonely and frightened. In a bizarre and unsettling world, she had become the most familiar thing. She saw what was mirrored in his eyes and gave him an encouraging smile.
"Believe your eyes, Peter," she whispered. "Believe in faeries and Lost Boys and three suns and six moons. It will be all right, if you do." She bent close. "Search inside yourself for one, pure, innocent thought and hold on to it. Because what used to make you happy will make you fly. Will you try, Peter?"
Peter stared at her, trying to comprehend. Finally, he said, "If all this is real, was the rest of my life a dream?"
She shrugged. Faeries do not engage in philosophical discussions, it's said. "What used to make you happy will make you fly," she repeated, preferring practical advice.
Peter nodded wearily and closed his eyes. "Okay, Tink. I'll try."
Tinkerbell waited as his breathing slowed. When sleep claimed him, she came forward cautiously, leaned upward from where she stood on his chest, and stole a kiss from his lips. Then she turned about and crawled inside his shirt, a tiny glow working its way about. Finally she found a comfortable spot close to the collar and settled in. Peter had begun to snore. She joined him, her own snores little more than tiny breaths. Her light pulsed with each one, fading gradually as she, too, fell asleep.
Nearby, sitting cross-legged at the entrance to his own house, Rufio watched the tiny light wink out. A scowl lined his smooth features. He didn't like this imitation Pan, this fat, old grown-up trying to steal what was his. Jealousy wormed its way through him. He intended to be rid of this intruder as quickly as possible.
He pulled the Pan sword close against him, and his eyes were as bright as fire in the dark.
One by one the lights of the Nevertree went out, extinguished by the faeries who kept night watch as they flitted down through the branches in search of dewdrops to drink and ladybugs to ride and tiny rainbow crystals to treasure. The lights disappeared in their wake, leaving only the moons of white and peach and pale rose to color the dark. Neverland drifted away into children's dreams-to the belief that kept it timeless, to the promise that kept it young.
Why Parents
Hate Their Children
It was a rejuvenated Captain Hook who had Jack and Maggie brought to his cabin the following morning. Gone was the gloom that had beset him the evening prior, gone the despair and disconsolation. A smile wreathed his angular face, as broad and inviting as a crocodile's (though neither Hook nor any self-respecting crocodile would have appreciated the comparison, I am sure). He was dressed in full regalia-boots shined, coat brushed, wig curled, tricorne set carefully in place. He wore new lace at his throat and sleeves, and his hook gleamed wickedly. The room was restored to its former elegance as well, the furniture righted, the remnants of dinner cleared away, the shattered dining table and the blasted replica of the Jolly Roger replaced, and the few pictures knocked askew straightened or rehung.