For a moment, she stood, looking out at the sea, and then her head turned west, toward the main island. How far could it be? Peter had said eighteen miles, but was that true? Was anything he ever said true? The sky answered with a clap of thunder so loud that it seemed to echo and bounce around inside her bones. The rain began to pour, warm and wet and drenching. Two Lost Boys ran past her hut, holding giant leaves over their heads for shelter. “Big storm! Get inside!” one of them shouted at Wendy before disappearing into the shady grove beyond. She nodded silently. These boys. She looked down at the tiny boy footprints they had left in the muddy ground, now filling with rainwater, now drowned out and disappearing under a small puddle that turned their footprints into a widening lake. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was time to act.
Hours later, she stood up and forced herself to take a jagged breath. She had rested an d planned, until her path lay clear before her. She had tried to channel the strength of her mother, her strong hands and unwavering protectiveness. She had tried to channel the intelligence of her father, of his steady heart and quick mind, and finally Booth: his compassion, his kindness, and what he believed she was—brave. Wendy turned and went back into her hut, which she had totally ransacked. The small overturned table had been broken. The linen curtains were shredded. Food and ribbons were strewn everywhere. The water basin dripped over the floor. There were deep grooves in the wall where Wendy had raked a table leg with violent, heavy slashes. Wendy reached down, grabbing the burlap sack that she had packed earlier with a few dresses, shoes, apples, and her small dagger. For her last step, she turned over the small wooden chair that Michael was fond of, and with a careful stomp of her foot, she broke off one of the legs. She held up the jagged end, turning it over in the waning light of the storm. Yes, that would work just dandy.
Wendy stood up to survey the room, to take it in one last time. She watched the hammock rock in the wind, the way that the ribbons draped across the floor, a shuffling melody filling the space, a room she had once loved. She watched her shredded curtains blowing in the quickening breeze. It was the loveliest of prisons. Wendy pulled a single lavender ribbon off the hammock and tied it around her ponytail, smoothing the hair away from her flushed cheeks. She straightened her blue dress and slipped on her sensible black shoes. Through her window, she could see the mainlaind, a slumbering, green leviathan, lit up with jagged, angry bursts of heat lightning that peppered the island like an attack.
Wendy tightened her fists and recalled the memory of falling, of twisting and plummeting, of her panicked thoughts. She remembered the way Peter had drawn the line in the sand around her, the way he had kissed her as if she were his to claim. She let the memories rise up inside her like bile, filling her body with potent fear. Her breaths became ragged as she remembered it all. She turned to the small mirror hanging above the broken table. She looked back at herself, her hazel eyes rimmed with red. Her lips parted as she spoke quietly to herself. “Be brave, Wendy.” The wind roared its approval outside.
Moving quickly now, she grabbed the wooden leg of the chair and shoved the tip of it into the burning torch outside her hut. She watched as the fire seduced its way into the wood, lighting it from within until the piece flared and sparked. Wendy ran back inside with the flaming stick and laid it down, ever so gently, on the hammock. Within seconds, it caught fire. She sprinted to the doorway, kicking over another torch on her way out. Smoke began to fill the hut. Without stopping, Wendy leapt out onto the tree, wrapping her legs around it the way Oxley had taught her.
Her body hurtled downward, the levels of Pan Island flying by as she dropped. When the main platform appeared below her, she hugged her thighs together, slowing her momentum so that she could leap off onto the rope walkway. She landed on her knees, falling forward, scraping her face on the disintegrating wood panels. With a small cry, she pushed herself up to her feet and ran toward the Table, where she knew the boys were probably eating dinner. Shouts rose in the distance, and she glanced up. Her hut was now billowing black smoke into the stormy sky. Thunder cracked as she cleared the side of the rope walkway and pressed her back against the side of the Table.
A small boy named Alexander was relieving himself off the edge of the walkway, laughing as he peed into the branches below. “Alexander!” Wendy barked. He turned around, a blush spreading up his cheeks. Wendy pretended not to notice. She raised her voice to a hysterical pitch. “Fire! Fire! My hut! The pirates! The pirates! They are attacking us!” She pointed up frantically. The boy’s mouth dropped open, and he sprinted inside the Table, half-elated to be able to share the news, half-frenzied.