At first glance, Wendy thought she was looking at another mountain, but as the children covered the distance between the islands, she saw that it was a . . .
“A tree!” she shouted. “Pan Island is a tree?” As long as her block in London and just as wide, the tree seemed to burst forth from the ground with a certain violence. Pan Island rose almost vertically out of the ocean. It was indeed a tree, a tree that could swallow all other trees and the sea and sky around it. From above, it reminded Wendy of the bonsai that her father kept in his office. Levels upon levels layered the tree, wooden beams and walkways visible from the air. From above, the round, flat huts that dotted the tree’s branches looked like ants on a log. Sunlight filtered down on its thousands of leafy branches, each one its own unique hue of green. Choked vines and variegated leaves as big as horses provided the massive tree with shade and protection. At the base of the great tree, pale beige roots rose out of the ocean, the tree’s main trunk not even beginning until thirty or so feet up in the air. Beyond that, a green maze of bamboo that surrounded the base peacefully swayed in the wind, brushing its tips to wave to the children above. From there, the great branches, some as wide as buildings, curled out, contorted, gnarly and thick, their upward-facing surfaces worn with the sun. As they flew closer and closer to the island, Wendy thought she saw a boy scampering down a branch before he disappeared into the green leaves of the tree.
“It’s, it’s . . . incredible,” John gasped.
The humid Neverland air seemed to beckon Wendy ever nearer as Peter began leading their descent to the topmost point of the tree. As they dropped swiftly, Wendy saw a flag emerge out of the dense foliage. As they grew closer to the tree itself, she could see that it wasn’t so much a tower as a wide, circular thatched roof that loomed above all the others. Peeking out from a jumble of overlapping dried palms and leaves was a thick branch, and at the end of the branch, a handmade flag snapped in the wind. It had once been a shirt, Wendy observed, a black threaded shirt, sized for an adult. Someone had painted a crude yellow moon on the back of the shirt, the fingerprints still visible where they wiped the paint off on the side of the flag. Silhouetted in the middle of the rising, messy moon was a black figure, his arms outstretched in flight.
Peter Pan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’M SLOWING NOW!” Peter shouted, and he pulled back so that the children trailed feet behind him, their arms all stretched beyond being comfortable. As light as a feather, Peter landed gently on the thatched roof, his feet barely making a sound as they brushed its scratchy surface, at which point he let go of their hands.
The Darling children were not so graceful. Michael went tumbling, almost pitching off the edge of the roof before Peter grabbed his arm roughly to catch him. John ended up on his knees first and then skidded face-first into the roof, leaving his burning face marked with tiny red slivers. Wendy landed hard on her side and rolled a few times before coming to an abrupt stop, her nightgown hiked up just over her thighs. Mortified at both her landing and her white legs, she yanked it down with a cry, Peter looking away quickly to pretend he hadn’t noticed. All three children staggered to their feet, and Wendy felt her stomach give a heave of nausea. She turned away just in time to miss Michael getting sick off the side of the roof, but she heard it. It took all her willpower to force the nausea down. Peter came to her side, concern etched across his impossibly beautiful face.
“Are you feeling all right, Wendy?”
She held out her hand. “We’re . . .” She laughed. “We’re just not used to flying. We might need a few minutes before our stomachs settle.”
To her great annoyance, besides the rough landing, John seemed perfectly fine. He walked swiftly to the edge of the roof and was looking out at Pan Island with a huge smile across his face. Wendy pushed herself up to her knees and laid her hands firmly against the strange roof, unlike anything she had ever seen. Even the smallest palms were woven, and not in a simple cross-pattern, but rather in an ever-widening circle of elaborate designs. Her fingers traced the design upward until she reached the center of the roof, where a gorgeously sewn night sky was pierced through by the branch holding Peter’s flag.
“Why, this is amazing work,” she stuttered. “Who made this?”
Peter shrugged nonchalantly. “Magic. Probably. But wait until you see the rest!” Wendy stood, shakily, and Peter reached out to steady her. His green eyes met hers, and he reached down and, without warning, he unlatched the two navy buttons holding her coat on. The coat fell to her feet, and Wendy felt like she was shedding a skin.
“I thought you might be warm. Here, I’ll help you down.” Peter gestured to her brother. “Aye, John, do you see that bell?”