Peter pointed to the farthest point of the roof, where a perfect silver bell was perched upon an outlying branch. “Ring it!”
As John scampered over, Wendy took note of how out of place the silver bell looked amongst the tree branches and the natural, woven roof.
“That bell is so lovely.”
Peter turned to her, his naughty grin at once so enticing that Wendy had to clench her hands to keep from caressing his face.
“I stole it. From Hook.”
Michael, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, looked up from where he was finished getting sick on the roof, and Wendy made a note to clean his face as soon as she had access to water.
“Captain Hook?” Michael asked, eagerly.
Peter wagged his long finger. “Later. That is a tale for later. I’m assuming that you could probably use a good meal and perhaps a nap?”
At the mention of a nap, Wendy felt all the energy drain from her body. Peter was right—she was exhausted. It had been night when they had left . . . where was it that they lived? London, yes. How silly that she forgot! When they had left London, it had been night. Now it was midday. Her senses were out of whack and the strange question that had leapt into her chest when they arrived whispered once more before settling into the folds of her subconscious: what is . . . what is . . .
“Yes. That sounds quite lovely, Peter.” With that, John began ringing the bell. Its harsh clang sounded out over the roof and echoed down into the tree below, out over the island.
“Thank you, John.”
John’s hand slipped, and the bell gave an extra clang. Peter laughed. There was a moment of deafening silence in the absence of that harsh, sharp sound, and then Wendy heard a rising wave of whooping. Whooping and cheering, banal and animalistic in its nature, as if the tree itself were calling back to Peter its happy reply. It was the joyful cries of boys, boys calling like wolves to the moon, scampering and yipping toward them. Peter flew to the side of the roof, where a clumsy ladder made of branches was attached.
“Come, Darlings! Let’s go meet my boys.” He gave Wendy a naughty grin before leaping off the side of the roof, while Wendy self-consciously tucked her blue nightgown underneath her, climbing down one rung at a time until her feet met a boarded platform. She turned her face upward and reached her arms out to catch Michael, who, to her dismay, simply jumped.
“I’m Peter!” he cried, before landing heavily in her arms, his foot pushing roughly into her hip.
“Oof, Michael, you are getting so heavy! You can’t jump like that.”
He giggled, and Wendy curled him up for a kiss. His fat hand pushed her face away.
“No, Wendy! Not in front of Peter!” With a shake of her head, she put her little brother down and turned around. A sudden, sharp silence filled the air. Finally, a brave boy’s voice rose up through the silence, cutting through it like a blade.
“What the bloody hells ’tis a GURL doing here?”
The Darlings and Peter were now standing on a high platform that overlooked several descending levels of a dizzyingly large tree house. Staggered down from their spot on the platform were several more very wide and flat circular thatched roofs, each gorgeously patterned. The manzinita-esque tree wrapped and clung to the different buildings, leaping in and out of windows, its fingers splaying and supporting each of the levels, which were connected by endless mazes of rope walkways, tattered pieces of rope that ran from hut to hut. Each rope walkway was strung with perhaps a dozen hanging lanterns. There were probably about thirty huts in all, some larger than others, some shaped like tents, others like round bowls, still others like tiny versions of rickety square buildings. The tree groaned and creaked in the wind, and Wendy was struck that Pan Island, this fortress of nature, was somehow alive. A raw bustling energy ran through its veins, something she could feel in the air, sense on her skin. It was the feeling of boys, a crackling and fervent energy, and as she looked out from the platform, she understood why. About two hundred boys of every shape, color, and nationality stared up at her. There were pale white skinny boys with red hair and dashes of freckles; black-skinned boys with dark, beautiful eyes; black-haired lads with icy blue eyes; tanned boys with curly brown hair, their skin the color of cocoa; blond boys with strong chins; and Asian boys with long black hair and tanned skin.