“Hello, boys—may I ask, where is my little brother?”
“I’m over here, Wendy!” a voice in the corner chimed, and Wendy let herself exhale. The boys stood silent and still, watching her like a frozen group of deer.
“If you wouldn’t mind just backing up so I may get out of bed, yes?”
The boys looked at one another and then took a few steps back, perfectly in sync with each other, as if they were of one mind. Wendy found herself unnerved by it, but she still sat up, rubbing her sleepy eyes. The boys clustered in the corner, whispering to each other as she delicately climbed out of the hammock, trying all the while to be ladylike about it, which in the end didn’t happen. She ended up on the floor on her knees, with her nightgown piled up around her thighs. With a blush, she yanked it back down and stood up, her body wobbling back and forth as it readjusted to Neverland’s strange gravitational pull. A chocolate-haired boy scampered over with some sort of rubbery flower in his hands.
“Here, Wendy. This is for you. I’m Brock!”
Another one followed him with a small cup of water.
Wendy nodded her head. “Thank you.”
A tiny boy with toffee skin and impossibly big, dark eyes crept up beside her. “I’m Naji!” Suddenly, she was swarmed again, with boys all around her, handing her gifts. They placed a dark green crown of leaves upon her head and looped vines around her wrists. The boy Brock was touching her hair, lifting and watching it fall, while an adorable ginger-haired boy named Tally stuck his finger curiously between her toes. Two small boys were trying to climb her arms, and another had wrapped himself around her leg. The names bounced off the room like the patter of rain: “Paran!” “Marcus!” “Alfonso!” “Lok!” “Vasha!” Collectively they smelled like earth and sweat. Wendy squirmed, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, a normal feeling when being buried in a pile of small boys. To her relief, an authoritative voice rang out through the tiny hut.
“Oy! Boys! Get off her!” The boys scampered away like mice, out the door and into the tree or up onto the open window arches. Wendy looked up and saw one of the three Generals poking his head through the door. The boy shook his head.
“Sorry about the Pips. They’re young and usually quite bored.”
She stared at him intensely, but then she was aware that he noticed her staring, and she ducked her head down, ashamed. He laughed.
“It’s okay to stare. I’m guessing you’ve never seen anyone who looks like me.”
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.”
He grinned. “Well, take a good look. Not everyone on this island is this handsome. You might as well get your fill now.”
Wendy smiled as she raised her eyes to look at his face with fascination. Michael had scampered over as well.
“What are those lines on your face, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . what’s your name?”
The General laughed. “I’m Oxley. You can call me Ox. And these lines on my face are the markings of my tribe where I grew up. I got them when I was very young, about your age.”
“Did it hurt?”
Oxley gave Michael a patient smile. “Yes. It did. But I barely remember it. These marks, where I came from, they told strangers things about me that they wouldn’t know right away.” He bent down, and Michael cautiously ran his hands over them.
“They are bumpy!”
Wendy couldn’t tear her eyes from his face. His skin was so dark that it was almost black. She had seen the Africans in London, the telltale packs of foreigners across their strong backs, their brown skin like cocoa shining in the sun. But she had never seen one that was this dark, like ebony. The scars stretched up from the corners of his mouth, hundreds of tiny dots that spread out like constellations across his cheekbones and up toward his ears. Across his forehead were several variations of dotted lines, stretching from one temple to the other. Down his chin was a single line of the dots.
He was stunningly regal.
“What do the lines mean?” Wendy asked. Her eyes never left Oxley’s magnificent face as he sat by Michael, though she did begin pulling the leaves out of her hair. Oxley ran his fingers across his forehead.
“These show which tribe I’m from. It’s a way of telling people who you are without having to tell them everything about yourself. The lines passed down from family to family, identifying our royal lineage.”
Michael was still running his fingers over the man’s scars.
“Michael,” Wendy warned.
“It’s all right,” Oxley said, laughing.
“I don’t know what lineage means, but I LIKE your dots,” Michael mumbled.
“These were from my tribe, and these . . .” he touched the pattern on his cheek, “are my tribal markings for my tribe here, in Neverland. Peter gave me these.”
“WOW!” Michael’s eyes were as big as saucers. “And now you are a part of Peter’s tribe!”