He scoffs. “What am I, yer fucking guide? Find him yerself.” He nods his head back towards the water.
He’s angry, I think. I don’t know why. He’s the murderer, not me.
“I’ll take her,” Orson tells him, and it’s only now he glances between us.
I don’t say anything, but I nod once and then he leads me away.
Once I’m a couple of metres away, I glance back at Hook right in time for him to snatch an ale from someone else and throw it back with an ease that would make one’s mother worry.*
And I wouldn’t know it at the time, because unfortunately I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, but if I did, I would have seen how Jamison Hook watched me walk away, a scowl on his face, impatient and annoyed and ever so slightly sad to see me go.
Orson and I walk out of the town centre and down a white, stony path, and it’s beautiful. Somewhere between Milos and Cortona, olive trees and white cliffs and bougainvillea spilling everywhere, and then we get to a clearing.
Calhoun points straight down into a bay. “Yer boy’s that way.”
I swallow and look over at him. “He’s not my boy.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I’ll feckin’ say.” And then he walks away.
I climb down to the shore’s edge and watch for a few moments.
Peter’s lying out on a rock, face turned up against the sun, squinting into it, and a mermaid’s resting her head on his shoulder, tracing her finger over his chest.
And for a second, I wonder if I should leave.
Forget Neverland, forget these two boys that I’ve just met, and I know what you’re thinking: not even a day ago, they were strangers, no one to me, and this place was nothing but a rumour of a dream that my ancestors had, so I could leave. Perhaps I should…
But were I to leave, somehow I just know I’d spend the rest of my days wishing to be back here, wondering with an abominable curiosity about what might have been had I stayed, because Neverland is like quicksand for your soul and like the Mafia is to your heart. Once you’re in, you’re in.
“Wendy!” Peter cheers from the rock. He jumps up, laughing happily, and flies over to me.
I want to be cross at him for forgetting my name again, but a bit of me is just happy he’s happy to see me.
“I thought you died.” He laughs carelessly.
I frown. He doesn’t notice.
“Where did you go?”
Where did I go? I wasn’t even sure. Alone for five minutes in Neverland, and I was momentarily (and grievously) seduced by the eyes of a guileful pirate. Embarrassing, really. And pathetic.
I wonder for a second whether I should mention Jamison but decide there’s nothing to mention. Nothing at all, and there isn’t.?
I glance back over to the town, over by the dock where I landed, looking for—never mind. Looking for trouble, I suppose.
I flash Peter a smile instead.
“Looking for you,” I lie.
* * *
* Slip, more like. He won’t take that voluntarily.
* Just by the sheer colours of it.
* He says it like “ya,” not Old English “hear ye, hear ye.” It’s less refined than that.
? And I’m not even sure he is a human?
? Though he says it more like “aff”
§ Which means “above.”
* Which means “father.”
? Neither because of their wetness nor their shortness but because he feels like the sort of person I might like to look my best in front of. I’m not sure why.
? “Forbye,” I’d eventually find out, means “as well.”
* He is.
? Girl? Woman? Young woman? Older than me, for certain.
? If that is, indeed, what he said to her. It’s hard to know with that accent of his.
* Not my mother, per se, because they’re quite fond of rum in Belize, but a mother may worry.
? Right?
CHAPTER
THREE
I want to reiterate for you before I say what I’m about to say next that I am actually quite clever. I have a good grasp on the English language and a substantial lexicon under my belt, but even so, I don’t know whether I presently have in my vocabulary the kinds of words that would be necessary to communicate with you what Neverland is actually like. Nevertheless, I will try.
The island itself is divided into four sections, but it’s not quartered like pies are.
For lack of a better explanation, it’s shaped like a croissant and then quartered rather oddly. The bays and the beach run along the inner curvature of the island. and the curve is technically divided in to two, but not in a way that you can see it from the ground.
The part where Jamison Hook lives and the village is feels like summertime, and I’m led to believe that they call it Zomertierra.
The other half of the crescent looks and smells awfully like spring, and this is where Peter lives, and I’m told the First People of the island also,* and they call this Preterra.
Rimming both Zomertierra and Preterra the whole length of the island is Haustland, which is golden autumn all year round (whether or not they have seasons here, I’m yet to be sure), but behind Haustland, bordering and overshadowing the entire island, is Vinterlun, mountains and snow. I think almost all the mountains on the island exist in Vinterlun with perhaps the exception of Mount Carnealian, which is on the far left of the island, and I think it could be argued it’s in the Zomertierra province.
Each province seems to slowly fade into the next, so you aren’t always sure where one ends and the other begins. There’s also an offensively turquoise bay that sits between where the Never Wood is and where Jamison Hook resides—not that we’ll be thinking of him again.
Peter did show me off a bit to the mermaids,? and not a single one of them spoke to me. Not one!
“Don’t take it personal,” he told me. “As a species, they’re not so friendly to your kind.”
“My kind?” I repeated.
“You know, a”—he nodded his chin at me as he lowered his voice—“girl.”
Quite fond of boys though, so it would appear. I might even go as far as to say that they’re uncomfortably taken by him, completely enraptured, lying on their bellies, chins in hands, staring up at him while he performed for them tricks, sometimes using me as a part of them. Balancing me on one finger. Tossing me high into the air and catching me right before I’d hit the water. He didn’t ask me to partake. I was just partaking, and I don’t think I minded because he’s Peter Pan, and it’s maybe the most brilliant feeling I’ve ever had, having his eyes on me, even if they aren’t entirely on me all the time. The one he calls Marin likes his attention a lot, and Peter seems to like giving it to her.
“You are ever so dreamy now, Peter.” She batted her eyes up at him.
He lay down, mirroring her, almost nose to nose. “I know I am.”