The brave Wendy and the arrogant Peter would have been shocked by the cowardice and doubt that plagued their adult selves. They would have sorely reprimanded their grown-up counterparts, that is, if they’d not been so deeply buried they’d lost any say in the matter. As it were, all their inner child could do was to whisper accusingly, “You have forgotten the way!”
Peter held her fast to the rock, his body covering hers, buffeting her from the fierce waves that pounded them. Again and again his manly form smashed against her, and in spite of the dire circumstances, her body thrilled in response to him.
Something tickled her cheek, as soft as a kiss, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was. Peter grasped at it. ”Salvation!” he exclaimed, almost brightly. She looked to see a cheerful little kite, dancing on the wind, as if to say, “Can I be of assistance?”
Wendy looked from Peter to the little kite and back, her heart sinking. “I fear it cannot carry the both of us.”
“It won’t have to.” Already he had tied the tail round her waist.
“Peter,” she protested, clinging to his neck, “I shan’t go without you.”
“You must, Wendy. The rock is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it!”
“I won’t leave you to die alone.”
“Better than both of us dying, my love.”
Like a petulant child she stuck out her lower lip, stubbornly proclaiming, “I’ll not leave you.”
Peter disengaged himself from her grasp. “I’m sorry, Wendy. I have to let you go.”
“No Peter, please!”
“Good-bye, Wendy.” Peter pushed her away from him and she began to rise with the little kite. Despite struggling to get back to him, it was no use. In a few minutes she was borne from his sight and Peter was left alone to die.
Wendy woke with a gasp, a fine sheen of sweat covering her face, her bedsheet tangled about her waist. The dream troubled her greatly. Was it saying that she had to let go or that she should not? The more she tried to focus on the details the more muddled they became, yet deciphering the meaning seemed of vital importance. The clock was ticking… With a shudder she realized that she had less than a week to figure it out.
CHAPTER 16
Come Away, Come Away!
Peter ran through the thick forest toward a little earthen house where Wendy slept. The pirates could be heard carousing far away and the wolves were on the prowl. He drew his sword determined to stand guard and keep her safe. As he approached the house, he realized that the door was asunder. Then the song of the pirates grew louder and Peter instantly knew the reason. The thought of Wendy bound, and on the pirate ship caused his heart to bob up and down.
“I’ll rescue her!” he cried. “Hook or me this time.”
Peter stood outside No. 14, watching from the stillness of the garden. In one corner stood an ancient doghouse, the name Nana carved across the top. It was in such a forlorn condition that Peter felt satisfied its occupant was long gone from this earth. So he scaled the iron gate.
He still wasn’t sure what he was doing. Surely, the hook-handed pirate captain from his nightmares was not waiting in the shadows to kidnap Wendy. But the sentiments behind his dream had seemed so real that he couldn’t quite talk himself out of the idea that Wendy needed saving. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in grave danger, so he had come to reassure himself that she was safe.
Winding though the shadows, Peter made his way to the trellis that had tempted him on many such nights. At the top was the one thing he loved most in the world.
“Peter, oh Peter…”
He stilled as he heard Wendy call out in her sleep. Surely, his ears were playing tricks on him. He knew he should not continue and for a moment hesitated in indecision. If she calls my name again, he thought, I will go to her. As if privy to his hopes, Wendy softly murmured, “Peter…” And the decision was made.
Quietly, climbing her trellis, Peter felt like the most heartless thing in the world, entirely selfish. He knew he should halt, but the thought of seeing her was too tempting to resist. So clearly could he picture her slumbering, that it seemed as if he had spied on her before.
When he reached the top, his heart began to boom in his chest. Trembling, he knew he was looking through the open window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.
There could not have been a lovelier sight; bathed in moonlight, Wendy was safely asleep in her four-poster bed. Her sweet mouth was drawn in such a way that her innermost kiss mocked him.
Suddenly he longed to give her something of himself, a final gift. Slipping into the room, he approached the bed. His hand crept into his pocket and pulled out his good luck charm. It seemed right to Peter the thing he loved second best in the entire world should belong to the first.
Wendy stirred in her sleep and Peter dropped to the floor in a panic. He knew he should go. The impropriety of his actions was shameful. What if she wakened to find him in her chamber? Surely, she would detest him more than she already did!
No. Wendy could never know that he had been here. Still as much as he was ashamed for his conduct, he felt worse about leaving. How could he leave his very self? The pain of separation had weighed so heavily on him the first time that he did not think he could survive it again! Was this to be the last time he laid eyes on his Wendy?
If only she would wake up. There was so much he wanted to say to her—so much that was in his heart. Even if she rejected him, as she no doubt would, at least she would know his feelings.
From somewhere below a clock chimed reminding Peter that he could not tarry. He then uttered what was undoubtedly the most painful word in the English language. “Goodbye.”
He was creeping slowing back toward the window when Wendy sat straight up in her bed. She did not seem alarmed to see a stranger on her bedroom floor, only pleasantly interested.
“Boy,” she asked courteously, “why are you crying?”
Astonished, Peter raised his hand to his cheek and felt its dampness. He had been crying, only without realizing it.
Before he could speak, Wendy continued. “It must be sewn on,” she said, just a little patronizingly.
Peter was at a complete loss, until he realized that Wendy’s conversation was not with him—not really. Her pale eyes had the glaze of one still dreaming. Yet in spite of her dream like state, the conversation felt to him entirely personal and he wondered at it.
Still in slumber, Wendy stood and crossed to the open window reaching with her hand. “Don’t go, Peter,” she entreated. “I know such lots of stories.”
Peter watched with shock as she climbed the window ledge, exclaiming, “Oh, how lovely to fly.” As she reached out into the abyss of night, Peter grabbed her from behind and pulled her roughly back into the room. Her body slammed against his as he held her fast.
Wendy gasped and her eyes cleared. She looked around in a daze. Then realizing she was pressed against the hard form of a man, she began to struggle.
“Let me go!” she ordered him.
Shocked, Peter released his hold on her.
As she swung around, Wendy’s eyes widened in recognition. “You!” she gasped. “Will you never give me any peace? Just go away!”
The absolute folly of his behavior became clear as she confronted him. He was such a fool! “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he launched himself out the window. He did not look back as he rapidly climbed down the trellis, ran across the garden and vaulted over the gate. Indeed, he did not look back until he was two streets over.
If he had had any doubts concerning Wendy’s sentiments toward him, he harbored them no longer. She despised him. And tomorrow—tomorrow she would pledge herself to another and his heartbreak would be complete.
Peter’s sole consolation was that he could most likely make the morning train before the constable could track him down and bring scandal upon his respectable brother. As he hurried home to pack, it seemed the very wind was calling out to him, mocking him in
Wendy’s melodious voice. Peter! it called. Peter, come back!
Wendy closed her eyes and focused on mastering her breathing. Her heart was racing. She had been moving about in her sleep again, her dreams so vivid that she was having trouble shaking them off. She had not merely dreamt Peter this time—she had felt him. She had felt the warmth of his body as he clasped her to him, heard his irresistible voice apologizing, and saw the well of agony in his exquisite green eyes. He had been so real! However, she had seen him at the foot of her bed so often in her dreams that she thought this was just the dream hanging around her still.
It was the dream Peter she had reacted to with her uncharitable comments. And rightly so. The dream Peter deserved to be chastised for tormenting her on a nightly basis. Had she realized this Peter was no apparition, she would have spoken only kindness to him, despite the impropriety of their circumstances.
Slowly crossing to the open window, Wendy searched for any trace that Peter had actually been in her room. She examined the deep shadows of the garden and then scrutinized the starry sky. But with a single exception of a barking dog on the next street over, the night was still. Heaving a sigh of disappointment, she turned away from the window, forcing herself to remember every detail of the dream.
“Peter held me here,” she murmured moving about the room. “I twisted away, here. Then…” she hesitated. In her dream, he had gripped her arms so tightly. Absently she touched the spot where his hand had branded her upper arm, then pulled it away surprised at the tenderness of the flesh. Hastily pushing up her sleeve, she examined first one arm then the other. Her breath came faster as she realized both arms were marked with large finger-like bruises just below the shoulder. Peter had held her! She was not crazy and she was not dreaming—she had been in his arms this very night! Hurrying to the window, Wendy thrust her head out calling for him at the top of her lungs.
“Peter!” she yelled. “Peter, come back!”
She only stopped when the street below began stir. Not wanting to explain herself to the constable, she retreated. It was then that Wendy’s attention turned to the tiny trinket lying forlorn on her bedroom floor. With a frown, she bent to scoop up the object. It was her dear little thimble half. How had it gotten on the floor? She had not looked at it in months. With a start, she wondered if Peter had taken it out of her treasure box. Had he wanted it? Had he realized how much it meant to her? Still if he had but asked, she would have gladly given it to him. Didn’t he know that? Couldn’t he feel it? She would have given Peter anything; all he had to do was ask her.
More puzzling to her than why he had come, was why had he run away?
Then she recalled less than a week hence, she had begged him to leave her be. Oh, how she wished with all her soul she could take those horrid words back. If she could but go back in time, she would confess to him her every secret hope and beg him to hold her as he had tonight.
Clutching the thimble half to her breast, Wendy laid back down in her bed, feeling as if her dreams had turned to waking nightmares and doubting if she would ever be able to sleep again. Just before dawn, however, she slipped into a fitful, treacherous slumber.
The aisle was so long and the white dress so heavy. She wanted to stop and rest. Far ahead, she saw James waiting for her. He had been so patient and kind that she could not bear to disappoint him. She saw her parents’ expectant faces. They looked so proud of her. And her brothers smiled. Even grim Aunt Mildred seemed to approve that she was doing her duty. She didn’t want to disappoint any of them so she kept moving forward.
When she reached the altar, James was facing away from her. Gently she touched his hand to declare her arrival. James turned then. As he did so, his blonde hair darkened to pitch and wound about his shoulders in long curls. His suit transformed, turning into velvet and lace that ridiculously aped the style of Charles II. Then his cadaverous face looked down upon her and his eyes—the blue of the forget-me-nots—fixed on her as two malignant red spots appeared in them. He had a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance indicative of a black heart. However, the grimmest part was the hand that connected her to James no longer gripped flesh and blood but an iron claw.
“At last, Wendy,” James said darkly, “you are mine.”
There are no words to tell how Wendy despised him at that moment. She fought to free herself but she was outmatched. James’s good hand clamped bitingly into her waist, while the odious hook scratched along the bodice of her gown menacingly. “I have waited a long time for you,” he sneered, his black voice full of vindictiveness.
“Please,” she begged. In a panic she shut her eyes to the monster that was her husband-to-be. “Please!” she pleaded.
“Wendy, come!”
The voice that cried imperiously to her came straight from the Heavens. She opened her eyes and saw Peter standing at the far end of the aisle beckoning to her. In that instant she believed with all her heart, she was rescued, until she felt the cruel tip of James’s claw prick her breastbone.
“Peter!” She barely had time to call out before the hook pierced her heart and silenced her hopes forever.
CHAPTER 17
The Riddle of Existence
Hook!
Wendy bolted straight up in bed clutching at her chest. The dream had been so real that the shadow of pain lingered even after waking. She gasped as her hand came away from her breast wet and red. Looking down she examined the bloom of a scarlet flower on the bodice of her white nightgown. With a rising panic, she struggled to get the garment off fearing what she would find underneath.
Instead of the fatal wound from her dreams, there was a long superficial scratch diagonally across her heart. Frowning she traced the length of the injury with her finger. Surely it had been self-inflected…hadn’t it?
As she moved to don her dressing gown, she became aware of the little thimble half still clenched in her hand. The thimble recalled to her the strange events of the previous night—Peter’s mysterious visit and even more puzzling exit. Again, she wondered what had brought him to her bedchamber in the middle of the night. If there were only some way to make a respectable inquiry after him—however, there was not a bit of propriety to be found in asking after another man mere hours before she was to be wed.
The sound of Maimie’s motorcar in the street below roused Wendy from her scheming. She reminded herself of her pledge to put away childish things, in both the literal and figurative senses, and hurried to her treasure box. She would return to the box her dear thimble and place right alongside it her girlish fancy for Peter Neverland. Then she would shut the box and embrace her duty.
This was how Maimie found Wendy. Standing over her treasure box in her dressing gown, mouth agape, gravely pale and holding a tiny porcelain thimble half in each hand.
“Dearest,” Maimie exclaimed as she hastened to her friend’s side, “are you ill?”
Wendy slowly shook her head back and forth.
“Scared? Oh, don’t worry, Wendy. It will soon be over. Marriage isn’t all bad and I have prepared you for your wedding night, which is more than was done for me. Call Old Liza and we shall start the preparations. Look, I brought quite a lovely blue garter for you to borrow—” The merry young lady paused at Wendy’s lack of response. Then inspecting her friend more closely, she grasped the significance of the thimble pieces.
“Isn’t that your mysterious sixteenth birthday present? Where on earth did you find the other half?”
Wendy shivered, whispering in an almost inaudible voice, “Peter.”
“What?” Maimie grabbed Wendy’s shoulders and turned her around to better question her. “What do you mean Peter?”
Still grave, Wendy met her friend’s narrowed eyes with her huge unblinking ones. Holding out her left hand, she explained, “Peter left this for me. I suspect he’s had it all along.”
“Where did he leave it?”
“Here. In my room.”
Maimie gasped at the shocking revelation. “Pe
ter was in your bedroom? When?”
“Last night—or early this morning—I am not sure. I thought I was dreaming again. I yelled at him and he fled. He left this behind.” Wendy sank to the floor cradling both trinket halves. “Oh, Maimie, I drove him away again. I didn’t let him explain. Now I have no idea what he wanted or why he came or what this means.” She held up the thimble in resignation.
Deep in concentration, Maimie held out her hands for the thimble halves. Wendy watched as Maimie frowned first over one, then the other, and then finally held them together. They were a perfect fit. “Call Liza!” she whispered excitedly. “You will need some writing paper and glue right away!”
Wendy felt slightly annoyed at the agitation in her friend’s demeanor. After all, she was just hours from her wedding and had every right to expect Maimie to be the calm voice of reason amidst the insanity. “Why?” she asked.
“Because, dearest, you are going to write a letter to Peter, straightaway.”
“What is the use, Maimie? To torment him? Or give myself false hopes? You said yourself all will be over soon. Today I am to be married.”
“Over my dead body!” Maimie vehemently cried. “For someone with a proclivity for the poetic, you are being frustratingly obtuse. Don’t you see it?” She held up the thimble half in her right hand. “This, Wendy, is you—ragged, incomplete, useless—and this,” She raised her left hand and the other thimble piece, “this is Peter. He is your other half! Together you are whole and beautiful!”
Despite the improbability of Maimie’s words, Wendy trembled with hope as their truth resonated deep inside her heart. “What if it is too late?”