Forever Neverland Read online

  Story, photography, and cover art by Heather Killough-Walden.

  With thanks to Mary Moritz for everything she does.

  I once heard it told that you could forget a pirate. An eye patch here, a missing tooth, a peg leg, and soon – all too soon – a pirate is nothing more than a fuzzy, barely remembered dream.

  It’s easy to forget a pirate.

  But one never, ever, forgets a Hook.

  For Sarah Lucia

  Prologue

  Peter looked up toward the dark horizon, noting the ribbon of black that disappeared in the distance, black-on-black. With gritted teeth, he kicked up the stand on the Night Train and gave the throttle a quick, testing twist with his right hand.

  The building roar drowned out the drone of crickets and the buzz-splat of bugs committing suicide on the street lamps high above. He lifted his right boot onto the foot peg and took a deep breath.

  Come on. . . . . Let it work this time. . . .

  With a look of determination on his young, handsome face, Peter sat back in the saddle and let out the clutch. The bike rocketed into the distance and Peter looked up.

  Second star to the right. . . .

  “And straight on till morning,” he muttered, the sound nearly lost beneath the thunder of his motorcycle.

  At one hundred yards, the bike began to shimmer. At one fifty, the front wheel came away from the ground, lifting the bike; the second wheel was a heartbeat behind.

  Yes, he thought. Yes, please!

  Gently, he leaned to one side, aiming the front tire toward that distant, beckoning shimmer in space. It was a beacon for home. A guiding light.

  And just as Peter straightened out the bike and allowed himself to dare to hope – the light winked out.

  Chapter One

  Nothing moved in Neverland. Nothing had moved in Neverland for a very, very long time.

  Beyond the dense forest, in the clearing where the natives live, no campfires lit the circle of teepees, and no children chased each other with tomahawks and painted faces.

  All was quiet.

  In Pixie Forest, the fairies’ houses were dark and utterly devoid of the buzzing of tiny, flapping wings or the tinkling sound of sprinkling fairy dust.

  At the center of the island of Neverland stands a giant tree once claimed by a rambunctious bunch of young boys and used as a secret hideout. But no boys hid there now. The lonely tree stood empty, and its silence was equally hollow.

  The vast sea that surrounded Neverland was infamous for its storms, choppy waves, and for the not-so-friendly mermaids and crocodiles that swam beneath its surface. But there were no storm-brought waves on that surface now. Not a single ripple disturbed the perfectly smooth plane of inky black that stretched to the horizon. And the unnatural, ultimate darkness of the water promised a variety of monstrous inhabitants almost assuredly more deadly than mere mermaids or crocodiles.

  Upon this black sea rested a ship. There was a time, long ago in Neverland, when this particular ship would have been seen flying the notorious skull and crossbones of piracy. Its vast decks were once swabbed clean by men with peg legs, eye patches and missing teeth. The inhabitants of the island knew the pirate ship as the Jolly Roger. And its captain was more feared than any other citizen of Neverland.

  But. . . .

  No flag flew from the ship’s mast now. No flag of any kind. And no pirates roamed its decks. The ship lay quiet and seemingly forgotten, tilted ever so slightly to one side by the weight of the rusted anchor it had dropped so long, long ago. There was nothing remaining of its once terrifying splendor. . . .

  Well, not a thing, that is, save one.

  On a pillow, on a bed within the Captain’s cabin and beside a mass of long, jet-black curls, rested – a hook. In all of the once magnificent, but now drab and dreary Neverland, the hook, alone, shone silver in the ray of moonlight that cast through the windows. The hook – and only the hook – remained magnificent.

  *****

  Many millions of miles and exactly eleven impossibilities away, a girl with long brown hair and gray eyes sat at her desk, her head bent over her notebook in concentration. The girl’s name was Wendy Darling, and at this moment, Wendy was writing.

  Unfortunately for her, what she was writing had nothing to do with the Spanish Inquisition, or even history, in general, and had quite a lot to do with a young boy named Peter Pan and a pirate by the name of Captain-

  “Wendy, may I please have a word with you in the hall?”

  Wendy grimaced and put down her pencil. She’d been caught again.

  Without a word, she stood up, leaving all of her belongings on the desk, and followed Mrs. Pence to the classroom door. Once there, they briefly paused as Mrs. Pence turned the knob and then led Wendy out into the hall.

  As her history teacher closed the door behind them, Wendy caught the familiar sound of her classmates fidgeting in their seats and snickering to one another.

  She could just imagine what they were saying. . . .

  Her thoughts were interrupted once more by the sound of her teacher’s voice. “Wendy,” Mrs. Pence said. The expression on the teacher’s face was one Wendy had grown to know well. Over the past few years, the expression had gone from one of shock and deep concern to one of the same deep concern, pinched with tired exasperation.

  “Wendy,” she began again. “I spoke with your mother this morning.” Her tone had softened and she paused as if carefully considering her next words. “She confided in me about Dr. Coffer and, well. . . .”

  Wendy could feel her heart sinking like a cannon-holed pirate ship already.

  “I need you to hand over what you wrote in class today.” Mrs. Pence straightened a little and finished with, “The story, Wendy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

  No! Thought Wendy. Not that!

  “Mrs. Pence, please-”

  Mrs. Pence held up her hands and cut Wendy off before the girl could continue. “Wendy, it’s not just me. All of your teachers have been asked to discourage any behavior in you that may slow your recovery and, frankly,” she sighed again. “I’m afraid this qualifies. You have to stop writing those stories, Wendy. No one can help you if you won’t help yourself.”

  Wendy stood stunned and silent. The past five years had been hard enough on her. She’d been moved across the Atlantic, subjected to therapist after therapist, and alienated by most of her family. But this? This was the worst. Without her writing – without her stories – she had nothing. She was nothing.

  But Mrs. Pence didn’t give her any further time to object. Instead, the history teacher turned and opened the classroom door, leading the way back inside. Wendy followed grudgingly. As she moved slowly toward her desk, she was painfully aware of the silence of her classmates. They were all watching her. It was as if they couldn’t wait to see what she would be forced to do next.

  Wendy paused beside her desk and looked down at her notebook. The words on the page blurred through her building tears. But she obediently picked up the notebook, tore out the inked pages, and held them out to her teacher. She couldn’t bear to look at them, so she steadfastly looked at the floor instead.

  There were a few snickers at the back of the class. Wendy choked on a sob, forcing it back down her throat. She refused to add to her own humiliation by breaking down and crying right there, right then, in front of the cruel stares of her peers.

  Mrs. Pence took the pages gently and gave Wendy a stiff nod. Wendy saw the nod through her peripheral vision and sat down.

  Then, thankfully – blessedly – the bell rang. And history class was over.

  It so happened that history class was the last class Wendy had to attend before she was able to leave the school, fully excuse
d, so that she could cross the street and visit her psychiatrist.

  The shrink.

  It was a double-edged sword. She got to get away from her classmates. But she had to sit on that horrible, extra poofy couch across from Dr. Coffer that made her feel like she was drowning in leather. She had to sit there – and listen to him tell her that she was crazy ….

  Dr. Coffer sat back in his shining patent leather recliner and lightly tapped the end of his pencil on the legal pad over his crossed legs. Wendy’s gaze skirted, distractedly, to the black socks he wore. She could see the top of one and the scraggly hair that stuck out around the band.

  “Wendy, how are you feeling these days?” Dr. Coffer asked. She knew he was watching her; always watching with those black eyes behind those tiny glasses. She swallowed hard. It didn’t matter how she answered. The conversation would still go the same way. The way it always went.

  “Fine.”

  For a moment, just as she’d suspected, he said nothing. And then he sighed.

  Here it comes . . . .

  “Wendy, I want you to take a look at this,” he said, softly. Wendy looked up in time to see him pulling a small stack of folded papers from the inside pocket of his sports coat. She recognized them at once. And she was befuddled as to how they had come to be in his possession so quickly.

  “Your teachers gave them to me,” he told her, his tone just as quiet, just as calm as it always was. “They’re really quite fantastic, to be honest,” he went on as he unfolded them and smoothed them out over his leg. “You’ve built quite a world here, Wendy. I must admit that even I’ve been drawn into it.”

  Wendy blinked. She wasn’t sure what to think of that. It sounded a little like a compliment. But nothing was ever as it seemed with Dr. Coffer. If it was a compliment, then it also must be a trick.

  So, Wendy kept quiet.

  Dr. Coffer smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  “You have quite a gift, Wendy.” The doctor placed the pages of Wendy’s handwritten story on the coffee table between them and folded his hands over his lap. “Your imagination is wonderful, truly wonderful.” He paused then, and cocked his head to one side. “But it is also dangerous.”

  Ah. There it is, thought Wendy.

  “You have a gift as a writer, Wendy. You can bring people happiness. You can help them enter another place and leave this one behind. What you give to people is a chance to escape the troubles of their everyday lives. It’s called ‘escapism,’” he told her, nodding once, as if she was supposed to memorize the term. “And we all need a little of it from time to time.”

  He uncrossed his legs, and then re-crossed them in the other direction, sighing heavily as he did so. Wendy automatically tensed, sensing the change in him. The worst was about to come.

  “However, too much escapism is a problem. A very big problem, in fact. If a person cannot see the world around them as it truly is, then that person can’t respond correctly to it.” He paused, pinning her with one of his more painful, meaningful stares. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Wendy?”

  She nodded. It was what she always did when she didn’t really understand at all.

  He went on. “Your older brother has realized how powerful your stories are and has wisely decided to step away from the escapism in them, so that he can deal with what truly happened to the three of you the night you disappeared.”

  Wendy felt her heartbeat in her eardrums. It was growing louder, a swoosh-swoosh of dizziness. It made her feel sick. But, it wasn’t loud enough to block out Dr. Coffer’s next words.

  “Your little brother Michael, however, adores your writings, Wendy. He has attached himself to you in a most dangerous way. He believes, fully, that what you write is not the fiction that it truly is. But that it is real.”

  Again, he waited, and Wendy felt her entire head heat up. It was a strange sensation. It was as if all of the blood in her body decided to ride an elevator to its highest point and then hang out there. It made her brain feel full and made her vision red. It also hurt.

  “As for you, Wendy, I believe that your writing is hurting you as well. You won’t admit it to me. You’re a smart girl,” he told her. “But I think that you believe what you write to be true, just as Michael does.”

  The rush and roar of blood was nearly deafening in her ears now. She barely heard Dr. Coffer’s next words.

  “You have to stop, Wendy. Whatever it was that happened to you that night, five years ago – it will never present itself to you and you will never be able to work through it if you continue to hide in your stories. If you continue to escape into Neverland.”

  “Stop,” Wendy said. But she said it too softly. She must have only whispered it, for Dr. Coffer went on, regardless.

  “You can’t be selfish in this, Wendy. Allowing yourself to indulge in the fantasies you write is one thing. But you’re hurting Michael, too.”

  “Stop,” she said again. She was sure she’d gotten some volume behind it this time, but she had to admit that it wasn’t nearly as loud as the storm brewing in her head.

  “Please consider giving your writing a rest. For the sake of –”

  “I said stop!” Wendy bellowed, coming out of her chair as if the act of standing would lend some amount of strength to her words. She desperately needed that strength right now. She desperately needed him to hear her.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she went on, the storm that had been building finally breaking inside of her. She was unable to stop herself. It was like watching a movie; she saw Wendy Darling standing there, her fists clenched at her sides, her face red, her teeth bared as she screamed at her doctor.

  And she could do nothing to prevent it.

  “Wendy, calm down –”

  “Shut up!” Wendy went on, relentlessly. “How can you possibly know? How can you be so sure that Neverland is any less real than this world?” She gestured wildly to the office around them. As she did, she caught sight of his various degrees and certificates in frames lining the walls.

  “You think you’re so smart because someone said so – on a piece of paper!” She hissed. “You believe them well enough, don’t you, Dr. Coffer!” She reached down and grabbed her once-folded pages of story and waved them in front of his face. As she did, there was a very large part of her that could not believe what she was doing.

  This wasn’t like her. This wasn’t like Wendy Darling at all.

  “But you can’t bring yourself to believe me!” She concluded. Then, in a show of utter defiance, she hastily refolded the pages and crammed them into the front pocket of her jeans. “I guess we each believe what we want to believe, Dr. Coffer,” she barked at him, her teeth still gritted tight.

  “I’ll take this,” she said, patting her pocket, “over that,” she pointed at the frames on the walls, “any day!”

  After a few tense moments of silence, the psychiatrist steepled his fingers before his face and peered at her long and hard.

  Wendy stood there, a quietly raging statue of a teenage girl, and wondered what she should do next. Should she sit back down? Storm out of the office?

  Her parents were going to hear about this, for sure.

  I’m done for, she thought.

  Dr. Coffer closed his legal pad and pocketed his pen. Then he slowly stood up and gestured to the door. “Wendy, why don’t we save the remainder of the time in today’s session and add it to next week’s slot? You’re under a lot of stress and I think you need sometime to calm down.” He seemed to study her face, then, as if searching for something. All she could do was glare at him.

  “And I think you need more sleep, perhaps. I imagine you’re dreaming of him again.”

  At that, Wendy blinked. Him? She thought. And then … Captain Hook.

  “Yes. I believe his name was Hook?” Dr. Coffer clarified. “A captain, if I’m not mistaken.” He sighed heavily once more. He did that a lot. To Wendy, every time he did, it sounded as if he were saying the
word, “helpless.”

  “Wendy, go home and get some rest. I will follow up with your parents.”

  Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality? Wendy thought, bitterly, as she made her way to the office door. But she knew it didn’t count in her case. She was special.

  It had been five years since Wendy and her brothers had gone to Neverland. The night that they’d returned, suddenly home and covered in dirt and sea salt from head to toe, everything had begun to go wrong.

  Her parents didn’t believe a word they had said. They were convinced that their children had been abducted. And worse – abused.

  Since then, things for Wendy and her brothers had only gotten worse. Much worse.

  Wendy stepped out into the parking lot of the doctor’s office and ran a hand through her long caramel-brown hair. “Oh Peter,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

  Five years was such a long time. Why had Peter Pan never come back?

  *****

  If Wendy Darling felt that five years was a long time, to a very young man not very far way, it was an eternity.

  “I can’t do it, Tink.” Peter Pan gazed out the window for the ten thousandth time and still saw nothing he really liked.

  Tinkerbell looked up from the book she was reading and cocked her head to one side. “You can’t do what?”

  Peter sighed. “I can’t live in this world any more. It’s so boring. Nothing ever happens here.” He shook his head forlornly. “Nothing good, anyway.”

  Tinkerbell, who was no longer in the form of a tiny, flittering fairy, bookmarked her place and put her book down. Then she stood up and walked across the room to stand by Peter’s side. To anyone who laid eyes on her in this world, she would appear to be nothing more than a pretty, blonde human girl, the same age as Peter. But looks could be deceiving.

  Tinkerbell thought about what Peter had just said. It was patently false, as far as she was concerned. Peter had done tons of stuff. He had traveled around the entire world, in fact.

  Though it was a rather adult kind of thing to do, Peter had even worked various jobs. Tinkerbell had stood beside him as his “assistant” when he’d taught children to ski in the Alps. She had hovered, nervously and invisibly, over his shoulder and protected him from being burned as he’d fought fires in a city called San Francisco. Tinkerbell had even watched him zap a shark on the nose with a strange electric stick once – when he’d been diving off the coast of another place called Australia.