Forever Neverland Read online

  “I’m fine, Adam. I’m just…” He knocked Nick’s hand away and pushed himself back onto his feet. “I’m fine. I have to get home. I’ve got too much to do, that’s all. And I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  Nick studied him carefully for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Okay,” he said, slowly, his intense gaze still analyzing John’s face in the same manner that he peered at the soccer field before a game.

  John could tell Nick didn’t really believe that nothing was wrong. As much of a jock as he was, Nick was smarter than that. But what was John supposed to tell him? What was he supposed to say? You know how we moved here from England a few years ago? Well, it was because we were all kidnapped back in England but Wendy made up this story about a boy named Peter Pan and our parents had to bring us to better therapists here in the United States to help us forget about Peter and realize he wasn’t real. Only, now I’m not so sure he wasn’t real, after all, because I could swear I just saw something in that alley…

  It was pointless. Anything he could say would sound insane.

  So, he said nothing further, and stared Nickolas Noble down.

  Nick seemed to come to a decision. “Okay,” he said again. “But eat something when you get there.” Nick picked up John’s bag, which had fallen to the ground. He held it out for John, who took it with a slight nod of thanks. “And tell your sister I said ‘hi’.”

  John nodded once more and then pushed past Nick to leave. He gave Adam a little wave as he walked away.

  He could feel the gazes of both boys on him as he made his way down the side walk and eventually turned the corner. The strange thing was, however, that even after he was out of their sights, he still felt that he was being watched.

  John shrugged off the strange sensation as nothing more than what his small friend had suggested – low blood sugar. And, feeling a bit like Ebenezer Scrooge on the night before Christmas, he hastened his stride, made it down two more blocks, and turned another corner.

  And for the second time that afternoon, he came to an unexpected and abrupt halt. There, in an alley across the street, were the figures again. Only, this time, he could tell it was a boy, slightly older than himself, accompanied by a very pretty blonde girl of the same age. The boy sat astride a motorcycle, of what make, John would never know. That was more Wendy’s arena of interests.

  The blonde girl leaned against the boy, her elbow curled on his shoulder. Both of the teenagers were watching him steadily. And both were smiling strange, mirthless smiles that did not quite reach their eyes, which were so green that John could see the emerald in them even at this rather lengthy distance.

  Now, as human nature goes, there are only a few reasons in existence for adolescent children to be found loitering in alleyways. And John Darling was just smart enough to know that none of those reasons were good.

  He remained motionless, staring back at the two strangers for a long moment, wondering whether they were the same figures he had seen in the alley beside the school. If they were, how had they moved so quickly? He had heard no motorbike engines. And who were they? And why was this happening?

  He frowned. They were so familiar. So unnervingly familiar…

  Pixie dust . . . .

  The thought came, unbidden, into his mind once again.

  The girl in the alleyway winked.

  John blinked.

  And just as his book bag once more hit the ground as he turned to run, he heard the engine of the motorcycle rev to life. The world became a slow motion blur for him then, as he spun in place and made his legs move. The only coherent thought that raced through his mind was one that told him to run. Run now, run fast, run far. It didn’t matter where to. Just run. Run so that he’ll never find you. Never, ever. . . .

  Yet, even as he ran, he knew it was hopeless. The boy on the bike had bested pirates in a roiling sea. He was a swordsman with only one equal. He could mimic any voice, and see and hear for as far as he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. Why, Peter Pan could even fly.

  At last, after John had run the length of but a single block in what felt like two eternities, Peter’s motorcycle cut him off at the next intersection and John came to a wobbly halt.

  “Get on, Johnny boy. We need to talk.”

  Though the motorcycle rumbled like thunder, Peter’s voice rang out loud and clear in John Darling’s head.

  Peter Pan.

  John stared at him through vision that was blurred by disbelief. It really was him. Older and a little rougher around the edges. But it was him, none the less. The boy who would never grow up seemed to have grown up, after all. Same blonde hair, same green eyes, but the blonde hair was darker now, and the eyes…

  Well, John thought. They’re darker too.

  “This is a dream,” he said aloud, finally finding the will to speak.

  “No it isn’t, Johnny.”

  John whirled on the female voice and found the blonde girl standing behind him. Yellow gold-spun hair, moss-green eyes, skin that seemed to shimmer in the overhead lamp light. It couldn’t be. She was supposed to be a few inches tall!

  “T-Tinkerbell?” John stuttered.

  “Hello, John,” Tink smiled gently then, the mischief in her wild green gaze taking a back seat to one of the more tender of the pixie’s emotions. “Missed me?”

  “Nah, Tink. He didn’t miss you. In fact,” Peter spoke slowly, his words laced with deceptive nonchalance. “If I’m not mistaken…” He paused and fiddled with the black gloves he wore over his hands. John stared at him with wide eyes, struck by all of the darkness. The dark clothes and the dark gloves and the black mood.

  Peter glanced up and smiled. “If I’m not mistaken,” he continued. “You’d stopped believing in Tink altogether.”

  Tinkerbell reeled back from John as if struck. John blinked at her as she seemed to shimmer, fading to gray and white and back into full color over and over again.

  “I-I’m sorry, Tink!”

  “Really, Johnny?” Peter asked from where he still rested, disturbingly still, in the seat of his bike.

  Tinkerbell shot Peter a dirty look. “Lay off, Pete. No need to sling the damage so wide. I don’t like being caught in it, you know.”

  Peter shrugged and glanced at John again.

  John, for his part, was torn. He looked from Peter and then to Tink and back again. There was a portion of his brain – a very large portion – that was assuring him, over and over again, and in a very loud voice, that this wasn’t happening. It promised him that none of this was real and that, despite the fact that he was not the one in his family known for possessing any imagination whatsoever, this was all most likely some very strange and cruel dream, brought on by his fight with his sister.

  But the other part of his brain – the smaller, more meek part that was used to being ignored by John’s consciousness – was disagreeing.

  And this time, John listened.

  For, he was afraid that it was right.

  With some effort, he swallowed past the dry lump that had formed in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them and everything was the same, he turned to Tinkerbell in apologetic acceptance.

  “Tinkerbell, I’m very, very sorry,” he sighed. “I do believe in you.”

  There was the roar of a revving engine behind John. It was loud enough that he chanced a glance over his shoulder.

  Tinkerbell brushed by him and walked into the alley. He watched as she was quickly lost in the shadows and he could no longer make out her form.

  “I said get on, Johnny.” Peter repeated, flashing white teeth. “We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

  Chapter Five

  Wendy Darling did not stir where she lay in her bed. Her hands did not clench her covers. Her eye lids did not flutter. In fact, if it weren’t for the barely perceptible movement of her chest, it would appear for all the world that the teenage girl was not even breathing.

  Michael Darling stood in her doorway, watching his s
ister in silence. Normally, at this time in the late afternoon, the two of them would be in Carrypin park, hiding just off of the trail, Wendy telling Michael stories. Or they would be at the mall, sitting on a bench, watching everyone else go by as Wendy again told Michael stories. Or they would be sharing hot cocoa at the book store as Wendy read from the latest pages of one of her stories… His sister. The storyteller.

  Not speaking. Not writing. Not telling him any stories.

  Just sleeping.

  And a dreamless sleep, at that.

  *****

  “I don’t know, Peter… I don’t really – I mean – I’ve never had this kind of thing before, and –”

  Peter sighed, barely containing some amount of exasperation. “Just drink it, Johnny. It’s the only thing worth a bugger in your world. Especially after Tink’s done working her magic on it.” Peter Pan winked at Tinkerbell from where he sat on the ledge of the overlook, his booted feet dangling over the edge of the precipice. Tinkerbell smiled back and blushed slightly.

  John sat beside Peter, a little further back from the ledge. At the moment, Peter had a bottle of red wine in his hands and it shimmered enticingly, having been enhanced with fairy dust. He held it out for John, who eyed it suspiciously.

  At last, though, John’s will power dwindled and he clasped the bottle with one cold hand and brought it to his lips. It smelled like strawberries and sunshine and freedom.

  He frowned. Did freedom have a smell?

  Mmmm…. He closed his eyes and took another whiff. Yes. Freedom and ocean waves and honey and magic. It smelled like child hood. It smelled like Neverland.

  He took a drink.

  With the iridescent liquid’s first sweet contact on his tongue, John was instantly warmer. The chill of the autumn night slipped out of his fingers and toes and they tingled as if he was holding them near a hearth fire. He swallowed again, slowly, languidly. The liquid burned down his throat, filling him with a feeling of lightness. Weightlessness.

  Now, as everyone knows, people cannot fly. They are made, sadly, without wings and as everyone also knows, wings are the only thing that can make an animal fly.

  But, thankfully for the children of Neverland, what everyone knows is usually wrong. For wings are not the only thing that can make a person fly.

  There is also that other thing.

  John Darling opened his eyes and cried out in surprise. For what he had expected to see was Peter Pan sitting beside him and Tinkerbell standing off to one side and the outline of the lit-up city, at night, in the distance beyond the cliff’s ledge. But what he saw, instead, was the night sky and, below him, the wispy tendrils of a cloud that licked with gentle wetness at his exposed skin.

  The sound of laughter drew his panicked attention up and away from the ground, which was suddenly quite a long way down.

  He glanced over to find Peter Pan, in his black clothes, sitting on the edge of the very same cloud that now caressed John. “Do you remember now, Johnny Boy?” Peter asked, again flashing perfect white teeth.

  John couldn’t answer. He found that he had, in fact, stopped breathing once more. And as he contemplated the very fact that he was flying and that such a thing was impossible, he realized, also, that he was sinking.

  Peter Pan seemed to walk calmly across the top of the cloud, his arms crossed over his chest. Tinkerbell, once more in the form of a tiny fairy, flitted about Peter’s head.

  “Happy thoughts, Johnny! Better think of some soon!” Peter called.

  John began to thrash out at the sky around him as he sank right through the cloud beneath him and Peter’s form rose out of sight. Lower and lower, he went. He wasn’t quite falling, but he wasn’t not falling either. It was like being in a glass elevator that had lost most of its power.

  He began to sink faster.

  “Bloody hell,” John whispered, squeezing his eyes shut tight against a building queasiness.

  “That was the wrong thought!” Peter called after him.

  Frantically, John attempted to call to mind the things that made him happy… “Einstein,” he said quickly, “Darwin! Copernicus!” In desperation, he lifted the bottle again and took another swig, this time pulling long and deep.

  At once, the queasy sensation eased and John could feel that the wind was no longer whipping at his face. All traces of cold were gone. All traces of fear were gone. As the last of the liquid slid down his throat, John Darling realized that he felt better than any other human being would probably ever feel. At once, he understood how an individual might become addicted to a drug. He opened his eyes.

  “Atta boy, Johnny.” Peter Pan sat in front of him, his legs crossed Indian-style, floating on nothing but thin air and night. Tinkerbell landed on John’s shoulder with a tinkling spray of pixie dust and leaned to whisper in his ear.

  “Welcome back!”

  Her voice was so tiny that it reminded John Darling of what a chipmunk or a mouse might sound like, if it could speak. But it was also beautiful. It felt like being kissed by an angel when she placed her tiny hands on his ear lobe and he couldn’t help but blush furiously.

  He laughed, not even knowing why.

  And Peter laughed as well.

  “Now that you’ve got your wings back, John, it’s time to go.” Peter turned and dove through the air, looking for all the world like a vampire on the prowl over the city.

  John blinked after him until Tinkerbell pushed off from his shoulder and spun around his head in circles, motioning for him to follow. John smiled, downed the remainder of the magic wine in the bottle, and tossed the bottle at the cliff rocks with all of his might. As it shattered into a thousand shards of glass, John laughed again, dove after Peter, and let loose a howl of sheer delight.

  Wherever they were going, it didn’t matter. He was warm and he was flying and the world had never – ever – been so beautiful.

  “Where are we going, Peter?” John called across the wind.

  From just ahead and to the right, Peter shot him a mischievous glance and smiled. “You’ll see!”

  Then Peter dove once more, cutting through the night sky like a knife through butter. John tried his best to keep up, but it wasn’t until Peter had already landed once more and was waiting patiently that John managed to re-join him, landing somewhat awkwardly beside Pan on yet another overlook.

  He looked at Peter questioningly, but Peter simply pointed toward a house down below. John looked at the house. It was dark, but smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

  It seemed familiar somehow, though he’d never seen it from this view before. And then it struck him. “That’s Dr. Coffer’s house – Wendy’s psychiatrist.”

  “So I’m told,” Peter replied darkly. His gaze was steady on the house, his eyes narrowed. “Did you bring it, Tink?” he then asked, calling to the fairy over his shoulder, even as his eyes remained on the house below.

  Tinkerbell didn’t reply, but John turned to look upward and could just make out the shimmer of a dull light drawing nearer. Beside the tiny shimmering light was a dark, hulking form. The two of them slowly dropped toward an empty space close by. John unconsciously took a step back as the huge dark form hit the ground with a thump and a whoosh of dust. Tinkerbell flew through the dust to land on Peter’s shoulder, smiling proudly.

  When the dust settled a few seconds later, John could see that it was Peter’s motorcycle that had landed a few feet away.

  “Your motorbike? Whatever for?” John asked, more than a little confused.

  “It’s time to make things right,” Peter told him as he turned and brushed past him, pulling on his gloves once more. “You turned your back on Neverland, John.” His tone lowered. “And on your sister.” He got on the bike. “And that man down there made it all possible.” Peter leaned forward and turned the bike on. The engine roared to life.

  John frowned. “What are you going to do?” He called over the raucous.

  “Like I said, Johnny Boy,” Peter called back. “I’m gonna make
things right.”

  At that, Tinkerbell swirled madly around the bike, dropping pixie dust over every inch of its black surface. The motorcycle began to glow with the same sparkling light that had been in the bottle of wine.

  Peter flashed a grin and then twisted the throttle and let off the clutch. The bike rocketed forward. John leapt out of the way as the motorcycle sped past him in a shimmering blur and then sailed off of the cliff.

  *****

  Michael Darling sighed in the darkness of his sister’s room. Then he pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and approached Wendy’s bed. The stillness about her was unnerving. He didn’t like it. She’d been lying like this, on her back, above the covers, since just after his parents had left earlier that afternoon.

  She had told him that she was just tired.

  Michael noticed that she had been tired ever since Dr. Coffer had prescribed those little white pills.

  She had told Michael that she was going to lay down; that when she was rested in a little while, she would play a game with him. He’d been hoping for a story, of course. But she hadn’t mentioned the stories – or Neverland – in some time now. Not since those pills. So, he’d gotten the Scrabble box out instead. She was terribly good at words and he knew she would win in no time at all. Still, he had chosen the game on purpose because he was hoping that playing with words would cheer Wendy up.

  But that had been more than an hour ago. And now. . . . Well, now he wasn’t so sure she was going to wake up in time to play with him. Now things didn’t feel right. In fact, they felt very wrong, indeed.

  “Wendy?” Michael called softly in the darkness. He slowly moved closer to the bed. Wendy didn’t stir. The sound of her gentle breathing was barely perceptible.

  “Wendy, will you wake up?” he whispered. When she still did not move, he quietly added, “Please?”

  He looked down at her more closely now, from where he stood beside the bed. She was still fully dressed in the clothes she’d worn to school that day, including her Union Jack sneakers and gray zip-up hoodie. Her thick brown hair spilled all around her like a warm russet waterfall. And her face was as pale as the moon.