The Wendy Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. All events and dialog contained herein are purely fictitious. All characters, with the exception of certain well-known historical and public figures, are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical and public figures appear, the situations, events, and dialogs concerning those persons are fictitious. The inclusion of certain historical facts is not intended to change the fictitious nature of the book.

  Copyright © 2016-2017 by Erin Michelle Sky & Steven Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher. Address all such requests to [email protected].

  Library of Congress PCN: 2017917721

  ISBN: 978-1946137074 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1946137050 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-1946137067 (trade paperback)

  Cover art by Benjamin P. Roque

  Cover layout and interior design by Jordan D. Gum

  Ebook design by Dawson Cosh

  Edited by Lourdes Venard

  Trash Dogs Media, LLC

  1109 South Park St, Ste 504-327

  Carrollton, GA 30117

  trashdogs.com

  For everyone

  who has ever suffered judgment

  just for being who they are

  y the year 1780, London was bursting at the seams. Almost a million people had been stuffed into every nook and cranny, and a good number of these had no idea where they had come from. Nestled in baskets and swaddled in rags, they had appeared overnight on the doorsteps of almshouses all over the city. Babies. Staring wide-eyed at mystified caretakers, demanding explanations.

  But there were none to be had.

  This was why Wendy Darling believed in magic. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Opinions, however, were divided on the subject.

  “Babies don’t come from magic. They come from mothers.”

  Mortimer Black was seven and thought he knew everything. He was different from the other children because he had arrived with a note. The note gave his name, penned in a woman’s delicate hand, and he lorded it over the rest of them every chance he got. Mortimer knew he had a mother.

  “Just because some babies come from mothers doesn’t mean they all do,” Wendy would argue. She was also seven, but she was very logical.

  “Yes, they do all,” he would counter. “You’re just jealous ’cause you don’t have a real name.”

  “You take that back! Wendy Darling is my real name!”

  But she had her doubts.

  Mrs. Healey, the caretaker, was fond of the name Wendy and thought her a darling child. Wendy, darling, fetch me the pitcher, please, she would say. Or, Wendy, darling, where has little Charlie run off to?

  Wendy secretly thought Mortimer might have a point.

  “You’re nobody,” he would tell her, laughing and poking her with a cruel finger. “You’re just a foundling!”

  Fortunately, Wendy had an excellent right jab. That usually ended the matter, at least until she was ten. Ten was the year Wendy’s whole life ended before it had even begun.

  The disaster struck at Bartholomew Fair, in September of 1783.

  The almshouse barely took in enough money to feed everyone, let alone send the children off to fairs. But there was a particular lord in London who loved fairs more than anything, and Bartholomew Fair most of all, with its acrobatics and its puppet shows and its exotic beasts smelling of faraway places. Of desert spices and fever dreams.

  Unfortunately, a lot of drinking went on there too, and he was a public figure. He had to keep up appearances.

  So this lord, whose name we won’t mention so as not to rat him out, came up with the scheme of funding a trip for the almshouse every year. “For the poor foundling children,” he explained, addressing the querulous, upturned noses of high society, “who have no mothers to take them on outings or to buy them sausages or gingerbreads or hot pies or puddings.”

  He was especially fond of puddings.

  He would arrive at dawn on the appointed day in September with a handful of carriages, each drawn by two fine horses, and the children would all line up behind Mrs. Healey—arranged alphabetically so she could keep proper track of them.

  “Adam, Agnes, Arthur, Bartholomew,” Mrs. Healey would bark, ticking the children off on her fingers. “No, Bartholomew, the fair was not named after you. Bridget, Cecilia, Charles,” and so on.

  As each name was pronounced, she would tap the corresponding child lightly on the head, and he or she would be off like a shot, tumbling into a carriage. They laughed and screamed and piled on top of each other to fit in. All but Wendy, who was always last in line, terrified that this time they would run out of room after Valentine and she would be left behind.

  “Wendy,” Mrs. Healey finally pronounced.

  Wendy raced to the first carriage, but Mortimer Black stuck his head out the window before she even got to the door.

  “No room!” he yelled. “Go to the back of the line!” Wendy could see for herself there was plenty of room, but she heard Mortimer’s friends laughing and carrying on. “Back of the line!” they echoed. “Back of the line, Wendy!”

  Wendy looked despairingly down the line at the rest of the carriages, all stuffed to the gills, with little heads and arms poking out the windows. But then Charlie, to whom one of those heads belonged, called out to her from the fourth carriage. “We have room, Wendy. If we squeeze a little more.”

  Wendy trotted toward him, but only as far as the horses—a lovely pair of matching brown mares, with black manes and tails and wide, strong hooves.

  “Excuse me,” she said to them both. “Do you think you could pull one more? I hate to ask it. I can see you have a full load already. But I would very much like to go to the fair too, if you think you could manage it.”

  “What’s this, then?” the driver grumbled. “You don’t have to ask them, for heaven’s sake. They’re just animals.”

  “All right,” she said, to appease him. But then she whispered to the horses anyway, “Could you?”

  The mares looked at each other, and they looked back at Wendy. They puffed out their chests and held their heads high, each nodding just once against the bit.

  “Thank you,” Wendy whispered. Only then did she run to the door and clamber on top of the pile.

  It was a beautiful day for a fair, and London had come out in droves. The children wanted to see everything at once. “The high wire! No, the fire-eater! No, the rhinoceroses!” Rules were set, compromises were made, motions were passed, and a schedule was confirmed.

  First, puddings. Acrobatics from 9:00 until 10:00. Then meat pies. The strong man and other amazing feats from 10:30 to 11:30. Then gingerbreads. Exotic beasts at noon (they were always Wendy’s favorite). And so on. Unfortunately, the world ended before exotic beasts, at 10:48 on the dot.

  The foundling congress was mobilizing from the strong man to the fire-eater when it encountered a small contingent of officers in the Royal Navy. The men were tall and fit, handsome and proud, resplendent in their blue long-tailed coats and fine gold buttons. The sea of children parted around them, but not Wendy. Wendy stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

  Ever since she had read The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, on loan from Mrs. Healey, she had longed to sail the seas, embarking upon fantastical escapades and witnessing all the strange and magical wonde
rs of the world. When one of the sailors noticed her attention, he tipped his hat and smiled, and all the yearnings of her heart welled up in her small chest, bursting out of her at once.

  “When I grow up, I’m going to be an officer, just like you!” she declared.

  “Are you?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Yes, I am,” she insisted, but his laughter confused her, and she looked less certain than before.

  “What’s this?” asked one of his companions.

  “She says she’s going to be an officer,” he repeated. “I’d watch your back if I were you, William. She’ll be after your job soon.” And now they both laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Wendy wanted to know, but the cold grip of dread had already wrapped its icy fist around her heart.

  Before they could reply, Mortimer Black, who had heard everything, hollered out, “Girls can’t be in the navy! Girls take care of babies! You’re so stupid, you don’t know anything!” He looked around with a cruel gleam in his eye, shouting even more loudly. “Did you hear that? Wendy thinks she’s going to be in the navy!”

  Everywhere she turned, children laughed and pointed.

  She whirled to face him, but the crowd kept on spinning. Spinning and spinning. Like the carousel. Faster and faster. The sky closed in around her. Gray fog and then smoke and then starless night. And Mortimer’s pale face swam up through its depths, his eyes pitch black. Black as his name, black as his heart, piercing her soul. Over and over, around and around. And she thought she heard him singing.

  If women ever sail the sea,

  They’ll scrub the decks for men like me!

  They’ll marry none but Davy Jones,

  And for their children, only bones!

  She closed her eyes and fell to her knees.

  It isn’t true. It isn’t real.

  The thought steadied her, and the ground snapped back into place. Solid beneath her knees. Beneath her fingers splayed out for balance across the cobblestones.

  She launched herself to her feet and ran.

  he ran away. That was all she knew. Away from the laughter. Away from Mortimer Black. Away from the darkness that clung like cobwebs and from the song that trailed behind.

  But as she darted madly through the crowd, ducking savage elbows and hurdling violent parasols, the sun worked its quiet magic, burning it all away like a dream. Ladies and gentlemen strolled under the bright blue sky, smiling at each other and marveling over the fair’s attractions, and there were no pitch-black eyes or dead pirate demons or mysterious fogs to be scared of.

  So Wendy stopped running.

  And then instead of being frightened, she was furious. How dare that awful Mortimer Black make fun of her in front of everyone!

  But beneath the anger, she was also sad. Because she thought what he had said might be true—that when she grew up she would have no hope of becoming a sea captain. She would have to become a mother and take care of babies and never see the world.

  And then she thought she might prefer to marry Davy Jones after all. Because at least that would be interesting. Which was the exact moment in which she met Olaudah Equiano. (Although he was known as Gustavus Vassa at the time.)

  Wendy was tired of running. She needed a place to rest and think. And to brood a little, because she was feeling sullen. But the fair was crowded. The only place to sit was upon a small two-seater bench, which was already one-half occupied by a dark-skinned man in a dated, but well-pressed, white linen shirt, green frock coat, and black breeches.

  She sat down next to him, crossed her arms over her chest, tucked in her chin, and harrumphed. (At the age of ten, Wendy was already a highly accomplished harrumpher.)

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Olaudah Equiano (or Gustavus Vassa). He was the man sitting next to her, as you had probably guessed. “What could have produced such a grand harrumph on such a fine day?”

  “I was just thinking,” Wendy admitted, “that I would rather marry Davy Jones than grow up and take care of babies.”

  “Oh, you must never think such a thing!” he cried. “Never, never, never!”

  “Why not?” Wendy uncrossed her arms and looked up. The man was so adamant that she became immediately curious, and she forgot all about being sullen.

  “I know too many men who have ended up at the bottom of the sea. Many, many men, God rest their souls. To invoke that name is very bad luck. Terrible luck. Do not attract his attention. In the middle of a starless night, he will send a wave crashing over the deck of your ship, pulling you into his arms forever.”

  “Oh,” Wendy said, slumping her shoulders and dropping her head to stare at the ground. “It doesn’t matter, then. I’ll never be a sailor. I’m just a girl.”

  “Just a girl? What does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t ever be a sea captain,” Wendy said. A tear started to form in her left eye, but she swiped it away furiously.

  Mr. Equiano (or Mr. Vassa) regarded her for a long moment before speaking again.

  “Believe me, Miss …?”

  “Darling,” Wendy said, sniffling. “Wendy Darling.”

  “Miss Darling. My name is Gustavus Vassa. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed in her direction without standing up. “Forgive me, Miss Darling, when I say you are far too young to know what you will or will not become.”

  Wendy glanced back up at him, clearly hoping he would go on.

  “Take me, for instance,” he continued, happy to oblige her. “I was born in Africa with the name Olaudah Equiano. When I was only a boy, even younger than you, I was captured and sold into slavery. I thought surely I would die. And I almost did. Many times. But I ended up sailing all over the world.

  “I have seen the Mediterranean and the Americas and the islands of the Caribbean. I have seen fish that fly and men whose lives were saved by their dreams. I have seen poisoners found out by magic, by the men who carried their victims’ coffins, and I have seen women who could tell you both your past and your future without ever having met you before.

  “I have been a free boy named Olaudah Equiano and a slave named Gustavus Vassa, and now I am free once again. I have been a plantation manager and a barber and a scientist and even a sea captain for a time.”

  “You were a captain?” Wendy exclaimed, interrupting.

  “Yes. As I said, for a time. I have learned how to make fresh water from the sea, and I have used that knowledge to save my life in a land where the sun never sets and where entire ships are trapped in ice forever. I have done all this, but when I was a boy I thought I would spend my whole life in my mother’s village. So you cannot say today what you might or might not do tomorrow. That much is certain.”

  “Yes, but you’re a man though,” Wendy pointed out. “Women are different.”

  “People would say the same about a slave, I think,” Mr. Vassa (or Mr. Equiano) suggested gently. “But women are not as different everywhere as they are here in England. In the village where I was born, we did not have sailing ships. But we did have weapons—swords and bows and even firearms. Both men and women were trained to fight, to protect the village. When I was a boy, I once climbed a tree and watched my mother charge into battle carrying a broadsword. I was terrified for her life, but she was glorious.”

  “Did she live?” Wendy blurted out. A woman! Wielding a sword! Her limbs trembled at the thought of it.

  “She did,” he affirmed. “She fought fiercely that day, and she survived. She protected our village. I was very proud of her. My sister and I were only captured while she was away. If she had been home, no one could have taken us. My mother was too strong, and too brave.”

  “Cowards,” Wendy snarled under her breath.

  Mr. Equiano—Wendy’s mind had just now settled on this name for him, in honor of his mother—raised an eyebrow and shot her an appraising glance. He grunted his agreement in the back of his throat but said nothing more, and they fell into a companionable silence. A harbor, smooth as glass, amidst the fa
ir that stormed around them, all raucous laughter and affected screams.

  “What happened to your sister?” Wendy finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Equiano replied sadly. “It is my greatest regret. If I knew where she was, I would buy her freedom. If I knew where my mother was, I would try to see her again. But I was taken too young.”

  “I don’t know how to find my mother, either,” Wendy admitted softly. “I don’t even know who she is. Or if I have one at all.”

  “Then where do you live?” he asked in surprise.

  “At the almshouse.”

  Wendy shrugged. There wasn’t much else to say about that.

  “I see.” He watched her for a long moment, clearly mulling something over, and then he slapped his hands decisively upon his knees and burst to his feet. “Right! I shall help you find your way back, of course. But I have just returned from Wales, and I shall be in London all winter. If you would like to learn how to make fresh water from the sea, I would be happy to teach you.”

  “You would? Oh, yes, please!”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. “It is something every sea captain should know. That, and how to navigate by the stars. And how to fashion a mast from a tree trunk, in case of emergency. And how to repair a sail. And how to fire a musket, as well as the cannons, of course …”

  The world, which had ended at precisely 10:48, started back up again. And Wendy’s heart, like winter’s ripe cocoon upon the first kiss of the sun, burst into a thousand rainbow wings, heralding its joy to the sky.

  Mr. Equiano cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, “I should make a list.”

  hat was how Wendy came to study with Olaudah Equiano. Whenever he was in London, he would teach her navigation and shipbuilding and marksmanship and how to handle a sword. And when he went to sea, he would leave her with a list of books to read while he was away. (Fortunately, the lord benefactor of the almshouse had an excellent library.)

  Wendy begged him to take her along, of course, but he always refused.