fairy tales and hokum

Chapter 7

Breathing heavily, he looked at her for several moments.  She found that she was unable to push away from the wall, and simply stared back, wondering if he’d recognize her.   Her pulse racing, she realized that she was still exhilarated, uncertain if the danger was over yet.

The very sight of him triggered old memories, and she was transported back through time.  She stood on deck, chanting his doom the loudest, willing him to fall.  Head held high, she now stood before the others, recounting the story of Peter’s beginning, and she could almost feel his hand in her hair and the raspy stubble of his jaw at her temple, hear the growl of his voice in her ear.  She had been so captivated by the nearness of him that she had barely registered the cool steel of his hook at her neck.   She closed her eyes again to savor the rush of feeling brought on by the phantom, but opened them quickly to refocus on the living, breathing man before her.  She had no idea how long he’d stood, staring at her.

Giving himself a shake, he sheathed his sword.  “Well, Red-Handed Jill, I wondered how long you would manage to avoid me.”   His voice sounded at once dear and familiar to her, and yet the cultured tones were strangely new.  She was surprised that he remembered her, let alone that he’d chosen to refer to her by her chosen pirate name.  Was he offering her a subtle olive branch?  Or had he simply forgotten her true name over the years?  She gave no response, simply watching him as he walked over to where she’d dropped her bag, and picked it up.  “So the Natives were helping you after all.”  He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.

She sighed, and allowed her legs to finally give out, sliding down the wall until she sat on the ground.  “The Chief said she’d assist me for my brother’s sake.”  Did her voice really sound that raspy?  She could feel her heart skip a beat when she looked at him, realizing anew that he truly was standing before her.  And he’d saved her life.

Somehow she didn’t think he’d appreciate prostrations and effusive gratitude, so she instead began mentally cataloging her bruises and scrapes, checking for further injuries.  She tried to ignore the fiery pain that was her mangled leg, and concentrated on the rest of her body.  Gradually becoming aware of a dull throbbing by her temple, she lifted a hand to her head, and blinked curiously when it came away wet with blood.

He strode towards her, frowning, and crouched down to her level.  “How on earth did you manage that?”  His tone made it seem like she’d injured herself deliberately.  He reached out and grasped her chin firmly, tilting her head so he could get a better look.

She kept her eyes averted, unwilling to meet his forget-me-not blues when they were so close.  Did he realize that his thumb was brushing her jaw ever so gently?  She tried to keep from breathing in; why did he have to smell so good?  She was seized with the incredibly unladylike desire to bury her face in his neck and inhale deeply.  She tried to repress laughter at the mental image it provoked, but only managed to sputter.  “It got my leg, too,” she quickly covered.

He looked down, and blinked.  “My my.”  Her leggings were in tatters, and there was a long, deep gouge running down her leg in an arc.  His blues caught hers again.  “I suppose you aren’t the type to faint at the sight of blood?”  He didn’t seem all that concerned; if anything, his manner was almost casual.  She shook her head, unable to decide if she was predominately injured from her ordeal, angry at his manners, or exhausted in general.

He abruptly released her and rose, turning away and lifting her bag once more.  “Come.  There are medical supplies with my men.  And I believe Smee might be able to find a better wardrobe for you.”  He began walking determinedly towards the entrance to the Castle.

She blinked.  “Do you expect me to follow you like… like a lost puppy?”  She stayed seated on the ground, and resisted the urge to cross her arms petulantly.

He stopped and pivoted smoothly.  “If you don’t want my help, you can, of course, refuse.”  That damned eyebrow arched, and her resistance was lost.  She found herself wondering if people were often in the habit of refusing him.

Scowling, she attempted to stand gracefully.  “It would give me great pleasure if you would do me the honor of treating me as a lady, Captain,” she said in her most regal tone.  She had never wished more desperately for skirts and a fan.  The effect was generally lost when such a statement was delivered in a tunic and leather breeches, when one was bleeding profusely and looked like one had been dragged through the forest backwards.

He picked up his abandoned hat and made a grandiose gesture, bowing deeply.  “If my lady would be so kind as to accompany me?”  He crooked his arm and waited for her to limp towards him.  She considered refusing his help altogether, but at her first step, discovered it would be best to take advantage of his good will, for however long it would last.

As she hobbled closer, he placed the hat on his head, fixing his cuffs and collar, and she finally noticed his outfit.  He was dressed in browns today, which she thought was odd, given his usual flair for the dramatic.  Her gaze fell to his hands–his hand, and hook.

She suddenly realized with a start that she had entirely forgotten about his hook.  She stopped and blinked in confusion, staring at the item with renewed absorption.  When she first began telling stories about him, it had been his defining feature, the entire reason for his name.  How on earth had she managed to forget about the one thing that had held her interest with such fascination and terror so many years ago?

As she gazed at him, she realized that the answer was, indeed, standing before her.  She’d stopped focusing on the machinations, and instead had dedicated thought and attention to the man himself.

“Do forgive me for refraining from the usual formalities,” he said silkily, bringing her abruptly to the present, his eyes flicking to her hands.  She resisted the urge to hide them in her sleeves or behind her back.  She had a mental image of him bowing over her hand, possibly kissing it, and heat flamed in her cheeks as her pulse skittered.  Unwilling to admit that he’d unsettled her further, she resolutely slid her hand into the crook of his arm, and begin limping alongside him as he led her away.

A/N: What do you think?

Wendy crouched along the edge of the clearing.  She could see the village through the trees, but still hesitated.

Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her for the reason she was walking into the unknown.  Yesterday morning, she had woken from a glorious dream, one where red eyes changed to blue and a pirate lord smiled when he saw her, to find that she’d somehow managed to find her way back to Neverland.  Her first reaction had been confusion and fear, and she’d instantly realized that while her dream Captain was courtly and polite, even romantic, the real thing was most likely not going to react with pleasure upon seeing her.

She’d evaluated her options, and mentally catalogued her likely allies versus enemies.  The fairies seemed the most ambiguous choice, while the pirates were most likely her enemies, and the natives appeared to be the closest thing to allies that she would have.  She certainly did not want to find the Lost Boys; she had no interest in being everyone’s Mother again, at least not first.  There was a proper order to things, and Mother came second to Wife.  And Wife comes second to Husband, she reminded herself yet again, the daily mantra still ringing hollow in her mind.  She pulled her sleeves down out of habit, and forcibly pulled herself out of the past and into her present situation.

The only question remained as to how to find the tribe.  She had a hazy memory of the way to their camp, so she stood, brushed off her nightgown, shook off her sheet, and wrapped it around her like a sari.  If she was to be stranded on this island with only a nightgown and sheet, she was certainly going to make the most out of them.  She examined her handiwork, then raised her head high.  If she looked a little ridiculous, who was to notice or care?  She then set off into the forest, determined once more.

Sunset yesterday evening had seen her defeated, sitting on a tree stump, ready to cry out of frustration.  How big was this island, anyway?  She hadn’t even been able to find fruit to eat.  She was tired, cold, and hungry.  She had just come across a hollow tree, and had deemed it large enough to shelter her for the night.  Shivering, she hoped that the croc wouldn’t come across her.  She dozed fitfully, coming awake at intervals, and seeing the indifferent face of the Captain when she was able to pass to the realm of dreaming.  For some reason, that pained her far worse than the hollow grumblings of her stomach.

When she woke, she had a renewed sense of purpose, as well as direction.  Sure enough, she’d found the village before half the morning was gone.  It was now or never.  She took a deep breath, and stepped out into the clearing.

-+-

Wendy worked hard alongside the other women.  Apparently a new lodge was being built, and they needed all the extra hands they could use.  When she had first appeared on the outskirts of the village, they’d seemed mildly surprised but not shocked to see her.  They’d communicated that she should follow them, and spoken quickly amongst themselves as they took her to their chief.  When they’d sent her into the chief’s circle, she’d been more than a little frightened, but remained outwardly calm.  She looked up to see the chief, only to smile in delight and relief at a familiar face.  Tiger-Lily had grinned widely, and pulled her into a hug.

Later that night, she crawled onto the fur they provided, exhausted and cold.  As she shifted restlessly, unable to find a restful position, she realized that she was growing colder, no matter how she huddled beneath the blanket they’d given her.  She was able to finally drift off into a fitful sleep, where she dreamed she was finally safe and warm.  She could smell whiskey and an unfamiliar type of tobacco, and someone’s hair was tickling her temple.  She didn’t want to wake up, so she burrowed closer to the source of heat and shelter, turning her face into his neck and rubbing her cheek against the stubble.  She felt someone’s hand come up to sleepily cradle her head and toy with her curls, and fell deep asleep once more, feeling protected and happy.

The next morning, she awoke, feeling strangely bereft and confused.  Had she been alone all night?  The furs showed that she had been curled in the same protective position all night, yet her nightgown smelled of whiskey and tobacco.

-+-

This day seemed to be more of the same; she helped the others with construction.  One of the girls had given her a pair of leggings so that she could move more freely.  Another gave her a tunic, clearly viewing her nightgown as strange, awkward clothing.  She’d been more than grateful, happy to be able to wear something different for a change.

In the afternoon, the children had run through the village, shouting loudly about visitors.  She gathered with the rest of the curious onlookers to see that Captain Hook and part of his pirate crew were leaving the premises of the healer.  Her heart leapt to her throat, and she froze, confused at her reaction to the sight of him.  At once, her mouth had become dry with either fear or excitement, and her pulse had begun hammering as if her very blood recognized him at her most elemental level.

He paused, as if he could feel her presence near.  She held her breath, wondering what she’d do if he saw her.  Would he recognize her?  He glanced about, but his eyes passed over her as if she were not there, and he turned and continued on his way.

Wendy found herself fighting back tears, and wondered at the cause.

The Captain scowled at the quivering man before him. Incompetent imbecile! He’d have to gut someone now to regain order. He found himself mentally cataloguing the list of men he’d hired purely for the sake of killing or tossing overboard in a display of power.

Ah well, perhaps it would return balance to his life; he’d been having disturbing dreams for the last week. To be honest, they had been rather more snatches of moments in time than a cohesive thought sequence.

The first night had simply paraded images of an impish mouth with a hidden kiss and crystalline blue eyes, gleeful and innocent, before his eyes. He’d come awake instantly, certain that she had broken through to his world. He’d paced his room for a half hour, debating whether he should act on his waking dream or not. He’d been surprised at the strength of his reaction to the knowledge that she was here. If confronted with the girl, what would he do? What did he want from her? He took a healthy swallow of whiskey and continued pacing. He only knew that his soul was drawn to her.

He resolved to ignore the situation, and wait for it to play out. After all, while anything was possible in this world-between-worlds, there was no plausible notion behind his certainty, no concrete testimony that she had indeed arrived. And while James Hook had always been one to believe his instincts, when women were involved, he had learned to tread carefully. He was especially wary of those who had the power of Story behind them.

The second night, he’d been unable to sleep due to the hunger-pains that wracked his body. No matter what he ate, he still felt ravenous. After consuming an entire cooked chicken, he gave up and resorted to a technique he’d employed upon first finding himself in this place-between-places: he drank until he passed out. He dreamed again, but this time the eyes were not laughing, but worried, and the mouth-with-a-kiss was drawn tight with fear.

Finally, on the previous night he had woken repeatedly, freezing cold. No matter how many heated bricks he demanded, it made no difference. Finally, he admitted defeat… and proceeded to get absolutely sloshed once more. He’d dreamed that he held someone as he slept, someone whose toes were frozen, but her hair smelled of violets and sunshine, and she turned into his body for warmth and comfort, and did not shrink away from his stump of an arm. He woke with a curious ache in his chest, but refused to explore it any further.

Smee, the obnoxious busybody, forced him to go see Chief Tiger-Lily for help. He stood while his men made growling faces at the natives and they, in turn, threatened with their weapons, but in the end, the chief directed him to their tribe’s healer with her blessing. He suspected the cheerful chief knew more than she let on, but did not pry further. He grudgingly left his hat and sword with a widely-grinning Smee as he entered the healer’s tent.

After sitting through several hours of questioning and chanting rituals, he was given an answer. The healer declared that he was mysteriously linked to a Totem, and that it was external to their medicine; they couldn’t help him. It was suggested, with a poorly hidden smile, that he take a vacation. He growled as he rose to leave, but did not tear a new window in her tent with his hook.

He paused, just before he left the tent, and asked silkily, “By the way, you haven’t noticed any… new… additions to the island, have you?”

The healer feigned ignorance. “There have been no more children. The Boy has lost interest in new converts.” The unspoken since She left lingered in the air between the speakers.

His jaw tightened, but he replied calmly, “I was enquiring after any new additions, not children.”

Her chin drew up, and she simply said, “No.”

The Captain left their camp in a worse mood than he’d been in when he’d arrived, unaware that from the sea of dark eyes watching his departure, a pair of blue eyes lit with recognition.