“Oh, all right, then, who are you really? Did Freddie Grange put you up to this? I swear, I’ll throttle that—”
“I am Captain Hook. This is my ship. And you are a long, long way from London.”
This silences her again, and I press my advantage. “We are not at war with his mothers, Madam. I seek only to know your business in the Neverland.”
This last word has an extraordinary effect. At last, she wrenches her gaze away from me, scans all about the cabin as if for the first time, takes in the deck beams above, the junk heap of reeking, salt-corroded nautical gear in the corner, slides tentative fingertips along the ancient, wormy bulwark to which her bunk is fastened, peers out through the skylight, where nothing much can be glimpsed but a bit of spar and sail and boy-blue sky beyond. Avid for every detail, her gaze travels down to the unprepossessing objects she’s piled at the foot of the bunk: the remains of a tallow candle stub, a couple of French ecus, a small, tarnished silver bell with a tall handle, the kind a fancy fellow might use to summon his servant, relics perhaps dating all the way back to the original captain of this vessel. The sorts of things some crewman might have taken for valuables and stowed away in a handy bucket generations ago. “It’s all real,” she whispers, as if to herself. “Oh my God.” She turns back eagerly to me. “But where are the children? I thought there would be children.”
“Is that why you were in the wood?”
If possible, her eyes go even rounder. “I was in a wood? I thought that was a dream!” She shoves a hand back through her unruly hair, dislodging a few more pins. “God, I must’ve really tied one on,” she murmurs to herself. Then she frowns again at me. “Then what am I doing here?”
“My question exactly,” I sigh.
“I mean here, on board your ship,” she counters, in some agitation. “I’m supposed to be out there. In the Neverland.”
“For what reason?”
“Because something called me here! Something I couldn’t resist.”
“The boy?”
“No! No, it wasn’t Peter,” she says hastily. Peter, she calls him, like one of the doting Wendys. “I know that much.” She retreats somewhat from our engagement, eyes shifting about more cautiously. Her fingers pluck up the silver bell at the foot of her bunk, from which she shakes a nervous little peal. “Tinker Bell, perhaps?”
I shrug off this name out of the storybooks; all the wretched imps are one to me. “Then who brought you here?”
She shakes her head. “You tell me. I went to sleep in London, on a perfectly ordinary spring night in 1950, and I woke up here. That’s all I know.”
“Only the boy knows the way,” I point out quietly. “Please consider the matter very carefully before you lie to me again.”
She straightens, frowning, alert. Unable to resist a moment of pure theatricality, I add, “You’ve heard of the plank?” As if any pirate ever bothered with a plank; chucking a fellow overboard was good enough in my day.
But the woman laughs. Laughs! No nervous titter this time, but a sarcastic yip worthy of a dockside harlot. “Oh, surely not, Captain! No pirate has ever walked the plank in the history of the world! It’s complete fiction!”
Devil bugger me! Most folk are eager enough to swallow that lie. My new men are always disappointed to find no such object aboard the Rouge. “I do not speak of pirates walking the plank,” I point out icily.
She swallows her hysterical mirth, peers at me again, shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a fictional character.”
“Believe what you like,” I begin, “but we are at war—”
“What? I’m not at war with anyone!” she cries.
“All of Neverland is at war, and that is not make-believe either.”
“No” she exclaims. “This is a fairyland for children!”
“Confess your business, and perhaps I can ransom you without bloodshed,” I press on, pleased to
“I am Captain Hook. This is my ship. And you are a long, long way from London.”
This silences her again, and I press my advantage. “We are not at war with his mothers, Madam. I seek only to know your business in the Neverland.”
This last word has an extraordinary effect. At last, she wrenches her gaze away from me, scans all about the cabin as if for the first time, takes in the deck beams above, the junk heap of reeking, salt-corroded nautical gear in the corner, slides tentative fingertips along the ancient, wormy bulwark to which her bunk is fastened, peers out through the skylight, where nothing much can be glimpsed but a bit of spar and sail and boy-blue sky beyond. Avid for every detail, her gaze travels down to the unprepossessing objects she’s piled at the foot of the bunk: the remains of a tallow candle stub, a couple of French ecus, a small, tarnished silver bell with a tall handle, the kind a fancy fellow might use to summon his servant, relics perhaps dating all the way back to the original captain of this vessel. The sorts of things some crewman might have taken for valuables and stowed away in a handy bucket generations ago. “It’s all real,” she whispers, as if to herself. “Oh my God.” She turns back eagerly to me. “But where are the children? I thought there would be children.”
“Is that why you were in the wood?”
If possible, her eyes go even rounder. “I was in a wood? I thought that was a dream!” She shoves a hand back through her unruly hair, dislodging a few more pins. “God, I must’ve really tied one on,” she murmurs to herself. Then she frowns again at me. “Then what am I doing here?”
“My question exactly,” I sigh.
“I mean here, on board your ship,” she counters, in some agitation. “I’m supposed to be out there. In the Neverland.”
“For what reason?”
“Because something called me here! Something I couldn’t resist.”
“The boy?”
“No! No, it wasn’t Peter,” she says hastily. Peter, she calls him, like one of the doting Wendys. “I know that much.” She retreats somewhat from our engagement, eyes shifting about more cautiously. Her fingers pluck up the silver bell at the foot of her bunk, from which she shakes a nervous little peal. “Tinker Bell, perhaps?”
I shrug off this name out of the storybooks; all the wretched imps are one to me. “Then who brought you here?”
She shakes her head. “You tell me. I went to sleep in London, on a perfectly ordinary spring night in 1950, and I woke up here. That’s all I know.”
“Only the boy knows the way,” I point out quietly. “Please consider the matter very carefully before you lie to me again.”
She straightens, frowning, alert. Unable to resist a moment of pure theatricality, I add, “You’ve heard of the plank?” As if any pirate ever bothered with a plank; chucking a fellow overboard was good enough in my day.
But the woman laughs. Laughs! No nervous titter this time, but a sarcastic yip worthy of a dockside harlot. “Oh, surely not, Captain! No pirate has ever walked the plank in the history of the world! It’s complete fiction!”
Devil bugger me! Most folk are eager enough to swallow that lie. My new men are always disappointed to find no such object aboard the Rouge. “I do not speak of pirates walking the plank,” I point out icily.
She swallows her hysterical mirth, peers at me again, shakes her head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a fictional character.”
“Believe what you like,” I begin, “but we are at war—”
“What? I’m not at war with anyone!” she cries.
“All of Neverland is at war, and that is not make-believe either.”
“No” she exclaims. “This is a fairyland for children!”
“Confess your business, and perhaps I can ransom you without bloodshed,” I press on, pleased to
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