Six Points of Light:Hook's Origin Page 5

  CHAPTER 6

  FLIGHT

  The following morning, Peter made a sincere apology to Sister Maddie. She was taken aback by the gesture and showered James with praise for sparking a change in the boy.

  “I don’t know how you did it, but I knew you could. I have every confidence in you my dear.” Sister Maddie beamed at him and squeezed his arm affectionately.

  “I'd like to go on a walk, Sister Maddie,” James told her. “I'll take Peter along,” he added.

  The smile on her face told James everything he needed to know. He could roam the grounds with Peter whenever he desired, and they might be able to do just about anything they wanted, as long as they were together. He was torn about that. He didn’t want to lie to Sister Maddie or keep secrets, but he reconciled his feelings of regret with the growing sense of responsibility he had towards Peter.

  James fetched a light sweater from his room and went to look for Peter. He found him waiting on the big rocky outcropping behind St. Catherine's.

  “Shall we head out?” he asked.

  Peter somersaulted off of the rock and landed on his feet with a light thud.

  “Your acrobatics are impressive,” said James. Peter smiled triumphantly, as though James’s praise fed his appetite for recognition.

  “You should try it sometime. It’s not that difficult,” said Peter.

  “Thanks, but I'd rather not break my neck today.”

  Peter laughed as he led the way to the hollow. As they traversed the woods and entered the clearing, the sun broke through a light covering of clouds, and its rays shone down warm and bright on James’s face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It felt wonderful to be out in the sun, breathing in without a cough or fever to make him resent the sun's warmth. He felt alive.

  When he opened his eyes, Peter was staring at him. He looked down, embarrassed.

  “It's nice out today,” said Peter.

  “Yes, it is.” James was happy to let the moment of reverence for Mother Nature slip silently between them.

  They entered the tree’s hollow, and Peter took his mother's diary from its hiding place then handed it to James as if it were made of glass.

  “Whenever you are ready,” said Peter. James sat down on the warm earth and began.

  Dear Diary,

  Dr. Morrington told mother that I am “imaginative.” I don't know what that means. Father insisted that mother take me to visit the doctor. All I wanted was to tell father that the little sprite had come to my window. I couldn't lift the latch to open it, and so I asked father to help. Why was he so angry? Now he’s going to send me away for sure.

  “James,” Peter interrupted. “What does imaginative mean?”

  James thought on it for a minute. The revelation that Peter’s mother had been given to flights of fancy in her youth shed a blinding light on Peter’s own personality. Were these things passed down from mother to child? He didn’t know, but he thought it might be possible.

  “Well, it means that a person is prone to fanciful notions, things that aren't real.”

  Peter looked down at his hands.

  “Shall we continue?”

  “Oh yes.... yes,” said Peter.

  Dear Diary,

  I have been at this wretched school for eleven months. Father came to visit, and he told me I ought to find a way to fit in or there would be no place for me in his house. Where is mother? Why didn't she come with him?

  I fear that the little sprite may not know where I am, for I haven't seen her. It is all his fault! He is wrong about me, you know. I don't have to grow up and become a proper lady. The sprite told me so.

  Abbie

  James paused and shifted his weight. He stretched out his legs and rolled his head from side to side.

  “Your mother was young when she wrote this,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Peter. “Her father sent her away because he didn't believe her.”

  “It seems that way.” Peter's mother had spoken of sprites; he wondered if a sprite was the same thing as a fairy.

  “Sprites are fairies. Fae folk. Something like that,” said Peter.

  “I was just thinking about that,” said James, a little put off by how their thoughts seemed to line up.

  “My mother...”Peter stopped himself.

  James set the diary down and looked Peter square in the eye. “Peter, I know you remember your mother. I'm not an idiot.”

  “No, I didn’t take you for one.”

  A silence passed between them, and while James hoped Peter would offer some clue as to what he remembered or what his mother had shared with him, it was clear that Peter would not do so willingly.

  “Peter,” said James as he closed the diary. “You remember the time you went up on the roof?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you came down, you said something that struck me as, well, odd.”

  Peter was still and silent. James set the book on the floor and crossed his legs underneath him. “You said you would have been fine if you fell, because you could fly.”

  Peter turned his eyes away from James.

  “What did you mean exactly?”

  “Which part didn't you understand?” asked Peter, still avoiding James's eyes.

  “You believe you can fly? Did your mother tell you that?”

  “Why does it matter to you?” snapped Peter. He turned and made eye contact with James for a split second. James could see he was angry.

  “It just seemed like an odd thing to say, Peter.”

  “Why is it odd? Because you don't believe it? Is that why it's odd, James?” Peter’s condescending tone was not lost on James.

  “Perhaps your mother told you a story when you were younger and you mistook the tale for truth,” James offered.

  Peter stood up and stomped his foot hard down onto the earthen floor of the hollow. His eyes burned with an anger James hadn’t seen in him before.

  “No one ever believes me!” Peter shouted. “You want ‘proof,’ James? Is that it? You shall have it!” Peter went to the corner, where a small stack of books were piled on the floor. He flung the books into the air. James jumped to his feet as a large leather-bound edition of children's tales flew past his right cheek.

  “What are you doing?” James asked, confused.

  Peter continued flinging books about, stopping when the floor under the pile became exposed. The ground looked as if it had been recently disturbed. Peter began to dig with his bare hands. A small pile of dirt amassed on the floor before he appeared to retrieve something from the hole. James stood, utterly bewildered and concerned for Peter's sanity.

  Peter turned, dust and dirt clinging to his knees and shirt, his nails caked with earth. In his hand he held a small pouch.

  “No one ever believes me,” he said, his voice was calmer now. “No one believed my mother, either. Told her she was mad, called her a liar.”

  James backed away from Peter.

  “What is your happiest memory, James?” asked Peter.

  It was a strange question, made even stranger by Peter's behavior. Was he to act as if he hadn't just watched Peter dig a hole in the ground like a crazed animal?

  Peter smiled. That false mask of a smile. It scared James to see how quickly he could turn it on. He wondered if its counterfeit nature was as evident to everyone else as it was to him.

  “My happiest memory is of my mother. She would hold me in her lap and tell me tales of her adventures. She was special,” said Peter.

  James knew it. Peter remembered his mother clearly and in detail.

  “You must not be afraid, James,” said Peter.

  James judged how many steps it would take him to get to the hollow's exit and run out into the open clearing. Peter's behavior was strange; he seemed as if he was coming unhinged.

  Peter unwound a length of twine from the neck of the small brown pouch. He held up his opposite hand and tapped the closed end of the pouch. Into his open palm fell what, at first, James took
to be a fine sand of some sort.

  “My mother would tell me of a place that was beyond anything we could imagine, James.” As he spoke, the sand shimmered. “She wanted me to know, James. She wanted me to go there.” The light in the sand danced and began to burn brightly.

  James backed away, pressing himself into the wall of the tree. He was trapped.

  Peter lifted his hand above his head and dropped the sand, letting it cascade over his head and shoulders. Peter glowed as if he himself were made of light.

  James stood frozen, unable to move or cry out. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide.

  “My happiest memories are of her, James!”

  James looked down to see that Peter's feet were no longer touching the ground. He was hovering nearly a foot off of the floor!

  “Peter...,”said James just above a whisper. He could not believe what his eyes were showing him. He blinked over and over again, trying to clear his head.

  Peter bobbed in the air, glowing like some sort of angelic being. Then the glow that encircled him faded like the light in the sky after the sun sets. Peter's feet met the ground again. He reached down and picked up the small pouch then secured the twine around its top. He approached James, looking up into his face, blue eyes blazing.

  “Not a word, James,” he said.

  Not that anyone would have heard him, but James felt like screaming. His hands were shaking, and a thin mask of sweat covered his furrowed brow.

  “Peter...,”whispered James.

  “James, please,” said Peter. “I need you to believe me. No one else will. No one else could. Neverland is real. Magic is real. And fairy stories are real. They are!”

  “What was in that bag, Peter?” James blurted out, one of a thousand questions now swirling around in his mind.

  “My mother called it pixie dust. She told me it would work magic on anyone who believed. All you have to do is think of something that makes you happy. But she said it can’t be just any happy thought. It has to be something special, something that will be a happy thought forever and ever.”

  James's pulse returned to normal from its racing pace. He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead.

  “Don't you see?” asked Peter. “There are things in this world we cannot understand, things that no one will believe, but they are real, James!”

  “How—how is this possible?” stammered James.

  Peter stood, still staring up at him, and smiled. “You believe it now, don’t you?”

  “I don't know what I believe anymore,” said James.

  James stepped sideways and stumbled out of the tree hollow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to rationalize everything he had just seen. Was it a clever trick? Was Peter capable of pulling off such a hoax? No, James thought. He was capable of trickery, that was certain; but this was something else.

  As James stood in the clearing, he felt the cool breeze and opened his eyes. Peter, by way of his mother, had discovered something. Some great mystery that James felt sure they had only scratched the surface of. It went against everything he believed. It went against reason and even common sense, but still, James knew there was no going back. He felt the curiosity building inside, and there was no stifling it. He needed to know if the things the young Abigail wrote about were in fact true. James may not have needed to know as desperately as Peter, but he made a promise to himself: he would find out.

  James heard Peter's approach and turned towards him.

  “I needed some air,” said James.

  “Sure you did,” said Peter smiling.

  “We could turn back, you know,” said James. Peter's smile faded. “We can forget about all of this and go back to our normal lives. We could go back right now.” He knew it was a lie as soon as the words left his lips.

  Peter tilted his head and looked up at the sky. “You are the only person I've told these things to. I think you want to know if the things my mother said were true just as much as I do. She shared so many things with me, things that you wouldn’t believe were possible. But she would never lie to me James. Never. We can discover these things together.”

  “You may be right,” replied James. He was trying to quash the excitement growing within him.

  “I don't trust anyone else, James. You're the only person I can depend on.”

  James looked into Peter's face then placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. “I will help you in any way I can, Peter,” he said. “I suppose we are in this together now.”

  Peter leapt forward and slung his arms around James's waist.

  “We will be as brothers, you and I!” said Peter.

  James was startled by Peter's words. He'd never had a brother or been close enough to anyone, other than Sister Maddie, to consider them family. Only a few days prior, James had seen Peter as a mischievous brat whose behavior bordered on recklessness. None of that had changed, but now, as he looked at him, he thought that he and Peter were more alike than he cared to admit. James's recently discovered love of the outdoors dovetailed nicely with Peter's adventurous spirit.

  Peter released James from the embrace.

  “We should head back,” said James. He needed time to think, to take in everything that had happened.

  “If you say so,” replied Peter. He wasn’t ready to go, but he acquiesced.

  Peter walked ahead, leading the way out of the clearing. James watched as Peter kicked pebbles along the forest floor and felt instinctively protective of him, the way a parent or older brother would.

  James tried to wrap his head around the monumental shift that had taken place between them. Sister Maddie would be pleased, but he had to admit that he himself was also pleased. He wasn't sure he would go telling Peter his deepest secrets just yet, but it felt good to have someone to talk to other than Sister Maddie.

  In all his years at St. Catherine's, he'd never spent as much time with any of the other children as he'd spent with Peter. He had a feeling that this could be the beginning of a friendship, a real and abiding friendship.

  James and Peter spent every free moment thereafter retreating to their tree hollow hideaway and pouring over the journal of Peter's mother. Peter sat patiently at James's feet, hanging on to each and every word. James often observed Peter's lips moving in sync with the words when he read aloud. Clearly Peter knew each word, had memorized them all, and yet he still pleaded with James to read its contents. Through the winter months and into the following spring, they read and re-read every entry in the journal.

  Each time James and Peter sat together to read, a sense of wonder overtook them. Abigail's words were so vivid that the story of her life unfolded like a moving picture in their minds. James's voice took on a deep tonal quality, and he even sprouted the beginning of a beard and mustache which Peter teased him about relentlessly.

  In those moments, James and Peter seemed to be the only people in the world who knew that Abigail had more than just stories to tell. She had a secret.

  Abigail’s Journal Entries

  Dear Diary,

  She came back. Oh thank you, thank you! The sprite came back, and she said I could go with her to a place that is far away, where I never have to grow up, never have to be anything I don’t want to be! I am leaving, and I care not for what Father thinks. Or Mother, for that matter. They have abandoned me in this place for two years now. I will never fit in here.

  Abbie

  ***

  Dear Diary,

  As I write these words, I can scarcely believe what my pen is about to reveal. The magical place the fairy told me about is real! It is as real as you or I, and I can see for miles and miles. The sprite kept her word and now I am here.

  I feared she had forgotten about me or that I had done something wrong. I went to the place where the trees meet the open grass, and I did as she instructed. I danced and I clapped my hands until my palms were red! I sang a little song.

  Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly, lavender's green,

  When I am king, dill
y, dilly, you shall be queen.

  Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?

  ‘Twas my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.

  And then that little sprite appeared and showered me with a sparkling dust, and we flew! We flew and the light was so bright, it stung my eyes. I felt as if I was falling to sleep. When I opened my eyes, we were here, and I don't know how, but we were! The air is sweet, and there are boys and girls just my age, and there is no talk of growing up or being a proper any such thing.

  I never want to leave.

  Abbie

  ***

  Dear Diary,

  I will not be writing for a while. I have found that my time is better occupied exploring the wonders of this place. This land of Never. I have also found that when I write and then return to write again, the ink is faded and the pages have yellowed. It was only a day or so ago that I last wrote. It scares me a bit, so I will put it from my mind, as I have put all of my troubles from my mind.

  Goodbye for now,

  Abbie

  ***

  Dear Diary,

  There are wonders here that are beyond anything I could have ever dreamed! I went to swim in the cove, and there was a creature there the likes of which I have never seen. She was beautiful. Her skin was golden, and her hair was long, and she wore small shells in her hair. All of that is not so extraordinary. The thing that stuck in my mind is that she had no legs at all! Where her legs should have been was a tail, like that of a fish! She went into the water and I tried to go after her, but the sprite stopped me. I can’t hear any words coming from her, only the sound of bells, but she was very cross. I think she does not want me to swim there.