Forever Neverland
Chapter One
Nothing moved in Neverland. Nothing had moved in Neverland for a very, very long time.
Beyond the dense forest, in the clearing where the natives live, no campfires lit the circle of teepees, and no children chased each other with tomahawks and painted faces.
All was quiet.
In Pixie Forest, the fairies’ houses were dark and utterly devoid of the buzzing of tiny, flapping wings or the tinkling sound of sprinkling fairy dust.
At the center of the island of Neverland stands a giant tree once claimed by a rambunctious bunch of young boys and used as a secret hideout. But no boys hid there now. The lonely tree stood empty, and its silence was equally hollow.
The vast sea that surrounded Neverland was infamous for its storms, choppy waves, and for the not-so-friendly mermaids and crocodiles that swam beneath its surface. But there were no storm-brought waves on that surface now. Not a single ripple disturbed the perfectly smooth plane of inky black that stretched to the horizon. And the unnatural, ultimate darkness of the water promised a variety of monstrous inhabitants almost assuredly more deadly than mere mermaids or crocodiles.
Upon this black sea rested a ship. There was a time, long ago in Neverland, when this particular ship would have been seen flying the notorious skull and crossbones of piracy. Its vast decks were once swabbed clean by men with peg legs, eye patches and missing teeth. The inhabitants of the island knew the pirate ship as the Jolly Roger. And its captain was more feared than any other citizen of Neverland.
But. . . .
No flag flew from the ship’s mast now. No flag of any kind. And no pirates roamed its decks. The ship lay quiet and seemingly forgotten, tilted ever so slightly to one side by the weight of the rusted anchor it had dropped so long, long ago. There was nothing remaining of its once terrifying splendor. . . .
Well, not a thing, that is, save one.
On a pillow, on a bed within the Captain’s cabin and beside a mass of long, jet-black curls, rested – a hook. In all of the once magnificent, but now drab and dreary Neverland, the hook, alone, shone silver in the ray of moonlight that cast through the windows. The hook – and only the hook – remained magnificent.
*****
Many millions of miles and exactly eleven impossibilities away, a girl with long brown hair and gray eyes sat at her desk, her head bent over her notebook in concentration. The girl’s name was Wendy Darling, and at this moment, Wendy was writing.
Unfortunately for her, what she was writing had nothing to do with the Spanish Inquisition, or even history, in general, and had quite a lot to do with a young boy named Peter Pan and a pirate by the name of Captain-
“Wendy, may I please have a word with you in the hall?”
Wendy grimaced and put down her pencil. She’d been caught again.
Without a word, she stood up, leaving all of her belongings on the desk, and followed Mrs. Pence to the classroom door. Once there, they briefly paused as Mrs. Pence turned the knob and then led Wendy out into the hall.
As her history teacher closed the door behind them, Wendy caught the familiar sound of her classmates fidgeting in their seats and snickering to one another.
She could just imagine what they were saying. . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted once more by the sound of her teacher’s voice. “Wendy,” Mrs. Pence said. The expression on the teacher’s face was one Wendy had grown to know well. Over the past few years, the expression had gone from one of shock and deep concern to one of the same deep concern, pinched with tired exasperation.
“Wendy,” she began again. “I spoke with your mother this morning.” Her tone had softened and she paused as if carefully considering her next words. “She confided in me about Dr. Coffer and, well. . . .”
Wendy could feel her heart sinking like a cannon-holed pirate ship already.
“I need you to hand over what you wrote in class today.” Mrs. Pence straightened a little and finished with, “The story, Wendy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
No! Thought Wendy. Not that!
“Mrs. Pence, please-”
Mrs. Pence held up her hands and cut Wendy off before the girl could continue. “Wendy, it’s not just me. All of your teachers have been asked to discourage any behavior in you that may slow your recovery and, frankly,” she sighed again. “I’m afraid this qualifies. You have to stop writing those stories, Wendy. No one can help you if you won’t help yourself.”
Wendy stood stunned and silent. The past five years had been hard enough on her. She’d been moved across the Atlantic, subjected to therapist after therapist, and alienated by most of her family. But this? This was the worst. Without her writing – without her stories – she had nothing. She was nothing.