Yet, even as he ran, he knew it was hopeless. The boy on the bike had bested pirates in a roiling sea. He was a swordsman with only one equal. He could mimic any voice, and see and hear for as far as he wanted to, whenever he wanted to. Why, Peter Pan could even fly.
At last, after John had run the length of but a single block in what felt like two eternities, Peter’s motorcycle cut him off at the next intersection and John came to a wobbly halt.
“Get on, Johnny boy. We need to talk.”
Though the motorcycle rumbled like thunder, Peter’s voice rang out loud and clear in John Darling’s head.
Peter Pan.
John stared at him through vision that was blurred by disbelief. It really was him. Older and a little rougher around the edges. But it was him, none the less. The boy who would never grow up seemed to have grown up, after all. Same blonde hair, same green eyes, but the blonde hair was darker now, and the eyes…
Well, John thought. They’re darker too.
“This is a dream,” he said aloud, finally finding the will to speak.
“No it isn’t, Johnny.”
John whirled on the female voice and found the blonde girl standing behind him. Yellow gold-spun hair, moss-green eyes, skin that seemed to shimmer in the overhead lamp light. It couldn’t be. She was supposed to be a few inches tall!
“T-Tinkerbell?” John stuttered.
“Hello, John,” Tink smiled gently then, the mischief in her wild green gaze taking a back seat to one of the more tender of the pixie’s emotions. “Missed me?”
“Nah, Tink. He didn’t miss you. In fact,” Peter spoke slowly, his words laced with deceptive nonchalance. “If I’m not mistaken…” He paused and fiddled with the black gloves he wore over his hands. John stared at him with wide eyes, struck by all of the darkness. The dark clothes and the dark gloves and the black mood.
Peter glanced up and smiled. “If I’m not mistaken,” he continued. “You’d stopped believing in Tink altogether.”
Tinkerbell reeled back from John as if struck. John blinked at her as she seemed to shimmer, fading to gray and white and back into full color over and over again.
“I-I’m sorry, Tink!”
“Really, Johnny?” Peter asked from where he still rested, disturbingly still, in the seat of his bike.
Tinkerbell shot Peter a dirty look. “Lay off, Pete. No need to sling the damage so wide. I don’t like being caught in it, you know.”
Peter shrugged and glanced at John again.
John, for his part, was torn. He looked from Peter and then to Tink and back again. There was a portion of his brain – a very large portion – that was assuring him, over and over again, and in a very loud voice, that this wasn’t happening. It promised him that none of this was real and that, despite the fact that he was not the one in his family known for possessing any imagination whatsoever, this was all most likely some very strange and cruel dream, brought on by his fight with his sister.
But the other part of his brain – the smaller, more meek part that was used to being ignored by John’s consciousness – was disagreeing.
And this time, John listened.
For, he was afraid that it was right.
With some effort, he swallowed past the dry lump that had formed in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them and everything was the same, he turned to Tinkerbell in apologetic acceptance.
“Tinkerbell, I’m very, very sorry,” he sighed. “I do believe in you.”
There was the roar of a revving engine behind John. It was loud enough that he chanced a glance over his shoulder.
Tinkerbell brushed by him and walked into the alley. He watched as she was quickly lost in the shadows and he could no longer make out her form.
“I said get on, Johnny.” Peter repeated, flashing white teeth. “We’ve got an appointment to keep.”
Chapter Five
Wendy Darling did not stir where she lay in her bed. Her hands did not clench her covers. Her eye lids did not flutter. In fact, if it weren’t for the barely perceptible movement of her chest, it would appear for all the world that the teenage girl was not even breathing.
Michael Darling stood in her doorway, watching his sister in silence. Normally, at this time in the late afternoon, the two of them would be in Carrypin park, hiding just off of the trail, Wendy telling Michael stories. Or they would be at the mall, sitting on a bench, watching everyone else go by as Wendy again told Michael stories. Or they would be sharing hot cocoa at the book store as Wendy read from the latest pages of one of her stories… His sister. The storyteller.
Not speaking. Not writing. Not telling him any stories.
Just sleeping.