The Adventures of Mary Darling, page 32
Unlike Watson, Nana was graceful in flight. As a young dog, growing up on a farm, she had sometimes leapt from the bank of the farm pond to land with a tremendous splash in the water. The leap that carried her upward was like that—but without the water and the splash. It was a leap that went on and on, carrying her upward and forward and onward to find and rescue Mary and the children. Hind legs outstretched, front paws reaching forward, she was in a classic diving pose, or as close an approximation as a large shaggy dog can manage.
George pushed off as well. Remembering the long-ago night when he had followed Peter Pan, he soared.
As Watson left the ground, he kicked his legs and waved his arms in search of something solid to grab hold of. His hand brushed a palm frond, and he almost got a grip on it. But Aribelle yanked him to one side, scolding him in a jangle of bells. “Stop that! I am taking you to Mary whether you like it or not.”
“Don’t flail about!” George shouted. “This is the best part. Just soar. Let the wind take you!”
Ruby returned to the courtyard just in time to see Nana, George, and Watson clearing the tops of the trees. “Tell Holmes!” Watson called down to her. “Tell him we’ve gone to rescue Mary.”
Chapter 36: It’s Hook or Me This Time!
The Jolly Roger was en route to Nosy Boraha, making good time. They had left Neverland late in the afternoon and had sailed all night. It was a fine sunny morning with a steady wind. The sunlight glittered on the ocean swells. Earlier, a pod of dolphins had escorted the ship, surfing in the ship’s bow wave. There were mermaids among the dolphins, but no one noticed them.
Wendy, her brothers, and all the Lost Boys were at the bow of the ship, discussing pirates and eating biscuits. They had finished breakfast two hours before, but Cookie had brought them a plate of biscuits to share. The children had decided that the pirates, particularly the cook, were misunderstood.
James had watched the cook take the plate of biscuits to the children.
“They’re a very hungry lot,” Cookie had said as he passed the captain.
James had nodded his approval, remembering how many biscuits he had eaten in his first few days on the Jolly Roger. History, he thought, does not give cooks enough credit. Frederick the Great once said that an army marches on its belly, and James agreed. But Fredrick had not commented on the ones who kept that belly fed. The cooks, James thought, are the unsung heroes of any fighting force.
“Peter told us lies about you pirates,” John confided to Cookie, as he helped himself to a biscuit from the plate.
It was at that moment that the sailor in the crow’s nest called out, “Flying boy!”
Peter Pan swooped down from the clear blue sky. He landed and posed for a moment. His head was high, as if he knew the Lost Boys were watching him with admiration. (They were not. They were munching biscuits and thinking about how nice it was to be somewhere that there were biscuits to munch.)
“Stand back, boys! Leave Hook to me!” he shouted, as if the boys were rushing to attack Captain Hook. (They were not.)
James—or Hook, if you prefer—had his left hand on his sword and his hook held ready. Unlike Peter, he did not relish this fight. All he wanted was a peaceful trip back to Nosy Boraha with the children and the treasure.
“There’s no need for us to fight,” Hook said.
“We have biscuits, Peter!” Michael called from the bow of the ship.
“Very good biscuits,” John added. “Come have some, Peter!”
“Yes, do join us, Peter!” Wendy added her voice to the others.
Peter ignored them all and drew his sword. “It’s Hook or me this time!” he shouted. He was quite determined—a bold boy who looked every inch a hero, ready to do battle with his enemy.
That was when a slender pirate in a red cap stepped between Peter and Hook.
“No!” said the red-capped pirate. “It’s not about you and Hook. It’s about you and me, Peter. It’s high time we met again.”
Peter was momentarily baffled. He didn’t recognize this pirate. “No one stands between me and Hook,” Peter said.
But Peter was wrong about that. The slender pirate met the first sweep of Peter’s sword with an elegant parry and returned a thrust that Peter barely deflected. Peter attacked again, a volley of blows intended to overwhelm his foe, but the pirate slipped aside, flowing like water, wriggling like an eel, never where Peter thought he would be.
“Stand and fight,” Peter said.
The pirate laughed. “Fight like a man? Is that what you mean to say? I fight like a boy. I learned by watching you.”
Peter shook his head, refusing to acknowledge the pirate’s words. Could this be a Lost Boy, returned to taunt him for some forgotten reason? There had been so many Lost Boys, each one with him for a time and then forgotten.
Peter advanced again, slowly this time, a contrast to his earlier impetuous charge. He was testing his opponent and playing to his audience. For a time, the attention of the onlookers had shifted to this interloper and Peter did not like that. He grinned more broadly each time the pirate met his blow and stepped back.
Then the red-capped pirate attacked for the first time, with a whirlwind of blows and spins and leaps almost as flashy as Peter’s own, though perhaps the comparison is a bit unfair. The pirate was bound by gravity, whereas Peter was often in flight.
The pirate drove Peter back, as quick as the boy—but having the advantage of longer arms and legs. Whenever Peter’s feet left the deck to fly, the pirate’s blade flashed over the boy’s head, driving him down.
Peter’s blade slashed at the pirate’s head, looking certain to connect. But no—the pirate ducked. The blade caught the red cap. A flash of red—not blood, just the cap—flew from the pirate’s head, releasing a tumble of curly hair.
Even as she ducked, Mary Darling’s blade flashed toward Peter, catching his sword and flicking it away to follow her cap. As quick as her flashing blade, she closed the gap between them, dropping the sword and grabbing him by the ear.
Yes! She grabbed him by the ear, as if he were a wayward child rather than a hero, a magical being, a god. In her left hand, she held a dagger at the ready.
“You will kill me now,” Peter said, bearing the pain of his twisted ear. “Do it, then! To die will be an awfully big adventure.”
Mary stared at the boy, frozen. She had imagined this fight many times. But now what? Her imagination had never taken her this far. Kill him? No, she couldn’t do that.
He was just a little boy. Yes, he was a supernatural creature—a god or spirit of some sort. But he was also a little boy—self-absorbed as children are. She had been angry with him for so long, resenting and at the same time envying his brash confidence, his freedom, and his certainty that the world revolved around him. Gazing at Peter’s face, she knew she would never get satisfaction from this child. He was what he was: innocent and heartless and eternally young.
Over the course of the long trip from London to Neverland, her anger had cooled. Memories of her time on Neverland had shifted and mellowed. She knew that she would not be the woman she was if she had not spent time on Neverland.
She had a grip on his ear, but now what could she do?
Then Watson arrived, landing on the deck with a thump, followed by George and Nana. Watson and George took in the scene on the deck, trying to make sense of it all: a hook-handed pirate, a villainous crew, and a band of ragged children. In the middle of it all, Mary Darling, dressed in men’s clothing and wielding a dagger, gripped a grubby boy by the ear.
Fortunately, Nana knew exactly what to do.
Dogs are not bound by the social rules that people follow. Nana was very much a nursemaid but also very much a dog. She leapt forward and knocked Peter over, yanking his ear from Mary’s grasp. With two large paws on his chest, she held him down and bathed him, washing his face with a large tongue as if he were a misbehaving puppy. His face really did need washing and Nana was just the dog to do it.
It is difficult to look heroic in a situation like that. At best, you can look stoic, but that really wasn’t in Peter’s nature. He squirmed, trying to get away. He made faces. Peter turned his head to escape Nana’s determined tongue, but that only served to give the big dog access to his ear, which she bathed with enthusiasm.
Mary laughed. If that weren’t bad enough for Peter, the children all laughed, too. Wendy, John, and Michael had all been bathed by Nana at one time or another. Watching as this magical boy was subjected to that same treatment was strangely satisfying.
“I have beaten you, Peter Pan,” Mary said in a ringing voice. The occasion seemed to call for a speech of some sort. “I have beaten you in a fair fight. Fly away now, and leave me and my children be.”
George clapped his hands and shouted, “Hear! Hear!” Wendy cheered and the other children joined in. It had been a splendid fight.
James sheathed his weapon and picked up Peter’s sword, removing the danger that the boy might reclaim it. Then the pirate captain made a speech about fighting fair and about the heroism of mothers and a great deal more. It was a fine speech, though perhaps a bit long. James was a good speaker—he had a deep voice and perfect diction. Everyone cheered again when he was done.
Everyone except Peter. Listening to James, Nana sat back on her haunches, releasing the boy. He sat up, his face red and wet with dog spit and perhaps tears. He did not look like a hero or a god. Rather, he looked like a child who had been weeping in a passion because he had not gotten his way.
Peter leapt to his feet, doing his best to recover his poise. James had finished his speech. Watson and George had rushed to Mary, standing on either side of her protectively.
“Foul pirate!” Peter said. “Prepare to fight.”
“Oh, stop it, Peter!” Mary said in exasperation. “Just stop it!”
She felt sorry for him, but not so sorry that she would put up with his nonsense. In her mind, he had changed from a dangerous opponent to a willful and spoiled child. In fact, he was both and had always been both.
“If you keep this up, I’ll put you to bed without any supper,” she went on, taking a step toward the boy.
Peter did what any child wishes they could do when catching the wrong end of a mother’s temper. He flew away.
Wendy, John, and Michael ran to Nana and hugged the big dog. George went to Mary. She caught a glimpse of his face before he swept her into an embrace. He was smiling, but his eyes were wet with tears. “You are magnificent,” he murmured into her ear.
Then the children ran to George, pulling him away from Mary for a cacophonous reunion. All three talked at once about their adventures.
While the children mobbed their father, Watson put his arm around his niece’s shoulders. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.
I wish I could say Watson’s tone was one of admiration. Maybe there was a touch of awe, but the overwhelming tone was that of confusion.
Mary smiled at him. “I could equally well ask you where you learned to fly like that, Uncle John.”
“One does what one has to do,” Watson murmured.
“Exactly so,” Mary said. “Exactly so.”
It wasn’t until that evening, when the children were sleeping under Nana’s watchful eye that George and Mary had a moment to themselves. They stood by the rail, watching the moon on the water.
“I was astonished when I saw you and my uncle,” she murmured. She turned and studied his face. “You came to rescue me. That was very brave of you.”
“I had to come. Even though I am no good at this sort of thing.” He did not look at her. “You were doing very well on your own, but I had to come.”
“I’m glad you did,” Mary said.
George kept his eyes on the ocean swells. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep you at home. I’m sorry. I . . .”
“You wanted to protect me,” Mary said. “I know that.” She leaned against him and put her head on his shoulder. He held her close, comforted and comforting.
When the mermaids came to swim alongside the ship, George interrupted their song. “Push off and leave us alone,” he said rudely. “You’re not wanted here.”
The next day, George made a point of thanking Captain Hook for helping his wife. James accepted the thanks graciously and made it quite clear that he and Mary were good friends, nothing more. Somehow, during the course of that discussion, the two men discovered that they had both been called Tootles by Peter Pan, and they bonded over that shared history.
“I hated it,” James said.
“As did I,” George agreed. “Peter would not use my name, no matter how often I told him. So of course all the other boys called me Tootles.”
“But look at us now,” James said, smiling. “I am a pirate captain. You have a marvelous wife and three brave children. And Peter has fled to Neverland.”
George nodded, suddenly proud to have shared a name with the man who became Captain Hook. Perhaps being Tootles was not so shameful after all.
Nearby, the Lost Boy who had most recently been dubbed Tootles by Peter Pan overheard the two men talking. Like James and George, Oliver had hated being called Tootles. Such a foolish name, he had thought, a name for a clown or a fool. But now he smiled, knowing that he was in illustrious company.
Chapter 37: Some Choose to See a Greater World
When last we saw Sherlock Holmes, he was at the Dirk and Cutlass with Sam and Tom. He had interviewed Tom at length. Tom believed in fairies and Peter Pan. He talked of buried treasure and of how his wicked sister had run off with Captain Hook, leaving him behind. His conversation was a rich mix of fairy tales and grievances.
Watson and George had not returned by nightfall, but Holmes had not been troubled by their absence. Rumbold had assured him that Ruby would take very good care of them. “She is, after all, in the business of hospitality,” Rumbold said, managing to deliver this line without a trace of a leer.
Holmes woke early, anticipating that Watson might have returned with news. But Watson and George were not there. He met Rumbold and Sam, who were having breakfast. At that moment, a young woman stepped into the Dirk and Cutlass. “I have a note from Ruby for Mr. Holmes,” she told Slash. The message was simple:
Dear Mr. Holmes,
Not long after you left last night, Dr. Watson and Mr. Darling met a fairy in the garden and flew away with her. Dr. Watson asked me to tell you that he and Mr. Darling had gone to rescue Mary.
Regards,
Ruby
Holmes went to Ruby’s with Rumbold and Sam in tow. Ruby repeated what she had written in her note. Holmes questioned her and she stuck to her story. Then Holmes proceeded to conduct an extensive investigation in Ruby’s courtyard, examining the ground for footprints while Ruby looked on with great interest.
Best to leave Holmes to his work. He will be busy for some time, searching for clues that would lead to an explanation that do not involve impossible fairy tales.
The next day, Lady Hawkins’ steam yacht set anchor in the harbor at Nosy Boraha. When the Jolly Roger returned to port, Lady Hawkins took photographs of the ship’s return using Lord Hawkins’ camera.
In the first photograph, you can see a cluster of people on the deck, blurry in the distance. They are clearer in the second photograph. Mary and her children are waving. Watson and George Darling stand behind the group. Watson is smiling. George has lifted one hand in a tentative wave; the other rests on Mary’s shoulder, as if he wants to make sure she is still there. Nana is beside them, grinning as only a happy dog can grin. On the other side of Nana are the Lost Boys. Nana had taken charge of them, and their faces were clean as a dog could make them.
Having spotted the ship from the Dirk and Cutlass, Sam, Holmes, and Rumbold hurried to the dock to meet their friends. It was a triumphant return.
Watson greeted Holmes with enthusiasm, shouting joyfully, “Holmes! We’ve done it!” In response, Holmes managed a thin smile and tolerated Watson’s boisterous embrace.
James was delighted to see Rumbold after his long absence.
Saro rowed Lady Hawkins to the dock, where she greeted Mary like a long-lost daughter. Wendy, John, and Michael cheered for Lady Hawkins—or perhaps for the memory of biscuits aboard her yacht.
That evening, at an impromptu celebration at Ruby’s, the returning adventurers told their tales. James recounted the efforts to find the island of Neverland. Watson told of how he and George and Nana had flown to the Jolly Roger. George described the battle between Mary and Peter, detailing every leap and flourish with great enthusiasm.
Mary smiled but said little. Ruby had provided her with a bath and clean clothes. Dressed as a lady once again, she was content to sit back and listen to the others hold forth. (She had already made plans with Ruby and Lady Hawkins to breakfast together so that she might share her version of the tale with them.)
At some point, Tom joined them, entering into the party as if he had been there all along. (Within the week, he was telling the tale as if he had.) A little later, Mary noticed that James and Rumbold had quietly slipped away together.
“Perhaps we should put the children to bed,” George said softly to Mary. Michael had already fallen asleep on Mary’s lap. Wendy, who had begged to stay up for the party, was rubbing her eyes and John was yawning. All the Lost Boys were slumping in their chairs.
