Wendy

Wendy paused in the midst of her evening chores, huddling for a moment on the front steps of her house. Her back ached and her fingers were rubbed raw from the laundry she had just finished. The hems of all her clothes had been full of mud gathered from walking down soggy streets and, no matter how hard she scrubbed, the mud just wouldn’t wash away, but remained as cold, brown splotches on her best dresses.


She stared listlessly down the front walk, tracing the angry cracks in the old cement with tired eyes. She knew she ought to get back to work. She still had to clean the nursery and play with her younger brothers, John and Michael. She hated doing that the most--acting happy and laughing when all she felt like doing was collapsing into bed and sleeping forever.


A car rumbled by on the road, kicking out a rock that slammed against the iron fence. Wendy equally hated and loved that fence. Its narrow-set poles and the sharp pikes at the top held out the cruel world. It kept out the snapping dogs and irritable neighbors. It also managed to keep out the morning newspaper full of dreary news until she felt strong enough to fetch it herself. Yet, those same sharp pikes kept her trapped inside, kept her from something she could not see, but could feel sometimes when she stood back and watched other girls her age parade down the sidewalk, talking and giggling. These iron posts separated her from something she could not put name to.


Sighing, she shook herself out of her reverie. There was still so much to do. So much work for her tired hands to complete, bubbly laughter to whip up for her little brothers, words of contentment to dream up to please her parents.
She forced her creaking knees to bend and support her weight again, and so she continued out her duties.


That night, when the chores were finished, the family dinner played out and acted appropriately, and her brothers sleeping heavily in their beds, tired out from their play, Wendy curled up under her blanket, worn thin from years of tear and patching. She was exhausted, but she lay awake for hours, fighting away certain thoughts and wearily accepting others until she fell finally into a fitful sleep.


She was awoken sharply in the middle of the night, at an hour when the weak gaslight lamps from the street just barely shone through a thick layer of frost on the window and when the moon and stars were covered up by a heavy barrier of storm clouds. The icy winds whistled and hissed over the roof. Certain that this is what woke her, Wendy rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.


But a solid thud startled her so badly she fell out of bed in shock.
The window creaked open and a dark shape floated into the nursery, stepping down onto the rug like a phantom.
Wendy could not believe what she was seeing. There on the carpet stood a young boy. He was small, with tiny hands and little, dirty feet. His hair was bleached pale in the faint light.

After a moment, he caught sight of Wendy on the floor. “Have you seen my shadow?” he asked her.


Mutely, she shook her head.


He shrugged. “That’s okay. I mean, it’s not like I need it anyway, right? It just tags along, not of any help at all. I’ll be alright without it, won’t I.” It wasn’t a question, but more like a statement of a well-known fact. “What are you doing on the floor?” He asked of Wendy.


“I-I fell,” she stammered.


“Out of bed?” he asked, concerned. “That’s not good at all, is it. Not very healthy. You’ll catch a chill, won’t you, laying there like that. Why don’t you get up?”


Wendy blinked, confused, and hurried to check that her nightgown hung straight. “Because I haven’t had the chance to.”


The strange boy grinned. “So you’re telling me that after falling so far down, you can just bound right up again and carry on as if nothing has happened? Ha. That’s silly.” He started forward and held out a hand for Wendy to take. “You need some help, don’t you.”


Wendy shook her head, offended. “I can do it myself. I’m fine!”


Peter shrugged. “Whatever you say. You know best, right?” In the strange dimness of the room, Wendy saw him roll his eyes. “People always think they know everything. They think they can do it all themselves. I think that’s silly.” Peter’s eyes snapped to her, watching as she gathered her feet up under her and stood on shaking knees.
“Have you seen my fairy?” Peter asked abruptly.


“Fairy?” Wendy repeated blankly.


“Yes. She’s about yea high...” Peter held his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.


Wordlessly, Wendy shook her head.


“Shame,” Peter sighed. “You look like you need such a heavy dose of dust, too.”


“Dust?”


A bright grin spread across the boy’s features. “Why, of course! How else are you gonna get to Never Land? We gotta fly to the Second Star To The Right, Wendy. There’s no other way.”


Sudden anger broiled in Wendy’s chest and sung through her veins. “And what makes you so certain I’m going anywhere?” she snapped.


“Because everyone wants to go to Never Land.” Peter said, as it if were the most obvious thing. “There’s pirates and Indians and mermaids and--”


“I don’t care,” Wendy said, curtly. She folded her arms across her chest and sat firmly back on her bed. She was almost certain she was dreaming. What a stupid dream, too.


Peter blinked, but he was only dazed for a moment. “There are roses and stars and giggling brooks, too, you know. And we play games all day long.”


But Wendy was so sick of games. It seemed every waking moment was a game to her. Every day, she moved her piece a bit, only to have it shoved back again. Every day, she rolled the die and came up short. Every day, she played her best and gave her all, but she never won.


Peter saw exhaustion fall like a black veil over her eyes. “You can sleep as much as you like, too,” he told her cleverly, for once a person arrives in Never Land, they never want to sleep. 


Wendy’s expression cleared. “Sleep?” she repeated.


“For eternity,” came Peter’s solemn answer, no louder than dry leaves rasping in a cold winter wind.
He held out his hand to her. “C’mon, I’ll carry you.”

Hesitating for only a moment, Wendy reached out and grasped Peter’s outstretched hand.


“And away we go,” he whispered with a kind smile.


And away they went. Beyond heavy clouds and icy drizzle, beyond choking fumes of the gaslights, beyond the iron fence with all its spikes. Watching all this fade away behind her, Wendy felt the first pang of fear. This was all so utterly absurd. So terrifying. She was a fool to make such a decision. What if she should fall? There would be no one there to catch her.
Looking around, her eyes fell on Peter and his upturned face. A sudden peace spread through her heart, and her reservations spilled out in one great sigh.


Floating past glinting silver stars, smoldering red planets, and swirls of purples and blues and greens, it seemed no time at all and they’d arrived.


Never Land.


The island was warm and humid, and Wendy felt the soothing heat seep into her stiff joints and aching bones, relieving the tension in her muscles. Everything was green. Trees, shrubs, vines, and grass all spilled over one another in such astounding abundance, giving sweet contrast to the multitude of color. Materializing in front of her eyes was every shade of every color Wendy had ever known, and even some she hadn’t. Flowers and insects floated and fluttered everywhere she looked, in every shape imaginable. Birds trilled from the gently waving treetops. Tigers and lambs tumbled playfully in the emerald meadows.

Wendy watched all of this, a ghost of a smile on her face. She watched Peter, and a yellow butterfly lit upon a strand of his curly, sunlit hair. As he turned to look at her, she noticed that his eyes matched the wings of the butterfly, gold as the impassioned dawn. His smile was bright. She almost found herself smiling back.

“What do you want to do first?” Peter asked her, gesturing to the wide, strange expanse of color before them.

Wendy didn’t know. This place was completely beyond her understanding. Lost, she shrugged and simply told the truth.

“Why!” Peter gasped. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know! Haven’t you ever been here before?”

Wendy shook her head, getting the feeling that she should be embarrassed and ashamed.
Peter studied her quietly for a moment, but Wendy could not stand the pity she was certain swarmed just beneath the surface of his gaze. “What do you want to do?”

He thought for a moment. “Swim with the mermaids?”

Something jumped at the base of Wendy’s throat and, for a moment, she felt lighter than air. “Oh! Yes!” Her voice had a strange timbre to it that she couldn’t understand.

He took her hand and led her through Never Land, passing creatures and plants of such variety, Wendy’s head began to spin.

Finally, they arrived at the Mermaid’s Lagoon. The pool was perfectly round, as if carefully hand-carved, and was completely surrounded by fluttering yellow lilies. A splashing waterfall at the far end of the pool let loose a laughing song that set Wendy’s blood afire. The water itself had a violet sheen reminiscent of the shimmer of bubble solution.

Wendy gasped and ducked as Peter took a running jump and landed in the water with a deafening ker-plosh! Spluttering and laughing, he surfaced, throwing water out of his eyes.

“C’mon, Wendy!” he called.

Wendy obeyed quickly. She so wanted to feel the soothing relief of that oddly purple water against her skin.

Peter and Wendy splashed about and laughed for a good long while. Wendy felt her heart soar.

After awhile, the mermaids heard the sounds of healthy children’s laughter and came out of their underwater cave to investigate, not wanting to be left out of the fun.

The mermaids were of many different colors. Some had yellow tails and some had green tails. Some were blonde, some were red-haired. Some had skin pale as porcelain, while others were as dark as black coffee. But all were beautiful, unearthly so, with their full lips and dancing eyes and little noses so carefully turned up at the tip.

Wendy’s heart sank lower than her stomach, and in its place grew the strangest ache. Watching these beautiful creatures splashing happily with young Peter, she felt her joy fade away and die. Crushed, she hauled herself out of the scented water and sat at the edge of the pool, staring at her wavering reflection in the water.

She had such a plain face. Her hair was matted and bland. There were dark shadows under her eyes from countless sleepless nights. Bruises and slashes adorned her arms and legs from slip-ups in her chores. She didn’t mind these so much; they held an inexplicable power in themselves. But overall, she hated what she saw. Furious, she picked up a rock the size of her fist from the bank next to her and let it fall with a satisfying plunk right through her face.

“What was that for?” Peter’s voice made Wendy jump. He was hanging onto the pool-side, his head cocked back, staring up at her in confusion.

Wendy did not know how to answer his question.

Peter didn’t seem to expect an answer. Instead, he whispered faintly. “I think you’re beautiful.”

That simple sentence caused something to twist in her heart. She couldn’t put a name to it.

Peter smiled his innocent little boy’s smile and answered her unspoken thought. “Unbounded joy, Wendy. You’ll get used to it.” He hauled himself out of the water. “Come on, it’s time to go back to the tree house, anyway. The boys will be wondering where I am.”

“Boys?” Wendy asked, standing and following him through the trees.

“The Lost Boys.” Peter answered.

“Why are they called the ‘Lost’ Boys?” Wendy asked, curious.

“Because when I came across them one by one so many years ago, each were lost within themselves. They had no hopes, no dreams, and if they did, they did not expect them to come true. Harsh reality had gotten to them, you see. And they’d completely given up.”

“Are they better now?”

“Oh! Yes!” Peter said, eagerly. “Of course, there’s nothing a bit of honest laughter and natural beauty can’t fix!” He made a wide gesture with his arm that seemed to encompass Never Land itself, with all its singing trees and flowers.

The tree house where Peter and the Lost Boys lived was just that: a house within a tree. The trunk of a tree, to be exact. The house extended underground, safe within the caresses of the strong roots, and grew up into branches lit by burning lanterns that smelled of sea salt and sweet grass.

Peter and Wendy discovered the Lost Boys in the main room under the ground. They all jumped for joy at seeing Wendy, for it wasn’t often Peter brought home someone new.

To celebrate, the boys insisted on playing a game, to which Wendy forced herself to play along. But as the play-acting wore on, she felt her frozen smile become more and more uncomfortable and it seemed to tire her out faster than ever. Calling it quits early, she left the boys amidst groans and pleading for “just one more minute!”

Wendy thought that one more second would have caused her to snap. She so hated playing games.

Instead of going to sleep, though, Wendy climbed the carved wooden stairs that led up the tree trunk and perched herself on one of the branches overlooking the island.

The simple beauty of the broad, unprotected island still overwhelmed her, and she thought that in having to return home against to that dreary, cold house inside that picket fence, her newly swollen heart would break.

“Wendy?” Peter’s voice echoed behind her. He came to sit beside her on the branch. It swayed gently in the warm evening breeze. Wendy clutched tightly at the living wood, afraid she’d fall.

“It’s awfully pretty, isn’t it?” Peter murmured after a minute or two of silence.

Wendy looked to see what he was talking about. His head was craned backwards, his sweet face open to the star-studded sky.

Wendy hadn’t seen the stars in years, it seemed, and the sudden presence of so many almost frightened her.

Peter added, “What’s so neat about the night sky is the things a body doesn’t normally think about. You know, most people comment on the stars and moon. But that’s so bland. If you had a chunk of black with a bunch of holes stuck in it, well, that wouldn’t be much to boast about, would it? Nah. It’s the swirls and dust that make it pretty. The little imperfections that aren’t imperfections at all. That’s what makes the night sky worth looking at.” Peter smiled and his teeth flashed in the ivory light.

Wendy thought she knew what he was talking about, and she agreed, not only in words, but in her heart as well.

The next morning, Peter told Wendy that he was going to teach her to fly. Tinkerbell was still nowhere to be found, but after a moment’s thought, Peter thought that maybe that didn’t matter so much. “Faith, trust, and dust, Wendy,” Peter said, smiling.

“Where are we going to find the dust, then?” she asked, confused.

Peter tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “The night sky, Wendy. It has dust, do you remember? Those pretty swirls of purple and silver?”

Wendy remembered. “But how do we get it?”

“Get it?” Peter repeated, astonished. “You’ve already got it, silly!”

“I do?”

“’Course you do! You saw it yesterday, in your reflection at the mermaid’s lagoon. It made you upset, though I can’t fathom why.”

“My ugliness,” Wendy stated, bitterness rising like bile in her throat.

Peter made a face. “No! You and the night sky have something in common, Wendy. Dust! Swirls and swirls of purple and silver spinning circles around the plain little stars and moon.”

All day, Wendy thought through this. There were moments that she thought she understood, but before she could be certain, it slipped away again. What had Peter called that dust? He had a special word for it. Something that made the night sky unique in all the world.

Imperfections. That was the word. Peter called the dust imperfection. It was imperfection that made the night sky worth looking at. In the refection at the pool, all Wendy saw were her own imperfections. Was that her dust? Her imperfections?

When she asked Peter about it later that night, he crowed with delight. “Yes, Wendy, yes!” He laughed. “Learn to love your imperfections, Wendy. It’ll help you fly. Accept your dust, and with a little faith and trust, you’ll fly like me!”

Wendy tried. She spent long hours in front of that pool, day after day, but each time she thought she was making progress, she caught glimpses of the perfectly beautiful mermaids and her joy would slip away like water down a drain.

Meanwhile, she played more and more with Peter and the Lost Boys. She grew to love them, too; those crazy little kids who only wanted to have fun. Nibs, the oldest Lost Boy, once tried to convince her to swing across an alligator infested swamp on a vine. “C’mon, Wendy,” he said, a bright smile in his eyes. “Peter’s waitin’ on the other side. Just swing. Close your eyes and jump!”

And she did. And she made it. For a moment, she felt lighter than air.

In one game, Peter took Wendy to meet the Indians that lived on the other end of Never Land. It was a game of Capture The Thief, and Tootles was playing the Thief. Peter was the head of the police squad, and he decided to visit the Indians, to enlist the help of their best trackers to find the elusive Lost Boy.

At the Indian camp, Wendy crossed the path of an old man sitting cross-legged outside his teepee. He looked up at her with eyes gone milky with near-blindness, and seemed to stare straight through her. The tall feather in his hair trembled as he shook his head. Then he leaned forward, pressing his palms together. “Some things just don’t matter,” he whispered to her in a rumbling voice.

Wendy froze, staring down at him with something resembling fear fluttering in her stomach. “What?” she breathed.

“The bug does not condemn himself for being small. The eel does not condemn himself for being slippery, nor does the wolf condemn herself for taking lives. They know who they are, and they know nothing else. They just are. They don’t double-check themselves to see how they are reflecting in others’ eyes. Therefore, they remain content…and no one is any the wiser.”

Wendy hesitated. He was the wise man of the tribe. but there were some things he just couldn’t understand. “What if who you are is shameful?” she blurted before she could stop herself. “What if who you are isn’t who you ought to be?”

The wise man simply looked at her with those patient eyes. “No one else can say who you ought to be. Only you can do that. Because if you whittle yourself down to fit someone else’s mold, what will you have left to build yourself back up with again? The pieces of you that you are ashamed of only seem bad because you think that no one else is burdened with them. But everyone has a dark side. Most simply choose not to make friends with it. Do not be ashamed of yourself. Revel in who you are, and everyone else will celebrate with you.” The lines in the old man’s face lifted and sharpened as he smiled. “But only you can take that first step.” The man nodded once, pushed himself to his feet, and retreated into the dark recesses beyond the buckskin flap of his teepee.

Wendy shook herself and ran on, suddenly anxious to catch up with Peter again.

Yes, the rough-and-tumble group did have fun exploring and having exciting adventures. But all fun comes to an end. For everything that has a beginning must have an end. For that is the natural order of things.

One day, Peter took Wendy to see the Pirate Ship anchored in the Cove. He pointed out the captain: Captain Hook. Peter explained how Hook was the most feared of all villains. He was a miserable man, so cold and angry that no one wanted to be near him. When he got angry, he lashed out at who ever happened to be nearby. People died or faced cutting words.
But Peter also told of how he felt deeply sorry of Hook.

“How come you feel bad for someone so hateful?” Wendy asked, confused.

Peter studied her with gold eyes turned dark with intensity. “He has never stopped to watch the butterflies.”

Peter also told of the nasty crocodile who chased after Hook with an unnatural hunger. “He loves the taste of Hook, the bitter sour taste. He got a nip of him a while back, now he’s got the taste and can’t leave him alone. He finds pleasure in misery and would rather swallow that than a sweet fruit. He’s always hungering after him, wanting more, more, more. It’s the saddest thing ever. The croc is never satisfied.”

“Why does he like Hook so?” Wendy asked.

Peter answered, “Maybe he feels he deserves it.”

It was only a few days afterward when Wendy went to her usual perch at the Mermaid’s Lagoon. She was watching with petty eyes the mermaids comb out their beautiful hair, her ears straining to hear the song that wove harmoniously with the sweet sound of the waterfall, when a stark black shadow fell over her from behind. Before she could turn to look, a rough, smelly handkerchief was pressed to her mouth.

“Peter’s little Wendy,” a sneering voice hissed into her ear. “Thinks herself all high and mighty just because she’s made it to Never Land.” Hook hauled her to her feet and shoved her at to one of his thugs. “Listen, girly,” he said, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look into his cold eyes. “Peter lies. Never Land lies. Because with every butterfly, there’s a killing frost.” He dropped her chin and shouted at his men to follow.

When they’d arrived at the pirate ship, Hook thrust Wendy against the main mast, binding her there with several yards of thick, yellow rope.

It wasn’t long before Peter showed, his Lost Boys in tow. There was not much Peter didn’t know in Never Land.

“Today you die, Hook!” brave Peter shouted, brandishing his knife. He came at the furious pirate, crowing his war cry.

“Stupid boy!” The captain snarled, bringing his sword up to meet the knife. The evil weapon dwarfed the innocent little blade in Peter’s hand.

From her place against the wooden mast, Wendy could not see how Peter had any chance. He was a little boy! A naïve little boy with sweet golden curls and a grin to melt any heart...up against a cold, dark man thirsting only for blood.

“Useless boy!” Hook hissed as Peter flew over him to attack from behind. He barely got his sword up in time to stop Peter from cutting through his elegant, gold-trimmed coat. “You are a lie,” Hook told the young boy. “You dart around giving laughter and joy, but what do you do for those who could use it most? What do you do for them?”

Peter’s eyes met Wendy’s for a moment. “I give them the world,” Peter said, arrogantly.

Hook let out a harsh burst of laughter. “Ha!” His voice turned black, oily-smooth. “I hate you.”

Peter grimaced and darted around him, barely missing the deadly cut of Hook’s sword. He made it to Wendy’s side, sawed his knife through the rope binding her, then turned and soared to the other end of the ship, leaving Hook to stumble after him, cursing and snarling in frustration.

Wendy pushed the rope away, struggling through the remaining tangles, and ran up the deck to watch the fight. Worry bit at her. What if Peter should fall?

The thought was a curse destined to descend.

With a burst of laughter, Hook spotted a hole in Peter’s defenses. He struck, and red blood spilled down Peter’s side. The boy let out a cry.

All activity on the ship skidded to a screeching halt.

Peter fell to one knee, one hand pressed to his ribs. His back bowed under the pain, exposing his pale neck to Hook.

Hook didn’t take the opportunity. Instead, he pulled his boot back and let it fly into Peter’s stomach, chest...head. Peter lie still.

No. No, no, no! Wendy thought, her eyes on the motionless figure lying on the deck. What does this mean? Peter is gone. Does that mean the good is gone, too? Does that mean nothing will ever change? Wendy so wanted everything to change. She wanted to be proven wrong, that good can overcome evil.

After a moment of stunned silence, Hook crowed. “I’ve done it! I’ve won!” He laughed a heartless laugh. “Pan is dead!”

As Wendy stared at the motionless figure lying prone on the hot wooden deck, the words of the wise man came to her: “But only you can take that first step.” Then, Nibs’: “Just swing! Close your eyes and jump!” Fire built in Wendy’s heart. She was going to do this. She had to.

Wendy snatched an abandoned sword off the floor and engaged Hook, bringing the weapon up against the hateful man with all she was worth. But it was not enough. Hook was too strong. The harder Wendy tried, the worse off she became.

She could not understand how a man so ugly could win such a battle of good versus evil. Wasn’t good supposed to come out on top? She trusted Peter in this teaching. Laughter always beat tears. She firmly believed that. Her time in Never Land confirmed it. Did this mean that Wendy was the evil? No. She had faith in herself, certain that she was the good light in this situation. It most definitely was not Hook.

Trust, faith...

Dust.

I’m not perfect, Wendy thought desperately. I lash out at those I am close to. I am a creature living inside a mask who dwells only under clouds. I am not beautiful. But these are my dust. These make me who I am. And these can be changed. My imperfections make me worth looking at, worth getting to know. Those mermaids are exactly as they seem, perfect and empty, like the stars. I am not soulless, like the stars and moon and mermaids. I am me.

“Why do you do this, Hook?” Wendy shouted over the crashing of metal on metal. “Why do you hate those around you?”

Hook’s eyes hardened and he struck a blow which Wendy barely deflected.

“Why are you so angry with those trying to help you? Why are you so cruel?”

Hook’s eyes flashed red with bloodlust, red like the setting sun.

“You’re not angry at the world. You’re angry at yourself!” This Wendy understood with a sudden flash. “Why are you so angry with yourself?”

Hook’s lip trembled as he struggled to deflect a strong advance by Wendy.

“You’re angry for being weak!” She could see it in his eyes. And she could remember the same in herself before coming to Never Land.

“You think you’re weak because you’re afraid! The world’s slipping by without you. You feel helpless, lost, don’t you? Don’t you? You’re afraid no one likes you. Your fear makes you angry and your anger makes people hate you. You push people away. But only you can stop that. No one can do it for you! You have a choice: change yourself or leave Never Land forever. Your anger is not helping you here.”

Wendy struck a last blow. Witnesses from the sidelines swear to this day that Hook did not bother to even raise his sword in defense.

Hook fell.

Wendy dropped her sword and fought back tears. Tears of joy at her enemy fallen, tears of alarm at having killed a man, and tears of fear at the unknown ahead of her.

Blinking quickly, she turned to the crowd of Lost Boy’s that stood huddled around Peter. A small groan emanated from his small body. He was still alive.

“Come on, boys,” Wendy told the overjoyed kids. “Let’s get him home.”

Days later, Peter left Wendy standing strong in the middle of her nursery, amidst familiar childhood toys and the light presence of her younger brothers, still sound asleep.

In the time she had gone, the storm outside had cleared, revealing not just stars, but dust too.

At the crack of dawn the next day, Wendy flew down the stairs and out the front door. There, on a spike of the iron fence, sat a butterfly, it’s wings fluttering gently.

Her heart singing in her chest, she slid aside the latch.

The gate swung open.