Oh, the Cleverness of You

To say that it was breath-taking would be a terrible understatement and a crime against beauty. It was more than breath-taking, it was quite the opposite; to know that such a wonderful place existed, and to know that she was floating just above it, was reason enough to continue breathing. Clutching Peter’s hand, Thistle dipped down through the ambrosial air towards the water so clear, it seemed to radiate its own light. Reaching out to let her fingers skim the surface, she laughed, and even here it sounded far more melodious. It was as if the very place made everything within it far more beautiful; looking into Peter’s face, his grin curled even higher.

He tugged on her arm, pulling her back into the sky and zooming closer towards the island that rested in the center of Neverland. They flew just over treetops, their leaves soft and forgiving as they tickled Thistle’s feet and fingers. At first, all that passed under her were flashes of exotic greens and occasionally the flowering red, purple, orange, or yellow. But soon they children were weaving through small clouds of smoke, smelling sweeter than a burning cedar. Under her, the “Engines” Peter had once mentioned shielded their eyes to look up at the Green Boy and the newcomer. She giggled and waved, but just as soon as they had been seen, they were far behind the children, who swerved down towards the bay. Thistle did not have to guess where they were headed when she heard the high, female cries of “Peter? Peter! Where have you been? Will you tell us stories? Who is she? Is that the Wendy-bird?”

“Sirens,” Thistle sighed, her face twisting into an envious smile as she passed over the waving, giggling girls.

“They prefer mermaids, I think,” Peter said. “I don’t think they’ve drowned anyone in quite some time, so I reckon they’re not considered sirens.” Thistle glanced up at the boy gripping her hand, and it appeared that he had not so much as glanced down at the girls as they passed over. Thistle marveled at the island as they curved back around and through the trees, until they reached what could easily be the darkest part of the forest — there, Peter slowed to halt, and the two drifted back down to earth. Before them lay a pond, filled with brightly colored fish darting here and there. Behind them was the dense forest.

Peter turned to look at her, his brows high and his grin wide. “Now I’ve got something really neat to show you!”

Had Thistle blinked, she would have missed seeing Peter spin around and scale the tree nearest them. With a startled noise, she spun around and ran to the tree trunk’s base. Looking up, Peter’s face burst from the leaves, grinning down at her. (Though, he did seem a bit disappointed when she did not give a start.) “Come on, you get in through here,” he said impatiently, waving her up.

“Is it a tree house?” Thistle asked. A low hiss escaped her lips as the bark dug into her palms and bare feet. She finally pulled herself to the branch Peter was perched and waited expectantly.

“No,” he laughed. “We just get there from here. It’s down there,” he said, pointing to the pond now underneath them. Just as Thistle was about to question this, Peter leapt back up into the depths of the tree and out onto one of the highest limbs. Resolute, Thistle ignored the bark scratching her soft skin as she climbed after him, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. Once she reached the branch, she swallowed her immediate nerves and took Peter’s hand, who in turn pulled her only further onto the branch.

“You see that log right down there?” he asked, pointing a slender finger to the hollow piece of wood sitting upright in the center of the pond. It was about four feet wide and descended into the water’s depths, further down than Thistle could see. Looking back up into his cheerful brown eyes, she gave a slight nod, but not enough to ruin her balance.

“We’re going to jump into it!” he cried, and in that moment Thistle quickly realized that in his other hand he was holding a vine; as suddenly as she had come to this conclusion, Peter had leapt off the tree with a cry of delight, swung out on the vine, and neatly dropped into the log and vanished.

“Catch!” he laughed, his voice echoing out of the log from somewhere deep below. Only when the vine came swinging back up did she realize that he meant to catch it in order to follow him down. However, it never did reach her in the tree, and without a thought (otherwise, she noted later, she never would have had the guts to make the jump) she dove out to catch it. She didn’t even have time to scream, and she let to drop down not-so-cleanly through the tunnel and right on top of Pan.

“Peter!” she scolded as she stood up and off him. “You could have moved.”

He grinned down at her lopsidedly. “I didn’t much think of it. But if I had, you wouldn’t have had a soft landing, now would you?”

Thistle shrugged at this before turning her attention to the new adventure at hand. But instead of inspecting the interior of the place, she found herself gazing down at a smelly, dirty lot of boys quite a few heads shorter than she. They stared up at her in unabashed awe before one of them spoke.

“Is this a new girl? She doesn’t look like Wendy…”

“Doesn’t act like Wendy…”

“Doesn’t smell…”

“Well you know what boys, that just might be because she isn’t Wendy,” Peter said jokingly, but there was a slight edge to his voice.

“Is she going to be our new Mother?”

Thistle gazed down at the little one, no older than two years old. But before she could answer, Peter was already making a show of contemplating this new question. He had one hand on his hip, the other scratching at his chin, and his playful eyes momentarily narrowed in thought.

“I don’t think so, Tootles. She’s… she’s more like a Lost Girl. But we’ll see,” he added, when the boys faces fell. “Can you tell stories?”

However, Thistle’s attention was now far from Peter. Her eyes were glued to hand-drawn maps (presumably stolen from pirates because of the “X’s” that decorated them), the artifacts possible made by the Indians they had just seen, and the throne that sat at the front of the room.

“Stories? Those are for when you’re tired. Can’t we go see the island?” Thistle asked, forcing her gaze back to Peter’s. Immediately, a chorus of the smaller boy’s voices rang out within the room. Can we, Peter? Can we please?

“Sure thing! Race you guys to Hangman’s Tree!”

The boys scrambled over each other, each hollering and batting at each other for the first chance to leave the room and the head start to Hangman’s Tree. Thistle stood quite still, seeing as she did not know where Hangman’s Tree was. None noticed that she and the Green Boy had not budged.

Once the echoes faded and there was not a trace of the brothers, Peter turned around and ducked into another room. This one was a bit smaller, and when Thistle emerged from the beaded door, she found one bed, a desk, a rug, and a small nook where Tinker Bell’s light shone. Peter was already across the room, floating in what could have been an elevator shaft. But Pan has no use for an elevator. He can fly. And as soon as she drew this conclusion, Peter’s hands were gripping her own and tugging her up into the air, and out of the clubhouse. Even after Peter had graced the sun with his appearance, they continued higher and higher above the tree line, above the racing Lost Boys, until everything on that side of the mountains could be seen. Just before they stopped, Tink flew up only to be caught by Peter, and shaken over Thistle’s head. Thistle blinked the gold out of her eyelashes and rose to Peter’s level. The fairy gave a disdainful snort before turning her back to the two children.

“Where do you want to start, Just Thistle?”

Thistle bit her lip. “Could we see the mermaids again?”

His eyes lit up at the idea and he pulled her down: down towards Mermaid Lagoon.