Oh, the Cleverness of You

It had already been five minutes: she had already lasted four minutes
and forty-five seconds longer than Wendy with the mermaids. Perhaps
because they knew Peter was only a few rocks away, they did not
immediately try to drown her. He was flat on his belly, watching
Thistle’s red hair billow each time she turned to look at a new
mermaid: all were trying to talk to her, stroking her hair, and
tugging half heartedly at her hands. Unlike Wendy, she laughed and
answered all their questions happily.

“Are you staying, girl?” a blonde asked, stressing the girl.
Her coruscating tail curled up next to her as she shot Thistle a
bright smile.

“Of course she is,” Peter said calmly, but he couldn’t help but notice
his heart flip-flop. “Aren’t you, Carrot?”

She shot him a withering look. “You have no idea how much I get called that.”

“Carrot? But that’s the color of your hair!”

“Just don’t.”

“Well,” (he sat up and stared at her openly) “that’s the color of
your hair, so what else are we supposed to call you?”

The mermaids efforts to run their fingers through her hair doubled.

“It’s almost like a tiger lily…”

“Well, we can’t call her that, it would be ridiculous.”

“One of the natives here is named Tiger Lily,” a brunette explained,
turning her wide, innocent eyes to Thistle. “What about those roots you boys eat?” she asked instead, her gaze now turning to Peter after examining her hair. “The ones you pull up
around the beach.” This was met with a concert of ooh’s, ah’s, and
yes-es, that is the precise color of her hair!

“Yams? Is that what Slightly calls them?” Peter asked, sitting back on
his hands. “I think that is what he calls them.”

Thistle took a bit of her hair and pulled it under her eyes. “I’ve never really thought about it. I guess it’s the color of yams…”

“Yams it is then!” Peter laughed, floating above the rock for a moment before settling back down onto his belly.

You must try harder, Peter. She is slipping, some unseen villain crooned, his voice echoing through the lagoon: Hook. Peter’s smile vanished and he sunk back down behind the rock. But Hook was gone, he was eaten long ago by the crocodile who craved codfish.

I will never be truly gone; not even the great Pan can quell his
trepidations. What girl would ever care for you?

Peter forced his eyes to focus on the outline of the girls — the voice
was silent to them. They heard nothing but their own chatter.

A nickname? Is that the best you can do? She will leave, just like the rest, because you have nothing to give her.

It was the flash of an incandescent hand that woke Peter -- the scales wrapped around Thistle’s wrist by the time Peter had scooted over and whisked Thistle up.

“I think it may be time to get back,” he said cheerfully as if nothing had happened: --as if he wasn’t currently holding a bewildered Thistle from under her arms thirty feet above the Lagoon. “We have a powwow to go to tonight anyway. See you girls later!”

Tink flew up just as Peter was speaking, frantically dusted herself off above Thistle(anything to get his hands off her!) and the three flew off back to the hideout.



“What are these like again?”

“The Injuns or the dances?”

“You already told me about the natives--”

“Many times.”

Thistle shot him a glare. “...but what are the dances like?”

The light in Peter’s eyes glinted. “It’s wild... Yam, you’ve never seen anything like it.”

It truly was something that Thistle had never seen – the lights from the fires cavorted across the cliff, throwing shadows and distorting the Lost Boys and their leader. The group was late, but none of the natives seemed to mind. Thistle stuck close to Peter, and because of this, evaded the bitter old women collecting firewood.

She followed Peter, and ended up sitting next to a young girl on her other side.

“Tiger Lily, this is Thistle. Thistle, Tiger Lily,” Peter said , and looked as if he were to continue but a man with a large headdress called him away.

“Hi,” Thistle said, turning to the young girl with the flowered hair .

“Ohseeyo,” she replied, but seeing the other girl’s confusion she smiled. “It means hello,” she explained with a thick accent.

“Oh!” Thistle swalloed. “Well, ohseeyo.”

Tiger Lily smiled. “Yes. I like your name. It is very... musical. Like pipes.”

Thistle wrinkled her nose. “It means prickly. Like briars.”

Tiger Lily lifted her dark eyebrows and pointed toward the massive fire. Deep within, there were several of the bushes curling up in the heat. Thistle nodded. Just as she was about to ask a new, curiouser question, the large decorated man stood up across the fire. Thistle’s wide eyes landed on Peter, now with his face painted and a headdress of his own. He was frowning into the fire, and it was so uncharacteristic of him, it almost startled Thistle. However, when he noticed Thistle’s wide eyes glued to him, he shot her a wide grin. She tried to smile back, but with the fire throwing shadows, he was suddenly gaunt and withering. In the day, he would go back to normal she promised herself.

Suddenly, as if she suddenly tuned into a radio station, the powwow erupted into bellows. Thistle ‘s eyes were torn from Peter as the men jumped up, fists in the air and whooping like there was no tomorrow.

“What’s happening?” she whispered frantically to Tiger Lily.

“My father has called for the first dance,” she said with a closed smile as she, too, stood. Thistle watched as the princess skirted around the men to Peter, and stuck her tiny hand out to him. He smiled back, took her hand, and whisked her alongside the stomping natives.



Tiger Lily’s hair spun around her as it always did, but it was only the last few powwows that Peter had been able to see it. They used to be around the same height, or so he thought, but he towered over the princess now. As they spun and stomped and leapt, Peter’s eyes focused on the orange flowers woven into her hair more than the fire flickering in her eyes. Things weren’t the same as they used to be.

Even at night, he realized that the mermaids were right. The lilies in Tiger Lily’s hair were the best way to describe Thistle. The spots on the petals were the freckles dotting her shoulders -- the gleam from the dew was the shine in her hair. Even as his train of thought ran, he glanced up over Tiger Lily to the girl. She still sat where he left her, her yam hair bouncing with the rest of her body to the tremor of the drums. Peter spun Tiger Lily around just as the drums slowed, and he bowed like any English gentleman. If it wasn’t a tradition for the two to dance at every single powwow, then she would have been utterly confused at the gesture. But this time, what was more befuddling was when he bowed out of the circle and headed towards Thistle.

“May I have this dance, Yam?” he asked, extending his slim hand towards her. With Thistle’s green eye reflected in his own and the fire behind him, the gauntness was long forgotten and Thistle nodded her assent.

“I don’t know how to dance like this. I was trying to watch it and learn, but --”

“You try to learn everything. How about you just let me show you?”

Thistle nodded, letting him lead her into the beaten grass. She kept her eyes glued to her bare feet, watching as they followed Peter’s and the nebulas of dust they created. Slowly, he coaxed her to look up at him; the light in his eyes brought her to give him a small smile. Even she didn’t notice when she picked her feet up and began to truly dance -- her hair spun around her and her laugh was filled with substance.

It was different -- it was so different from dancing with Tiger Lily. Her hands felt full in his, her body tall enough for him to keep eye contact. And for some reason, when she twirled and her hair reflected the firelight, Peter lost focus stumbled on his own feet.

You know who is going to actually stay, Peter? Hook crooned, [i[ Tiger Lily is never going to leave this island. If you hadn’t gone off to watch Wendy so much, you could have been happy with her.

Peter frowned, unbeknownst to Thistle, who didn’t notice his grip tighten. Not tonight. I wouldn’t have left so much if you hadn’t gotten so loud.