Oh, the Cleverness of You

Thistle’s hair was quite a bit longer. If she bothered to count the rising and setting suns, it would show that more than a few of them had passed. But the moon did not wax or wane, and no one grew any older. What did grow was the curtain that was pooled around the girl. Her slim fingers were wrapped around the tiny shell needle that Tink gave her, an carefully, she strung the crisp leaves. This would eventually divide Peter’s room in two; even though sleeping on a mat away from Peter’s didn’t bother the girl, he became finicky. And so he searched for the pretty leaves — the fluorescent green ones that glittered when under the sun. Tink spun the spiderweb thread and Thistle carefully threaded them — and tried not to grow too frustrated when they ripped. This was fairies’ work: her fingers were much too large and fumbling. However, Tink would not bother herself with the favor. She only sat with Thistle because Peter asked her so kindly.

Though all of the island had been seen, Thistle was far from bored. Just yesterday, she, Peter, and Tink had taken a trip to the outermost sandbars. Peter was quiet but he showed her the beached ship, explaining that back when he still had his baby teeth, he finally killed Hook and drove off the crew. Of course the wood couldn’t rot, but other elements were beginning to tear the ship apart. From a distance, she could have sworn that she saw a great purple octopus toying with the shredded mast. Sadly, though, Tink hadn’t been very generous today and Thistle’s toes sank onto the hot sand, followed closely red curls settling around her shoulders once more. She stood before the enormous overturned ship; without the dust, she had to climb the vertical deck to keep up with her friends. The splintered wood dug painfully into her hands and feet. Had it been last month, or whenever she had first arrived, she may have sat this adventure out. But her skin toughened, and she didn’t notice the scraped as she scrambled up the bow.

Peter sat perched on the huge wooden wheel, mindlessly rocking it back and forth with his weight.

“Are you okay, boy?” Thistle asked as she sat on the stump of the mast, one leg dangling across each side and leaning back on her palms.

“’Course I am, girl,” Peter replied with a smirk. “It’s just been a long… time?” His brows crinkled together just as they always did when the idea of change came to his mind. “I was a lot smaller… but it doesn’t matter.” His cheeks turned a bit pink. As if to change the subject, he snatched Tinker Bell out of the air and flew over Thistle so she could fly as well.

“It was right over here that I sent Hook plummeting,” he said, his grin spreading at the memory. His empty fist flew through the air to depict the sword fight. He laughed and crowed as he danced across the air with an imaginary adversary. It was as if the mercurial adolescent had been swept away with the wind, leaving behind the Green Boy Thistle had followed to Neverland.

“We were at the bow of the ship, at the edge of the railing,” Peter called back to Thistle, still reenacting the conversation of blades. “His sword was mine when he slipped.” The boy suddenly became quieter. He blinked, the thought of change, of events coming and passing, of death filling his mind once more. “I gave him my hand. But he let go. The tickin’ croc was waiting.”

Peter’s arm fell to his side and he turned to look at Thistle questioningly. She floated above the railing yards away from him, her toes brushing the soft wood. Her mournful brows crinkled together, because she didn’t have the answers he looked for. But just looking into her green eyes looking into his own, the nagging voice was silenced to his ears. That’s all he needed, ever.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, giving a small shrug and looking at her bare and grubby feet.

But what will you do when she’s gone? You’ll be stuck with me until the day you die, Boy.

Peter twitched, rubbing his neck to pass it off as a natural act. The way Hook called him Boy was nothing like the teasing word slipping off Thistle’s tongue.

Look at her. She’s beautiful. The likes of you doesn’t deserve her — you deserve nothing. It’s a wonder the Lost Boys stick around. She’ll be gone soon enough, you’ll s--

“Peter, you want to check out below deck?” Her wide green eyes turned to him, and Hook was silenced mid-word. Peter brightened considerably, and followed her down the stairs and into the cellar. The darker it became, the slower she floated down the sideways corridor. When Peter couldn’t see her silhouette anymore, he could feel the pirate captain pressing on the edges of his mind. Here, the silence was palpable and the must filled the children’s noses. Thistle’s heart began to pound fast enough for her to hear it against her ribcage, but she pushed on.

She reached the open area that had to be the storage and bunks. She let out her relief in one big gust through her mouth — just in time for an owl to reveal itself. It flew past the two children and out into the open. Thistle’s scream reverberated in the wooden room, and she twisted around the grip Peter’s arm just as she sank like a stone.

“It’s okay, Yam. Think happy thoughts,” Peter reminded soothingly as he tried to hold her up. She swallowed, and after a moment she was in the air once more. She didn’t, however, let go of his wrist. He hardly minded. She was like a Hook-repellent. There was no trace of his voice.

“Hey, Tink, come in here,” Peter called. “We can’t see a thing.”

Her delicate voice, which only was a tinkling bell to Thistle’s ears, could be heard from the outer part of the ship.

“Oh, come on Tinker Bell, it’s not that bad in here.”

With his insistence, she followed into the dank place. But with her there, and her light pushing at the shadows, the room was quite visible.

“Have you ever been down here before, Peter?” Thistle asked. She tugged on his wrist, guiding him through the barrels of gun powder and cases of bottles.

“Nah. Raided all the good stuff from Cap’s quarters. Never saw any point—” Thistle jumped then sank, pulling Peter with her, as a mouse scurried across the floor. “Happy thoughts, Girl.”

“I know, I know.” She rose once more and rolled her shoulders back. “What do you think is in these bottles? Whiskey?”

“I actually think it’s rum. But I have no idea what that is. Slightly says it’s for grown ups.”

Thistle crinkled her nose. “It’s nasty, that’s what. And there’s really nothing down here. You want to go back to the hideout?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”



The sun was beginning to peak through the leaves in the jungle when Thistle finally fell asleep. Her small body curled in the nest of blankets, her red hair splayed around her. Peter stared at her, his red stained red but his cheeks now dry and his lips swollen but stiff.

“I have an idea, Tink,” Peter whispered over Hook. But even the pixie was half-asleep. “I’m going to be gone for a little while. Watch over the boys and Yam. Especially Yam. You can’t let her leave.”

Tink’s eyes fluttered shut for the night, and Peter rose. He flew from the hideout, but he did not stop once he reached the jungle. Nor did he stop when he could see clear over the trees, nor when he could see the tops of the tee-pees. Even when he was staring the mountain in the eye, he continued to soar into the sky until a far uglier world was in view. Swooping down, he had arrived in California. To be specific, he had arrived just outside a towering hospital, back in a small bushy area that couldn’t be more than a hundred yards wide. His sudden arrival had scared all the wild things away, but he sat and waited. A terrible thing about never growing up is that waiting never gets easier.

First the birds began to chirp. A rustle here and there made the field mice and squirrels known. It wasn’t for a while after this that Peter saw the first streak of gold — had he been listening hard enough, he would have heard a baby’s first gurgling laugh from inside the hospital. And without any hesitation, that baby’s pixie was born: it’s laugh was now personified in a blinking, dazed fairy. Not long after, more streaks of gold could be seen flickering here and there. All the abandoned laughs.

Peter cleared his throat quietly, as to not disturb them. He thought for a moment, recalling the exact pitch and rhythm of Thistle’s… He opened his mouth, and quietly at first, he mimicked her laugh full of substance. Not tinkling or nasally like some girls, but deep and with heart.

All the fairies froze. After a moment of piercing silence, the hidden ones rose to look at Peter, to look around at one another. Who was being called home?

Peter waited, his breathing soft but quick. It was a long moment before one delicate figure rose above the rest. The pixie, with dusty brown hair, full lips, and shimmering eyes flew over to Peter. His tinkling voice asked frantically in a language Peter could not understand, though it did not take much imagination to hear the words in the pixie’s two syllable chant. Thist-le? Thist-le?

“Not me, but she’s with me. I’ll bring you to her, I promise.”