Chasing Neverland

Willow could tell that daylight had left, because the room grew colder and everything around her seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, quieting down for the day. She pulled a bear pelt around her shoulders and burrowed down in the pillows, longing for a cup of tea and a space heater. Everything was cast in a gloomy darkness, and she began to wonder about candles.

Eventually a bright ball of light zipped through the room and pushed back a large leaf into the knot of what was a tree. It was Tinkerbell, if she remember correctly, and her glow lit up the room in a soft way that was kind of comforting to Willow.

“Wendy?” a weak voice asked.

She turned her head to see the dirty blonde boy with the furs of a rabbit on. His eyes were a muddy brown and dirt was smudged across his cheeks. The hood was flopped on his back, allowing her to see that his hair was knotted and unkempt. His thumb quickly found its way into his mouth, like she had suspected he would do. He looked fearful.

“My name is Willow,” she said gently.

He pulled his thumb from his mouth and blinked at her a few times. “Why did you hurt Peter's feelings?” he finally asked, his front teeth considerably longer than the rest.

“Well, I didn't mean to,” she admitted. “I just asked why he had taken you from your homes.”

The young boy sat himself on the bed, his legs tucked underneath his rump.

“We wanted to go. Not all of us had good homes.”

“Do you remember?” she asked, excited. “Do you remember your home, your name?”

He shook his head. “No, but I remember my mother.”

“You remember your mother! Oh, what was she like?”

“She didn't like to play with me,” he said simply.

“Do you know what she called you, sweetheart?”

The boy scratched his head, and disgusted, Willow watched dandruff fall. “My name is Nibs.”

“That's not a real name,” Willow whispered.

“Is so!” he said, upset. “Peter gave it to me himself.”

She tried to be understanding. “Why?”

This seemed to be a question he'd never heard before, because “Nibs” had to think about it for a long time before he came up with an answer. Finally, he told her, “I used to bite and nibble on my thumb nail when he first rescued me.”

“You sucked your thumb, you mean? You're doing it right now.”

Embarrassed, the boy plucked his thumb from his mouth and wiped the spit on the fur covering his leg with reluctance. Eventually, he told her, “My momma always wanted a check book.”

“My,” Willow remarked quietly, “You must have been here for at least a century!”

He didn't seem to possess any conception of time, because he said, “I'm eight.”

Then, without another word, the young lad scurried off and was replaced by a shy boy with even blonder hair and big, blue eyes. He lingered in the doorway, trying to look courageous but not succeeding in the least. He eyed Willow with uncertainty.

“And what is your name?” she asked gently, coaxing the boy to talk with her.

“You made Peter sad. That wasn't very nice.”

She sighed. “I know, and I feel just awful about it, but why don't you come talk to me?”

“Okay,” he muttered, shuffling over to her bedside. “I'm Slightly.”

“Do you remember before you were lost, Slightly?”

He shook his head. “But when I first got here, my nappy had a tag on it. It said, 'Slightly Soiled'. Peter read it to me himself. I'm the only Lost Boy who knows his real name!”

Willow gasps at his statement, realizing he was an orphan. She struggles to ask him if he remembers a “mother” who cared for him or any other details of his life before Neverland.

He tells her, “There was this lady dressed in black and white. She wore a necklace like this.” And he crosses his fingers, showing the symbol of Christianity, confirming Willow's thoughts.

“Do you miss your life?” she asks gently.

He shrugs. “Sometimes I dream about Mother. She scares me.”

Willow thought it how sad that a young boy would fear something he didn't know, such as a woman who cared for him when his real parents abandoned him. She wondered what would have become of him if he had stayed in the orphanage, being raised by nuns. She also wondered whether the other boys had been living lives as pitiful as Slightly's.

Eventually, the twins in raccoon furs filed into the room. Without a word, Slightly scampered off and folded himself into a place that resembled a bed. The twins eyed her with matching gazes.

“You hurt Peter's feelings.”
“Yeah, why'd you do that?”

“Why'd you do it, Wendy?”
“Yeah, why?”

Willow gave them both a sad smile, and asked, “What are your names?”

The twins ran over to her, hand in hand. Together, they jumped onto the bed and threw themselves into sitting positions, side by side. Willow watched them smile at each other agreeably.

The more innocent-looking of the two said, “Marmaduke.”

The one who normally lead the other stuck his tongue out at his brother, but said, “I'm Binky.”

Willow shook her head. “I don't suppose either of you remember before you were 'lost'?”

“No,” they said in unison, “but we're brothers.”

“Twin brothers,” Willow corrected them.

“No, we're brothers,” the first boy remarked, his chestnut hair falling into his dark eyes.
“We're just the same age,” Marmaduke adds, happily.

“That's what twins are,” Willow insisted, not understanding why they wouldn't accept it.

“No!” Binky wailed.
“Peter says we're brothers.”

“Never mind,” she grumbles. “How old are you two?”

“We're both seven,” Binky cooed.
Marmaduke grinned at her. “Slightly is TEN.”

Willow stares at them, surprised and sort of heartbroken to know that Peter would sweep up twin seven-year-old boys, barely conscious enough to state what they want to have for breakfast. She ached for the parents who woke up one morning to find their child had disappeared without a trace. The boys seemed happy, though, uncaring of a life they didn't know they had left behind.

“Who else is there?” Willow asked finally.

One boy said, “Cubby.”
“And Tootles,” the other added.

On cue, the chubby boy in the yearling bear cub furs came into the room with the young child wrapped in skunks furs clung to his shoulders. Immediately, Willow hopped off of the bed and scooped the young boy up, cradling him close to her breast. He snuggled there and let his eyes slide closed. She had to fight back tears at the sight of his freckled face and his innocent gray eyes, hundreds of unspoken questions lingering there. Who had he belonged to?

She pushed back his hood, discovering a thick covering of black hair clinging to his scalp. She imagined him filling out and the freckles fading, his jawline growing stronger – turning into a handsome lad. If only he'd gotten the chance to grow. She imagined the mother and look-alike father crying from dawn until dusk, aching for their child to appear – dead or alive.

“What is this sweet one's name?” she asked in a gentle voice, rocking back on her heels.

“That's Tootles,” the twins, Cubby, and Slightly told her in unison.

She rubber her thumb over his cheek, entranced by his innocence. “Where did he come from?”

“No one knows,” Cubby admitted, his hands wringing and his eyes downcast.

“Oh, haven't you asked?” she wondered aloud.

“He doesn't talk,” one twin muttered.
“Doesn't say a single word,” the other chimed in.

“Not in the whole time he's been here?”

They shook their heads together.

Slightly told her in a bored voice, “Baby cried the whole first days and nights he was here. Just wailed and wouldn't play with no one or nothing.”

Willow ached. He hadn't wanted to leave his family. She wanted to cry out, but instead, she asked the chubby boy in the bear furs, “How old is he?”

Suddenly, Tootles opened his eyes and looked into hers. He just lay there, staring into her eyes like he understood her question, but didn't have any idea of how to communicate the answer.

“We think he's four or three,” Cubby told her, unsure.

She nodded. Though the freckles made him look about the age of two, she had seen him walk and climb and behave as a young child would. She felt all the more terrible about him being “lost”, though. How could someone take a toddler from their parents and not feel guilty.

“You're Cubby, right?” she asked the plump young boy.

He nodded eagerly. “Yup, but I know that's not my real name.”

“Oh.” Willow gave him a weak smile, suddenly exhausted. “How old are you?”

He glanced at Slightly, who lie in the corner with his eyes half-shut. “Nine.”

“Well,” she said encouragingly, “you seem much older than that.”

The boy grinned and beat his chest. “I sure do!”

“Cubby, do you remember your mother?”

“No.” He looked back at the ground and crossed his arms before him. “I remember my father.”

“Was he nice?” she asked, suddenly hopeful.

“Sort of,” Cubby admitted. He found a soft bedding spot hear Slightly and lay himself down, facing the wall. Though it was muffled, Willow heard him say, “He'd hit me when he drank this stuff that smelled real bad.” She stared at his back, shocked.

Eventually, Nibs came back into the room, and the twins folded themselves into a hammock, their arms wrapped around each other. The dirty blond boy with the rabbit ears found himself a bedding spot in a corner and quickly fell to rest. Willow lay “Tootles” down on a pillow and cover him with a pelt. She then climbed into the bed herself and pulled the pelts all around her, relying on her own body heat to keep her from freezing. Just as she was settling back, the young man flew into the room.

She opened her mouth and choked out his name. “Peter.”

He turned his head to her and blinked his hazel eyes, but he did not stop. He flew into the back room, beyond the bear pelt, and stillness quickly surrounded her. The only sound besides her own heartbeat was the even whooshing of breaths filling the lungs of six young boys and the chirping of nocturnal creatures from far above.

“Goodnight, Willow,” she whispered to herself, feeling more alone than ever.