Captain James Hook and the Siege of Neverland (14 page)

We traveled for a few moments before I noticed that the path was no longer familiar.
 
I looked for the trail we took from the castle, but all that I saw were white birch trees in front and billowing smoke behind us.
 
The gray-brown mountain loomed over us and I decided to head for it.
 

We ran on a grassy ledge that rung the mountain’s side until it came to a sudden and abrupt end.
 
I stared down the steep face of the rocky cliff and cursed again.
 
Another ledge hung three yards to the south and was only slightly higher than the one we were on now.
 
I turned back and stared out over the spreading fire.
 
In the distance, a fir tree fell over.
 
Its flaming branches lit a row of evergreens like kindling.
 
Soon, the fire grew to cover every tree on the western slope of Neverland.
 

I shrugged and settled on the only path available to us.
 

I dug my hook into a tree that clung to the side of the mountain.
 
Its root weaved in and out of the rock and made several loopholes.
 
The boy clutched onto the belt around my coat and I stepped off of the ledge.
 

It was a funny time to think of it, but the childhood voice of Billy Jukes ran through my head.
 
Hold with your hands.
 
Climb with your legs.
 
I laughed to myself and gripped another root with my hand and hook.
 
I powered the two of us with my legs from one foothold to another.
 

Whether it was my distraction or the softening dirt from the heat, I slipped.
 
It was a small mistake and one that I recovered from in a step.
 
I breathed through my relief before a shutter of panic seized me.
 
I had become much lighter without the boy.
 

I found the child clutching to a jut of rock just two yards below.
 
I glanced over at the south ledge, now only feet from me, and sighed.
 

I climbed over and down until I sidled up to the boy.
 
I reached out to put my arm around the boy’s waist when he lost his grip.
 
I grasped for the boy’s flailing hands twice and missed both times.
 
The boy pawed at me and his lean fingers slid down my coat and boots.
 
I leaned in for one last desperate grab for the boy’s hand.
 
We missed by inches and I watched the boy disappear into the trees below.
 

I said a silent word for the child.
 

I climbed to the right and my foothold gave way.
 
I clutched at a clump of weeds in front of me, but the thin root pulled through the dry dirt like a thread through frayed cloth.
 
My weight shifted back.
 
I gripped tighter and more dust clumps spat onto my coat.
 
The plant, its root, and a pound of dirt came out in my hand and showered me as I fell.
 

I caught a hold with my hook and my arm jerked straight.
 
Something wrenched in my shoulder and down my side, but I grunted through the pain.
 
I hanged there for a moment, scratching at the mountain.
 

There was a snap as one of the straps on my hook guard broke away.
 
The latch slipped through my sleeve, carrying with it the ripped bite of leather.
 
I felt suddenly weightless.
 
The shining iron hook flashed in my eyes one last time before it shrank from view, along with the sky and the cliff’s edge.
 
Leaves darkened my sight and I struck a branch across my back.
 
I tumbled and hit two more before crashing into the darkness that took me.
 

Chapter Twelve

My body swirled and spun.
 
When the world settled, I found myself face down.
 
There were leaves underneath me.
 

Light pierced through to the back of my head like a knife.
 
I covered my face and blinked the purple and green spots away.
 
When I could finally see, thick bark came into focus.
 

Something small and furry stared at me from inside the hollow log, then ran off into the grass.

I pushed up onto my elbows and a bolt of pain shot through my shoulder.
 

I screamed.
 

For a few moments all I did was think of how Starkey handled this injury on the ship.
 
I rolled to my left side, then onto my back.
 
I pulled a strap of leather from my belt and bit down on it.
 
With slow breaths, I bent my arm at the elbow and rotated it to the sky.
 
I raised it slowly to my head until the joint popped into place and there was nothing except the pain.
 

It soon dulled into a throbbing ache and I worked my way down my body, testing and fixing what I could.
 
My back was surprisingly unhurt, as were my ribs and neck.
 
I thanked whichever god was watching that I landed on the leaves and not on the log.
 
I sat up and felt my leg for brakes.
 
Finding none, I rolled over and put my weight on my left arm.
 
As I lowered my knee to the dirt, pain shot straight to my hip.
 
I grunted and chewed the leather between my teeth.
 

I gripped a loose branch and jabbed it into the ground.
 
I leaned on it and knelt upright.
 

A pair of eyes stared back at me through the trees.
 
These eyes were not from some small creature.
 
They belonged to a man as red as a sunset.
 
He held a bow and arrow, drawn taut mere inches from my face.
 

A laugh grew from my center outward.
 
It was dry and without the hint of joy, which I am sure is why it fell dead on the cold eyes that stared back at me.
 
No matter.
 
That laugh was meant solely for my twisted humor.
 

Two more men crept out from behind the bushes.
 

A fourth man, dressed scantly in animal skins, held a small hatchet.
 
Dark patterns decorated his face and body.
 
His hair was black and his eyes looked so much like charred coal that I thought that, if I blew on them, they would scatter in the wind.
 

I steadied myself on the branch and used it to help me stand.
 

Several breaths passed.
 

“Ohanzee,” the painted one said.
 
The other warriors stood as still as statues.
 
The man repeated his odd greeting, this time with a questioning tone mixed with offense.
 
“Hotah Ohanzee?”

I shrugged and shook my head.
 

The lead warrior thumbed his hatchet as two more men stepped in from the brush.
 

The tall one lumbered, snapping branches with his fists and feet.
 
Behind him, an elder man walked the path made by his junior warrior.
 
Streaks of silver hair framed the older man’s broad and weathered cheeks.
 
He was dressed in similar skins and furs as the warriors, but his seemed newer… fresher.
 

The elder spoke and the warriors remained steady.
 
The painted warrior pointed his hatchet in my direction and spoke harshly.
 
The elder spoke again and the painted warrior argued more fiercely.
   

The elder remained steady and calm.
 

The painted warrior pulled a knife from his belt and drew the flat side across his throat.
 
He pointed it at me and the three bowmen focused their aim.
 

Then a voice, soft but full of strength, came from beside me.
 
“Sewati, no!”

The warriors stopped dead.
 

A girl stood on my left, too young to be a woman, but not far from childhood.
 
She was somewhere in between, caught on the cusp.
 
Her black hair hung straight down over her bare shoulders and back.
 
Her dark eyes met mine and in that instant she struck in me the memory of someone else, waving me off at Port Royal decades ago.
 
The port, the city, all of it faded away save for her image.
 
Even so, her details blurred around the edges.
 
What color were Emily’s eyes?
 
I caught myself lost in the thought and looked away from the dark-skinned girl, fearful of appearing like I was staring.
 

“Don’t talk,” she whispered, then spoke to the painted warrior.
 
Her words were pointed.
 
The warrior returned her harsh words with his own.
 
The two of them appealed to their elder, who listened and spoke sternly.
 
The tall man started in as well, adding to the fight.
 
The four of them worked themselves into such a fierce exchange that I concluded that they must have been related.
 
A father and his children, perhaps?

Children.

The word reminded me of my failure on the cliff.
 

“There’s a boy,” I said.
 
Silence pounced on the argument like a predator.
 
“He fell around here.
 
He could be hurt.”

The girl ran into the forest.
 
The painted warrior sprinted after her, followed by the tall one and their elder.
 
All four disappeared, leaving me with the three bowmen.
 

Quiet moments passed.
   

The tall warrior stepped through the line of trees and motioned to the others.
 
They lowered their bows and parted a path between him and me.
 
The warrior stared at me and waited.
 

The branch under my left arm slipped as I hobbled my first step towards him.
 
I shifted more weight onto my leg and suppressed a wince as my knee buckled.
 
I then tucked my right arm between the buttons of my coat and breathed a slow grunt out of my nose.
 

The tall warrior turned his back to me and pushed deeper in to the forest.
 

We came to a tall tree with a snaked and gnarled root only a few yards away.
 
As trying as the walk was, a part of me wished that it had taken longer.
 
I had no desire to see the boy’s dead body and grew a little sick at the thought.
 
At the base of the tree, the girl knelt over the broken child.
 
She stroked his hair and said soft foreign words to him.
 
Tears stained her round cheeks, striking in me a single thought.
 
She knew him.
 

The elder spoke to the sky while each of the warriors stood in silence.
 
Even the painted warrior said nothing.
 
The elder put a hand over the boy’s head and said quiet words to the girl.
 
Her face swelled with joy and she hugged the elder so hard that he nearly fell over.
 
She stared daggers at the painted warrior before turning to me.
 
“The boy is not yet dead.”

The boy’s gray skin told me a different story.
 
“He will be soon.”

“Father says the boy can be saved.”
 

“I’ve seen falls like that a dozen times,” I said.
 
“It always looks hopeful, but the bleeding happens inside the body.”

The painted warrior talked again and the elder responded.
 
This time, when the elder spoke, the conversation ended.
 

“What’s that all about?”

“My father and brother are deciding whether to kill you.”

“How is it going for me?”

“The Spirit of this land must like you,” she said.
 
“My father does not usually come on hunts anymore.
 
If not for him, you would be dead by now.”
 
She spoke to her father and he replied.
 
She turned to me and smiled.
 
“You are free to go.”

One warrior leaned the boy upright and two others lifted him into their arms.
 

“What is going to happen to him?” I asked, pointing to the boy.
 

“The Spirits will heal him.”
 

“After that.”

“He’ll return to the forests.”

“No,” I said.
 
“He cannot go back to Peter Pan.”

The painted warrior gripped his hatchet and said, “Ohanzee.”
 
The other warriors, including the tall one, crouched into an attack stance and drew their weapons to the ready.
 

“He said that before,” I said.
 
“What does that mean?”

“‘Hotah Ohanzee’ is what my brother calls Peter Pan,” she said.
 
“It means ‘White Shadow.’
 
Do you know him?”

I pulled my right arm out from within my coat and rolled up the sleeve.
 
I pointed my missing hand at the painted warrior and repeated the man’s words slowly, “Hotah Ohanzee.”

The girl gasped.
 

The man looked at my arm, my leg, and my eyes.
 
Then the man’s face softened and he sheathed his hatchet.
 
He said something to the elder and the elder responded.