The older man reached out a shaky hand for her, and Wendy, overcome with a thankfulness for his incredible gift, kissed his palm. Owl’s face registered surprise, and a blush ran up his weathered cheeks, mottled with burst blood vessels. He shyly yanked his hand back. “It’s a pleasure, my lady.”
Smith looked with disdainful incredulity at the men mooning at Wendy.
“WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL is happening here? Have you never seen a girl before? Ain’t you got a ship to run? Hop to it men! At the ready before I cut your ears and wipe my arse with them!”
The pirates all scuttled away. Smith turned to Wendy. “That’s enough jerking around for today. Let me show you to your work.”
“I’m not going to work! I’m going to stay on the deck and be a pirate!” declared Michael.
His arm darting out quickly like a snake, Smith reached out and picked up Michael by the collar of his shirt, raising him up until their eyes were level. Then he stomped over to the side of the ship and held Michael out over the water.
“Stop! Stop it!” Wendy cried, to no avail.
Michael whimpered as he clutched desperately to Smith’s arm.
“Are you planning on staying on this ship?” he asked Michael. Michael whimpered.
“Yes, sir. Yes, Smee.”
“Then you work. There is no free ride. No nannies here, no playtime. This isn’t Pan Island. Will you work?”
Michael nodded, fat tears running down his cheeks. Without a second glance, Smith tossed Michael down, where he landed hard on his bottom on the deck. He whimpered for a moment before his attention was quickly diverted.
“Smee, what’s that?”
Michael pointed to a large metal structure beside him on the boat, iron carved like a curled hand, reaching upwards from the deck. The sharp talons of fingers splayed out at the end. Sticky webbing stretched in between the fingers, thick rope that had been dipped in something—syrup? Tar?
Without warning, Smith reached out and boxed Michael’s ears. Michael let out a horrible cry.
“That’ll teach you to call me Smee again, you filthy rat bastard.”
“Stop! You hurt him!”
Smith narrowed his eyes at Wendy.
“You going to cut his cheese up for him too?”
Wendy ignored his barb, while thinking that she had, indeed, cut up Michael’s bread before.
“Now, let’s begin—what do you scrappy sea bass know about ships?”
Michael pushed forward.
“I know that there is such a thing as a poop deck!”
Smith narrowed his eyes.
“Ignorant, as I imagined. Spoiled, little, rich Londoners who ain’t never been anywhere near an actual ship.”
“So there’s no poop deck?” Immense disappointment fell across Michael’s cheeks, red from the biting wind. Smith sighed, his hands tracing one of three giant knives that hung from his leather belt.
“Yes, there is. Follow me and don’t dawdle, you pox-faced krakens…. Captain never told me I’d have to be a nanny… .”
As they walked quickly down the deck, Smith pointed out the various parts of ship, Wendy trying desperately to remember the names of each feature as they went.
“This here side is the port side. If you are facing to the front of the ship, port will always be on your left. That way if you turn around, it’s still port. Got it?”
Wendy and Michael nodded.
“This side is the starboard then.”
“Why it’s called the starboard?”
“Why don’t you stop asking your lollygagging, stupid questions and get a move on?” the pirate grumbled as he shoved Michael forward.
A short man, dressed in ragged finery, his head covered with unruly gray curls, stepped forward.
“If you would allow me to explain, Smith: it’s called the starboard because back in the olden day, before rudders, they had to steer the ship using the stars for navigation.” He pointed off the starboard side. “And they steered it from the starboard side. It’s the side that the stars favor.”
Smith grabbed the man by his coat, pulling him close to his face.
“You mean to show me up on my boat, Barnaby? That voice of yours makes my skin stand on edge, makes me feel like you look.”
The man quivered in Smith’s hands.
“No, no Smith, I was just trying to help!”
Smith threw him roughly to the ground. The man landed on his knees in a pile of squirming fish, gasping their last breaths. A small tin box bounced out of his pocket and sent gears scattering across the deck.
“Pick those up. And if you know so much, you can give them the damn tour, you nattering wretch!”
Barnaby straightened his coat. “With pleasure.”
CHAPTER FIVE
First Mate Smith stomped away, grumbling about the day he could throw them all overboard. The man brushed off his coat before pulling some glasses out of his pocket. He was small and ferretlike, with a twitchy nose and a pinched face, as if he was smelling something unpleasant. He seemed like one of the bankers at her father’s old firm, that is, except that his hands were black. Not dirty, like all the other busy hands she saw around her, but black as coal, as if he had dipped them in ink. He stuck out one of his shiny black hands and Wendy, with some hesitation, reached forward and shook it.
“Don’t worry, won’t come off on ya, lass. I tinker, that’s what I do, and that involves grease and grime. Though, it doesn’t help that my hands were burned in a coal fire. Makes the black stick to them a bit more, I’m afraid.”
He held his hand up, and she could see the skin pulled into fine rivulets of scars, running from palm to wrist. She swallowed her initial shock and smiled kindly at him.
“Wendy Darling, I presume?”
It was so nice to hear someone speak in that polite dialect of home that she almost wept.
“Yes, and this is Michael.”
“Hello, little sir. Welcome to the Sudden Night. I’m Barnaby, the ship’s navigator. Though here in Neverland, I fear I’m of little use.”
Wendy smiled and Barnaby beamed at her.
“I’ll have to tell you about that thankless job some other time, for I fear if I do not quickly give you a proper tour, Smith will have my black hands dangling from the foremast.”
Wendy looked down the ship to see Smith angrily staring down at Barnaby, raw hatred splashing over his rough features.
“Yes! Well, I heard Smith explaining starboard, didn’t I?”
“Yes, he had just started.”
“An easy way to remember it is, ‘Starlight, star bright, starboard is on the right.’”
Michael began singing along softly to the familiar tune. He smiled and turned his face to the sky, the sun washing over his pale features as he sang the rhyme softly to himself. It was the first time since they left Pan Island that she thought her little brother might actually be alright.
“The starboard side is also where you will most likely find the first mate, the captain, and the higher-ranking pirates. The side opposite the starboard is called port. It means passage or entrance. For example, we most often dock at Port Duette on the port side.”
“Ah, I see.”
As they walked forward, Wendy noticed the eyes of the crew glaring hard at her as they pretended to go about their work. Smith raised a long whip that he had been coiling around his arm.
“Anyone fancy a lashing? Keep your eyes on your work, mateys!”
“Stay away from Smith.” Barnaby lowered his voice. “He is neither a kind nor forgiving man.”
Wendy remembered the way he had slit Kitoko’s throat, the way the blood had poured out of his neck like a broken pipe. She shuddered.
“I know well that he is not.”
“Well! Shall we continue? The basic parts of the ship are common, be it a pirate ship like ours, or a vessel of the Royal Navy.” He scratched his nose, wiggling it back and forth afterwards, his black hands pressing a filthy rag up to his mouth. “Though in my opinion
, the Sudden Night could take any ship, Navy or otherwise.”
Wendy swallowed, hoping to remember it all.
“Don’t worry, my lady, a ship is nothing more than a system of rigging and sails. All any crew does is attempt to keep the parts of the ship running smoothly. If each man does his job, the rigging and the sails do theirs and we sail on, to rape and pillage, and what have you.”
Wendy bit her lip. Barnaby leaned over.
“Don’t worry, Miss Darling, we don’t do much raping. Mostly pillaging and fighting amongst ourselves. Now, do you know any other parts of the ship?”
Wendy shook her head, ashamed at her lack of knowledge in this area. She thought of John, raising his wooden pirate ship up and down on invisible waves, playing in front of the nursery window while she read in her bed, his silhouette bathed in the light of the gray moon. John would have been great at this. But she had left John behind, still in Peter’s clutches. She said a silent prayer that he was safe and that Peter had not taken out his anger on her brother, that John’s intelligence would hopefully keep him safe. As she stood on the rocking deck, sticky guilt wormed its way through her heart at abandoning him. Barnaby continued, oblivious.
“If you look above you, you’ll see the masts.”
“And the crow’s nest!” piped up Michael. “Even I know that!”
“Good job, little chap! That is the crow’s nest. It’s where we watch for weather, but mostly for flying devils.”
Barnaby paused.
“Er, I mean … Lost Boys.”
Wendy looked down.
“Of the masts, there are three masts. The foremast, the mainmast, and the mizzenmast. The foremast is the first mast at the front of the ship; can you see it, Michael?”
Michael jumped up and down, obviously thrilled.
“I do! I see it! And the next mast is the mainmast. And what do you think that does?”
“Balances the ship?” asked Wendy.
“Not necessarily. It provides the support to the other masts, but it also anchors the sails and gives stability to the bowsprit, which is that long piece of wood protruding from the front there… .”
Barnaby trailed on while Wendy found herself lost in his words, overwhelmed by the monstrous ship around her. Her eyes followed his finger to the front of the ship as he droned on to Michael, held in rapt attention. The ship creaked, and she raised her eyes to take in the masts that Barnaby had pointed out. Huge black sails billowed outwards, their breasts swelling full with salty air. The mast rocked overhead, the sail following suit, a quiet dance between two willing partners. The pirate named Hawk currently sat perched on the crow’s nest, his eyes trained on the sky. Her eyes followed the mast down to the port side, where black threaded ladders ran up and down the sides of the masts, anchored to the deck by thick copper hooks. Every few feet of ladder, a pistol or a scabbard was tied neatly to the bottom side of the rope, facing upwards, without hilt.
“That looks rather dangerous, all those weapons just sitting there,” blurted Wendy.
Barnaby gave a short, polite laugh.
“’Tis, quite dangerous. Each man on this ship has at one time or another impaled himself on those.” Barnaby raised his blackened hand and rolled up his coat sleeve to reveal a three-inch-long scar. “Mine was last year, just over there. Didn’t hurt too much, plus it meant I was one of the crew officially. They help when you are fighting enemies who can fly. You never know when you’ll need a weapon.” He looked carefully around the ship before dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Some on this ship would call the captain paranoid, but I tend to disagree. The captain’s careful, though at times I wonder what he thinks we’re fighting exactly. Those boys are dangerous, but they aren’t that smart. Killing ’em is pretty easy.” He stepped back. “Sorry, Miss Darling. I didn’t mean to imply …”
Wendy shrugged, sick of apologies about John, her own toxic grief enough to wrestle.
“Please, Barnaby, continue with the tour.”
They strolled towards the front of the ship, passing the cannons that lined the edge of the deck, their crested points reminding Wendy of the iron fences back home in London. Barnaby saw her eying them.
“Makes it hard to land on the ship when you can’t do so without impaling your own feet.”
They made their way up to the front of the ship, called the bow, as Barnaby explained. Michael looked around.
“Where is the wheel?”
“Aye, that would be in the back of the ship, below the poop deck.”
Michael laughed. “A poop deck! I knew there was one, Wendy.”
“You did.” Wendy climbed up the stairs to the bow of the ship, nothing between her and the jagged black spears that pointed outwards, their ends tied together with a long piece of curled wire.
“Only the captain really knows what this does, but I imagine it’s quite spectacular.”
Wendy looked down from the ship, her eyes focusing down, beyond the bowsprit, where the figurehead of a mermaid led the ship forward. Carved from what looked like the ivory cliffs of the Teeth, her outstretched hand reached for the horizon. Long curls of hair cascaded around her body, covering her breasts and body. A wide fish tail, perfectly molded from the pearly crusts of oyster shells curved down the outside of the ship. Her eyes were made of black pearls, a ruby for her mouth. Both of her hands were stretched forward, palms facing outward, as if she were pushing the waves away from the boat. She would have been lovely if it weren’t for her terrible curved smile that stretched the sides of her mouth around razor sharp teeth.
Michael stepped back. “Scary,” he declared, and Wendy agreed.
“That’s Queen Eryne of the Mermaids. She’s a ruthless beauty if the stories are to be believed.” He gave a shiver. “We’ll be sailing past the Gray Shore on our way to Port Duette. My least-favorite part of the island.”
“Why is that?” asked Wendy, looking out to the turquoise sea that was now lapping gently at the sides of the Night in a lover’s embrace.
“You’d be okay with the mermaids, I imagine. Unless you’re a virgin.”
Wendy whirled on him, her patience worn thin from her time in the brig.
“You are improper to ask, sir!”
He stared at her for a second before turning away, stuttering. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be improper.” He itched his nose twice. “I only asked because while they use the bones of men to make their coral garden … they use the blood of virgins to feed it.”
Wendy looked at him in horror before blurting out. “A mermaid tried to take me once. Peter saved me.” Her hair blew around her face as she turned back to the sea, unable to face her little brother, who stared up at her, his face full of confusion.
“Saved you for his own purposes I imagine, knowing Peter Pan,” Barnaby said quietly. Wendy flinched, remembering Peter’s desperate face, as he had choked her in the water. She looked numbly out over the bow to the crystalline sea that stretched endlessly before them, the white caps barely summoning a gentle murmur of a wave. Barnaby, however, did not pick up on her wish for silent reflection, and continued prattling on.
“Well, I’m sure the men are glad you are here now, at least they have something decent to look at as we sail towards Port Duette. I’m sorry, that sounded uncouth. Again, Barnaby, with your words! Ha! What I meant was, even if you are a woman with no knowledge of sailing, you are lucky to be the captain’s guest, for this is the most-magnificent ship, the most magnificent I’ve ever seen, the best of the Scorned Fleet.”
She turned, a strong wind rushing up from the waves causing bumps to rise on her bare arms.
“The Scorned Fleet? What is that?”
Barnaby rubbed his hands together before leaning casually against one of the giant metal claws that protruded from the side of the boat, like it was nothing more than a park bench in Kensington Gardens.
“The Scorned are the five ships in the captain’s fleet. There is the Coral Plunder under Captain Reed Bonney, the Vici
ous Seas, manned by Captain Jaali Oba, Viper’s Strike, its captain being Captain Xian Li, and the Undertow, the wicked Captain Maison. And our Sudden Night of course, best girl in the sea!”
“And what does this Scorned Fleet do?”
“Well, the Night and the Undertow sail primarily around Neverland, making sure things are kept in order on the mainland. The Coral Plunder and Viper’s Strike sail the border islands, and The Vicious Seas…,” he paused, “well, Vicious Seas does whatever the hell it wants.”
“The border islands?”
Wendy paused, hope alighting on her tongue, its taste like thick honey, before bursting forth with excitement.
“Can they sail out of Neverland? Can you sail away from here?”
Please say yes, she prayed silently, please let him say yes. Barnaby turned his curious eyes upon her eager face.
“Now that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? There is no leaving here lass, I’m afraid. Neverland has a very strange pull to it. Every year, a different ship in the fleet tries sailing out as far as they can possibly go, to test the boundaries. Every year it’s the same story—once they hit a certain point, right around the 413 nautical mile mark, the water starts pulling backward. You push against it, and when you do, the sky suddenly erupts in a maelstrom of thunder, lightning, and wind, blowing you backwards, turning your ship from its headwind. The sails heed the call, and before you know it, you are heading back the opposite direction, no matter the skill of your captain—or your navigator. The compasses spin, and the instruments go mad. Mile 413 is a damned ship graveyard, with odd magnetic pulls and real magic working together to make a sailor’s life hell. We lost the Howling Hoard and the Banshee’s Milk there and God knows how many smaller, islander boats.”
He shook his head. “Good men, they were, on the Howling Hoard.”
Wendy’s face fell. “So you can’t leave. Ever.”
“Well, there’s plenty of smaller islands between here and there. Hundreds of ’em, all ready for plucking.”
He gestured his arm out towards the East.
“The main island is the biggest though. Don’t have much reason to be anywhere else. Hook has control of Port Duette, though things might be a’changin’… .” Barnaby looked around fervently, as if protecting his words, before he looked out at the water lapping at the front of the boat, Queen Eryne’s open arms embracing the horizon with a horrific scream.