Back on the Sudden Night, Wendy felt a blush spreading up her cheek. Keme watched her with a sly smile before he turned back to the job at hand. The next four hours passed quickly, with Wendy up to her elbows in fish and potatoes, and Michael toddling around whining before he finally fell asleep, curled up against a pile of potato sacks. After their exhaustive work, with nary a break in sight, Wendy helped Keme load all the food into a dumbwaiter that rocked back and forth in the kitchen, her sore hands setting steaming fish and potatoes onto wooden square plates and sending them up to an unknown hand on deck.
By the time dinner was prepared, Wendy was drenched with a sticky sweat, and her hands reeked of fish up to her elbows. A sense of accomplished pride shot through her exhausted limbs as she reached down to feel her dress, hard and cracked with brine. A smile cracked over her face as the satisfied feeling of being needed and useful started to wash over her. She lingered on it for a moment before the reality set in that she was utterly disgusting and now it was time to go up on deck and eat with the men. She wiped her hand across her forehead and began her climb up the bone staircase, femurs rattling as she went. Finally, she emerged onto the deck, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the stark contrast of the blackness of the Sudden Night against a milky-white evening sky, splattered playfully with pink clouds. The water was blue gray, lapping at the sides of the boat with playful licks. On the deck, long pieces of plywood were shoved together haphazardly to make a table, the planks resting on barrels.
Next to the table, a thin pirate with stringy black hair and a long nose was lighting a pipe, his stumped leg resting on the edge of the chair. He caught Wendy’s eye and she looked away quickly. He grinned as a delicate puff of white smoke curled out of his mouth and rolled up his face, his words dripping out lazily.
“Been awhile since I’ve been served by a lady. Feels right.”
Then he reached out to grab her behind but stopped short when Smith’s furious face caught his eye.
“I’ll take that hand, Shady Wick.”
Wendy deftly side-stepped his reach. Keme tapped her on the shoulder and gestured to the pile of plates waiting for them on the port side. Wendy tucked back her hair and began grabbing plates, setting them in front of the men as quickly as she possibly could. The meal was basic—two fish fillets, a pile of potatoes, a slice of apple—but it looked delicious, and Wendy felt her stomach rumble with disappointment when she put the last plate in front of a pirate who looked equally as ravenous. Keme motioned to her to stand by him, and she did, with her hands crossed behind her back, just as he did.
They waited. None of the men touched their food. Finally, Smith cried, “Avast!” and all the men stood, the rickety bench pushed backwards with an uncomfortable screech. His face emotionless and cold, Hook emerged onto the deck, his black boots clipping the deck with each determined step. Wendy watched as he walked towards the table. His eyes looked forward, not taking in the steaming plates of food, nor the men who watched him with hungry eyes. He walked straight to the starboard side and looked out at the waves on the horizon. Then, pursuing his lips, he whistled a low note and heard one in return from the crow’s nest, where Hawk was keeping watch. The captain spun on his heel.
“You men may eat. Enjoy your meal.”
Some of the men dug in, while some bowed their heads to pray. Hook stared at them long and hard, his dark eyes burrowing into their thinning hairlines. “Fools,” he muttered before turning heel and heading back the way he had come.
“Keep on, starboard tack steady, and watch the stern. The closer we get to Port Duette, the more the wind changes.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” replied the crew, speaking as though they had one voice.
Hook nodded once, confirming that he had been heard.
“Smith, see to it that the bow is recoated with the gloss tonight.”
Smith stood, his impressive mass towering over the men who greedily shoved fish in their faces. Still, he was not as tall as Keme, who watched everything with a happy smile. “Aye, Captain.”
“Good night then, men. May the Neverland night be kind.”
As he walked past Wendy, the captain leaned forward. “You stink of fish. Wash up and meet me on deck for a drink in two hours. You’ll be fed only then.”
At the mention of a drink, Wendy bit down on her lip, unsure of the nature of his request. Hook saw her hesitation and scoffed back a laugh.
“Don’t worry, child, I have no interest in wooing you. Not when I’ve had a woman carved by the shores of Neverland. Your brother stays below.”
Wendy mumbled, “Yes, sir” and felt the silver hook’s cold prick on her chin.
“I appreciate it when people are on time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Without another word, he clicked his way back below deck, but not before he reached out a hand to Keme, patting him once on the back. Then he disappeared back below deck, as quickly as he had emerged.
It was only then that Wendy felt the collective sigh of relief escape from the crew, and their conversation and laughter rolled forward with ease. Barnaby offered her a bite of his fish, but she refused outright, not wanting to contradict the captain’s orders. She felt many an eye on her neckline, but she kept her head high, staring straight ahead as Keme did, reassured by his huge presence beside her. She enjoyed listening to their banter, so offensive that she often struggled to keep her mouth from dropping open at their lewd jokes and litany of curses. Oh, how her mother would blush!
After a half hour of hearing about mermaids breasts, her attention turned to a conversation happening at the end of the table, quietly, between Redd, Smith, and Voodoo.
“Aye, what does the captain think will happen at this meeting of the Scorned?”
“It’s none of your business,” hissed Smith, eating half a fish in one bite.
“You keep your mouth yammering, and you’ll be dancing the hempen jig tonight,” added Redd.
Voodoo grinned, showing shimmering white teeth marred by a single rotted one, square in the front. “He doesn’t mean it, Redd. He’d miss your pretty face!”
“No, I wouldn’t,” answered Smith, pulling a fish bone out of his teeth. “I wouldn’t think about you for more than ten seconds I reckon.”
Redd leaned in. “I’ve been hearing whispers at Port Duette. Whispers about the captain and Captain Maison. Something ’bout a debt.”
“Aye, that’s because Maison owes Hook his life. Hook spared him once, carried him to the healers in Port Duette while he was bleeding all over the place. Maison has forgotten his debt in his pride. He’s a sick man, Maison is. You’ve heard about the line.”
Smith and Voodoo gave simple, short nods. Redd cleared his throat.
“I reckon Maison has been talking to Captain Xian Li, trying to get the Viper’s Strike to turn its loyalty. Won’t happen.” Smith calmly picked up his knife, spun it between his fingers and without warning, brought it down hard into the meaty side of Redd’s palm. The man let out a painful scream as blood began dripping through the open wooden slats of the table. Wendy’s legs gave a quiver beneath her, but she kept her face impassive to avoid betraying her horror at the sudden violence. The other pirates went silent before suddenly appearing very interested in their food, their lidded eyes glued to their plates. Michael was sniffling beside her at the end of the table, and Wendy reached out her hand, patting him softly on the shoulder, refusing the instinct to pull him protectively into her arms.
Smith leaned forward and pulled the knife out of Redd’s hand with a hard yank, and the older pirate held up his shaking hand, blood streaming down his wrist, fleshy pulp folding out from the center. Smith didn’t even look at him as he speared one potato after another, shoveling them into his mouth with vigor.
“The captain’s business is the captain’s business, is that understood?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“Yes sir!” echoed back from the table.
“Ballast pigs,” Smith uttere
d. “See to your wound.” Redd stood now, shakily making his way below deck with another pirate, who Wendy guessed was the ship’s healer, holding his hand above his head. Wendy looked up at the sapphire sky to avoid looking at the sickening trail of blood that now glistened on the deck. Keme smiled at her and patted her head absentmindedly. Smith wiped his mouth, slicked the blood off his elbow, and threw down his napkin.
“Good fish, Keme. Bit overcooked.”
Then he made his way to the Quarter Deck, humming a happy tune, and tossing his knife in the air, blood flecks dusting his hand with each catch. Wendy turned away, ashen-faced. The rest of the pirates paused a moment and then went back to eating, whispering quietly amongst themselves of inconsequential matters, the sea, the air, women.
Keme motioned to the door to head below deck. Wendy felt a wave of relief wash over her and she bowed her head, leading Michael back inside, down the spiral staircase of bones, down curved hallways, into the hallway that led nowhere, and finally, after turning the tiny black lever, made their way down into their room. As Michael played with his toes, she happily pulled off her stinking dress and washed her arms, face, and hair in the small basin of rose water that had been set out for her. The smell of reeking salt and scale slid off her skin like a sheath, and she shivered happily to be clean once more. Michael climbed up onto the top bunk and began regaling her with tales about what he had learned about the ship, and the things he had seen.
“Barnaby said that the keel is below the hold; it’s like the spine of a skeleton.” Michael gave a shiver. “He also said that this boat is haunted by the ghost of Hook’s Dad, Tiberius. He wanders the halls at night, crying out for Hook and for the blood of all men at sea.”
Wendy let out an exasperated sigh. “He should not be telling you those stories.”
Michael flopped back on his bed. “I like scary stories.”
Wendy shook her head, not needing to tell Michael that they were living in an actual nightmare, a place where pirates stabbed each other and killed children. She turned over on her bed.
“I’m to go on deck and have a drink with Hook tonight; will you be okay here by yourself?”
Michael frowned, clearly not happy at the idea, but to Wendy’s surprise, he kicked his feet in the air and shrugged.
“We’re on a boat. You’re still here, even if you’re gone.”
Wendy smiled before pulling herself up to look at his soft face. Her heart gave a tiny tug.
“You’re growing up before my eyes, little Michael.”
Michael kept his eyes on his feet, which he wiggled slowly, watching his toes curl and flex.
“I miss John.”
Cloudy tears blurred Wendy’s vision. “I know. Me too.”
“I miss Mama. And Nana.”
“Me, too. Shall we sing something that reminds us of them?”
A sob choked Michael’s throat. “Yes. Please.”
“Alright.” Wendy sat down on her bunk and cleared her throat, letting her voice, which sounded less girly than she remembered, fill her mouth.
The meadow is silent
Little one, little one
Bluebells sleep, and roses keep
As you say good night
The night is silent
Little one, little one
Foxes wake under the setting sun
As you run towards slumber
The day is done
Little one, little one
Moon above shimmers with love
And God be with you when you dream
Michael surrendered to sleep, and Wendy lay awake, her thoughts crowded and loud. What would happen to them? Were they safe? What was John doing at this very moment? Booth? Her parents? Would they ever imagine that she was lying on a bunk in an infamous pirate ship, rocking back and forth in the waves, barely noticing them anymore? She didn’t fall asleep, instead let the hours rock by on the shifting waves below. When it was time, she pulled on the long-sleeved white nightdress that had been left for her, tucked her hair back into a tight ribbon, and pulled a tartan blanket around her shoulders before quietly slipping out the door, locking it behind her, making her way up to the night, and to Hook.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When she emerged, she was taken aback by the clusters of stars blazing so bright that it was if they had all been spilled out just above the ship, their reflection blanketing the water. They reminded Wendy of that night with Peter in the lantern, when she had almost lost herself, and so she looked away, focusing instead on the reliable ugliness of the harpoons and torturous devices lining the sides of the deck. She ran her fingers along a sharp bow fixed with tiny jagged teeth that flexed with the creaking waves. Hook’s voice carried down from above her, next to the mainmast.
“It’s called the cutter. If someone tries to board our ship, we send this down the pontoon bridge and suddenly, no one has ankles anymore, so it’s an easy fight. It’s bloody, but it does the job. Bit of light mopping up afterwards.”
Wendy shivered at the description, the blanket dropping from her shoulders.
“Good evening, Captain.”
“Good evening, Miss Darling. How did you find your first day on the Sudden Night?”
Filthy. Exhausting. Terrifying. “It was fine.”
“I have no patience for liars, Miss Darling.”
Wendy took a breath. “It was terrible.”
This made Hook grin, his tightly wound face unfurling a bit. “For a wealthy socialite, I imagine it was.”
“You don’t know anything of my life,” snapped Wendy.
“I know enough,” Hook said quietly. “Walk with me. And take the blanket, it can get quite chilly at night.”
Wendy picked it off the ground, and followed Hook’s heavy boots as they began making their way towards the helm.
“I’m going to give you some information this evening. Normally, I am not a trusting person, and it takes years, years, to gain my trust. There are two people that I trust on this ship, and you are neither of them. However, current circumstances, and a change in the wind has blown me to an inevitable conclusion: I must choose to trust you, because time does not allow it any other way. You will have but one opportunity to lose it, do you understand? And when you do, you will lose much more than my respect. A brother perhaps.”
“Yes, sir.” Wendy pulled her shaking hand underneath the blanket.
“Yes, Captain.” His reprimand was firm.
“Yes, Captain.”
“So, what I tell you is to be kept in complete confidence. You may not tell your brother, you may not tell anyone else aboard this ship. You will swear to me, before your God that you will not speak of what is spoken here between you and me.”
Wendy thought for a moment. “I will not swear to God, but you have my word. Unless what you tell me pertains to my welfare, or the welfare of my brothers. You cannot expect me to not act in our best interest.”
The captain raised his hook and scratched his eyebrow. “I suppose that’s fair, clever little girl. Have a seat.” He gestured lazily to a worn bench on the side of the helm. “You’re relieved,” he said to the helmsman, who promptly walked away from the ship’s wheel, handing it over to Hook.
“I’m going to tell you, over the next few nights, everything that I know about Peter Pan. You will do the same. We will share our information in hopes that someday we can repay the suffering he has caused us. In return, I offer my protection for you and Michael. Is this a fair deal?”
Wendy felt the tiniest tendril of hope curl out of her heart. It curled in the shape of Booth. “Yes.”
Hook sighed. “I will tell you what I believe to be important.”
A wave leapt up from the sea, splashing her playfully. She pulled her blanket tightly around her, watching Hook’s silhouette as it bent around the ship’s wheel, moonlight filtering through its holes.
“My father, Arthur Tiberius Hook, was the captain of the Jolly Rodger for thirty-six years. He sailed the waters around the Americas, India,
and Asia. He was good man, and a fine pirate who treated his men with respect. My mother died of consumption when I was quite young, and he took me on the boat with him, trained up from when I was five. He had loved my mother greatly.”
Wendy remembered the book of letters she had had found in her room. Dearest Easter … She had been dead already when he had written the letters. It made her heart ache with longing.
“I learned to read, to write, to sail all within the confines of the Jolly Rodger. The ship was my home, and my father …”
He paused for a moment, staring straight ahead.
“And my father was my hero.”
He spun the wheel and Wendy could hear the slight rocking of gears underneath adjusting, turning, their creak whispering to the water, which answered in return, the boat heaving port side.
“In May of 1892, my father set sail for the Alaskan Territory. He had been hired by a mysterious Scotsman to explore the farthest reaches of the seas. My father had at first refused, but the benefactor offered a staggering amount of money, more than my father and his crew would make in five years of work. It was too good to refuse, and after outfitting the Jolly Rodger, my father sailed us north, farther north than anyone had ever sailed before.” He gave a sigh. “Words cannot describe what wonders we witnessed there: ice towers that pierced the sky, dwarfing the sun, their insides sharp and blue, a world of jagged angles. It was as if life itself was frozen at that point, as if time had ceased existing that far north. The Jolly Rodger was a ghost passing through something ancient, never to be seen by human eyes. It was freezing. Parts of the ship began crusting with ice, and my father was beginning to see the folly of this fool’s errand. He had been given coordinates from the Scotsman, coordinates that he had tortured out of a local woman rumored to be a witch. We sailed on, the Jolly Rodger pushing forward, against the ice, against behemoths that slept under the waves and cried at night. Several men went to sleep on the deck, never to wake again. My father had no sooner made the decision to turn back when we saw the light.”