Chapter 11
When we slip into the distortion, it’s as if the world flips upside down.
Something silky coats my limbs, then something smooth and leathery as Peter’s wings fold around my body, encasing me in their gentle but firm cocoon.
The stars turn into streams around us, breaking into dancing rivulets as we spin.
A cold gust of air, and the world comes back into focus. Except this time we’re underneath a night sky that glows not with stars, but with swirling pinks and greens. It reminds me of the aurora I’ve seen pictures of in science books.
“Entranced, Wendy Darling?” asks Peter.
He hasn’t told me to move, so I’m still cradled in his arms, facing him.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“And to think you were frightened of the shadows all this time. Welcome to Neverland.”
“Is it always like this?”
“When it’s nighttime,” he says, though the teasing in his voice has returned, replacing the taunting. “You know, this would be more comfortable if you wouldn’t dangle your legs like that.”
I blush, realizing the awkwardness of how I have myself positioned against Peter. I’ve already pulled my legs up, linking them around his waist, tucking my ankles together around his back, before I realize this is much, much worse.
“Your cheeks are reddening,” Peter says, glancing at me with a twinkle in his eyes. I’m taken aback by the change that’s washed over them since entering this new realm. Where before, black ink coated even the whites of his eyes, the darkness has drained away, leaving behind eyes so deeply blue I feel as though I could float in them.
“This isn’t the most ladylike of positions,” I say, conscious of how my ball gown flaps open beneath me, threatening to expose my legs.
“You really wouldn’t have liked it if I’d dropped you, would you?”
Fear contorts my gut, so much so that it takes me a moment to realize he’s joking. He must either glimpse my reaction in the widening of my eyes or the way my thighs tense around his waist, because he leans in conspiratorially.
“You’ll have to forgive my lack of manners out there,” he says, gesturing his head backward toward the twin-star distortion in the sky quickly fading from view as we fly.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“There are certain qualities I find…more tame when I’m not in shadow form,” he says, a casual grin appearing on his beautiful mouth. “I’m afraid the darkness brings out the worst in me.”
Were I the type to speak my snark aloud, I would inform him that this tendency doesn’t exactly make him unique. “But you haven’t been in shadow form since we clasped hands in the clock tower.”
“The effects linger. They take time to wear off.”
That would explain the change in his eyes, the shift from black all over to the sparkling blue eyes that now dance over my features. My stomach twists, considering the wickedness Peter expressed only moments ago still swarms within him, even if he possesses a tighter grasp on it now.
“Well, as long as you don’t threaten to drop me again.”
Peter leans in. “Only when you ask me to, Wendy Darling.”
I promptly suppress the shiver running down my spine and divert my attention. Instead, I search the sky for my brothers.
When I don’t find them there, panic wells within me, but then Peter nods toward the ground. “Down there. Don’t fret. They seem to have landed safely.”
Indeed, I’m relieved to find the silhouettes of two boys gracing the beach below, their forms filling out as we approach them. Peter lands us on the beach. I must have lost my heels in the clock tower, because my bare feet sink into the gently pebbled sand. It’s difficult to tell in the dark, but I believe the sand itself is the color of charcoal.
The crash of the waves sends water foaming up the shore, issuing a chill between my toes as it soaks the hem of my skirts.
“Wendy, look!” Michael cries with delight as he crosses a section of tiny pebbles barefoot. There’s no telling at what point in the night he alleviated himself of the burden of shoes. I reach out instinctively to snatch him away from the jagged stretch of beach. When Michael was smaller, the servants had to be especially attentive to glass bottles or saucers should they break, lest Michael step atop them. For a while, my parents wondered if Michael struggled to feel pain in the soles of his feet, but over time we grew to understand that he craved the sensation.
As soon as I go to grab Michael, John puts out a hand and stops me. “I already checked this area for glass or debris. The pebbles themselves are fairly smooth. I wouldn’t want to walk across them barefoot myself, but I don’t think he’ll hurt himself.”
I sigh, my mind set free from at least one worry.
Now that I know my brothers are safe, at least for now, I turn my attention to our surroundings. The beach itself backs up to a cluster of pine trees, their scent giving away their type even in the dark.
“There’s something strange about this place,” says John. “Something that’s not quite right.”
If John plans on explaining, he’s cut off by heavy footsteps as Peter approaches, his wings now tucked behind him.
He says nothing, and with a glance between John and me, we grab Michael by the hands and follow the Shadow Keeper into the darkness.
Trudgingthrough the forest proves to be an ordeal barefooted in the dark. Michael seems unbothered by the ever-changing terrain beneath our feet, though John, who actually managed to hold onto his shoes, gives in and launches Michael onto his back after the former steps on a thorn branch.
All the while, the shadow of a winged figure leads us deeper and deeper into the forest.
“What’s to say that fae don’t feast on the flesh of humans? Or sacrifice us to their gods?” John asks.
“You’re quite the skeptic, you know,” I tease my brother, to which he lets out a wry but knowing laugh.
“And you’re not skeptical enough.”
My memory flashes back to the captain. John had known by looking at the man he was trouble, yet I’d been drawn to him like a mouse to a trap, the gold of his Mating Mark like the shiny end of a hook, begging the gaping trout to swim just a tad closer.
The memory of the captain’s hands on my waist dances over me, and I have to shove it away, focus instead on putting one foot in front of the other. If I think of the captain’s hands on me, I’m afraid of what will come up, that the feelings I let him muster within my inner being will prove me a traitor to my parents, unwittingly aiding their killer.
Now that we’re in the quiet of the forest, Michael’s humming coupled with our footsteps the only noises, I can’t seem to block out the sounds of tonight’s—has it only been a few hours?—horrors. Every snapping twig is the slice of the blade against their exposed necks, every glance I take at the crescent moon, my mother’s grin, or the curve of blood against her exposed throat.
When I slip my hand into my gown pocket, I find it empty. My hope sinks as I realize my pocket watch must have fallen out during the escape. It might not have been my favorite memory of my father, but it was the last bit of him I had left. Or, thought I had.
It’s no use distracting myself, so I glance over at John and try to decipher whether the same images and sounds berate his mind. He’s blinking furiously underneath his glasses, his lashes damp, though he doesn’t let the moisture spill past that point.
My heart aches for my brothers, and I wonder what will become of both of them. What sort of life of servitude have I sold them into? Does John resent me for it already? Will Michael one day hate me for it, or will his mind ever develop to the point of understanding what has happened to us? Why Mama and Papa no longer roll him snugly in his pile of sheets at night.
My thoughts are interrupted by the snapping of a twig and a gentle glow in the distance. As we follow the Shadow Keeper, he leads us into a clearing, in the midst of which towers a great oak tree the size of the clock tower. The glowing comes from the holes within its great trunk, where something must be producing light from the inside. Clusters of lichen let off a gentle pinkish hue as they cling to its bark. The canopy spreads high above us, blocking the swirling light of the heavens from reaching us.
Peter spins on his heel to face us, propping himself lazily against the thick trunk of the massive tree as he examines our trio, assessing whether we can be trusted.
“I don’t let you leave after this point.”
“You’ve already claimed me for yourself, haven’t you?” I say, somewhat shocked at how resigned the words sound as they come out of my mouth.
Peter’s eyes flash with amusement. “It was never in your fate for me to let you go, Wendy Darling. But your brothers have a decision to make.”
John glances back and forth between me and Peter. Then shrugs. “It’s not as if there’s another logical option for us, now is there?”
“That’s the spirit,” says Peter. “And the little one?”
John and I exchange a look.
“Michael…” I hesitate, not wishing to give Peter the wrong impression—that Michael doesn’t think for himself or deserve choices in life. “It’s going to be difficult for us to explain to him what’s happening.”
Indeed, Michael is whistling to himself, his curious brown eyes enraptured by the lights coming off of the tree. I remember Mama weeping when Michael was younger over the fact that he never seemed to look at her like he looked at his lights. Part of me understands why it grieved my mother so. The other part of me has always figured that Michael just has his own way of making us feel seen. He might rarely look me in the eye, but I can tell when he clings to my arm or places a toy in my hand that he’s seeing me. Even if it is just out of the corner of his eye.
“I see,” Peter says, looking Michael up and down for the first time. “Well, then. In that case, Michael can have longer to decide.”
I blink, not sure I heard the fae Shadow Keeper correctly, but before I can ask him to clarify, he turns toward the tree and beckons us to follow.
When we reach the tree, Peter holds a hand out to Michael. I’m a little shocked. Usually Michael swats away hands of people he doesn’t know, but Peter somehow knew not to grab it. Just to extend his as an invitation. Michael sways a bit, then puts his little hand into Peter’s, who leads it to a knot on the log.
It’s strange to watch, when usually it’s Michael leading us by the hand to whatever he needs.
As soon as Michael’s palm touches the knot on the tree, it starts to glow, tendrils of light spreading through the cracks in the bark.
“How do we see? We see with our eyes,” whispers Michael, and the words are so familiar, I almost hear them in my father’s voice.
But then, slowly, the tendrils of the tree multiply. They slip over Michael’s hand, consuming it like a disease.
Michael’s shriek is the most horrible sound ever to reach my ears.
Panic strikes my brother’s sweet features. He begins jumping up and down, slamming his open palm against the tree in an attempt to break free.
“No,” I whisper, wishing to yell but afraid to spook Michael further. Tears sting my eyes as I watch my terrified brother struggle. I go to grab him, to yank the horrible flora off of him, but Peter’s shadows restrain both me and John.
What have I done?
“Bad bad bad bad bad!” screams Michael, now clutching at his hair and attempting to rip it from his head.
“Please,” I beg Peter. “Please, let him go.”
If Peter’s listening to me, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he dips a finger into the pouch at his hip and presses the faerie dust to Michael’s lips. Michael must have bitten him, because when Peter withdraws his finger from my brother’s mouth, a droplet of blood wells at its tip. At least some dust must have made it into Michael’s mouth because a palpable calm comes over him, and his poor little body goes still as the branches overcome him, wrapping him in their dreadful cocoon and drawing him into the base of the tree.
“What did you do?” I cry, but to my surprise, John takes my hand, his voice rather devoid of the rage I would have expected.
“It’s a reaping tree,” he explains, as if that’s supposed to comfort me after just having watched it consume our little brother. “It provides shelter to those it deems…” He stops, glancing toward me, then at Peter.
“It’s not going to take me,” John says matter-of-factly.
Peter cranes his head to the side, back to leaning against the tree with his arms crossed like he enjoyed watching our panic, enjoyed drugging my little brother to calm him down. “Is that so?” Peter asks, scanning my brother like he sees something in him that’s surprising.
“Well then,” says Peter. “If you’ve educated yourself about the reaping tree, then I’m assuming you know what must be done to win its favor once you’ve lost it.”
For the first time tonight, I glimpse John tremble under Peter’s gaze.
“Sure you don’t wish to turn back?” Peter asks.
John glances between me and the tree, but I know he’s looking at where Michael just disappeared. He bites the inside of his cheek. “No. Family sticks together,” he says, echoing a sentiment of Mother’s.
My heart aches, but dread is brooding in my stomach.
“What does the tree want from you, John?” I ask.
John blinks, hesitating. “The reaping tree accepts those it perceives as having something…missing. Michael has his difficulty communicating.” A pang strikes my heart. Part of me resents the tree for believing there’s anything lacking in my brother. The other part of me considers my father’s blatant refusal to acknowledge my brother’s struggles by making light of them or pretending them away. I’m not sure which mindset hurts Michael more in the end. If there’s an in-between to be had that accepts him as he is while still acknowledging the invisible challenges he faces in the world he lives in. “You have—” John blinks, and my chest tightens. There are several wounds to which John could be referring, though I’m unsure which ones he knows about. “Unfortunately, I’m painfully normal.”
“Then what does the tree want from you?”
John shrugs. “It wants something to be missing, I suppose.”
Peter’s brow raises, like for the first time my brother has actually succeeded in sparking his curiosity. I don’t realize what John is planning to do. Not until Peter laughs and tosses John an object.
John places his hand flat upon a tree stump nearby, and before I realize what’s happening, slices his pinkie finger at the knuckle.
I hardly register it.
Not until the bulb of his finger hits the stump, blood spattering across the moss.
John doesn’t even cry out. He just clutches his hand to his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head, the sight only magnified by his thick-rimmed glasses.
“John.” I call out my brother’s name, but he puts out his other hand to stop me. Like he doesn’t want me taking on his pain, lest I make it my own. Slowly, I back away, at a loss of how to help as my brother wraps his wounded hand in a strip of cloth he’s ripped from his coat, before stumbling over to the tree trunk.
When he unwraps his wound and spreads his blood across the ripples in the bark, the tree itself seems to drink it in, absorbing the scarlet liquid. Slowly, the vines come and consume John, until it’s just Peter and me left in these forsaken woods.
Peter cocks his head to the side, examining where the tree is knitting back together in the shape of John’s absorbed body.
“I have to say, I wasn’t sure your brother had it in him—the older one, I mean. Seems like the stuffy sort.”
I tense, my head swimming with rage. I can hardly look at the tree stump where John’s severed pinkie remains.
I think I might lose the contents of my stomach.
“I must say, you Darlings are more entertaining than one could ever hope for from a family so terribly sheltered.”
“You’re vile,” I say, but it comes out shaking, pitiful.
Peter flashes me a disarming grin. “Remember that, Wendy Darling, lest you be tempted to forget.”
Then he gestures his head to the side. “Should you go in first, or should I?”
I wish I could say I step forward out of sheer bravery, but the idea of being left behind alone in this forest that seems to breathe villainy has me shivering. Besides, I’ll always go where my brothers go.
So I step toward the awful tree, its lights looking more like the bulbs that hang off an angler fish at the bottom of the ocean, and place my hand against the knot. From deep within the bark comes a thrumming, one that beats like a pulse against my open palm. Hungry, the vines skitter toward my outstretched fingers, diligent ants readying to swarm their prey.
For a moment, I hope that maybe the tree won’t accept me. That like John, there won’t be anything in me that’s missing. Not that I want to cut off my own finger, of course. But just this once, I think I’d like to be told I’m not lacking.
The tree does no such thing, and in an instant it snakes its tendrils around my body, binding me in utter darkness before swallowing me whole.