Chapter 2 – In Sickness and In Health
There was an awkward moment of silence, then Peter spoke, “How?”
“Hmm?” Hook replied, still going through his chests, “How what?”
“How did you do it? What did you do to me? Why did you do it?” Peter yelled angrily.
“Ahhh. Well, as to how I did it,” he looked up, “that’s my secret. Suffice it to say I had fey help.” He grinned wickedly. “Not all in Neverland wanted you there. Maybe your Tinker Bell was in on it, too. After all, you wouldn’t have been caught if not for her.”
Peter shook his head in denial, but Hook only smiled, bemused.
Let him chew on that, Hook thought. “As to what did I do, I used the magic the fey creature gave me to sever your link to Neverland and I have bound you to me, but I’m sure you’ve realized that by now. You belong to me now, boy. Blood, sinew, and bone, you are mine. And, as to why did I do it - that is quite easy to answer. I want you to suffer, boy, through what everyone is supposed to suffer. Through what you have been avoiding for far too long. You will grow up. You will go to school – I will be your teacher. You will serve me as my cabin-boy. You will become a pirate and remain one of my crew for as long as I am captain. You will make a great pirate, one I shall be quite proud of. I’m going to make you everything you hate. I’m going to make you just like me.”
“Never, Codfish!” Peter cried out. “I’ll escape. I’ll kill you first, and escape.”
Hook rose and stood before the boy. “I’d rather not have to break you, but I will if it becomes necessary. You’ll either grow into a man with your fire and spirit intact, or you’ll grow into a man fit only to wash my boots. I prefer the former, but I’ll keep you any way I can.”
“They won’t let me go. They will come for me and rescue me.” They HAVE to!
“Who?” Hook laughed in amusement, “Your Lost Boys? Your fairy friends? Dear boy, I told them all I killed you. The fairies could not find where I stowed you, and since you are no longer a part of Neverland, they had no choice but to believe me. It really was pathetic how quickly they gave up on you and accepted young Nibs. Your precious Lost Boys never once showed themselves to find you or help you. No one even tried to avenge your murder. You are quite alone, boy. No one is going to come looking for you.”
“You’re lying,” Peter whispered. They couldn’t have come and left again without finding him. Where had he been that not even a fairy could discover him? Maybe they didn’t look very hard. The idea that the fairies might not have wanted him anymore played in his mind for a moment, before he dismissed it as stupid. If they didn’t want me, they would have sent me to the mortal realm. They never would have given me to HIM.
Hook chuckled, “If I’m lying, then why are you still here? Do you think I could stand against the fairies if they came looking for you? And the Lost Boys have never failed to save you before, but that is mostly due to Tinker Bell. So why are you still my prisoner?”
Peter glared defiantly for a moment longer, but then he sagged. I’m too tired. I can’t think now. Let him think I give up. When I’m stronger, I’ll get away. “I’m hungry,” he muttered.
Hook nodded, “Perhaps you can be taught. Let’s hope you’re capable of remembering your lessons.”
For the rest of the day, Peter slept in Hook’s cabin. He had eaten quite a bit of Cookson’s stew (a feat that had left Hook in stark disbelief). But then, Hook mused, if you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat anything. To be fair, the cook had a talent for finding edible things, and was a good judge of plants with nutritional and medicinal value. His food was a lot like medicine in fact – it tasted terrible but it was good for you. He and his men had been eating it for years, and none of them ever had scurvy.
At Hook’s request, Cookson had spiked Peter’s food with something to make him sleep. Now, Peter lay on a cot set up in the Captain’s quarters. They had not spoken again while the boy ate, and Peter had barely finished his stew when he began yawning. He went straight to sleep in Hook’s bed, and the pirates had set up the cot a few feet away and moved him into it. The Captain wanted the boy where he could keep an eye on him. Too many times in the past he had left Peter to the custody of his men, only to have the wily brat trick them into letting him go. Hook tucked the child beneath the covers and watched him for a moment. He had looked so small in Hook’s old shirt. It hung well below his knees and could have passed as a dress. His arms and hands were completely swallowed up in the sleeves, and they had to be rolled up quite a way just so the boy could use his hands.
How old are you? How long were you on that island? He had often guessed at Peter’s age, but that estimate had varied from one encounter to the next. He knew that given the ageless properties of life in Neverland, this small boy could actually be older than Smee. Sometimes the boy showed such naivety and childishness, that he thought he could be no more than eight. But in battle, the boy was cunning and formidable, and his plots against the pirates were brilliant at times. In those instances, he would guess Peter was perhaps as old as twelve.
I’ll call it ten, then. I made his birthday 3 days ago, so now I make his age to be ten. A boy should have an age and birth-date as a measuring stick to grow by.
Confident that Peter would not awaken for many hours, he went out on deck to see to his duties. All day, Hook remained on the deck. He mostly manned the wheel, but occasionally he relinquished it to stretch his legs around deck and make sure his men weren’t lollygagging. It was well into night now, and the clouds were building, obscuring the two moons. Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the wind was building: a storm was fast approaching. Hook glanced at his cabin door for the hundredth time since he had left Peter there. A growing anxiety was building within him, and he was having difficulty concentrating. I fear no storm. So why am I worried?
“How’s it look, Mullins?” he asked.
“Movin’ fast, sir. It’ll be upon us soon, we got maybe an hour to batten down. The men are already settin’ about makin’ ready. I don’t know what kind of storm this is, but it promises to be rough.”
The Captain nodded, “Excellent. This is our first sea-storm in open water for a long time, I hope you curs are still fit for the task ahead,” Hook paused suddenly at a faint scream. “What was that?” he whispered.
Mullins frowned, “What was what?”
But Hook didn’t reply. He hurried to his cabin. The scream had been Peter, but he had heard it only in his mind. He knew something was wrong with the boy in the same way he had known earlier that Peter had awakened. Hook entered and looked at the cot. Peter was still asleep, but he was drenched in sweat and shivering. He tossed about, muttering – obviously in the throes of a nightmare.
“Boy?” Hook called, walking to the bed. He removed his glove and placed his hand on Peter’s cheek. God, he’s burning alive!
“Smee!” he yelled.
The bosun’s head popped into the cabin. “Yes, Cap’n?”
“Bring Cookson to me. Now.”
“Ay, sir!”
While he waited, he wiped the sweat from Peter’s brow and placed a wet cloth on his forehead. Peter calmed a bit and lay quietly under the blanket.
“Yessur, you vant me?” Cookson asked.
“My new cabin-boy has taken a turn for the worse. I haven’t the time to tend him, nor do any of the other men. You know the storm’s approaching, and I and every other man need to be there. You will stay here and watch him. Use more of your herbs to treat him. I want him well, and if he expires, I will be forced to find a new cabin-boy – and a new cook. Take the utmost care of him, your very life depends on it.”
“Ay, ay Captin sir! I vill vatch ‘em good! I come back vith medicine.” Cookson left to get his supplies from the galley.
Hook replaced the cloth on Peter’s forehead. Peter moaned and his eyes opened. He smiled at Hook and there was no recognition in his eyes, “You scared it away.”
Hook was confused, “Scared what?”
“The monster. It wanted to eat me.”
“Why would it want to eat you?”
“It ate all the other children. I heard them scream. I’m the last, and he’s still hungry.” Peter frowned. “Don’t let it get me. I’d rather grow up. He steals your soul and you live in his belly forever.”
“Does he? How do you kill this monster?”
“You cut out his heart. My mommy cut out his heart, but he killed her before he died. She went away. Where did my mommy go?”
“I imagine she went to heaven, boy.”
“Will she ever come back?” Peter asked hopefully.
Hook sighed, becoming annoyed, “No.”
“Why not? Doesn’t she love me anymore?”
Hook wasn’t sure how to answer. The child was obviously delirious. “All mothers love their children. It’s the law.”
“Even your mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
Hook stared in shock at Peter. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“You’re the one who scares the monster away.”
Umm… “That’s right.”
“Okay,” Peter said with a wistful smile, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Well that was odd, Hook thought in exasperation. Cookson, who had just returned, cleared his throat. “I haf medicine. I vatch boy, now, Captin.”
“Good. His fever is too high. He’s having nightmares and he’s delirious. Humor him if he awakens, keep him calm and let him sleep. If anything bad happens and you can’t handle it, find me or Smee.” Hook turned and left. Cookson settled in for the watch.
True to Mullins’s prediction, the storm was upon them within an hour. It was strong, and the pirates spent the entire night keeping the ship from being damaged or sunk. But it was no hurricane, and the pirates – though out of practice – settled quickly into the routine. The biggest difficulty was that the ship was woefully undermanned, a problem Hook swore to remedy as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The violent weather lasted through the night and into the morning. When it finally calmed, a heavy drizzle and fog settled in. Hook called for his men to rest in shifts when he deemed it was safer sailing, and took the first watch at the helm himself. At his first opportunity, he returned to his cabin to rest and check on his boy.
Cookson’s treatments seemed to be working: Peter, though still feverish, was not nearly as hot, and for the most part he slept peacefully. Cookson was exhausted and Hook sent the man to rest.
Cookson paused at the door, “Captin? Peter Pan, he say strange things in sleep. Strange vords, like singing. I not understand him most of time, but make me have bad feeling.”
“Don’t be concerned. I’m sure he himself has no idea what he was saying. It’s the fever. Now leave so I can rest,” Hook snapped irritably, and the Cook left quickly.
After a few hours of sleep, Hook awoke to discover what had unsettled his cook. Peter was sitting up on his cot, talking to someone. But when the man uncovered the lantern, only the two of them were in the room. He listened to the one-sided conversation for a moment, and realized that the boy was speaking some weird, musical tongue. And, even stranger, Hook realized that he could understand the child’s words.
“I don’t know how, Tink. There’s no pixie dust for me and I can’t remember how to fly. I can’t find my happy thoughts. It hurts too much inside.”
He paused as if listening, and spoke again, “I know. How much longer do I have? I can feel it fading around me, I just can’t touch it like I used to…. He won’t let me. He’ll stop me if he can…. I can’t go home, but I can die. I have to, before it’s gone forever.” He nodded at the imagined replay and laughed, “I will. I promise.”
Hook sat staring at the boy. Mindless ramblings to an imaginary pixie. He understood how powerful hallucinations could be when you were extremely sick, but Peter had been recovering when he last checked on him. He either had relapsed, or he was seriously unbalanced in his mind. Hook wasn’t sure which prospect was worse, but at least if he was sick he could be treated. He didn’t want to think that his prize had gone insane. He noticed that Peter had stopped speaking and was sitting with his head bowed. The man climbed out of his bed and knelt down beside Peter. The boy was asleep, breathing softly and deeply. Hook put his arm behind the boy and gently pushed him back so that he lay flat again. Next he replaced the covers over the boy and went back to bed. Cookson was right: Peter’s words left him with a bad feeling. Resolving to question the boy about it when he was awake and coherent, Hook rolled over and went back to sleep.
The next night found Cookson once again watching the boy. Hook was alone on the deck, having sent all of the men below for rest and recreation. The ship was becalmed, and the light rain still persisted. To avoid mutiny, he allowed his men to while away their time out of the cold and wet until the wind returned. Cookson, however, had to remain in the cabin with the sick boy. The cook himself was sick – sick of sitting here, bored, while Peter slept. At least the boy’s fever had finally broken, so there was hope that his watch could end soon and he could return to his beloved galley. Hook had been most pleased when he was informed an hour ago that Peter’s temperature nearly normal.
Cookson hummed as he flipped through his cookbook. He was going to cook something special for the men to celebrate his return to duty. He heard a noise and saw that Peter was awake and sitting up.
“Can I have some water?” he asked, voice cracking and hoarse.
“Ay, boy. Es good to see you vake.” Cookson handed Peter a mug of water and waited while he drained it. “You feel better? You vant something?”
“No. Ummm… thanks. Where’s Hook?”
“He out on deck. Everbody else below. Now you better, so I can go below too. But not until Captin comes back.”
Peter looked around the room and saw a tray on a nightstand by his bed. There was an empty bottle, clean bandages, and some spoons on the tray. I have to go. I need a weapon. Where did Hook put my knife? How do I get away from this one? Suddenly an idea struck him, and he suppressed a giggle at the cleverness of it.
“I’m finished with this,” he said, holding the mug out to the cook. Just before the man could take it from him, he dropped it onto the floor. Being a wooden cup, it didn’t break, but rolled beneath the cot. “Sorry! I thought you had it,” he apologized, trying to sound sincere.
“No vorry. I get it,” Cookson said with a smile and bent over to retrieve the mug.
Peter reached out to the nightstand and grabbed the bottle by the neck. It was as heavy as it looked, and he raised it to the ready. As soon as the cook’s head began to rise, Peter swung with all of his strength (which wasn’t much) and smashed it into the back of the man’s head. The bottle was made to withstand the rough-and-tumble sea life, but Cookson’s head was hard as a rock. It shattered and the poor cook fell to the floor.
Peter sighed in relief, then saw the blood on the back of the man’s head. It alarmed him a bit… he didn’t want to kill the man who had taken care of him. But, he HAD to get away. He didn’t have much time left. He had to escape, one way or another, before he left the Never-realm. Even if he died in the attempt, he would at least join the others in death if he died here. Death in the mists or in the mortal real meant his soul would reach a different destination. He remembered being told this, long ago, but he didn’t remember by whom. It didn’t matter though. It was the truth, and he would rather die in Neverland than live a long life anywhere else. He felt a bit reassured when he saw the cook draw a breath, and set about making his escape. Surely Hook has my things here somewhere. At the very least he must have a weapon in here. He looked at the broken bottle-neck in his hand. This was sharp, but he needed to find something better. He shoved it out of sight beneath his pillow, and gingerly put his feet on the ground away from the mess on the floor.
He was weak and unsteady, and his foot pained him. But his resolve gave him strength, and the thought of another fight with Hook and eventual escape helped him to ignore the pain. He quietly searched the room, and laughed softly in delight when he found his dagger. He could not find his clothes, and decided that maybe the overlarge shirt he was wearing would suit him better anyway. I can hide the knife under it. Hook will never know it’s there. He found a sash, tied it around his waist beneath the shirt, and tucked the blade within it. Thus clad, he tiptoed to the door, opened it a bit and peered outside.
He saw his enemy standing at the helm, alone. He listened, and heard nothing to indicate anyone else was around. His eyes narrowed as he considered the large man that had hurt him so much. For some strange reason, he felt he might not wish to kill him. He felt both drawn to and repulsed by the sight of Hook, and stood for a minute trying to figure out what to do. He slid out of the door, creeping along the shadows and sheltering behind barrels and obstacles until he got to the hatch. It was closed to keep the rain out, so it was easy to slide a bar through the latch. He glanced at the silhouette of Hook through the drizzle, and made his way silently back to the cabin. He did not go inside, but stood in the rain and waited to figure out what he should do next.
Hook was a fairly solitary man, and was relishing this time alone. He could think, without having to issue orders, threaten the crew, or tend to his young prisoner. It was late, nearing mid-night. There were no moons or stars to be seen, since the damned drizzle still persisted. Hook was weary of being damp, but at least his cloak kept most of the wet off. He stared into the dark, daydreaming, when he felt Peter watching him. He turned to his cabin and saw Peter standing there, staring. “It’s good to see you awake and on your feet, but what are you doing out here, Peter?”
Peter stood silently for a moment longer, considering. Then he gingerly limped over to the wheel and stood close to the Captain, sheltering from the rain under Hook’s cloak. He remained quiet.
“You are going to get sicker out here. Where is Cookson? Why did he let you get up?”
“He’s asleep. I woke up and now he’s asleep.” Not a lie, just a different way to tell the truth.
“I’ll flog the cur for dereliction of duty,” Hook swore darkly.
“Don’t,” Peter looked up in alarm. “He took care of me. I don’t want him to hurt anymore because of me.”
Hook felt an odd urge to indulge the boy, “All right then. But you still shouldn’t be out here. Go back to the cabin, dry off, and get back in your bed.”
“It’s boring in there and Cookson snores,” Peter whined.
Hook growled and angrily picked Peter up by the front of the shirt. “It wasn’t a request, Pan. Go back. Dry off. Get in bed.”
Peter sighed and decided to see if a miracle could occur. “Please, Captain. Take me home. Or give me a rowboat and I’ll take myself,” he pleaded. The raw need in his face made Hook smile.
“Take you home? My dear boy, you’ll never see that place again. Accept it. You are dead to them now!” Hook burst out laughing, “Take you home indeed!”
He laughs at me? Hook’s evil, so what did I expect? I’ll kill him, though. I have to… I have to get him out of me. At least now I don’t have to kill the rest of the crew, too. Peter raised his arms over his head, and dropped out of the oversized shirt. He hit the ground soundlessly and ran.
“What cozening is this?” Hook exclaimed. He threw the shirt aside and looked down. He didn’t see Peter anywhere. Suddenly, there was a searing pain in the back of his thigh. His leg buckled beneath him, but he twisted to look behind him. That little bastard stabbed me! Where did he get a knife? “PAN!” he roared in fury.
He heard laughter in the night. With the darkness and rain, it was difficult to see.
“Cap’n! Cap’n! Let us out!” he heard the muffled calls of his men.
“Get your lily-livered asses up here now and catch me that boy!” he screamed.
“Locked below! Can’t get the hatch open!” they called back.
“Cookson!” Hook called.
“He can’t hear you!” sang Pan’s mocking voice. “I’m going to kill you, James Hook! You won’t do that for me, but I’ll do it for you.”
“Will you, boy?” Hook sneered. “Come face me like a man and we’ll decide this. There are worse things than death!”
He heard a noise and looked up, but too late. Peter fell down from the yard-arm above, swinging a knife. At the last moment, Peter twisted his wrist and hit the pirate on the temple with the hilt instead of driving the blade through Hook’s skull as he had intended. Hook fell down, stunned by the blow but not knocked out. Peter landed on top of Hook’s chest and sat there. He put his blade to Hook’s throat, the tip just barely breaking the skin.
“What you’ve done to me already has been worse than death. You took me away! You ripped out a part of my soul and replaced it with yourself. I can feel your taint inside me; I can feel you in my mind. I want you out! I want Neverland back. You won’t release me, so I have to kill you,” Peter growled.
“Stop your whining, boy, and do it then!” Hook snarled.
Peter’s eyes flashed and he pressed harder on the knife. Then he froze. They sat that way for a minute, as the battle waged in his mind. “What did you do to me?” he whispered in fey. “Why can’t I kill you?”
A malicious grin spread across Hook’s face as Peter’s words registered in his mind. Peter dove to the side just in time as Hook’s claw swiped past his ear. He rolled, ignoring the pain in his leg. He lost his grip on the knife and heard it skitter across the deck. Last resort, he thought and ran for the railing. He reached it and began to pull himself over it with the intention of casting himself into the sea. He could hear Hook running behind him, and he smiled because he knew the man was too late.
“PAN! STOP!” Hook roared. To the surprise of both, Peter did.
NO! What’s wrong with me? I can’t move! Peter thought in panic. At Hook’s command, his muscles had frozen and his head began to throb. He hunkered on the banister, one foot on the railing, the other just above the deck. He heard Hook chuckle, closer, and felt cold dread knot in his stomach.
“Well now,” the pirate said in a voice that made Peter’s skin crawl. “This is an interesting side-effect. I shall have to explore this ability more, later. But first,” Hook grabbed the boy by his hair and yanked him off the railing. He picked Peter up by his throat and glared into his eyes, “you are going to pay dearly for that.”
Peter panicked and began to struggle, trying to release the hold on his neck. In desperation, he swung his legs and kicked, catching Hook in the groin. Hook gasped in pain and dropped the child. He doubled over for a moment, breathing deeply, and then slowly straightened.
The fall knocked the wind from Peter, and he struggled to get his air back. When he saw Hook begin to recover, he stood and tried to run. In his panic and haste, he tripped. He looked up at the huge man towering over him.
Hook snarled and leapt upon the boy. He was so infuriated that he had lost all reason and felt only the need to punish the boy, to make him understand who was in control. His eyes flamed with rage and hate as he pinned the struggling child to the deck.
“Pan, you little bastard,” he screamed, “you dare to defy me? You have yet to realize that I am your master now. So I will give you another reminder. I’m going to enjoy teaching you a lesson you will never forget.”
He struck the boy across the face, bloodying Peter’s nose and splitting his lip. Peter quit struggling for a moment, dazed senseless from the blow. Hook straddled Peter and tucked the boy’s arms beneath his huge legs. The boy lay on his back, helpless. Peter shook his head and tried to free himself, to no avail.
Hook grabbed him by the throat again and forced the boy to look at him. He laughed insanely as he saw the blood trickling down Peter’s cheek.
Peter remained defiant and spat at the man, but then something happened. The thorn in his mind suddenly felt bigger, and became a spinning blade. Hook was lashing out, focusing his anger, hate, malice and cruelty on Pan. Peter’s mind reeled under the onslaught. He had never felt such emotions so strongly. He had never known that kind of hate, and it was worse because it was hate and anger towards him. It tore into him, battering his senses, cutting into his mind and soul.
“You’re mine, boy! I OWN you! I bought you with the price of that bauble on your ear,” Hook said coldly, unaware of the mental attack he was subjecting the child to. “You keep forgetting who won the game so I’m going to make it obvious to you and everyone else whose property you are!” He took his hook and very carefully began carving a shape into the boy’s breast, just below his collar bone. Peter screamed hysterically, from both the inner and outer pain, and Hook laughed again. Even when the captain finished his design, Peter still screamed.
“Quiet, brat, or I really will give you something to scream about,” he snarled. He squeezed Peter’s throat, cutting off the cries, and watched as the boy choked and his face changed colors.
Peter didn’t notice when he passed out. The pain in his mind continued an eternity after the world went black. But he still saw Hook’s flaming eyes, and felt the man’s hate and malice cut through him. Finally, he felt something break, and everything went away. He floated, and there was no pain, no sensation of anything, no awareness at all.
Hook came out of the red haze when Peter stopped moving. He realized with a jolt what he was doing and let go of the small, ravaged throat. Peter’s eyes were open, but glazed. He wasn’t breathing.
“Peter?” he called shakily, but no answer came. Dear God, no! I’ve killed him. What the hell was I doing? Fear gripped his heart and he scrambled to get off the child’s body. “Peter,” he whispered urgently and shook him. “Peter, don’t die. Breathe!” he screamed and shook harder, “Breathe, damn you!”
Obediently, Peter’s lungs drew a long, raspy breath, and exhaled. Another followed, then another, and the blue of the boy’s skin and lips turned to pink. Peter’s eyes slowly closed.
Hook felt some relief when the boy again drew breath, but worry and anxiety still pulled at him. Something’s wrong. He’s not all right. He realized suddenly that he couldn’t feel Peter in his mind. Ever since he broke Peter away from Neverland, he’d had a sense of the boy. It had become much more pronounced when he completed the binding. But now, the contact was gone. Peter’s presence was absent completely, and Hook felt that a piece of himself was gone with it, leaving an aching emptiness within him.