Straight On Till Morning (Disney Twisted Tales) - Liz Braswell Page 0,67

Wendy’s stories always hoped to find to quench their thirst and save themselves from starvation.

Wendy sat up as best she could on nothing.

“Thank you, that’s most kind.” She took the rubyfruit and popped off the stem like she had in dreams. It fell neatly into ten perfect, juicy sections. “Would you like one?”

Tinker Bell shrugged nonchalantly but took a section and immediately sank her face into its pale, creamy flesh, tearing out mouthfuls while somehow managing not to get any juice on her face. A delicate, civilized little beast.

It was rather funny when Wendy thought about it. Despite Tinker Bell giving Wendy the gift of understanding fairy tongue, they had just had an entire conversation without the fairy speaking a single word. In fact, most of Tink’s communicating still seemed to be in gestures, facial expressions, and body movements. They weren’t just affectations or simply to enhance understanding for those who couldn’t decipher jingles; this was really just how Tinker Bell spoke. When she had to she could be as articulate and verbose as anyone else—including other fairies, who spoke clearly and wordily and whose hands didn’t move at all during discourse (like well-trained boarding school ladies). Tinker Bell’s meaning was wrapped up in movement; she was energy and gesture.

Wendy ate another piece of fruit and turned to watch the east. She wasn’t normally fond of sunrises because she was barely awake when they occurred and because they signaled the end of the peaceful quiet of the house. Others rose at that time, and Wendy had to deal with the various personalities and problems of the day that were outside her own head. Sunrises were never spectacular in London, anyway: just a yellowish lightening of the fog, or, on a really clear day in autumn, a brightening of rare blue sky somewhere behind all the rooftops. Perhaps in some neighborhood east of the Darlings’ house, east of their street, east of the park, east and east and east, maybe someone at the edge of London saw the sun come up properly, from behind something natural like the sea or a forest edge. But no one else did.

Now two days in a row Wendy got to witness the real thing, Never Land–style. First came the strange false dawn that presaged the sun’s appearance, like the hopeful breath of an audience before a famous chanteuse steps out onto stage.

Taking its own time, the lemony Never Land sun finally rose—and surprisingly hot for the morning, its first rays hitting Wendy’s skin with an almost tangible pressure.

Through all this, the air and the sunlight, came a strange vibration.

At first Wendy’s brain almost dismissed it, thoughtlessly categorizing the repeated drone as “waves crashing on a shore.” But the girls weren’t low enough to hear any waves—and they weren’t over a beach at all. So her mind tried to resolve the sounds into words or hums: ommm, nam-nam-nam-nam ommmmm and strings of only slightly more complicated sounds.

Tinker Bell saw her frowning and smiled.

Chanting Peninsula, she jingled. Get it?

“Oh! Yes! Not ‘Enchanted’! The whole peninsula…chants. That’s amazing! But what is it that makes the sounds, specifically?”

Tinker Bell shrugged, no longer interested in the question or the subject. She pulled Wendy’s sleeve and pointed down: directly beneath them was the recognizable forest of Never Land, and there, just beyond it, was…a blank wall.

Clouds, gray and white and eggshell and beige and every not-quite-color in between drifted over each other in unhealthy layers. Fingers of mist spun out almost purposefully, ensnaring a tree or a rock and then using that anchor to crawl along farther. Yet in other places the mist stretched thin and snapped away from wherever it was before, revealing seemingly untouched foliage and landscape beneath it. Wendy wasn’t sure what she expected—dead land? Changed, unfamiliar objects?—but was nevertheless surprised the magical fog moved on without altering anything in its wake. It didn’t look harmless.

Inside the mist itself, however, something seemed not quite right. There were hints of pale brown or orange, with ochre…some surface that reflected light not from the sun that was now twinkling over Never Land; a different star perhaps, dun-colored and morose. Wendy shivered. The pirates were frightening, the crystal guardian was murderous, and the mermaids were surprisingly hostile, but this…this was a hint of the completely unknowable. And far, far more terrifying.

Tinker Bell pointed down and began to descend, spiraling like a drill.

“But why?” Wendy asked, coming somewhat clumsily after her, skirts flying up into her face as she desperately tried to