of the lantern.
“Well, some would say—not me, necessarily, Cap’n—but some might say it’s less about revenge and more about…well…chasing your own youth, sir.”
Hook stared at him. In the dim hold, the two regarded each other silently for a long, awkward moment.
“What in blazes is that supposed to mean?” the captain finally demanded.
“Well, it’s like this, Cap’n. Peter’s young and adventurous and can fly, sir. And you can’t never catch him, he’s always receding from you, as it were, sir. Like youth. And also, he cut off your hand, which might could be looked at as representative of the end of your prowess with a sword, and—”
“OH, SHUT YOUR BLOODY NONSENSE UP!” Hook roared, standing up and throwing the desk over. As the books tumbled and he pulled out his flintlock, Zane felt a strange sense of relief. This was the sort of ending he expected.
“I ought to shoot you in the head, you insane, Freudian dimwit,” Hook growled. “We’re only Jungians on this boat, you know. I can see all this focus on Peter Pan has made you a bit loony.”
“Me… ? Loony? Focused on Peter Pan… ?”
But Hook wasn’t even paying attention.
“Well, maybe we could all use a break,” he said with an air of giving up. “A bit of R & R might do you and the crew some good. And, as it happens, although Peter’s shadow is leading us almost directly south, I have a bit of an errand to get done first, at Skull Island.”
Zane’s face lit up. “Skull Island! The boys’ll love that! We can dig up some casks we hid there, have a right party. That’ll get you back to feeling yourself, sir.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you and the crew can have an evening. I need to work. To prepare for my final showdown with Peter.…”
Hook’s eyes flicked to a pile in the corner. It was almost indistinguishable from the other pirate bric-a-brac he chose to collect: pianofortes, urns, snuffboxes, an evil-looking and sinuous black dagger. But there were several tightly capped quarter-casks with what looked like three Xs stamped on their sides, and a pile of rope or fuse.
There was also what looked like a broken-up clock.
Hook saw the surprise on Zane’s face.
“Oh yes, I know. Usually I hate the dratted things. But it’s just one last clock,” the captain mused quietly. “The last clock. For Skull Island.”
“All right, Cap’n. Whatever. I’ll go tell the crew about landing at the island. They’ll be happy to hear it.”
But Hook was already picking up the desk and frowning at his drawings.
“If you see Mr. Smee, send him in here. That rascal’s been missing all morning and I haven’t had my tea yet.”
Zane sighed again, shook his head, and prepared to deliver the tiny bit of good news to the crew.
The sky above the jungle grew darker and lighter at the same time, shades exchanging depth and brightness. It took Wendy a moment of watching through the hole in the tree to realize what was happening: the storm was clearing up, the clouds were dissipating and leaving a streaky just-washed sky. A night sky, bright with stars and a moon that hadn’t risen yet. Or moons. Still inky; the world lay in shadow.
“Well, this is rather beautiful,” Wendy said, pushing her way up and out of their den. The forest looked like it was covered in pixie dust—and transformed in other indescribably mysterious ways as well. A very un-tropical and refreshing breeze blew. The air smelled delightful and fresh; there was no heavy undercurrent of the rot or foul sweetness that usually permeated the forest floor.
Winged things began to come out of their hiding places. Giant birds flapped heavily overhead like geese (if geese had four wings). Night singers, invisible in their slick black feathers, called out to each other tentatively. Insects began to chirp and scrtch.
One particularly wondrous Never Land creature hummed up right in front of Wendy. It looked like a very, very, very large carpenter bee…if that bee had a thorax the size and shape of a wine glass. Its wings, strangely geometric and crystalline, looked too small to be able to lift such a load. A pair of long legs hung out in front mirrored by a pair of tiny feelers above. Large faceted eyes stared dumbly ahead.
As Wendy watched, its bulb-thorax flickered and slowly lit up.
Not like a fire or an electric light, but more dimly, and sort of black-and-white, like a photograph.
Deep within this glow images began to appear.
A hazy