The Hook (1991)

TAVERNE

Inside, there were pirates lounging in chairs and on stools, some smoking, some cleaning knives, a few reading tattered copies of newspapers labeled Pirate Today and The Daily Pirate. Tables were occupied by pirates eating from plates heaped with cream puffs, pies, cakes, and sweets of all sorts accompanied by tall mugs of cola. A table was reserved for Hook, and he and Jack shared a monstrous banana split to which Smee kept adding spoonfuls of whipped cream. Jack advised Hook beforehand, rather embarrassed to have to do so, that he was not allowed to have sweets before breakfast. But the captain simply laughed and announced that in his town sweets were breakfast.

From there they went on to the square and a mock horse race with Hook riding Tickles, Jack riding Smee, and a gaggle of other pirates riding each other, all charging around the crocodile tower, yelling wildly. Though Hook urged Tickles on rather insistently with his claw, Jack emerged the winner. Jack thought there was a chance that the captain might have let him win, but he was having too much fun to care.

Then there was the imaginary boat ride in the raging thunderstorm, with Hook, Smee, and Jack sitting tight in a lifeboat rocked wildly by a corps of pirates who hoisted them aloft while other pirates and pirate town denizens clashed swords to make lightning and thunder and shook sheets and towels to make wind. Buckets of water sloshed perilously close, as if the sea were really down there, threatening to capsize the boat and send them all to Davy Jones. How real it seemed!

Finally there was the pirate drill with Jack in command and Hook looking on, beaming his approval, as the boy marched an increasingly irritated gang of pirates about the decks of the Jolly Roger until they were on the verge of mutiny.

Boy, oh, boy-what a day!

But now it was coming to a close. The memories danced through his mind, and Jack could only grin and wonder what lay ahead. Tomorrow would bring new adventures, Hook had promised. Just wait, little man. Just wait.

His reverie was interrupted as a small, anxious voice called his name.

"Jack! Jack!"

He stared down at the wharf, where the barred window of a basement prison framed a little girl's dirt-streaked face.

"What do you think you're doing? Why are you playing games with him? Look at me, Jack! You think you're funny, but you're not! You wouldn't be acting this way if Mommy and Daddy were here!"

Jack was silent. Hook slid down from Long Tom and walked to Jack's end, his smile little more than a twitch of his lips.

He reached up and put an arm about the boy. "Do you know who she is, Jack?" he asked softly.

Jack shrugged. "Sure."

"It's me, Jack!" Maggie shouted insistently.

"She's so loud," whispered Hook, sounding sad. He paused. "What's her name again?"

Jack frowned. "Ah…" His mind was suddenly blank.

Hook's smile broadened appreciably. Things were working out better than he had expected.

"I'm Maggie, your sister, you idiot!" she screamed. "When I get out of here, I'm gonna break every model you own! I'm going to mess up your room so bad you won't recognize it!" She sobbed. "It's me! Don't you remember anything? What about Mommy and Daddy? What about them? Jack, it's me!"

Maggie watched in despair as Hook lifted Jack off Long Tom and with his arm about her brother's shoulders led him from view. Jack barely remembered her. He had forgotten her name completely.

She sagged against the bars, her lower lip quivering. She really, really, really wanted Mommy and Daddy!

"Mommy," she said softly.

A tiny voice behind her whispered, "What's a mommy?"

She turned to find one of the littlest captive Lost Boys staring up at her intently. The others were huddled in the dark behind him, all of them dirty and ragged and unkempt, their eyes wide and their faces upturned. From dawn until dusk they had been kept busy by the pirates counting Hook's treasure, chained to chests of it, made to count in cadence the same baubles over and over, sorting, polishing, and then putting them back again. Pirates with whips had urged them on. Pirates with buckets had brought them dreadful food to eat and dirty water to drink. Maggie had hated every minute of it. It almost made her wish she had stayed in Hook's school.

The slave kids were all looking at her expectantly. "Doesn't anyone remember his mother?'' she asked incredulously.

They glanced at each other and shook their heads no.

Maggie climbed down from the box she had been standing on to face them. "What's wrong with everyone here?" she demanded.

"What's a mommy?" the first kid repeated tonelessly.

Maggie frowned thoughtfully. Her eyes glanced down at her favorite nightdress, violet hearts on a cream field. Jack had been wearing a pirate hat. Stupid old Jack.

"Mommies," she repeated. She walked to where another little boy was resting on the floor, whimpering from a bad dream. She lifted his head, fluffed his pillow, and lay him back down again. The whimpering stopped.

"Mommies make sure you always sleep on the cool side of your pillow," she said quietly. She sat down, facing the anxious faces. One by one they crowded close. She thought suddenly of Granny Wendy and her stories of Peter Pan. "They're the ones," she intoned gravely, "who put all your thoughts in order while you sleep so that when you wake up, all the good ones are right on top where you can find them."

Blank stares greeted her pronouncement. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" Heads shook. She thought some more. "Mommies are great," she declared, taking another approach. "They feed you, kiss you, give you baths, and drive you to piano lessons. They play with you when you're lonely. They take care of you when you're sick. They paint, draw, color, hug, kiss, and make everything better when you hurt. And they tuck you into your bed every night."

More blank looks. Except-there! One little boy seemed on the verge of remembering. And there! Another was scratching his head.

Maggie leaned forward. "They give you Band-Aids when you cut yourself, they bake you cookies on rainy afternoons, and they sing you songs, and-"

"Wait!" a Lost Boy exclaimed. "I remember! They're not songs-they're… lullabies!"

"Right!" exclaimed Maggie.

"Sing us one!" called out the others. "Sing us a lullaby!"

Maggie grinned. "All right."

She smoothed out her wrinkled nightgown, tossed back her strawberry-blond hair, and softly began to sing.

Hunched over the railing of the aft deck, facing out toward the harbor mouth where the mix of colors from Neverland's moons formed wondrous patterns on the ocean's surface, Hook, Smee, and Jack lifted their heads as one at the sound of Maggie's voice. For a long time no one spoke, caught up in the enchantment of her singing, lost in their private thoughts.

Then Jack whispered, so low he could barely be heard, "My… my mother sings that song."

Instantly Hook was alert, a scowl chasing the momentary rapture from his angular features. His hook lifted and his eyes fixed on Smee. Do something! he mouthed in fury.

Smee straightened and clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder. "C'mon, me lad!" he bellowed as if calling hogs. "Let's have another go at Long Tom!"

He steered Jack to the cannon, mounted him in place, raced to the other end, climbed aboard, and began whooping and hollering as if he had never had so much fun in his entire life.

Hook walked across to the opposite railing and stared downward at the docks. In a shaft of moonlight, he could see Maggie Banning seated on the floor of his prison.

Far distant, walking alone along a limb of the Nevertree where he could watch the last of the sun's color spread away into the water and the moonglow take its place, Peter Banning came to an uncertain stop. Below, silhouetted against the dark backdrop of the island's cliffs by a shimmer of twinkling lights, sat Hook's pirate town and the Jolly Roger. The air was so clear that he could see the movement of tiny figures on the wharf and streets amid the jumbled ship hulls. It was so still that he could hear their footsteps.

But what he heard now, suddenly, improbably, was the sound of someone singing a soft, sweet lullaby.

I know that song, he thought in surprise.

He had finished his meal in something of a fog. Lost Boys crowded about, all of them talking a mile a minute, asking this, asking that, anxious to be close to him. He had smiled at them, nodded cheerfully, and given pithy answers to their questions-all the while trying to figure out what had happened with that sword and those coconuts. For a moment there, for just a moment, he had been… transformed. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but it was the only description that fit. He shouldn't have been able to do that-to split those coconuts-not even if they had been lying on the table, let alone flying through the air. It was such an incredible piece of luck, such a fluke.

And yet, for just a moment…

He had watched Tink's flash of light as she darted down in front of a glum Rufio. "Did you see?" he had heard her ask. "He's in there, Rufio. Help me get him out. Teach him to fight so he can stand up to Hook. Look in his eyes-he's there!" And she had yanked on his gold earring for emphasis.

But Rufio had simply swatted at her in response and growled, "Tink, you Neverbug! Let go!" so that she had flown indignantly away.

I know that song.

He stared transfixed at the lights of the pirate town, straining to hear the words. As he did so Thud Butt appeared beside him. For a moment neither spoke, listening together to the sound of the music.

"I was thinking, Peter," said Thud Butt when a little time had passed. His round face lifted and his dark eyes gleamed. "When you were like us, there was a Lost Boy named Tootles. Do you remember Tootles?"

Peter nodded wordlessly.

Thud Butt reached up and removed a bag from around his neck. "Hold out your hands, Peter."

Peter did, and Thud Butt emptied the contents of the bag into his cupped palms. Peter stared down. He was holding a handful of marbles.

"These are his happy thoughts," said Thud Butt solemnly. "He lost them a long time ago. I kept them, but they don't work for me." He smiled. "Maybe they'll work for you."

The smile was sad and hopeful all at once. He handed Peter the bag. Peter dumped the marbles back into it, tucked it inside his shirt, and reached over to give Thud Butt a hug.

Thud Butt hugged him back, saying, "My happy thought is my mum, Peter. I can't remember her, though. Do you remember your mum?"

Peter broke away gently and shook his head no.

Thud Butt started to speak, but Peter silenced him with a finger to his lips. "Wait. Listen."

Maggie's lullaby wafted on the night air, rising up like the scent of flowers carried on the wind.

Thud Butt's chubby face beamed in the moonlight. "It sounds like Wendy, Peter," he said softly. "She was our mother once." He paused and glanced over hesitantly. "Do you think she's ever coming back?"

In the pirate prison of the Lost Boys, everyone was drifting off to sleep. Maggie sang more softly now, lower, watching eyes close and heads nod and breathing slow to a whisper. She finished the lullaby but continued to hum the tune, staring off into the darkened corners, thinking of home.

A slight rustle at the barred window caused her to shift her gaze. There sat Captain Hook, cross-legged before the sill, eyes glittering in the moonlight, angular face lowered into shadow, the silhouette of his wig and tricorne unmistakable against the brightened sky.

Maggie quit humming, hesitated a second, then gently moved the heads nestled in her lap. She rose and crossed to stand before him. Hook's eyes had a distant, dreamy look, and his hands were clasped childlike before him.

"Who puts you to sleep, Captain Hook?" Maggie asked quietly.

Hook's smile curled like the ends of his mustaches. "Child, I alone hold the pirates of Neverland together. No one puts Captain James Hook to sleep. I put myself to sleep."

Maggie's clear blue eyes fixed him. "Well, then, that's why you're so sad. You have no mother."

Hook seemed taken aback. For a moment it appeared he was about to protest, that he was about to deny the fact, that somewhere in the dim recesses of his memory lay the fragments of a time when Maggie's assertion had not been true.

But then he just shrugged. "No. I'm sad because I have no war."

Maggie shook her head slowly. "All day long, giving orders, being in charge, making people do things. No one takes care of you. A mother would take care of you. You need a mother very badly. Very, very badly."

Hook stared at her, his face thoughtful. His eyes wandered to the children she had sung to sleep, and for just an instant his face softened.

Then the iron crept back and the softness disappeared. He rose wordlessly and stalked away.

The Tick Tock Museum

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound was pervasive, insistent, and terrifying. Even in his sleep, Hook could not escape it. It followed after him relentlessly. It invaded his dreams, a ghost out of his past wearing a face that was all too familiar.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The crocodile slithered from the depths of Davy Jones's locker, crawling from the netherworld to which Hook had dispatched it, seeking its revenge in the form of a further taste, of a bigger bite. His hand had not been enough to satisfy it. His hand had only given it a craving for more of him. Up the side of the Jolly Roger the crocodile crawled, jaws opening and closing eagerly, eyes bright. Hook tried to run from it, of course. He tried to flee. But he found that he couldn't move. His boots were nailed to the deck. When he tried to escape them, he found that his socks were glued inside. Wrenching and groaning in terror, he fought to break free, prepared to rip the skin from the soles of his feet if need be.

Laughter assailed him in his misery. Nearby stood Peter Pan, head thrown back in merriment, a hammer and nails in one hand, a pot of glue in the other.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Hook lay curled in a ball in his bed, his blankets hauled up about his chin, the side of his face twitching in time to the ticking sound so that his mustaches and eyebrows jumped like the inner workings of the clock that pursued him.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Finally he awoke, and a bloodshot eye flicked open abruptly, one brow still twitching above, one mustache below. The eye stared wildly at nothing, mirroring both terror and rage. Hook flung off his covers and leaped from his bed, nightshirt billowing about him like sailcloth. His claw gleamed wickedly in the early-morning light as he glanced about frantically, trying to locate the hideous sound. He looked right and left. He looked high and low. He rose on tiptoes to scan the top of the bureau. He dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. He rushed to the latticed windows aft and peered down to the waterline and up to the railing.

Nothing!

Flushed with anger, his eyes gone to slits, he charged through the cabin door and out onto the quarterdeck.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He wheeled about, following the sound up the side stairs to the aft deck and Long Tom, his entire body twitching rhythmically now.

It couldn't be back, could it? Not after he'd finally done it in? Not after he'd stuffed and mounted it in the square?

Hook's eyes scanned the empty deck wildly, then settled at last on the hammock where Jack Banning lay asleep.

Slowly, cautiously, Hook approached, hearing the ticking grow louder with every step. He stopped when he reached the boy, shaking as if he were caught naked in a blizzard. His claw stretched out in tiny jerks, closer to the boy, closer, and then deep into his pocket.

When it reappeared, the pocket watch Peter Banning had given to his son was snagged on its tip.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The steady, monotonous, horrid sound built inside Hook's head. The second hand jerked and stopped, jerked and stopped. Hook held the watch up between his finger and thumb, regarding it as he might a poisonous snake. His entire body was shaking and his eyes had gone as red as fire. Hook's face changed from something merely frightening to something hideous. He moved forward as if in a trance, and his shadow fell over the sleeping Jack. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the hook.

In that instant Jack awoke. His eyes opened, still heavy with sleep, and through the yawn that squinched his eyes almost shut, he saw the terrible, menacing form that towered over him. His eyes snapped open, caught sight of Hook's face and claw, and went shut again instantly. Cowering beneath his covers, he cringed, expecting…

"No, Cap'n! Keep yer powder dry, sir!" Smee's hand deftly closed over the watch, muffling the ticking sound to near silence. "Cap'n," he pleaded hurriedly, "the lit'le imp di'n know any better."

Hook's eyes shifted abruptly and settled on his bosun, causing the other to shrink back in spite of himself. Then the madness faded, and the anger died away. Hook straightened, nodding. His smile was gruesome.

"Yes, Smee, quite right. Penalize our guest for the accidental importation of contraband? Bad form!"

The smile wavered through gritted teeth as he extracted the watch from Smee's uncertain hand. "Only one place for this, Jack, lad," he announced to the boy, whose eyes were still as big as saucers. "To the museum at once!"

He hauled Jack out of the hammock with a thunderous laugh, clasping an arm about the boy so that the wig curls danced on his nose and made him sneeze. They threw on their pirate clothes and off they went, Hook hand in hand with Jack and Smee trailing. Down the gangplank and onto the wharf, down the wharf and through the tunnel, out of the tunnel and onto the pier, along the pier and through the pirate town and crowds of anxiously fawning pirates until at last Hook turned them into a cavernous, dark old hulk that seemed entirely deserted of traffic. As they entered they passed from the clamor of a circus midway into a churchlike silence.

But this was no church. It was a monstrous room filled with clocks of all sizes and shapes. Some were old and some new. Some were large and some small. Some were stately grandfathers and some upstart alarms. Some were for the wrist and some for the pocket. They were made of wood with gold and silver inlaid and of plastic and metal with bright patterns. Some bore the faces of sun and moon, others of mice and men. They hung from the walls and they lay on tables. They stood alone like sentries and they crouched on metal bands like insects. They were everywhere you looked, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Jack stared about in wonder at the incredible array.

Then all at once he realized that something was wrong. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

None of the clocks worked.

Hook lifted his arm and swept the room possessively. "My own, personal, wonderful museum. Jack! Isn't it grand! A bounty of broken clocks! Once, each tick-talked, and now-no more. Now all is well. Listen, lad."

Jack looked about doubtfully. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly! That's just the point!" Hook was euphoric. He charged across the room to a particularly garish old clock with a mix of emeralds and fishes carved into its wood surface. "This was Barbecue's very own bedside clock. Quite the terror of the seven seas was Barbecue. Almost as feared as myself!" Hook's grin was enormous. "I smashed his clock right after I keelhauled him!"

Aside, to Smee, he added, "But a very polite man, Barbecue, right to the very end."

Smee grinned back. "Aye, Cap'n. A right salty old scag for a devil's cut! And his ship made such a pretty bonfire against the water's blue."

The two erupted in laughter, hanging on each other for support. Jack, recovered now from his earlier fright, found himself intrigued anew by this latest wonder. He picked up Barbecue's clock to examine it. As he did so the broken hands clicked suddenly, sharply against each other.

Hook sprang back instantly, disengaging himself from Smee, whirling about wildly, the terror returned to his eyes. "What's that? Smee, what do I hear? No! A ticking! A ticking, Smee!"

Smee had hold of him instantly. "Cap'n, no, there's no ticking here, nothing left to tick, by my bones, all's plainly pulverized…"

But Hook was having none of it. He snatched Barbecue's clock from Jack's hands and smashed it anew. He pounded it with his claw and threw it on the floor. Jack stared in amazement, mouth open.

"Very well!" declared Hook, stepping back, tricorne and wig askew. Primly he straightened them. "This is for the ticking that might have been!" He began jumping up and down on the broken pieces. "And this is for dinner being late last night!"

He stopped suddenly and glanced over at Jack, a sly glint coming into his cold eyes. "Care to join me, my boy?" he asked, and casually tossed Jack his pocket watch. "Go on. You know what to do."

Jack stared at him for a moment, and the fire in Hook's eyes seemed to transfer to his own. He held the watch up, regarded it somberly for just a moment, then dashed it to the floor.

"This is 'cause I always have to be home for dinner!" he cried exuberantly, joining in the game. ' 'If I'm hungry or not!"

Hook laughed merrily and tossed the boy another clock. Jack threw it to the floor and jumped on its face. Hook tossed him another and another. Jack threw them all down, smashing each one anew.

"Come on, Jack!" Hook encouraged. "That's the lad! Now break a window! Break a window!"

Hook snatched up a clock and hurled it at the closest window, shattering the glass. Without thinking, Jack followed suit, smashing another. Together they threw clocks at windows, at other clocks, and at anything else they could find, reveling in the sound of breaking glass and collapsing works. Smee leaped up and down behind them, urging them on gleefully.

"This is for brushing my teeth!" raged Jack, his hair and eyes wild, his face sweating. "And for combing my hair! And washing my hands! And making less noise! And not talking so much! And for being told to grow up!"

"And for having a fat, old Pan for a Daddy!" howled Hook, hauling down a whole armful of clocks and scattering them every which way.

"Who wouldn't save us!" Jack cried in sudden despair. "Who wouldn't save us!"

"Who wouldn't even try!" hissed Hook, almost in his ear.

Jack dropped to his knees in tears amid the wreckage of the clocks, crying bitterly. "He wouldn't save us. He wouldn't even try. Daddy didn't even… try."

He was sobbing so hard he couldn't speak. Hook glanced at Smee, and they shared a conspiratorial wink and grin. Then quickly Hook knelt at Jack's side, his arm resting comfortingly about the boy's shoulder.

"Oh, well, Jack," he said, his voice smooth as syrup. "He may yet try, you know. He will, in fact, I think, try." He waited for the tear-streaked face to lift and the damp eyes to meet his own. He wore a mask of sad understanding for the boy. "The question is, lad, when that time comes, do you want to be saved? Do you want to go back to… more disappointment? Do you want to go back with… him?"

Hook shook his head quickly. "No, don't answer now. No, no, no. Now's the time for other things. Now's the time for being whatever you want, be it pirate or…"

A twinkle came into his dark eye. Jack hesitated. "Or what?" he asked curiously.

Hook's smile was dazzling. One arm came out from where it had been hidden behind his back. Wedged in the crook of his claw was Jack's baseball.

He held it out to the boy. Jack's eyes went wide, and he reached eagerly to accept it.

"So tell me, Jack," Hook asked softly. "Have I ever made a promise I haven't kept?"

The click of Hook's teeth was like the closing of a trap.

Hook Throws a Curve

While the nefarious Hook was coming to grips, so to speak, with the ghosts of his past, Peter Banning was in the process of confronting some hard truths about his present. Foremost among these was the continuing and growing belief of the Lost Boys that he was-well, you know who-when he wasn't.

"En garde," hissed Rufio.

He stood toe to toe with Peter in a clearing at the base of the Nevertree, a wary look in his dark eyes. Both wielded swords with varying degrees of confidence. Rufio looked as if he had been bom clasping his. Peter looked as if he wasn't sure which end was pointed.

"Take it easy on me," he pleaded. He was already breathing heavily. "I'm just a beginner, remember."

"Yeah, sure," Rufio growled. "I saw de coconuts. I am watching you, ugly mon."

He went into a crouch, dark limbs crooking smoothly, black eyes intense, red feathery spikes like streaks of fire through his black hair. Peter tried to imitate him without success. This was a bad idea, he thought. This was a terrible idea. As usual, it was Tink's idea. It wasn't enough that he run and jump and be slung about; it was also necessary that he learn to sword-fight. Sword-fight, for heaven's sake! What did he know about sword fighting? He could barely manage to slice a roast at Sunday dinner!

Rufio circled to his left, feinting. Peter circled with him, not knowing what else to do. Rufio can teach you, Tink had insisted. Rufio's the best. He can show you all the tricks. He can help you remember.

Sure, but when all was said and done, would he be alive to say thanks?

Gathered all about, the Lost Boys cheered, some for Peter, most for Rufio. Last night was last night and quickly forgotten. Rufio was still the boss.

Tink flashed down out of the cooling shadows to land on the tip of Peter's sword. "Remember what I told you," she admonished. "Back straight, shoulders relaxed. Step in there to meet him, don't be afraid. Take care of him the way you took care of those coconuts."

Peter shot her an irritated glance. "I told you, I don't know how I did that! It was a reflex!"

Rufio's sword kissed his own with a click.

"Lik dis, mon," the other said, smiling. "Uno, dos, tres …"

And his blade flashed inside Peter's like a striking snake. Peter heard a shredding of cloth and felt a draft. When he looked down, he found his pants in a heap about his ankles. Cries of disapproval went up from the Lost Boys.

"I complain of you!" they shouted as one.

Rufio ignored them. He lifted the Pan sword, threw back his head, and crowed.

"Ya can't fly, ya can't fight, and mon, you rally can't crow!"

Pockets shoved forward, floppy hat bobbing. ''Thad's nod fair. He hasn't dun nuttin' to make himself proud. How cud he crow?"

The Lost Boys shouted in agreement, coming to Peter's defense. Rufio eyed them sourly for a moment, then smiled wickedly.

"So tell me, then. Wot coul' de fat mon do?"

Pockets's small face tightened. "Lods of tings," he insisted enthusiastically. "He cud swallow fire!" Peter's hands came up to his throat in horror. "He cud write a letter or draw a picture! He cud play Lost Boys and Indians!" The dark eyes went wide. "I know! He cud go into town and steal Hook's hook!"

Peter's gasp of dismay was drowned out by the howls of approval that erupted from the Lost Boys. They surged forward excitedly, crowding about, clapping him on the back, trying to slap hands with him, all the while yelling, "Steal Hook's hook! Steal Hook's hook!"

Standing apart from the others, certain that his fondest wish was about to be fulfilled, Rufio grinned like the proverbial cat.

Another dumb idea, thought Peter bleakly. The dumbest yet.

Nevertheless, here he was, going along with it as if he believed it nothing of the sort. It was as if he had lost all sense of proportion in his life, as if he would do anything that anyone suggested simply because he didn't seem to have any ideas of his own. Removal from the real world to Neverland had stripped him of his ability to think and act like a rational person. How else could he explain sneaking into the pirate town to steal Hook's hook, all for the purpose of impressing a bunch of raggedy, dirty-faced Lost Boys so that they would believe he was someone he wasn't and help him save his kids from a lunatic?

Of course, there was more to it than that, but Peter Banning was in no position to reason it through. He was an adult cast back into a children's world, where dreams were real and adventures the order of the day. Peter had spent too much time immersed in rules of law and legalese, none of which makes much sense to the average person and most of which is written by people who skipped through their childhood as quickly as they could so that they could be adults. Peter was not one of these, but he had spent sufficient time among them to begin to think as they did, and he had forgotten all about being a little boy. Making money and closing deals had replaced building sandbox castles and riding merry-go-rounds. Winning lawsuits had supplanted watching Fourth of July fireworks. Playing board games had assumed a completely different context. Peter had been too long without any real understanding of what makes life worth living, and he was struggling badly to survive the lessons that would give that understanding back to him.

So all he could think about on what would turn out to be the most important morning of his life as a grown-up was how foolish he was to let a bunch of children manipulate him.

The four pirates lurched down the town's rotting boardwalk, three of surprising height, the fourth shorter but meaner looking. They wore tricornes, greatcoats, sashes, and boots. An eye patch and scraggly beard hid most of one's face, and a bandanna and scars hid most of another's. The shortest of the four had a face so twisted and lined that no pirate cared to give it more than a passing glance before hurrying on. An arsenal of weapons was strapped about each one, cutlasses and flintlocks tucked in belts, daggers and dirks poking out from everywhere.

As they passed a candy store the three larger pirates swung about abruptly, and a familiar face peered out from between the folds of one coat just above the belt.

'' Sugarplums!'' breathed Thud Butt before a hand shoved his face back inside again.

For the pirates were not pirates at all, of course, but Peter and his Lost Boy followers. Thud Butt and Pockets made up one pirate, Ace and No Nap another, Latchboy and Don't Ask a third, and Peter the fourth. Too Small, who really was, had been left home. Tink rode in the brim of Peter's tricorne, issuing directions.

"This way!" she would insist. "No, that! Slow down! Stop! Over there, away from that floozy! Watch your step! Growl! Growl!"

Peter had no trouble growling. If an opportunity had presented itself, he probably would have been happy to bite as well.

They had slipped down along the beachfront and into the town through the back alleyways, dressed in their disguises, appearing big and tough enough that no one wanted anything to do with them. They had searched for some sign of Hook and quickly discovered that everyone was gravitating toward Pirate Square and the crocodile clock.

Now, approaching along the walkway, swaying and weaving like drunkards as they tried to keep upright on one another's shoulders, they could hear cheers and shouts. Ahead, dozens of pirates encircled the square. On reaching the back of the crowd, Peter mounted a barrel and peered curiously over the sea of heads.

He could scarcely believe his eyes. Pirate Square had been transformed into a baseball field!

Gone was the debris of countless nights of pirate revelry. Gone the pushcarts and jewelry stands. Gone the pickpockets and sleight-of-hand artists (or at least they were keeping out of sight). Everything and everyone had been pushed back to make space for the field. Neat white lines had been painted to indicate base paths and a batter's box. Fluffy satin pillows that fairly dripped with jewels had been set out as bases. Bleachers had been erected in the outfield, back between the ship hulks of the buildings, and even the crocodile tower was in use as a scoreboard.

But most amazing of all were the players-a whole team of pirates, every one of them dressed in a turn-of-the-century baseball uniform with PIRates lettered boldly across the front. They wore gloves and caps. A few wore spikes, although most had chosen to stay with boots. Some even carried pistols and daggers stuck in their belts.

Smee was on the mound-a rather narrow, oblong rise with a tombstone stuck at its back end-warming up with Jukes as catcher. Far out in the centermost section of the bleachers sat Hook, a buxom tavern wench at his side.

As Peter and the Lost Boys stared wide-eyed at the scene a gnarled little pirate streaked onto the field, snatched up the jeweled pillow that was serving as second base, and bolted for the crowd.

"Look out!" cried Smee from the mound. "He's stealing second!"

A bulky pirate acting as plate umpire took a step forward, pulled out a blunderbuss, and shot the thief dead in his tracks. Second base was retrieved and returned to its proper place.

"Play ball!" growled the umpire.

Peter and the Lost Boys were already making their way out to the bleachers. When they reached them, they abandoned their disguises and crept under the iron stanchions and wooden planking, keeping carefully back in the shadows and out of sight. When they had reached a position almost directly beneath Hook, they lifted their heads and peeked out.

Jack Banning was stepping up to the plate. He wore the same old-time uniform as the pirates and carried a peg leg as a bat. He was flushed with excitement, his smile huge with anticipation. He swung the peg leg confidently, eagerly.

Peter started to his feet and might have leaped right out onto the field and gone for his son, except that Hook suddenly shouted, "Jack, Jack lad, this is the ultimate makeup game. It makes up for all the games Daddy missed. Old Hook would never miss your game."

Peter flinched at the sneering way Hook referred to "Daddy."

Jack paused at the edge of the batter's box and waved brightly in acknowledgment. "This one's for you, Captain!"

"Tear the leather right off 'er!" Hook shouted back, laughing gaily. "Rip that bauble, son!"

Peter sagged back in disbelief. There was no disguising the camaraderie that existed between his son and Hook. There was no hiding from what he had seen in his son's face-the joy, the excitement, the anticipation. Jack was having fun. Jack and Hook together.

Hook led a sudden cheer as pirates seated in the bleachers to one side began to flip cards that flashed crude drawings of first Hook's face and then Jack's.

"Jack! Jack! Jack's our man! If he can't do it, no one can!"

The cards flipped again, and a huge message read: run home jack! Jack, standing at home plate with the peg leg gripped tightly in both hands, stared at the message in confusion, a hint of doubt creeping into his eyes. Smee paused, turned, saw the sign, dropped the ball with a gasp, and raced out to the stands, yelling and waving his hands.

Moments and a few bruised heads later, the order of the cards had been reversed to read: home run jack!

Smee stood poised on the pitching mound, eyeing Jack steadily. He held Jack's own autographed baseball, working it around in his fingers. Jack stepped into the batter's box and then out again. He scratched his head and adjusted his cap. On the field, all the pirates scratched their heads and adjusted their caps. Jack spat. The pirates spat. Jack tugged at his belt and the pirates tugged at theirs.

Jack stepped back into the batter's box, peg leg cocked. Smee straightened, ready for the first pitch.

"Hold on, Smee!" Hook yelled to his bosun. "I need a glove!"

He turned to the woman beside him, who gingerly unscrewed the captain's claw and replaced it with a glove. Hook beamed. The tavern wench placed the hook on the bleacher seat next to the captain.

And inches from Peter's face.

The eyes of the Lost Boys went wide. Never had there been such a glorious opportunity as this! They had come looking for a way to steal Hook's hook, and the hook had practically been presented to them on a platter! Take it, Peter! they mouthed, gesturing wildly, jumping up and down in excitement. Take it! Take it!

But Peter wasn't listening. He barely noticed the hook in front of him. His attention was focused entirely on his son, standing in the batter's box with his peg leg cocked and his face flushed and smiling.

Smee threw a ball, high and wide. Jack barely gave it a look. Smee threw a second ball, low and away. Jack was not tempted. He was all business now, all concentration.

Smee reared back and released.

It was a wicked, sweeping curveball.

No, Peter thought in incongruous dismay. He can't hit a curve ball!

Jack tensed, the peg leg came back an inch or two, and he swung.

Crack! He caught his prized baseball squarely on the fat part of the peg leg and sent it winging skyward. It continued to rise, sailing up and away, out of the ballpark, out of Pirate Square, out of the town itself, and completely out of sight. Never had a baseball been hit so far.

Hook jumped up, his eyes shining. "Did you see that!" he cried out. "Did you see it! Oh, my Jack! You hit the curveball. You did it! Jack, my son!"

Down the stands he bounded, flinging his glove into the air, calling out wildly. Jack was trotting around the bases, leaping and hooting every few steps, shaking every pirate's hand he passed. Hook caught up with him at home plate, lifted him up, and swung him around, both of them smiling and laughing ecstatically. Pirates appeared with a huge barrel marked "CrocAde" above a picture of a grinning crocodile and dumped the contents all over Jack. The entire town cheered wildly.

Hook hoisted Jack onto his shoulders, spun him about, and led the entire procession of players and fans back through the town in celebration.

Beneath the stands, Peter watched in shock, a single, terrible thought running through his head: He's having so much fun. I've never seen him have this much fun.

He turned then and stumbled away, forgetting everything that had brought him there, everything that he had come to do. The Lost Boys stared after him in astonishment. What was the matter with him? What was he doing?

Finally, seeing that he indeed had no intention of returning, that he really had lost all interest in finding something to crow about, they exchanged looks of disgust and disappointment and followed after.

A Welcome-Home Party

Peter wasn't quite sure how he made it back to camp. A good eye and a clear memory would certainly have helped had he possessed either, but since he lacked both, it was most probably luck that saw him safely through. He ran the entire way, and the Lost Boys never did catch up to him. He believed he'd left Tink behind as well, for he neither saw nor heard from her during his flight. Pursued by demons he recognized all too well, he charged down the winding island trails with blind disregard for his safety, heedless of the heights he scaled and the drops he descended, consumed by bitterness and despair. Everywhere he turned, in shadowed woodland niches, in the mirrored surface of a pond, in the clouds that sailed peacefully overhead, he saw Jack with Hook.

I've lost him, was all he could think. I've lost him.

He couldn't bear to consider what had become of Maggie, what Hook might have made of her. It was a parent's worst nightmare-his children stolen away by a terrible influence, a bad habit, lured to a life that was doomed to end badly. Peter railed against himself furiously, laying on blame in thick layers, salt on his wounds. He knew he had failed, that Hook had won, that he had lost his fight for Jack and Maggie. How awful to realize the truth, to see clearly for the first time that things might easily have been different. A little more time spent with his children, a little more attention paid to them, a little extra effort to be there when they needed it, and none of this would be happening. Jack and Maggie were with Hook because Peter had chosen too many times not to be with them.

It was irrational thinking, of course. But then Peter Banning was in an exceedingly irrational state, a parent stripped bare of the armor of Parental Responsibility, an adult bereft of childhood memories, an authority figure only marginally in command of himself.

He crossed the rope bridge from the island to the atoll where the Nevertree stood straight and tall against the blue waters of the ocean, and he raged anew at fate and circumstance, at missed chances and poor choices, at heaven and earth and Hook. He did not fully know where he was as he stumbled on, grasping now in belated hope at the promises Tink had made him, at the wishful looks in the Lost Boys' eyes, at the dreams of rescue that seemed to have eluded him forever. He lurched about in a fog, muttering words of power that had gone empty and flat, now spreading his arms as if they were wings and jumping up and down in a vain effort to fly, now crouching to thrust and parry with an imaginary sword. Back and forth, left and right, hither and yon he staggered, descending into a madness that shut him away within himself as surely as barred doors and latched windows close an empty house. Tears blurred his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and the bitter taste in his mouth choked him until he could barely breathe.

And then, suddenly…