The Hook (1991)

WHAP!

Something hard smacked him squarely on the top of his head. Down he went in a heap, his arms and legs outstretched, his body limp. He lay without moving for a time, stunned and frightened, drifting on the edges of consciousness, curling up within himself and hiding away from the pain of the world.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he found himself sprawled at the edge of the Nevertree pool. He took several deep breaths to clear his head, then struggled to his knees and bent over to splash water on his face. He remained kneeling when he had finished, watching the waters clear before him. As they did, the face of a boy appeared. The boy was perhaps fourteen and had wild, blond hair and mischief in his eyes. The boy, Peter thought, seemed familiar.

For though he wasn't, he looked very much like Jack.

Jack! Jack! Jack!

In the distance somewhere, the pirates were chanting his son's name, over and over.

He reached down and touched the reflection in the pool, tracing the lines of the boy's face. The water rippled slightly with the movement, and the image changed.

Peter caught his breath. The face had become his own.

Jack! Jack! Jack!

He caught sight of something beneath the image, something round and solid that rested at the bottom of the pool. He reached down into the waters and carefully extracted it. He held it wonderingly in his hand. It was Jack's autographed baseball, the one his son had hit out of Pirate Square.

Understanding flooded through him. It was the baseball, falling at last out of the sky, that had struck him.

Jack's baseball.

Come somehow to him.

It was a small thing, really-a meaningless circumstance, some would argue. But Peter Banning held that ball aloft as if it were a trophy, and something primal came alive in him, something so feral he could neither understand nor contain it. He reared back and screamed. But the scream did not come out a scream at all, but a crow as wild and challenging as any given forth by Rufio.

Peter surged to his feet, galvanized by the sound, backing away from the pond in a crouch until he was up against the trunk of the Nevertree. A voice whispered. Here! Here! He whirled around, searching for the speaker. A shadow thrown against the shaggy old tree was poised to flee. Peter moved and the shadow moved.

Then he saw that the shadow was his own.

He stared down again at Jack's baseball, and as he did so he saw out of the corner of his eye his shadow move, gesturing to him, beckoning anxiously. The voice whispered again. Here!

Peter glanced up hurriedly and the shadow froze. Peter traced the shadow's legs downward to its feet, finding them attached to his own. He lifted his leg and so did his shadow. All well and good.

He rubbed his head where the baseball had struck and took a step closer. This time his shadow did not follow, but actually charged ahead, waving him anxiously on, calling out to him to hurry. Come on, Peter, come on! He went obediently, not bothering to question that such a thing could be, wondering only where it would lead. The shadow pointed downward to a gnarled hole. Peter pushed back a tangle of vines and grasses that half masked the wood and bent close. What he saw was the outline of a face, revealed by just the right slant of the sun's bright light, the image etched clearly in the worn bark, eyes and nose and a mouth that stretched open as if it were…

Crowing.

And there was more. There were names carved in the bole's flat surface, names out of time and memory, names from a past he had thought lost to him forever.

TOOTLES. CURLY. SLIGHTLY. NIBS. JOHN. MICHAEL.

Forgotten for so long, Peter realized as he traced the carvings with his finger, feeling the familiar roughness against his skin. Forgotten in the loss of childhood. Forgotten in growing up.

"Tootles," he whispered. "Wendy…"

And then the knothole opened before him, a door to something that lay within. Peter hesitated just an instant, then began to crawl through. There was a hollow space beyond. It was dark and the fit was tight, but he kept at it, knowing somehow that the rest of what had been lost to him, the rest of who he was, was waiting inside.

Halfway through, he became wedged like a cork in a bottle. He braced his hands against the sides of the opening and pushed. Abruptly he popped through, tumbling headfirst into the darkness to land on his hands and knees.

Behind him, the knothole closed. Peter reached out blindly, groping without success for something solid to grasp.

Then a light appeared, approaching out of the darkness, growing steadily brighter. Abruptly Tinkerbell appeared, tiny and radiant as she hung in the air before him, no longer dressed in her faerie garb, but in a flowing gown of lace and satin, of ribbons and silk, of colors that shimmered like sunsets and sunrises and rainbows after thunderstorms.

"I've been waiting, Peter," she said.

Peter stared.

"Well, why don't you say something?"

He swallowed. "You look… nice, Tink."

"Nice?"

"Beautiful."

She blushed then, bowed in the faerie way, and straightened, smoothing back the gown's ruffles.

"Do you like it?" she asked him, and pirouetted slowly one full turn.

He grinned like an awkward boy and nodded. "Very much." He came forward a step and bent close. "What's the occasion, Tink?"

She grinned back. "You are. You've come home, you silly ass."

Peter rubbed the bump on his head tentatively, confused. "Home?" he repeated doubtfully.

She began to brighten, to extend her glow in steady waves, lighting up the darkness that lay all about, chasing back the shadows to the farthest corners until all was revealed.

Peter looked around wonderingly. He stood in an underground room that had been hollowed out beneath the trunk and within the roots of the Nevertree. There was a huge fireplace at one end, blackened and cold, and the ruins of a rocking chair and a great cradle bed lay piled at the other. A flat section of the tree humped out of the earth at the center of the room and might once have served as a table. Everything had been charred by a devastating fire, and where once the floor must have been swept clean and smooth, there were clusters of mushrooms at every turn.

I know this place! Peter thought excitedly.

"What happened here?" he asked Tink, bending and touching as he examined the wreckage.

"Hook happened," she answered.

"Hook?"

"Yes, Peter. Hook burned it when you didn't come back."

A light came into Peter's eyes as he rummaged through a pile of debris shoved into a far corner. Gently, almost reverently, he began picking up bits and pieces of what had once been the wooden walls and thatched roof of a child's playhouse.

His hands shook. "Wendy," he breathed. "This is where… This is Wendy's house. Tootles and Nibs built it for her. There were make-believe roses for decorations and John's hat for a chimney-"

He gasped in shock. "Tink, I remember!"

He whirled about. "This is the home underground!" He rushed over to the remains of the rocking chair. "Wendy used to sit and tell us stories in that chair-except it wasn't here, it was over there! We'd come back from adventures, and she would be darning our socks. She slept here. Tink, Tink, your apartment was here as well-right here! And little Michael's basket bed was here! And John slept here!"

He was charging about now, pointing to first one spot and then another, the words flooding out of him. Tinkerbell watched breathlessly, rapture shining on her face, adoration mirrored in her eyes.

Peter stopped, catching sight of something else amid the wreckage. He knelt, brushed back the ashes and silt, and held up a worn, half-burned, one-eyed teddy bear.

"Taddy. My Taddy," he whispered. His eyes lifted, and he seemed to look somewhere far away. "Taddy used to keep me company in my pram. My mother…" He swallowed. "I remember my mother…"

Tink darted forward, her light flashing as she came. She hovered at his ear. "What about your mother, Peter? What do you remember? Tell me!"

Peter was clasping Taddy to his chest now, his head shaking slowly. "I remember her… my mother… and my father… looking down at me, talking about how I would grow up and go to the finest schools…"

The words triggered old, forgotten memories, and they came to life once more, bright and vivid.

He lay in his pram, just a baby, tucked beneath his blue blankets, staring upward at the sky, at the clouds that floated, at the birds that soared.

"… you can be sure, very fine schools indeed." He could hear his mother speaking, her voice insistent. ' 'First Whitehall, then Oxford. Of course, after graduation he will prepare for a judgeship, then perhaps a term in parliament…"

"It was only what all grown-ups want for their children," Tink advised solemnly, her soft voice like a bell in his ear.

"Yes, but it frightened me so," said Peter. "1 didn't want to grow up… and someday die."

The baby thrashed wildly in his pram and the brakes came loose. Down the walkway it went, gathering speed, rolling toward a pond. Peter's mother gave chase, frantic to catch up. At the edge of the pond, the pram suddenly stopped, safe.

But the inside of the pram was empty. The baby was gone.

It was night then. Rain tumbled down from the clouded sky. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed. On an island at the center of the pond lay the baby, soaked to the skin and crying dismally. A tiny light appeared and transformed into Tinkerbell. She stood looking down at him, then picked up a leaf to shield his face from the rain. Cooing and whispering, she calmed him. The baby murmured, and she replied. Then she threw a sprinkling of pixie dust over him, took hold of his tiny hand, and away they flew into the night.

"I brought you here to Neverland," whispered Tink.

Then Peter was three, flying back again to Kensington Gardens, night all about, moon and stars distant and pale. He flew to a third-story window and tried to open it. But the window was locked. The boy stared at it in confusion. Despair filled his eyes as he saw that inside his mother slept with her arms wrapped close about another child.

"She had forgotten me," Peter said softly. "She had found… someone else."

Then he was twelve, flying boldly through the nursery window at 14 Kensington Gardens at a dozen years past the turn of the century. The Darling house was dark and still and the nursery bare of the furniture it held now, save for a few of the toys, which looked newer and brighter. He'd found other windows to visit since his own had been locked. He'd chased his foolish, stubborn shadow in and out of this one a few times, and finally it had been caught by Nana and then shut away by Mrs. Darling in a bureau drawer. He came looking for it, found it, and was unable to reattach it. They wrestled in the dark. He tried to stick it on with soap and, when that failed, burst into tears, waking the sleeping girl…

"Boy, why are you crying?" she asked him.

They bowed to each other and he asked her back, "What's your name?"

"Wendy Angela Moira Darling. What's yours?"

"Peter Pan."

Peter's eyes were wide and staring and his breathing was rapid. How many times had he come back for her after that? Always in the spring, to return her to Neverland for cleaning, to take her away once again…

He saw her aging, growing up while he did not, leaving her childhood while he remained oblivious and unchanged. Thirteen, fifteen, seventeen…

And then one day he forgot to come for her and did not come again for many years. When at last he did, when finally he remembered, he found her kneeling in the nursery by the fire, her face in shadows, the room transformed once more…

"Hullo, Wendy," he greeted.

"Hullo, Peter," she replied. A pause. "You know I cannot come with you. I have forgotten how to fly. I grew up a long time ago.''

"No, no! You promised you wouldn't!"

But she had, of course, despite her promise, because in the world outside of Neverland you always grew up. So Peter became friends with her daughter, Jane, and for many years they went together to Neverland.

But Jane grew up as well, and one day Peter came to the Darling nursery to discover that Wendy was a grandmother and Jane's daughter now slept in her bed. Peter, ever adventurous, skipped onto the bedpost to view the sleeping child and found himself face-to-face with Moira. Something in the way the smile on her lips hid their kisses enchanted Peter and made him reluctant to leave. Every time he tried to go, he was forced to turn back again. A dozen times he ran to the window and started to fly away, Tink beckoning from without, anxious to go on to other windows, to blow out the stars in other skies. But each time he hesitated and went back for another look.

Then Wendy appeared, slipping through the door of the nursery, racing to stay his passage for a single moment, so anxious was she to see him. But Peter needed no staying this night, drawn by what he saw in Moira's face, caught in a net that even he could not escape.

"I shall give her a kiss," he offered finally.

But Wendy dashed to stop him. ' 'No, Peter. No buttons and no thimbles for her. Moira is my granddaughter, and I cannot bear to see her dear heart broken when she finds she cannot keep you-as I once found I could not."

She cried then, overcome with a vision of what might have been. Peter sat next to the sleeping Moira, twirling a thimble between his fingertips. But at the last minute he changed his mind for reasons that would be forever unclear. Captivated by the girl, he bent to kiss her on the lips as he had seen others kiss, and as his lips touched hers the thimble dropped away.

He failed to see the sudden closing of the latticed windows-as if a breeze had sprung up. He failed to hear the click of their lock. He failed to see the look of horror on Tink's face as she peered through the glass from without…

"I thought I had been shut away from you forever," she whispered, remembering with him.

Then Peter was in school, dressed in a jacket and tie and polished shoes, his hair cut and combed, everything neat and proper and in place. He sat at a desk among other schoolchildren, staring out the open window into a fall afternoon thick with colored leaves and musty smells. A teacher walked to him, smiled, and said, "Peter? Where did you go?"

She closed the window, startling him, so that he replied, "I don't remember. …"

The memories faded. Peter stood staring into space, Tink hovering now at his nose, a splash of light against the gloom.

"Oh, Peter," she said, and her voice was small and troubled. "I can see why it is so hard for you to find a happy thought. You carry so many sad ones."

Peter did not answer, stunned at the truths his memory had unearthed. He was who they said he was. He was who they believed him to be. Tink and the Lost Boys-they were right.

He was Peter Pan.

He groaned as his eyes scanned the wreckage of his boyhood, the devastation of what he had once held so dear. But the hard truth was that all of his lives were in ruins, both in this world and the other. He had made them so; he had given up all his happy thoughts a long time ago. He had let them slip away.

Almost without thinking, he tossed Taddy into the air in front of him. Taddy rose, and the tumbling motion slowed almost to nothing. Peter watched his teddy bear freeze against the gloom, and his gaze fixed on the single remaining eye as it stared down at him. Slowly his hands reached up.

"Wait," he whispered. "I'll catch you, Taddy. I'll catch you."

The fuzzy old bear fell toward him, but as his hands closed about its stuffed body, it was not Taddy he held, but Jack-bright-eyed and smiling at four years of age.

"Jack! Jack!" he called out to his son.

“Fly me, Daddy, fly me!'' another, familiar voice cried.

“Maggie! Baby!''

He caught his daughter in his arms, holding them both close, twirling them about wildly. They laughed and shouted with glee. Moira appeared and joined their circle, her arms coming about his waist, the soft scent of her skin filling him up. He kissed and hugged them, and they kissed and hugged him back.

"Yes!" he cried happily. "My family-Jack, Maggie, Moira, 1 love you so much! I love being with you, having you close. Oh, I'm so lucky! Yes, Tink! Tink, this is my family, my wonderful, incredible family. They're back! They're …"

His eyes snapped wide-for they had been closed on his vision-and he stared about in confusion. He was fifteen feet above the floor, hanging in midair. A surge of panic swept through him. He flailed at nothing and began to drop.

"No, Peter!" Tink howled, pushing up from beneath to keep him in place. "That's your happy thought! Don't lose it!"

He continued to fall, frantically trying to regain control of himself, shouting, "How? What?"

"It's yours forever!" Tink squealed. "Hold that thought!"

Peter's eyes squinched, his body tensed, and he brought back the image of Jack, Maggie, Moira, and himself twirling about and laughing merrily, of the warmth and depth of feeling his family gave to him, of the love they shared…

He felt himself slow and then stop. His eyes opened. He felt himself begin to rise again.

"Yes!" breathed Tink, suddenly eye to eye with him. "Yes, Peter Pan!"

"I've done it!" Peter whispered, still rising, flooded with emotions he could not begin to describe. "Look at me! Look at me, Tink!"

He twisted about sharply and caromed off a wall. Down he dipped and then up again. The grown-up within him faded like a ghost at dawn and the sleeping child came awake. All the trappings of all the years he had struggled to find what he had lost vanished. Twisting and tumbling about, he embraced anew the dreams that had belonged to Peter Pan.

"Tink, I can fly!" he shouted. "I can really fly!"

"Then follow me and all will be well!" Tinkerbell cried in glee. "I love you!"

And up through the hollowed trunk of the Nevertree they flew.

^{Pixie Dust}

Oh, it was a glorious moment for Peter as he soared upward through the Nevertree, his earthbound restraints shed, his identity recovered, and his boyhood found anew.

With Tinkerbell leading the way, he spiraled through the gloom, gaining speed and confidence as he went, his exhilaration welling up inside until he thought he must burst. Out through a split in the giant trunk they exploded, faerie and boy, twisting this way and that, darting among the ancient limbs like fireflies at night. Down and around they sped, whipping through leafy boughs, spinning like tops and whirling like pinwheels. Tree houses flashed by in snippets of wood and colored cloth. Birds scattered with wild cries.

Oh, look! Peter Pan is back!

He cannoned out the top of the Nevertree and rose toward the clouds beyond, laughing in delight. He was transformed, become the essence of the spirit that lives within us, that wondrous spark of childhood we all too frequently manage to leave behind in growing. It flared within him like a fire fanned, and suddenly he could contain himself no longer.

Back arched, neck stretched forth, head thrown back, he began to crow.

"Yes, Peter, yes!" he heard Tink shout. "Oh, welcome home, Peter Pan!"

Together they flew into the clouds, there to mimic each other's attempts at foolishness, to do swan dives and belly flops, to fly upside down and backward, to race against shadows and sunbeams, to play at tag and hide-and-seek. When they had exhausted themselves, when the initial thrill of flying together once again had diminished just enough, they lay back upon a cloud to float in the breeze.

There, for the first time, Peter looked down at himself and was startled by what he saw. He was no longer a fat, old Peter Banning. He was a younger, lighter version. Pounds had somehow been shed, muscles had somehow reemerged. He was sleek and hard and younger looking by years. He threw his head back and laughed at the impossibility of it all-at the wonder of what he had become.

"Oh, the cleverness of me!" he exclaimed, the boldness of the little boy easing past the grown man's restraint.

Then he leaped back to his feet and dived through the clouds toward Neverland's green jewel. Down he went, faster and faster, a mischievous gleam in his eye. Tink caught up with him, as reckless and willing as he, saw that gleam, and knew instinctively what he was about.

Where are they? he asked himself, scanning the pillar of rock and the Nevertree that sat atop it. Where are the Lost Boys?

He found them gathered at summer where it faded into autumn, bunched in a tight circle about Rufio. A stick traced patterns in the earth as Rufio outlined a plan of attack against Hook and the pirates. Heads arched forward in concentration as his stick moved.

Peter came in like a tornado, spinning over their heads, autumn's leaves cascading downward in his wake. Pockets, at the back edge of the crowd, was the first to look up, floppy cap knocked askew. His eyes went wide as he saw Peter, and he tumbled over onto his back.

"Id's hib!" he gasped, pulling at the clothing of those closest. "Id's really hib!"

Peter laughed and spun back again, Tink at his heels. Down he flew a second time, whooping in triumph. Other Lost Boys were looking now, turning to stare, then jumping to their feet. Latchboy and Too Small were screaming in delight, arms waving and gesturing. Rufio, distracted finally from the description of his battle plan, rose to confront the cause of the interruption.

Peter swooped low across the sea of heads, snatched a Lost Boy's dagger from its sheath, and with a single pass severed Rufio's belt. Down went Rufio's pants to lie in a tangle about his feet. Lost Boys everywhere cheered and shouted, trying to follow Peter's flight. Peter came back a final time, skimmed the surface of the pond with his hands, and sent a spray of water cascading directly into Rufio's astonished face.

Landing finally in their midst, Peter found himself the delighted recipient of high-fives, backslaps, and congratulations of every form. Pan was back! Peter Pan had returned! They were all with him now, and in that instant they would have followed him anywhere.

Rufio realized the truth of things, and his face fell. All but forgotten by the others, he tugged up his pants and charged up a rope ladder into the Nevertree. He disappeared inside his house and emerged again brandishing the Pan sword. Back he came, climbing down a knotted rope, his eyes wild and hot, the blade of the Pan sword glittering in the bright sunlight.

Peter, with Too Small on his shoulders, Pockets in his arms, and adoring Lost Boys all about, didn't see him coming. It was not until Rufio had reached the ground and given forth a piercing crow that everyone turned to discover him bounding toward Peter with the Pan sword held high.

All of the Lost Boys scattered, terrified. Peter dropped Pockets and swung Too Small away.

"Defend yourself, Peter Pan!" shouted Ace as he ducked from view.

But it was too late for that. Rufio was already on top of Peter, who crouched to fly.

Then, astonishingly, Rufio dropped to his knees, tears streaking his coffee-colored face, his red-streaked hair in wild disarray, a look of agony and awe reflected in his eyes.

"You are him," he acknowledged, breathing hard. "You are the Pan." He held out the sword to Peter, hilt forward. "It's yours. Take it, jollymon. You can fight, you can fly, you can…"

Words failed him. He swallowed hard. There was disappointment and a trace of resentment reflected in his face, but admiration as well. Peter accepted the sword, stepped away, and drew a line in the earth. Peter and the Lost Boys stood on one side of the line. Rufio stood alone on the other.

Rufio rose to his feet and crossed. The boy that had been and the man that would be faced each other with faint smiles and embraced.

All around them, the Lost Boys cheered.

That night there was a huge celebration in honor of Peter Pan. The Lost Boys painted themselves in their wildest colors, dressed in their finest garb, ate all of their favorite foods until they were full to bursting, and then danced Indian dances before bonfires that lit the darkened skies for miles. Whooping and leaping about, they ringed the fires, lifting their arms and brandishing their weapons fiercely, singing songs in languages both imagined and real. Peter was the center of attention, called upon repeatedly to do flying stunts. He willingly complied, giving exhibitions of barrel rolls, loop the loops, corkscrews, and spins and sweeps so daring that he clipped the ends of branches and the tips of grass. Each new stunt demanded another, and the more daring that one the greater the cry to top it with the next. Peter laughed and joked and played games with one and all, the joy and wonder of his boyhood coming back to him as he did so, the bits and pieces of who and what he had been recalling themselves in a dazzling kaleidoscope of memories.

To think that he had ever given it up! To think that anything could ever have persuaded him to abandon it!

So great was his enthusiasm at rediscovering the boy, so intense his happiness at being shed of the man, that he was lost for a time in the living of the moment, and the larger picture of his life and loved ones became obscured.

Then finally, toward morning, the moons of Neverland gone westward to their rest and the stars grown faint in a gradual brightening of the eastern sky, it occurred to Peter that Tink was missing. She had been with him for a time, celebrating with the rest, but at some point in the festivities she had disappeared entirely.

Peter flew up into the Nevertree, calling her name, thinking that perhaps she had decided to play hide-and-seek with him. He soared to the top of the ancient tree and swooped down again without finding her. He flew 'round about and saw nothing.

At last he arrived at the little vine-covered clock that was her house. He called for her as he flashed by, but there was no response. Below, the Lost Boys danced on, their cries rising up into the deep silence of the Nevertree's limbs. Peter landed on a tree branch, bent down so that he was eye level with Tink's house, and peered inside.

Tinkerbell sat with her back to him, her head lowered into her hands, her shoulders quaking. Peter frowned in confusion, aware suddenly that she was crying.

"Tink? Tink, is that you?" he asked anxiously.

There was no answer. The room was cluttered with strange things. A man's open wallet served as a dressing screen, a spool of thread as a stool, keys as clothes hangers, and loose coins and a few red Life Savers as decorations. A driver's license hung on the wall like a family portrait.

Most of it belonged to Peter, of course, but the little boy he had become failed to recognize them.

"Tink?" he repeated, more insistent this time. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

The crying stopped. "No. I just got some pixie dust in my eye, that's all."

"1 shall get it out for you," he offered, drawing his dagger.

Tink shook her head, still turned away.

"Are you sad, Tink?" he asked.

"No. Please go away."

Peter brightened. "Need a firefly? Or a bit of dewy webbing? I know. You're sick! You need a thermometer. A thermometer will make you all better."

"No, it's not about that."

Peter wasn't listening. "That's how Nibs got the Wendy-girl better after Tootles shot her down, no thanks to you. Nibs put the thermometer in her mouth and she got all better. Don't you remember?"

Tink quit crying and nodded. "Remember how you spoke in Hook's voice and saved that great ugly Tiger Lily and made peace with the Indians?"

"Oh, sure I do." Peter drew himself up. "Ahoy, you lubbers!" he said in his wondrous imitation of Hook's voice. "Set her free! Yes, cut her bonds and let her go! At once, d'ye hear, or I'll plunge my Hook in you!" He laughed merrily. "We had the best adventures, didn't we, Tink?"

Tink's tousled head lifted. Without turning, she asked hesitantly, "Peter, do you remember your last adventure? The one to… to rescue your kids?"

Peter blinked in confusion, then mimicked, "Peter Pan's got kids?"

Tink went very still. "Answer me this: Why are you in Neverland?''

He laughed anew. "That's easy. To be a Lost Boy and never grow up. To fight pirates and blow out stars. Ask me another question. C'mon, I like this game."

"Oh, Peter," she whispered.

She rose to face him.

Then her light began to blaze, flaring so brightly that Peter was forced to back away from the door of the clock house, squinting his eyes protectively. As he did so, his shadow suddenly darted away on its own, startled by what it saw. Tink's clock house suddenly began to break apart. Peter gasped, and his eyes opened wide. The light grew bigger, taller, more radiant before him-as if a piece of the sun had come down from the sky.

And all at once there was Tinkerbell, no longer tiny but grown as large as he was, the remains of her house sitting precariously on her head and shoulders.

Her smile was wondrous. "It is the only wish I ever made for myself," she said.

Peter stared. She was so… large. She wore a lacy gown, long and flowing in the gentle night breeze. Her eyes sparkled and her hair shimmered as if it had been sprinkled with tiny stars. She was only standing there, but she was doing things to Peter inside that he didn't understand.

He tried to speak, but she brought a finger up to his mouth quickly to silence him.

Then she stepped up to him, her arms came about his waist, and her face pushed close to his own.

Peter, a boy now to all intents and purposes, gave her a puzzled look. "What are you doing?"

Tink put her nose against his. "I'm going to give you a kiss."

Peter grinned and squeezed one hand up between them to receive it. For in his boyhood, thimbles and buttons had always been kisses, and it was one of these that he expected to receive now.

But Tink closed one of her hands over his own, pressed herself against him, put her lips on his, and gave him a real kiss.

Then she stepped back again. "Oh, Peter. I couldn't feel this way about you if you didn't love me, too. You do, don't you? It's too big a feeling to feel all by myself, you know. It's the biggest feeling I've ever had. And this is the first time I've been big enough to let it come out."

She bent forward to kiss him again. Peter held himself motionless, liking the feeling that the kiss produced even if he was unsure why, wanting to share her biggest feeling because it was, in some way, his own. But as her lips brushed his he caught sight of the flower she was wearing in her hair.

It reminded him of another.

It reminded him of…

"Maggie," he whispered and pulled back. "Jack. Moira."

There was a shifting within him of time and place, of memories and dreams, and the boy and man readjusted their positions, the boy giving back something of what he had taken, the man accepting what was offered without feeling the need to ask for more.

"Please!" Tink begged, trying to bring him close again. "Please, Peter," she whispered. "Don't spoil it."

But she was too late now. The spell was broken. It was there in Peter's eyes, in the look on his face, in the way the wrinkles tightened at the corners of his mouth.

"Tink," he whispered back, keeping his hands on her arms so that they would not lose contact. "You are, you have always been, a part of my life. That will never change. But my children, Jack and Maggie, are part of me. My family, Tink. I can't forget them."

He looked out through the branches toward the lights of the pirate harbor and the Jolly Roger. "My kids are on that ship. I have to save them."

He turned back to her. There were definitely tears in her eyes now, and no number of pixie dust excuses could disguise them. Slowly, she nodded. For a moment her gaze remained fixed on him. Neither moved, as if each had been frozen to a statue.

Then Tink broke away. "What are you looking at? Go on-save them, Peter."

Peter tried to speak, but her hand whipped up sharply and flung pixie dust in his face. He sneezed and backed away.

"Go on!" she cried. "Fly, Peter Pan! Fly!"

And away he soared, swift as thought, rising up against the coming dawn like a bird, the memory of Tink's kiss already fading from his mind. It was Jack and Maggie who occupied his thoughts now. The three days were up. Hook would be waiting.

He didn't look back. If he had, he would have seen that Tink, almost hidden in the dappled shadows of the Nevertree, was growing small again.

^{Bad Form!}

Resplendent in his scarlet and gold brocade captain's coat, his claw polished and shining in the early-morning sunlight, James Hook stood on the quarterdeck of the Jolly Roger and thought what a lucky man he was.

A smile creased his angular features as he gazed out over the sea of pirate faces staring up at him from the main deck below. Faithful, loyal dogs, these. Smee stood at one hand, his bespectacled face beaming. Jack stood at the other, a miniature version of his new mentor, dressed like Hook from tricorne to boots. It was the third day of the captain's wait for the reappearance of Peter Pan-the new, improved version, he hoped, but any version would do. Hook gave his mustaches a friendly twist. The final day, the day on which his lovely, wonderful war would at last commence, the day on which Peter Pan would meet his well-deserved end.

He danced up on his toes like a ballerina. Ah, he could smell the powder of the fired cannons and hear the ripping of the shot.

But first things first.

"Smee, the box, if you please," he ordered.

His bosun promptly produced a flat wooden box, which he opened to Jack, revealing a velvet-lined interior containing row after row of golden earrings. Jack stared down at them wordlessly.

Hook bent close. "There's so many choices, Jack. Which one will you choose? Which one, Jack?"

Jack hesitated a moment, thinking. Then he reached down abruptly with one gloved hand and snagged a 'hook' earring just like the one worn by the captain.

"Ah, good form, Jack!" Hook declared, beaming. "Excellent choice. You know, it's a very special time when a pirate receives his first earring." He glanced down at the crew. "Right, lads?"

"Aye, Cap'n," they cried as one, and many a rough face creased in contentment. What cattle.

Hook turned back to Jack. "Now, Jack, I'm going to ask you to mooove your head to the side-just a little bit-"

He turned Jack's head to expose the boy's ear. "There," he advised with a smile. He brought the point of his hook up to the exposed lobe. "Now brace yourself, Jack, because this is really going to hurt."

He laughed. Jack squinched his eyes shut.

A crowing sound brought Hook up short. All eyes lifted to the mainsail where a shadow had been cast by the sun's brilliant light against the canvas.

It was the shadow of Peter Pan.

A sword sliced neatly through the sail, and the outline of Pan fell away to the deck. The toughened pirate crew flinched.

Smee's eyes went wide as he crouched behind Hook. "Cap'n! It's a ghost!" he gasped.

But Hook gave a smile that was all iron and grit. "I think not, Smee. I think the doodle-doo has returned."

"Who is it, Captain?" asked Jack, frowning.

A figure leaped from behind the canvas and slid down the sunbeam as if skating on ice to land squarely on the image he had cast.

And there was Peter Pan, a sword in his hand, a smile on his lips, youth and joy mirrored in his face. Forest green from head to foot with boots, leggings and tunic belted and scalloped like the leaves of the Nevertree itself, he looked the very incarnation of the Pan of old. Pirates backed away from him hurriedly, tripping over one another's peg legs and cutlasses in their efforts to get clear. Hook's smile broadened in blissful contentment. Smee cowered further in Hook's shadow. Jack stared.

Peter gathered himself, flipped high into the air, and came down directly in front of the quarterdeck stairs leading up to Hook.

For an instant everyone held a collective breath.

Then the captain stepped forward. "Peter Pan," he greeted, and his voice became a snake's hiss of expectation. 'Tis true, time does fly. And so do you, I see. Good form. Tell me-how ever did you manage to fit into those smashing tights?"

His pirates gave a laugh and a rousing cheer at their captain's wit. As Peter placed one foot upon the stairs that led to his adversary, Hook stamped on the deck above and the stairs flipped over, hiding away the red carpet. Hook's smile broadened.

Peter flushed, but continued his climb until he stood on the quarterdeck, facing the captain. "Hand over my children, James Hook, and you and your men may go free."

Hook's laugh was a bark of derision. "Really? How kind of you!" He feigned a thoughtful look. "Tell you what. Why not ask the little dears what they want? Start with this one, why don't you? Jack? Someone to see you, son."

An unctuous mix of deference and consideration showed in his sharp face as he ushered Jack forward to stand in front of him. He did not miss the fact that some of the cockiness left Pan's eyes as he saw what had been done to his son. He took note of the shock that replaced it.

"Jack-are you all right?" Peter asked quickly. "Did he hurt you? Where's Maggie? I promised I would be here for you, and I am. You'll never lose me again. Jack, I love you.''

Jack did not respond. There was no recognition in his eyes. He might as well have been Hook's son for all that he seemed to remember being anyone else. He eyed Peter for an instant longer, then stepped back defiantly.

" 'Promise,' did you say?" Hook sneered. "Hah! A cheap word for you, Peter. And did I hear you use the '1 word'? By Barbecue's bones, that's real cheek!"

Peter ignored him. He reached out to Jack. "Jack, take my hand. We're going home."

Jack shook his head stubbornly. "I am home."

Hook jeered. His narrowed gaze fixed on Peter. "You see, Peter, he is my son now. He loves me. And, unlike you, I am prepared to fight dearly for him."

He pushed Jack behind him and lifted his claw menacingly. "I've waited a long time to shake your hand with this!" he hissed. "Prepare to meet your doom!"

Peter crouched guardedly, his sword lifting. Then Hook signalled to the men of his pirate crew and an eager rumble of expectation arose. Peter hesitated only a moment, then flipped back down the quarterdeck stairs and whirled to meet the attack.

Instantly the pirates were on him, cutlasses and daggers drawn, blades flashing wickedly. Peter stood his ground, fending off slash and hack, thrust and cut, as agile and quick as a cat. Noodler and Bill Jukes were in the lead, but Peter turned them aside as if they were cut out of cardboard, and they tumbled back into their fellows.

From the quarterdeck, Hook watched, taking time to unsheathe his sword and practice a quick series of thrusts and parries. Jack, forgotten momentarily, watched the battle with an uncertain frown.

There was something familiar about Peter Pan.

"Don't I know him, Captain?" he asked cautiously.

"You've never seen him before in your life," Hook sneered, concentrating on his form.

The pirate attack was tightening about Peter, the sea of weapons coming closer and closer. Jukes and Noodler had regained their feet and were encouraging their fellows. Peter waited until they were almost on top of him, then launched himself skyward, flying up to the yardarm, where he shouted down to Jack.

"Jack! Jack, listen to me! You won't believe this, but I found my happy thought! It took three days, Jack, but when I finally did it, up I went! You know what my happy thought was, Jack? It was you!"

Hook was livid. Whirling away, he rushed to the deck railing and slashed the rope that bound the cargo net- which hung poised directly over Peter Pan.

Instinctively Jack cried out in warning, not stopping to think what he was saying. "Dad! Look out!"

Too late. The heavy cargo net collapsed on Peter, dragging him off the yardarm and down to the deck. Pirates descended on him with a yell, weapons flashing. Peter struggled to his feet, straightened with the Pan sword held high, and gave forth a battle crow.

Jack's jaw dropped. "That is my Dad!" he whispered to himself in disbelief. "It really is!"

Suddenly there were answering crows from all about and the Lost Boys appeared. They came from everywhere at once, yelling and sounding their battle cries. War paint streaked their faces, and they wore armor to shield their bodies-helmets formed of hollo wed-out gourds, vests and knee and arm pads of bamboo sticks laced together with leather thongs, shoulder pads of shells and wood, and brightly colored feathers and ribbons hanging everywhere. Rufio led the first wave of Lost Boys, catapulting from a springboard onto the ship's rigging. The Lost Boys' skiff, the Dark Avenger, seemed to appear out of nowhere to swing in next to the Jolly Roger. A boarding party clambered up the side. Ace and a handful more launched themselves from cranes and ship spars that jutted from the wharf. Others swung down on ropes and crawled over the railing from the waters below.

Hook stared in disbelief. It seemed to be raining Lost Boys. He snatched Smee by the shirt front. "Call out the militia! We'll need every last man!"

Smee charged up the stairs to the aft deck and began ringing a brass bell. "Oh, dear, oh, dear! What about Smee?" he muttered, his enthusiasm for Hook's war noticeably diminished.

The Lost Boys and pirates engaged in battle, Rufio and his band swinging down out of the rigging with war clubs in hand to clash with sharp-edged steel. Peter had freed himself from the cargo net and joined them. The main deck turned instantly into a battleground.

Hook charged to the quarterdeck railing, his eyes bright. "By Billy Bones's blood, I love a good war! The perfect start to a perfect day!" He wheeled back to Jack. "It'll be your first taste of blood, eh, son?"

Jack's small face went pale. First taste of blood? He was beginning to think that being a pirate wasn't so wonderful after all.

A small band of Lost Boys rushed up the stairs of the quarterdeck, war clubs waving. But Hook met them at the top and tumbled them down again like dominoes.

A new cry rose as Thud Butt appeared on the wharf front with the remainder of the Lost Boys. He charged up the gangplank, bowling over pirates as he went, knocking several into the drink.

Amidships, Peter and Rufio had rallied a skirmish line of Lost Boys to face a pirate charge forming below the quarterdeck. Thud Butt and Ace hurried to join them. Crossbows, longbows, blowguns, and slingshots released, sending a hail of hard, knobby, glue-tipped missiles into the pirates. Pistols and cutlasses went flying.

The pirate charge dissolved in a cacophony of yowls and screeches.

"Re-form your ranks, you bilge rats!" shrilled Hook in fury. "Remember the fires that forged you!"

The pirates, of course, had no idea what he was talking about, but hastened to obey anyway. It was doubtful that they knew what they were getting into, having learned nothing from their previous skirmishes with the Lost Boys. But they were nothing if not persistent, and so on they came, giving forth bloodcurdling cries amid clashes of steel.

At Peter's direction the Lost Boys formed two lines, the front kneeling, the back standing.

"Steady, boys," he soothed. "Let's show them the white light we're made from."

The pirates came on, howling. The Pan sword lifted.

"Front row-dazzle!" Peter cried.

Up rose a line of mirrors, catching the rising sun's brilliant light and sending it squarely back into the eyes of the attacking pirates. They squinted hopelessly, blinded by the glare. Pirates crashed into one another and tumbled down.

Then Ace appeared at the forefront of the Lost Boys holding a fearsome-looking cannon on which had been mounted a cage filled with squawking chickens. Ace swung the muzzle about, directing it at the pirates. Eggs shot out of the muzzle, splattering into the pirates, knocking them back. As fast as the chickens could lay, the eggs were fired. Yolks spat from the weapon in yellow streams. Eggshells ejected with a clatter. Faster lay the chickens and faster came the eggs.

And now the worst. Ace stepped back and the Lost Boy line re-formed. Bamboo tubes were lifted to shoulders, hand pumps were engaged, and streams of marbles caromed into the pirates and onto the deck. Feet skidded and pirates went down in a pile, arms and legs flailing.

More pirates appeared suddenly from the darkness of the tunnel, summoned by Smee's bell. They charged into the light, weapons drawn, shouting fiercely. But the Lost Boys were waiting. Two lines faced them. The front knelt with shoulder-braced Cataspluts drawn back. As the back dropped rotten tomatoes in place, the Cataspluts released. Once, twice, a third time. Pirates tumbled back, blinded and choking. Pirates slipped and slid into tangled heaps. When one misguided bunch attempted a frontal assault on the gangway, Thud Butt wrapped himself into a ball and the Lost Boys rolled him down the ramp, scattering the pirates like tenpins.

Rufio and a handful of Lost Boys had pried open the grating of the main hatch. As fast as pirates were captured, they were bundled up and rolled into the hold, cursing all the way. Bruised, egg-soaked, and tomato-splattered, Hook's crew was fast disappearing from view. Those who weren't shoved through the hatchways spilled down the gangplank onto the docks. Everywhere, the battle was being lost.

On the quarterdeck, Hook watched with a mix of despair and rage. Nothing was going as he had intended. "Smee," he wailed, "do something intelligent!"

Smee, not hesitating a moment, bolted into the captain's cabin. Hook glared. Very hard to get good help these days, he thought darkly.

He started for the quarterdeck stairs, determined that someone should pay for this injustice, and came face-to-face with Rufio.

"Hook!" the leader of the Lost Boys hissed.

Hook smiled and beckoned him on.

But then Peter was between them, having flown up from the main deck, the Pan sword cocked. "No, Rufio," he declared. "Hook's mine."

And the redoubtable captain might well have been, except that in the next instant Peter heard a familiar voice cry out from the docks below. "Jack! Jack! Help!"

"Maggie!" Peter cried out in recognition and off he flew again.

Down on the docks, the jailer whom Hook had entrusted with looking after Maggie and the slave kids had come to the conclusion that things weren't going the captain's way. Since his fearless leader was otherwise occupied at the moment and the path out of town seemed unobstructed, he decided now was a good time to think about saving himself.

But not without a little something to see to his future needs, of course.

He slipped the iron key he wore about his neck into the lock and released it, pushing open the door. A fierce scowl greeted the anxious faces of the slave kids clustered before him, sending the pack of them scurrying.

"Jack! Jack!" one little girl called wildly from the window.

"Slag off, ye little sodder!"he growled at her. "I'll be just long enough to claim my fair share and then-''

He stopped in his tracks. Another slave kid was in the process of throwing a rope braided from old curtains out the window. "Here! Where do you think you're going? Get away from that window!"

The slave kid raced for safety and the front room emptied as the bunch of them fled into the recesses of the back. Only the girl was left, still yelling for help. He snatched her up and dragged her away.

Peter flew in just behind him, landing in a skid, coming face-to-face with a second pirate who appeared at the same instant through another door. The second pirate gave Peter a single glance and dove back the way he had come.

Peter charged ahead into the second room. The jailer dropped Maggie like a sack of hot coals and whirled about.

Maggie's eyes went wide. "Daddy?"

Peter was after the jailer instantly, chasing him about a monstrous globe, giving it a spin as he passed. "Small world, isn't it?" he observed, tickling the fellow's breast bone with the tip of his sword.

The frantic jailer flattened himself protectively against a Greek statue, but Peter was behind him almost before he could think. A shove toppled the statue and pinned the hapless pirate to the floor.

Maggie wheeled into Peter's arms.

"Daddy!" she cried gleefully.

He picked her up and swung her about joyfully, then hugged her to him. "I love you so much," he whispered.

"I love you, too," she murmured back.

"I'll never lose you again."

"Stamp me, mailman."

He kissed her on the forehead as Latchboy and half a dozen other Lost Boys rushed into the room.

Peter waved in greeting. "This is my daughter, Maggie," he announced, setting her down again.

"Hi," Maggie greeted.

"Hi," the Lost Boys greeted back, looking doubtful.

Peter was already moving toward the door. "You'll be safe with them until I get back, Maggie," he called over his shoulder. "I have to get Jack. Boys, guard her with your lives."

He gave them a hurried salute and rose into the air.

Latchboy and the others barely saw him leave, their eyes fixed on Maggie. Finally Latchboy whispered, "Are you really a girl?"

The Lost Boys were sweeping the decks of the Jolly Roger clean of the few pirates who remained, battening down the main hatch on those who had been captured, and chasing the rest down the gangplank and over the sides. Even Tickles was gone, relieved of his concertina and harried from the ship by Don't Ask. Thud Butt, tired of rolling down rampways, had secured his beloved Four-Way Stop. Working his way into the midst of one pirate melee after another with the bizarre weapon, he had fixed its sight, pulled its trigger, and released a foul-smelling liquid from its four directional tubes into the faces of bewildered pirates, leaving them stunned and gasping for air.

Inside Hook's cabin, Smee was busily gathering up the captain's most valuable treasures and stuffing them into his pants.

"What about Smee?" he said over and over. "It's time for Smee. Yes, it is."

A knot of pirates and Lost Boys burst through the cabin door, fighting as they came, tumbling the furniture and furnishings every which way. Smee shrank from them, hiding behind a Red Cross flag he had confiscated. When a pair of pirates came too close with their weapons, he dropped the flag over their heads, stealing a gold earring from one while doing so.

"Pretty, pretty," he murmured, testing the gold with his teeth as he moved toward the door, his pants and carry bag brimming with loot.

On reaching the far wall he paused at a statue of Hook, twisted the captain's nose, and popped open a peephole.

Can't be too careful, he thought.

Cautiously, he peered out.

Hook stood at the forefront of the quarterdeck, squared off once more with Rufio, his eyes red and dangerous. Jack was behind him, secured between Jukes and Noodler.

"Rufio, Rufio," Hook whispered, drawing the other on.

Rufio advanced, sword drawn, feinting as he came. "Looky, looky, I got Hooky," he whispered back.

Hook sneered. "Sadly, you have no future as a poet."

Peter was flying for all he was worth to reach them, but this time he was too slow. Hook and Rufio engaged, locking swords, fighting across the quarterdeck, lunge and parry, slash and block. Rufio lost his sword once, then got it back. Hook rang the ship's bell with a sweeping blow. It was an even battle between man and boy, pirate and youth, until the wily captain hooked away Rufio's sword with his claw and plunged his own blade deep into the other's body.

Rufio fell to the deck with a gasp just as Peter reached him. Peter knelt in disbelief, cradling the red-streaked head in his lap.

Jack freed himself from Jukes and Noodler and rushed forward to stand at Peter's shoulder. Rufio's eyes fixed on him. "Know… what I wish?" he whispered. His eyes shifted to Peter. "That I had… a dad like you."

And then, because even in Neverland things do not always end well, he died.

There was a momentary hush as Jack stared down at the fallen Rufio. He felt as if his stomach had been turned to stone. For despite being outwardly a replica of Hook, Jack was decidedly something else inside, where it matters. The thrill and excitement of being a pirate had long since disappeared. The anger and disappointment of being Peter Banning's son had evaporated. His dad had kept his promise this time; he had come for Jack and Maggie. And Jack's memory was stirred by the keeping of that promise-his memory of home and family, of quiet evenings playing board games at the kitchen table, of being read to and reading back in turn, of words of encouragement and wisdom offered when life got a little tough, of all the things that were good and true about his parents.

He turned to face Hook, and tears sprang to his eyes. His real dad would never kill anyone.

"He was only a boy like me, Captain," he said, his lower lip quivering. Then his jaw tightened with new determination. "Bad form, Captain James Hook!" he declared. "Bad form!"

Hook looked stricken.

Peter rose. He was starting toward Hook, the Pan sword lifting, when Jack called out. "Dad!"

Peter turned. Jack was shaking his head slowly.

"Just take me home, Dad. I just want to go home."

"But… but you are home!" Hook sputtered.

Peter stared at his son for a long moment, then bent to lift him in his arms. Jack removed his tricorne and tossed it at Hook disdainfully. Carrying his son, Peter Banning started to walk away.

Hook stared in disbelief. "Wait! Where are you going?" he demanded, his face crestfallen.

"Home," answered Peter quietly.

He rose from the ship and flew down to the wharf where the pirates were in full retreat and the Lost Boys in complete command. Shouts and cheers heralded his coming, and the Lost Boys thronged about him as he settled down with Jack at the bottom of the gangway. Maggie rushed out to greet him as well, and he clasped both children in his arms, smothering them with hugs and kisses. Jack squirmed free long enough to take off the Hook coat and fling it aside.

"Bangerang!" yelled the Lost Boys from all about. "Victory banquet! Victory banquet!"

Then Latchboy asked, "Where's Rufio?"

"Yeah, where's Rufio?" the others echoed.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Ace said quietly.

"Is Rufio dead forever?" Too Small whispered.

Peter tried to answer, but no words would come. Then abruptly Hook shouted down to him from the deck of the Jolly Roger.

"Peter!"

Peter refused to look. He took Maggie in his arms and, with Jack and the Lost Boys crowding close, started to walk away.

"Peter!"

Hook was shrieking at him now, incensed beyond reason. He charged toward the quarterdeck stairs. "Peter, come back and fight me! You hear me. Where are you going? I haven't finished with you, Peter Pan! Is this the best you can offer? I am shocked and dismayed! Bad form!"

Maggie glanced back over Peter's shoulder. "You need a mommy very, very badly!" she yelled back at Hook.

The captain reached the quarterdeck stairs just as Smee emerged from his cabin, pants stuffed with Hook's treasure, a bulging bag slung over one shoulder. He was slinking toward the ship's lifeboat when Hook spotted him.

"Smee!" he howled.

Smee froze, eyes squinched shut.

"Stairs!" Hook bellowed.

Smee's eyes popped open again, a hint of relief showing in his crinkled features. He stamped the decking and the quarterdeck stairs flipped from bare wood to red carpeting. Hook started down without a word.

Smee tried a reassuring smile. "I was just… moving yer personals, Cap'n. Out of harm's way and all…"

Hook went past him as if he wasn't there, headed for the gangway. "You can't escape me, Peter!" he howled. His face was as scarlet as his coat. "I'll always be your worst nightmare come true! You'll never be rid of me! I vow to you, everywhere you look there will be daggers with notes bearing JAS. Hook! I'll hang them on the doors of your children's children's children's bedrooms for all eternity!" He kicked at the decking. "Do you hear me?"

Peter stopped then, turned, set Maggie down beside him, and walked back to the gangway. He stood looking up at the enraged Hook.

"What do you want, James Hook?" he asked softly.

Hook's face twisted. "I want you, Peter."

Peter recognized the truth then. Revenge against Peter Pan was all that mattered to Captain Hook. He was for the captain an obsession that would not pass until one or the other of them was dead. Hook meant what he said. There would be no peace for Peter or his family until this business was finished once and for all. Peter sighed. "You got me, old man."

On the main deck, Hook had discarded his captain's coat and ripped open his sash. He held his sword balanced and ready in his good hand. His claw gleamed wickedly.

Ace and Don't Ask started forward, their own weapons drawn, but Peter motioned them back.

"Put up your swords, boys," he ordered, and his eyes were grim. "It's Hook or me, this time."

^{Crocodile Clock}

James Hook strode down the gangway of the Jolly Roger, sword in hand, his eyes bright and anxious. He grinned wolfishly. "Prepare to die, Peter Pan. It's the only adventure you have left."

They rushed each other and met in a clash of steel. At first Hook had the upper hand, driving Peter back across the wharf as Jack and Maggie and the Lost Boys scattered before them. Then Peter regained control, growing stronger with each exchange. Hook reversed field, drawing Peter after him into the tunnel.

"I remember you being a lot bigger," Peter offered, parrying a wicked slash to his head.

Hook grunted. "To a ten-year-old, I'm huge."

Peter grinned. "Good form, James."

"Don't patronize me, Peter."

They fought their way through the tunnel's darkness and out the other side. Pirates and Lost Boys ran to get out of their way, then followed in their wake like flood waters churning down a dry riverbed. They battled toward a pub entrance, where Peter snatched a tablecloth off a clothesline and taunted Hook as a matador might an enraged bull-

To one side, Jack discarded his Hook vest. Hook sneered.

"Rippingly good comeback, Peter," he offered between thrusts at the tablecloth. "Three days! Imagine. Share your secret with old Hook? Diet? Exercise? A woman? The right woman can do wonders for a man, restore his youth in moments."

They surged back and forth for a minute in front of the pub. Then the tablecloth seemed to fly up and when it came down again Peter was gone.

Hook stared about in bewilderment. Then he stalked into the pub. Onlookers crowded up to the windows and doors and peered inside.

Peter was leaning on the bar, calmly quaffing a glass of ale. Hook hesitated, then stepped up to join him. As they drank, the captain experienced a rare moment of doubt.

Perhaps I was a bit hasty in issuing that last challenge, he thought.

His mouth tightened into a thin line. It wasn't that he was afraid of Peter Pan. Not he, not James Hook, the man who had been Blackbeard's bosun. It was just that he was befuddled by him. No matter how thorough or careful his plans, Pan always escaped him. How could anyone be so lucky? It was ridiculous. Time after time Hook trapped him, and each time he found a way to get free. It was really very tiring.

Hook sighed. And where was his trusty pirate crew? He couldn't count on a one, by Billy Bones's blood! Chaos had claimed them all. The rats sensed the ship sinking, so to speak, and were looking for a way off. Even Smee had deserted him. He tried to take comfort in the fact that at least he had his long-anticipated war. He tried to ignore the fact that he was losing it.

He took a swipe at Peter, who ducked away. Down the bar they battled, slash and parry, cut and thrust, pausing every so often to take a drink. When their glasses were empty at last, they set them on the counter and backed out once again into the street.

Down the length of Hook's pirate town they fought, twisting and turning from side to side, each seeking to gain an advantage. They reached the barber shop and Peter leaped over Hook and hung just out of reach in the air above him.

Hook glared up at his nemesis, breathing hard. "You've come to Neverland once too often, Peter."

Peter laughed. "Where have 1 heard that before?"

Hook stomped furiously. "Stop hovering! Come down where I can reach you!"

Peter landed in a crouch, the Pan sword extended. Hook surged to the attack once more. Toe-to-toe they battled, sword-to-sword, hissing and grunting with the effort of their struggle.

As they reached the blacksmith's Peter switched hands, tossing the Pan sword from right to left and back again, barely losing a beat as he blunted Hook's attacks.

"Confound you!" Hook raged.

And then suddenly Peter's guard slipped just enough and Hook was through, bulling ahead wildly, too close to strike, but possessed of enough momentum to twist Peter about and force him backward against the grindstone table. Hissing with satisfaction, Hook pinned Peter fast and began to force his head downward toward the spinning stone.

"You're so cocky, aren't you?" Hook sneered. His hook brushed the stone and sparks flew. "But, you know, you're not really Peter Pan. You know that, don't you? You're Peter Banning! Yes! Peter Banning, remember?"

A hint of doubt crept into Peter's eyes.

"You're Peter Banning," Hook went on hurriedly. "And this, Mr. Banning, is all a dream. It's not real. It's just your imagination. It has to be, mmm? Doesn't rational thought say it must? And aren't you a man of rational thought? It must be that you're simply asleep!"

Peter's face was inches from the grindstone.

"When you wake up," Hook continued with a sneer, "you will be fat, old Peter Banning, a cold, selfish man who runs and hides from his wife and children at every opportunity, who's obsessed with success and money! You have lied to everyone, haven't you? Yourself, especially. And now you would pretend to be Peter Pan? Shame on you!"

Peter's strength was fading rapidly now, his fighting power flown away with the last of his happy thoughts, the reality of who and what he had been recalled by Hook's words. Was he really any different now? Wasn't he just playing at being Peter Pan?

"You are a disgrace!" Hook taunted.

The Pan sword fell from Peter's hand. At the entrance to the shop, the Lost Boys stared at one another helplessly.

Then Jack leaped forward to crouch next to his father, just out of Hook's reach, his elfin face creased with sudden determination.

"I believe in you, Dad," he cried out. "You are the Pan."

"I believe in you, too, Daddy," Maggie repeated at his elbow.

And then the Lost Boys took up the refrain, speaking it with such conviction that it could not be ignored. Peter glanced past Hook and saw the belief mirrored in their eyes. Ace, Latchboy, Pockets, Thud Butt, Too Small, No Nap, Don't Ask, and all the others, saying it over and over again.

I believe in you! You are the Pan!

And suddenly he was again-for the strength of belief in their voices had transferred itself to him and become his own.

He surged back to his feet, throwing Hook off and tumbling him to the floor. Hook's sword fell from his hand and a look of shock twisted his angular face. As he tried to retrieve his fallen weapon, Peter snatched up the Pan sword and blocked his way.

Hook blanched and froze.

Peter hesitated, then reached down carefully for Hook's sword, flipped it about and offered it back, hilt first.

"Curse your eternal good form!" Hook screamed.

He attacked without a word. They fought their way out of the blacksmith's and through the soup kitchen, Hook gasping and panting with every step.

"Peter Pan," Hook huffed in genuine despair. "Who and what art thou?"

"I am youth! I am joy!" Peter cried and crowed wildly.

Moments later they surged into Pirate Square. Swords clashed one final time, and then Peter zipped away to land in front of the crocodile clock. Jack and Maggie and the Lost Boys appeared at their heels, quickly spreading out to ring the combatants. Hook whirled guardedly, staring from face to face.

And suddenly there was the sound of ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Hook cringed. Jack and Maggie and the Lost Boys had pulled out watches and clocks of varying sizes and shapes and kinds, all ticking and tocking and chiming and beeping. The sound became a cacophony, and Hook shrank from it in terror.

Peter moved to stand before him. "Hello! Is this the great Captain Hook?" He glanced over his shoulder at the crocodile tower. "Afraid of a dead, old croc?" His voice became a child's. "Tick-tock, tick-tock, Hook's afraid of the old, dead croc."

The Lost Boys were quick to pick up the rhyme. "Tick-tock, tick-tock, Hook's afraid of the old, dead croc!"

Hook wheeled in fury, teeth clenched. He rushed at Peter to engage him, but Peter parried the blow easily and skipped away.

"No, it's not the croc after all!" Peter shouted suddenly. Then his voice lowered. "I think James Hook is afraid of time, ticking away…"

This was too much for Hook, who threw himself on Peter with a howl of anguish.

The battle was joined anew, Hook and Peter crashing together, swords ringing. Hook thrust wickedly, but Peter was too quick. He turned the blow aside, twisting his own sword so deftly that the captain's was swept from his hand. A second twist, so swift the eye could barely follow it, and Hook's wig and hat were flicked from his head through the air to land atop an astonished Too Small. Weaponless and hairless, exhausted and broken, Hook fell to his knees.

The point of the Pan sword came up to rest against his throat.

Hook glanced aside to see his hat and wig resting atop Too Small's head. "Peter, my dignity, at least," he pleaded. "You took my hand. You owe me something."

Peter stepped over to Too Small, retrieved the hat and wig, tossed aside the hat, and handed the wig to Hook, who clutched it before him in his hands in the manner of a disobedient child.

Peter's sword came back up to Hook's throat. His voice was stem. "You killed Rufio. You kidnapped my children. You deserve to die, James Hook."

Hook swallowed, then lifted his chin defiantly. "Then strike, Peter Pan! Strike true!"

There was fire in Peter's eyes as he beheld his enemy helpless at last, and a fierce rush of exhilaration surged through him. All about, the crowd held its collective breath-Lost Boys and pirates alike.

Peter's arm drew back.

Hook closed his eyes. "Finish it!"

But somehow Peter couldn't bring himself to do it. Neither the part that was Banning nor the part that was Pan could strike down a helpless enemy-even one as evil as Captain Hook.

He felt Maggie's hands on his arm.

"Let's go home, Daddy," she whispered. "Please? He's just a mixed-up old man without a mommy."

"Yeah, let's get out of here, Dad," Jack agreed, coming up to stand beside her. "He can't hurt us anymore."

Hook's eyes snapped open and tears welled up. "Oh, bless you, child," he murmured gratefully. He placed his wig back on his head. "Good form, Jack!"

Peter lowered his sword and stepped back, eyeing Hook coldly. "Okay, Hook-take your ship and go: I don't want to see your face in Neverland again. Promise?"

Hook swallowed whatever was threatening to choke him and with considerable effort managed a reluctant nod. Peter turned away, sheathing the Pan sword and taking his children's hands in his own. A cheer went up from the Lost Boys.

But they had missed the treacherous glint in Hook's eye. Something clicked within the sleeve of his weaponless hand, and a razor-sharp blade sprang forth from its concealment into his palm.

"Fools!" he cried. "James Hook is Neverland!"

Then he was on his feet, rushing to the attack. Peter barely had time to shove Jack and Maggie out of the way before the captain was on him. Hook slammed Peter back against the crocodile tower and pinned him fast.

"You lied, Hook,'' Peter declared through clenched teeth. He could not reach his sword. "You broke your promise."

There was a madness in the captain's red eyes. "Forever-more, whenever children read of you it will say, 'Thus perished Peter Pan!' "

And he thrust his claw at Peter.

But just as it seemed that all was lost, there was Tink, darting out of nowhere to deflect the blow just enough that it missed Peter and lodged instead in the belly of the crocodile. Gasses and dust spewed forth in a cloud, blinding Hook. He struggled to pull free and could not. The crocodile began to shake and shudder, and the clock tumbled out of its jaws, barely missing Hook as it struck the ground behind him with a thud. The tower began to rock, then to teeter. A moaning rose, as if a ghost had been awakened. The Lost Boys drew back. The pirates who still remained began to scatter, fleeing with wild cries. Peter pulled Jack and Maggie away.

Hook flailed, making the crocodile clock rock dangerously. He screamed like a madman. Finally he wrenched free, but his efforts snapped the last of the crocodile's fastenings and it began to fall toward him. Hook tried to run, but ended up stumbling over the fallen clock. He lay thrashing, horror mirrored in his red eyes. The crocodile was descending, its jaws cracked wide.

Hook gasped. Down came the crocodile with a crash.

And Captain James Hook disappeared down its throat with a gulp.

After the dust had settled, they all walked forward to peer into the crocodile's jaws. One after another they bent down for a look, amazement on their faces.

Captain Hook was gone.

"Where'd he go?" Maggie wanted to know. But no one had an answer.

Then the cry of "victory banquet" went up again, and everyone began to parade about the fallen crocodile, shouting and cheering, "No more Hook!" and "Hurray for the Pan Man!"

Peter led the procession, caught up in the celebration, unaware that time was catching up to him once again.

"Let's go sink some mermaids!" Don't Ask suggested. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

"No!" Latchboy said. "Let's draw a circle in the ground and dare lions to cross it!"

"I want to bake a cake and feed it to the Neverbird!" No Nap said.

"But we've got to dress up like pirates and sack the ship first!" Ace declared.

They all joined in, each with his own suggestion for what they should do next. Peter began shouting suggestions of his own, a little boy himself again for just a moment.

But then he glanced over to where Jack and Maggie stood watching, Tink hanging in the air above them, and he knew that his adventures were over for now and it was time to go home.

He held up his hands and the cheering died. Lost Boy faces peered up at him.

"I can't stay," he told them. "I've done what I came to do, and now I have to go back." The joy faded from their faces. "I have to go home."

"But Peder, this is your bomb," Pockets insisted.

"Yeah, this is where Peter Pan belongs," Thud Butt agreed.

Peter smiled. "No, not anymore. You see, I've grown up. And once you grow up, you have to stay that way. You can keep a little part of what's inside a boy; you can remember what it's like. But you can't go all the way back."

He turned from them and walked to where Jack and Maggie waited. He knelt before them. "Tink, dust them," he ordered. "A little traveling magic." He took their hands in his. "All you have to do is think one happy thought, and you'll fly like me."

Tink flew past in a sweeping arc, scattering pixie dust as she went. It settled over Jack and Maggie, who closed their eyes.

"Mommy!" said Maggie, and she smiled.

Jack's eyes opened, and he looked at Peter. "My dad, Peter Pan," he whispered.

Then up they went, all three, as light as feathers on the summer air. Tink led the way, a bit of spinning brightness in the sunlight. Below, the Lost Boys stood gathered, staring solemnly skyward. A few hands lifted tentatively, waving good-bye.

Peter glanced behind, hesitated in mid-flight, then placed Maggie's hand in Jack's and called Tink back.

"You know the way home, Tink. Take Jack and Maggie on ahead. I'll be right behind."

He watched them fly away, then settled down once more amid the Lost Boys.

"Don't leave us, Peter," Thud Butt pleaded. "Stay in Neverland."

He saw the confusion in their faces. "I have a wife and children who need me," he said quietly. "I belong with them."

"But we need you, too," Too Small sniffed.

Peter picked him up and hugged him. "The Lost Boys don't need anyone," he told them. "You have each other and Neverland, and that's more than enough."

"You'll forget us again," Ace declared solemnly.

"Not this time," Peter promised. "Never again.''

"But you're our leader," Thud Butt insisted.

"Not anymore," Peter told him. He handed over the Pan sword. Thud Butt gasped. "You're the Pan now." He tried a comforting grin. "At least until I come back."

"Will you comb back?" Pockets asked in a small voice.

Peter met the sad, dark face and nodded, "One day," he whispered.

He went to each of them then, to Latchboy, Don't Ask, No Nap, Ace, Thud Butt, Pockets, Too Small, and all the rest, giving each a handclasp and a hug. Some cried. It was all Peter could do to finish.

"Thank you," he told them. "You helped me save my kids from Hook. You helped me to become Peter Par) again. 1 won't ever forget."

Then he lifted away into the cloudless blue sky. He rose, dipped, and swung back again, passing one final time over the gathered Lost Boys. Thud Butt raised the Pan sword in salute. Ace blew the antler horn. Don't Ask, No Nap, and Latchboy raised their hands and waved.

Too Small was crying. "That was a great game, Peter!" he called.

Peter gave a crow in reply, long and piercing, then turned toward the setting sun and flew away.

Thud Butt put his arm about Pockets and gave him a quick hug. There were tears in the other's eyes.

"Imb miss hib alreddy," Pockets whispered.

Farther out, close to the mouth of the harbor and facing back toward the smoking Jolly Roger, Smee looked up from the dinghy he rowed. Resting his oars momentarily, he watched Peter Pan fly past and disappear into the distance.

"Aye, doesn't it jus' send ye o'er the moon," he said, and sniffed. "Poor Cap'n Hook, he alwus 'ated 'appy endings."

He shifted to a more comfortable position amid the piles of treasure he had appropriated. The trio of mermaids settled at his feet smiled up at him, playing with the gold bracelets on their wrists and the silver rings on their fingers. A fish tail lifted and tickled his chin, causing him to blush.

"Ah, well." He sighed, picking up the oars and beginning to row.

As he did, one of the mermaids found the spare concertina he had scavenged and began to play. Smee sang.

"Yo, ho! Yo, ho! Yo, ho, for a pirate's life!"

An Awfully Big Adventure

And so we come to the final chapter of our story, the one in which we tidy up all the loose ends much in the manner of mothers who straighten up their children's thoughts while they sleep. Traditionally it is not a chapter in which a great deal happens, all the excitement having taken place earlier, but is instead a time for settling back and reflecting. It is also a time for coming home from wherever one has gone, for taking delight in the simple pleasures that ends to journeys bring. So while some would skip on to the beginning of a new tale, those who understand the truths that embody Peter Pan will want to stick around to share in the Banning family's well-deserved garnering of warm fuzzies.

Peter and the children flew all night through the stars that led homeward, guided by Tink's small light pulsing like a beacon. Once or twice Peter was tempted to deviate from his course just long enough to sneak up behind a star and attempt to blow out its light (for old times' sake), but it would have meant staying his homecoming that much longer, and he was too anxious to suffer further delays. He spent his time holding his children close and telling them all the stories he had never shared, the ones that had disappeared from his life over the years, locked away in the adult that had no time for such nonsense. He hugged and kissed them frequently, as if afraid he might never get the chance again, and they laughed at silly nothings and foolish looks. At times they spoke of where they had gone and what they had seen and done, but yawns and the wind's lullabies made recollection difficult, and the words seemed to stray off by themselves like sheep from an untended flock.

Toward dawn, with most of the stars disappeared into the brightening sky and the moon dropped below the horizon, Kensington Gardens came into view, steepled roofs and brick chimneys shrouded in tattered winter mist. Peter's eyes grew so heavy then that he could no longer keep them open.

The last thing he remembered was letting go of Jack and Maggie's hands.

Shadows lay over the children's nursery at number 14 Kensington, layered patches of black that only just now were beginning to recede as morning neared. The china-house night-lights burned steadily above the empty twin beds, casting their small glow bravely into the dark, outlining the soldiers that stood guard before the fireplace, the rocking horse that waited patiently for its rider, the dollhouse where Ken stood ready to serve Barbie, and the books and toys that had given voice to the dreams of the children who played with them.

Moira sat sleeping in a rocking chair at the center of the room. She stirred at times, her fingers brushing at her gown, her lips whispering her children's names. She looked very alone.

Then a breeze blew open the latticed windows, brushing the lace curtains so that the figures of Peter Pan danced as if alive. A scattering of leaves swirled into the room. Then Jack appeared, floating through the opening and settling to the floor like a feather. Maggie, heavy-eyed with sleep, rode piggyback. Together, they stared at the sleeping Moira.

"Who is she?" Jack whispered finally, eyes blinking against his own need for sleep.

"It's Mother," Maggie answered with a yawn.

"Oh." Jack studied the sleeping woman carefully-the lines of her face, the way her arms crooked just so, the hint of kisses hiding at the corners of her mouth.

"She looks just like an angel," Maggie sighed. "Let's not wake her, Jack. Let's just be there for her when she's ready."

They tiptoed across the bedroom floor and eased silently beneath their covers. Perhaps it was their movement on the floorboards, perhaps simply their presence, but Moira awoke almost at once. She blinked, brushed at a stray leaf that rested upon her shoulder, and glanced at the open windows, aware of the' breeze blowing back the curtains; then she rose and walked to close them, twisting the lock into place.

When she turned back, she saw the twin lumps in the beds (cast by shadows, she was certain), and it was almost as if the children had returned. The look that came over her was sad and wistful, and for a moment she could not move, afraid to break the spell.

Then the door opened and Wendy appeared in her robe and slippers, walking slowly, gingerly, leaning on a cane for support.

"Child?" she whispered to Moira. "Have you been up all night?"

Moira smiled and shook her head. "I see them in my dreams so often, just like this, bundles in their beds, that when 1 wake I think they're really there…"

But Wendy wasn't listening. She was staring wide-eyed at the lumps. Moira turned, a frown creased her pretty face, and one hand reached out tentatively.

Abruptly Jack sprang out from beneath the covers. "Mom," he cried, and would have said more except his throat closed up and nothing came out.

Maggie threw back her covers as well. "Mommy," she called, and Moira collapsed to the floor.

The children sprang from their beds and ran to her. She gathered Jack in her arms, holding him so tightly he thought he might break in two. She took Maggie in as well, crying freely now, sobbing as she hugged and kissed them.

"Oh, my babies, my babies," she murmured.

"Mom," Jack said, breaking away, anxious to tell everything. "There were all these pirates, and they put us in a net, and-"

"But Daddy saved us," Maggie interjected. "And we flew! Great-granny, we-"

But Wendy cut her short with a warm squdge and a laugh that silenced the doubtful words that Moira was about to voice. "Pirates?" she repeated. "And you flew as well? How lovely, child. Gracious, it reminds me of the days when Peter and I flew."

And she hugged them again and gave Moira a hug as well.

Not far away dawn's light was just cresting the roofs of the houses, casting pearl streamers on the air and sunspots on the earth. Peter Banning lay sprawled in a snowbank. He was sleeping, his breathing slow and even, his arms and legs cocked in. positions he never could have managed in waking.

Tink, tink, tink, sounded from somewhere close at hand.

He blinked and awoke, sitting up sharply. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing there.

"Jack, Maggie, we're going to fly…" he began without thinking, and trailed off doubtfully.

He took a deep breath and looked around. He was in a snow-covered park. A river snaked its way past not fifty yards off, an early-morning mist rising from its waters like smoke. Hardwood trees towered overhead like sentinels, bare-leafed in the winter season. The air was crisp and bracing and full of breakfast smells.

"And how be ye this fine mawnin', Peter Pan?" a familiar voice asked. "Into some mischief, 'ey?"

Peter whirled in shock to find Smee standing not a dozen yards away, hands on hips and a bag across his shoulder. Except it wasn't Smee-it was a groundskeeper making his rounds collecting litter. And he wasn't addressing Peter at all-he was addressing a statue. The statue was the one of Peter Pan placed in the park near the Serpentine River by the writer J. M. Barrie in the year 1912-Peter Pan crouched ready for his next adventure, playing his Pan pipes, forever the boy who refused to grow up.

Peter came to his feet, stepped out of the snowbank, and walked toward the statue. The groundskeeper finished gathering up the stray papers he had attributed to Peter Pan's mischief and moved on. Peter reached the statue and stopped.

He was shaking as the memories flooded back.

Neverland. Hook. Maggie and Jack.

A tiny figure appeared on the statue's shoulder, small and delicate in the soft morning light, gossamer wings beating gently.

Peter blinked. "Tink?"

She smiled. "Say it, Peter. Say it and mean it."

He smiled back. "I believe in faeries."

Tink's whole body brightened as if a lamp had been turned on inside. Her face shone. "You know that place between asleep and awake? That place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. And that's where I'll wait for you to come back."

Then a streamer of sunlight crested the Pan statue's shoulder right where she was standing, and she disappeared.

Peter squinted to find her again, shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a step forward. But she was gone, and already his memory of her was beginning to dim. A bit farther down the path, the groundskeeper was gathering up a pair of empty bottles thoughtlessly discarded the night before.

Tink, tink, tink, they said as they knocked together in his hands.

"Tink?" Peter said one final time, and then the memory was gone, tucked back away into a drawer within his mind, safely stowed for the time that he would need it again.

Sudden exhilaration flooded through him. He was home!

"Jack? Maggie?" he called out anxiously. He stared around. They had been right there with him when he had returned from… He frowned. From wherever. But they were safe, he was certain of that, and that was what really mattered.

"Moira! I'm home!" he shouted.

Then down the park pathway he raced, hailing the groundskeeper and everyone else he passed with cheery hellos, chipper good days, and bouncy greetings of all sorts.

It took him only moments, it seemed, to reach number 14 Kensington from the back side. Disdaining to go around to the front gate, he vaulted onto the terrace wall and began to dance along it like a high-wire artist, leaping and bounding when he tired of that, springing down finally to rush to the front door.

It was locked.

He reached for the brass knocker and stopped.

No, not today.

He dashed around to the back, vaulting still another fence, singing and humming gaily as he went. He was almost below the nursery windows when he heard a phone ring. He stared about in an effort to locate the source and determined that he was standing on it. Kneeling, he dug away the snow and fresh earth and pulled out his holster phone. He let it ring one final time, then clicked it on.

"Hello, this is Peter Banning," he greeted. "I'm not in right now-I'm out deliberately avoiding your call. Please leave a 'you know' at the 'right now' and I'll 'do it' when I'm good and ready. Happy thoughts!"

He dropped the phone back into the hole and covered it up again.

Then he started to climb the drainpipe. Up he went, hand over hand, his face flushed and eager. He would not have dreamed of doing such a thing four days and a lifetime of adventures earlier, but things had changed for Peter Banning, even if he wasn't exactly sure what they were or how they had come about.

He reached the nursery windows and tried to push them open. Locked. He tried again. Still locked. He put his face to the glass and peered inside.

There was Wendy embracing Moira, Jack, and Maggie. Something within Peter threatened to break apart, and a memory of another time, long ago, was triggered by what he saw. He couldn't get in to them! He was shut outside once more! His breath fogged the windowpanes as he hung there on the balcony railing, terrified that somehow he was once again too late…

And then he began to pound on the glass, no longer caring what it took, desperate to be inside.

"I'm home!" he cried. "I've come back! Please, let me in!"

They heard him, of course, and Jack bounded to the window. There was a hint of mischief in his elfin face (did it seem suspiciously like Peter's own?), a grin on his lips, and the beginning of tears in his eyes. "Excuse me," he said. "Do you have an appointment?"

Peter grinned back. "Yeah, with you for the rest of my life, you little pirate."

Jack released the latch and swung the windows wide. Peter stepped inside and faced him. They stared at each other for a moment in silence.

Then Peter whispered, "What did I tell you about this window?" He snatched Jack up and hugged him. "Never close it! Always keep it open!"

He whirled Jack about, flying him at arm's length, both of them laughing and shouting.

Maggie bounced up on the bed. "Fly me, too, Daddy! Fly me, too!"

Peter snatched her up and swung her about. "Your wish is my command, Princess!"

Then he set them both down, picked up a startled Moira, and whirled her about as well, lifting her off the floor as if she were a child, his face alive with happiness. She clung to him, shrieking, and when he finally put her down again she threw her arms about him and held him close.

"Peter, oh, Peter," she gasped in relief. "Where have you been?"

But Peter suddenly caught sight of Tootles, peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. He broke from Moira and went to the old man. Tootles smiled shyly and started to leave.

"No," Peter said quietly, and embraced him, drawing him into the room with the others.

"Hello, Pedur," Tootles greeted uncertainly. "I missed the adventure again, didn't I?"

Peter shook his head and smiled back. Then he remembered something. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out the bag that Thud Butt had given him, loosened the drawstrings, and poured the contents into Tootles' frail, shaking hands.

"I think these belong to you," he whispered.

Tootles's eyes went wide with disbelief. Tears started down his cheeks as he turned to Wendy.

"Look, Wendy. See? I have them again. I didn't lose my marbles after all."

Wendy went to him and hugged him, one hand coming up to smooth his wispy hair. Tootles took the marbles and moved over to the window to view them in the sunlight, murmuring about lost memories, caressing his happy thoughts. A moment later, to everyone's astonishment, he began to rise. He had found a trace of pixie dust at the bottom of the pouch and poured it over himself. Buoyed by his happy thoughts he flew bravely out the window, calling back, "Good-bye! Goodbye!" as he disappeared from sight.

Wendy moved to Peter and took his hand in hers.

"Hullo, boy.".

Peter swallowed. "Hullo, Wendy."

"Boy, why are you crying?"

He smiled. "I'm just happy… to be home."

Wendy moved to embrace him, and as she did she remembered anew what it had been like all those years ago to fly away with Peter Pan to Neverland, to roam the island of pirates and Indians and mermaids, to live beneath the Nevertree and tell stories to the Lost Boys, to be a part of the dreams of childhood and youth and be free of the cares and responsibilities that growing up brought. She wanted to go back in that instant. She would have gone if she could.

"Peter," she whispered. "What of your adventures? Will you miss them?"

He shook his head. "To live," he replied, "will be an awfully big adventure."

And as he said it the last of the night's stare-if that is what it really was-flashed away into the darkness and was gone.