Peter Pan
O nce upon a time, long, long ago in the far away land of London, a baby boy was born. His mother left him on the doorstep of a workhouse; she could not feed the baby, nor herself. She could not keep the child warm, nor keep herself warm. He was naked, wrapped in a rag pulled the gutter. Written in soot on the rag was the name ‘Peter.’
“At least she gave you a name,” said the old hag that served Peter his soup. “Lord knows she didn’t leave you with nothing else.” Peter kept his head down and she filled his bowl with hot, steamy, tasteless sludge. “When you’re done eating our food get back to the kitchen and wash the pans.” Peter walked away quickly. “Ungrateful little cuss,” the old lady called after him. “You’re lucky to have any pans to wash.”
Peter ran away from the workhouse almost every night since he was three, and every morning he snuck back inside before the sun came up. Each day when the sun set and he crept between the beds, climbed out the third story window and slid down the rain gutter, he told himself the same thing: “Tonight I won’t come back. I can do better on my own.”
Once, when Peter was seven, a constable caught him on the streets at night. The workhouse master was not kind to the boy when the copper brought him back.
Tonight, despite committing to the fog not to return, Peter knew he would be back before sunrise. Unless something strange happened, something to change the course of future events. Something strange like meeting a talking squirrel in Hyde Park.
“My name is Hook,” said the squirrel. “What is it that you want more than anything else in the world?”
“Are you my Fairy Godmother?”
“I’m a squirrel, you twit. I thought the tail and fur gave it away.”
“You asked me what I want more than anything in the world,” replied Peter. “That’s what a Fairy Godmother would say.”
“Regardless, I am a squirrel. Now what is it that you want most in this world?”
Peter did not have to think; he just knew: “To play like a child plays. I want to run and jump and swim and fly.” To Peter, flying was as impossible as playing. “And to never, ever grow up.”
The squirrel nodded his little furry head. “What I want more than anything else is to be human. But I do not want to be a regular human. I want to wear a wide hat with feathers in it. I want to carry one of those skinny swords on my belt.”
“A rapier?”
“Yes. And I want to sail seas bigger than the lake in Hyde Park, wider than the Thames.” The squirrel named Hook paused and studied the face of Peter. “Did you know that you can have whatever you wish for, as long as you do not wish for it yourself? Instead, you wish for someone else while they wish for you at the same time. If we do it right, it will come true.”
“You’re wrong,” replied Peter.
“It’s true. The trick is to selflessly make a wish that benefits only the other person with no thought for yourself.”
“Impossible. Grownups would have figured that out.” The squirrel cocked his head to the side and stared at Peter. “Grownups could never wish selflessly for another,” whispered Peter.
“I think since your wish is to remain a child forever, it should have an even better chance of coming true.”
Peter scratched the back of his neck: “Why don’t you just find another squirrel to wish with?”
“Talking squirrels are as rare as selfless humans, you twit. They simply do not exist.”
“Bit judgy, are we?”
“You would be too if people would rather shoot at you than give you a scrap of food.” This time it was Peter who cocked his head and stared. “Right, I forgot,” muttered Hook.
“Shall we make our wishes then?” asked Peter.
The boy and the squirrel closed their eyes and wished very intensely for the other to get their hearts’ desire. Neither thought for even a moment of himself. When they opened their eyes, each immediately cared only about the welfare of the other.
It was that last little bit that does the trick when two unselfish souls make a wish for each other. That immeasurable, life-changing moment of time when all your dreams might have come true, yet you care only about the wellbeing of someone else. That moment has the potential for magic.
Selflessness in its purest form has the potential to birth faeries. However, the more misguided one’s selfless act, the more mischievous and malevolent the new faerie. For example, when a giving mother spoils her child, the faerie born picks pockets and steals shoes off their sleeping owners. When a politician striving for the greater good leads his people down a path of self-destruction, the newborn faerie starts fires and kidnaps wayward children.
The faerie born from the selfless wishes of Peter and Hook was a bit mischievous but not particularly malevolent. Over her lifetime, she only kidnapped three children from a good family and a handful of boys lost on the streets of London.
Hook was no longer a squirrel. He was a swashbuckling pirate; a grownup human with feathers in his hat, a rapier and flintlock pistol stuck in his wide belt, and a coat so long it brushed the ground when he walked. He had shoulder-length hair and a scrawny devil’s beard.
Peter’s wish came true too; he could run and jump and swim and play. Plus, he could fly, fight with a sword (but not a gun), and crow like a rooster. While Hook looked different, Peter still looked like a workhouse orphan. To play the games now in Peter’s heart and not get arrested by the constable, he would have to leave London. Peter grabbed the back collar of Hook’s coat and took flight.
“Faerie,” called Peter to the spark of light humming over his shoulder. “I want to go someplace where I never, ever grow up.”
“You do not need a special land for that.”
“There is no playing in London. Take me somewhere I want to go.”
“Peter,” shouted Hook into the London fog. “I do not wish to leave. I want to sail the oceans of this world.” But Peter did not hear him, and the newborn faerie did not care. She led Peter, flying low over his shoulder, all through the night towards the second star on the right.
In the morning Peter finally let go of Hook, depositing him on a boulder in the middle of a shallow bay. The squirrel-turned-pirate landed on the heels of his black boots and slipped on the slick, mossy rock, his palms slapping the wet stone.
A mermaid reached out of the water and grabbed hold of Hook’s ankle. The pirate screamed and stomped on the creature’s fingers with his boot heel. The mermaid hissed, spitting saltwater, and baring her teeth like a cat in a fight.
“Peter Pan,” shouted Hook. “Why did you bring me here? Take me back to London.”
Peter landed softly on the slippery, black and green lichen. He shot the mermaid a dirty look and she ducked her head back underwater.
“What is your problem? You’re a swashbuckling pirate now, just like you wished for.”
“You wished for this.”
“So I did,” muttered Peter. “I thought it would make you happy.”
“Take me back to London and I will be happy.”
“There are no pirates in London.”
“I will be the first.”
“There is a reason there are no pirates in London.”
“Because I am not there.”
“You talk around in circles like a grownup.” Peter lifted off the rock to fly away, indifferent to yet another adult’s unbalanced emotional angst. That indifference was a gift owned by boys who play.
Hook lunged at Peter’s ankle as the mermaid’s ugly fish-scaled fingers dug into the pirate’s boot. Hook’s feet shot out from under him and he fell into the shallow bay waters. The mermaid bared her teeth and clamped down on Hook’s hand. He screeched an ear shattering shriek as the mermaid rolled over and over, like a crocodile in a death roll. Peter Pan swooped down and grabbed the back of Hook’s collar, lifting him out of the water and dropping him on the sandy beach.
Hook held up his bloody arm: “You cut off my hand.”
Peter rolled his eyes and hovered over the sand. “You remind me why I never want to be a grownup,” he said, and flew away from the selfish pirate.
~ The End ~
Kids
Early I rise to tend to the kids; the
Cats and the dogs and the chickens. Two kids
Fight in the yard for a scrap and a bone
While another meows over her bowl.
Outside in the damp autumn air I haul water
For the chickens; but they are gone. I pull
My hair, clamp down on my teeth. Something howled
At the moon, gobbled them up in the night.
I kick at the straw on the floor of the coup,
Send a slip of paper into the breeze.
I grab the note, read the chicken scratch:
“We flew away, to someplace warmer and kinder.”
I reread the note, sigh and go back inside
For breakfast. But there are no eggs in the
Fridge, just a note in the same chicken scratch:
“We took the eggs to cover rent for a while.”
