Unhooked(20)

It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie, but even I remember Captain Hook, with his scarlet coat and his villainous mustache. And his insistence on killing the Lost Boys.

“I can almost hear you thinking, Gwendolyn.” The Captain’s clockwork hand balls itself into a fist. “Out with it now, lass.”

“Out with what?” I hedge. I’m suddenly feeling very unprotected, standing with him alone in the moonlight, surrounded by a ship full of dangerous boys and the endless sea.

He gives me a sour look. “You know well enough what I’m speaking of. You’re thinking of the story, aren’t you? I can see it on your face, clear as the sea on a calm day.” He leans forward a bit, challenging me. “Say what you mean to say, so we can be done with it.”

I’d rather not, but he’s not going to let this go. I lick my lips and collect what courage I can find. “If you’re Hook . . . ,” I start again.

“Yes?” he says, mocking me yet again. Amusement dances in his eyes.

“That would make you the bad guy,” I say softly.

He doesn’t react immediately, but after a long, silent moment, he inclines his head slightly in what might have been agreement. “So it would.”

He backs away then, giving me enough space so I finally feel like I can breathe again. “And there are many who would agree, Gwendolyn. In time, perhaps you’ll count yourself among them.” He turns then to signal to his crew. “Though some would say there are many sides to a story.”

Two boys notice his call and begin to make their way up to the top deck where we’re standing. One is Will, the glaring, russet-haired boy who doesn’t seem to like me much. The other is taller and looks just as angry and severe. His face is marred by a dark tattoo—a jagged black line that crosses the bridge of his nose, bisecting his face top from bottom. Another dark tattoo winds itself around his bare bicep.

I don’t have much time, and I don’t understand nearly enough yet. Not thinking of the danger, I snag the Captain’s arm. Beneath my hand, the hard rods that make up his forearm feel as solid and unyielding as the metal they are. Whatever words I was going to say die in my throat.

“Yes?” The Captain glares down at me, his lip curled in irritation at my insolence, and something dark, something cold and dangerous, moves behind his eyes. In that moment, I do not doubt him. In that moment, I believe wholeheartedly that he is who he claims to be. “Well?”

“Why me?” I choke out. “Why did those creatures bring me here? What can they possibly want?” And what do you want with me? I’m too afraid to ask.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, lass,” he says as he shakes off my hand.

But I won’t be dismissed just yet. Not until I’ve asked the one question that matters: “Are you going to kill me?”

His eyes are shadowed, but I can feel his gaze moving slowly down my body, taking in the too-large sweater, the cuffed legs of my pants, and then up again before he finally meets my eyes. “It’s not I who will kill you, lass,” he says softly. “Neverland will do that well enough on its own.”

He steps back abruptly then and turns to face the sea. I’m surprisingly aware of the loss. His attention was like a flame, warming me, even as it threatened to burn. His dismissal makes the night feel that much colder, that much more dangerously empty.

“But in the story—”

“Were I you,” he says, turning back almost viciously, cutting off my words, “I’d not put my trust in stories. They tend to pass off lies as the truth and hide the truth in their lies.”

The two boys—William and the one with the tattooed face—are waiting a few feet from us now. They’re here for me, but I’m not ready to be taken belowdecks again.

“And Peter Pan,” I whisper, a spark of hope flaring in my chest at the thought of a possible hero. “Is he a lie too?”

The Captain’s face goes tight, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “Aye. He’s the biggest lie of all.” He turns away from me then, dismissing me with a wave. “Enjoy your stay with us, Gwendolyn. While it lasts.”

“But—”

The Captain’s no longer listening. He gives the waiting boys a terse nod.

“Come on, then,” the boy with the tattoos says, taking me so roughly by the arm, I yelp. He’s stockier than Will, with hair that is the definition of the color brown and eyes that don’t seem to see me.

“Gently, Devin,” the Captain scolds. “There’s no need to be rough.”

The large boy’s shoulders slump at the reprimand, but he doesn’t loosen his hold on my arm. As he and Will escort me back down to the main deck and across to the stairway leading below, I don’t meet the eyes of any of the boys who have again gone silent and still to watch our procession.

By now the sky has darkened from the bruised purple. The island is getting more difficult to make out. It’s visible only as an empty space in the swath of diamond stars scattered across the velvet night. As Devin pushes me toward the stairs that lead belowdecks, I take one last look at the open sky and notice the double moons hanging overhead.

I understand then just how far I’ve come, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find a way back.





After the sea, there was the march. And when they arrived, finally, through a maze of mud and unsteady planks, they found a land coated in mud. The boy soon grew to hate his new home under the ground—the trenches carved into the land like veins. He wondered where his brother was, whether they shared the same mud or slept under the same sky. But still he was not afraid. That would come later, when there was nothing that could be done. . . .