Flight ear had been pierced and strung with beads, as was only proper for any self-
A Revision respecting pirate. Still, Peter recognized it. It had been Michael Darling's.
Inez Chiara C. Cortes
2008
All children grow up… except one.
Peter awoke and stretched luxuriously. The bed sheets were rumpled and
bunched up at his feet. As usual, Tink had woken up before him; when he opened one
bleary eye, the little yellow fairy was already fluttering in front of his face with an
anxious expression. The smell of warmed nectarine was in the air.
"Hey, Tink," Peter yawned. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he got up
and tossed the sheets back over his bed. He poured some fresh water into the basin on
his night table and washed his face. After he had dressed, he finally took notice of his
fairy's twittering. "What's on our agenda today?" he asked her.
She led him to the captain's logbook, lying open on the table nearby. Invade
Tortuga 9 AM, the log read.
Peter looked down at the watch he wore on his right wrist, a memento from
John Darling. It was only seven in the morning. Looking out of the small portcullis of
the captain's cabin, he saw that they had just passed Mermaid Isle; the wind was up,
and they were going at a jolly pace.
He picked up the small cup of cooling nectar-water that Tink held out. "We're
making good time," he observed.
Peter remembered the last time he has seen John, when he had received the
watch. John had been at home, wearing a funny black suit with a tiny bow at his neck.
He had been with a girl - not Wendy - who was dressed all in white. John's eyes had
widened when he'd seen Peter at the window, then he had removed his watch and
pressed it determinedly into Peter's hand.
"To remember me by," he'd said; and he'd hurried away. Peter had realized
later that John had been on his way to his wedding, and that he had wanted Peter gone
as quickly as possible.
The watch had been no gift, Peter thought with disgust. It was a bribe. He did
not visit John again.
The invasion of Tortugas went well, and Peter was counting his loot in his
cabin when he came upon an old, battered teddy bear. It was ripped in places, and one
1
Peter had continued to visit Michael even when he no longer went to see John.
Michael was living away from London, then; he slept and ate and studied in what he
called a "university dormitory", which, from what Peter could see, was a very large
house full of young men with their noses in books.
Peter generally watched Michael quietly; he had learned that when Michael
was sitting at his desk, writing, he didn't like to be bothered, but Peter was sure he
would talk once he was done.
That day, when Michael pushed away from the table Peter thought he looked
rather miserable. Well, he knew just how to fix that. He was, after all, very clever. He
called in Tink, who hovered near Michael’s head with a handful of fairy-dust.
Michael smiled a little when he saw the little yellow being, with a soft expression in
his eyes, but he shook his head. Peter was displeased. “Why? Don’t you want to fly
any more?”
“Ah, Peter,” said Michael, “ ‘The heights by great men reached and kept /
Were not attained by sudden flight / But they, while their companions slept / Were
toiling upwards in the night.’ Kipling, I think, or was it Longfellow? Some poet,
anyway.”
Nonplussed, Peter shooed Tink away and continued to watch Michael. But
the boy seemed to have exhausted his desire to talk. He turned back to his desk and
began rifling though the papers on it.
As Michael reached for a pen, he accidentally knocked his cup of coffee – a
vile brew that for some reason seemed to be the only vintage available to everyone in
the dormitory – onto his paper. Peter, spying a dark cloth flung heedlessly on top of a
nearby dresser, remembered that Michael had refused the fairy-dust. Despite his
disappointment, he flew up and generously took the dark cloth down so that Michael
could reach it. Michael frowned and said, “I could have reached it myself, Peter,” but
Peter knew better; Michael was such a proud little boy, always wanting to do things
his own way.
Michael seemed to be about to say something more, but he kept silent.
Instead, without even glancing at the rag, he used it to mop up the spilled coffee, and
then tossed it carelessly into his trash bin. It looked small, insignificant, wet, and
miserable.
It was then that Peter recognized the Jolly Roger.
He stopped visiting Michael too.
 Peter threw down the bear and continued going through his loot. When he
finished, he piled everything together and went to look for Tink. He found her
collecting medicine in his flower cup, holding up the petals with her entire body. He
smiled and took the cup from her. It was almost full of sticky-sweet, honeysuckle-
smelling medicine. Wendy Darling had been the one to start him drinking it, before
she left, and he had kept up the habit ever since.
He still went to see her, now and then. He would sit at her window-sill and
listen to her stories. They never varied - only her audience did. Once they had been
John and Michael; then, they had been the Lost-but-now-Found Boys, who (as far as
Peter could see) had become part of the Darling family; and soon, Wendy was telling
stories to little children who were herself and her brothers in miniature.
Wendy changed too - she grew. Her copper hair soon began to show white
strands, and her clothes became longer and less bright in color. But she still left her
windows cracked open just that tiny bit on story-telling evenings, and Peter could
have sworn that sometimes, she would glance out of the window while he floated just
out of sight, listening to her voice.
Sometimes he wanted to come in, to listen to the stories up close, but mostly
to talk to her. And, sometimes, as he watched her from the window, to steal the kiss at
the corner of her lips. He knew what a kiss was, now, and he wanted that one, that
belonged only to him. But by the time he had figured it out, there was another kiss
hidden in her smile, one he could not claim, and it galled him to see it.
So he never came in. He never talked to her. He didn't want to know for sure
that she'd grown up – that she was no longer his Darling. She was already the last.
Instead, Peter spent his time sailing around Neverland, invading the Barbaric
Islands, flirting with the Mermaids, warring with the Indians and then making blood
pacts with them. He took his ship - the ship he'd won from Hook, incidentally - and
tried to explore the outer reaches of Neverland, trying to see how far it extended.
Perhaps, he thought, there were kingdoms at the ends of the land - he'd heard about
kingdoms from Wendy; they had palaces and kings, and princesses, and dragons.
Peter would have loved to fight a dragon.
But search as he might, all Peter ever found was that it was lonely being the
only person on board an empty ship. The nights were cold, and there was nobody to
wrap arms around and share warmth with. Even when Peter donned the coat and suit
he’d won from Hook – they were well-made, and looked warm – there was a chill in
Peter they could not abate. He didn’t remember ever feeling cold when the Lost Boys
and the Darlings had been around.
2
Well, Tink was still with him, but she wasn't exactly company; to Peter, Tink
was like a part of himself, and therefore she did not count as "someone else". Besides,
there were serious detriments to her size. It was no pleasure to listen to her sing, or to
tell stories; for her voice was so tiny it sounded like a chipmunk twittering, which was
more annoying than pleasant. Arguments with her were more easily solved by locking
her in a glass or a cabinet or some other object, than by trying to argue with a mind as
narrow as would fit into her head; Peter could never hold a debate with her. She was
not someone with whom to watch a meteor shower, or go dancing in the rain, or roll
in fields and blow dandelion clocks. Peter could not possibly even hold her hand.
What Peter wanted was human company. But not the transient sort that he got
by temporarily docking the ship and playing at being Indian, or Gypsy, or Pirate, or
any other sort of being save himself. It wasn't that he did not enjoy Tiger Lily's
company; but somehow he always felt like he was only intruding into her day, like he
was always a guest but never a part of the family. Peter wanted a home. He wanted
his Lost Boys. He wanted John and Michael. He wanted Wendy.
Wendy, most of all.
But Wendy was happy with her life in London, and Peter never could bear to
knock on her window. He could not bear to see her old; nor could he think of spoiling
her fun. He knew she would ask him in; he knew he would refuse, and it would make
their parting even more final than it already was. Even the kiss that he so badly
wanted to claim taunted him: take me, take me, forget that other kiss upon her lips,
and once you've tasted me and taken me she shall have naught left to remember you
by. She will forget you - as you should her.
He couldn't bear to think about it.
A funny thing about thoughts is, the more you try to avoid thinking about
something, the more it actually sticks to your mind. Peter discovered this soon
enough.
He also discovered that thinking about Wendy and the Lost Boys - lost to
him, in any case - was difficult to do while flying. But he could not stop himself from
thinking about them; so he stopped flying instead. He let Tink steer the ship as she
was wont, catching the breeze and sailing on the clouds.
But eventually even this proved onerous. Whilst cloud-surfing, sometimes the
ship would enter a column of cloud; it would be cold and wet, and Peter would have
to steer because Tink's wings would stick together and she would have to dry herself
first before she could fly again. Some other times, the sun would be too bright, and
Tink would forget to steer, making the ship jerk alarmingly. Finally Peter decided that
it would be easier to simply let the ship sail like all other ships - on water. Should
Tink forget to steer, well then, let the ocean drift them along as it wanted. He was in
no hurry to get anywhere.
So it was that Peter continued exploring Neverland. He found a whole new
vantage-point, from the level of the sea rather than from the clouds; and he slowly
forgot how to fly. He didn't miss it. It was not all it was cut out to be.
Peter had finished mapping the southern tip of the continent the day the news
came. Tink had not wanted to tell him, but she had been so agitated that he knew
something was up. She was reticent as she said: A new Pan had arrived. He had
lodged himself at Peter's old Headquarters and had even rounded up some new Lost
Boys.
"A new Pan!" he thundered, slamming his hands against the heavy wood of
his captain's table. The inkwell he had been dipping his eagle-feather quill into while
drawing his map tilted dangerously; spatters of ink rained on the open parchment.
Tink trembled and shied away. Peter glared at her, as if it were her fault. He balled up
his hands into fists and banged them on the table again. This time the inkwell really
fell over. "He cannot call himself Pan! I am Pan!"
Ink flooded over the map he had been drawing. He looked at the ruined map
with narrowed eyes; he swept everything to the floor. Tink had to fly away quickly to
avoid being included in his wrath. She seemed to want to approach Peter, but he was
still fuming. She decided to stay away. "Wise girl," Peter said bitterly, noting her
departure out of the corner of his eyes. She would be sullen and sulky the next few
days. Well, let her hide then! He didn't need her mood swings.
He decided to set sail towards his old hideout, on the other side of Neverland.
On his way, he would pick up a crew. They would have to be experienced sailors and
toughened fighters, people whom he could hire to be his army at short notice. His first
stop was Tortuga.
Tortuga was pirate country; its old leader had been Smee, Hook's old second-
in-command. When Peter had first invaded Tortuga, Smee had been a doughty but
doddering old man. He was therefore not surprised to see that Smee was no longer
leader: Smee had died some time back, and the leader was now Red-handed Jack.
Jack had quick fingers and an even quicker temper; but Peter temporarily disabled his
hands with a sword, and then he permanently diffused his temper with gold. More
gold brought more people running to pledge allegiance. Soon Peter had some fifteen
men, half of them having been part of Hook's crew while he was living.
Peter knew, however, that loyalty bought with gold can easily be swayed. As
a precaution, he sailed to the Indian settlements and prevailed upon his blood ties to
3
ask for a contingent of Indian braves. Tiger Lily herself chose fourteen of her most
loyal and able men, and then she decided to come along. Peter now had a crew of
thirty. He further ensured the men's loyalty by plying them with drink and mermaid-
music, and set the one person he was surest of – Tiger Lily, who was sworn to loyalty
by blood-pact, and who had full control of at least the Indian half of the men – as his
first mate.
This angered Tink, for she believed herself to be the first and only mate Peter
should ever need. Soon more than one man was ribbing Peter about his “jealous little
wife”. When Tiger Lily explained that a wife was sort of like a mother, only she made
you do different things and punished you by not talking to you when you didn't know
what you did wrong, Peter decided that Tink really must be his wife. But he didn't
need one.
The crew also praised Peter for his choice of “Mistress Tiger Lily”. This,
Peter understood, or thought he did, and he acknowledged it with a dry, “Oh, the
cleverness of me.” The crew seemed to think it hilarious. Peter didn’t mind. Truth be
told, he liked having a mistress better than a wife, if Tiger Lily was what all
mistresses were like. She was someone who talked to you and did what you wanted,
like a friend, only prettier. Tiger Lily was mistress of the entire ship but especially
his. Everyone followed her, she followed him, and nobody asked questions or
expected anything else. To Peter, this was the best arrangement he could have.
Peter spent most of his time on board ship drawing up plans. He did not
intend to let the upstart Pan get off easily; but he did not intend there to be much
bloodshed, either. After having spent so much time alone, Peter had discovered that
he rather liked being surrounded by people again. He did not want his little
community to lose any members.
Then came the first day he saw a green-clad figure whizzing past, high in the
clouds. Peter whipped out his telescope from his pants pocket and extended it to its
full length. Plastering it to his eye, he trained it in the direction of the green blur. A
young boy with light brown curls greeted his searching gaze: this boy, then, who had
alighted on one of the clouds and was cheekily waving at his ship, must be the upstart
“Pan”.
Peter's first instinct was to command the cannons be readied and a barrage be
sent at the boy. But he knew full well that the boy was out of range; he would only be
wasting precious iron. Instead, he shook his fist at the upstart and returned to his
cabin to continue drawing out his strategy.
 The next day, the boy was back. This time, he had brought his own Lost Boys
with him; and, buzzing at his ear, was his fairy. For a moment Peter almost thought
Tink had betrayed him, as she nearly had many times before; but, although she was
sullen and silent, she was flying behind his shoulder.
"Captain Intruder!" the boy cried out. "As Leader of these lands, I order thee
to vacate these premises!"
Peter glared at him. "Fool!" he said. "These are my lands. I am Peter Pan,
champion of Neverland. You, sir, are an upstart and a usurper!"
"Pan!" said the boy, and he started to laugh. "You can't be Pan." He hopped
carelessly closer to Peter, baiting him. "I am Pan," the child said cockily.
It was Peter's turn to laugh. "Prove it to me, then, Pan. I challenge thee to fair
combat."
"Challenge accepted!" the boy crowed. Immediately his Lost Boys fanned out
and began diving onto the ship. Peter signaled his men: they had plans for a battle
such as this. Keep yourselves and the ship safe - that is the first priority; Peter's crew
took defensive positions. Next, capture as many of the children as possible, but do
not harm them; the skirmish began, and soon boys were locked against pirates and
braves in one-on-one combat. While the boys were not as experienced fighters, Peter's
crew was at a disadvantage: the boys attacked with impunity, but they could not. Last,
depose the upstart Pan. Those were the instructions Peter had repeated over and over
again, and the last was one he had put upon himself.
Peter stood facing the boy. He was a head taller, maybe two; but the boy
scampered about like a monkey and kept well out of arm's reach. Peter turned on his
heel, sword drawn, watching the boy warily. Suddenly the boy darted forward and
struck with a small knife; Peter parried with his saber, and the knife slid off the
smooth metal. The boy darted away again, only to return from another angle. Again
Peter parried but didn't strike. His intention was not to kill; he only wanted the boy to
recognize his superior position.
"You want to know why you're not Pan?" the boy suddenly asked.
Peter gritted his teeth in an effort not to smile. The boy was incorrigible.
"Given that I've already done everything you're about to tell me, I guess I need to
know, " he said, sarcastically. "Enlighten me."
"Well, first of all, Pan's got followers," the boy said, not taking the hint, but
taking a rolling leap and slashing at Peter's legs. He missed, but was up and attacking
again the next second. He seemed not to be worried about getting hurt. Typical. Peter
could remember when he had fought against Hook: he had thought himself
unassailable as well. He was wiser now. "I have followers," he told the boy.
4
The boy shrugged, and continued his attack. "Secondly, Pan has a fairy." The
tiny blue-skinned creature hovering protectively near him proved his words.
Peter frowned for a moment, wondering where Tink was, parrying at every
turn. "I have a fairy."
The boy smirked at him. "Yeah, but she doesn't seem too pleased with you,
does she? Or she'd be here!”
“She is here,” Peter said, his strokes beginning to swing wider as he glanced
around irritably for the absent fairy. If she'd gotten herself into trouble again – or was
in another of her snits – “TINK!” he roared. “Get your wings in here now!”
She buzzed up at his command, though twittering angrily at him. Now you
notice me! Because you want me to do something for you! Then she spotted the blue
fairy and launched herself at it. The two creatures flew off, trailing sparkling dust.
“See?” Peter panted. “She comes when I call.”
“Sure," the boy said, clearly unimpressed, "but my fairy is my friend."
Peter's frown turned into a grim smile. “For now at least,” he said,
remembering the many times Tink's small jealousies and bursts of anger had nearly
cost their friendship and their lives. “Never believe fairies, boy, or anything so sweet
and pretty,” he said, offering his advice magnanimously to the upstart; “enjoy them,
love them, but never believe in them!”
At that split-second, he saw Tink slamming into the mast, an angry blue ball
of light pursuing her. The yellow light flickered and disappeared. Out of long habit,
he almost leaped to her rescue. But Peter had no time to check on Tink: he was under
attack. He blocked the boy's next slash, but the moment his heart had skipped a beat
was a moment he was too slow. His sword was not properly positioned in time. It bit
into his shield arm. The weight of the boy, pressing his misaligned sword, cut his arm
deeply. Peter reeled from the pain. Forcing his advantage, the boy surged upwards: in
another movement he held aloft his prize - Peter's hand, John Darling's watch still
glinting at the torn and bloody wrist. He smoothly threw the hand overboard. Almost
in slow motion, Peter watched in horror as a giant serpentine maw rose from the sea
and closed around his hand.
The boy was smiling delightedly at him. "I have other friends too," he said
proudly. Mockingly.
Peter roared.
He surged forward, slashing blindly; his eyes were covered in a red haze, and
his mind was roiling from the pain of losing both hand and watch. All thoughts of
calm strategy left him.
He hit nothing.
 A foot landed lightly on his back, and then shoved him forward. He stumbled Caption for picture/illustration: “Every story needs a villain. Wherever there's a
and fell onto the deck. Peter lay there, breathing hard. villain, a hero will arise; but when there is only a hero, the story ends.”
"You know another reason you can't be Pan?" the boy's voice said. "You can't
fly."
"I… used to…" Peter choked out.
"Yeah, but you don't any more, do you, old man?" the boy said.
Old man?
Peter laughed brokenly. "One day," he told the boy, closing his eyes, "you are
going to end up like me. Old, unwanted, and unloved."

The boy had left; the battle was over, and Tiger Lily was directing the crew as
they put things to rights and sent the bodies of their departed to their final rest. But
Peter did not know that. As he said the words, he realized that someone had said the
very same things to him years before. They were Hook's dying words.
Years before…

Slowly, Peter dragged himself up and back into his cabin. He poured some
water into his basin and bent to wash his stump of an arm. The pain only throbbed
now; he was getting used to it. Slowly he laved water onto the wound, and then he
wrapped it tightly with some white cloth to staunch the bleeding. As he looked out of
his portcullis, he saw that night had fallen; he must have taken longer than he thought.
He would have looked away, except he noticed his reflection on the small
glass window. He had never paid much attention to it before. With a slow, fascinated
dread, he traced his fingers across his face. His dark curls were long and cascaded
over his shoulders, but they were thinning at the top. There were dark shadows on his
cheeks and along his upper lip. His skin was lined and worn from having spent so
much time in the sun on board ship. And his eyes… his eyes were tired, reflecting the
exhaustion he felt inside.
He was old, Peter realized. Somehow, without his ever knowing it, he, too,
had grown up.
And that, he thought with bitter irony, was what the boy - the Pan - had
missed among his reasons. Pan was and always would be a child.
But Peter was old. Unwanted. Unloved. He was no longer Pan.
Somehow, the admission cheered him.

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