Again, The Little White Bird!

We miss you, Mister Barrie.

 

Again, the Little White Bird!

based on characters from Peter Pan and Wendy, written by Sir J.M Barrie

Wendy heard the children crying at first, but she couldn’t tell whether it was real tears or not. Pretend tears had been such a large part of her life for so long: and pretend meals, and pretend flights back to the place where everything seemed more real, more hopeful, more...alive, than the places here in London. Wendy had not flown for years, yet earth was eagerly pushing her up and away. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed the children were laughing. She couldn’t tell whether they were mocking or glad. It mattered not; she had forgotten how to fly. Nothing mattered anymore.

If only there could be one last glimpse of the sun coming over the Mermaid Lagoon–one last frolic inside clouds of gunpowder above the Jolly Roger. “But I am an old woman, Peter,” she whispered quietly into her pillow. "I should have grown up years ago. It is too late,” a pause for a sigh, a breath of air; “I am a young woman stuck in an elderly, caged body. I am a still a child inside, you see; oh, thank you.” One of the many grandchildren she had came to check on Wendy, bringing a cool cloth for her forehead.

“Gramma, who are you talking to?” It was the youngest one, Marie. Oh, maybe there is still time for her to know, to understand. But would there be pixies for this beautiful youth? After all, nine-going-on-twelve was so very, very old. Wendy took the cloth happily, trying to hide her sadness, clutching some of her granddaughter’s little fingers in hers. Deathbeds were so quiet. Listen, listen quickly now, girl, and sharply, Wendy thought, silent and hopeful.

“My child,” said Wendy. “You must tell me, do you know where you go after you fall asleep at night?” Breath was getting harder to come by. Little Marie looked frightfully into her Grandmother’s shining eyes. “M-maybe I should get Mother,” she stammered.

“Ooh, no, she never did understand. But quick, he is upon us. Open the window, my love,” Wendy could feel herself losing hope of getting her blossoming grandchild to know in time. Jane never did speak a word nor encouraged her children to speak about Peter Pan. He was just a story that Wendy had made up to amuse herself. Jane was never one for fairy tales. Oh, what little Wendy’s first born knew, what she did not pass on to the next generation!

“Don’t fluster, I’ll be fine. The window...” Sitting up on her propped-up pillows, Wendy patted the blanket next to her. Worriedly, Marie dashed to the window, opening it wide. A delicate smelling, cool breeze dashed through the room, daring to take their breath. Marie sat up next to her Grandmother, putting her small hands around her neck, holding on for as long as she was allowed.

“Don’t grow up, never! Let your body age, Marie, but never let your heart or soul or eyes or ears grow up. Keep them clean and never listen to those who are so well spoken. Peter Pan has no love for grown-ups; it is why he stopped loving me many years ago.

“Keep an eye out for Fairies and never, never stop believing! Some day maybe, you will escape the horribleness of your mother, and fly away. You could become a Lost Boy –a Lost Girl, think of that! You will see the lands I have longed to see and smell and love again, all these years later–oh Marie, the quickening! Marie, the tinkling of bells!” Wendy reached her arms out to embrace the wind, her silver hair rushing out of her bun as to dance around her heart shaped face. “Keep the kiss forever in the right corner of your mouth! Oh, dear, I see it so clearly!” The wind grew heavy and the blinds on the window whipped as the torrential wind sang a familiar song of panpipes.

Just then, Jane and her husband (who was a no-gooder, in Wendy’s eyes; just like her own father,) dashed in. A few of the last lost boys, who Wendy loved dearly, laughed and cried harder from somewhere far away and familiar. “Mother, stop it, what’s wrong?” Jane’s green eyes lighted like the sun in the trees–“No, don’t go!” Marie sobbed.

“You can find me, Marie, in the place you go after you sleep,” Wendy said. Could she really go back? Was she really that old? Caged up inside was a little girl who wanted to go home, and Wendy knew this. It seemed within the seconds of her hovering over the bed, the very moments she started to fly out the window, that Wendy Darling had lost all her wrinkles and pain and age.

“But where would that be?” Jane sobbed, starting to believe. Wendy, now young and blithe and ever-so-blond, laughed and skipped over the moon and flew away forever to the second star on the right. Her impish giggles rang into the room as the panpipes grew louder, the tinkling bells roaring now like a church’s bells. “Never Land, my loves, Never Land!”