Hook's Revenge Page 6
“I wish for an extraordinary adventure, far away from this place, and I wish one for Roger, too, wherever he is.”
Nothing happened.
At least, not right away, but if you will quit squirming about and be patient you will see that most things in life, wishes included, do not have immediate results.
Believing her wish to have been wasted, Jocelyn took matters into her own hands. She would not wait for some sort of magic to whisk her away from her problems. If they were to be solved, she must do it on her own. Outside, she could hear her name being called. It was faint but distinct: the head gardener was searching for her. She would not let him find her helplessly huddled in a blanket.
Jocelyn got up, unearthed a satchel from her hoard, and filled it with a moth-eaten nightgown and a few books. What more could a girl need? With her mother’s necklace around her neck and Roger’s compass in her pocket, she was ready to go. It didn’t really matter where, as long as she left on her own terms.
Jocelyn had taken two steps toward the door when a noise at the window caused her to turn back. Something large and dark filled the frame. Something inhuman.
Its clawed talon scraped at the glass, struggling to raise the sash. Whatever the creature was, it wanted in. Jocelyn felt so absolutely ready for something to happen, it didn’t occur to her to be frightened—though she did take up one of the wooden swords, to be on the safe side. She crossed to the window and threw it wide, coming face-to-face with the strangest being she had ever seen.
In form and feather the creature appeared to be a crow, but not at all like any Jocelyn had encountered before. It was immense, easily twice the girl’s size, and much darker than a garden-variety crow—as though no light dared sully its sleek plumes. The great bird ducked its head and pushed through the opening, filling the room with shadow and inky black. Jocelyn backed up and raised her weapon, such as it was. How she wished she were holding a blade of steel instead of wood.
In case you are wondering, that wish did not come true.
It advanced upon her. Jocelyn swung her sword with all her might, but the creature was ready, easily avoiding her blow. With a flap of its dark wings, it rushed the girl, knocking her flat. Placing a taloned foot on her chest, the crow pinned her to the floor. Jocelyn struggled but could not get up.
“Get off me, you ridiculous dodo! What do you want?” she shouted.
Bending its head, the bird turned a shiny black eye on the girl. Jocelyn did not particularly enjoy its strangely intelligent appraisal. She broke contact, looking away. Her gaze fell upon a leather pouch tied to the creature’s leg. The bird bent, untied the cord with its beak, and withdrew a packet of papers. These it tucked up under a wing; then it addressed the girl with a surprisingly mild voice. “Your name, please?”
Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “You can speak?”
“Considerably better than any dodo.” The bird removed its foot from her chest and allowed Jocelyn to stand. “Now. Your name? You are Jocelyn Hook, are you not?”
She nodded.
“Very good. I am Edgar Allan of Edgar Allan’s Mainland Courier Service. Please sign here for your letter.” He removed a form from the bundle of papers under his wing and pushed it toward the girl, indicating with his beak where she should sign. Jocelyn scribbled her name on the line.
“Thank you,” he said, presenting her with the rest of the packet. “I will wait here for your response.”
“My response to what?”
Edgar motioned to the papers he had given her, then turned away and began to preen his feathers.
The girl’s fingers shook as she unfolded the packet. Whatever happened next would most definitely be extraordinary. She smoothed the papers, pushed back an unruly lock of hair, and bent her head to examine the message.
Jocelyn held, at long last, a letter from her father.
Jocelyn swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The letter quivered in her trembling hands. Steadying herself, she began to decipher the bold strokes of thick, black ink covering the page.
Dear Female Offspring,
Since you are now reading this epistle, the thing I fear has most assuredly happened. I am dead.
Jocelyn stared with shock at the page. She turned to Edgar, who nodded his head and motioned for her to continue.
Please do not shed many tears for me, although a few would be nice. Even the most wicked and sinister man, such as myself, takes comfort in the thought that someone will mourn his passing.
I have lived a good life. For many years I have ransacked, plundered, and slashed with both blade and hook. Few have lived a more fulfilling existence.
I am feared by all men, yet I fear none. Indeed, I fear no man or boy—especially no boy!
Yet herein lies my only shame. Call this my last confession: I am afraid of something. Indeed, if the truth be told, I am terrified.
A cold-blooded nightmare stalks my every waking minute. I am haunted by rows of razor-sharp teeth and the ticking of a fiendish timepiece.
Yes, it is true! I live in fear of the dreadful crocodile who feasted first upon that confounded clock and then upon my right hand. On that terrible day, I stared the beast in its terrible eye and felt its power. It seemed to take my measure as a man, and, to my eternal disgrace, I was found lacking.
From that time to this, I have lived in shame.
And yet the horror grows! Earlier this evening, while resting in my quarters, I beheld a vision of my own death at the beast’s sharp jaws. Smee tries to comfort me. He tells me I am simply the victim of a bad dream, but he is wholly incorrect.
I am Captain James Hook! I am no victim; I create them!
I do not have bad dreams; I inspire them!
No, this was something else: a warning of my ultimate demise. Now a grim reptilian specter of death is my truest companion.
It is my hope that penning these words will offer me some relief. Perhaps I will yet become the conqueror. I will master my fear and blast the infernal creature to hell!
And yet, if you are reading this, my victory was not to be. The crocodile has sent me to my doom. My heart has stopped, but the beast’s dreadful ticktock continues.
Oh, the injustice!
You are my only heir. As such, you must avenge my death. I lay this charge upon you: Come to the Neverland. Hunt the beast and destroy it in my name.
I have no doubt you will fail, for you are practically an infant, and a girl besides. However, as my only progeny, you must try. With my blood in your veins, you may yet overcome these weaknesses and bring me victory.
Floreat Etona!
P.S. You must consider this quest your inheritance, along with a few personal effects and a small bag of coins left with my bo’sun, Mr. Smee. I may not be able to take my riches into the afterlife, but that is no reason to give them away.
Jocelyn read and reread the words on the page. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. She felt that were she to finish the letter and lay it aside, only then could it be true. Captain James Hook might not have been a good father, but he was the only one she had. Once she set the paper down, their connection would be broken. He would never come for her; she would truly be an orphan.
After several minutes, Edgar gently grasped the letter in his beak, pulled it from her shaking hands, and set it beside her. That was when the tears came, but as her father had requested, Jocelyn did not shed many for him. Most of the tears were for herself.
Now let us show some respect and observe a moment of silence.
Done so soon?
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
No one cries forever. Before much time had passed, Jocelyn dried her eyes and began to think. When she’d wished for adventure, this wasn’t what she had in mind, but wishes are heartless. They care little for nuances.
The girl’s head spun and her heart thumped in a strange rhythm. It was beati
ng so loudly she could almost hear it. Instead of ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, it went tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. With a start she realized the sound was not coming from within her; it came from elsewhere in the room.
I believe I mentioned earlier an old grandfather clock among the castoffs in the carriage house? Presumably, Miss Eliza had banished it because it had stopped running. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence, only a freak chance—or perhaps, like a grandfather who enjoys tricking small children into believing noses can be stolen, the clock took sinister delight in Jocelyn’s pain. Whatever the reason, it chose that instant to break its long silence.
tick-tock, tick-tock…
Jocelyn fingered the locket that hung from her neck. She closed her eyes and imagined the crocodile.
tick
A fierce battle between man and boy rages above the sea. The hungry crocodile surfaces from the deep, tasting the water for blood.
tock
The boy’s blade flashes, slicing off a treat for the waiting beast. Without hesitation the crocodile snaps up its meal, swallowing it whole.
tick
That one small morsel awakens an irrepressible hunger deep within the creature: a hunger that cannot be satisfied until the rest of Captain Hook joins his hand in the belly of the crocodile.
tock
Man and beast lock eyes. The captain’s fate is sealed.
The Neverland’s crocodile not only killed Captain Hook; it stole from her:
Her father.
Her dreams.
Her future.
TICKTOCKTICKTOCKTICKTOCK
Jocelyn’s eyes flew open, the ticking sound loud and terrible in her ears. She grabbed her wooden sword and hurled it with all her strength. It connected with the clock’s face, creating a wonderful crash. Broken glass, springs, and gears rained down, littering the carriage house floor. Silence filled the room. Jocelyn dusted her hands, shouldered her bag, and nodded at Edgar.
The crocodile deserved to be punished for its crimes. The penalty would be death.
Early the next morning, when Jocelyn caught her first glimpse of the Neverland’s shores, I am ashamed to report that she…well, she squealed. Just a little, mind you, but it was there. Thankfully, Jocelyn was not a girl prone to such banality. And in her defense, the sight below was nothing short of astonishing. I think we can forgive her this once.
The girl sat suspended in a woven hammocklike sling, useful for passengers or packages, that Edgar carried in his powerful claws. This perch gave her a panoramic view of the entire Neverland. For such a small landmass, it presented an incredible amount of variety: beaches and mountains, jungles and deserts, fields of bloodthirsty wildflowers, half-hidden coves, and several villages. An enormous volcano grew from the center of the island, sending up the most intricate series of smoke signals. If Jocelyn could have read them, she’d have seen that the Neverland was welcoming her; indeed, it was even showing off a bit.
On the south side of the island that day (I say that day, for the Neverland changes itself around as often as a vain woman changes her apparel) there resided a ruined ivory castle, nearly grown over with nettles, next to a great rushing river that appeared to flow backward—going up waterfalls instead of down. Sprawled beside the island’s main harbor was a ramshackle pirate village, easily identified, even from Jocelyn’s lofty height, by the smell of blood and rum. And in the distance she spied a graceful flight of dragons performing an aerial ballet, their scales shimmering in the morning sun. Though she couldn’t tell for certain from her vantage point, Jocelyn did not expect to find a single corset on the entire island. She was utterly charmed.
Even so, the girl knew that somewhere down there, amidst all the wonder, a terrible beast was waiting.
Reminds me a bit of my first wedding day.
Edgar deposited Jocelyn on the harbor dock at the edge of the pirate village. Before he flew away, she handed him the apology letter she had written. “Could you please find a way to deliver this to my friend, Roger? He used to live at the school, though I’m not sure where he is now.”
The courier agreed to try to find the boy—free of charge, in honor of Jocelyn’s late father. He did not display even the slightest hint of annoyance at having to fly all the way back to the mainland to find someone with no address and deliver a letter that might have easily been dropped off the night before.
That Edgar, he was a professional.
With a little hop and a flap of his wings, the great bird took flight. Jocelyn watched as he soared high into the sky, a tiny sting of jealousy pricking at her heart. If only she could break the bonds holding her to the earth. If only she could be that free.
Long before Edgar disappeared in the distance, she brought her eyes back to the horizon and surveyed her surroundings. Rough wooden planks, barnacled and weathered gray from spray and salt, formed a tangled web of docking that stretched as far down the beach as Jocelyn could see. A miasma of overripe fish, gun smoke, and unwashed bodies hung in the briny air. Schooners, sloops, frigates, cutters, and many other varieties of ships in various conditions were moored offshore. Sailors swarmed over their surfaces like roaches on leftovers, inspecting rigging and performing repairs. Before her eyes, a brawl broke out on the deck of a twenty-gunner. The air was filled with sounds of the roaring sea, screaming gulls, shouted curses, breaking glass, and breaking bones.
A wide smile grew on the girl’s face. For the first time in her life, Jocelyn felt truly at home.
Now to find this Mr. Smee.
As she looked about for someone to ask for directions, a man approached her. In manner and appearance he presented himself a bit more finely than the men Jocelyn had observed on the ships. She took an instant dislike to him.
“You there, girl, have you only just arrived from the mainland?”
A hint of culture and education rounded the corners of the man’s voice. Jocelyn made her own voice extra pointy to compensate. “And what business is that of yours?”
“Why, the business of harbormaster, of course. It is my duty to monitor all comings and goings. Keep out the riffraff, the bankers, the missionaries, and other such unsavories. So I ask again: have you just arrived?”
Jocelyn would have preferred to ignore the man, but she did need directions. “Yes, I flew in with a courier crow. Can you tell me—”
“I’ll do the inquiring around here, thank you. Once I am finished, you may ask a question of me.” He pulled a ledger from his satchel. Then he licked the end of a lead pencil, cleared his throat, and said, “Must keep the paperwork in order. Now then: When, pray tell, are you from?”
“When? Don’t you mean where?”
The harbormaster snapped his book closed and fixed the girl with what he likely thought of as his most penetrating stare. “I most certainly do not mean where. I already know that you are not from one of the Neverland’s many indigenous tribes; ergo, you must be from the mainland. If you are not from here, you are from there. Any fool can deduce that.”
Jocelyn crossed her arms and scowled. “How can you possibly want to know when I came from? Isn’t it obvious? I came from today. Yesterday, if you want to be more specific.”
The harbormaster sighed loudly. “No. No. No. I’m asking, roughly, what year you are from. If you don’t know exactly, you can give me your best guess.”
Jocelyn looked up and down the dock. Surely someone else could tell her how to find Mr. Smee. Unfortunately, no one else appeared. She returned the harbormaster’s sigh and answered, “I turned thirteen yesterday.”
“I don’t care to know your age, child. Allow me to simplify matters for you. When you woke up this morning in your pretty little bed, who was king? Was it Sweyn Forkbeard? William the Conqueror? Richard the Lionheart? Henry the Eightieth?”
This was getting ridiculous. “I didn’t wake up in a bed this morning. I’ve been traveling all night,
and your questions are the stupidest ones I’ve ever heard. Henry the Eightieth? There is no such person. Everyone knows that King George sits upon the throne.”
If Jocelyn, who was rather a sharp girl, was a bit flummoxed by this line of questioning, I imagine you may be even more confused. I’ll speak slowly to help you understand. Children who visit the Neverland come from as many Whens as Wheres. The Neverland is clever that way.
“King George,” he spoke aloud as he noted her reply. “Next, what is the purpose of your visit? Plunder? Murder? Revenge?”
Jocelyn glared at the man. “Principally revenge, though I am keeping my options open.”
“Have you anything to declare?”
“Yes. I declare these asinine questions to be a waste of my time.”
The harbormaster made another mark in his ledger. “Noted. One last question, though I should have started with it, I suppose. Name, please.”
“Jocelyn Hook.”
The harbormaster snapped his pencil lead on his paper, making a nasty black mark. “Hook, eh?” The smooth corners of his voice now shook around the edges. “Why didn’t you say so? Welcome to the Neverland, my dear. I suppose you’ve come to settle your father’s affairs?”
Jocelyn was finished with the man’s questions. “Where can I find a Mr. Smee?”
“Mr. Smee, of course! I’d be happy to give you directions and anything else you may require. Only…be wary. Smee has not been, shall we say, ‘quite right,’ since your father’s untimely passing.”
The harbormaster gave Jocelyn directions to a tailor shop a few blocks inland, and Jocelyn happily turned her back to him. As she strolled away, he called out, “Good luck, young miss!” The sound of fluttering ledger pages followed the girl up the dock.
The pirate village sprawled over the land. Haphazard buildings, shoddily constructed from driftwood and old ship parts, tilted drunkenly over its cobbled street. Garishly painted ladies (with, as Jocelyn had suspected, nary a corset in sight) leaned out windows, exchanging insults with passersby below. Packs of men, scoundrels and blaggards, each one of them, lazed about, swapping rum and tales on stoops and street corners. Everyone Jocelyn spied, man or woman, was armed to the teeth with cutlasses and pistols, daggers and bombs. The girl regretted her lack of a weapon. For the first time in her life, Jocelyn felt the hot shame of being underdressed for a party.