Hook

Hook

Once upon a time, Hook went by another name: George. Captain George Carter. Captain George Carter was a gentleman of distinguished background, and between his duties for The East India Company and his family life, he was utterly content. He lived chiefly for his wife, and his small boy – Tommy.

Tommy was six years old when he passed on. George hadn’t been there. Tommy had been with his mother, playing on the beach, not too close to the water – neither of them could swim. A formation of rockpools clustered by the end of the bay, and Mother watched carefully as he clambered upon the weathered rock, crouching to inspect the colorful sea anemone. Mary wasn’t too worried, though she should have been. You never know when a rogue wave will surge up, a heavy body of water spitting and then receding. All it took was one moment. Just one moment, then Tommy’s sweet face was bashed remorselessly against the rock. And just as quickly as strangers become lovers, so too do lovers become strangers. Mary left, drowning in a tide of self-resentment, whilst George drowned himself in the bottom of a bottle. Human nature is predictable.

Over the course of many months, Mr. Smee delivered many well-intentioned speeches, intending to rouse the Captain back to life, but George was immune, surrounded in a soporific haze. And then one day, he woke up. George emerged from the hibernation of his soul and noticed the world once more. He was grateful to Mr. Smee, who hadn’t given up on him even when he had given up on himself. He walked around the mainland, every spot echoing a memory of his boy, once alive. He went past the market, where people were either laughing or begging or haggling. Near the fishmonger, he saw the outline of a person he’d known so well, and stepped forward to greet her. But then she was looping her hand through another man’s arm, giving him a special smile, a smile that conveyed great intimacy. He drew back, and his heart sank, knowing that everything he had once loved was now lost.  

Now that everything George had lived for no longer existed, he needed a new dream – or even an old one. Shifting in his bed, he turned to stare into the full length mirror. He looked through the surface and remembered another life, he remembered a person, a young man. The young man with the dark, curly hair and a smile that people knew not where it ended nor where it began. The young man’s whole life was ahead of him: the lands he’d explore, the friends he’d make, the memories to be etched. George gazed into the mirror, taking in the curly hair (now greying), the sun spots that were like a dye in his skin…Could he chase the old dreams? Sail the sea again? Adventure for the sake of adventure? He may not be as full of hope, but he was the same person as that young man. He had more to give. More to receive. There was more life in him yet. He looked into his deep ocean eyes and felt grateful, yes, a new life.

Smee and George debated the destination of their sailing expedition for a day. It wasn’t much of a debate, more of a declaration of intent, followed by denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Ultimately, the five stages of grief. It went like this: assuming that George was prone to ambitious ideas (an assumption that was indeed correct), Smee attempted to curtail his outlandishness by placing a sensible limit on the number of nautical miles they were allowed to sail.

“Anywhere between five hundred to a thousand,” Smee declared judiciously.

“My dear Mr. Smee, that shan’t do!” George cried. “We sail to Spain.”

“Alright, say we sail to Spain.” Mr. Smee replied.

“Although, what sort of adventure are we to have if we only set our sights on Europe. Surely somewhere a bit more exotic?”

“Anywhere between five hundred to a thousand,” Smee agreed.

“Okay, toss this nautical mile parameter you seem to be so set on,” said George. “I remember a time where the prospect of peppermint tea and dark women were part of the plan. Were the whole plan, come to think of it.”

“We did like that idea, yes” Smee muttered, somewhat ashamed at having betrayed the man of his youth.

“We loved the idea. We loved the idea of sprawling desert, stretching like a great glittering carpet as far as the eye could see. And ancient architecture, testament of mankind’s greatness.” Having started the conversation on a persuasive and humorous note, George was all seriousness now. You could tell he meant it.

“Well, ye-e-es.” Smee said uncertainly. “Alright George, perhaps we could – I don’t – I don’t know. We could go a bit further.”

“We owe it to ourselves,” George said solemnly.

“We owe it to ourselves,” Smee agreed.

“We owe it to ourselves to discover Egypt.”

“We owe it to ourselves to discover E– what?!” Smee spluttered.

“Egypt. The place of Pyramids. The place of cat-worship.” George said mildly.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said no!”

George stared at him for a half second before there was an uproar; Mr. Smee sprang (rather surprisingly) to his feet, and the two began to yell at each other, a largely unintelligible racket of sound that involved much profanity – the likes of which shall not make it into these pages, ‘m afraid – long into the night. A cook, stepping out into a street nearby, looked up in alarm at the street-facing window of George’s apartment. Shaking his head in bewilderment he went back inside.

By the next day, resigned to his fate, a dejected Smee nevertheless started to plan for the lengthy voyage ahead. It was no small feat: a sea voyage spanning 4,185 nautical miles, requiring a ship that could fare the untamable beast that was the Atlantic ocean, enough provisions to last an entire crew, and the patience to endure a journey that would take six months to a year. He only hoped that the destination lived up to the expectations George had. That was the thing about expectations though, they were generally impossible to meet.

“We’re lost.” George croaked.

The scorching sun was beating down on George’s leathery neck as he studied the map for the umpteenth time that day. He had devised an ineffective ritual, not ineffectual so much as it was completely bloody useless, where he would stare at the drawing of the little blob of land, and look up expecting to see it magically appear. You’d think the pathetic soul would’ve caught on quick, but he’d been doing it for two days.

They had left the Port of Lisbon and needed only to sail about a hundred miles south before turning east for the Straits of Gibraltar. In a predictable turn of events, their good luck couldn’t have lasted much longer than it already did, and everyone was quite pleased with the smooth sailing, until Smee spotted the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Prepare to wear ship!” George yelled to the boatswain. The sailors calmly moved about the deck, attending to the ropes and sails as if they were an organism sharing a single mind. George waited as they let out the sails before turning the helm, with every intention to wait out the storm in the Port. They were five miles out from the coast, and with the moderate winds, would make it back to shore just in time for an undeserved afternoon nap. As the ship completed its turn, the sailors reset the sails and George relaxed and loosened his grip on the helm.

“Captain!” Smee cried.

George saw the look of fright on Smee’s face, and his eyes followed Smee’s gaze as he looked at the sky. What he saw rendered him absolutely dumbstruck.

A wall of black clouds devoured the horizon and a the wind began to howl through the rigging, a relentless banshee’s wail that drowned out all but the sharp crack of snapping ropes and the groan of straining timbers. Rain began to lash down in icy torrents, stinging like needles against his skin, and drenching the deck in moments.

“It’s a tempest.” George said softly, before black descended all around him.

*

The little boy was crouched in the grass, his back turned to George.

George heard a whisper of a snap as the boy stood up and faced him, his eyes full of joy.

“For you, Papa.”

George picked up the boy and pulled the delicate dandelion out of his hand. They looked at the flower together, twisting the flower to and fro until its feathers dropped off. And then George embraced his son, holding him carefully against his chest. Who knows how long they stood there, rocking gently from side to side.

“I love you, sweet boy.”

His son reached his little fingers to cup George’s face, the expression of his eyes seemed to say I love you too.

And then a loud blustery voice came crashing through the dream. George knew the owner of the voice but pretended not hear it, knowing that there was a chance this would make the voice go away.  

“BY JOVE THERE ARE MERMAIDS. MERMAIDS!” Smee’s hysterics blasted through his ear drum and his eyes snapped open. George reached his hand up to prod his head gingerly. He must have sustained a head injury, otherwise how else could he explain having heard Mr. Smee raving something weird, something about mermaids.

George looked about him and wondered whether he was still in a dream. How could this reality be explained? All about him, the crew members were in a state of shock, some covering their mouths and others clutching their chests.

The island before them was a tapestry of dazzling contrasts. Lush, emerald-green forests, their towering trees draped in shimmering vines that glistened with dewdrops like jewels. The air seemed to hum with the melody of unseen creatures, each note carrying an air of mystery. Golden beaches fringed the island, kissed by waves of liquid sapphire that danced in the sunlight. The shoreline was dotted with hidden caves and coves, and further inland, jagged mountains pierced the sky, their peaks cloaked in mist that glowed faintly in the moonlight. They had found Neverland, or rather, Neverland had found them.

George remembered the beginning, the deceiving beauty. Neverland had seemed perfect, if perfect could ever be a thing that existed. To spend but a moment there was to denounce ever leaving, not that it was easy to find a way to leave. This is where Neverland’s danger lay, you were completely vulnerable to its otherworldly power. And Neverland was dangerous in other ways too. It was the home of Peter Pan, the boy who refused to grow up.

The members of the Jolly Roger befriended Peter Pan and the lost boys within days of arriving in Neverland, after all it was impossible not to notice the pixie-like leader in his green tights and skeleton-leafed garb. Peter Pan was charmingly boyish, and created mischief with his band of boys wherever they went. George found that he had a particular softness for one of the children, a boy smaller than the others, who was endearing in every way. As the boys seemed to misplace their true names, George called the little one Tom. Smee said nothing about it, but watched the two closely, wondering how healthy it was for George to be forging that sort of bond so soon after the unspeakable tragedy.

Though the new visitors and the band of boys got on well enough, there was something troubling about the lost boys’ leader. For example, Peter sent the boys on “missions”. It seemed innocent enough in the beginning, but it felt like a social hierarchy that was governed by the pressure to meet Peter’s expectations. Failure to complete the “mission” was punished by ostracism, and it seemed as though none of the lost boys had real autonomy or freedom to just be. Also, who in the flipping heck takes ordinary boys and whisks them away to an otherworldly land. Having been a father himself, George quickly grew to despise the pixie boy and his tyrannical ways. To be a parent, and never see your child again…he couldn’t abide it, the pain and grief.

One afternoon, when the weather was perfect (though all afternoons were identically perfect), George was strumming his guitar on the main beach, playing absentmindedly whilst he contemplated the issue of Peter Pan. As he strummed a sweet little tune, two of the lost boys ran to meet him.

“Hullo boys, fancy seeing you here.” He greeted them.

The lost boys weren’t much for conversation, and in fact they wore identical masks of distress. George paused, looking between them.

“What?” He demanded to know. “Tell me,” His stern tone gave no room to disobey.

Though their stammering was largely unintelligible, he gathered that Tom was on a lost boy mission. His heart kicked up a notch, and he asked them to explain what the silly mission entailed.

“He’s got to tickle the crocodile,” Boy One gulped.

“The bloodthirsty crocodile,” Boy Two shrieked.

He threw his guitar down and began to move on autopilot, working up a mad dash to the only place he swore to never visit. The Sulky Swamp was the only part of Neverland that didn’t teem with beauty or splendour. The swamp was dominated by towering, ancient trees with gnarled roots that twist like the fingers of sleeping giants. The swamp's surface was a patchwork of still, murky waters and tangled vegetation. The water often appeared dark and opaque, stained by decaying organic matter, and hidden currents occasionally rippled the surface, hinting at unseen creatures below.

The Neverwood was ominously silent as he ran through it, running with a speed wholly unnatural, propelled by adrenaline and fear. Rushing through the beginnings of the ancient trees, George saw a little boy perched precariously on a rock beside the swamp, looking fearfully at something George could not see. He commanded his feet to slow and prayed that his appearance would not startle Tom.

“Tom. Tom, come here please,”

The little boy turned. George crouched down and edged closer.

“Tom, come here. Quickly,” he coaxed.

“Not until he’s completed his mission,” a deceivingly sweet voice interrupted. Peter Pan was in the sky, looking down at George with malice in his eyes.

“Tom, get back from the water!” George yelled. Tom looked between the two, clearly torn.

George looked past and saw a bubble break the surface of the water.

“Screw this shit.” He muttered and bounded off the mulchy floor, darting toward the boy.

“You shall not interfere,” Peter hissed, and shot through the sky, whipping out a wicked dagger. Tom froze, and gave George a heartbreaking look. A look of resignation.

He looked up at me with that softness, I love you Papa.

A prehistoric creature broke the surface of the water, its skin patch-worked with ridged and knobbly scales. It stretched its cavernous jaw and grabbed at the boy, dragging his thrashing body back into the water.

“NO!” George screamed. He reached out his arm, noticing a second too late the glinting metal that swung through the air and lopped off his arm. He dropped like a stone, screaming as white-hot agony shot up his arm. He clutched what remained of his forearm, blind with unending pain. He’d lost his senses, so he didn’t hear as the soothing voice brushed his ear to say:

“I'd replace that arm if I were you, maybe put in a hook.”