Jas. Hook, Captain

Paradise Lost

I awoke early, long before the sun would rise. Perhaps weeks had passed, perhaps decades. In Neverland, time only matters if you have any intention of returning to the so-called world. Otherwise, it matters little more than gravity which, in a land where fairy dust and a happy thought can make you fly, is not an especially potent feature of interest.

What mattered, above all, was the Game.

I had led many a merry chase, occasionally with Peter, though often as not without him. Whilst we were content to capture (and be captured by) the Blackfoot, Peter played cat and mouse with people back in the world, though you couldn't say time mattered at all for him. He carried a piece of Neverland with him wherever he went.

Where we played Pirates and Lost Boys, sought treasure (that we ourselves had buried), sang songs with mermaids, and had many a fanciful adventure, Peter remained Pan. A trickster.

He became like a living legend, and although I had known him as a simple boy, he seemed now to have transcended his mean and humble beginnings. Unpredictable, and flighty as a feather, we never knew when he would appear and join our game, or conversely disappear and be distant in body and in mind.

Often, new boys would join our ranks, and we would initiate them with food fights around an imaginary dinner table, a cot in the trees, and a costume of some animal or another.

The Lost Boys were single-minded in their delinquency, always flouting the rules (which we encouraged), always up for some fun (which we applauded), always keen for mischief (which we honoured). And yet, like a flock of birds, when Peter did come, they followed him like good little soldiers into the breach.

Our war games with the Blackfoot were games, yes, but that did not preclude one from returning home with a skinned knee or a bruised eye, a swollen lip and a story to tell.

Once, when we were playing Pirates, we nearly drowned a few of them in a mass keel-hauling. If not for Tinker Bell, I think our game might have ended there, for it was never our intention to do true harm, but what can you expect when children are left to their own devices without adult supervision?

Indeed, we were dangerous. One need look no further than a game we used to play, a personal favourite of mine, one we called Mountain Goat Pass, in which... well, I suppose that one needs little explanation. It was frightfully detrimental to our health and let's leave it at that.

But no one had in fact died as a consequence of our careless and carefree nature.

We were, to put it plainly, unencumbered by worry and quite enjoyed the lawless life.

Not once did I... that is to say...

Well, actually if I'm being honest, there was one time, but it must be so long ago now, and I'm sure all's well that ends...

Well...

Really, it wasn't my intention to hurt anyone. Not really.

You see, there was a boy, one whom Peter clearly admired. Above the rest, it seemed at least to me, and this rankled for some reason, for I had always felt that while this was a place for miscreants, well, Peter and I were the first, and so...

Oh, it seems foolish when laid bare in a manner such as this. To strip away the ego and tell the story as it is, well I just feel ridiculous and unjustly cruel, an that's no error.

We made to play Lost Boys and Pirates, although with this lot there was little in the way of an actual legitimate plan of any sort. We simply aligned ourselves however we saw fit, with little regard for teams or equity of any kind. Often you might find twice as many boys in one camp as the other, if not more.