Waiting for the Stars | ✓

Chapter One

Author's Note: Lyrics for each chapter are from the song Lost Boy by Ruth B. Also, Peter Pan is not something I made up. All credit to J.M. Barrie.
Enjoy!

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There was a time when I was alone

Nowhere to go and no place to call home

My only friend was the man in the moon

Even sometimes he would go away too

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A lot of us are waiting.

There is no such particular wait that all human beings share, except in one, one wait that most could not possibly dream of.

Grown-ups would dismiss it as preposterous, and children would blush and stutter, wanting to believe, wishing to believe, but they simply cannot, for the idea is, quite frankly, preposterous.

And that, is where everyone is wrong.

Anyway, the wait is always long. Waiting is such a lengthy affair, and most of us do it every day.

On a cold day in April, one such waiting woman stood out alone in the rain, waiting for the bus.

She clambered aboard the first shuttle, shivering and dripping, her numb fingers clutching her bag. A kindly old woman allowed her to sit next to her, and she nodded off into peaceful slumber.

She awoke a few minutes before her stop, and when she did get off, she thanked the old woman.

Her house was a large one, the kind of house you read about in storybooks. It was old, and crumbling and beautiful, with intricate designs looping over the roof and windows, and there was one particular window decorated with stars.

Briskly, she hurried homeward, her heeled boots with peeling paint clopping on the cobblestone path. She jammed her silver key into the lock of the front door, and pushed it open.

She removed her boots and coat first, and then her cap and gloves, pressing the key back into her bag. She hung the coat on the stand, and hurried upstairs.

A thin, tall woman stood in the doorway, looking at her crossly. "You're late," she said primly.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, the rain was terrible this evening and-" she took a breath. "May I see her?"

The thin woman's frown deepened, but she moved aside, and there it was, a soft pink crib, and inside, a soft pink child.

The woman released a sigh of real relief, and gazed upon the child in an expression of such love, such devotion, it was madness that the child did not wake.

"Alright, you can go home." said the woman, turning to her child's nanny with a handful of pound notes, pressing them into the older woman's hand. "Thank you."

The nanny sniffed and left, muttering something about lateness accounting for an extra pound or so.

The woman took the child in her arms and sat upon an old rocking chair, a chair that used to belong to her grandmother.

"My dear little Cara," said the woman, rocking the child. "I do hope that Miss Leanne wasn't so frightful today."

The child yawned and woke, gazing up at her mother.

"Did you know," said the woman, clutching the child closer to her. "That this rocking chair belonged to your great-grandmother? Her name was Wendy Darling, and she was the first."

The child looked up at her mother questioningly.

"The first of what, you ask? Well, the first to go to Neverland, of course."

Cara brightened with interest, no matter how many times her mother had told her the story.

"Yes, Neverland was a lovely place, but there was one thing lovelier than Neverland, and that was Peter Pan. He brought Wendy to Neverland. Peter's the only boy in the world that won't grow up, never. He's the only free soul in the universe."

The woman carried Cara over to the window. Coincidentally, it was the window decorated with stars.

"Yes, here at this window, Peter took Wendy's hand, and they soared into the night with her brothers, John and Michael. That is why we must keep this window open, always, for Peter. The Darlings will never turn him away."

"Yes, Wendy was the first." said the woman after a pause, staring out wistfully into the night.

"And then there was Jane. Jane was my mother, you see, and by then, Peter had forgotten all about Wendy. He really was a forgetful boy. He had lived so long that not many things mattered to him at all. Anyway, he suddenly remembered Wendy, but when he returned for her, it was too late. Wendy had grown up and remarried, and had had a child. The child's name was Jane."

Cara put her finger in her mouth and gazed out the window also, as if hoping to glimpse Peter's shadow against the dark sky.

"Jane went also, with Peter, and they too had grand adventures. But soon enough, Jane grew homesick and Peter returned her home. He forgot about her also, and the Darlings simply faded from his mind and into nothingness, the very same nothingness that orbited Mermaid Lagoon."

The woman looked sadly at the sky.

"Yes, Wendy was the first, and Jane was the last. I never went to Neverland, my sweet. And you won't either. Peter Pan has forgotten, and all we are are memories."

Cara cooed sadly, staring up at her mother. The woman sighed, and set the baby back into her soft pink crib, gently rocking the sides.

"Go to sleep, my dear. Tomorrow will be a long day."

And the woman began to sing. It was the saddest, prettiest lullaby, a melody passed down from generation to generation. A Darling tradition. Some said it was the song of the sirens of Mermaid Lagoon, and other claimed it to be what the stars sang when the night ended.

Cara's eyes began to droop, and when her mother deemed her asleep, her voice trailed off, and she left the room, back to her own. Hers, with an empty bed and cold sheets.

But Cara was not yet slumbering, but awake.

She looked about her sleepily, her small fingers grasping her covers.

And in the darkness, she saw a slight figure, one with hair of gold and clothes of skeleton leaves, leaning against the windowsill, the curtains billowing around his feet.

He smiled at her, and oh, what a beautiful smile it was! That very smile threatened to take over Cara's being and lift her straight to the sunrise, dipping her in colors that she'd never seen.

He put a finger to his lips, and pulled out a pan flute of foreign wood. It smelled of honey and of sunshine, of a place that Cara's young heart yearned for.

And softly, he began to play.

It was the same song that Cara's mother had sang, but somehow, it was different. It was a melody that washed away the loneliness in Cara's room, a melody that cured her mother's tears, and brought warmth to her hands. It was a melody that stretched far into the city and kissed away pain. It was a melody that awoke in all the people the Wait, the bitterness of waiting for a boy who would never grow up. It was a melody that spoke of Peter Pan's forgetfulness, of the joy and innocence that would last forever in his eyes. It was a melody of a better day, and Cara could see clear blue waters and golden sands, mermaids and fairies and pirates.

And slowly, she drifted to sleep.