“Once upon a time, in a time of many kingdoms, there lived an innkeeper who ran an inn between the capitals of two great countries. Far from any city, town, or village, the little inn was one of the few places that travelers could stay in the countryside between the kingdoms of Westera and Eastan. On the edge of a beautiful and uncharted forest, the inn was a tidy and splendid place. The innkeeper had a wife, who could cook and brew beer better than anyone, so their guests always enjoyed good food and good drink. One day, the innkeeper and his wife found out that she would soon have a baby.
“This was very exciting, and the merchants who frequented the inn brought them little wooden toys and fine, soft fabrics for baby clothes from both kingdoms. The innkeeper and his wife planned to travel to the nearest village in Westera—which of course was still very distant—so they could have a midwife's help delivering their little baby. But the night the baby came did not go as planned.
“A terrfiying storm had come through and washed out the bridge to the nearest village two days day before. The storm still raged, and many travelers who had intended to spend but one night at the cozy inn found themselves trapped by the inopportune weather. The little inn was almost full to capacity when an old woman in a hooded, black cloak wandered to the door. She came with no horse or carriage, and would not say how long she had walked on the long road between kingdoms. She had no money, but offered a shining black, silken feather as a token of her appreciation, and promised that if the innkeeper and his wife showed her kindness, the feather would bring them great luck.
“Unwilling to turn the poor old woman away, the kind innkeeper gave her the last room in the inn. The old woman said little, and none of the travelers from Westera or Eastan recognized her. The innkeeper's wife, who was also kind, gave the old woman some bread for supper that evening, which the woman ate crumb by crumb, her fingers pecking at the hearty loaf. Soon after, the innkeeper's wife went into labor. Fortunately, one of the many travelers stranded between the kingdoms knew the art of midwifery and knew how to assist.
“As fate would have it, that very night the king and queen of Westera were returning from a diplomatic visit to Eastan… and the queen was also on the cusp of giving birth. The royal carriage thundered to a stop in front of the inn. While their coachman boarded the horses in the barn, the king burst into the inn and demanded a room and the assistance of any midwife, doctor, or child-bearing woman who could help his laboring wife. The innkeeper, flustered by the king's sudden arrival, explained that the midwife was already busy delivering a baby and that they had no rooms left in the inn.
“The king, long-accustomed to getting what he demanded, pounded upon a table and threatened to have the innkeeper hanged if he did not fetch the midwife for the queen. However, the innkeeper's wife was having trouble with her baby, and to pull the midwife away from her would have condemned her to die in childbirth.
“At that moment, the old woman spoke from where she sat at the table, nibbling her bread. 'Pardon me, Your Highness and good sir. I, too, am versed in the art of midwifery and I may assist either woman. Furthermore, the king and queen are welcome to my room, so long as I might have a bit of hay and a warm blanket to bed down in the barn for the night. I have seen many years and much worse nights than I would spend in your barn.'
“With this fantastic kindness, they transported the queen at once to the old woman's room, beside the innkeeper's own room where his wife labored. Midway through the night both women delivered babies into the world—healthy, beautiful girls.
“But the king, so grateful to the old woman, had failed to recognize her. She had aged much; her hair had turned white, and her wrinkles had obscured her features. He could not see in her the young raven witch he had banished from his kingdom decades ago.
“But the witch remembered him, and witches are not known for forgiving the slights they are done by men. While the exhausted new mothers rested and the proper midwife went to tell the new fathers, the raven witch swapped the babies so that the kind innkeeper might raise the princess, and the unpleasant king might raise a poor commoner—not even a citizen of Westera!—for his daughter. Both men gave her hearty thanks for her help, but she accepted no payment for the deed and left to spend her night in the barn, taking nothing with her but a blanket and a bit more bread.
“By morning, the tempest had subsided, and the old woman had vanished without a trace. The king and queen left in their carriage, taking their presumed daughter with them to the castle in Westera.
Gwen took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts and trying to read Mr. Starkey. He kept an even, pleasant expression: the same nebulous but encouraging look he always gave students during presentations. She couldn't help but worry about his scrutiny. She felt under pressure, as if this story would determine her final grade for speech class. She continued along, abridging the serial story into a short fairytale she could relate in a matter of minutes. She wasn't used to telling stories without getting bombarded with interruptions and questions.
“And thus the two girls were raised—the innkeeper's daughter as the Princess Gracia and the real princess as a simple peasant named Margaret May. While Gracia's royal parents spoiled her rotten and let her cultivate an unpleasant temperament, Margaret May benefited from her kind and humble innkeeper parents.”
“Many seasons passed and the girls grew into young ladies. One day, the old Queen of Eastan sent out an important proclamation all through the kingdom and beyond, announcing the coronation of her son. She planned a fantastic ball in celebration of the coronation ceremony, inviting every young woman of noble birth from every kingdom on the continent. The messenger carrying Princess Gracia's invitation stopped, of course, at the inn between kingdoms, and gossiped the news to the innkeeper and his family. Everyone suspected that Prince Jay—mes of Eastan would pick a bride from the attendees.”
Gwen, humoring her own fantasies as much as Rosemary's when she first began the story, had shamelessly plugged Jay into the tale. The name meant nothing to her sister, but she didn't know if Starkey had ever taught or known Jay while at Polk High School. She didn't want to betray her crush if he did. More than embarrassing, it seemed dangerous to be emotionally candid with a pirate.
“The messenger knew a union with the neighboring kingdom of Westera would serve Eastan's political ends, but he doubted Prince James would settle for Princess Gracia, if she was half as ill-tempered as her reputation.
“The messenger continued on his way the next day, and the innkeeper rejoiced. 'A coronation! A ball! Why, all the traffic will go between Eastan and Westera will give us so much business!' Margaret May also grew excited for the event. She had often heard the story of how Princess Garcia was born beside her, and had always dreamed of meeting the girl. For the next few days, Margaret May worked hard to help prepare the inn, and dreamed of all the interesting dignitaries and glamorous nobles they might host. During her chores, she fantasized that the royal family would stay at their inn again on their way to the coronation.
“One day her father sent her out to collect more wood, for they did not want to run out while they had guests. Margaret May had already gathered all the branches she could along the forest's edge, so she ventured deeper into the forest to look for wood. She might not have dared to set foot in the deep and uncharted forest, but she had the lucky feather her parents had given her and she did not worry.
“However, the woods were more confounding than she ever imagined, and her lucky feather did not prevent her from getting lost. The more she tried to wander home, the deeper into the woods she wove, and nothing looked familiar in the least. Very afraid, she started to run, until a croaky voice startled her: 'Hobiddy ho! Who goes there?'
“She turned around and saw a stout man with pointed ears in a suit of downy moss. Other men and women of his stature crept out of the brush, and Margaret May realized she'd stumbled onto the forest elves.
This was no good fortune, for forest elves were wary of people and did not like to be disturbed. They made horrible threats and told her, 'We have a treaty with the old, old King of Westera—the only good and kind human that ever lived, rest his soul—and he promised no person would ever trudge through these woods that belong to us alone. Now tell us, where are you from? If you are from Eastan we will send you back with a message for your king, but if you are from Westera, we will turn you into a rock and put a curse on your kingdom for breaking our treaty.'
“'I'm not from either kingdom,' Margaret May told them. 'I was born and have lived my whole life, such as it is, at a small inn between the two.'
“This surprised the elves. 'Are you then the innkeeper's daughter?' one asked. Another exclaimed, 'Look there in her pocket!' for he noticed the feather poking out of her plaid dress. 'She has the raven witch's feather! She's the changeling princess!'
“This made no sense to Margaret May, but the elves fast explained what had occurred the night of her birth. The old raven witch had bragged about switching the babies to all the birds in the forest, and birds never kept secrets from elves. This news startled poor Margaret May, and the elves amazed her by offering to help her regain her royal destiny.
“'We owe a debt to you and all the royals of Westera since their treaty has treated us well all these years. We would like to help you, but we cannot leave the woods. We would die as fast as men do without air if we abandoned our forest. But we can show you a shortcut through this great wood that will take you straight to Eastan and let you attend Prince James's coronation. You may meet your blood-parents there at the ball.'
“'But I have no gown to go to a coronation, and no proof that I am a princess,' Margaret May objected.
“The elves whispered amongst themselves for a minute. They decided to take Margaret May to the eldest of the elves: a short wise woman, with silvery hair almost as long as she was tall. The mysterious old wise woman knew what to do, and gave Margaret May an ancient music box. 'The old, old King of Westera gave us this music box. It will prove you are his great-grand-daughter, and that you have our elfin blessings. As for a gown, simply find the raven tree before you leave the woods, and you shall have all you need.'
“Margaret May had many more questions, but a bird's shriek startled her. The ominous cawing continued as the elves exclaimed, 'The raven witch! Hide! Run! She hates all elves and the Westera royals! Don't let her catch you!' The elves scrambled to their secret hiding places, but Margaret May could only run. She ran far away from the witch's cawing, deeper into the forest. Away from the witch, she was safe but hopelessly lost. She gave up running and she sat down under a willow tree.
“Out of ideas, Margaret May decided to wind the music box and listen to its song. The music box didn't make a sound, but she heard music in the distance. She stood up and followed the sound of the music until it stopped, then wound her box and heard the music start again. She followed it until she found a tree in the middle of the forest, full of sparkling black egg-fruits, brimming with feather-leafs, and covered in tiny snapping beaks. She plucked one of the glittering fruits out of the tree and cracked it open, just like an egg, to see what lay inside. From out of the tiny shell, an impossible volume of fabric streamed out and collapsed at her feet. Picking it up, Margaret May marveled at the black and shining gown.”
Gwen paused. She had gotten no further in the story with Rosemary and the lost children. She'd been trying to think of an ending ever since she'd started telling the story again, but nothing firm had come from her distracted musings during these past few days.
“Well?” Starkey asked, smiling with an affable curiosity. “What happened then?”
Gwen continued with as much confidence as she could muster. “Margaret May wound the music box again, and found that the music led her to the forest's edge and the cusp of Easten. As the sun set, she walked all the way to the castle and the coronation ball. When she arrived in her gorgeous black dress, she presented the music box to Prince James as a gift from the great-granddaughter of the first king of Westera and an emissary of the forest elves. They danced together all night, and by the end of the ball the young prince had fallen in love with her. His mother crowned him king the next day and he soon married Margaret May and made her his queen. She returned to the forest only twice. First, she went alone to make a treaty with the elves on behalf of Eastan and receive their blessings for her kingdom. The second time, she ventured with several of the court's finest knights to hunt down and capture the old raven witch, who spent her final days in jail and never harmed anyone again, human or elf.”
Starkey's eyes still had a hint of expectation hanging in them, which compelled Gwen to close her story with, “And everyone else lived happily ever after.”
Starkey leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach, letting his smile come to its full fruition now that she had finished. “That's a clever enough story. I can see why Peter and his playfellows keep you around.”
“That's good,” Gwen replied, uncertain whether she should thank him for calling her story clever enough. Her delight at her teacher's approval superseded her nerves, and she felt herself smiling. She appreciated validation from someone who didn't constantly disrupt the narrative and badger her to skip to some favorite part.
“What's the difference between Westera and Eastan?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard. “Oh—nothing really,” she replied. “They're just two kingdoms. I don't imagine they'd be all that different from each other.”
He nodded. “I see—so the important thing was only the space between them, and the young woman who lived in that in-between.”
“Um, I suppose so, yes,” Gwen answered. She wasn't used to being quizzed on the content of her stories. The children always had follow-up questions, but only little curiosities to be addressed in a barrage of tiny epilogues.
“Until she met this charming Prince James, that is,” Starkey amended. “It seems she had no qualms about joining him in his world then, and leaving behind the little inn and enchanted forest where so much magic abounded.”
Gwen felt her cheeks warming as a blush spreading over her face.
“Yes, it was a good story,” Starkey continued, “but I didn't care for the ending.”
She shifted in her chair and tried to ignore the sensation of her reddening face. “No?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, standing up and taking a step toward the edge of his massive desk. His out-dated globe sat on the corner of the desk, and he sent it spinning with a flick of his hand. Without looking at Gwen, he explained, “I don't think this Margaret May girl could so easily walk away from magic. I can't imagine someone adventurous enough to barter with elves, seek out raven trees, and go marching into uncharted woods would ever settle for a simple romance, no matter how regal. It's my experience that individuals like that tend to be very happy, but never quite reach happily ever after. It's a shame to end one's adventure—one's story—any earlier than absolutely necessary.”
Gwen listened, but was loath to give credence to his argument. By that logic, all fairytales had unlikable endings. “I suppose all good pirate stories end with black beards going grey, more scars than wrinkles, and a bloody death in battle?” she asked.
Starkey laughed. “Something along those lines.” The globe's spinning slowed, and Starkey stopped it altogether with a single finger against its painted ocean. His smile dropped away. “I didn't care for your treatment of the raven witch, either,” he announced. “I think you tried too hard to make a enemy out of your villain.”
A look of confusion crossed Gwen's face, but Starkey didn't see it. He continued to eye his globe until she asked, “What's the difference?”
Her old teacher looked back to her. “Quite a lot—often the difference between a bad reality and a good story. Enemies, true enemies, are an unfortunate thing to accrue. There's no fun in someone who hounds you for the sake of hounding you, who hates you and all that live for, who has no understanding or appreciation for the role you play, and no desire to play a role themselves. Enemies are empty things.”
“Then what's a villain?”
Starkey sat down again in his chair, which Gwen appreciated. While he stood and she sat, their conversation felt too much like a classroom lecture. She preferred to sit down with Starkey and speak to him. She might not have been his equal in age or experience, but he had no inherent power over her as a conversationalist when they both sat down to talk.
“A villain's simply an antagonist,” Starkey answered. “Someone with motives and goals that puts them at odds with a hero. Villains are what give stories obstacles and plots texture—and in life, they're what give us the challenges that keep life interesting and adventures plentiful. Without the raven witch, Margaret May's life would have been just another unmemorable link in some unremarkable monarchy. She wouldn't have any story at all. Considering she owed her life and all of its magic to the raven witch, I think Margaret May handled her very unkindly.”
“If it weren't for the raven witch, she would have grown up with her real parents, and lived as royalty,” Gwen reminded him.
“If it weren't for the raven witch, she never would have existed,” Starkey told her. “She's a little bit of fiction, a character in a made-up story, Gwen… and without the raven witch, she would have no story to exist in. Just like that, she'd be gone. ” He snapped his fingers. “So let us not be too unkind to those who craft the circumstances from which we grow.”
The cabin swayed and the lights flickered as a riptide wave crashed against the side of the sturdy boat. Gwen didn't know how to counter her teacher's point, and waited to see if he would elaborate. No further explanation came. He had spoken his piece on the matter, and moved on. “Well then,” Starkey said, dropping the conversation, “a deal is a deal—I believe I agreed to enlighten you as to how I have retained my charming good looks over the course of the past century.”
Something about his tone intimidated Gwen. She still felt defensive. She had grown unaccustomed to talking with people who carried themselves intellectually in conversations. Starkey opened a creaky drawer of his dark desk and pulled out, from the very back, the most disgusting clump of wood Gwen had ever seen. It looked like a wood chip someone had repeatedly pounded with a meat tenderizer.
Starkey held it up so the cabin's candle light could illuminate it. “Bark from the Never Tree—I trust Peter has introduced you to the Never Tree by now. It's Neverland's best kept secret. At least until the adults realized that the phenomenon of Neverland couldn't be sustained by anything besides such a mythical lifeform.”
“The Never Tree is what keeps the lost children young?” Gwen asked.
“Yes,” Starkey answered. She imagined a tree breathing in carbon dioxide from the air and exhaling something more than oxygen, something immortal and magical that changed the chemical makeup of everything around it. He dropped the bit of bark and let it clatter against the desk. “I've been chewing this god-forsaken bit of bark for over a century now. It never breaks down, it's perfectly magic, but I wouldn't mind getting a hold of a new piece.” Gwen stared at the ugly hunk of wood. If a piece that small had kept Starkey alive a hundred years…
“So,” Starkey began, “I'm sure you understand now what the Anomalous Activity Department's real interest in Neverland is.”
“Immortality,” Gwen whispered.
“They'll butcher it, of course. By the time you pump something as magical as immortality through a system as bureaucratic and industrial as the modern medical world, it'll be distilled down to simple advancements in longevity. That is, if they choose to distribute it en masse.”
Gwen tore her eyes off the bark to look at Starkey. “You don't think they will?”
“I don't presume to know what the Chief Anomalous Officer will decide to do with it. But answer me this: if your executive decision meant the difference between anonymously extending the lives of people who wouldn't even believe in how you did it, or immortality for yourself and the secret society you're in charge of… what would you do?”
She thought of the black coats, and the white coated researchers they had at their disposal. They already pulled so many strings behind the world's technological advancements. The idea of such people gaining immortality made her shudder.
“Is there really any man alive you would trust with so much power?” Starkey asked.
She thought for a moment. “You don't seem to have done anything too evil with it.”
“Aye, but I only have a small chunk of it,” he reminded her. “Those ships coming, Gwen… they are angling for the whole tree, and nothing stands in their way but us.”
When they both fell silent, she noticed the rocking of the ship. Anchored in calm and friendly waters, the Grammarian's motion was subtle. Wooden boards creaked on the ship the way the candles flickered from a distance. It felt strangely safe. Aboard a pirate ship, Gwen felt she risked nothing of her good character but that which she'd already sacrificed by choosing to consort with pirates.
“Mr. Starkey,” she began, “what do you know about mermaids?”