text: It doesn’t take long for the children to find their way. They follow the ready-made trail, usually hidden by the warm arrays of leaves in their orange and browns. It’s funny how these trees, appreciated whilst they’re green and living, are so magnificent once their leaves fall and die. It’s almost poetic; the little children following the trail of death to find home. And they will find home with me. Under the solace of the branches they will be safe and sound, warm and snug around the campfire. They will come to their Wendy. It’s interesting isn’t it? The lies these adults will tell to keep their children from misbehaving and wandering off. “Go to sleep when we tell you or the Boogey Man will get you!” or “Santa won’t bring you presents if you keep behaving that way!” or “Don’t get lost in the woods or people will find you. They will hunt you. They will rape and kill you.” All these silly lies. There are no horrors out there for children. Children are blissful creatures, to be cherished by all those around them. There is no greater delight than sitting, watching these dainty pixies frolic in the sunlight. Take children out of the equation and there will be no laughter in this merciless world. Silly adults, no one would dare do anything to harm the babes. I can hear them getting closer. How delightful! Those delicious dead leaves crunch under their little booties like the bones of the defeated. I love that crackle you get, it’s like candy for the ears, alike to a passing breathe of someone close by, sounds of the living. I heard a story a long time ago, it’s an old tale, older than your own ears. He told me about this place. It’s so far away and you can only get there by thinking happy thoughts. It’s such a wondrous place. There are mermaids and pirates and Red Indians and such beautiful creatures. There are children there too. Lost children far from home who need looking after. Poor children. If only they had their Wendy. There’s laughter in these woods once more! Joyful joyful noise! I always did love laughter. It tickles the belly and it resounds in your head long after. He always made me laugh. He had such a way with words, he could tell a tale and it was like you were there! I was helping him fight a blood thirsty tiger in the depths of the jungle. I was swimming with him in that long forgotten wreck. I was watching him interact with those Indians, turning them red as he burned down their village. I was watching as my father’s hands gagged my mouth and defiled my young body. He said it was a part of life. Children get hurt because adults need it. Adults need to take a child’s innocence because they, themselves have lost it and are jealous. They need that act of gratification because there is nothing that can compare to it. I won’t let them do it. No one can harm the babes. Oh I hope these children will be more grateful than the last few that came by. They wanted to leave so soon just when I was getting into my story. They said that their parents would be angry if they didn’t leave right then. I told them not to worry; they’ll be safe with me. I gave them more tea and they soon settled down and enjoyed the rest of my story. I’ve recently realised that I tend to talk a lot, it’s my fatal flaw or “hamartia” if you like. He always told me that it was going to get me into a lot of trouble one of these days. He said that if I didn’t let other people get a word in that they’ll want to cut my tongue out and chop it to pieces. I quickly tightened up after that, but only for a little while. I can’t help it, I like to talk and if I don’t talk then who will? And I have so many stories to tell, the children love it when they sit around and listen to the stories of their Wendy. I should get the tea on! I can’t expect them to arrive here and not have tea ready for them. The sleeping bags are all neat and tidy, surrounding the camp fire so that they shall be warm while they sleep. It’s getting cold out and I don’t want them to catch a chill. The children are always so polite, they say their pleases and their thank you’s and they sip at that tea so delicately. They’re so delicate, like little birds; little birds with their breakable necks and hollow bones, that sing so beautifully. There’s nothing quite like a child singing. That’s what my father said when we used to go see the choir sing on a Sunday; all those little children singing so sweetly in their robes. I wasn’t allowed to sing because singing is an act of the innocent and I was a sinner, so guilty that I had to be punished. I sang though, as each blow dented my little body, I sang. I sang till my lungs burst and my throat burnt. I wasn’t good enough, but the children are and no one shall harm the babes. They sit so serenely on their sleeping bags, little legs crossed and hands in their laps, like little angels. They can see the tea brewing on the fire and I’m sure they are delighting themselves in the smell. They look up at me with their big seeing eyes as I pour them their tea and they take their sips so tentatively. I can’t help but beam at them, my little angels. I watch them for a while in silence as they chatter among themselves, their sweet voices filling the forest air. Uneasiness begins to creep over them and I take that as my cue to start talking. “Children, did you ever hear the tale of a boy called Peter?” They nod their little heads, their hair bouncing like leaves in the wind, “Would you like to hear a story about my Peter?” Again, they nod and they take another small sip of their tea. “My Peter was such a joyful little boy. He came to me when I was seven years old, a lonely only child with no friends my age. He found me and he saved me. He came from a land so far away that the only way to get there was to fly and he flew so majestically. The very first time he came to me, he flew all around my room, darting towards the corners only to pull back at the last second. It was so exciting watching this mysterious boy with pale blonde hair and clothes made from leaves dance around the room.” I notice the children snuggle deeper into their sleeping bags, getting more comfortable to enjoy my story. “He finally came to a halt and stood right in front of my bed, hands on hips, brazen as the day. He was so big back then, his shadow came to a halt just under my tucked up chin and I looked up at him, grinning. He pinched the tips of my toes with his little twig like fingers until I giggled and pulled my knees up to my chest, like this.” I go to demonstrate and I watch as a few of the children copy, “He smiled and sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me. “’Why are you smiling like that?’ He said. I couldn’t believe this was real. He was so beautiful, children. Such childlike benevolence radiated from him, I felt like he was ethereal. I didn’t want to touch him for fear of him disappearing and I daren’t speak for fear of waking my father up. ‘Why won’t you speak?’ He said, “Cat got your tongue?’ This made me giggle even more, I had to bring my hands up to cover my face. ‘Are you a mute? Did you get your tongue cut out?’ I shook my head rapidly. ‘Well then, I guess I’ll just have to make you talk.’ At this, he lunged at me, taking his twiggy fingers and dancing them over me, tickling me. I couldn’t take it and laughed so hard my belly ached! It was wondrous! Even after he stopped I still felt the tingles of his fingers on my legs and arms, little scratches that bled like the tears of laughter that fell from my eyes. I yelled at him to stop and he smiled smugly and disappeared in a flash, leaving me in my dark room with my awakened father’s footsteps looming.” The children’s eyes were drooping, they were feeling sleepy but there was still more tea in the pot so I shared it round, giving each little boy and girl a smile as I did it. “Peter came back multiple times after that night, and after he got me talking, I never stopped. I confided in Peter and in return he told me such magical stories about the land where he lived. Let me tell you my favourite: In the depths of the forests where Peter lived was a humongous tree house. It housed a group of children, Lost Children, and they lived there and they frolicked and played in the surrounding woods. These children, although lost, were free. There were no adults around telling them what to do, no chores or lies from their parents. There was just a Wendy. A Wendy was a lady who looked after them but never annoyed them. She made them dinner, kept the tree house clean and she told the children stories and tucked them into bed at night. The Lost Children were so grateful to have a Wendy like the Wendy they had. She was the best, loving and caring, like the mother they always wanted. This Wendy had magical properties that made the Lost Children love her even more. She had the power to keep them young forever. Never will they grow old into adults and learn to lie and hurt people. They will forever be blissfully innocent. “That story stuck by me, children. Peter talked of this Wendy so fondly and warmly, it was easy to love her even though I had never met her. That was the magic of Peter’s stories, children, he transported you to places you had never been before, he could make you love or hate people you had never met before because of the way he told them. You could so easily get lost in Peter’s stories, I know I did a couple of times, always so disappointed to know I was back. I always asked him to take me with him, back to his home. We tried once; he stood with me by the window, the dark night looming ahead of me. He held my hand whispered in my ear, telling me to think happy thoughts. I thought of his Wendy, of the Mermaids of his lands, of the pirates and the Lost Children. He then kept hold of my hand and told me to fly... “I can’t quite remember what happened after that, children, but after that day I never saw Peter again. He had left me. We jumped and then darkness... he’d disappeared. We’d been through so much and he’d gone, and I knew why. I wasn’t his Wendy. But I can be his Wendy, children. I can be your Wendy, so just lay down by the fire dears. Listen to my song and let it relax you.” As I sing, I watch them close their eyes. This part is always sad, saying good night. I had to say good night to Peter, as he closed his eyes. The boy who never sleeps forever reigns on awake in my dreams. And so will these children. I tuck them in and kiss each one on the forehead and then I sit and listen. I listen out for the forest sounds of birds chirping and little animals scurrying around in the undergrowth and just when I need it too, it all goes silent. So silent that I can only hear the breathing of those beautiful children around me. “It’s okay children, nothing to be afraid of,” I whisper, “No bogey man to get you out here. No bad people to come and rape and kill you. Just me, I’ve got you.” I can hear their breathing start to slow as they slip deeper into their sleep. “I’ve got you and I’ll forever be your Wendy. Go and join Peter in your dreams.” Their chests move slower and slower as the tea begins to take its toll on them. “You’ll forever be innocent, my children.” Then, nothing. They fall into the deepest sleep they will ever have, among the dead leaves of the trees. And I swear, they have never been so beautiful.