Nevermor
Authors: Lani Lenore
Nevermor
By
Lani Lenore
Text © Lani Lenore 2012-2013
All Rights Reserved. No part of this
publication may be produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law.
Cover art by Omri Koresh © 2013
This book is about dreams – the dreams of the characters written
of herein – but more specifically,
my
dream.
Perhaps you already know the story behind this book. If you
don't, let me explain. I’ve always dreamed of being a published writer. It’s
been my lifelong aspiration, but that’s an old story. I take pleasure in
rewriting
old stories, and I love a good fairytale.
In 2001, when I was still young in heart and mind and ability, I
began a dark fantasy, Peter Pan-based fanfiction, which at the time was called
simply
Neverland
. I began posting it online and it was well-received,
but I didn't finish it until years later when I reworked the entire thing,
finished it, and posted it again as
Neverland: Forsaken Dreamscape
.
For years, it has lived online and has been merely a fanfiction –
until now.
In September 2012, I decided that I would be brave and set myself
on the road to self-publishing. I've rewritten many fairytales into darker
versions over the past several years, also penned a few original works, and yet
none have been quite as popular as my dark fantasy sequel to Peter Pan. I
decided that perhaps this was a good one to start with, but despite how popular
it was among readers, I was never happy with it myself. There were good things
about it, but there was something wrong, and I couldn’t quite pick it out.
I looked at it again, and after researching the copyright on Peter
Pan as well as examining my own unhappiness with my story, I decided that the
only way to solve my problem was to change it so that it wasn’t Peter Pan
anymore. I wanted to do something new – to break away from the old story and
make something of my own. I realized that in order to do that, I had to create
my own story as a base, to put in front of the ‘sequel’ volume I had already
written.
That is what this book is. I wrote it to create a new story to
set the stage for the next book –
Forsaken Dreamscape
, which is now the
second book in the
Nevermor
trilogy. I changed it from being Peter Pan
into something of my own. The setup of the story is similar, but the
characters and plot are different. Even though it is based on the Peter Pan
legend, I feel prouder of it now that I've made it my own.
So, that is the brief history of this book. Without rambling on
further, I ask that you approach this novel with a clear mind and that you
enjoy the story. Thank you for giving your attention to an indie writer with a
dream.
- Lani Lenore
This
book is dedicated to all my fans who have stood by me, and to anyone who's ever
dreamed - even if it was a bit dark and twisted.
~
~
Remember, oh
child; do not forget
When storms
roll in and darkness sets,
Though truth
be heavy, keep it still,
As fire will
burn and swords will kill,
What happens
once comes ‘round again.
As it began,
so shall it end.
~ ~
The
sea was calm, glittering beneath the moon like an endless sheet of diamonds.
Often, it was rocked with the turmoil of violent dreams, during which the black
remnant of nightmares washed up onto the land, but on this night, the waves
lapped gently at the sandy shore and the wind was steady.
The
Rifter was pleased with this, even if it meant that his sword would not taste
blood tonight. The cool breeze rushed through his hair and he felt at ease,
for the world was also at rest.
Finding
that the beach was safe, he brushed back his coat of leaves and sat down on the
rocks that were jutting out toward the ocean. From here, he took in the
silence – breathed it in like the salty air. The dark water stretched as far
as his eyes could see, fading away until it met the blue-black sky. There was
not a threat to be seen – not a nightmare or an ominous cloud – and to see
nothing at all on the horizon was better than noting danger.
Though
if danger had approached him, he would have laughed in its face as he cut its
throat.
The
Rifter often brought the others with him, but he had come by himself tonight.
What he had to do, he had to do alone. The weight of this choice was on his
own shoulders.
A
small orb of light drifted lazily over his head, staying close to him always,
as per their bond. Though it was uncommon to see a fairy wisp keeping so close
to a human, this one rarely left his side. As he was the guardian of this
place, she had made it her personal duty to watch over him – yet her consistent
hovering led him to forget that she was there at all.
She
dipped low now, flicking his ear to have his attention.
“Yes,
yes. I’m awake,” he told her with a hint of annoyance. He didn’t like it when
she fussed over him.
The
boy lifted his eyes toward the sea again, observing the calm beneath the light
of the large moon.
“Think
there’s anything out there?” he asked her.
His
only answer was a steady stream of whispers, spoken in a language that not many
could interpret, but it was as clear as English to him.
“I
guess we’ll see,” he responded. “Why don’t you go scout; try to bring
something in.”
The
whispers swirled nastily as the fairy zipped around him, cutting bright streaks
through the air, but the Rifter gave it no attention.
“I
don’t care,” he said, uninterested in her complaints. “Just do it.”
With
one last curse, the wisp shot off across the sea, keeping low, until she was
only a tiny pinprick in the distance.
Left
alone, Rifter whistled briefly to himself. This night needed to be fruitful.
He was like an unlucky fisherman, tired of coming back with empty nets. His Pack
might start doubting his skill if he kept returning without what he came for.
Reclining
lazily, the Rifter took out his flute – a row of reeds lashed together – and
blew into the end to produce a long, melancholy sound. The music flowed out
over the dipping sea, disappearing into the further reaches of the universe.
He paused, hearing the way the water carried the sound over it, passing it from
one wave to the next. Yes, it was a good night for this.
Closing
his eyes and l
istening
to the sound of the ocean to inspire him, he began to play a slow, haunting
melody.
LONDON - 1873
1
Wren looked down
at the tips of her shoes, closed her eyes and transported herself into her own
past.
She imagined the
large, familiar house that she’d once called home, which had the notches in the
doorframe marking the progress of her growth since she was a child. Her mother
was in the other room, knitting mittens for the baby, and Henry was in the
hall, making a mess with his jacks. The thump of the rubber ball resounded
down the wooden corridor, so that even their servant, Agatha, could hear it in
the kitchen, where she was preparing tea. Wren sought the smell of her
father’s pipe that was still on the air, though he was away at work. The heady
aroma never left. It saturated everything.
Wren could
almost recall it – only almost. She sniffed once as if she could catch a whiff
of the memory, but it was just beyond the veil. When she couldn’t quite
immerse herself in it, she had no choice but to come back.
Taking in a deep
breath as if to seal the images away – to place them back in a tidy corner of
her mind where they had been preserved – she opened her eyes to see her
reality. When she looked up, she hadn’t managed to deliver herself. No magic
spell could take her back to her innocent youth.
Miss Nora’s Home
for Wayward Children was not anything more or less than what was expected. The
gray walls, with their peeling paper, were patchy with water spots that started
at the ceiling and spread out at the angles like an infection. There was
always a pervading smell of the thick coal smoke that covered London, billowing
out from the chimneys of the factories that had taken over the East End. As
with all the other row houses and lofts, a thin layer of black dust covered
every surface and never seemed to go away, no matter how much one wiped or
fussed. It was the only thing that seemed constant and eternal to the ones who
lived here.
The Home wasn’t
a palace, but it was a roof over the head and a bed to sleep in, as opposed to
living on the streets with so many other unwanted children. Wren knew this,
and not a day went by that she didn’t have to remind herself that she
appreciated it.
It was a
Wednesday, but all of Miss Nora’s orphans – these forgotten children who seemed
to be a class of society all their own – were dressed in their Sunday best.
They were excused from their schooling for this event: adoption day. Wren had
been through so many of these days before, and each time, she told herself that
this might be the one that counted – the day that someone would want to take
her home.
Just remember to
smile at the decent ones and keep your head down when the riffraff pass
, she coached
herself.
Wren was in a
simple dress that she had made herself, stitched by hand from basic cloth. It
hung limply on her thin frame and the seams were a bit crooked, but it made her
look innocent and young – at least she always hoped for that. There was no reason
to draw attention to her nubile body or otherwise make herself look the whole
of her fifteen years, for doing so might garner unwanted attention. She didn’t
want the wrong visitors to notice that she was pretty. She was too close to
marrying age to risk that.
She was holding
Maxwell’s small hand in hers, her callused fingers against his smooth palm. He
was only four and needed her steady hand to keep him in place, but aside from
that, she wanted to show the visitors that they were together. They were blood
siblings and she needed that message to be clear.
Henry was
standing on the other side of her, looking sloppy as usual. His brown hair was
a bit too long but he wouldn’t allow her to cut it. His clothes were too big –
chosen from a collection that had been at the Home for years before they had
come here. He’d agreed to stand next to her, but insisted on his independence
by refusing to hold her hand. The idea of touching his own sister disgusted
him like nothing else. Such was his thinking at twelve.
There were at
least twenty orphans at Miss Nora’s, all usually so covered in soot from the
factories that their faces could not be distinguished one from another, but
today they were clean enough that they could be recognized as children again.
Their skin had been scrubbed and their shoes had been polished, all in line now
as they waited to be examined by the visitors.