Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Vincent Frost

Vincent Frost:

(1913 A.D., London, England)

Bitter cold blankets London in a shimmering layer of white. Mr. Darling exits the bank exhausted. His day was uncommonly difficult at work, but it is finally over. He trudges toward home. Everything feels heavy, his overcoat, his briefcase. Even his mind feels heavy under the relentless burden of the same churning questions. Where had they really gone? Who are these jungle wildlings that accompanied his children home? Why is Wendy lying to him? She never used to lie, not to him at least.

The stress of the day and the mounting feelings of betrayal from his daughter make the bitter pain in his chest feel even worse. A chilling gust of wind hits Mr. Darling from behind, pushing his slicked-back hair forward into his eyes. He smooths his hair back into place as he stumbles off the curb and slips into the deep slush of the gutter, soaking his pant leg. Cursing privately, he shakes his foot.

He has not been thinking clearly all day, distracted by the simmering anger boiling in the background of his mind, but tonight he will finally have his answers. Oh, she will talk tonight. By God, she will talk! He stomps across the street, determined to make it home in record time but then it happens. Suddenly all the street lamps as far as the eye can see flicker and go dark.

The frigid winter wind vanishes. In its place comes an unnerving feeling of absolute stillness, as if the world has stopped spinning. Silence takes over, stretching the moment taut. An icy hand of fear takes hold of Mr. Darling’s heart, causing him to yelp as he spins towards the sound of soft, crunching footsteps approaching from behind. His heart races. Just stay calm, old boy! Why are you cringing like a child? Summoning up all his strength, he manages to stand his ground as the approaching outline of a stranger emerges from out of the nearby shadows.

Mr. Darling tries to hail the newcomer, giving him a quip about the weather or some such, but nothing comes out. He finds himself gutless, voiceless as the stranger closes in on him. Coming more clearly into view, the stranger is a smiling pale-skinned man dressed in black slacks and a long black coat lined with silver buttons. All the heat of the world is sucked away into the smile of the stranger. Mr. Darling shivers violently against the intensifying cold. He cries out against the freezing world as the stranger comes to a stop a few feet away, jabbing the ground hard with the end of his silver walking stick, causing the fearsome arctic front to suddenly vanish without a trace. Mr. Darling stumbles backward, taken aback by the rapidly changing temperature.

“Hello Mr. Darling, my name is Vincent Frost and I am here to help you.” says the stranger, smiling warmly.

He extends his hand to Mr. Darling, who hesitates cautiously for a moment before gingerly giving Vincent a limp handshake.

“You startled me, sir, I’m embarrassed to say. To be honest, I thought a mugging was on the menu,” quips Mr. Darling nervously.

The stranger chuckles. Mr. Darling hugs his coat closer to his chest as the street lamps flare back to life, shining off Vincent’s golden hair and moon-colored eyes.

“Not to be rude, Vincent, but what exactly do you want?” asks Mr. Darling.

Vincent slides in close and puts a brotherly arm around his shoulders, guiding him further along his route home. Mr. Darling shivers, but not from the cold, from something deeper. He isn’t sure what.

“I want what you want: the truth. The truth about what happened to your children that night. Where did they go? And most mysterious of all, why did they go?” answers Vincent coolly.

Mr. Darling stiffens at the mention of his children. He turns on Vincent, pushing him away, his earlier rage returning in a flash.

“How do you know about that? Were you involved? Trying to cover up your mistake now? Come clean or I will go to the police straight away,” snarls Mr. Darling.

“Come now, Mr. Darling, may I call you George? You really are in a foul state right now, aren’t you? I’m only here to help, and the organisation I represent is far more capable of helping you in a special situation like this than London’s Finest. This matter may be more than a little outside of the jurisdiction of the constabulary,” muses Vincent.

“I don’t know who you are or what you think you know about me and my children, but we are just an ordinary family and if you ever come near my kids, I’ll...” presses Mr. Darling, grabbing Vincent’s collar roughly.

“You’ll what?” interrupts Vincent, still chill and smiling. Icy lightning jolts through Mr. Darling’s hands as if the blood in his veins has suddenly flash-frozen. He abruptly lets go of Vincent’s collar, stepping back.

“I must admit, I didn’t think you had it in you,” chides Vincent, his voice brimming with approval as he fixes his collar.

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“Was that you?” asks Mr. Darling, rubbing his hands together, desperately trying to restore any semblance of heat to them.

“Was what me?” responds Vincent, smirking coyly. Vincent again steps towards Mr. Darling, causing him to back-peddle defensively.

“This is absurd, you just stay away from me and stay away from my family,” roars Mr. Darling through gritted teeth, turning and making his way home once again.

“There is more to this than you know. We will speak again soon,” shouts Vincent to the now quickly fading outline of Mr. Darling.

Shrugging to himself, Vincent turns his gaze to the night sky. The cold clear blackness of night emboldens the shine of the stars like the radiant speckles of a robin's egg. Then with a soft, inaudible whisper, Vincent flurries into nothingness on the chill winter wind.

Mr. Darling opens his front door with an exhausted sigh as he steps briskly through the threshold. The heat from the hearth envelopes him, ushering the frigid night air back out the door. Mrs. Darling welcomes him home, still practising a soothing sonata on the piano. Over the gentle tune, he hears the sounds of Nana wrangling Slightly, Tootles and Nibs into the upstairs bathtub. The moment feels so pedestrian Mr. Darling can almost let himself believe that his meeting with Vincent Frost had been a mere dream, an exercise of his overworked mind. But then he thinks of Wendy and the hope recedes.

Mr. Darling doffs his top hat and coat, hanging them on the rack by the door before making his way over to the piano and kissing his wife’s cheek. Mr. Darling hopes either the heat from the crackling fire or his wife’s radiant warmth would thaw the chill that has been growing inside him ever since Vincent had placed his arm around his shoulders.

“How were the children today?” asks Mr. Darling as he straightens his stance, pulling a small cloth out of his vest pocket and wiping his glasses.

“Fine. They miss you when you are gone at work, but the day was mostly uneventful. John and Michael have been playing with the rest of the boys upstairs most of the day, though Michael was upset earlier. It seems he has misplaced his bear, Mr. Teddilson. Liza has already prepared dinner and gone home for the evening but will be back tomorrow at her usual time,” replies Mrs. Darling, sighing.

She stops playing and looks towards her husband with a half-hearted smile.

“And where is Wendy?” asks Mr. Darling, casting his eyes toward the stairs.

“Where else…” responds Mrs. Darling flatly, averting her attention back to the piano.

She picks up the piece where she left off and begins playing once more.

Mr. Darling breathes in deep for a moment, hoping to push out the creeping dread rising in him as he makes his way upstairs. He finds Wendy staring out the open window of the nursery, just as she had been every night since their return. Gentle lips meet soft brown hair as he leans in and places a fatherly kiss on Wendy’s head. She jumps at his touch, snapping out of her trance. Wendy turns and hugs her father’s waist. He knows she is saying, ‘See father, I’m okay, I’m still here’.

“Wendy… Wendy… my precious Wendy. Why do you sit and pine for the stars every night?” asks Mr. Darling softly.

“It is not the stars, Father, it is what lies beyond them,” replies Wendy with dismay and longing.

When he told his colleagues at the bank about his children’s return, some had joked they had been taken by beings from another world. He pretended to be busy to shut out their jibes, deciding to never confide in any of them again. Remembering this stokes his anger. The stress of the day and his bizarre encounter with Vincent flood his mind.

“Wendy, please… your mother and I love you. We only want to help you. I beg you, tell me the truth,” pleads Mr. Darling, clutching his daughter closer to him.

“I’m sorry, father, but you seek something I cannot give you,” she pushes away from him.

“Cannot or will not?” Mr. Darling snarls with frustration.

“Pick one,” replies Wendy with exasperation.

A loud crack echoes throughout the room as Mr. Darling’s hand connects with Wendy’s face. She crashes hard to the floor, one of her palms coming to her bruised cheek to soothe the swelling, as her heart pounds in her ears.

“It appears I will have to take more aggressive methods to find out the truth,” growls Mr. Darling.

He slicks back his hair, trying to regain his composure before striding out of the nursery. He shuts the doors behind him as regret grips his heart, leaving Wendy sobbing on the floor.

“I tried again with Wendy tonight,” says Mr. Darling as he buttons up his pyjamas.

He lays his watch and glasses on his nightstand and climbs into bed next to his wife. He snuffs the last candle beside the bed and stares at the darkened ceiling. Gradually his hands and feet warm beneath their winter quilt, but the frigid shard of cold in his chest remains.

Mrs. Darling shifts sleepily towards him, “How did it go?”

“Same as before, except this time I… I...” says Mr. Darling, his voice shaky with regret and frustration.

“You what?” inquires Mrs. Darling, propping up on her elbow.

Her face is vague in the gloom, but Mr. Darling knows the expression it has.

“I hit her… For the first time in her life, I hit her. I have never raised a hand against any of our kids before, but I was just so…”

“Afraid?” she finishes, placing a soothing hand on Mr. Darling’s cheek.

“Yes… afraid. We are losing her, I can feel it. All she does is stare out that window every night, searching the heavens for who knows what. She hardly eats, she hardly speaks to us. I know you feel it too.” Mrs. Darling lays back, not answering for a time.

“I have felt a kind of distance between us, even when we are sewing, which used to be our special time together without the boys and all. But what can we do?” inquires Mrs. Darling.

“I don’t know...” the sentence dissipates into the quietness of the room. The moment passes, and they both retreat inward. Mrs. Darling thinks of the chores she will have to do tomorrow and which boy she will have help with each task. Mr. Darling thinks of Vincent and other worlds and a crying Wendy holding her cheek on the nursery floor. His heart weeps silently as he searches for sleep in the darkness.