This story is such a carousel of ups and downs...
Just when I think this is becoming interesting, the reader gets treated to another boring chapter of background information.
Literary fantasy...it can work (aka Vera Nazarian) but this reads more like historical _nautical_ adventure with some whimsical in it.
“Do you say the Scotch boy sent you here?” Now it is her turn to stare at me. “The one who went home and wrote down the stories of Pan for the first time,” I explain. Her eyes widen. “You knew him? He was here?” “Oh, aye, Inky or Blinky, or some such as they called him, nearsighted little fellow, always scribbling things down,” I mutter, and take another satisfying draft. “Previous to him, they were just stories whispered by children to each other. I should scarcely recollect him now, but for the way the stories have altered since he laid siege to ’em.” Parrish is still staring, enrapt, so I go on. “He got it all wrong, of course, wrote about Pan as if he were a product of his own era, newly run off to the Neverland, although this place is eternal and Pan has been here so much longer than that. Always trumpeting about that he would never grow up, the Scotch boy, that he would never forget.”