Author's Note: This story is a rewrite of the original "Eye of the Beholder" which I began writing back in 2006. This new version will be shorter and more dramatic than the first. It will be broken into two parts.


Eye of the Beholder: Of Sand and Sea. Part one.

Nigh, it cannot be.

The captain of the Flying Dutchman, the most feared vessel in all the world's oceans, stares down at a lifeless form floating on a piece of driftwood. A young woman lay next to the edge, any slight bump could send her plunging to the blackened depths.

He looks away as if he shouldn't care. His scrutinizing eyes scan the darkness of his ship, not a movement to detect. Only a sliver of moon is available for light. The stars above are dulled by a thin blanket of clouds. The captain gazes back down at the woman in the water. In the distance, a gurgled roar is followed by the dull cracking of wood. Two massive pillars rise from the ocean and claim the shadowy remains of a ship. The same ship the captain had hoped would contain more souls to feed his insatiable hunger. But, alas, here floats this surprise.

Surely, it cannot be...

A wave rushes over the driftwood and trickles down her face. He squints and sees the darkness of blood mixing with water. She is doomed, he mutters angrily to himself. Another victim of a marine accident, just like the rest. I will not be bothered with harvesting her soul. Wretched creatures, women are.

A lone crewman steps up from behind and announces that the leviathan will soon complete its attack on the hapless vessel. The captain nods and with an irascible tone commands that all the crew must go aboard this night and that he will not be accompanying them. Without questioning his superior's motives, the crewman slinks off to contemplate why all must leave for this duty. There is likely to be no survivors for this wreck.

His frigid blue eyes snap back down towards the shadowed water beneath the Dutchman. Her hand falls from her chest and splashes heavily into the water.

No...

The last of his crew departs and he is left alone in the bitter darkness. He contemplates the last time he dealt with a woman and feels a burning vexation swell within him. As the monstrous kraken pulls its body back into the depths, more waves head towards the drifting refuge. It bobs precariously, causing her limp body to shift ever closer towards the edge. One more jolt and she will surely perish.

Without thought, he races over to the Jacob's ladder and casts it down the side. He struggles to descend, his left arm useless here and his right leg reduced to a pathetic peg. His temper takes a hold of him as he realizes what a foolish thing he is doing for this girl. Grumbling profanities, he slowly makes his way toward her. Damned woman!

Half expecting to sink her himself by the time he reaches the end of the ladder, he finds himself staring hopelessly at her instead. So small and helpless. Like a wee bird that has lost her wings. Looking back at his left arm, he realizes that he cannot grasp the ladder to hold on. Flexing the arm around a rung, he maintains a strong hold as he leans toward the girl.

Carefully, he reaches down with his good hand and slides his fingers under her back. He stares in calm amazement at her small face, the vulnerability of her exposed neck and the gentle roundness of her breasts under her corset. Her head sinks back as he lifts her body into the safety of his arm. Clutching her to his side, he then wonders how the hell he will now get back up! He tosses her inanimate body over his shoulder and curses to himself, ye had better be worth all this trouble!

He places her on the floor of his cabin once inside. This won't do. I cannot leave her in the middle of the floor! If anything, I'll only end up tripping over the lass and booting her halfway to hell!

Her chest rises softly, her presence aboard the Dutchman bringing energy back into her body. He leans over her stillness. What an exquisite creature, he thinks to himself. Not at all like the morbid ruins of the female form I've become accustomed to for centuries now. Unconsciously, he reaches out to sweep away a lock of tousled hair that has fallen into her face. This feminine being has him perplexed and nothing shall ruin his view of her. He instantly pulls back when she sighs with the pleasure of receiving air to her lungs again.

Too close.

Again he finds himself wondering why he is fussing over this creature as he drags a dusty hay-filled mattress out of the corner shadows. He drops it with disgust and then peers down at her again. A slight smile curves the corners of her lips. He stares at their plumpness and remembers the warmth of a woman's kiss, the taste of her sweet tongue playing with woman! What are ye smiling about? He checks himself harshly. There is nothing to be smiling about here!

Once again, he lifts her fragile body and places her safely on the mattress. He makes a mental note of all the injuries on her being. A large gash to her forehead has matted her auburn hair with clotted blood. Her corset is stained from an injury to her torso. He examines the make of her dress, which is now ruined by salt water and blood. The lace and silk of the gown inform him that she is of upper class. Her finger nails are long and her hands are smooth. He scoffs to himself, living on this ship will change all that!

A sudden thought comes to him, something he was taught many years ago. When soaked to the core, one must shed the layers of wet clothing to be able to warm up again. He examines the numerous layers of her sopping gown with his eyes and swallows hard. She will revive faster if I do, he contemplates to himself. His head falls to his hand as he watches her breathe, her chest rising and falling softly. Again, she smiles at him behind closed eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear ye were trying to entice me into undressing ye!" He mumbles to her.

How long it has been since he has seen the supple female form! He groans in agony with the thought. She is small, but he is aware of her feminine curves underneath that dress. Choosing to respect her modesty, he stands and searches for a blanket. The only one he finds is a woolen one, made from the coarse fibers of the Scottish black-faced sheep. It will have to do, she needs warmth more than softness.

He paces towards the door, eager to leave her behind in his room. There will be no hiding her, but at least he can keep her safe while she is unable to protect herself. He looks back at her shadowed form in the dim candlelight, safely tucked away from the dangers of the world.

What have I got myself into this time?

Small rays of penetrating light force her from a deep slumber. Before she has a chance to open her eyes, a fierce pain stabs at her temple. She reaches up and her fingers probe an open wound on her forehead. She then groans softly as she becomes abruptly aware of the aching pain at her side. Her other hand instinctively reaches down to grasp the area in an attempt to placate it's ravenous fury.

Her eyes finally pry open and it takes a few moments for them to focus on her surroundings. The room is spinning around her, making her nauseous. Taking deep breaths, she closes them to regain her composure. When her stomach finally settles after a few moments, she reopens her eyes to a foreign landscape. The room is dark, the only light coming from a distant low-hanging candelabra. She slowly pushes herself up into a seated position. Another stabbing pain jolts her side, and clutching the wound once more brings slight relief.

"Where am I?" she mumbles to herself. She examines the room carefully, wanting to identify every object surrounding her.

But these items seem so peculiar. This room is filled with large, ornate corals of all colors. Towering tube sponges take turns exuding puffs of steam. The air is thick with the smell of salt water and a musky, humid warmth. The dampness only causes her injured bones to ache further. Her eyes continue to survey the darkened room.

A large globe is off in the corner. A table piled with rolled up papers is on the opposite side of a massive pipe organ, decorated with sea serpents and angels. Behind it, elaborate paned windows stretch from floor to ceiling. They are dirty, smudged and covered in more sea life, allowing very little light to penetrate. There are chests and other pieces of furniture which would define this room as someone's personal living quarters.

Barnacles encrust every surface available. Their fragile bodies magically fan in the air as if they were still underwater. She reaches toward one wisping nearby and it quickly slips within it's protective shell.

"Am I dreaming this?" She shakes her head, which only causes her pain to increase within. "This cannot be real."

Her thoughts then focus on herself. Her heart begins to race when she realizes that she has no idea who she is. She has no name to recall, she does not remember where she is from. She tries in vain to come up with names and places in her life, but none seem to surface. Fear begins to well deep within the pit of her stomach as she realizes she has no past.

"Thought ye'd never wake." A man's smooth voice flows from a darkened corner she failed to examine from her spot on the bed. A shadowed figure becomes visible to her, as if it magically appeared at this very moment.

She swallows hard when he does not expose himself to her. She squints, trying to catch a glimpse of this man. The figure is large and masculine. The outline of a double peaked hat is visible in the candlelight. Her heart races harder when she stumbles upon the realization that this person may have foul intent. "Where am I?"

"Ye are aboard my ship, the Flying Dutchman. What be your name, miss?" The voice shows evidence of a Scottish accent, with the last words being emphasized at the end.

"I do not know..." She mutters quietly. "What am I doing here?"

"I found ye floating adrift at sea. I pulled ye on board. That was five days ago." He explains briskly.

"Thank you, kind sir." She softly states her gratitude while still unsure of his motives.

"There is still the matter of ye not knowing who ye are." He interrupts her thoughts with the exact same topic perplexing her. "Judging by your accent, I would take the venture that ye are from one of the colonies in the east. It's not quite English, not quite French."

She nods as she considers if this is the truth."Why can't I remember?" she whispers to herself.

"Ye had those books with ye when I found ye. Perhaps they will shed a clue to your identity."

She looks towards the shadow and sees him nod towards the table to her left. Reaching over, another stabbing pain takes a hold of her and she inhales through bared teeth. Her desperation to find out her identity forces her to reach for the brown leather satchel of books, ignoring her discomfit.

She swings it over to the bed and two books tumble out. Both have extensive water damage. One appears to be scientific in nature while the other seems to be blank, like a journal. Her fingers slide through the pages of the first book. Each saturated page she turns holds no clue to her identity. It does, however, tell her a little about her history. She notices that she can read with ease, which means she is well educated. If I have a book on science then I must at least be somewhat intelligent, she thinks to herself.

She picks up the second book, full of empty pages. Her eyebrows form a puzzled frown as she examines the inside of the book. Multiple pages have been torn out in many sections of the book. Her heart sinks as these pages may have held the key to her identity.

"Something the matter?" He asks in a soft tone, noticing the distress upon her face. Her eyes lift from the pages and he quickly turns back to face the wall. The tall peaks of his hat create an ethereal dance of shadows and flickering light that are directed down toward his body.

She strains through squinting eyes to see what looks like a heavy beard that flows along his chest and stomach. He must be aged, she thinks to herself, to have a beard of such substantial length. She finds slight relief building within her to finally know something about the man in the shadows.

"There are pages ripped out." She responds to him after a few moments of thought.

A sardonic scoff echoes from the corner. "Sounds suspicious, like someone doesn't want ye to remember who ye are. Or for anyone to identify ye once they found your body."

His macabre reasoning makes her shiver. "Surely this cannot be the reason. Wait..." She announces as her fingers slip over the inside cover. "There is extensive water damage, but there appears to be a first name. Liliana..."

"Then that must be your name, mistress."

She places the book on her lap and gazes over to the corner. "Might you have a name, sir?"

"Jones." He responds quickly.

"That is all?"

"Captain Davy Jones." He continues with a tone of reluctance. He is not willing to share much with this young woman. Not just yet. Maybe not ever.

"The name sounds familiar..."

"Ha! It should!" He laughs heartily. "Are ye done with your questioning, mistress Liliana?"

Again, she peers at the shadows at the illuminated beard. Her eyes widen when it appears to move, writhing and slithering like a serpent. She is unable to stifle her gasp. "What do you want with me?"

"I mean ye no harm. I saved ye, remember?"

"For what purpose?" She mumbles weakly.

"Who the hell knows?" He growls. "I have been wondering that myself. Ye women are bad luck aboard ships. Bad news wherever ye may go..." His voice trails off. He reaches up to caress an old wound on his chest. His eyes close tightly as his palpating fingers cause a sudden rush of unexplained pain. Until now, the wound had been void of sensation since it healed.

"Captain Jones. May...may I see you in the light?" She pauses when she hears the low rumble of his guttural growl. "So I can thank you properly for saving my life."

"Ye can do that just fine with me standing where I am." He insists in an choleric tone.

"Yes, but surely I should lay eyes upon the man who rescued me." Her curiosity now taking a hold of her. Why won't he expose himself to her? That beard...he must have reasons to hide himself.

"Absolutely not! Ye are aboard my ship, mistress! I am the one who gives the orders. Is that understood?"

She nods quickly. Her body is shuddering helplessly at the raised tone of his voice.

"Good. I will take my leave for now. Ye must stay here in this room. Do not leave without my permission!" He grumbles and then disappears into the blackness of the corner. A sound of rushing water follows and then there is silence.

Trembling still, she scans the darkness for his form. She slowly lifts her legs to place them on the floor. Grasping the nearby table, she pulls herself to her feet. The wound at her side causes her to jolt forward in agony, but she is determined to see where he went. There was no sound of a door opening or closing. No footsteps were heard outside the room.

Creeping along the damp and slippery floor, she is terrified that he may be waiting in the shadows for her. Her body shakes as she approaches the darkness. She reaches for a candle in the candelabra and directs the light toward the corner where he once stood. Ignoring her pain, she rushes over to press her fingers to the wall. It is solid and strong. There is no way a mortal human being could exit from here! A stream of moisture runs down to collect into a puddle of water at her feet.

She falls to the floor in a desperate lump. "How did he leave?" Her words escape with barely a sound as her lungs wildly expand and collapse. "He is a phantom! What matter of hell is this?"