The metal was weighty, and it pulled on Peter's hand as he held it aloft. The boy kept his eyes trained on the depths below, poised for a familiar flash of movement. Although he was alert, his body was relaxed, each muscle loose and prepared for action. His breathing was deep, smooth, and even, each intake of air flawlessly aligning with the gentle bobbing and swaying of his boat.
When the motion he was searching for finally appeared, Peter threw his body behind the steel rod, exhaling in time with the swing of his arm. For an instant every cell within his body hummed in harmony with the golden sun overhead and the vast waters below, and as the boy loosened the harpoon, launching it out and downward at the unfortunate creature, he felt entirely at peace. All was right in the world as the spear pierced through the water's surface and landed true.
The fish gave a few death throes before expiring altogether and turning limp. Peter beamed at his catch as he removed it from the blade and tossed it into his nearly-filled bucket.
Although it was entirely plausible to fish in the traditional manner, Peter relished the unique challenges that harpoon fishing proposed. He was perfectly capable of using the conventional string and pole; in fact, he was quite skilled at it, and was arguably one of the best fishermen in his village. But the usual method bored him, and he detested the feeling of idleness it brought. Harpooning was much more involved. One had to understand how the light was refracted by the shifting ocean waves, how the motion of the weapon was altered upon entering the water, where the best spot to spear an animal was located, and be able to account for it all within mere seconds in order to successfully hit the moving target. Needless to say, it demanded more skill than its orthodox counterpart, which consisted of silently willing the fish to feed upon one's own bait within an ocean of options.
Despite the impressive nature of Peter's skill, the man whom he worked to please was never sated. Nor was he particularly unhappy, seeing as how Peter invariably yielded the same catch as when he fished conventionally. The only difference was that the meat suffered more lacerations than usual, but this was no bad trade off for the time that the lad saved.
Unfortunately, the child's father was particularly demanding. He was a gruff, callous old man with the perpetual air of pessimistic cynicism. Life had done an untold number on him, subjecting him to struggles that neither he nor anyone else residing in the small seaside village would speak of. The hardships were locked away behind a barrier of age, known seemingly to everyone except for Peter, who could only glance at the scar over his father's face, the many tattoos on his arms, and his calloused hands with a hopeless curiosity. He knew that the gray-haired man couldn't have been a fisherman for the entirety of his life, and something must have occurred to transform him into the bitter, surly old bastard he was currently. At some point, he must have had friends aside from the bottom of a bottle.
Of course, there was Peter's mother, who was engaged in a perplexing marriage to the man. Perhaps love had once existed between the two, but whatever flame they once held was long extinguished, turning their relationship cold and distant. They were apparently held together by the mere habit of co-existing, which they could manage better together than alone. They were both within retirement age, and were only about ten to fifteen years shy of becoming acquainted with death. This was a cause for distress to Peter, who was only twelve himself, having been born unusually late into his parents' lives. But he consoled himself by simply choosing not think of such things.
His mother and father were antonyms. No two naturally-occurring entities had ever been so unalike. The sun and the moon had more in common than the man and woman Peter owed his existence to. While his father was a rough, soured grouch, his mother was a bright and gentle woman with a face creased from smiling and a voice that was a lullaby capable of soothing Satan.
With the way Peter's father acted when drunk, the boy was sometimes convinced that he was precisely that. The fisherman's inebriated bouts of violence were nothing short of terrifying, and when he was younger Peter could recall cowering in his room while the other subjected their house to a variety of abuses. Now that he was older, Peter wasn't as skittish, and he could bear the brunt of watching his father tear apart the living room in an unjustified rage. Sometimes he would look to turn his aggression toward Peter, but his mother inevitably leapt to his defense. Despite the lack of passion between the two, there was still a sacred respect preventing his father from harming the woman. Even when hopelessly intoxicated, he wouldn't raise a hand toward her.
Peter could not be more grateful for that fact. He didn't know what he'd do if he were forced to fight the man.
His mother was endlessly reassuring. When Peter became frustrated at how his father had reduced the house to shambles, she was there to placate him with the promise that it was only temporary. She would always repeat the same saying: They were only things, and while things can be fixed, people are not so easily repaired. It was a nice thought, and while Peter was overjoyed that no one was hurt during the incident, he was always concerned about the future, which brought the possibility of injury. As a result, he was never truly at ease in his home.
Peter could not help but think that things would be easier were he not alone. Of course, he was isolated in the fact that he was the sole child his parents both acknowledged. However, there was the looming shadow of an unseen brother that he had grown in, enduring the latent gloom of his sibling's wretched reputation. No one in the village spoke of him, as they preferred to forget about him, if at all possible. He had left the place for good, turning his back on his home with complete disregard for those who had raised him. He was no longer a part of the community, and he was no longer a part of his family. But Peter's father was intent on making sure that he would never forget the estranged brother whose departure Peter had been too young to remember.
Whenever the lad strayed from the fisherman's path, his father was there to set him straight. Venturing beyond sight of the coastline was forbidden, as was becoming too friendly with the merchants who came to port. Such curiosity only led to trouble, his father explained. It was better to avoid temptation altogether, as they were capable of capturing the mind of a young man at any moment, and could make him forget his responsibilities. Such was the downfall of Arthur, who failed to heed his father's words and deserted his own kin for the life of a sinful criminal on the brutal, unforgiving seas. He was a shame onto the family, his name a stain that Peter was tasked with erasing.
While his parents were still held in decent regards throughout the diminutive seaside community, there was quiet speculation. Gossip and theories made infrequent rounds, albeit fleeting in nature. Peter couldn't say that he blamed the townsfolk for wondering what went wrong, - surely something had gone horribly awry for the Kirklands to have produced a pirate - as he too pondered over the subject regularly, but to no avail. Peter's own brother was a sacred knowledge that was forbidden to him, as his parents feared that the mere mention of Arthur would deprave him.
Sailors were not so tight-lipped. The nomadic workers who blew in from the seas brought with them tales of pillage and conquest, all of which astonished and horrified Peter. Of the many stories that the boy gained from the docks, there were several that revolved around prominent and ghastly figures: Antonio Carriedo, Francis Bonnefoy, Abel Van den Berg. Each pirate captain was depicted as merciless in his own right, splendid in his cruelty and seeking unfathomable wealth. Sometimes Peter would catch his own surname tossed about in those recounted glories, and he knew that his brother was out there somewhere, taking part in all of the infamous, reprehensible acts that piracy entailed. He was forging a contemptuous name for himself, but when he was mentioned by travelers, it was always with a tone of fear or respect.
Although it was wrong, Peter yearned to learn more. He wanted the men to enchant him with stories of the sea, but more than anything he lusted after some type of news. He knew that his mysterious, shameful, intriguing brother was out there somewhere, doing something incredible with his life. Even though Peter resented him and wanted nothing more than to chastise him, he was curious.
But the chatter always excluded him, as it was invariably saved for the tavern, which was the one place in town that Peter was absolutely banned from visiting. The lad could get away with "overhearing" a few stories at the docks, but under no circumstance was he to be caught at the tavern. His father knew the owner well, and word would soon reach his parents if Peter set foot inside the establishment. Yet this fact only caused more animosity toward his brother. If Arthur hadn't left, Peter's only link to his whereabouts wouldn't be the word of a complete stranger, silenced within the walls of a prohibited place.
However, the issue of his brother did not matter as much as what Peter intended to do about it. The precise nature of his family's shame was not of particular significance to the boy, only the fact that he was the one forced to atone for it. His father thought that the best way to do that was by staying put, becoming a career fisherman, and taking the old man's role in the community upon his retirement. As a young child, Peter had been all too happy to work toward the goal he'd been assigned. Whenever he made his first catch at the age of five, the look of pride in his mother's eyes and the vague approval of his father had been enormously gratifying.
Toiling away for the pleasure of others had since lost its splendor, and Peter could not help but consider the alternatives for his future. Truth be told, he didn't fancy the incessant routine that fishing presented, and eventually he would become revolted by it altogether. Once the challenge of spearing fish dissolved, Peter wouldn't have any type of stimulus. It would be maddening.
There weren't many options available to him, but he still craved the unattainable. As Peter counted his catch and elected to call it a day, he spared a glance out to the open ocean. Something called to him from beyond the horizon. He felt a surge of inspiration sweep over him, and he desired nothing more than to charge out into the open waters, chasing after the promise of adventure. It was his greatest dream.
But therein laid the trouble. It was indeed a dream. Unfortunately, Peter was handicapped by the fact that all he possessed was a rowboat, a bucket of fish, and an overbearing father that chained him to a certain yet underwhelming future. For a moment, he could understand why Arthur left. For as long as Peter was there, he was nothing more than a boy allowing his thoughts to be carried away by the salty ocean gale, crestfallen with the knowledge that they would journey infinitely further than him.
Unable to suffer through the torture of resisting the beckoning of the ocean, Peter brandished his oars and and began to row home, discontentedly turning his back to the life he desired.
He didn't expect for his dreams to beat him home.
Upon rounding the coastline's bend, Peter caught sight of port, and with it, a fleet of clippers. Docked in his town's humble port were three sloops and a magnificent warship, collectively occupying nearly the entire harbor. Saint George's Cross billowed in the breeze, tied above the crow's nest of the warship. Each of the sloops possessed an accompanying banner of Union Jack, all strung and billowing in unison.
Peter began to row with unprecedented enthusiasm, heading ashore as quickly as he could manage. He had hardly reached the shallows when he leapt from the craft, hurriedly tying it to the pier. He then sprinted to his village at a breakneck pace, bucket and harpoon in hand.
By the time he made it to the main street, Peter's sides were heaving and he was breathing in gasps. However, his fatigue was overshadowed by the sight of men in glorious crimson coats roaming the town, too numerous to count. They were everywhere, strolling about at a leisurely pace and going from one shop to the next. Although there were only a few businesses in the town, there were enough to attend to the sailors' needs, and the owners greatly appreciated the business, as was evidenced by the employees greeting the new customers at the door.
Peter was too nervous to advance beyond the first building on the street, his legs frozen as he observed the men. He didn't dare to approach any of them, settling to admire them from a short distance. His head was swimming with wonderful, spectacular thoughts. He could only imagine where the men had traveled to, and what all they had seen. How many lives had they saved? How many injustices had they prevented? How many invasions had they thwarted? The young boy felt his heart rate increase as the possibilities bounced around his head, and he couldn't keep the giddy smile off his face as he imagined how the life of a sailor in the Royal Navy must be.
A door slammed into Peter's side, sending him stumbling sideways. He produced a small yelp of surprise before regaining his balance, turning to see that he'd been standing in front of the governor's office. With a great deal of embarrassment, Peter also noticed that a naval officer had been exiting the building, but was impeded by the boy's poor choice of resting place. The man was clearly of high rank, as he wore a peruke and an immaculate uniform. He appeared astoundingly regal, and with his strong, lean build, he towered over Peter. He rested his murky green eyes on the boy, respectably ruffled.
"Oh! Sorry about that, dear boy. I didn't see you there." The man appeared apologetic as he stepped outside, focusing on Peter with a polite but distant gaze. "Are you alright there?"
Peter tilted his head back to make eye contact, and instantly felt humble. He was rendered speechless for an uncomfortable amount of time, which felt like an eternity but in reality was only a few seconds. When he did finally grasp words, he stuttered. "Y-Yes, I'm fine! S-Sorry. I shouldn't have been standing there, sir…?" he trailed off, looking up the man in a silent inquiry.
"Commodore James Norrington, at your service." the man said, a faint and almost undetectable smile gracing his lips as he looked down to Peter in amusement, "And what might your name be, young lad?"
Peter took note of the smooth confidence with which the Commodore spoke, and despite knowing that it was no great feat to be so self-assured when faced by a child, he wished that he possessed half of his charisma. He attempted to emulate it to the best of his ability, standing up straight and extending himself to his full, unimpressive height. "My name is Peter Kirkland."
The Commodore's expression faltered, and he stared down at the child in scrutiny. His brows furrowed, and he appeared both shocked and concerned, as if Peter had inexplicably sustained a morbid injury. However, he recalled his own position within moments, and he summoned back some semblance of his composure soon thereafter, though he was still clearly not at ease. "Well, it's certainly nice to meet you, Peter." Norrington stated, extending his hand to shake.
Peter accepted the gesture, his hand nearly engulfed in the Commodore's. He intently gazed up at Norrington, who, standing at just over six feet, was a tree of a man.
When Peter's hand was released, he relapsed into his earlier enthusiasm.
"Have you ever been to the Caribbean Sea?" he blurted, his voice thick with childish excitement. Peter immediately realized that the question was sudden and thus might have been rude, his face growing red after the fact. "I-uh, I'm sorry, it's j-just, you seem so interesting..!"
Norrington produced a deep, genuine chuckle, temporarily removed of his previous distress. "Why, I have indeed." he answered, comfortably folding his arms behind his back, "My men and I will leave here for London, then begin passage back to there, actually. It's truly a lovely place, quite beautiful." He paused, his eyes trailing down to the harpoon loosely clasped in Peter's hand. He allowed himself to show impression. "That's an exceptionally large weapon for a such a young child. Did you spear those fish yourself?"
Peter glanced down to his spear, taking its mass into consideration for the first time in ages. He'd grown so accustomed to it that he'd wielded it without a second thought for years, and he hadn't fully assessed it since the first time he'd picked it up, which was with a great amount of difficulty. Realizing that the skill was abnormal for a boy his age to possess, he became a bit proud. Making eye contact once more, Peter nodded. "Yes indeed."
Norrington was still visibly affected, as he stood straight and appeared to look at Peter in a new light. "Well, that's certainly a great accomplishment. You're going to make a fine fisherman when you grow up-"
"No!" Peter interjected, unexpectedly to both the Commodore and himself. Shocked at his own tongue, Peter paused, finding that he had to account for what he'd said, and reluctantly realizing that he could not conceal his true thoughts. With renewed anxiety, he began, "I-I mean, a fisherman's life is all good and well, but I think… I think I'd like to go beyond that." There was a fretful light to his face as he shakily added weight to his previously undiscussed and disregarded dreams. "I suppose you could say that, well.. I'm looking for adventure."
Norrington raised a brow, staring at the boy with a look that could best be described as cautious. "Ah. Precisely what kind of adventure do you have in mind?"
Peter glanced out toward the dock, toward the the vast ocean that laid beyond it. In a moment of rare certainty and honesty, Peter rose to his toes and excitedly regarded Norrington once more. "I want to fight pirates."
The Commodore did not react at first, taking the statement into consideration. But the moment the weight of his words registered, a smile came to his face. Greatly pleased by Peter's answer, the man gently reached over and clapped his back. "And you'll be a fine sailor! How old are you? Have you considered enlisting?"
"I'm twelve, sir." Peter answered, brightening up at the other's approval. "And I haven't seriously thought about it. There's not much opportunity out here, you see. And my father would have a fit if he knew that I didn't want to carry on his trade."
"Surely he'll understand." Norrington responded, his voice thick with encouragement. It was blatantly obvious that he wanted to see the boy in the navy. "If you're concerned about him, allow me to speak with him. I can be very persuasive. Now… you're a bit too young to enlist currently, but I'm sure that if I put in my word at London, I can secure you an apprenticeship. If you'd like, I could have you sailing with me on HMS Interceptor in a month's time."
Peter hardly noticed the loud clang of the bucket against the cobbled sidewalk, nor the resounding reverberation of his harpoon as it fell to the ground. His eyes were vast and endless, cerulean as the ocean and gleaming with jubilation.
"Yes, please!"