Potc belongs to Disney. CatCF belongs to Warner Brothers. Never the twain shall meet. Expect no profit and give no coin, cursed or otherwise, to any man.
A quirky tale - Where did Jack Sparrow come from? How old is Willy Wonka?
Son
"No son of mine will become a chocolatier!" Wilbur Wonka pledged it to the vast world, his voice thundered through the empty house. He would be gone when his son, Willy Wonka, returned.
"I wish I had a son of my own," Captain John Sparrow sighed to the world, his unhappiness and desire filled his empty mug.
Two wishes made centuries apart and something in the world and time shifted. For the world, perhaps to make up for his unhappy childhood and life, frequently seemed to shift its way for Willy Wonka. As for time, well, time, as always, kept its own silent counsel and its own ideas of things. For time, you see, was relative. Relative to what, it would never say, and Willy Wonka was a fae one already. Perhaps time and he were relatives in truth, for none could say how grim, strict and proper Dr. Wilbur Wonka, D.D.S., could have a son such as Willy with his velvet soft dark eyes and lively intelligence.
John Sparrow stumbled from the rowdy pub, feeling he was no longer in the mood for loud, raucous songs and spontaneous fist fights. He sought solitude on an isolated sandy beach and gazed out at the full moon as it seemed to fill the night sky. A loud splash interrupted his privacy. At first, he thought some sea creature was frolicking near the shallows. A choked cry, barely heard, swiftly disabused him of the notion. As his rum addled brain stared at the ocean, he saw a pale figure shining and struggling in the moonlight. Ah, a woman, soft and lovely, to warm his bed and assuage his loneliness! He waded into the surf to pull her to safety and claim her gratitude.
The figure proved to be neither female nor babe, but a male child, not yet old enough for manhood, fair faced and almost too beautiful for a boy. In wonder, John ran work roughened fingers over that soft, pale skin. A child! A son! His heart sang with joy, but then he frowned. His son could not be so pale or soft. He was a pirate. The life he led was dangerous and hard. His son would have to handle it with the style only a Sparrow could manage. He gently gathered the lad in his arms and walked with the close held attention of a drunkard determined not to stumble or fall.
A tremor of trepidation filled John as he approached the little ruin of a hut. The witchy woman who lived there had no need for men or coin or rum. He had no idea what he would pay her with, but this was the only way.
"I've been waiting a long time, John Sparrow." The voice hissed out the words like a snake. She stepped, swaying, into the firelight, her face and form still in shadow. Her eyes glowed red as she looked at the beautiful child, unconscious, in the man's arms. "There!" She pointed imperiously at a blanket in front of the fire pit.
Sparrow wondered how she knew his name. He placed the boy where he'd been ordered, only to hesitate. He retained his grip on his precious burden and smiled charmingly at the silhouette of a woman. "What of payment?"
"The boy will make the payment. That is no concern of yours, John Sparrow."
"His life . . ."
"Is not for the likes of me, or you, to claim," she waved him away.
Dismissed, he withdrew, only to hover, the calm of the rum fading. He watched with wide-eyed anxiety as the woman swayed, hissing words that no human mouth should form around the pale, fair child. Light and dark gathered to flow around the still form. Shadows engulfed the long limbs and beautiful face. Something . . . changed. The woman gestured languidly and the shadows receded.
Captain John Sparrow marveled at the still beautiful form. Fair skin, no longer soft and silky; it was the roughened by the wind and the sea, darkened by the sun. Soft, short, dark curls had lengthened and tangled into salty knots. The boy was now truly a child of the sea.
"Wicked Jack Sparrow," the witch intoned, naming him. Awe filled her voice. "The world has never seen his like for the sea has claimed her own. Take your son, John Sparrow, and always remember that on this night, a legend was born!" She knew he would forget. His rum soddened mind was too small to hold the truth for long. Drink would steal the memory away and Jack Sparrow would soon be known to have been born in the usual way. His prostitute mother would have finallydied, landing the imp with his piratical father where he belonged.