Disclaimer: Not mine, they are. I only claim Victor Varley, Hector and the Flashy Fury
WHICH WAY LIES TRUE
Post AWE Prequel to HER LOVE IN ABSENTIA.
Summary: After leaving Gibbs in Tortuga, Jack is about to meet his first challenge on the open sea in a dinghy.
Part 1 - Blame It On The Rum
The warm haziness of the morning felt familiar. The soft, constant slap of water lulled him into a sluggish daze, leaving one dulled eye to linger on the sagging sail above him. When had the wind deserted him? He tipped his hat lower and tried to refold the coat under his head, but the last vestiges of comfort had fled with dawn and an empty stomach.
With a growled curse, Jack sat up in the cramped dinghy and squinted toward the flat, gray-gold empty horizon.
Bugger. What he would not do for his spyglasses.
But like everything else in his pitiable existence, they were aboard the Pearl - stolen by that lowly, traitorous cur, Barbossa.
Ha, Barbossa thought to take his ship to find the Aqua de Vida, did he? He smiled to himself and patted the rolled piece taken from Sao Feng's map tucked inside his sash next to his pistol.
Of course, he would trade it for his ship. He'd trade anything he owned to have the Pearl back.
Except for his soul. That he was keeping this time.
Even if William Turner wanted to offer him a good deal in return, the memory of the Locker was too unnervingly fresh.
Nope. Done with the dealing of the souls. There's other ways to find immortality. He fingered the edge of the map, consoling himself that all was not lost with the Pearl gone.
Aqua de Vida then his Pearl.
No man stole Jack Sparrow's ship from him twice and kept it
Captain Jack Sparrow.
'I don't see your ship, Captain Sparrow.'
'I'm in the market, as it were.'
Smug bastard, Norrington. Could have made a decent pirate outta him, but he had to go off siding with his worst enemy. Pity, that.
A sudden breeze from the south twirled the long ends of his faded bandana, tugging at his loose sleeves. Jack quickly glanced over his shoulder, the sailor in him determining that the wind was coming from the southeast. He rose to adjust the lines of the lone sail, hesitated, and then frowned.
No, not yet, mate.
One arm absently hooking the narrow mast, Jack untied the compass from his belt, murmured a quiet, hopeful chant, and then snapped it open.
Bugger! The bloody useless thing spun in a dizzy circle! But why? The rum bottle was two days empty, the few provisions gone that he had managed to get before leaving the drunken sod, Gibbs, in a dim tavern. Jack missed the old pirate. Didn't like them tiny boats, he'd insisted. But when pressed, his shamed confession that he couldn't swim had been laughable and sad. Seems he shared that trait with half the military garrison in Port Royal.
Jack shook the compass again in desperation. The unreliable red arrow sped around, reversed itself and started to wind back, but wobbled to a stop, pointing east to the far left of the squatting sun.
He looked again - out upon a frustratingly empty sea.
The wind wanted to lead him northwest. Years of sailing by stars, the direction of the sun and his gut told him that was the right way.
Another annoyed shake of the compass. Still settling on northeast.
The limp sail caught a wisp of the new breeze, flapping weakly, urging the tiny boat to follow. Jack regained control with a deft yank on the line and the boat sat quietly again.
"Oi, they'll be none of that," he declared. "Who's captain of this... boat, 'ey?"
The horizon had brightened during his brief tussle with the errant sail and now he could see something out there; some shape tinged with faint greenish-ness. Small island. First sighting of land in almost two days. It didn't look like much. Square-like mound, still too far away to see any decent details.
Food, his ravenous stomach begged. Fruit. Raw fish. Don't care. The Aqua de Vida will wait.
Behind him, the wind blew harder, the flailing sail attempting to catch its cooling breath and wrestle with him for the boat again. This time, Jack ignored the sublet shifting. Even as he looked over his shoulder, he felt the quiet stir in the air. Already, the darkening mass in the south blotted out half the morning sky and a muted rumble carried ominously over the white-capped water.
Forgetting the compass, Jack plopped down in the dinghy and hastily snatched up the small oar. He figured that he should have an hour; maybe less before the squall was upon him. Could he make it to the island?
After losing several minutes furling the sail to keep from scooping the storm-born wind, Jack turned the rocking dinghy in the direction of the distant island. Yet even as he rowed, wearily shifting from one side to the other, he watched uneasily as spreading angry gray clouds swallowed a fledgling sun. Rolling white waves lifted the small boat; the sea buffeting and tossing it like driftwood, trying to wrench the oar from Jack's grip.
He'd endured too many bad storms aboard ships to believe he'd survive very long in this dinghy.
Jack's last glimpse of the nearing island, as the rain started to pelt him, was of a long gray-green stretch of hilly land, dipping into what appeared to be a chasm, possibly a tiny cove, before the cliff soared up in a high plateau and then dropped off sharply into the sea.
No spit of land then.
As he paddled closer, a heavy mist obscured the hillside, leaving visible only a tiny expanse of a pale white beach ringed with palm trees.
Exhausted, arms and shoulders brutally aching with strain, Jack somehow managed to keep the dinghy afloat, acutely aware that the water sloshing around his sodden boots did not only come from the sky. Suddenly the plunging oar hit sand and sunk deep, tearing Jack out of the dinghy. He yelped in surprise as he somersaulted backward into shallow water, the little boat plummeting past him to ride up onto the beach. Jack just sat in the swirling water, raging at himself for not thinking about shoals. Fortunately, he groaned, no one had seen that rather undignified acrobatic feat.
Cold rain beat at him as he shook himself and climbed heavily to his wet feet. Wiping his eyes from the dripping bandana, he could see where the little boat's keel had furrowed the sand straight to the outcropping of palms, then tipped over on it's right side. A low, outstretched palm trunk had kept it from capsizing, and now supported the top of the dinghy's mast. From where he stood, the little boat didn't look too damaged, just thoroughly worn out - like him. He couldn't even bring himself to pick up the empty rum bottle as it floated past his legs.
"It's all your bloody fault," he called after it in irritation. "Had I not needed a drink, never would I have left my ship, not with bloody Barbossa in the same town as me!!"
It didn't make him feel any better.
Continued:
Part 2 – And You Call Yourself A Shelter?