And all the world was still, after she had gone.
The sky was never so serene, yet colourless. He had never known the briny vapours of the sea to opiate his senses. But he could not deny that, while it did not comfort him, it sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine (at least in remembrance of that sensation) to recall that he had proven himself very much alive under the stimulation of her touch.
It was not for his heart that he feared: the subsistence of that vital organ he felt with a painful certainty each day and all night long. His grief and longing for her had not subsided with the passing of seconds, minutes, hours, or months. He had toyed with the idea that he was connected to her, open to her thoughts and feelings through some loophole in this supernatural dimension. The fullness of heart that he felt when by rights he was hollow inside…
Was he really alone?
A shepherd of souls has ample time to ponder such a question. Like any other, the captain of the Flying Dutchman is charged with duties that try the physical faculties and wear on the body as the tide erodes the coastland. Unlike any other, however, this captain is only part mortal: his body does not tire, his strength does not fail him, and his spirit does not wane.
As he wrestles and writhes at the helm, his greatest struggle is with his raging passions. His faith in her is unshakeable; he has doubted no one but himself, till now. His heart brims with memories of her, and he has feared only the cooling of his once-hot blooded veins, till now.
During the first weeks of separation, he remembered her physical being with such clarity and precision that the image of her, the sensation of her skin and the scent of her – no, the taste of her essence wrapped around him like a cocoon, as it were, shielding him from all else. For that time, their physical bond was so all-encompassing that when she came to him in dreams (he needed no sleep, but dreams he craved) he awoke in his hammock drenched with sweat, his breeches wet through with the very juice of life that she had sapped from him.
But now such dreamland trysts were at an end. True, his dreams were more peaceful for it, and filled instead with longing of a different kind, expectant and strangely sweet, which left him hopeful and trembling when he woke. Perhaps it was just yesterday that he had emerged from this subconscious state with the unshakeable conviction that he was sharing her day to day experiences, or rather her emotional responses to these experiences. At any rate, having taken their spiritual closeness for a soothing balm to the restlessness of his soul, the most devastating blow fell when he abruptly ceased to be aware of her in this extraordinary, nigh telepathic sense.
His devastation was complete when he had mulled over all that had visited him in dreams of late, and reached one earth-shattering conclusion: she was carrying their child.
In light of which, the probable import of this utter stillness between them nearly broke his erstwhile heart.
Will Turner's father wandered on deck in search of his captain and only son; his heavy tread disturbed the formerly impenetrable silence. Will had often watched his father go about shipboard, dispensing orders to the crew in much the same droll manner in which he now addressed his son.
"If ye give up now, I reckon we be doomed anyway. I reckon ye know it, too."
Though he did not let it show on his magically ageless yet decidedly hoary visage, Bill Turner felt something stir in the general vicinity of his heart when he met the deep, dark wells that had become of his son's once-warm brown eyes. Mayhap his soul was still cold as the briny depths, but each time he had witnessed Will's tender care for their ghostly passengers, Bill Turner had felt himself thaw a wee bit more round the edges.
"You don't understand," said Will. "I could feel her until just a few moments ago. Now it's as if she's gone. What can it mean? Has she lost faith in me already? Is she – is it possible that –"
"No. So long as you be immortal, so be she, as the keeper o' yer heart. So goes the way o' things."
Will slumped against the helm as if in relief. His father wandered the quarterdeck till he came to rest on a barrel by the starboard bulwarks.
"But why this placid calm? I feel something… different, as if we were not in another realm at all but back in Port Royale on a hazy summer's evening."
"Well, shiver me timbers," remarked Bill Turner dryly.
The Flying Dutchman continued into the pacific waters of the night, rocking almost imperceptibly from side to side in a gentle, lulling rhythm. Will later felt that he had been very nearly persuaded to sleep, as if a blanket of darkness had come within a hair's-breadth of snuffing the flame of his consciousness. Somewhere amidships, a crab scuttled across deck: Bill Turner watched it with one eye as it climbed the portside bulwarks and promptly launched itself overboard.
Not a moment later, a great splash wakened both father and son from some mutually somnambulant state.
Faster than you can say 'aye, matey' they were back to back with weapons drawn. A sleek, dark shape had flung its silver-grey body onto the quarterdeck, and lay quivering at their feet. Bill Turner lifted his short dagger to stab it through the chest, but the queer thing gave a hoarse, almost feminine cry, and Will raised his hand to stop his father.
Bill Turner staggered back and watched in amazement as his son threw himself to the deck beside this moonlight creature, which appeared to be a grey seal. As if the heavens themselves strove to shine on this side of the underworld for one blessed moment, Will's face seemed illumined by some silvery light, though perhaps it radiated from the sealskin.
The warmth seeped back into the eyes of Will Turner, captain of souls lost at sea, as he peered into the round hazel irises of this slippery, silvery, curvaceous creature.
Stranger things had happened. He whispered to the seal,
"Elizabeth?"
TBC