Hello, and a Merry Christmas to you! The following story is played by POTC characters, obviously, but with a twist on a classic which I'm sure you'll recognize. This does not voice my actual thoughts or what I think will happen- it's just for the season! And in no way is this historically accurate- I'm not sure if British citizens in the Caribbean would have Christmas trees. Forgive me. Now, try and guess what it is, dear reader…
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, not the characters, their personalities, nor jobs. Heck, I don't even own the plot.
Cutler Beckett was dead; there can be no doubt about that. He'd been dead as a doornail for the past fifteen years or so, on a Christmas Eve at that. His life passed very suddenly, and no one had been sad to see him go.
Yes, Beckett was dead all right.
But his partner in business, James Norrington, still lived. And he was liked just as little as Beckett.
Norrington was pompous and upright in his ways, and liked to place himself above other people. He was unmarried, and had been so all his life. If one ever wanted to see him- not that one often would, mind you- they would be sure to find him in his office, counting money or looking over business matters; he rarely did battles any more, as the threat of piracy had sunk considerably lower. And so there he sat, at his grand ornate desk, a few candles lit, the room as dark as his heart had now become.
On this particular day on which this story opens up upon, Norrington was sitting at his desk as usual, scribbling away with a quill. A sallow candle burned beside him, yet its warmth was barely distinguishable. Pedestrians hurried around outside, the upper class with cloaks draped around their shoulders, despite the warm Caribbean weather, and multiple parcels laden in their arms. Norrington paid no heed to any of this- he simply kept his mind on his work.
Another man was seated not too far away, at a much less grand desk, with a much smaller candle stub. He leaned closer to the flickering flame, which was sputtering, and, drawing in breath, glanced at his employer.
"Uh, Mr Norrington," he asked hesitantly, "may I… ask you something?"
Norrington looked up with dark eyes. "And what would that be, Mr Turner? I should be fascinated to hear." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"Christmas is tomorrow, sir."
"And? Is there any significance of that, Turner?"
Will cleared his throat. "As it is Christmas, I was hoping I would… be able to have the day off."
"The day off?" repeated Norrington. "To spend with your family, no doubt?" Will nodded. "So your own pleasure is more important to you than your career? No, I expect you to arrive here, as you do every day, promptly and ready to go! Christmas can wait."
Will cast his eyes down in disappointment, but he did not dare argue. Just then the door creaked open- always with a creak- followed by a gust of warm wind, which put out the dying fire on Will's candle immediately. Two men stepped briskly in, brushing off their elaborate cloaks, red in color.
"Happy Christmas, Mr Norrington!" cried Murtogg, grinning.
"And the same to you, Mr Turner!" added Mullroy, nodding at Will, who smiled in return.
"Merry Christmas," he said, eying the wooden box Murtogg was holding. "Collecting money, I presume?"
"Indeed, indeed!" Mullroy said cheerfully. "Got to help those poor little waifs, you know! Make sure they have a happy Christmas; God knows they need it! How much should I put you down for, Commodore? Too bad Lord Beckett isn't here to donate as well!"
"Lord Beckett has been dead for about fifteen years," stated Norrington without a hint of remorse.
"Well, God rest his soul, poor chap! So, how much money can I put down in your name, sir?" asked Murtogg.
"None," replied Norrington coldly.
"You wish to remain anonymous?"
"I wish to be left alone. No more of this wishy-washy "Happy Christmas" or helping orphans."
"B-but the children, sir! Think of those little children!" stuttered Murtogg.
"Are there orphanages?"
"Yes."
"Shelters? Jails?"
"Why, yes."
"Then send them there!" barked Norrington. "We don't need any of these homeless people cluttering the streets, taking our well-earned wages. They don't deserve a holiday! Christmas, bah humbug!"
"But you must-" began Mullroy.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen.
"Norrington, sir-"
"Good afternoon." Norrington's voice was as hard and impenetrable as a rock.
Murtogg and Mullroy looked at each other in exasperation, knowing it would be useless to try and persuade the Commodore any further. Will gave them a sympathetic glance, then rose and started rummaging about in his frayed pockets. A few moments later he withdrew his chapped hands and brought out a few coins, which he deposited in the wooden box.
"Thank you kindly, Mr Turner!" Murtogg's face brightened.
"Those children will get their holiday," said Will, smiling softly. "Good luck to you, sirs, and a happy Christmas."
Norrington glared at him, and Will quickly sat down with a cough. Mullroy and Murtogg turned and walked out the door, but another man bumped into them as he bustled himself in. Apologies were quickly made.
"Terribly sorry, gentlemen!" cried the man. "Ah, collecting money! Here's a donation!" The clink of coins sounded out in the dank room.
"Dearest thanks, Lieutenant Groves!" said Murtogg happily. In an undertone he added to the wigged man in front of him, "Although I wish we could say the same for the Commodore. Perhaps you could…?"
Groves understood. "Of course. Well, go about your business! And a Merry Christmas to you!"
Murtogg and Mullroy quickly retreated in response to Norrington's look of death. Groves turned to the Commodore with a look of cheerfulness.
"Merry Christmas, James!"
"Bah!" spat Norrington. "Humbug!"
"Christmas a humbug? Surely you don't mean that, James?"
"You'll find that I do," replied Norrington icily. "Merry Christmas! What right do you have to be merry? There's absolutely no reason for it!"
"Don't be angry, sir!" said Groves, slightly nervous. "Nobody should be like this on so joyful a holiday! Why don't you dine with us tomorrow night?"
"I see no reason why I should waste my time with your meagre friends and family. Why in the world did you marry that simple maid?"
"I fell in love, James."
"You fell in love!" mocked Norrington. "How sweet. Now, do me a favour and get out of my sight!"
"You'll appreciate Christmas one day, sir! Of that I'm sure!" stated Groves happily.
"Good afternoon."
"Merry Christmas!"
This was followed by a growl.
"And a Happy New Year!" Groves added as he backed away.
Another growl.
Groves gulped and scurried towards the door, greeting Will as he left. Will returned it, smiling. No matter how cold his boss was, Will always managed to keep his heart warm.
Norrington shook his head and rolled his eyes, then returned promptly to his work. Will grudgingly did the same, looking wistfully at his extinguished candle.
Some time later, when Will's candle was but a stub of melting wax, two voices could be heard coming from outside, singing, in very off-key tones.
Norrington stood up and strode over to the iron-wrought windows to see the voices' owners. There, standing out in the snow, looking entirely out of place, were Pintel and Ragetti, holding battered-looking songbooks; Ragetti's was upside-down, naturally. The two were singing at the top of their very hoarse voices, bellowing out to the citizens of Port Royal.
Deck the ship with bottles of rum!
Yo-ho yo-ho-ho! Yo-ho ho-ho!
'Tis the season to have fun!
Yo-ho yo-ho-
The carol was never finished, much to the relief of many nearby people; Norrington had thrown a well-aimed paperweight in the direction of the singing pirates, which bounced off Ragetti's head, making his wooden eye pop out.
"Me eye!" The lanky pirate dove to the ground, scrambling for his beloved eye.
"C'mon!" shouted Pintel. "I did tell you tha' this ol' carolin' thing was a bad idea!"
"Bu' I have such a natural voice!" whined Ragetti. "I shou' display it to th' public!" His dirty hand shot out and grabbed the wooden sphere, and, doing his "spit- and-rub" ritual, stuffed it back into his empty socket. That done, the two quickly rushed away, out of range of any paper-weight throwers.
Inside, Will smiled despite himself. Pintel and Ragetti would never truly learn caution.
"They are without a doubt the worst pirates I've ever heard of," sniffed Norrington.
The last couple hours of the day passed uneventfully, and soon the clock struck the closing time. Will hastily stood up and slipped on a coat. Norrington did the same, but his coat was much grander and not as tattered. As the wig-capped man straightened his sleeves, he looked at his employee.
"Remember to arrive promptly tomorrow, Turner!"
Will sighed inwardly and nodded, then walked briskly out the door, eager to return to his family. Norrington moved more slowly and stiffly, without an excited trace in his step. Nearly everybody else on the streets that night was trotting briskly along in anticipation of the joyful holiday to come; but not Norrington. He stalked along underneath the buildings, wielding a walking cane, not looking about at anyone or anything, his only intention to head straight home and stay there.
He eventually came to his oaken door- large, dark, and foreboding it was- and preceded to take out a rusty key. When Norrington raised his head, he was met by a rather unusual shock.
There, right in the place of the usual rust-flecked doorknocker, was Cutler Beckett's face, staring out at him with arrogant blue eyes. Yes, definitely his eyes- not to mention his nose, mouth, chin… It was indeed Beckett's visage.
Norrington stared at this rather unusual phenomenon, mouth slightly open. His insides giving a start, he closed his eyes and opened them again- but Beckett's face had disappeared, the normal knocker in its normal place. The Commodore stood there dumbly for a few moments, and then shook his head.
"Bah! Humbug!"
But despite his usual gruff complaint, Norrington strode into his mansion and closed the door quite quickly, as though scared Beckett might appear again. As he took off his jacket and hung it on a coat rack, he glanced uneasily behind him, as though expecting to see the back off Beckett's wig in the wood. But he did not, and so he continued up the stairs to his bedroom and supper.
The halls of the Norrington mansion were dark and dismal, with but a few chandeliers and oil lamps illuminating the walls. In its prime, the floors were covered with rich red rugs, trimmed with gold, but now these rugs lay in dust. At a former happy time, the walls were white and the shelves strewn with ornaments and family relics, which Norrington proudly displayed, but sadly these too were in bad need of a dusting. And of course, in one room of the house, his weapons rested, rarely used; the sword that Will Turner had made the Commodore long ago was in its usual spot on an elaborate shelf- but Norrington didn't really have any need for it now, except at ceremonies or when he wanted to make an impression. In short, Norrington's mansion wasn't a very cheerful place- but its owner didn't care.
Norrington trudged into his cold, unwelcoming room, changed out of his stiff attire into a cold, unwelcoming nightshirt, housecoat, and cap, then settled down in a tall-backed armchair to his cold, unwelcoming supper, next to a surprisingly (but not too surprising as you would expect for his character nowadays) cold, unwelcoming fireplace. He glared at the sizzling fire in contempt for a moment, buried his spoon in his porridge, then lifted it to his mouth to take in its contents- but he was cut short…
… by the tingling of a bell.
Then of another bell, and another- and then suddenly every blasted bell of some sort in the house was jingling, clanking back and forth violently.
Norrington dropped the spoon into his bowl and gripped the velvet arms of his chair as the ghostly echoes of the bells sounded in his ears. He shut his eyes tight, praying for them to stop. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself- this was scaring him.
But if this scared him, he was going to be in for a huge shock for what followed when the ringing ceased.
The clanking of cold metal on ground, like a chain dragging on the dusty carpets, was reverberating from in the hall.
Norrington's hands practically tore into the armchair, nearly ripping the wine-coloured fabric. His dinner tray clattered to the floor, spilling his food. But Norrington didn't care one bit- all his attention was focused on the tall, spindly figure creeping into his room from the ajar door. The room's candles flickered, and their flames shrank, cowering, but they burst up again when the person- but was it a person?- entered the bedroom.
It actually was not that tall at all, but quite short of stature, and transparent, clad in a ghostly coat similar to Norrington's hanging on the rack downstairs, plus a curled wig, also like the Commodore's. Wrapped about its middle was a thick, seemingly heavy chain, and dangling from this chain in all places were boxes, keys, padlocks, and chests of various sizes and types. The figure stared at Norrington in his armchair and smirked.
It was none other than the ghost of Cutler Beckett.
Norrington's jaw was agape as he took in this haunting sight –the third of the night, actually- but he quickly closed it in his brisk manner. He squinted at the ghost and lifted his chin high, trying to ignore the spilled supper at his slipper-covered feet.
"What do you want with me?" he questioned.
"Much," replied Beckett, still smirking. "As I hope you recall, I am- or rather, I was your partner, Cutler Beckett." He stepped further into the room, his ghostly feet making no sound on the floor, but the chain clanking loudly as ever.
"Why are you here?" Norrington tried again, praying that his former acquaintance wouldn't come any closer.
"Do you see this chain, James?" Beckett's ghost shook the coils so that they jangled next to each other eerily.
"Uh, yes, I have to say I do."
"I forged it myself- through all the bad deeds I committed in life. The monopolizing done by the East India Trading Company, the hangings, the arrests of William Turner and Elizabeth Swann- all these events joined up to make links in the chain. And so it grew heavier, and heavier still, with each crime, and now, in the afterlife, I must bear it, and drag it with me wherever I go, the weight unbearable on my shoulders- I can never be rid of it! The same fate could befall you, my dear James- I daresay it already has, no doubt- unless you change it somehow."
"No!" choked Norrington. "Please, don't let this happen! What must I do?"
"You will be haunted," said Beckett, "by three spirits. Over the course of three nights they shall visit you, the first arriving at one; the second at the same hour the following night; and the third at the next midnight."
"And this is supposed to help me how?" There was a note of panic in Norrington's voice. "And why do they have to come on separate nights- can't I just see 'em all at once?"
"Nope." The phantom shook his head. "Without their visits, there's no hope for you, Commodore. Without their visits, you will be doomed to my existence."
Norrington glanced at the chain once more, then closed his eyes and drew in a shaky breath.
"Remember- the first will come as the bell tolls one." With that, Beckett sniffed and turned, clanking and creaking out of the room. The last Norrington saw of the spirit as he slid out the door was the dark metal of the chain as it groaned across the floor.
Norrington remained rigid in the chair for an instant, his back drenched in sweat. He hastily stood up and almost ran toward the window, slamming it shut with a BANG. Rubbing his clammy hands together, he opened his dry mouth to say his familiar, "Humbug," but the word would not pass his lips. So instead, he whipped around and nearly leaped into his four-poster bed, almost tearing the curtains as he drew them together. Then, the effects of the night dawning on him, as well as the lateness of the hour, he collapsed into sleep.
Any guesses:D Heh heh… I'll have you know I literally took out the novel and read it while I typed, just to make sure I was getting the story right. Sorry about Norrington's character- I'm not very good at writing him. Ooh, who could the Spirits be????