She was a young woman, of perhaps twenty-three, the youngest member of a noble family on the island of Martinique. She enjoyed watching the men dock in the harbor, sailors running back and forth, carrying cargo. Often, she dreamed of going out on one of those ships and witnessing the ocean, but it was a curse for women to aboard ships. Women and cats were never permitted to be upon a ship. She would then never know what it was like for someone such as herself to sail the ocean. Having had lived on Martinique from birth, she had never once set foot in her homeland of France. She hoped she would be able to do so one day.

Lazily she rested her head upon the railing of her balcony, and watched out into the harbor. A ship was just getting ready to set sail, it was sunset, a decent time to leave, she thought. She felt stupid. She loved ships but knew next to nothing about them. For a woman of her class to learn about ships was blasphemy.

Her thoughts of ships and sailing went interrupted by the calls of her father. She sighed, almost happily to have her mind distracted, and entered her home, descending the staircase to see her father. He was a rather slender man for someone of noble blood, with his powdered wig, rouged cheeks and neatly trimmed, almost pointed mustache. She greeted him in her native French language, as he kissed her lightly on both cheeks. He began to talk to her sweetly and cheerfully about finding a husband. She was closing past marrying age. Her cheeriness befell her, recalling that every man who had courted her never truly made her happy. In fact, she was miserable most of the time. She told her father that she was awaiting someone, and at this point, as long as they were kind to her, she could care less if they were of another language, color or even social standing. Even a pirate. Her father understood up to the word 'pirate' and began to scold his daughter for thinking like such. She apologized as her father explained that there was a captain in the British navy would might be interested. She smiled, thinking of how exciting it would be to have a British husband. This could mean that she might finally be able to sail.

She thanked her father, who announced that the young gentleman's name was James and he would be arriving that night to meet her. The French girl's heart was filled with joy, especially on the account she might even get to sail that night. She couldn't express what she was more excited over, discovering a British gentleman in the Navy was interested in her, or that she had the prospects of going sailing.

Servants seemed to storm around her as she entered her room again. She needed to be perfectly spotless, redressed and all such similar things, before this young man came to visit her. Her hair was yanked in several directions as it was being combed and washed after she had been forced into her washroom, and being forced out of her clothing and into a tub of nearly scalding hot water. Her father was obviously preparing she meet this man regardless of if she had agreed or not. Out of the tub, into under garments and a corset. She despised corsets. She could never breath in them and they pinched at her waist. She squeaked a bit as the cords were yanked tightly around her, and a dress was brought on her as well. They didn't have to work this fast, this man wasn't due for several hours.

She peered out of her balcony window again, noticing an unfamiliar ship at port, not just that, but a carriage approaching her house. She looked around the room, searching if there was anything that might be necessary for this meeting, but before she could react, she had a few of her servants hurry her out of the room.

Cautiously, she descended her stairs, seeing, and hearing her father, and who was probably this young man James, standing in the entrance hall of their house, speaking in the English language. She knew a bit of English, but not enough. It hadn't even occurred to her that she would have to speak English.

She listened intently to the words they were speaking, hoping there would be something she would understand. The British gentleman had a smooth, eloquent voice which sounded almost like a breeze.

"Mr. Norrington." Her father said, indicating a hand towards her, helping her with the last few steps. "This is my daughter Michelle Cecile. She doesn't understand much English, but, I know you have a talent for languages, so if she does not understand you, try approaching her in another language. Her head isn't capable of more than one language and a few words in another."

She heard those words. Her English wasn't the best, but she could understand the words her father had just used to insult her. Of course she knew he was doing it as a joke, but it was slightly offensive towards her. Her expression towards her father was sour, and he seemed to get the hint that it was time to stop joking with his daughter.

Her father smiled and insisted he leave the two alone. Mr. James Norrington was a bit older than her, not by much to her standards, perhaps ten years at most.

"My apologies," Mr. Norrington said once Michelle's father was out of sight. "My French isn't exactly up to par, either." He smiled to her, took her hand and kissed it lightly, as was polite.

Michelle smiled as well, and used a handful of the English she knew. "I can speak" she said, searching for the next few words. "A little English. I know more than my father gives me…credit for."

Mr. Norrington laughed, took her hand and brought her out to town for a simple evening of carriage rides. But alas, not a single ship ride. When she asked, he just smiled and said "Perhaps if I bring your back to Port Royal, you'll be able to ride them all the time."

The two of them walked along the harbor, it was the second time Michelle had ever been there, and she loved the essence of the ships. Mr. Norrington had learned to discover quickly that Michelle dreamed of sailing, even thought it was unladylike. As they walked along, in the dark, almost starless night, Michelle found herself staring at one ship, which was almost a blip on the horizon. It was an unmoving ship, but the water around it was churning. She pointed at it, to notify Mr. Norrington, who stared at the ship momentarily.

"What is that?" he asked her. Michelle was at a loss. She had seen many things on the harbor before, but never something like that. The water was churning faster, and in a matter of seconds, water sprayed up into the air and the ship was gone. Mr. Norrington was as well, at a loss. "It must be an illusion with the light…" he said, dumbfounded. "Just ignore it…" he froze as, at nearly the same spot, a giant ship came roaring out from the depths of the sea. Though he was a British Naval officer, he could do nothing about it. However, it was fortunate that the men at the harbor had been watching as well, and were already preparing themselves.

Someone shouted that all civilians get off the docks and head to shelter. Mr. Norrington looked at Michelle. "You heard them, you have been ordered to leave the harbor." His tone was dark and menacing. Michelle was hesitant. "I will stay here to see if I can be of assistance." She understood and ran off, heading for home, knowing she wouldn't last long running in these shoes and a corset.

She was nearing the beach which was obviously not a safe place to be at the time. If this ship had rowboats, they'd be on this shore in no time. But this was the best place to lose her shoes and corset if she was going to run home. She reached down the back of her dress and tried loosening the cords, but they were too tight, so she left the corset, and just left her shoes on the shore, as she began to run.

But in just about two steps, she was stopped, a knife to her smooth throat. She was able to see that no ships had landed. It must have been a local. However, she noticed the hand holding the knife wasn't human. It was scaly, rough and wet. The blade started to pierce the skin of her throat. "Where do you think you're runnin' off ta, missy?" her attacker asked. More of these deformed looking men were surrounding her. All aquatic, holding the characteristics of sea-life, some with shark's heads, some eels, some coral, but all frightening. "Whad'ya think, boys?" her attacker, a man with the head of a hammer-head shark, asked. "Ye think the Cap'n'll like 'er?"

The other men shouted in agreement. These men were pirates. She began to scream, alerting people of the pirates. The man who was holding the knife to her throat tore off a chunk of her dress and shoved it in her mouth, and lifted her from the ground, laughing and saying "They won't hear yer screamin' here, they won't hear yer screamin' where yer goin' either."

She was brought to the same ship that had risen from the waters. It was a grimy ship, coated in sea life, but at the same time, it was sad and depressing, the sound of an organ being played. "Welcome home." One of the men said, laughing, as they shoved her down a stair-case into a room, where the organ was being played, the door slamming behind her.

Her hands had been bound, and her feet shackled. There was a man at the organ, tall, broad and gruesome looking, and this was from behind. He wasn't human, just like the rest of the crew. He turned, looking at her. Michelle felt a lump in her throat, as the man continued to play fiercely. "'O are ye?" he asked gruffly.

She didn't understand. It wasn't proper English, and she knew so little of it, she opted to silence.

The man was even more aquatic than the crew, with tentacles hanging from his face, instead of a beard. His skin was the color of seaweed and algae, and despite his hideous appearance, he seemed sadly distressed.

"I said who are you." He snapped, properly pronouncing things for the girl to understand.

She ignored his hateful glare. "M-michelle B-belard." She muttered. The man rose from the organ, and stomped over to her, with one normal leg, and a peg leg that was similar to that of a crab.

"Tha's more like it." He said, opening a hand that was a crab's claw, and using it to hold up her face to look at him. He turned her head from side to side, examining her. "Yer family 'ave money?" he asked.

Michelle thought a moment as she tried to understand what he said. "I-I s-suppose…" she said.

"Age?" he asked.

She didn't know her age in English. "Vingt-trois." She said.

"And tha' is?" the man asked.

"Je ne sais pas mon age en Anglais." She said in French.

"Ah, so ye don' know English, do ye?" he asked.

"Un peu…" she muttered.

The Captain smiled and laughed. "I could 'ave some fun with ye, yet!" he laughed. Michelle felt the lump in her throat get larger.

"C-can I go home?" she asked in rough English. The Captain's expression appeared confused.

"Home?" he asked, started to laugh like a maniac. "One does not just go home after boarding the Flying Dutchman!"

Michelle stared at him with unease, her breathing ragged. She had always thought that the Flying Dutchman was a myth.

"Ye seemed surprised." The Captain laughed. He clapped a hand on her shoulder, this hand looking normal compared to the other, just with one finger being a tentacle. "And on my ship, everyone answers to Davy Jones." He snorted. He turned from Michelle, heading back to the organ, and playing once more.

It was easy for Michelle to guess that this cruel-hearted man, was none-other, than the Davy Jones of myths.