Title: Boat on the River
Summary: The ferry brings those dead who don't know the way, or are unsure where they belong, to their respective places in the afterlife.
(Written over at LJ for ArieiDelmonte, in exchange for a lovely icon.)
Disclaimer:
Walt Disney: So you expect me to stand by a copyright breach, with nothing but your word that no money is made, and I'd watch you write away with my characters?
Authoress: No. I expect you to allow me this breach that makes absolutely no cash at all, watching me write away on my story, and then I'll shout 'disclaim' back to you. Savvy?
Walt Disney: But that still leaves us with the problem of me tolerating some copyright breach with naught but all money and your word you don't make any indeed.
Authoress: Of the two of us I am the only one who doesn't own a big company, therefore my word is the one we'll be trusting.
Lord Cutler Beckett was most assuredly dead, resulting in an unfamiliar lack of purpose. For an unfelt stretch of time he drifted calmly in a cool, black void, that may or may not have been a feature of his deep, watery grave. By sheer habit he still seemed to have a body, even unharmed and impeccably dressed, which however he could neither see nor feel, nor put to any use whatsoever, be it twirling his cane, scratch the stubbles on his chin, or dance a jolly little jig. It was increasingly annoying. Something had apparently gone terribly wrong, for was he not destined by providence to go to heaven straight away like all rich and successful people? (Their earthly riches outward proof of their pre-destination.) As always, it was likely Sparrow's fault. The mongrel fooled around with the supernatural on a regular basis, turning upside down what should have been well-ordered and under control.
At long last a stately ship passed by and carried Beckett in its wake up to a waveless surface of dark water under a moonless sky of unfamiliar-angled constellations. A vaguely familiar looking older sailor threw a rope-ladder that passed through him, causing him to effortlessly glide onboard. Before he could take in his new surroundings, none other than that mole of little use, Will Turner, blocked his view.
"Mister Beckett."
"It's Lord Beckett. I thought you had perished. Oh, so you have, or you wouldn't be here."
"You are onboard the Flying Dutchman...", Turner opened his shirt, revealing a fresh and nasty scar, "and I am her captain now."
That ceratinly changed everything. "Of course!" Cutler patted his coatpockets. "Rest assured I have the coin for the ferryman somewhere on my person..."
"Coin?" Turner made that face again, like a mule having Hamlet read to it. Or a carp.
"The coin. For the passage. The ferryman's fee. It is a venerable old tradition, dating all the way back to the Greek of yore, when they buried their dead with a coin under the tongue, to pay Charon on the river Styx. Some scholars believe that the pirates' habit of wearing earrings - supposedly for the same purpose - dates back to those same ancient times, you see, the Argonautes being the first gentlemen of fortune in recorded history, and ..." Still the same blank look. Good grieves, what did the church-run poors' schools teach the commoners these days? "Greek, related to Latin. Inventors of the alphabet." Just barely did he swallow 'You do know the alphabet, don't you'. Then the uninmaginable struck. "Captain Turner, with all due respect, am I correct in understanding that you do not, in fact, charge your late passengers any fee?" And with the self-assured smile of someone who knew nothing of good business and was proud of it, the captain in unique monopoly position answered: "Yes!", and denied all subsequent applications for the position of a purser.
For the rest of his last voyage on this plane, Lord Beckett was confined to the hold, in the company of many a sailor, pirate and marine, all perished in battle and mostly in a dreamlike state of indifference. The noteworthy exception being one admiral Norrington who would make snide remarks about earthly ranks and riches that turn worthless once you pass beyond, and how staging a naval war mainly to prove to your ex-mate who was on top this time was not the same as 'good business'. He sincerely wished for Mercer and the riding crop.
Eventually, the ship docked at those various places of the passengers' apparent final destinations. Everybody was allowed on deck, and things turned mildly interesting.
Quite a lot of mariners from the navy and EITC, and some pirates as well, descened at a Mediterranean-looking island, where a Greek-dressed lady touched them with a wand and turned them into dolphins, which then happily swam off. (Circe, his education supplied. So that was what the wand was for, what Odysseus' ragtag bunch had rudely interrupted.)
Next, an elder black pirate lord of stately demeanor disembarked, shed his shoes, rinsed face, hands and feet with the not-water of the otherworld, and walked a narrow bridge towards a garden where a flock of women were coyly lifting their veils.
A medley crowd of his majesty's highland marines, hordes of Irish sailors, and some Dutch and French pirates were issued an oar each, which they shouldered, and followed a fiddle-playing leprechaun towards green hills, where the breeze smelled of whiskey and hay and carried women's laughter.
Some pirates of Indian origin were handed over to a multi-armed black goddess who wore a skull necklace - not quite a fate Lord Beckett envisioned for himself, thank you very much.
He had nearly convinced himself that he would be welcomed at Pluto's, the Roman god of wealth and underworld, when they docked near an enormous hall built all of spears, with a roof of golden shields. A giant tree and the beginning of a rainbow bridge were to be seen in the background, and blond women on horseback bringing in souls from other directions through the air. Some odd spectators had gathered to welcome the new arrivals, and cheered marines and pirates equally. Many were unquestionably from the old times, sporting long, braided hair and beard, shields and axes and other antiquities. Others resembled styles Cutler knew from portraits of Sir Francis Drake's or Henry Morgan's times. There were even some familiar faces: lieutenant Greitzer, who had apparently been surer of his final destination; Lord Beckett senior, who had foolishly enganged the maharadja of Punjab in battle years ago - and that self-same maharadja also; some elder chaps he vaguely recognized from portraits at the familiy's manor; and one face that Cutler loathed to see, the bully of his Oxford class, whom Sparrow had thankfully removed back then in a duel at pistols over the absent honour of some serving wench. (The one good thing one could say about Sparrow was that he had true aim with anything. The other good thing about him was of course not a topic for mixed company.)
Beside him at the rail, Norrington looked positively thrilled. The former admiral had his eyes locked upon a group of mostly tall, dark-haired soldiers, gentlemen and knights in armour who were beckoning to him. When captain Turner indicated it was time to disembark, Norrington eagerly strode to the gangplank, but was intercepted.
"No, not you!" Turner said, and, to both their horror, motioned to Cutler Beckett.
"Captain Turner, I must protest. This is a place for warriors like the admiral here, not for a humble accountant. I'm not even armed.", and to emphasize this point, he presented his cane, which proved most uncooperative, in that the cane-like sheath accidentally got loose and thunked down on the deck, leaving Cutler with the naked rapier blade in hand.
Thank the powers for small mercies, Turner at least kept his face straight. "Lord Beckett, you match the requirements perfectly: slain in battle, English and a noble - this is the place for you. Leave now, have fun!" To the raucous laughter of Vikings, the Warwickshire Rugby Association, and other hairy barbarians, Cutler was ushered down the gangplank and deposited ashore. Someone handed him a drinking-horn of lukewarm mead, triggering a swarm of plans how to establish a trade in otherworldly rum and tea. Instantly, Cutler felt better, and after downing half the sticky-sweet brew, he only dimly heard retreating voices: "But what about me?" "I'm sorry, admiral, you do not qualify. Your death was not in battle, you did not even fight. But you have influential friends - or enemies, James. You are to return to the upper side - to the living."
Authoress: "DISCLAIM!"