Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, never will, so there.
A/N: Hi. If anybody actually thinks I'm writing this for any other reason than the potential review bounty, or the fact that my mother royally pissed me off just after watching the movie, you are a FOOL! Just kidding, though you'd be amazed at what a wonderful muse fury is. Anyways, by all means enjoy my rage-induced little tale (at least the beginning of it anyway), and perhaps facilitate the gaining of that review bounty I just mentioned.
Oh, by the way, chapters will most probably never EVER be this long again. Like I said, fury does wonders for the creative mind. Also, I'm doing something nutty with this fic and writing it in the present tense. This is my first time trying something like this, so bear with me, m'kay?
Please, scream, I silently beg, stay inside my throat just a few minutes longer. I can't let it go here, not here; it would only make things worse. But the tingling ball in my throat will not be assuaged by my suppliants, and only increases its threat as the modest mansion set at the foot of the island's incongruous mountain comes into view. Mother and Father sit on both my sides in the rocking carriage, neither speaking nor looking at me. Not that that bothers me; no, anything they say could only serve to spur the scream of rage on, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. Except maybe me, for a moment or two anyway.
I could kiss Robert from relief as he opens the door of the carriage with a practiced bow. Instead I dart from my seat and out of the small door in a flash. But the relief only fuels the scream so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I stalk up the white-washed stairs and into the warm house. Maria and Lucia are waiting by the door, also bowing to greet their returning masters. Normally I would stop for a chat, but I can feel the scream beginning to tighten its hold on the back of my throat, I know I am running out of time.
Tripping ever so slightly on the hem of my gown in my haste, I break into a sprint halfway up the stairs. At long last, with one resounding slam of my door I arrive in my sanctuary. With one hand I rip off the long and ridiculously itchy wig on my head, and then promptly dive for my bed. Burying my face as deep into my pillow as possible, I scream. I scream so long I run out of air. I scream so hard that when I finally roll onto my back and pull the pillow away my throat feels as if it has been set aflame. I barely acknowledge the pain before smashing the pillow back onto my face and screaming again, a longer and harder scream than the first.
Another three or four muffled eruptions later, my energy is spent, and I'm left cold and alone curled up on my bed. Thankfully this time the tears do not come soon after, though when I wake the next morning what I've dubbed the Official Scream Muffler was damp.
"Guinevere, sweetheart," my mother's mellifluous voice drifts across my spectral dreams as a pink, noxious mist, "Are you awake?"
"Awake is a relative term," I growl against the mattress.
I don't think she'd heard me, but I suppose it was one of those things that happen when you became a mother. This reminds me as she glides into my sanctuary how little I want to have children, "Breakfast is ready," she says, looking down on me from on high, her little disappointment.
"That's nice," I reply casually, keeping a steady gaze with her upside-down image.
"Still feeling disagreeable, I see," she remarks with a delicately arched, chestnut colored eyebrow cocked. There is no denying it, my mother is a peerless beauty, as the old books say, despite the wrinkle of age here or the silvery strand of hair there.
"If what you mean by 'disagreeable' happens to be pissed to bloody hell, then yes, yes I am still feeling disagreeable."
I watch with twisted satisfaction as Mother's flawless face falls into a pout. I hadn't really meant to say it, but it seems to be happening more and more. In the early days I could keep such comments like that to myself, but now- well, now my mouth and the more politic parts of my brain aren't in such good touch as they used to be.
"I don't know what to do anymore, Guinevere," Mother sighs dramatically, "Eat when you want." With that last comment drifting on the air she sweeps from my sanctuary, leaving only the smell of perfume in her wake.
On my back, I stare at the fabric hanging over my four-poster, listening to my mother's footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. As soon as the sound changes to the step-pause-step-creak-pause-step of the stairs I roll from my bed to the floor on all fours. I wait another beat before stealing silently to my door. Opening it as much as I dare, I peek into the hall and upon confirmation that it was deserted I whip through my door and plaster myself against the wall as quick and soundless as a mouse. A few furtive steps bring me to the stair well, where, lounging against the wall on the top step, I listen with a stone face to my parents' private conversation.
"It's only getting worse, Will," Mother is saying, "I don't know what's happened. It started fairly innocent, a curse here or there, a late night out with no excuse, but now... Now she's as bad as any pirate, and what she did to her hair, and what she did last night- I can barely stand it anymore."
I can see in my mind's eye Mother hugging herself, her brown eyes brimming with tears, as Father wraps his strong arms around her, his chin on her shoulder, "It's okay, Elizabeth, shh, it'll be okay..." Such a poor liar, my father.
"No, no," contests Mother, her weepy voice wandering up the stairwell, "I don't even understand where she's getting it! We tried to keep her away from all that, for her own good, we PROMISED- how could we fail so miserably?" A very good question, Mother.
"I don't know, Elizabeth, maybe we just haven't been giving sweet Guinevere enough attention..." At this I stop listening. My father, the respected, well-liked William Turner. Honest, brave, but at times incredibly stupid. I stifle my groan of exasperation into an inaudibly sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. More attention? More attention, Father, is that what you really think I need? Oh, you stupid, stupid man, have you any wits about you at all?! Do you even know me? The answer is no, it is always no, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around to see what new torture device he and Mother cook up to meet their goal. I reenter my room with all the noise of a sea breeze, and am out the window before the door closes.
The only problem with my frequent covert escapes from the house of Turner is our head butler, an outwardly straight as an arrow German gentleman's gentleman named Adolph, who seems to derive some kind of sick pleasure from confounding my every attempt. A while back I'd decided that two could play at that game, and a game it had been ever since. The rules are as follows: he gets his jollies thinking of new ways to hinder my flight, I get practice dealing with challenging situations, and neither of us tells my parents.
During this particular get away, I discover the most convenient rose trellis at the outside of the mansion's wrap-around porch below my window to be missing. I grin crookedly, that wacky Adolph, at least he's clever, if not terribly original. Double-checking that the three daggers placed about my person are secure, I crab-walk along the porch's roof to the edge and peer over. It's a good ten foot drop, though I'm a healthy five foot eight inches, plus my arms should cut that drop more than in half... The idea transforms my rakish grin into a full-fledged smile as I position myself with my butt hanging over the side of the roof, my hands grasping the roof's edge. With one last glance at the window into my sanctuary, I swing down and land in a crouch on the porch in seconds. For a beat I stay there, relishing the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Ah, nothing better, I think as I run down the lane that leads from the house to the city of Port Royal.
"Gawain!" Peter calls from his usual seat in the back of the Mermaid's Tale Bar, a favorite haunt of mine. I smirk at my friend, slipping easily into my alter ego. It doesn't hurt I'm dressed in stolen men's clothing and have recently hacked my dark mane to a ghastly and undoubtedly masculine inch and a half from my head. I did it with the first dagger I ever bought, my lucky one, named Sparrow, for a certain bedtime character of my childhood. I'd never forget those stories my father told, just like I'd never forget the look on my parents' faces when I'd come down to breakfast the next morning. At the time I felt I'd finally triumphed over my parents, though that feeling greatly diminished when the wig came out. I take comfort in the feel of Sparrow in his place of honor on my right hip as I remember the oath I took after having the wig forced on me. By God and country, come hell or high water, nothing and nobody would take this dagger from me as long as I live.
"Mornin', mate!" I return the greeting cheerfully, for Gawain has no family to drive him mad, and how I envy him for that.
"In for a pint, are ye?" Pete says, eyeing me conspiratorially, "And then what? Robbin' the market, or maybe a simple pickpocketin' mission, lighten the purses o' a few wigs?"
I recline in my delightfully uncomfortable wooden chair, my smirk gaining a lazy quality, "A little from column A..." I reply vaguely.
Peter smiles big and bright like an excited child, his cheeks like two small apples, and sits back in his own chair, "So when we goin', Gawain, huh? Huh?"
"Calm down, boy, 'fore ya' hurt yerself," I say, "Wait for Tom and Tuck, then we'll go." Pete looks slightly put out, but then notices the last remaining gulp of his beer and perks up after draining it. Richard, the barkeep, drops by with a beer for me and a refill for Pete. We both sit in companionable silence with our respective beverages until the sounds of a bar fight reach our ears.
"That'll be them, then," Pete astutely surmises as Richard pries the identical dark-skinned boys from a few other Mermaid's Tale patrons.
Holding the twins roughly by the shoulder as if he isn't a foot shorter than them, Richard barks, "If anymore o' your boys starts one more fight in dis 'ere establishment, yer all banned fer life! Ya' 'ear me, Gawain?"
"Aw, c'mon, Ricky," I say, my voice all honey, "you can forgive the twins for bein' a tad rambunctious, can't ya'? You remember bein' a kid..." I pause, as if suddenly ponderous, "Oh wait, how long ago was that? Damn, musta' been ages, maybe you CAN'T remember."
Richard's mouth puckers into a livid scowl, his heavily-lidded eyes go wide, "That's it!! I've HAD IT with you hooligans! Be gone, an' never darken this doorway again!" As he rages he corrals all four of us to the door. The space tightens as we all try to get through at once, "Go! Away wid' ye!" Richard is shouting.
I try to turn my face to the furious barkeep, "Uh, we'd love to, Ricky, but could ya' give us a push?!"
Richard decides after some more struggling to lend a helping hand, cruelly shoving us four through and sending each sprawling on the dirt ground.
Tom is the first to pull himself into a sitting position, "What a way to start the day, eh, boys?" We three groan in agreement.
I roll over and gingerly touch my aching shoulder. Ooh, that's going to be a bruise. Mother won't be happy since she got me that off-the- shoulder gown the day before. Good, a wicked and perverse corner of my brain hisses, let it be huge and dark, so no matter how much make up she puts on it, everyone will know what it is. I stagger to my feet, willing my head to stop spinning, "Whu-whoa, okay," I blink a few times to clear the spots from my eyes before firmly planting my feet on the ground. Ugh, it's like being drunk, only more painful.
"Well, they's here now, Gawain," Pete gets to his feet, "Can we go?"
I grin at him as the spots clear, "Aye, Pete, that we can," His face splits into that child-like beam of excitement and he practically skips at my side as we four descend into the sunlit bowels of Port Royal.
"So what's on the menu today, Gawain?" Tuck asks as we strut down the dusty lane.
"Yeah," Tom chimes in just after his brother, "'Ow ya' gonna top yesterday's little foray into the wigs territory?"
I give them no answer beyond a lazy smile; I'm too busy enjoying the day. The sun beats down on our shoulders and bleaches the salt air blasted roofs of the shanty town as palm trees' green fingers rustle in the ever- present breeze. But all this takes a backseat to the delight of simply being Gawain, and NOT Guinevere. I could giggle with joy as I revel in the freedom that comes with the territory. As Gawain I am loved by some, feared by more, and respected by all. In the time I developed this little hobby, I, along with my trusty gang, have become infamous for our rabble-rousing and mischievous deeds. Instead of a girlish giggle, I let out a sharp crow as I spy the various eyes on us four from various windows, doorways, and rocking chairs.
The murmurs that drift towards my ears are even better, "It's Gawain and 'is boys." "What're they up to now?" "Gonna be hell ta' pay, they ever get caught." Delightful.
"You got more up your sleeve than the usual, dontcha', Gawain? I can see it in yer face." Tom spins around to walk backwards in front of me.
Out of the corner of my eyes I can see the anticipation written on the other two members' of my gang's faces, but I can't give the game up yet, "Perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps."
Peter's temper finally gets the best of him, "Aw, c'mon, Gawain! No more o' these vagaries, I can't take no more! Tell us yer plans!"
I roll my eyes as if exasperated by irritating children, "Very well, you dogs, come wid' me." I turn into a deserted alley and we huddle close together, Pete on a knee, the twins side by side, and me leaning an arm against Tom's broad shoulder, "The wigs is givin' a great do by the docks today, see, ta' honor some Captain or what 'ave you fer services paid in the Royal Navy in executin' pirates." At this my boys grimace, but at the same time their eyes grow dark with sinister plotting. I have to say little more to convince them of our solemn duty as certified knaves, rogues, ruffians, and scoundrels to avenge our seafaring brothers and sisters in lawlessness. Almost instantly they take to my plan and have memorized their parts in it. Ah, what would I do without my boys?
From the depths of the crowd I watch the be-wigged official reading from a piece of parchment. Beside him stand many seemingly identical uniformed military men, the only way to discern the honoree from the rest was the look of blissful awe radiating from his face. I want to smack him. I want to yell to him how ridiculous it all was, how pointless. "You can't take it with you!" I want to shout, but I don't. No, I have a boat to catch.
Glancing away from the pomp to the unassuming ship in the harbor, I spot the signal with a grin. A small black flag, little more than a tablecloth, flutters just under the grand Union Jack. Showtime, I think as I bow out of the crowd.
"All 'arights, first mate Peter Tooley?" I ask as I climb aboard the ship.
Peter makes a show of looking around the all but empty vessel, "All goin' accordin' ta' plan, Captain Gawain Burns."
"Just what I want ta' hear, first mate. Where's the rest o' the crew?"
"Right here, Cap'n!" call the twins from the boxes of gunpowder and fireworks loaded on the ship's bow. When I first came across this whole event my first thought was precisely, "Fireworks in the morning?" But this IS rich folk we're dealing with, and, though loathe to admit I'm one of them (however, saying I was a wig is the same as saying if a cat is born in the water, it's a fish), I never attempt to glean logic from their doings. Might as well make the best of their odd ways, and the twins are making an excellent example of that very precept.
Absconding with the pyrotechnics is blessedly simple thanks to Pete's skillful dispatching of the ship's guards. Now comes the tricky part. Thankfully for us the fireworks appear as little more than your average bit of cargo, so, as we cross the harbor, our arms loaded with boxes, back to the ceremony, no one gives us a second glance. A small contingent of soldiers jogs past us and onto the ship, and I can't contain a wicked smirk. Oh, if all went according to plan, this will be some fun.
I check the time on a clock tower over the harbor's entrance, 8:56, and pick up the pace. The fireworks are set to go off at 9:00, and we have a lot to do in the next four minutes.
"Hey, get outta' the way!" I shout as brusquely as possible, "Come on, people, move it! We got deliveries ta' make."
The boys must have sensed our slight predicament and so also begin berating the swarm of people in various colorful ways to make space. They comply, and in another minute we have split up to do our respective jobs. At 8:59, all four of us are sitting at the top of the stone building that overlooks the ceremony. Pete is near bouncing with excitement, while Tom and Tuck lean out over the proceedings as far as they dare. I lean against the warm stone, waiting quietly, the smirk eternal.
"And now," the big wig says, "to celebrate this joyous occasion, a fireworks display can be seen in the harbor." The official, the honoree, the military men, and the audience all turn to the sea, and charged silence reigns as the clock tick-tocks its way to 9:00.
BONG!! The clock tower sounds the first of its nine bells to ring in the new hour. An explosion does go off, but not where the wigs expect it. Instead of on the safety of the ship, the firework shoots into the sky at the rear of the audience. We four let out whoops of delight as the rocket fires not five feet from our very toes.
BONG!! Another explosion, this also not on the ship, but to the left of the audience. A wave of panic sweeps through their numbers as people have the simultaneous thought to take their hasty leave.
BONG!! This one sends clouds of dust into the air, blinding the wigs on the stage. Tuck and I shard a handshake on that one.
BONG!! A fourth firework serves its purpose right before the stage. Some of the blinded wigs are even knocked back into their peers by its force. The audience is rushing from the area in whimpering streams.
BONG!! Directly in the middle of where the audience had been standing, the scattered pops of firecrackers ring out, quickly joined by a chorus of screams and shouts, "How did you DO that?!" Tom shouts in my direction. I earn three hearty pats on the back.
BONG!! The ceremony in complete disarray, not many notice the explosion on the boat which sends hunks of glistening fruit into the air instead of colorful sparks. But we notice, and nearly killed ourselves laughing at the sticky and thoroughly bewildered soldiers on the deck. The last four BONGS leave the soldier's sterling red and white uniforms multicolored messes.
Pete has to work around his guffaws to congratulate me, "Genius! Ha ha ha, the boy's a bloody genius! Ha ha!"
I turn to the twins, awaiting their praise. They lean on each other, wiping tears from their eyes and grabbing their sides for the pain. As their mirth subsides they notice my gaze. Tuck tries to stifle his smile, "I ain't gon' deny it, Gawain, that was some fun." Tom nods, still unable to speak for his laughter.
Feeling perfectly invincible, my gang and I strut through the streets as if we are the rulers of the world. We're met by various looks, some disapproving, but most range from envious to fearful to jubilant to congratulatory. We soak them all in, reveling in the attention. We're untouchable now, that stunt I know will make us the talk of the town. No one will question if it was our doing, they all know, and that's the way we like it. Applause actually heralds our entrance to one of the larger taverns of Port Royal, The King's Compass.
"Is it just me or are bars always named The Something's Something? Mermaid's Tale, King's Compass, and the like," I wonder aloud over my drink. It is dark now, I'd slipped back to the house of Turner, just to keep any suspicion at bay. That's what we always do to make sure we didn't catch any heat from our latest escapade. Each goes to his or her respective homestead until after dark, then the night is spent in triumphant partying.
"Dunno," Tom replies, "Seems like it, though, don't it?" Tuck nods and takes a sip of his ale.
"That was great, though, eh?" Pete reminisces, still caught in the afterglow of our crime.
"Yeah, best yet." Tuck shoots me a significant look, "What's next?"
Bloody hell, I shout in my head, suddenly irate, "Do I gotta entertain you slobs every blessed second? I don't know what's next, Tuck, alright? Can't I jis' sit an' enjoy my beer wid'out you all makin' me work up somethin' else for ya' ta' do?" I lower my legs from the table and sit low in my chair, arms crossed and face emotionless beyond stony rage.
"Nah, Gawain," Peter tries to pacify me, "Nah, you don't gotta do nothin' right now, right boys?" Tuck and Tom quickly nod and murmur their agreement, "Right. We jis' gonna do like you says, boss, an' drink our beers and relax, right?" Again the twins agree, "Right."
An older male voice shouts from nearby in the crowded tavern, "'Ey, Burns, get yer arse over 'ere!" With a still irritable glance at my boys I walk over to the voice, knowing full well whose it is.
"Aye, Gibbs?" I greet the aged man as I lower myself into a seat at his table.
Gibbs' beady, dark eyes sear me from behind a gray fringe of hair, "Twas some stunt ye pulled this morn'."
I smile with pride, though aware he isn't being complimentary, "Yes, it was, wasn't it?"
Gibbs leans close, fixing me with a stern glare, "Lass, ya' be goin' too far wid' all these stunts, ya' hear me? Yer attractin' attentions yer not wantin', missy."
My eyes rapidly scan the tavern, making sure nobody has heard the old man's alternative for either of my names, "Would you not do that, Gibbs? Folks round 'ere don't know I'm a girl an' I quite like it that way."
Gibbs leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "I know ya' do, Gwen- Gawain. But ya' can't expect ta' go on like this forever. Yer comin' o' age, yer parents will be wantin' ta' marry ya' soon, and then what? Sneak outta yer husband's house ta' party wid' yer boys? Ha! Not too likely, missy."
I droop in my seat, knowing the truth to his words, "I know yer right, Gibbs. The day of reckonin' swiftly approaches. I'll have ta' make my decision soon."
Gibbs favors me with a paternal smile I've known since childhood, "Whichever way ya' choose ta' go, child, in fair winds or bad, I'll stick by yer side."
I duck my head to hide my forthcoming tears of gratitude. "Aye, Gibbs, I know," I say and make tracks for my boys.
"Ya' arights now, Gawain?" Peter asks, still concerned. All heart, that one.
"Aye, Pete, all's forgotten," I reply with my usual crooked grin, if tinged with melancholy. I never thought I'd be glad for the twins' almost bizarre talent for starting bar fights, but there I am, happily trading blows with a drunken sailor, my depression long gone.
Coming home, bruised but jubilant, I find Adolph has somehow changed the locks on the mansion's doors while I was away. Pausing for a moment of thought, I dash around to the side of the house and, sure enough, the sliver of a window into the cellar is unlocked. Silly German, I think as I wriggle into the dark room, too easy!
Another day, I think, another eavesdropped conversation. I shift on the wooden step, wondering if a person's butt can go flat if they sit too long on a smooth surface. It's the old conversation downstairs, "I don't know what to do, Will!" "Shh, it'll be alright, Elizabeth." Though this time talk of finishing schools is breached, I perked up on that, but the topic passes with little discussion. I'm vaguely touched that for all the hell I put my folk's through, they still aren't quite willing to part with me yet. On the other hand, however, the sentiment puts an extra weight on the decision I have to make quite soon. As the conversation dies down I make for my trusty window, this time having to sneak under the other windows along the porch roof and shimmy down a close-growing tree. Adolph has removed any handholds on the roof's edge for me to swing from.
"Ricky!" I call as I enter the Mermaid's Tale, "How's my favorite barkeep?"
The hot-tempered man squints in pain at my loud words, and I notice a towel full of dripping ice pressed to his temple. Apparently me and the boys weren't the only ones partying last night. "Curse ye, Gawain Burns! Didn't I tell ye' never ta' set foot in this establishment ever again?"
"Nah," I reply easily, "You must be thinkin' o' some other Gawain." Richard nods uneasily, but says nothing as he gets me a beer. Taking a sip, I decide now is as good a time as any to pose a question that has been on my mind, "Hey, Rick, jis' what IS the Mermaid's Tale? I assume there's somethin' behind the name. Either that, or yer jis' a bad speller."
Richard glances up from the cups he's drying, "Aye, boy, there be a true Mermaid's Tale."
"Well," I say impatiently as he continues his work, "Are ya' gonna tell it, or are ya' waitin' fer me ta' buy another drink?"
"Cool yer heels, young buck. If I'm gonna tell it, I'm gonna tell it right," his voice dips low and ominous at his next words, "for she's not a tale to be told poorly."
"Alright, alright," I groan as he cleans his last vessel, then closes the door to the Mermaid's Tale, "Ya' got me shakin', old man, happy? Now give it up!"
"Very well, child, very well, don't get yer britches in a bunch." Richard returns to the bar, apparently feeling the mood to be set, "This is an old tale to be sure, nearly as old as the sea, fer that's jis' about when it takes place, when the gods an' man lived side by side, an' the world was new." I try not to roll my eyes, though I can't help but be interested in the man's words.
"In that strange time lived a man, a fine sailor an' fisherman, but very greedy. He'd do anything if he thought there was profit ta' be had in it, no matter how foolhardy, dangerous, or even cruel. So one day this foolish man goes out in his boat. That season had been hard on the fishermen, so he had ta' travel far from safe waters ta' find so much as a minnow. As he dragged in the first haul he found ta' his surprise that he'd somehow caught a mermaid in his net. Her green scales flashed in the sun an' her voice was damn near intoxicatin' as she begged him ta' let her go.
"She told this man her father was king o' all the oceans, King Poseidon, and he'd do anything ta' have his favorite daughter back. This gives that vile man an idea. He refused to let her go an' instead dragged her back ta' his hovel. There he says ta' her if her father loves her so much, he'll pay a grand ransom fer her rescue. So he orders the lovely creature ta' send a message to the king, givin' a list o' demands, including ta' be made king o' the land and, naturally, a staggerin' sum o' gold fer the safe return o' his daughter.
"The great King Poseidon received this message, and, fearin' fer his daughter's safety, decided it'd be best ta' succumb ta' the mad mortal's requests. When the answering message reached the man, feeling he'd outsmarted the god, he went near mad wid' pride an' greed. Immediately he readied his boat and placed the princess mermaid in it, so anxious was he ta' collect his gold and title as king o' the land. However, on the way his unending greed got the better o' him, an' he began plottin' a horrible scheme ta' further fox the king o' the seas.
"However, Poseidon was no fool, he expected the pitiful mortal ta' be overcome wid' greed, an' planned for it most cunningly. When the fisherman came ashore o' the island beyond any known borders o' man where the god said they'd meet, Poseidon was already there. Seein' the awful glint of madness in the mortal's eye when he spotted the great treasure which lay spread out on the island's beach, the king knew he was right ta' be prepared. The man told the king his daughter awaited him in the boat, an' he should go ta' her. Poseidon did so, wid'out mentionin' ta' the foolish mortal that if he so much as touched one coin o' the treasure 'fore he found his daughter, the island would sink an' he'd ne'er be heard from again. As soon as the great god was out of sight, the man dove fer the treasure, and the island sank into the sea, wid' all its treasure an' the greedy fisherman, never ta' be seen again. Poseidon found his daughter in a cave on the other side o' the island, an' they had a good laugh o'er the foolishness o' mortals. But sailors that've come ta' this bar have claim ta' sights o' an island where no island should be, glintin' in the moonlight as if somethin' shiny be lyin' on its beach. They claim ta' hear the song o' the mermaid, callin' fer any greedy men ta' try an' take the ransom o' the mermaid princess." Richard stands back from the bar, appearing satisfied with his retelling.
"So there's still a treasure out there?"
"Aye, an' a great one, great as all the seas together, as it come from the king o' the seas."
"Huh," I sit back on my chair, thinking on Richard's tale. It sounds pure fantasy, but the wheels begin to turn as my father's bedtime stories drift through my head. Stories filled with ghosts and curses and hidden treasures, tiny portions of which can make a man rich beyond his wildest dreams. I turn my eyes on the grimy window of the Mermaid's Tale at the sapphire blue of the sea. The wheels pick up in speed. The sea, I always loved it, when my grandfather the governor would take me out as he'd done with my mother as a child, I cherish those memories almost as much as the stories. I know my way around a ship as well, but can I risk it? The answer is a firm maybe. I drain my beer, "Thanks fer the story, Richard, I think I'm gonna be off."
"What're ya' plannin', Guinevere Turner?" a voice says quite clearly and directly in my ear as though not a foot away.
It hadn't sounded like Richard much at all, but I whip around in shock anyway. "What did you say, Ricky?" I gasp.
Richard looks bemused, "I says yer not waitin' fer yer boys then, Gawain Burns?"
I blink and try to regain my composure, speaking in an even huskier voice than usual to try to mend my damaged cover as I back out of the door, "Oh- uh- no, no, not today, got some stuff ta' do down by the ol' shack." I should simply stop speaking there, but remember what I said about my politic brain and my mouth? Well, conditions have not improved, "Nothin' special, jis' average village stuff. Look, don't even bother telling the boys I was here, it shall only worry them. Wouldn't want to do that, now, would we?" As the last of my affected accent withers away I flee from the bar and don't stop until I'm back in my sanctuary.
A/N: Well, there ya' have it. Hope I didn't lay on the dialect too thick for yall. Dunno when I'll get around to updating, so I hope you're not all too enraptured with my tale, cuz it may be a while before it continues.
A/N: Hi. If anybody actually thinks I'm writing this for any other reason than the potential review bounty, or the fact that my mother royally pissed me off just after watching the movie, you are a FOOL! Just kidding, though you'd be amazed at what a wonderful muse fury is. Anyways, by all means enjoy my rage-induced little tale (at least the beginning of it anyway), and perhaps facilitate the gaining of that review bounty I just mentioned.
Oh, by the way, chapters will most probably never EVER be this long again. Like I said, fury does wonders for the creative mind. Also, I'm doing something nutty with this fic and writing it in the present tense. This is my first time trying something like this, so bear with me, m'kay?
Please, scream, I silently beg, stay inside my throat just a few minutes longer. I can't let it go here, not here; it would only make things worse. But the tingling ball in my throat will not be assuaged by my suppliants, and only increases its threat as the modest mansion set at the foot of the island's incongruous mountain comes into view. Mother and Father sit on both my sides in the rocking carriage, neither speaking nor looking at me. Not that that bothers me; no, anything they say could only serve to spur the scream of rage on, and that wouldn't be good for anyone. Except maybe me, for a moment or two anyway.
I could kiss Robert from relief as he opens the door of the carriage with a practiced bow. Instead I dart from my seat and out of the small door in a flash. But the relief only fuels the scream so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I stalk up the white-washed stairs and into the warm house. Maria and Lucia are waiting by the door, also bowing to greet their returning masters. Normally I would stop for a chat, but I can feel the scream beginning to tighten its hold on the back of my throat, I know I am running out of time.
Tripping ever so slightly on the hem of my gown in my haste, I break into a sprint halfway up the stairs. At long last, with one resounding slam of my door I arrive in my sanctuary. With one hand I rip off the long and ridiculously itchy wig on my head, and then promptly dive for my bed. Burying my face as deep into my pillow as possible, I scream. I scream so long I run out of air. I scream so hard that when I finally roll onto my back and pull the pillow away my throat feels as if it has been set aflame. I barely acknowledge the pain before smashing the pillow back onto my face and screaming again, a longer and harder scream than the first.
Another three or four muffled eruptions later, my energy is spent, and I'm left cold and alone curled up on my bed. Thankfully this time the tears do not come soon after, though when I wake the next morning what I've dubbed the Official Scream Muffler was damp.
"Guinevere, sweetheart," my mother's mellifluous voice drifts across my spectral dreams as a pink, noxious mist, "Are you awake?"
"Awake is a relative term," I growl against the mattress.
I don't think she'd heard me, but I suppose it was one of those things that happen when you became a mother. This reminds me as she glides into my sanctuary how little I want to have children, "Breakfast is ready," she says, looking down on me from on high, her little disappointment.
"That's nice," I reply casually, keeping a steady gaze with her upside-down image.
"Still feeling disagreeable, I see," she remarks with a delicately arched, chestnut colored eyebrow cocked. There is no denying it, my mother is a peerless beauty, as the old books say, despite the wrinkle of age here or the silvery strand of hair there.
"If what you mean by 'disagreeable' happens to be pissed to bloody hell, then yes, yes I am still feeling disagreeable."
I watch with twisted satisfaction as Mother's flawless face falls into a pout. I hadn't really meant to say it, but it seems to be happening more and more. In the early days I could keep such comments like that to myself, but now- well, now my mouth and the more politic parts of my brain aren't in such good touch as they used to be.
"I don't know what to do anymore, Guinevere," Mother sighs dramatically, "Eat when you want." With that last comment drifting on the air she sweeps from my sanctuary, leaving only the smell of perfume in her wake.
On my back, I stare at the fabric hanging over my four-poster, listening to my mother's footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. As soon as the sound changes to the step-pause-step-creak-pause-step of the stairs I roll from my bed to the floor on all fours. I wait another beat before stealing silently to my door. Opening it as much as I dare, I peek into the hall and upon confirmation that it was deserted I whip through my door and plaster myself against the wall as quick and soundless as a mouse. A few furtive steps bring me to the stair well, where, lounging against the wall on the top step, I listen with a stone face to my parents' private conversation.
"It's only getting worse, Will," Mother is saying, "I don't know what's happened. It started fairly innocent, a curse here or there, a late night out with no excuse, but now... Now she's as bad as any pirate, and what she did to her hair, and what she did last night- I can barely stand it anymore."
I can see in my mind's eye Mother hugging herself, her brown eyes brimming with tears, as Father wraps his strong arms around her, his chin on her shoulder, "It's okay, Elizabeth, shh, it'll be okay..." Such a poor liar, my father.
"No, no," contests Mother, her weepy voice wandering up the stairwell, "I don't even understand where she's getting it! We tried to keep her away from all that, for her own good, we PROMISED- how could we fail so miserably?" A very good question, Mother.
"I don't know, Elizabeth, maybe we just haven't been giving sweet Guinevere enough attention..." At this I stop listening. My father, the respected, well-liked William Turner. Honest, brave, but at times incredibly stupid. I stifle my groan of exasperation into an inaudibly sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. More attention? More attention, Father, is that what you really think I need? Oh, you stupid, stupid man, have you any wits about you at all?! Do you even know me? The answer is no, it is always no, and I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around to see what new torture device he and Mother cook up to meet their goal. I reenter my room with all the noise of a sea breeze, and am out the window before the door closes.
The only problem with my frequent covert escapes from the house of Turner is our head butler, an outwardly straight as an arrow German gentleman's gentleman named Adolph, who seems to derive some kind of sick pleasure from confounding my every attempt. A while back I'd decided that two could play at that game, and a game it had been ever since. The rules are as follows: he gets his jollies thinking of new ways to hinder my flight, I get practice dealing with challenging situations, and neither of us tells my parents.
During this particular get away, I discover the most convenient rose trellis at the outside of the mansion's wrap-around porch below my window to be missing. I grin crookedly, that wacky Adolph, at least he's clever, if not terribly original. Double-checking that the three daggers placed about my person are secure, I crab-walk along the porch's roof to the edge and peer over. It's a good ten foot drop, though I'm a healthy five foot eight inches, plus my arms should cut that drop more than in half... The idea transforms my rakish grin into a full-fledged smile as I position myself with my butt hanging over the side of the roof, my hands grasping the roof's edge. With one last glance at the window into my sanctuary, I swing down and land in a crouch on the porch in seconds. For a beat I stay there, relishing the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Ah, nothing better, I think as I run down the lane that leads from the house to the city of Port Royal.
"Gawain!" Peter calls from his usual seat in the back of the Mermaid's Tale Bar, a favorite haunt of mine. I smirk at my friend, slipping easily into my alter ego. It doesn't hurt I'm dressed in stolen men's clothing and have recently hacked my dark mane to a ghastly and undoubtedly masculine inch and a half from my head. I did it with the first dagger I ever bought, my lucky one, named Sparrow, for a certain bedtime character of my childhood. I'd never forget those stories my father told, just like I'd never forget the look on my parents' faces when I'd come down to breakfast the next morning. At the time I felt I'd finally triumphed over my parents, though that feeling greatly diminished when the wig came out. I take comfort in the feel of Sparrow in his place of honor on my right hip as I remember the oath I took after having the wig forced on me. By God and country, come hell or high water, nothing and nobody would take this dagger from me as long as I live.
"Mornin', mate!" I return the greeting cheerfully, for Gawain has no family to drive him mad, and how I envy him for that.
"In for a pint, are ye?" Pete says, eyeing me conspiratorially, "And then what? Robbin' the market, or maybe a simple pickpocketin' mission, lighten the purses o' a few wigs?"
I recline in my delightfully uncomfortable wooden chair, my smirk gaining a lazy quality, "A little from column A..." I reply vaguely.
Peter smiles big and bright like an excited child, his cheeks like two small apples, and sits back in his own chair, "So when we goin', Gawain, huh? Huh?"
"Calm down, boy, 'fore ya' hurt yerself," I say, "Wait for Tom and Tuck, then we'll go." Pete looks slightly put out, but then notices the last remaining gulp of his beer and perks up after draining it. Richard, the barkeep, drops by with a beer for me and a refill for Pete. We both sit in companionable silence with our respective beverages until the sounds of a bar fight reach our ears.
"That'll be them, then," Pete astutely surmises as Richard pries the identical dark-skinned boys from a few other Mermaid's Tale patrons.
Holding the twins roughly by the shoulder as if he isn't a foot shorter than them, Richard barks, "If anymore o' your boys starts one more fight in dis 'ere establishment, yer all banned fer life! Ya' 'ear me, Gawain?"
"Aw, c'mon, Ricky," I say, my voice all honey, "you can forgive the twins for bein' a tad rambunctious, can't ya'? You remember bein' a kid..." I pause, as if suddenly ponderous, "Oh wait, how long ago was that? Damn, musta' been ages, maybe you CAN'T remember."
Richard's mouth puckers into a livid scowl, his heavily-lidded eyes go wide, "That's it!! I've HAD IT with you hooligans! Be gone, an' never darken this doorway again!" As he rages he corrals all four of us to the door. The space tightens as we all try to get through at once, "Go! Away wid' ye!" Richard is shouting.
I try to turn my face to the furious barkeep, "Uh, we'd love to, Ricky, but could ya' give us a push?!"
Richard decides after some more struggling to lend a helping hand, cruelly shoving us four through and sending each sprawling on the dirt ground.
Tom is the first to pull himself into a sitting position, "What a way to start the day, eh, boys?" We three groan in agreement.
I roll over and gingerly touch my aching shoulder. Ooh, that's going to be a bruise. Mother won't be happy since she got me that off-the- shoulder gown the day before. Good, a wicked and perverse corner of my brain hisses, let it be huge and dark, so no matter how much make up she puts on it, everyone will know what it is. I stagger to my feet, willing my head to stop spinning, "Whu-whoa, okay," I blink a few times to clear the spots from my eyes before firmly planting my feet on the ground. Ugh, it's like being drunk, only more painful.
"Well, they's here now, Gawain," Pete gets to his feet, "Can we go?"
I grin at him as the spots clear, "Aye, Pete, that we can," His face splits into that child-like beam of excitement and he practically skips at my side as we four descend into the sunlit bowels of Port Royal.
"So what's on the menu today, Gawain?" Tuck asks as we strut down the dusty lane.
"Yeah," Tom chimes in just after his brother, "'Ow ya' gonna top yesterday's little foray into the wigs territory?"
I give them no answer beyond a lazy smile; I'm too busy enjoying the day. The sun beats down on our shoulders and bleaches the salt air blasted roofs of the shanty town as palm trees' green fingers rustle in the ever- present breeze. But all this takes a backseat to the delight of simply being Gawain, and NOT Guinevere. I could giggle with joy as I revel in the freedom that comes with the territory. As Gawain I am loved by some, feared by more, and respected by all. In the time I developed this little hobby, I, along with my trusty gang, have become infamous for our rabble-rousing and mischievous deeds. Instead of a girlish giggle, I let out a sharp crow as I spy the various eyes on us four from various windows, doorways, and rocking chairs.
The murmurs that drift towards my ears are even better, "It's Gawain and 'is boys." "What're they up to now?" "Gonna be hell ta' pay, they ever get caught." Delightful.
"You got more up your sleeve than the usual, dontcha', Gawain? I can see it in yer face." Tom spins around to walk backwards in front of me.
Out of the corner of my eyes I can see the anticipation written on the other two members' of my gang's faces, but I can't give the game up yet, "Perhaps, gentlemen, perhaps."
Peter's temper finally gets the best of him, "Aw, c'mon, Gawain! No more o' these vagaries, I can't take no more! Tell us yer plans!"
I roll my eyes as if exasperated by irritating children, "Very well, you dogs, come wid' me." I turn into a deserted alley and we huddle close together, Pete on a knee, the twins side by side, and me leaning an arm against Tom's broad shoulder, "The wigs is givin' a great do by the docks today, see, ta' honor some Captain or what 'ave you fer services paid in the Royal Navy in executin' pirates." At this my boys grimace, but at the same time their eyes grow dark with sinister plotting. I have to say little more to convince them of our solemn duty as certified knaves, rogues, ruffians, and scoundrels to avenge our seafaring brothers and sisters in lawlessness. Almost instantly they take to my plan and have memorized their parts in it. Ah, what would I do without my boys?
From the depths of the crowd I watch the be-wigged official reading from a piece of parchment. Beside him stand many seemingly identical uniformed military men, the only way to discern the honoree from the rest was the look of blissful awe radiating from his face. I want to smack him. I want to yell to him how ridiculous it all was, how pointless. "You can't take it with you!" I want to shout, but I don't. No, I have a boat to catch.
Glancing away from the pomp to the unassuming ship in the harbor, I spot the signal with a grin. A small black flag, little more than a tablecloth, flutters just under the grand Union Jack. Showtime, I think as I bow out of the crowd.
"All 'arights, first mate Peter Tooley?" I ask as I climb aboard the ship.
Peter makes a show of looking around the all but empty vessel, "All goin' accordin' ta' plan, Captain Gawain Burns."
"Just what I want ta' hear, first mate. Where's the rest o' the crew?"
"Right here, Cap'n!" call the twins from the boxes of gunpowder and fireworks loaded on the ship's bow. When I first came across this whole event my first thought was precisely, "Fireworks in the morning?" But this IS rich folk we're dealing with, and, though loathe to admit I'm one of them (however, saying I was a wig is the same as saying if a cat is born in the water, it's a fish), I never attempt to glean logic from their doings. Might as well make the best of their odd ways, and the twins are making an excellent example of that very precept.
Absconding with the pyrotechnics is blessedly simple thanks to Pete's skillful dispatching of the ship's guards. Now comes the tricky part. Thankfully for us the fireworks appear as little more than your average bit of cargo, so, as we cross the harbor, our arms loaded with boxes, back to the ceremony, no one gives us a second glance. A small contingent of soldiers jogs past us and onto the ship, and I can't contain a wicked smirk. Oh, if all went according to plan, this will be some fun.
I check the time on a clock tower over the harbor's entrance, 8:56, and pick up the pace. The fireworks are set to go off at 9:00, and we have a lot to do in the next four minutes.
"Hey, get outta' the way!" I shout as brusquely as possible, "Come on, people, move it! We got deliveries ta' make."
The boys must have sensed our slight predicament and so also begin berating the swarm of people in various colorful ways to make space. They comply, and in another minute we have split up to do our respective jobs. At 8:59, all four of us are sitting at the top of the stone building that overlooks the ceremony. Pete is near bouncing with excitement, while Tom and Tuck lean out over the proceedings as far as they dare. I lean against the warm stone, waiting quietly, the smirk eternal.
"And now," the big wig says, "to celebrate this joyous occasion, a fireworks display can be seen in the harbor." The official, the honoree, the military men, and the audience all turn to the sea, and charged silence reigns as the clock tick-tocks its way to 9:00.
BONG!! The clock tower sounds the first of its nine bells to ring in the new hour. An explosion does go off, but not where the wigs expect it. Instead of on the safety of the ship, the firework shoots into the sky at the rear of the audience. We four let out whoops of delight as the rocket fires not five feet from our very toes.
BONG!! Another explosion, this also not on the ship, but to the left of the audience. A wave of panic sweeps through their numbers as people have the simultaneous thought to take their hasty leave.
BONG!! This one sends clouds of dust into the air, blinding the wigs on the stage. Tuck and I shard a handshake on that one.
BONG!! A fourth firework serves its purpose right before the stage. Some of the blinded wigs are even knocked back into their peers by its force. The audience is rushing from the area in whimpering streams.
BONG!! Directly in the middle of where the audience had been standing, the scattered pops of firecrackers ring out, quickly joined by a chorus of screams and shouts, "How did you DO that?!" Tom shouts in my direction. I earn three hearty pats on the back.
BONG!! The ceremony in complete disarray, not many notice the explosion on the boat which sends hunks of glistening fruit into the air instead of colorful sparks. But we notice, and nearly killed ourselves laughing at the sticky and thoroughly bewildered soldiers on the deck. The last four BONGS leave the soldier's sterling red and white uniforms multicolored messes.
Pete has to work around his guffaws to congratulate me, "Genius! Ha ha ha, the boy's a bloody genius! Ha ha!"
I turn to the twins, awaiting their praise. They lean on each other, wiping tears from their eyes and grabbing their sides for the pain. As their mirth subsides they notice my gaze. Tuck tries to stifle his smile, "I ain't gon' deny it, Gawain, that was some fun." Tom nods, still unable to speak for his laughter.
Feeling perfectly invincible, my gang and I strut through the streets as if we are the rulers of the world. We're met by various looks, some disapproving, but most range from envious to fearful to jubilant to congratulatory. We soak them all in, reveling in the attention. We're untouchable now, that stunt I know will make us the talk of the town. No one will question if it was our doing, they all know, and that's the way we like it. Applause actually heralds our entrance to one of the larger taverns of Port Royal, The King's Compass.
"Is it just me or are bars always named The Something's Something? Mermaid's Tale, King's Compass, and the like," I wonder aloud over my drink. It is dark now, I'd slipped back to the house of Turner, just to keep any suspicion at bay. That's what we always do to make sure we didn't catch any heat from our latest escapade. Each goes to his or her respective homestead until after dark, then the night is spent in triumphant partying.
"Dunno," Tom replies, "Seems like it, though, don't it?" Tuck nods and takes a sip of his ale.
"That was great, though, eh?" Pete reminisces, still caught in the afterglow of our crime.
"Yeah, best yet." Tuck shoots me a significant look, "What's next?"
Bloody hell, I shout in my head, suddenly irate, "Do I gotta entertain you slobs every blessed second? I don't know what's next, Tuck, alright? Can't I jis' sit an' enjoy my beer wid'out you all makin' me work up somethin' else for ya' ta' do?" I lower my legs from the table and sit low in my chair, arms crossed and face emotionless beyond stony rage.
"Nah, Gawain," Peter tries to pacify me, "Nah, you don't gotta do nothin' right now, right boys?" Tuck and Tom quickly nod and murmur their agreement, "Right. We jis' gonna do like you says, boss, an' drink our beers and relax, right?" Again the twins agree, "Right."
An older male voice shouts from nearby in the crowded tavern, "'Ey, Burns, get yer arse over 'ere!" With a still irritable glance at my boys I walk over to the voice, knowing full well whose it is.
"Aye, Gibbs?" I greet the aged man as I lower myself into a seat at his table.
Gibbs' beady, dark eyes sear me from behind a gray fringe of hair, "Twas some stunt ye pulled this morn'."
I smile with pride, though aware he isn't being complimentary, "Yes, it was, wasn't it?"
Gibbs leans close, fixing me with a stern glare, "Lass, ya' be goin' too far wid' all these stunts, ya' hear me? Yer attractin' attentions yer not wantin', missy."
My eyes rapidly scan the tavern, making sure nobody has heard the old man's alternative for either of my names, "Would you not do that, Gibbs? Folks round 'ere don't know I'm a girl an' I quite like it that way."
Gibbs leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "I know ya' do, Gwen- Gawain. But ya' can't expect ta' go on like this forever. Yer comin' o' age, yer parents will be wantin' ta' marry ya' soon, and then what? Sneak outta yer husband's house ta' party wid' yer boys? Ha! Not too likely, missy."
I droop in my seat, knowing the truth to his words, "I know yer right, Gibbs. The day of reckonin' swiftly approaches. I'll have ta' make my decision soon."
Gibbs favors me with a paternal smile I've known since childhood, "Whichever way ya' choose ta' go, child, in fair winds or bad, I'll stick by yer side."
I duck my head to hide my forthcoming tears of gratitude. "Aye, Gibbs, I know," I say and make tracks for my boys.
"Ya' arights now, Gawain?" Peter asks, still concerned. All heart, that one.
"Aye, Pete, all's forgotten," I reply with my usual crooked grin, if tinged with melancholy. I never thought I'd be glad for the twins' almost bizarre talent for starting bar fights, but there I am, happily trading blows with a drunken sailor, my depression long gone.
Coming home, bruised but jubilant, I find Adolph has somehow changed the locks on the mansion's doors while I was away. Pausing for a moment of thought, I dash around to the side of the house and, sure enough, the sliver of a window into the cellar is unlocked. Silly German, I think as I wriggle into the dark room, too easy!
Another day, I think, another eavesdropped conversation. I shift on the wooden step, wondering if a person's butt can go flat if they sit too long on a smooth surface. It's the old conversation downstairs, "I don't know what to do, Will!" "Shh, it'll be alright, Elizabeth." Though this time talk of finishing schools is breached, I perked up on that, but the topic passes with little discussion. I'm vaguely touched that for all the hell I put my folk's through, they still aren't quite willing to part with me yet. On the other hand, however, the sentiment puts an extra weight on the decision I have to make quite soon. As the conversation dies down I make for my trusty window, this time having to sneak under the other windows along the porch roof and shimmy down a close-growing tree. Adolph has removed any handholds on the roof's edge for me to swing from.
"Ricky!" I call as I enter the Mermaid's Tale, "How's my favorite barkeep?"
The hot-tempered man squints in pain at my loud words, and I notice a towel full of dripping ice pressed to his temple. Apparently me and the boys weren't the only ones partying last night. "Curse ye, Gawain Burns! Didn't I tell ye' never ta' set foot in this establishment ever again?"
"Nah," I reply easily, "You must be thinkin' o' some other Gawain." Richard nods uneasily, but says nothing as he gets me a beer. Taking a sip, I decide now is as good a time as any to pose a question that has been on my mind, "Hey, Rick, jis' what IS the Mermaid's Tale? I assume there's somethin' behind the name. Either that, or yer jis' a bad speller."
Richard glances up from the cups he's drying, "Aye, boy, there be a true Mermaid's Tale."
"Well," I say impatiently as he continues his work, "Are ya' gonna tell it, or are ya' waitin' fer me ta' buy another drink?"
"Cool yer heels, young buck. If I'm gonna tell it, I'm gonna tell it right," his voice dips low and ominous at his next words, "for she's not a tale to be told poorly."
"Alright, alright," I groan as he cleans his last vessel, then closes the door to the Mermaid's Tale, "Ya' got me shakin', old man, happy? Now give it up!"
"Very well, child, very well, don't get yer britches in a bunch." Richard returns to the bar, apparently feeling the mood to be set, "This is an old tale to be sure, nearly as old as the sea, fer that's jis' about when it takes place, when the gods an' man lived side by side, an' the world was new." I try not to roll my eyes, though I can't help but be interested in the man's words.
"In that strange time lived a man, a fine sailor an' fisherman, but very greedy. He'd do anything if he thought there was profit ta' be had in it, no matter how foolhardy, dangerous, or even cruel. So one day this foolish man goes out in his boat. That season had been hard on the fishermen, so he had ta' travel far from safe waters ta' find so much as a minnow. As he dragged in the first haul he found ta' his surprise that he'd somehow caught a mermaid in his net. Her green scales flashed in the sun an' her voice was damn near intoxicatin' as she begged him ta' let her go.
"She told this man her father was king o' all the oceans, King Poseidon, and he'd do anything ta' have his favorite daughter back. This gives that vile man an idea. He refused to let her go an' instead dragged her back ta' his hovel. There he says ta' her if her father loves her so much, he'll pay a grand ransom fer her rescue. So he orders the lovely creature ta' send a message to the king, givin' a list o' demands, including ta' be made king o' the land and, naturally, a staggerin' sum o' gold fer the safe return o' his daughter.
"The great King Poseidon received this message, and, fearin' fer his daughter's safety, decided it'd be best ta' succumb ta' the mad mortal's requests. When the answering message reached the man, feeling he'd outsmarted the god, he went near mad wid' pride an' greed. Immediately he readied his boat and placed the princess mermaid in it, so anxious was he ta' collect his gold and title as king o' the land. However, on the way his unending greed got the better o' him, an' he began plottin' a horrible scheme ta' further fox the king o' the seas.
"However, Poseidon was no fool, he expected the pitiful mortal ta' be overcome wid' greed, an' planned for it most cunningly. When the fisherman came ashore o' the island beyond any known borders o' man where the god said they'd meet, Poseidon was already there. Seein' the awful glint of madness in the mortal's eye when he spotted the great treasure which lay spread out on the island's beach, the king knew he was right ta' be prepared. The man told the king his daughter awaited him in the boat, an' he should go ta' her. Poseidon did so, wid'out mentionin' ta' the foolish mortal that if he so much as touched one coin o' the treasure 'fore he found his daughter, the island would sink an' he'd ne'er be heard from again. As soon as the great god was out of sight, the man dove fer the treasure, and the island sank into the sea, wid' all its treasure an' the greedy fisherman, never ta' be seen again. Poseidon found his daughter in a cave on the other side o' the island, an' they had a good laugh o'er the foolishness o' mortals. But sailors that've come ta' this bar have claim ta' sights o' an island where no island should be, glintin' in the moonlight as if somethin' shiny be lyin' on its beach. They claim ta' hear the song o' the mermaid, callin' fer any greedy men ta' try an' take the ransom o' the mermaid princess." Richard stands back from the bar, appearing satisfied with his retelling.
"So there's still a treasure out there?"
"Aye, an' a great one, great as all the seas together, as it come from the king o' the seas."
"Huh," I sit back on my chair, thinking on Richard's tale. It sounds pure fantasy, but the wheels begin to turn as my father's bedtime stories drift through my head. Stories filled with ghosts and curses and hidden treasures, tiny portions of which can make a man rich beyond his wildest dreams. I turn my eyes on the grimy window of the Mermaid's Tale at the sapphire blue of the sea. The wheels pick up in speed. The sea, I always loved it, when my grandfather the governor would take me out as he'd done with my mother as a child, I cherish those memories almost as much as the stories. I know my way around a ship as well, but can I risk it? The answer is a firm maybe. I drain my beer, "Thanks fer the story, Richard, I think I'm gonna be off."
"What're ya' plannin', Guinevere Turner?" a voice says quite clearly and directly in my ear as though not a foot away.
It hadn't sounded like Richard much at all, but I whip around in shock anyway. "What did you say, Ricky?" I gasp.
Richard looks bemused, "I says yer not waitin' fer yer boys then, Gawain Burns?"
I blink and try to regain my composure, speaking in an even huskier voice than usual to try to mend my damaged cover as I back out of the door, "Oh- uh- no, no, not today, got some stuff ta' do down by the ol' shack." I should simply stop speaking there, but remember what I said about my politic brain and my mouth? Well, conditions have not improved, "Nothin' special, jis' average village stuff. Look, don't even bother telling the boys I was here, it shall only worry them. Wouldn't want to do that, now, would we?" As the last of my affected accent withers away I flee from the bar and don't stop until I'm back in my sanctuary.
A/N: Well, there ya' have it. Hope I didn't lay on the dialect too thick for yall. Dunno when I'll get around to updating, so I hope you're not all too enraptured with my tale, cuz it may be a while before it continues.