The Sparrow Boy
Captain Jack Sparrow had hired whores before. Their trade was simple; a purse of gold and a night of hedonism, and then they would disappear to a life of 'fulfilling' prostitution while he set sail in search of treasure. The arrangement was perfect. He did not care where the women went to or what they did with the money; all he cared about was returning to his ship and carrying on with his voyage.
For the women, the feeling was mutual. There were a select few who became enamoured with Jack but, once it became clear he would not return, their adoration turned into bitterness and cynicism replaced hope. The majority would have rather forgotten his name. They had their gold and enough memories to serve them a lifetime – after their little business transaction, their lives returned to the usual influx of regulars and occasional upperclassmen, and that was the way they preferred it.
But, for one prostitute, that all changed with the birth of her child. A little boy with raven black hair and brown eyes, he had the tanned skin of a familiar pirate that sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. She had laboured for many hours, an entire day and night, and when she looked down at the fruits of that labour a cold, indescribable rage filled her heart. That fateful night, as she clutched her baby to her chest and allowed him to suckle, she made a vow – a vow edged with vitriol and hatred, a vow meant to damn him and spite his father. She would not be a mother to a Sparrow Boy. In a crooked house on one of the quiet backstreets of London, she condemned him to a nameless life; and in doing so she sentenced him to wandering the streets, unclaimed, in the hopes that she could escape the crime that was his father.
For many years, the boy lived with that burden on his shoulders. His childhood was filled with confusion and loneliness as his mother shunned him, and the more he grew the more aware he became of his glaring resemblance to his father.
"What's up, Sparrow Boy?"
"How's the life of a whoreson, Sparrow Boy?"
"Will you be a pirate too, Sparrow Boy?"
He learnt shame early in life. He came to resent his nickname and tolerated it only because he had no other to use. He relied on himself for the most part – he was apprenticed as a blacksmith while his mother continued her career – but he was envious of the children around him, those who went home to their families at night, who were loved, cared for, that had something to lose. Sparrow Boy settled with the Blacksmith as a father figure, and he did what he could to live up to the role.
It was a late summer's evening in the shop, and Sparrow Boy had spent all day at the anvil crafting a new sword. He had hammered out the shape and created the pommel with what cheap materials he could find; now all he needed to do was sharpen it. The jewels he had set in the haft glinted in the waning sunlight's amber glow. He stood turning it in his hand for a long while, admiring it with a soft smile on his face.
The door opened. It let in a small rectangular peel of light and the sounds of the outside swept in – a crier reporting the latest news; chickens clucking; horse and stablemen shouting; etc. – before it was closed again, and the Blacksmith's voice filled the disturbed air.
"That lad's escaped from prison again!" he declared as he removed his duffel coat and hung it up. The Blacksmith was a tall, heavily bearded redhead with a penchant for smoking, and his voice bore the brunt of that addiction. It was gruff and intimidating, belying his otherwise gentle nature, and his clever eyes peeked out of the scruff of his hair much the same as a fox's. He stomped through the shop to the un-scrubbed sink, where he started to wash his hands of the grime of London.
"Has he?" Sparrow Boy asked as he stood his sword against a support beam.
"What's his name, Hank? That one you hang around with on occasion." The man snorted and spat into the basin. "Criers're saying he slipped the guards last night, when no one was watchin' him."
"How did he manage it this time?"
"He always finds a way, doesn't he? That lad's a cheat, he is. He'll do well with Funar."
"He's not a cheat. He does what he has to. The Lords aren't helping us survive," the child pulled the grindstone from underneath the worktable. It made a stony, grating noise against the floor. "Besides, he's nice enough and keeps the gold flowing."
"I'd steer clear of that Dodge if I were you, Sparrow. He'll lead you down paths you're not meant for. Just keep your nose to the grindstone, aye?"
The child nodded. Hank Dodge was one of his few friends in the restricted life he led and he understood his motives; if he had a mother who loved him as much as Dodge's, he would steal and cheat to ensure her health as well. In the months prior to his last arrest, Sparrow had heard she was stricken with consumption – and Dodge, angered and frightened by the news, had robbed a wealthy man's carriage in an attempt to pay for treatment. He spent a little of the money on materials for the shop, but when he went to spend the rest he had flagged up the concerns of the local police force and found himself in prison. It was a sad tale repeated many times over.
The pair worked in silence for a long while. Sparrow Boy returned to his sharpening and watched diligently as sparks flew out of the blade, and every now and then the Blacksmith would look up from taking stock and nod at his progress. The night swept in, but neither of them commented on it.
A shout outside disturbed them. The child dropped his piece as his mentor flew to the window. He peered through the dirty glass with narrowed eyes.
"Wait here," he ordered the boy, moving to the door. Sparrow Boy followed him until he reached the entrance, then paused, waiting until the Blacksmith had left it slightly ajar so he could peer out of the crack. As he did, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle taking place.
The man stepped out into the grimy street. He looked in the direction of the old library with his hands on his hips before marching towards the noise.
"Hey!" Sparrow Boy heard him shout as he vanished from sight; "What's going on here, then?"
The noises stopped. A muffled voice answered, but the Blacksmith cut it off.
"All of you against 'im? Doesn't seem fair to me."
"Sir, this is a police matter." The voice was clearer, more threatening, as if the owner was trying to intimidate the man. Sparrow Boy waited with baited breath for his reply.
"That's all well and good, but this lad here don't seem to be hurting anyone. Here, lad – stand up. That's it."
"Sir, don't interfere with-"
"I'm not interfering; I'm making it fair. If you want him, you'll have to take me on as well. That something you want to do?"
There was a long pause. Then a great hand opened the door and the Blacksmith marched in, clutching a young boy on the shoulder in front of him. Sparrow Boy's brow furrowed as he looked at them.
"Hank?" he murmured. The urchin looked up from the floor and smiled – a wicked smile that revealed a crooked set of yellowed teeth, his cunning, bruised eyes sparking the moment he was off of the street. He wore a bent pirate's hat and a tattered trench coat, and his boots were caked in mud.
"Sparrow!" he greeted him with a slap to the shoulder; "Did you see that? Them officers didn't know what hit 'em!"
"I thought you escaped?"
"I did! They don't know that, though!" Dodge swaggered into the shop and threw himself on the stool beside Sparrow Boy's workspace. The boy quietly followed him. He noticed a hint of envy in his friend's eyes when he picked up the sword, but he returned to his work without comment.
"That's the last time I'm helping you out with them, Dodge," the Blacksmith told him; "That's the last. I don't need bobbies hanging around here, fussing things up in the street. Do you hear me? Next time you escape, you lay low for a few weeks! Don't be parading yourself around!"
Dodge nodded, demure and subdued, until the Blacksmith sighed and patted his shoulder. He nodded at him with a reserved smile.
"Be sure to have your mum see to that bruise. It's an eyesore."
He moved off, leaving the boys to their own devices. Sparrow Boy tried to return to his work, but curiosity got the best of him and he eventually asked his friend:
"How did you manage it this time?"
Dodge's face lit up.
"They've not fixed the shaky bar. I kicked it out, just like last time. Easy."
"One of these days, you'll get yourself killed."
"Not today! Besides, I have things to do before then. Like watching you sail off on your maiden voyage!"
Sparrow Boy rolled his eyes and tried to return his attention to his work. His friend swung his legs around on the stool to better face him, laughing and leaning on his bench.
"Imagine – the boy with a pirate dad becomes a captain!"
"I don't have a pirate dad," he murmured, inspecting the sword flat against his palm. Dodge continued as if he had never spoken.
"The irony! It's great. Best I've ever heard. Your mum's such a bitch about it, though. She's a sourpuss. She met Captain Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow!"
"Shut up, Dodge."
The night went on. The moon dangled high in the sky when the Blacksmith finally stood up and shrugged on his coat.
"Time for me to head home, lads," he said; "Hank, come on. No use leaving you to wander by yourself with all the bobbies about." The urchin sprang to his feet and made to follow him. He hesitated before taking off his hat, turning and thrusting it on his friend's head with a smile.
"There! Just like Captain Jack!"
Sparrow Boy had no time to protest as Dodge sped off behind the Blacksmith. The door closed behind them, blowing out the candles lit around the shop, and he was plunged into darkness.
"Dodge!" he shouted at the door. He sighed and his shoulders slumped, fumbling about the shop to find the matches his mentor kept. Once he discovered them on a desk he struck one, then went about relighting the candles. The last he did was nearer a dirty mirror the Blacksmith had fixed months before and the owner simply never picked up. His face was cast in a soft orange glow, and behind the flecks and specks he could see the hat on his head, the fierce, familiar intensity of his eyes.
He stared at himself. His white shirt was drenched with sweat and dirty. His trousers were burnt in places, covered in shavings and the occasional dusty handprint, and his shoes were worn and old. The bent hat completed the image. Locks of black hair peeked out from underneath. He was not a future captain, but a pirate.
"He's not my father!" he whispered to himself, touching the brim of the hat; "I'm not a pirate!"
The child sighed and let his hand drag down across his face. He kept his eyes closed for a long while. When he dared to open them again, he saw the same pirate boy looking back at him.
"I'm not…"