All copyrights reserved to Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio ©, save my added characters & plot.
Chapter 1
The day held nothing but strong winds and a clear blue sky in the Caribbean. The Coventina sliced through the waves that splashed upon her mesmerizing hull. Its figurehead was of a young maiden with long, flowing locks and flowing dress made up of the waves of the sea, and decorated with all manner of sea creatures. Her arms were in an outstretched position at her sides, welcoming the ocean spray; her unusually bright-blue eyes closed in bliss. The pale blue sales hid themselves against the sky. From bow to rudder, the Jamaican blue mahoe shimmered with the sea, camouflaging with the waters.
Twenty- six year old Captain Nautia M. Davis was known to the world only as "Nate the Terror", "The Shadow Saber." To her crew, of course, she was as she was: a woman who was wild, secretive, and young. She stood at the helm, gently coasting her ship across choppy waves. She decorated herself well and stood with both hands on her hips, a means to state her status aboard the vessel. Some would say that she worked hard for it, and earned it with blood, pain, and resiliency. Others would only speculate and count her success as an inheritance from her father. After all, this was his crew and his ship. She and her brother Jim were responsible for rallying them all together after his death. Only after his first-mate died and passed his pistol to Nautia, did she become captain.
Never could she have a more faithful crew of honest and able bodied men. It's what strengthened her belief that even the most damned bilged-rat could be a good man amongst the staunch and blood-thirsty. The crew of the Coventina was made up of men who simply needed flexibility from the law and a second chance at life. They were all a merry band of misfits.
Her wild, brown curls bounced on the small of her back, some roping in the wind around her neck. It was particularly warm on this day in the Caribbean, she noted. They were on their way to Tortuga; specifically to stock up on cargo and, for Nautia, to retrievewhat would be imperative for their final voyage.
"What's our speed, Cornelius?"
The salt and peppered haired man stood beside his captain and replied in his smooth voice, "Thirteen knots, Captain; and counting."
She nodded, not facing him, "Steady as she goes."
"Aye."
He eyed his younger companion. She was not so carefully poised, even in the presence of her crewman, but his captain was known for being extremely spontaneous. She was off.
Nautia had been lost in her thoughts, back to a conversation that took place about a few days ago between herself and a certain bayou priestess with blackened teeth. Loathsome feelings were mutual between the two mahogany women. She felt pathetic and knew that the witch ravished in the sight of her vulnerability; at her desperation. To see a woman, stronger than yourself, broken was surely the secret delight of all women, she thought.
She pleaded with Tia Dalma for that trinket. Her golden key to the ultimate prize. But even one prize has a cost, and it happened to be in the form of the deceased. Dead, alive, rotting away in the King's dungeon, it didn't matter to Nautia what or who. What mattered was that she retrieved it. But much to her dismay and to the witch's entertainment, the golden key was in possession of someone else.
She slowly reached into her pocket, feeling something smooth. Her breath became shaky and her heart pounded in her chest; all too familiar sensations. The little hand mirror glowed a slight green, and that all too familiar smirk was still replacing her reflection. She had begun to think her supernatural aid a devil's cruel prank. She had gone many months—years—without seeing his face and had gone out of her way to master the art of blocking out those annoying, tall-tales only he could have conjured up himself. Now here she was, forced to see his face for almost three days straight.
Tortuga is where the wench said he would be, and that she would find him within three days and not one day more. That fate would come for him in two years and one day, whatever that meant.
"Go now an' ye fin' 'im wit'in tree days time," she mocked in a feigned accent.
"We're only a few hours out, Nate," Jim chuckled, "We should arrive at sunset." Nautia quizzically glanced sideways at her brother.
"What's got you in such a cheerful mood?" she demanded. His cheeks slightly tinted pink over what colored folk called high-yella' skin, and he stumbled over his speech.
"Hm? Oh, I-I, w-well…"
Nautia smirked and held up a hand to silence him. "Say no more. I know all about your little fancy in that fisher woman, Jimmy."
"Her name is Ana-Maria; and d-don't call me that!" he whined.
Nautia giggled and held up her hands in a shrug. Her face turned solemn as her previous thoughts took over once again, and she was awakened from her trance by the next question.
"You seem to be anxious to see him," Jim said, waiting for a reaction.
She shrugged and made a small noise through her nose; her face now crestfallen. Jim's face softened.
"You don't still fancy him, don't you?"
Nautia scoffed, "Sure, Jimmy. Only been avoiding him for what, almost 3 years now?"
"You didn't answer my question," he replied smirking at her vulnerability.
She fidgeted with the hilt of her sword uncomfortably and bit her lip.
"What's it to ya?"
He chuckled at her uncomfortable state. "I'm your brother."
She rounded on him, pointing her finger in his face, "Which is precisely the reason why I keep any information, which could possibly be used as a jest against me, to m'self!"
She huffed and turned to face the sea. The longer she gazed upon its vast composition, the more relaxed she became. Every ripple, every roll, every slap against the starboard side spoke to her, whispering to quiet her heart and still her ever-moving mind. But with bugging pests like her brother, her temper was tested.
"So it's true then?" Jim spoke softly. She stayed silent.
"No one's teasing ye, Nate. After all, I'd like for you to be happy after...after." He was shaky in his answer, but he had accepted it. His sister, however, did not.
"And what does that encompass, pray tell? To be trapped on some godforsaken isle is it? Waking up day after day not knowing what to do; what to…" Nautia raged and leaned on the rail, pale-knuckle gripped.
"You belong here," she continued, "the sea and the Coventina will always be my home, but without you, it will never be home. It's our only chance of life and always has been. I'll be damned if someone should ever strip me of my freedom.
I mean, look at me, Jim! If I step foot on some English, French, Dutch, or god forbid American bastard's colony, I'll end up on a devil's playground of a plantation."
She lightly touched her hand, noting the darkened skin around her knuckles from being in too many summer suns.
"When we look like we do, you don't have freedom. The flesh becomes the object. Like something that can be given or taken away if you behave how they want… or disobey, doesn't matter which. That's not what it is. It can't be taken from you…, and I won't let you be taken either."
Jim eyed his sister and sighed, rubbing his face and then his neck. He knew it was to be expected. This conversation had come up many times, and many a time there was confrontation in the form of words, and broken glass. His right hand gently grazed over the small scar upon his forearm.
"You know that's not what I meant, Nate," he sighed, placing a hand on her shoulder. She hadn't pushed him off, which was a good sign, so far.
"When you met him—well…" he paused, unsure of how to continue, "I just want you to be happy no matter where you are; have someone to cherish those moments with you."
"I am happy, James." He winced. She only called him that when she was cross.
"You're not. I can tell; and you haven't been for a while."
She knew how right he was. A mixture of emotions rolled within her. Growing tired of his prying and the rolling, she walked away from the railing and passed by him without taking a second glance.
"Wake me when we get there," she called over her shoulder.
Nautia slammed the door behind her and tossed her silver-buttoned coat on the bed nearby. She stood behind her desk, gripping it tightly. Her breath was unsteady, anger coursing through every vein; every pore. She shut her eyes and kicked the desk with a loud THUMP! A low growl escaped her lips as she tried to cool down.
"Just breathe," she whispered, taking deep breaths and exhaling the negative energy.
It bothered her. What her brother had said, but the memory he had brought to the surface with his words. It angered her that she was about to lose this fight. It angered her that she remembered. She remembered the cracks in worn-down ceiling, and the hole that had been shot in the far-right corner over the door. She remembered staring at that hole with one arm bent being crushed underneath the weight of her skull, while the other laid limp at her side. It was hard to forget howher naked form refused the subtle comfort of old bed sheets in the heat of the Caribbean night. How the arm that had snaked around her waist had become numb after ignorant bliss. How her mind was buzzing withwild thoughts about the man that snuggled into her warmth. Nothing was clear except for the desire to see the light that shone when she had peaked earlier that night. She remembered how she longed and still longed for his rough calloused hands to clutch her stately thighs; for his beard to tickle her belly. She longed to wrap skin in his dominance and breathe in all that he would give her and all that he gave her; and she had made up in her mind that particular night she would long every day. Even now she felt the phantom tingling where kisses had trailed along the back of her neck. She remembered how her hair stood on end when familiar hands began to grope whatever was in reach. She remembered the playful brown eyes that skimmed over her chest and glory. He took her into him and covered her in the night with fiery passion and she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried.
No matter how hard she tried, she never forgot the night that it was to all be but short lived. When the first rays kissed her skin and the humidity of the Caribbean wrapped its arms around her, she remembered that she awoke alone. There was nothing but empty space in those white sheets; not even so much as a body print nor an inkling that he ever existed. She remembered how her chest grew heavy, and how her eyes darted around the room looking for any sign that he might still had be there: a boot, a ring, a piece of clothing, anything. But there were none to be found. She remembered her breath and how it became desperate for air. She had taken deep breaths to attempt to relieve the weight on her bosom.
"Just breathe…" she had said.
She had been played for a fool, and she certainly felt it; and she would never forget. She would never forget how the sun outside had disappeared behind light grey clouds, and the breeze that had combed through palm leaves stilled. She would never forget how the weight in her chest grew heavier and the pain dulled eventually over the years. There were no tears as she recalled, and she left the tavern in Cuba that day not quite the same. She remembered how the weight of her chest would be something she would carry for the days to follow.
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