Chapter 2 - Headed for Tortuga
Barbossa stood at the helm attempting to salvage some remnants of authority which he refused to relinquish though the presence of an inevitable partner was indeed heavy on his thoughts. One thing perhaps which was not an unhappy consequence of his new situation was the valuable crew member gained with the inevitable. Mr. Gibbs, loyal to his friend as always, joined in the venture. Barbossa liked Gibbs, though he could not possibly respect a man who liked Sparrow enough to break code and all to save him from the gallows when he had a clear shot at the open sea and the Pearl all to himself. Well, if Gibbs chose to be loyal to a bilge rat that was his own business. He himself was amused by the man's tall tales and overactive superstitions. He would need quite a bit of diversion if Sparrow and himself were to survive a months long venture working hand in hand.
He still harbored a substantial amount of animosity towards Jack, the loathsome terms of their bargain too close behind him to have dispassionately rested in his memory. It was a shame he couldn't blow Sparrow and his vessel off the map once he returned it. That was impossible firstly because the Pearl could outrun the Enchantress. Secondly because, Jack had been wise enough to include into the bargain, as a stipulation, that he and Barbossa maintain an unbreakable peace through out the voyage, and after it; only to be broken if at some later date after they've parted paths they should happen to meet and insult each other again. Damn him!
He took a bite of his apple to soothe his distasteful mood and gave the charge of the wheel to Mr. Cotton so that he could approach Sparrow to establish a proper heading. After two days he was getting tired of sailing blind in one direction at the command of another, especially Sparrow. He strode to the bow of the ship where Jack, Mr. Gibbs, and Masters Pintel and Reggetti were involved in lively discussion of some sort… he might have known: Gibbs, with his wide eyes, changing expressions, and poetically rhythmic voice patterns, was telling a story.
"Horses with silver mains and tails racing across the surface of the sea. Large salmon forged from silver. Silver watered fountains of all shapes and sizes, with hues of different colors bounding off all corners of view: that's why it be called the Many-Colored Land."
While holding an identical look of awe as that of Pintel, Reggetti cut across the narrator, "an' gold?"
"Aye…gold…orchards of silver trees with scores of golden apples hangin' there like shining stars in the sky…."
Barbossa startled them, "Apples! Golden ones a' that…a veritable paradise to be sure," he nodded then furrowed his brow, "but did ye tell them Master Gibbs of the sea monsters, an' the hags, an' the giants, an' the elfin demons, an' the territorial earthen gods tha' roam the Land of the Sidh as well… or were ye plannin on savin the best as a surprise?"
Reggetti's newly carved wooden eye, which was to his misfortune slightly too small for him, had popped out when he had started to look stunned. Pintel, who was thoroughly frustrated about his friend's lack of wits about that eye, still took it upon himself to maintain order with it. He immediately scrambled to the ground in search of the renegade. Meanwhile Reggetti took the opportunity to get better acquainted with the Sidh.
"Earthen Gods?" He asked almost not noticing Pintel's clumsy stomp on his own foot as that stout man finally clamored up with the week old and ill fitting eye.
Mr. Gibbs became enthralled in the tale once again. "Yes, well you see (if you believe in such things), for thousands of years the local Irish folk have called them Gods because of their unrivalled power. Each have different skills. Different, but every one as powerfully terrifying as the next. What they truly are, are a race of peoples who have tamed time with deeds done for good, or sometimes bad, of others. They hold ever lasting youth as well as magical power. This fully qualifies them as immortals a' course, but they share one vexing weakness with humans: they can die. Oh, not nearly as easily as we can, no; but if they're faced with a worthy adversary, some one who equals them in wits more importantly than in weaponry or power…"
"Gods in human form ye surely mean," Barbossa sarcastically pointed out.
Pintel, with a worried expression, joined in the discussion for the first time, "An' all of em' are territorially violent against humans?"
"As to that Pintel, 'Yes and No.' There are two groups of said gods: the Formorians and the Tuatha De Danann. Now the Formorians are dark and some times hideously formed beings, and by nature partial to the treacherous wickedness which they were born into, with very few exceptions. One example was the lovely Ethlin, daughter of "Balor of the Evil Eye…"
At this point Reggetti's eye popped out again causing another scramble at his feet, this time involving his participation. Gibbs blinked then continued.
"… and… the hideous…. Ceithlinn of the crooked teeth…"
Reggetti stood with renewed interest, Pintel with annoyed impatience.
"She was a wonder because not only was she extraordinarily beautiful for a Formorian but she was pure of heart as well, and she was destined to bare a son that would one day defeat the awful Balor: her father. So if we meet Formorians, then 'Yes.' Generally speakin they're not the kind a man can negotiate with. Oh, you can try to bargain, but be assured that be a bargain you'll end up the worst for makin.
With the Tuathas its some what different. Generally speakin, they're benevolent gods who often choose to help human subjects through various trials and tribulations. But be warned! They can be just as temperamental and vindictive as the Formorians if they encounter humans that don't readily strike their likin. So… if we meet Tuathas… it depends on their ever changing moods, the appeal we as individuals hold for em, and the series of events which happen to bring us together at the time."
The smiles the term 'benevolent gods' had produced were swiftly wiped from their faces by the end of this long winded speech. Jack interrupted the silence this time with his usual drunken surety.
"Uh… might we be meeting a certain familiar face, namely… Tia Dalma? Cause she would most certainly get along famously with these Tunas, uh, Toethus, or misters, what's their faces?"
Mr. Gibbs shook his head correctively, "No, no, Calypso is of an entirely different group. She is guardian of the mid-rift: the region in an about the equator. But for the reaches to the far north or south there are other rulers of the sea. The Sea God of Irish waters is the Great Manannan. He by the way is said to enjoy going to troubles to be benevolent to all.
"Aye! I suppose tha' be why the Irish seas are so tempestuous." Mr. Gibbs looked confused, but before they could erupt into more discussion he continued, "Enough!" Barbossa had grown tired of going round and round with the same tittle-tattle and wanted to get to the heading. "Sparrow, I'll be wantin to know where's about we're headin exactly."
He produced a map of Northern Europe no-one had noticed was held at his side during the entire conversation. Spreading it out on an over turned crate he motioned them to find seats so they could get to work. Jack, as he sat unceremoniously on the floor and casually leaned on the railing wall, said… "Where we're going mate?… That'd be … Tortuga of course."
Every-one stopped what ever it was they were doing or thinking about and starred. Before Barbossa could give him more than a dagger spiked look with those cold blue eyes upon hearing this statement (which if true would mean that they had been traveling three days in the wrong direction and that Jack had lied about ever setting foot in the land of the Sidh) the speaker continued, "Thee Irish Tortuga," he emphasized with an embellishing forefinger, "which of course isn't Tortuga a'tall, but some cursed Irish name I cant bloody well remember." There was a pause and Jack smiled his sly smile, "I just couldn't resist me hearties."
Gibbs smirked and Barbossa only shook his head with a look of unappreciation before continuing with business, "That be Tory Island, aye?"
"How did you know that?" The look of triumph on Jack's face was replaced by almost fearful bewilderment.
Barbossa smiled roguishly, "Ah Jack, ye may know where lie the location a' the charts, but ye'll never know where Irland truly lies… in the hearts of all her children Irishmen."
He gave a small chuckle at Jack's still bewildered expression before marking an 'X' on the tiny island off the North Western shores of Ireland, inwardly smug that he finally was able to dash a falter in Jack's confident and suave exterior.
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Author's Note: Alright, I realize many people believe Barbossa is of Scottish decent, and some even deny that. Being that I haven't read Rob Kidd's books I cant confirm or deny any of this. I just began writing this piece before I hooked up with , so those of you who like it are going to have to have patience with me and pretend my first impression was right: because Barbossa's nationality is an integral part of the story in this fic. Hope ye liked it: had fun writing it -
