The Blind Betsey's crew had passed Patagonia several weeks ago, navigating round ice floes and spouts of fire that marked the far southern reaches of the continent. They had successfully evaded the giants that lived there, and had only briefly been pulled off-course toward the islands that seemed to be the source of beautiful music (thanks to Elizabeth's command that all men aboard cover their ears). Each day, Tia Dalma scattered various bones and shells across the deck, humming as she examined the shapes they made. Each night, she burnt bits of things of unknown origin that she kept in bags and vials hidden in her voluminous skirts. A handful of strange powder would send green or violet sparks into the clear night sky, and she would watch them with narrowed eyes or cackle gleefully, her mood depending on results Will could not guess at. This evening, Elizabeth sat close by her, not speaking or interfering, but watching closely. Watching, and waiting for news of Jack, Will thought bitterly.
As it had a thousand times already over the course of the journey, Will saw the moment replayed in his mind. Elizabeth leant in toward Sparrow. Their lips met and the pirate captain staggered backwards, just as Gibbs stepped up and blocked Will's view. But he had seen enough; enough to know his fiancée wasn't his after all.
"Awk, Scurvy Dog," squawked Mr. Cotton's parrot as the mute pirate walked past.
Will furrowed his brow in silent agreement. Jack Sparrow had betrayed him, as had Elizabeth. And yet, here he was, on a dangerous voyage to the ends of the earth for them both. In Tia Dalma's hut, still grappling with what he had seen moments before the Pearl had gone down, he had looked toward Elizabeth and seen every emotion he felt in himself etched upon her face. If losing Jack was a tenth as painful to her as losing her was to Will, well… he would journey to world's end to alleviate her suffering.
Still, it wasn't as though he was completely selfless. Will Turner had learnt a thing or two in the company of pirates.
The Black Pearl was the only ship that could chase down the Flying Dutchman, and with it, Will's father. Will grasped the handle of the knife in his pocket. He had sworn an oath. He would see Jones destroyed. He would set Bill Turner free.
Admiral Norrington's fleet of five ships had grown to twelve, following a string of successful battles. They had had to scupper several of the ships they had engaged after relieving them of their goods. Earlier in the day they had come across an unprotected Dutch merchant vessel. As always, the representatives of the East India Trading Company and the Royal Navy fell back and let the crew of the Flying Dutchman do the job. Jones couldn't deny that his crew enjoyed the bloody work, but the Captain himself had retired to his cabin once the battle was won, refusing to take his pick of the survivors. He'd have them ferried over to the Unicorn later in the day, after the crew had a chance to terrorize them for a bit. He felt somehow sullied by the insinuation that he was to compete with the Admiral and the Governor for new recruits.
In the meanwhile, his crew was looking through the loot. Regardless of the rules the representative of the East India Trading Company had set, they had done the work, and they were going to take what they fancied from the conquered ship. Clanker and Hadrus were busy arguing over a case of particularly potent liquor. Koleniko dragged a fine trunk aboard. "This one's from the Captain's cabin," hissed the seaman, the quills on his face puffing out in glee. He took the blade of his serrated sword in his scaly hands, and with its heavy handle, knocked the trunk's lock off. Several members of the crew gathered round to see what the Dutch captain (who had valiantly protected his ship to the end of his life) valued so dearly.
A groan of disappointment came from the men as Koleniko held up a blue and green striped dress, simple, but fine enough for a merchant's wife. Hadrus kicked over the trunk and rifled through the remains – bits of parchment bound with ribbon and sealed with colorful wax, a string of pearls, dried flower petals, a leather-bound book. At his post on the bridge, Davy Jones turned away, tentacles set twitching by the all too familiar contents of the trunk. Hadrus growled and stomped on a small porcelain oval that lay facedown on the deck. It shattered, the gold band around its edge twisting. The sailors looked back to the case of liquor, and restarted their original row.
The vegetation on either side of the river had grown thicker after Jack had left the gates of Hell. Gnarled and stunted trees lined both banks, their black branches hung with thick gray moss that obscured the (undoubtedly) cloudy sky above. The temperature had dropped considerably. Each time he exhaled, Jack's warm breath created a misty haze in front of him, something he thought he had left behind for good upon moving to the Caribbean. Jack's teeth began to chatter as he paddled further down river, and he noticed that the heavily hanging moss began to sparkle with frost. His oar struck something. He looked down in time to see a small chunk of ice slip into the boat's wake. A few moments later, he came upon another. Soon, the river was thick with them, his oar sloshing through almost frozen slush. The barge came creaking to a halt as it hit solid ice. Jack clutched both sides and rocked the boat, but it was stuck fast.
Carefully, he stepped out onto the ice shelf. It groaned with his weight, but didn't move. Jack hopped up and down a bit, rubbing his arms. "It's bloody freezing!" he muttered. Sliding a bit at first, he set off down the river on foot, using the oar as a walking stick.
It wasn't long before he came across his first obstacle. The trees parted suddenly, and the icy river seemed to rise up into a fortress of jagged crystals. It took a moment to recognize it as a waterfall, instantly frozen, with icicles of all sizes growing upward as well as down. Jack slid the oar through one of his belts, found a foothold, and boosted himself up. His rings and the bandage on his right hand provided enough traction to keep from sliding down the icy stalagmite. He hopped to a higher bit of ice, balancing gingerly. It was slow going, and his fingers were numb and turning blue at the tips, but finally, he threw an arm over the top and hoisted himself up. Wiping his freezing hands on his sash, he took in the sight before him.
All up and down the river were ships, in various states of wreckage. Some were half submerged in the ice, peering above the surface like dark sea monsters. Others were mostly intact, with an odd timber or mast poking out, silhouetted against the pale gray sky. Sheets of ice reared up, eternally impeding their progress, yet the hull of each ship creaked and moaned under the surface as if it desired nothing more than to break loose and go plunging down the waterfall to certain doom.
"My…" breathed Jack, starting off toward the nearest.
The ship was listing portside, but otherwise undamaged. Dark shapes moved up and down its deck, rushing as though they were depended upon to stop the ship from running down river to a horrible fate.
"Hello!" Jack cried out, "Hello, up there! Could you give me directions? Seem to have lost me way."
No one even glanced in his direction.
"Ship's not going anywhere!" he shouted, kicking its side. Again, there was no answer from the crew. Jack frowned with disappointment, and limped round the vessel until he found a gash in the hull. He stepped into the dark hold. The stench of long spoiled food greeted his nostrils. Making a face, he hurried through and climbed the stairs. The next level, full of swaying hammocks covered in cobwebs, seemed abandoned as well. He made his way up to the deck. A dark figure nearly bowled him over, running from port to starboard. Another headed toward him. Jack stuck out a hand.
"Oi! Mate, I need direc– "
But the dead sailor hurried past. Jack wandered up to the bow of the ship, and looked out over the waterfall. He had a sudden sensation, as though the water was spinning them round, rushing them to the edge. He closed his eyes and shook his head, and the feeling went away. He turned around just in time to recognize a member of the crew hurrying past him. Jack skipped to keep up, hopping in front of the man. He placed his hands on the man's arms to stop him, and cocking his head, looked him straight in the eye.
"You told me once that I knew nothing of hell. So… s'it really as bad as they say?"
Koehler looked at him with blank eyes. The pirate's dark skin was frosted over, and icicles hung from his dreadlocks. The wound in the middle of his chest, a product of Norrington's well-placed blade, was stark white round the edges. When he spoke, no puff of warm air emerged from between his blue lips.
"Those who don't pay the ferryman are doomed to wander the banks of the Cocytus for one-hundred years. But that's nothing compared to an eternity spent in the deepest circle of Hell, reserved for betrayers and mutineers."
"Glad to see you took my words to heart. But how can this be the deepest circle of Hell if I haven't yet entered the gates?" Jack pointed out.
Koehler opened his mouth to answer, but just then, a dark shadow blotted out all light from the pale gray sky. There was an icy rush of wind, as though giant wings had flapped. Everyone aboard shuddered as the thing passed.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Jack asked from a crouch, dark-rimmed eyes surveying the sky.
"Our Captain," replied Koehler. He turned to face Jack.
"Do not ask me how this can be. Hell has its own rules. You'd better pay up, Jack Sparrow, or find a way to escape before you're found."
The flags had been sent up, and a long boat set across to transport the Admiral to Beckett's ship. Norrington pulled himself up through the gap in the bulwark and strode across the deck of the Endeavour to the Governor's quarters.
A skinny boy of about fifteen was scrubbing the deck by the door. Norrington frowned. The rest of the crew assigned to swab the decks had moved on. The boy's nose was terribly sunburnt, a mark of a good four months on a first sea voyage for a pale English lad. The older the recruit, the slower they seemed to learn. "You there," Norrington called out in annoyance, "get on with it." He gestured toward the others. The sunburnt boy looked at him in terror, and scuttled off to join them. Norrington stepped across the well-polished threshold and knocked on Beckett's door.
Beckett was bent over a large map, Davy Jones by his side. Beckett did not look up as Norrington entered, but Jones watched him intently as he made his way into the cabin.
"One hundred and seventy three degrees west, fast approaching the Tropic of Capricorn… by these calculations, we should hit Tasman's archipelago where we can restock in three days time. Does that sound correct, Admiral?"
Norrington stepped over to look at the map.
"Perhaps two, if the winds remain favorable, and we fail to run into any unmarked obstacles."
At this, Norrington could have sworn Jones's beard of tentacles had twitched slightly, but the Captain met his eye with a mild glance. It was difficult to decide who was more untrustworthy – the supernatural sea life or the East India Trading Company. While Beckett might one day greet one with a sword through the back, Norrington suspected Davy Jones could plan a far worse fate with considerably less effort. A simple change in course could find the whole fleet wrecked on a reef, awaiting a visit from the Kraken. Which was precisely why Beckett kept Jones's heart locked safely away in its trunk, and the key upon him at all times. Leverage, as past acquaintances might have said.
As though the Captain could read Norrington's thoughts, Jones stepped away from the table. "If you gentlemen will no longer be requiring my assistance, I will return ta' the Dutchman."
Beckett nodded, not bothering to look up from the map before him. Norrington noted the way Jones's eyes swept across the room as he turned to leave. Once Jones found the location of his heart, all he'd have to do was bide his time. A midnight mutiny or a disaster at sea, and he could slip in and reclaim it for his own. This time he could bury it safe in the knowledge that Jack Sparrow and his wondrous compass would not be able to hunt it down. And yet, out of all the former crew of the Black Pearl, Sparrow was the one Norrington would be least surprised to see strolling through Tortuga with a smile on his face, or meet sailing into a foreign port. He finally had to admit, the pirate was the stuff of legend.
The door swung shut behind Jones, a trail of water left where his peg leg had dragged across the floor. A nasal voice made Norrington snap back to attention.
"Admiral, I would like you to stay for a moment so we can discuss what the arrangement will be when we reach shore." Beckett's eyes were fixed on the lower left corner of the map. His hand slid from the compass rose to the edge of the parchment, caressing it in an almost loving manner. Not for the first time, Norrington felt a wave of revulsion toward the man.
A cloud passed over the face of the moon as Davy Jones walked across the deck of the Endeavour. A sailor on watch crossed himself as the Captain crossed his path. Jones paid him no mind. He had yet to discover where Beckett was keeping his heart. Jones felt sure it had to be in the Governor's quarters, but it was difficult to say where. At times, he thought he felt an odd tug toward one corner of the room or another, but it had been such a very long time since he had been closely acquainted with the organ. The first hundred years had been difficult to bear, the constant pull almost as steady a point of reference as a compass. But as time passed, the feeling had lessened, and the Captain of the Flying Dutchman had slowly turned into the creature he was today. Which had many advantages…
Davy Jones shut his eyes, and with great effort, lifted his foot aboard the Endeavour and set it down upon the deck of the silent Dutchman. The bo'sun nodded to him from the wheel, then returned his gaze to the dark horizon. As Jones nodded back, his crab-like peg leg hit something and sent it skittering across the deck. He looked down at the object. It was a bit of the porcelain Hadrus had smashed earlier. Now it lay face up in a shallow puddle, glowing in the moonlight. Seawater washed gently over half of a woman's painted face. She stared up at Jones – a face with an intelligent, gentle smile, and one beautiful dark eye. He reached down, his tentacles grasping the fragment and bringing it up to his watery blue eyes for a moment before they wrapped round it entirely, depositing it in his pocket. Once inside his cabin, he sat down at the pipe organ. As he pulled out the stops, a stray tentacle fished the piece of the portrait out and set it gently next to the small silver music box that lay to one side. The slight nudge set the music box tinkling, a few sad notes managing to escape before Jones laid into the keys, and the entire ship echoed with the sounds of a powerful and lonely dirge.