Second-to-last chapter ahead! I'd like to thank the seven people who reviewed- NazgulQueen, Gothicdementor189, soupkitchen, Abydell, Smithy, Gravitea, and Sierra Janeway. You made my weekend!
Just to let you know, there are little to no funny bits in this chapter. This is among the most dramatic things I've written, but hopefully it isn't too bad. Here is the Third Spirit.
Thump. Scrape. Thump. Scrape.
The ominous sound of the phantom's "footsteps" chilled Norrington to the marrow; he drew ever closer, the thump scrapings echoing across the stones. As the tall, broad figure stepped into a patch of moonlight, Norrington saw who it was, and his knees buckled and quaked at the sight of him.
"You," said the deep, Scottish-accented voice, "have a debt to pay."
"Do I?" asked Norrington, his voice fainter than a whisper. He cleared his throat, ashamed of himself for being so scared, but he could not help it. "Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?"
"Aye," rumbled Davy Jones. He then started marching toward Norrington, driving him back farther and farther, the captain's giant crab-claw swinging. "Ye've been Commodore for seventeen years, and ye have not been living up to it!" This was followed by a rather odd-sounding snort; but Davy Jones is known to make weird sounds.
"Actually, it was only fifteen years, thanks to Jack Sparrow."
"Don't speak that name!" Davy's blue eyes blazed.
"S-sure. Fine with me," stammered Norrington, the little puff-ball on the end of his night-cap jiggling.
Davy tossed his head, so that his beard's tentacles bounced. "Let's be on our way-ah." He sniffed and stalked off, a trembling Norrington in his wake.
The usual neat, orderly streets of Port Royal seemed to have been covered with a spiderweb of disarray, the bricks pale, chipped, and mould-covered. Only a few people jostled about, heads ducked down, not glancing up for anything or anyone. Jones stopped and pointed with his claw toward two men skulking around near a shop. When Norrington peered closer he saw that it was Groves and Gillette. His ears strained to hear what they were saying.
"Passed in the night, he did," said Groves solemnly, a sad look on his face.
"Aye, but he did." Gillette looked over at a house across the street. "What did he do with all his money?"
"I don't know," replied Groves, "but even if there is a lot left, his funeral won't be too grand. I doubt many would take it out of their time to attend, though I shall. Will you?"
"Only if there's lunch," said Gillette, laughing, Groves only smiling weakly in reply, and then started talking of other matters unimportant to Norrington.
"Who are they talking about?" he asked Davy.
The claw only pointed straight ahead with a glare from its owner. Norrington walked on, right to his mansion.
Suddenly the oaken doors flew open, and out came two women, their arms loaded with bundles and bags. It was Giselle and Scarlet, Jack Sparrow's wenches.
"Jackpot!" cried Giselle triumphantly. Scarlet laughed wildly.
"We'll make good use of this!" she cackled. "Thank you, old bugger! Rest easy in the grave! We send our love!" Then, with shrilled chortles, they sped off to who knows where.
Norrington, trembling, looked back at Davy. "How come… my future self isn't doing anything?"
"He doesna know," replied Davy. "He can do nothing. Come! We must travel elsewhere." He stalked off, in the direction, Norrington noticed with dread, of the Turner house.
The little brown house was perched in its normal spot, same as last time, but Norrington couldn't help feeling there was a shadow over the place, as if something awful had happened. He stopped at the edge of the path, suddenly reluctant to step any further.
But Davy pointed ahead with his crab hand, and Norrington inched closer, bracing himself for what was ahead, whatever it was. He pressed his face against the glass of the window as he had done with Barbossa; Davy watched on, his eyes like ice.
Elizabeth Turner was seated at the table, but there was nothing on it but a plate of meagre biscuits, which the now-older Turner children were munching half-heartedly. Her normally fiery eyes were dull, and there were dark circles underneath them. She ate nothing, did nothing, just stared straight out the window at the grey sky; she couldn't see Norrington nor the Flying Dutchman captain.
Something was wrong; Norrington felt it jarring up against his bones. What had happened to make Elizabeth so gaunt, and the children so thin? The children… Lucy was swinging a foot softly as she chewed on a biscuit; Margaret was crushing hers to a pile of crumbs, not even bothering to eat it; and Colin was staring at everyone worriedly, only taking small nibbles of his cookie. And then Norrington realized; Little Jack was not present, nor was Will.
But then the front door opened, and Norrington felt sure it would be Will, with the youngest Turner aboard his shoulders. But no; no child was with Will as he trudged inside, head down, rubbing his hand across his face before straightening and joining the rest of his family. He locked eyes with Colin for a moment, and nodded slightly at the young man; he then stepped up to Elizabeth in her chair and rested one of his hands on her thin shoulder. A hand fluttered up to rest upon his.
Norrington was shocked; what had happened to the naïve blacksmith apprentice and headstrong governor's daughter he had known so well? They seemed an age older, a world weaker, and a universe sadder; it was as if they had swam through an ocean of despair and anguish, wearing them down, dark waves engulfing them, drowning them; they seemed to be two different people. Will was a trifle thinner, not that he had been heavy in another time, and his handsome features were worn and tired, his mouth a thin line of sadness; and Elizabeth, brought up in a stately way of life, learning posture and propriety… all that seemed to be drained out of her- she slumped in the chair, not a trace of her noble upbringing alongside her.
Something was very wrong indeed.
"I-it's Sunday," said Will, his voice cracking. Elizabeth looked up at him and nodded glumly; Will gave her shoulder a squeeze. "It's going to happen on Sunday."
Little Jack…
"It's a beautiful place," continued Will softly. "When you… stand beside it, you can see the ocean- just as he would have wanted." His voice faded away into the cheerless air.
Will then collapsed into the chair beside Elizabeth, his hands supporting his face. He caught the eyes of the kids and smiled half-heartedly at them; Colin and Lucy returned it, but Margaret didn't even glance up, just continued to hammer the remaining crumbles of the biscuit.
Will turned to the empty chair beside him, and absentmindedly stroked it, whispering something under his breath that Norrington couldn't make out. With a pang of grief, Norrington realized that a small, wooden crutch was laid upon it: Little Jack's walking stick, which he had carried with him, the tool that had helped him to walk.
"Does Uncle Jack know, Dad?" asked Lucy tentatively.
At this both Will and Elizabeth looked up sharply. Elizabeth closed her eyes and said, "It might be a while before Uncle Jack knows about anything, darling." She and Will exchanged a look that only Colin and Norrington caught.
Just then the dumpy form of Mrs Tuck bustled in the room, asking Lucy if she would like to help her make tea. The little girl stood up and went into the kitchen with the old cook. Mrs Tuck, to Norrington, looked none the worse for wear; she seemed to be there to help the Turners pull through, in her warm, motherly manner- and distracting Lucy seemed to be the best thing to do, because as soon as the lass disappeared into the kitchen, Colin leaned forward, his eyes dark and searching.
"Where is Jack?" he asked his parents. Margaret looked up.
Will drew in a shaky breath. "Colin… Margaret… the new commodore-"
Margaret cut him off. "You mean Mr Spelford?"
"Yes," continued Will. "Well, a few months ago, he said…"
"…He said he would do anything to weed out any pirates or piracy left in the New World," said Elizabeth, "especially Jack Sparrow."
"So, Spelford sent off various ships, all sent after the Pearl," said Will. "The Black Pearl is the only pirate threat left in the Caribbean. It's very likely that… he succeeded."
"What?"
"You mean," ventured Colin, "that he got Jack?" His eyes were large and sorrowful.
Elizabeth closed her eyes. "It's very likely, Colin; we have to wait until they return."
Margaret was seething. "I bet that Spelford was just waiting for Norrington to leave so that he could become Commodore and do this! And I thought Norrington was bad enough!"
Norrington felt his heart throbbing in his chest. Just waiting for Norrington to leave… So he wasn't Commodore, at least not in this time… but then where was he?
Everything was gone, Norrington realized; Jack Sparrow, taken out by a new government official; Little Jack- poor, poor, Little Jack, gone… Norrington felt his heart wrenching, and for a moment, tears started to prick at his eyelids… that little boy…
And, of course, he himself was gone. But where? What was the connection with all this?
"So the little lad is dead," rumbled Davy Jones, "and presumably Jack Sparrow." He spat the name like it was a curse word. "They did name the boy after him; in fact, he also happened to bear your name as well, Norrington."
"My name?"
"Aye; his full name was Jack James Turner. Didna ye know?"
Norrington only shook his head in reply, feeling worse than ever. The Turners had slipped his name into one of their children, after all the hell he had put them through; he hadn't done anything to help this child, nothing- he'd never paid Will nearly enough for working for him, that was why they couldn't afford a doctor, that was why Little Jack was dead. Norrington felt the guilt thundering down upon him like a storm, surrounding him; he wanted nothing more than to curl up and wail.
"Come," said Davy. "We're gonnae go to one place more." He marched off, but Norrington didn't follow. He just stood there, staring sadly into the window, seeing the family he had ruined. He sighed, feeling a tear course down his cheek, and then softly touched the window.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he turned slowly and trailed behind Davy, his head hanging.
Only when the drags and clunks of Davy's walk stopped did he look up again, and he froze, staring rigidly at the place where the captain had stopped. Black iron gates stretched up to the sky, which had changed from an afternoon grey to the black of midnight. Beyond the gate was a sea of dried grass and raised stones; a graveyard.
With a massive burst of energy, Norrington willed his slippers to step forward, to see what Davy wanted him to see. He inched closer and closer, between the twisting gates; closer and closer, through the headstones; closer and closer, through the dead, to where Davy was pointing with his claw, to one grave.
Norrington stopped suddenly, afraid to peer around the other side of the marble. "What is beyond this?' he cried, half to Davy, half to himself.
Davy jutted his claw forward without a word.
And Norrington stepped forward.
There, on the gray stone of the marker, with words as black as the sky above, were the words JAMES NORRINGTON.
"NO!" Norrington felt as through a bolt of lightening had ripped through him, shattering him, tearing him open to the heavens. He collapsed to his knees, landing upon the very ground that concealed his remains. "No, no, please, no!" he moaned, writhing on the snow.
"Davy Jones!" he cried in a voice full of anguish, "please, Captain!" Huddled in a mound, he looked at Davy, who was looming above him, his expression unreadable. "This is not me! I am a different man than I was! I can change! Please, let me go back!"
"There is nothing to be done," said Davy, "unless you choose to do so."
"I will cherish Christmas!" he sobbed, clutching at Davy's barnacle-encrusted coat. "I will keep it in my heart, for then and all year! Oh, Davy Jones, please do not take me to your Locker yet! I will heed these lessons, I will! I will change!"
Everything then started slipping away; the dark visions before him melded together into a dizzying array; he could take heed of nothing, do nothing; he was flying through the air, plummeting through a thousand winds; he was twisting and turning through an endless tunnel, the images of dark, threatening ghosts of all his bad deeds screaming in his ear…
Norrington, his last frays of consciousness slipping away in the miasma, opened his new eyes and saw the flapping of a cloak, blacker than the darkest night, flickering before his face, like a spectre. A fragment in his mind told him it was the curtains of his four-poster bed before complete oblivion took control of him, and he dissolved into nothingness.
Poor Norrington… If all goes well, I should have the next chapter up by Christmas, or maybe before that if I get too antsy. Reviews are welcome!
