"Everything starts somewhere, although many physicists disagree.
There is the constant desire to find out where — where is the point where it all began. …
But most people forgot that the very oldest stories of the beginning are sooner or later about blood."
— Terry Pratchett, "Hogfather"

"That's some kind of Zen, isn't it?"
— The Fool, "Wyrd Sisters"

CHAPTER 7: THE TALE OF ONE-EYED JACK AND THE WHITE SWAN

On the Discworld, which is balanced on the backs of four great elephants standing on the shell of a giant turtle, there exists a place in the high Ramtops Mountains where the universe is thin. Not thin like an old blanket or a sheet of paper — this is an existential thinness, like the boundary between two rooms that exists in the space of an open door. And like an open door, things can pass in and out unnoticed if the boundary isn't tended.

Because these things come in twos, there is another such gateway on the Discworld, equal to and opposite the first. So above, so below, that kind of thing.

In the furthest deeps of the Rim Ocean, there is a shallow circular trench ringed, impossibly, by eight squat little stones. No current disturbs the fine dark sand within the circle. Not even the slippery nightmare creatures that live in eternal darkness will swim through that patch of water.

It's hard to imagine how any humans could know about this place, so far down in the lightless depths of the sea. But a few carry the knowledge of its existence — and with that knowledge, a duty. A duty born in the bones, as it were, passed down through stories told since the first sailor stepped foot in a boat.

The stories said, "Aye, mate. Here there be monsters."

So you tended the boundary. You didn't go off on a sea voyage without first spilling some wine on the deck. You didn't step on a boat with your left foot first. You always kept a silver coin tucked under the masthead, and you never killed dolphins, or gulls, or an albatross. You didn't throw rocks into the sea from the ship's deck, and you let your hair grow long until you reached port. And you never, never, never said the "D" word.

And when you came across a great pale ship, with snow-white sails and a masthead carved into the shape of wings, you called every man on deck and stood in salute until she passed by. And if, in a seaside tavern, you came across a golden-haired man with one glass eye the color of a stormy sea, you gave him a quiet nod and bought him a drink. For even the blackest-hearted scallywag knew of One-Eyed Jack and his ship, the White Swan.

Some said the Weather Eye was naught but an ordinary scrying stone, like those used by witches and wizards to have a peek about. Less mundane minds believed it was one of the countless eyes of Blind Io, dropped to earth from Dunmanifestin as a gift to seagoing men everywhere. Those of a more whimsical persuasion said the Eye was spat up by a magic fish, who was capable of granting wishes, yet couldn't evade a common tuna net.

The white-bearded salt dogs, the grizzled grandfathers of the sea, told another story. They said it was the dwarfs who had originally found the Eye, deep underground, where great rivers run like blood through the living rock of the Disc. The dwarfs had believed the Eye was the heart-stone of the Fifth Elephant, whose body had created their holy mountains, and they had revered the stone and kept it safe.

Then came the fateful day when someone fell asleep on the job and the Eye was stolen — by a human, no less, who hearing of the dwarfs' great treasure had somehow navigated into the heart of the mountain by boat, on one of the great underground rivers, and back out again the same way.

(It's worth noting that dwarfs to this day hate water, as if by genetic memory, and would sooner cut off their beards than travel on the open ocean. It is also not by coincidence that the dwarfish word meaning "treacherous," h'ntr'lstga, can be literally translated to mean "watery.")

But all of these stories converge at this point — the first man to acquire the holy seafaring artifact known as the Weather Eye. His name had been Jack, a strapping young lad with curly, golden hair. Jack loved to drink and sing and travel, and so stole the hearts of women everywhere. He was also a thief of other things, particularly anything that wasn't nailed down.

Jack had only one eye (narrative conventions must start somewhere). To keep his new-found treasure safe, Jack had shoved the Weather Eye into the empty socket beneath his eyepatch, only to discover that he was looking out onto a very different world than the one he had occupied previously.

And then Jack and his new Eye had gone, bold as you please, and stolen the finest ship in the world. It had belonged to the King of Ankh. The ship's name was the White Swan, and she was a thing of great beauty. She had been built from enchanted cedarwood as silvery and pale as the moon, with ivory fittings and bone-white sails, and had a masthead carved into outstretched wings.

And on those wings flew One-Eyed Jack, across the ocean and into history. The first pirate.

With the Weather Eye, it was said, Jack could control storms and read the hearts of men. He see a whisper in the wind and land in a fog, and could (very usefully) spot any well-fortified trading vessel ten miles off. The White Swan was never scuttled or sunk — and this was notable, for it was not uncommon in those days for ships to leave port and never be seen again. Even the most seasoned seafarer wouldn't sail far from dry land, and it was generally agreed that beyond the Circle Sea awaited Certain Death.

But everything changed when the White Swan took flight. Jack might have been the first pirate, but he wasn't the last, for a true rogue anywhere recognizes a good business plan when he sees it. At first, it was said that no ship flying pirate colors or carrying stolen gold could be taken down so long as Jack and his magic Eye sailed the open sea. Then, realizing that the pirate vessels had traveled off the map and returned no worse for wear, the crews of the merchant traders and battleships also grew bolder.

Within a score of years, humanity had undergone a significant evolutionary leap in the travel and commerce departments. Within a few short decades, ships and boats and cogs of all descriptions crisscrossed every inch of the ocean, like a great troupe of worker ants.

During his travels, Jack fell in love for one night, and the next morning swore to his bonny Genuan lass to return when he'd made his fortune. When the White Swan sailed back into Genua a year later, his lass was waiting, holding a baby boy with Jack's curly blond hair and and an empty, black socket where one eye should have been. She met him at the dock, where she handed him the sleeping child.

"I named him Jack," she said, and walked wordlessly back up the dock and out of sight.

And so Young Jack grew up on the White Swan. Few little boys get the chance to be raised by pirates,* and this fortunate lad took full advantage of the situation. He learned to walk on the rolling deck and cut his teeth on oars, and his first words were so blue and blasphemous that the ship's old cook almost fell overboard for laughing. He learned more languages and visited more countries around the Disc by age six than most men do in their lives, and in every port was doted on and shamelessly spoiled by countless barmaids and merchant's wives.

*Which proves conclusively that there is no such thing as a magic fish that grants wishes, or at least the wishes of little boys.

In time, Young Jack grew strong and tall and clever, nurtured by hard work, generous rations, plenty of fresh salt air and the watchful Eye of his father. Young Jack could ready a ship to sail in under an hour, commandeer a merchant vessel without breaking a sweat, and best any swordsman on the Disc both left- and right-handed. The sight of his well-muscled figure climbing up the ship's rigging with a knife in his teeth could make even the most cold-hearted old crone go weak in the knees.

But as Young Jack grew into a man, his father grew old, as all men must do. Old One-Eyed Jack's golden hair grew white and his clever hands grew gnarled, and the wrinkles deepened on his weather-lined face. His mismatched eyes were always sharp, though, and no man who ever took a ship's wheel could ever outsail the White Swan.

Late one night, in a seaside tavern in Genua, Old Jack and Young Jack were sharing a quiet drink in the corner. It was an annual tradition, a celebration in honor of Young Jack's birthday. The last of the admiring young women had finally wandered away before the elder pirate cleared his throat and turned to his son.

"You know, m'boy, you was born here," said One-Eyed Jack, waving his mug expansively to indicate both the tavern and the city outside. "I met your mother in this very bar, I did. A beautiful lass, with freckles and fiery hair like the sky after a storm."

Young Jack raised an eyebrow in surprise, then nodded. The other sailors on the White Swan had told him of his origins, although his father had never spoken of it — even when Young Jack had asked.

"I done a-many great things, son," and here the old sailor chuckled, "but none so great, I think, as all them stories as carry m'name. A man with a legend so big starts to feel a bit small, in the end, when his knees complain on cold mornings."

There was a brief silence.

"There will never been a man as great as you, Dad," said Young Jack fiercely, after some thought. His love for his father was as deep as the sea. Now, as he watched the grizzled old face gazing reflectively back through the years, Young Jack would have given anything for just a few years more.

"Aye, but I ain't got much left to give you," said old One-Eyed Jack, as if reading his son's mind. Perhaps he had. "Just a name and a ship, fine as she is. And one other thing, of course. A legend so big as One Eyed-Jack can't die with an old pirate."

With that, there was a soft "pop." Young Jack looked up sharply and gasped. His father winked at him, his eyelid opening onto empty blackness. He rolled the Eye carefully in one scarred, outstretched palm.

"Ye know, I got this thing when I was your age," said One-Eyed Jack. "Twenty-nine years old. You feel old now, m'boy — I know I did, at your age. Felt like I'd seen and done it all. But let me tell you, twenty-nine ain't even the beginning. Or maybe it is. The beginning of the real adventure."

He reached out and gently tugged the eyepatch off his son's gaping face. He gave a grotesque wink again before lowering the patch carefully over his own empty socket, then grasped Young Jack's hand and firmly tucked the Weather Eye into his palm.

"Call it a birthday present," said Old Jack, grinning roguishly. He gave Young Jack a deep, searching look, and for a moment father and son sat locked eye-to-eye.

"Dad —"

Old Jack shook his head, and his grin faded. "Keep her safe," he said.

Young Jack fought back tears. "The White Swan?"

"Her, and every sea she sails on. They need you," said the old man softly, and walked out of the tavern and into the night.

The next morning, the White Swan set sail from Genua, with One-Eyed Jack at the helm. He was a strapping pirate with curly golden hair and a magical Eye, guiding a great pale ship with snow-white sails and a masthead carved into the shape of wings.


Editor's note: Finally, a new chapter! Your kind reviews have persuaded me to continue on with this beast. I like to think that this is the midpoint in the story. Readers can anticipate a big time jump in future chapters, as the story picks itself back up in Ankh-Morpork in what might be loosely-termed "present day" on the Discworld timeline. I know that this chapter really sends things WAY off the rails, so bear with me while I pick up the pieces and weave them together, as best I can, with Discworld canon. Onward!