A/N: Oh, look - a new chapter - and it didn´t even take me five months this time!
Seriously, though, thank you to all you kind people who have liked this story so far - and I hope that I will not disappoint you too much with this latest chapter...
Chapter 8. – A small matter of articles, or Monkey business
It is, of course, ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.
I am – no matter what word Sparrow chooses to apply – a captive aboard The Black Pearl. So why should I have any reason whatsoever to feel like I am being lazy? It makes no sense. And yet, as the days pass and it begins to once again feel like this sea and this ship is all the world there is and ever has been, I slowly begin to feel exactly that.
Of course, it does not help that my days are spent lounging in the sun, trying to read some book or other from Jack´s sea chest. All too often my concentration fails me and I end up watching the crew at their work – as busy as any ship´s crew anywhere can be.
Part of the problem is, of course, that since the first time I set foot on a Navy ship as little more than a boy I have not tried to be a mere passenger. And so, now that I have finally found myself in a position of having absolutely no work or responsibility, I feel terribly, sinfully slothful – and illogically guilty about it.
The fact that the entire crew has somehow come to the decision that the best way of dealing with me is to quite simply ignore me altogether is not particularly uplifting either. I suppose that the lack of death threats and hostile glances ought to come as a relief, but the cold indifference only adds to my feeling of isolation and guilt.
Sometimes the need for simply talking with another human being drives me to seek out Jack - who I sincerely doubt will ever as much as consider not talking to anybody – just to alleviate the need a bit. But often he is to be found at the helm, guiding his ship on her course, and as per our agreement I cannot approach him there.
Not that anybody else is allowed near him at the helm either – in fact, I have the distinct impression that wherever we are headed is as great a mystery to the other pirates as it is to me. Sparrow handles any course change in splendid isolation, only letting Anamaria or Mr. Cotton take over at the helm when none such are needed – or that is, at least, my impression.
Sometimes I try to figure out where we are – and more importantly where we are going. I will summon up a map of the region inside my mind and try to calculate where on it we must be. My best guess always puts us in the middle of nowhere, but then, my guesses are made more difficult by the fact that all I have to go on is a very rough estimate of the speed of the Pearl (since measuring it regularly does not seem to be considered part of the normal routine aboard), the number of days since we set sail from Tortuga and the fact that we, judging by the sun, are moving in a somewhat northerly direction, though I would need a compass to say with any certainty.
But even with all of my reservations I still manage to conclude that we are in the middle of nothing but sea and sea and then some sea – an impression confirmed by what my eyes tell me, even from the crow´s nest. But then, Sparrow did claim that we are headed for yet another 'island that cannot be found´ - I suppose it would be foolish to expect such a place to show up on any ordinary map. The Isle of the Dead was certainly not on any chart I have ever seen.
And when I am not trying to read or musing over our mystery destination, I find myself thinking about Jack Sparrow.
"How´s it going, Commodore James?" the object of speculation will occasionally interrupt me, pausing on his sashaying way to or fro. But a ship´s captain is ever busy and he rarely has time for more than a few brief remarks before being called away – to check on the course or oversee the adjustment of a sail or sort out some minor squabble between some of his men (and quite often his woman).
Lonely my days may be, but never my evenings, never my nights. When time comes for dinner Jack will without fail join me in his cabin. Somehow we manage to settle into a kind of routine.
Jack will arrive at the cabin shortly after darkness falls, bringing with him whatever the day´s evening meal consists of. At this point I will join him there – unless I have already retired to the cabin as is often the case – and the meal will be passed making polite conversation. He will tell his tall tales and in between, we will speak of other, hopefully neutral subjects – be it the weather or – as happens at least once – a surprisingly lively argument over the best way to arrange the sails of a ship or some similar subject of pure, mutual professional interest. Though one time I find that I have somehow managed to move from an exchange about what the most favourable route is for crossing the Atlantic to telling about the first time I met Eliza – Miss Swann, how lovely she already was back then, how you could see in her all the latent traits that would later be fully developed in the grown woman.
As soon as I realize what I am saying I stop talking – clam up, actually, and well enough to outdo any oyster. At least Sparrow does not try to make me say any more about the subject – he was probably bored by it anyway.
Once our plates are empty or the conversation has grown uncomfortable, we will move to the bed and make ourselves comfortable in opposite ends of it, and then Jack will read to me. Shakespeare and Marlowe and others while away our evenings until sleep comes to claim us. Every night I find myself surprised anew at exactly how wide-ranging Jack´s selection of voices for the characters of the plays are. Whether it be doomed Faustus, brutish Caliban or fair Juliet, he always seem to have the perfect voice for the part.
I cannot fathom why Sparrow bothers to read to me, cannot see what is in it for him, but for my own part I find myself enjoying this part of the day so much that I will occasionally catch myself looking forward to the moment when Jack will put down his mug of rum and go dig out the evening´s entertainment from his sea chest. I imagine it must mainly be because the whole situation reminds me of my childhood, long years before I grew used to breathing salty air, that I enjoy it so.
Still, it is with some regret that I see it change nearly a week out from Tortuga. One day Sparrow selects a book in French – earlier in the day his usual greeting is on one occasion replaced with "Ça va, mon cher James?" to which I reply "Ça va bien, Capitaine Moineau, merci." He just grins and leaves before I have a chance to realize what we both just said – I just shake my head and dismiss the whole thing as yet another one of his many eccentricities.
But that evening I find myself listening to Jack´s fluid French – his skill with the language does not really surprise me. After all, he seems to possess so many other talents – why should a fairly ordinary language be considered remarkable?
Alas, the actual choice of book is less fortunate than usual – out of all the intriguing possibilities Sparrow has settled for a story about a man who flies to the moon. It is at once quite ridiculous, somewhat thought-provoking and slightly improper, but I am simply not in the mood for that sort of tale. Perhaps Jack senses this, for he mixes the reading with brief anecdotes about the author – a Frenchman whose pen was as mighty as his sword, and the only thing mightier than either was, alas, his nose. These briefer tales he also interrupts regularly to make a number of short and not entirely polite remarks about the French in general (a number of which leaves me wondering whether he might imagine that French women have certain rare abilities usually only attributed to one particular biblical lady – or maybe he simply believes that the French men are as horned as Scottish highland cattle).
But despite of all of Sparrow´s tale-spinning, I still find my mind wandering.
The sound of a book being slammed shut makes me look up – straight into Jack´s eyes.
"You´re bored." More statement than accusation and not the least bit upset, strangely enough.
"I must confess I find your choice for the evening less – riveting than usual."
"Is that so? Well, maybe I´m growing tired of reading to ye all the time? Maybe I´m not so good at picking a good book any longer?" and he cocks his head, regarding me calmly – I wonder if this is going to be the end of our pleasant evenings – "Or mayhaps ol´ Jack just thinks 'tis your turn to read to him, eh?"
Well, I suppose I should have expected that Sparrow would eventually grow bored with the monotony of it – and truth be told it is hardly an unreasonable demand. "Very well, then."
"Eh?"
"Very well, then, I will read to you, if that is what you want – as long as you find another book."
I see Jack smiling in something that might be triumph, but I do not overtly mind – after all, I have my own tiny triumph to savour: it is – sadly – not every day that I have to clarify myself to him.
"Still trust ol´ Jack´s taste, do ye?"
"You are the only one who knows what might be buried in that chest of your´s – and I expect the change in circumstances will have a beneficial effect on your skill at literary selection."
My reply simply makes his grin widen before he gets up and walks to the library sea chest. Barely a minute later he returns carrying an uncommonly thick book, which is promptly dropped in my lap, whereupon he makes himself comfortable once again.
I take a brief moment to steel myself, to take a deep breath and send up a prayer to whatever friendly deity might be bothered to listen to the effect that I sincerely hope that Sparrow has not chosen some – improper book for the sheer, perverse pleasure of making me read it. The unmarked leather cover offers no clue as to the nature of the material found within.
I open the book and turn to the first page – eventually. Then I blink and look again. Choosing a couple of pages at random I look at them too, then eventually up at my host.
"Sparrow, this book is in Spanish."
"Aye, Commodore James – knew I couldn´t keep that from you, smart fellow that you are." His smile is lazy and he still looks remarkably like a small boy about to have a story read to him.
"Sparrow, I cannot read Spanish." Confessing this to a man who probably can – why else would he have a book in the bloody language? – is highly embarrassing, especially since it is this particular man, and earlier – much earlier – I thought him a fool.
"What d´you mean, you can´t read Spanish?" He has straightened and is now leaning in to peer at my face.
"I mean that I cannot read Spanish, so I suggest you find another book," and I hope that will be enough to divert Sparrow´s attention – alas, no such luck.
"But you´re the Commodore! You´re the boss of half the British Navy in the Caribbean, mate!" I hear the incredulity in his voice.
"Glad you noticed."
"But how can you manage without Spanish, Commodore James? I mean, there´s a reason why they call it the Spanish Main, you know?" Of course the embarrassing thing is that the scallywag has a point.
"Interpreters, Sparrow, when the business is official. And usually some of my subordinates have a sufficient grasp of the language to allow me to make do if the need arises."
Sparrow is still looking at me as though he cannot believe his own ears – I am strongly tempted to shout at him, something to the effect that we cannot all be polyglot pirates. Besides, I know several tongues – French, Dutch, a little Latin – what does it matter that this particular one does not happen to be among them?
"So, basically, you have to trust some bumbling fool to pick the right words for you when you have to handle the competition, eh?"
"That is one way of putting it, yes. Now can we please stop talking about this?"
For a moment he regards me, quietly, and I almost think my request has been granted, but then he moves. "Move over, Commodore James, and hand me that book." I obey and find myself sitting thigh to thigh with the pirate, who is busily thumbing through the book, dismissing chapter after chapter with comments like "too dull, too long, too short…"
"What are you doing, Sparrow?"
"I´m picking a good chapter for you to read, mate."
"Sparrow, I just told you that I cannot read Spanish."
"Aye, I heard you, and that just won´t do – that´s why I´m gonna teach you, savvy?" Now it is my turn to disbelieve – Jack Sparrow? Teach me Spanish?
"Ah, this is a good one," and beringed fingers smoothen a slightly creased page. "Now, I´m gonna start reading this to you and tell you what the words mean, and then you try afterwards, savvy?"
"Sparrow, this is ridiculous…"
"I asked, do you savvy?"
"Yes," and I turn that yes into a long-suffering sigh.
That night I lie awake in the darkness for an hour or more, listening to Sparrow´s steady breathing, while the Spanish words for knight and nag, giant and windmill whirl around inside my head.
And so a new routine is formed, where the reading is replaced with lessons. Truth be told, I suspect that Jack is a fairly good teacher, but that does not prevent me from feeling less than enthusiastic about these evenings – apparently he simply cannot accept that it might take more than a single appearance of any given word before it sticks in my mind. He reminds me somewhat of my old school teachers in that regard, though thankfully Sparrow does not see the pedagogical value of the cane – that would make this whole thing too humiliating.
What keeps me from succumbing completely to an intense dislike of the evenings in the light of these lessons is the fact that every few days Jack will revert to the previous pattern and find us a nice English book, although now we take turns reading from it. Well, that and the fact that after a week of Sparrow´s teaching I surprise myself by actually stringing together something very much resembling a proper sentence.
So, the evenings remain, if not solely pleasant, at least tolerable. The mornings are a different matter altogether.
First of all there are the dreams. What they are dreams of I cannot say, for they fade upon waking, leaving only feelings behind. Nonetheless I have the distinct impression that they ought to leave me feeling vaguely disgusted, perhaps even downright appalled at what my nighttime mind has to offer, that I ought to recoil from them and try as hard as possible to distance myself from them. But the problem is that they do not inspire those feelings in me – quite the contrary. I wake up feeling a vague regret that the dream is over. At least once I simply close my eyes and go right back to sleep (there is no set wake-up time for Jack´s guest, apparently, so I am left to sleep as late as I please in the morning – a most uncommon experience).
In the mornings my mind is too muddled by sleep for me to actually worry about this state of affairs – during the day it is much clearer and find itself sufficiently unoccupied to do so.
More immediately stressing in the mornings is something that occurs for the first time on the third day out from Tortuga. I open my eyes – and back away, hurriedly (and briefly grateful that Sparrow has not made a habit out of placing my sword in the middle of the bed) and accompanying the movement with a wordless exclamation. Then I glare at the offender, sitting on the bed with a smug expression on the face.
Peals of laughter sound behind me accompanied by faint jingling. "You really shouldn´t growl at Gold, Commodore James – 'tis but a token of love, savvy?"
"What it is, Sparrow, is a rat. A dead rat. And not even a whole one," I qualify my statement, directing one last glare at the small, grey-striped feline before turning it at Sparrow.
"Aye, that´s what I said. After all, she -is- a cat, mate. What d´ye expect, flowers?" and he chuckles as he steps around the bed to pet the animal, which leans purringly into his touch. "He´s a difficult one, isn´t he, my little darling? You bring him breakfast in bed and do you get as much as a thank you? No," and picking up the animal he exits the cabin, still informing it what an ungrateful wretch I am, leaving me to breakfast tray.
Next morning the little scene repeats itself, apart from the fact that this time the cat is orange and answers to the name of Silver.
Silver and Gold, now there is a pair of the finest rascals I ever did see, but an endearing pair at that. They manage to charm the entire crew in a matter of less than two days, making even hardened sailors offer them choice bites from their own plates. And everybody tries to name them – Kydd and Kitty, Miss and Missy, Bastet and Sekhmet, even Arrgh Scurvy and Arrgh Shiver. Who the first person is to actually call them Silver and Gold is a mystery to me, although it would not surprise me to learn that Sparrow is to blame – especially considering the paradox inherent in the names – but soon everybody follows suit, myself included, although there is some initial confusion, since the more logical thinkers amongst the crew naturally expects the name and the cat to actually match (fortunately the crew does not contain that many logical thinkers).
A pair of feline scallywags they most certainly are, stealing from my plate at almost every meal and lying in wait to make a man trip over them, not to mention bringing gift vermin to me almost every morning (except for those mornings when I have finally grown to expect it – then, of course, I wake up to an empty pillow). Still, I forgive them – if only because they are the only living things aboard, apart from Jack, who are willing to offer me their company. Besides, I doubt any man would not be charmed by a purring, soft, warm body in his lap, even if it belongs to someone with mischievous brown – I mean green-gold eyes.
But the scare the cats´ 'tokens of love´ give me are nothing compared to the morning when I find that I have somehow managed to – to tangle with Jack during the night.
My first instinct is to cry out and back away – same as when faced with my feline friends´ presents – but I manage to suppress the instinct before actually doing so. Then I notice that Jack is apparently still fast asleep – breathing slowly and regularly, his face more relaxed than I have ever seen it – and I have never really looked at it before – not like this, barely an inch or two apart, his soft breath tickling my lips, and without his eyes looking back at me. Not like this, relaxed, unguarded, oddly naked. I notice that there are lines in his face, at the eyes, hidden under layers of kohl – why have I not seen that before?
What finally makes me move is the thought of Sparrow waking up and finding us lying like this – his arm slung around my shoulders, mine around his waist, our legs tangled together, one of his beaded braids resting cool and firm on my cheek. Slowly, slowly, and oh so very carefully I disentangle us – inch by inch by careful inch, freezing every time Sparrow makes the slightest noise, and also careful not to put myself in a position where my back will cause me any discomfort. And then, when we are almost fully parted, Jack rolls over in such a way that we are basically back where we started.
Eventually I manage to separate us and I curl up, trying to get a bit more sleep – for though it is morning it is also very early. Yet I find that I cannot take my eyes off of my bedfellow and that I feel the loss of physical proximity surprisingly sharply – I tell myself firmly that it is simply due to the fact that I have not slept with anybody like that for years and years and I probably miss it…
I lie awake, silently cursing Sparrow – why could he not have continued to place the sword between us? Then this would never have happened. When morning comes in full and his eyes open I squeeze mine shut and pretend to be asleep until I hear him leave the cabin – I am not sure whether I could bear to face him just then, though why exactly that is so I do not know.
All that day I find myself constantly expecting Sparrow to make some reference to the bygone night – some half-veiled remark, or, possibly, just a knowing glance – but nothing of the sort ever happens. Which does not stop me from worrying – what if Sparrow was not really asleep after all? What if he was simply pretending? What if he knows? And what would make such knowledge on his part beyond embarrassing is the fact that it was not on my side of the bed that we lay.
But as much as I worry and as much as I watch him for the slightest sign, I never see a single one. So, perhaps he truly was asleep?
If my evenings and mornings can be said to be eventful, then my days form the perfect contrast, for they are as endlessly repeated as the sea surrounding us. I find myself missing the simple task of keeping the log book, of putting down in short, precise words the details that separate any given day from every other. At the moment I am no longer sure what date it is, let alone what day of the week – and aboard the Pearl there are no Sunday sermons to put me back on track. And I refuse to ask, refuse to admit to myself as well as to anyone else – and especially not to Sparrow – that I am beginning to feel lost outside of time.
From the endless repetition of days – sometimes it feels like it really is the same day being repeated again and again, as if God has need of extra time elsewhere and decided to take it from us – a few rise up, marked by events to be memorable, for better or for worse.
Worse – worse is the day that a sudden gust of wind catches a crewman by surprises, causing him to lose his grip on the riggings. The inhuman scream he makes upon descending is cut short by a sick, crunching noise that seems to reach every corner of the ship in the sudden silence. I watch, later, as he is sewn into his own hammock and given a burial at sea, an unusually solemn Jack Sparrow overseeing the proceedings (and quelling the mumbling about bad luck as well as the angry glances in my direction (for my presence at this ceremony does not seem to be appreciated by all the men, though Sparrow insisted on it) with a single look).
That night Jack reads to me from Hamlet – the part about the undiscovered country – but instead of getting into bed afterwards he leaves the cabin to join the drunken revelry up on deck – a wake, I suppose – shouting and stamping and singing and the faintest hint of – drums?
I lie alone in the dark, wondering at the look in Jack´s eyes as he read – is he grieving for this man? And if so, then why? After all, death is a sailor´s lot in life – if not by accident, then in battle against either some human foe or the weather and the sea herself. If a captain were to grieve for every life lost on his vessel, then surely he would soon break. And besides, it is not like he was anyone special, this man – not even a member of Jack´s original crew, just one of those he picked up in Tortuga. So why?
I try to remember what little I knew of the dead man – he was black, like a large part of the crew, but unlike most of them he had no brands or scars to mark him as a runaway slave – at least as far as I could tell. Rather I dimly recall noting a lazy pride in his eyes when I was introduced to him, akin to the pride that I have always imagined the great jungle cats must feel. I try to remember a name to go with the face, but in vain – there were far too many names that day. They all seem to glide into each other. Something exotic, perhaps?
The next day at noon Sparrow handles the auctioning off of Tom the Gunner´s property before the mast – and then the ship returns to her routine. Not once does anybody mention the deceased – it feels as if he was never even here. Perhaps he was not – perhaps it was the heat of the sun playing tricks on my mind. Perhaps…
Better to remember is the day when suddenly a haphazard symphony of clicks and squeals and splashes announces that we have been graced with the company of a dolphin pod. The crew cluster by the railings, chattering excitedly amongst themselves while admiring the sleek animals. I hear Mr. Gibbs informing some young man that dolphins are the very best of luck a ship can have, and I see Anamaria throw down a glittering fish – a particularly magnificent leap is used by the very smallest dolphin to assure itself the easy meal. And even I find that the corners of my lips – as if of their volition – seem to be curving slightly upwards.
I hear the solid splash moments before realizing that the golden-brown blur out of the corner of my eye is in fact one stark naked Jack Sparrow, and by then the dolphins are already gathering to get a closer look at their guest. Apparently he is acceptable to them, because they quickly resume their playing – with Jack as a participant.
"Oy, ye lazy mutts, come down 'ere!" he shouts to the crew on the deck during a lull, but the only answer he gets is laughter, scattered and somewhat nervous. It would appear that there is a limit to what Sparrow´s men are willing to do for him.
"Commodore James, why don´t you come down 'ere? The water´s great!" Is it my imagination or can I actually see the sunlight´s gleaming in his gold teeth even from this distance?
"I am afraid I must decline, Captain Sparrow," I call back, barely containing my laughter – something the people around me make absolutely no attempt to do – now that it is no longer them being invited. Sparrow offers no more invitations, but shrugs and turns back to his playmates. For the next hour or so we are treated to the sight of a pirate tumbling and diving among the friendly animals, occasionally even being pulled along by one. The sunlight causes the drops of water on all of them to sparkle, making it seem like they are covered in liquid diamonds. It is a strangely beautiful sight.
"You should´ve jumped in, Commodore James," Jack comments later, standing dripping and nude next to me, fresh out of the water. "You haven´t lived properly before you´ve swum with dolphins, savvy?"
"Indeed." I keep my eyes firmly focused on the swiftly receding animals until Sparrow has the decency to remove himself – hopefully intending to get dressed.
I wonder why I am so adverse to seeing Sparrow naked. It is not that I have never seen a man naked before – that would be a hard claim to make when one has lived aboard a ship where there is simply not enough room to afford any but the highest-ranking officers even a modicum of privacy. Nor am I a prude – at least, not usually. So why is it that I have such reactions every time it seems like it is going to be unavoidable for me to see him so? I shake my head – what good are such speculations?
Most of the days, however, glide by, unmarked and unremembered – one by one by dreary one.
And then comes the day when the wind stops blowing.
There is nothing predictable about this – since morning there has been a strong and steady wind blowing in what is apparently just the right direction, and the sails have been bulging. And then – all of the sudden – they are not. We all look up at the unusual sound it makes to find the sails hanging limp, as does the pirate flag above them.
As if it was not only the ship, but also the sailors themselves who are dependent upon the wind for strength, the crew starts to stop performing whatever tasks they have. Sparrow manages to get some of them up in the riggings to furl the sails, but apart from that even he seems to be caught in the spreading lethargy.
It is a hot day – the sun beats down from a clear sky and is reflected back by an ocean as blank as a tailor´s mirror. Pirates lounge where there is the smallest shade, for once filling their hip flasks from the water barrel rather than the rum stores. The air is full of the smell of sweat and hot tar. I feel my shirt sticking to my skin, and decide to seek shelter in the cabin.
Inside it is also hot, but at least it is shaded and the open windows prevent me from suffocating in the heat. I curl up on the bed with a book, but I find my head nodding and my eyelids starting to feel unbearably heavy. Soon I dose, dreaming of fire and the coolness of a great cave filled with treasure.
I wake up towards evening, the sun just touching the horizon. The heat has abated somewhat, though there is still no wind. I treat myself to a few of the oranges from the fruit bowl on the table, squeezing them to let their sweet, refreshing juices fill my dry mouth.
Sounds are coming from the deck – shouts and arguments and loud applause among them – and I decide to go investigate, my curiosity aroused. I cannot say exactly what it is that makes these sounds different from the usual drunken revelry, but somehow they are.
It seems as though every man – and woman – aboard are up on deck. Some of them seem to be simply lazing in the twilight, others are engaged in the endless tasks of splicing rope and mending sails. Everybody, whether sitting on a coil of rope or a barrel or leaning against the railings or hanging effortlessly from the riggings, are arrayed in a crude semicircle.
And in the small open area in the middle of this semicircle? Who but Jack Sparrow, bending over a barrel while concurrently trying to keep up what appears to be seven or eight separate conversations.
He looks up at me and, breaking into a smile, he leaves what he was doing behind to rush over to me.
"Commodore James, just the man I wanted to see!" and he grasps my arm to tug me along back with him into the open space.
"Oh?" I manage, the heat having not left my brain quite yet – and besides, I am not entirely comfortable with being dragged into the middle of the crew.
"Aye. You see, Commodore James, I need your help, savvy?"
"My help?" I choke out, staring at the brilliant smile that the rascal has seen fit to offer me.
"Aye, your help," and he tugs until I find myself standing next to the aforementioned barrel – I note that there are a few sheets of paper - the topmost one partly covered in writing – and a pen lying on it. "You see, Commodore James, we are working on the ship´s articles, savvy?"
"Articles?"
"Aye, you know – rules of behaviour aboard and suchlike, eh?"
"I thought you had your precious Code?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Aye, but you see, the Code is awfully general – and besides, it´s really more like guidelines, savvy?" For some reason he looks pointedly at me for a brief moment before continuing. "But anyway, my dear Commodore James, we´re working on a set – seeing as how I´ve only just gotten my lovely Pearl back, and so she hasn´t got any, 'cause I´m not having the same as that bastard Barbossa, and that´ll never do, now will it?"
"Which does little to explain what sort of help it is you are expecting me to provide – surely you do not want a naval officer to help shape your rules?"
"Nay, that´d never do. But see, we´re all discussing it over a friendly bottle of rum, savvy, and since memories are what memories are, we need to write down the points we agree on – and that´s were you come in. You see, most of these sods don´t know a from b, let alone how to cross their t´s and dot their i´s, so none of 'em can do it – and I´m busy trying to convince these curs that – well, that a lot of things really, so…"
"So you need me to take notes." Ah, the ironies of Fate – one day a Commodore in command of a great number of men and ships, the next degraded to a lowly scribe for a bunch of illiterate scallywags.
"Aye, and how good of you to volunteer, Commodore James." He smiles somewhat hopefully at me, adding imploring eyes – to improve the effect, no doubt. I wonder if anybody will ever believe me if I tell them that the feared pirate Jack Sparrow is capable of looking exactly like a begging puppy? I feel everybody else looking at me, too, but none of them do so in any sort of imploring or puppy-like manner.
"Very well, then – I suppose you have a pen?" I sigh. Jack´s smile is like a sunrise, and in no time at all not only a pen, but also ink, more paper and a small barrel for me to sit on has been provided, and I can nod in answer to his question of "all set?" – I suppose this is going to be interesting.
"Now, Commodore James, first we´re going tell you the stuff we´ve already agreed on, so as you can put that down, savvy?" – I nod again – "First of all, and most importantly: the pirate ship known as The Black Pearl belongs to me, that is, to Captain Jack Sparrow, and that´s not going to change. Anybody not happy with that are more than welcome to take his or her share of the loot and leave at any time. And anybody who´s not happy to do that should bear in mind that mutiny or attempt thereof is punished at the captain´s – that´d still be me, so, at my discretion, with anything up to and including dangling from the yardarm. Got all that?"
"Is this supposed to be a draft or the finished document?"
"Oh, just a draft for now – though if you´d be so kind as to make it into a proper document with all the trimmings on the morrow…"
"I shall consider it, Captain Sparrow – and yes, I have it. What else?"
To my surprise it is not Sparrow himself who proceeds, but Mr. Gibbs.
"Aye, so, we got the matter of officers, then. First, there´s the captain," and the somewhat theatrical gesture used to indicate said individual is answered by that queer little bow with folded hands of his. "Then we be in need of a quartermaster, chosen by the crew – and someone thought that might be me. D´ye agree with that?" There is little doubt that the answering roar from the crew is in the affirmative, so I put Mr. Joshamee Gibbs down as quartermaster of the Black Pearl.
"And then there be the first mate and that be Anamaria – and if ye don´t like it, ye´ll have to take it up with her!" From the looks of the crew I somehow doubt that anybody will – will dare, that is. "And those be all the officers we freemen be a-needing!"
"Aye, but get to the good part already!" someone shouts – Mr. Marty, I do believe.
"And what exactly is 'the good part´, Mr. Marty?" Jack calls back, but in such a way as to leave no doubt that he is quite aware of what is referred to.
"Shares, ye daft fool, shares of the loot!" Hearing someone call – or, more precisely, yell – Sparrow a fool to his face aboard his own ship is a surprise – to bestow such a title on an officer of the Navy would earn the offender quite a lengthy and unpleasant encounter with the cat. All Sparrow does is raise an eyebrow and yell back, grinning: "Impatient, aren´t we?"
"Get on with it!" and variations thereof are heard from the – considering the way he is clearly playing them, I suppose I should call them the audience.
"All right, all right, you greedy lot, as you will – shares. A full share of the loot for every man and woman on the crew, be they sailor, cook or cabin boy, 'cept for the quartermaster and the first mate, who´ll get a share and a half, savvy?"
"And 'cept for the cap´n," Anamaria adds, "who gets 'imself two shares."
Apparently this distribution of any possible profit is acceptable to the crew – I wonder idly if my hearing will survive this debate.
Fortunately the following points of order are apparently less enthusiastically embraced – a rule regarding open fire and the advisability of its immediate proximity to the ship´s stores of powder and shot, enforced by the threat of the lash wielded by Anamaria (after having experienced the – uhm, the lady´s enthusiastic approach to the task, I fully believe that such a threat would be more than sufficient to keep me from breaking the rule). Another pair of rules, enforced by the same means, are agreed on – one requiring of the crew that they keep their weapons in good condition and ready to be used at all times, the other demanding that no matter what grievances two or more crewmen may have with each other, then they have to wait until next time they are ashore with the settling of the matter.
Sparrow is just about to start on the next point when he spares me a glance.
"Commodore James, why aren´t you scribbling away?"
"Because I am not a cat, Captain Sparrow. If I try to write in this," and I make a vague gesture to indicate the darkness that obscures the faces around me as well as the writing already on the paper, "then nobody will be able to read it in the morning – and that would rather defeat the purpose, would it not?"
"By the powers, your right! Oy, you lot – get some lanterns on deck, d´you hear! S´ not proper, debating in the dark, savvy?"
The soft, flickering light of lanterns soon illuminate the deck as well as can be done, obscuring the faint glimmer of distant stars. Jack moves in the dancing light, his shadow stretching and twisting until it looks like something befitting some demon or fiend, but the brief smile he sends in my direction before returning to business is almost angelic – but only almost.
As the debate progresses it grows livelier – aided, no doubt, by a surprisingly small number of bottles of rum that has begun to circulate among the crew, every man taking a healthy swig before handing it to the one next to him. Despite the rum, most stay surprisingly sober – and Sparrow, despite not turning down any bottle that comes his way, somehow still manages to stand without swaying more than a little more than usual, and he still manages to lead the debate, proposing and getting applause or at least assent for a number of articles.
I cannot help being surprised at the nature of some of those articles, although the fact that my ears hear them being agreed upon and my hand moves the pen that notes them down, point for point, must be proof that they are quite real. Still, rules strictly prohibiting the theft of the other pirates on board´s belongings as well as demanding sharing between everyone of both loot and necessities of life (food, water – rum) seems strange considering exactly how these men will be acquiring their means.
Article after article and I lose count around the time Anamaria stands up.
"Make it an article that we be only pirates – we´re not going to be doing any rum-running!"
"Why not?" someone shouts and I wonder about the same, as I look at the dark woman – she looks like some heathen priestess or voodoo witch in the light of the dancing flames. Still, her appearance does not make her demand any less odd – many pirates I have caught had a sideline in running rum between the islands and some mainland ports. A steady income when prey is sparse, as well as a way to ensure an if not warm, than at least not outright hostile welcome in at least a single port (other than Tortuga, that is). But of course, most of those ships were smaller and a lot less formidable than The Black Pearl – perhaps she thinks the Pearl too good for such common pursuits?
Well, if that is her reason, then it would appear that the rest are less than inclined to share her sentiments. Even Sparrow joins the rest: "Aye, Anamaria, tell us why not?"
"'Cause the half of the cargo that Gibbs doesn´t guzzle, you´ll have swilled afore we ever reach port or profit – Captain," she adds after a moments pause. Rather than taking offence at this, the two men share a grin, then raise the bottles that they have somehow managed to have handy in a toast to the woman, then finish them off – to the laughter of every man aboard save one: me.
Next Jack sways over to me, to look over my shoulder – or, to be more precise, to wrap his arms around my shoulders and lean heavily against me, to place his pointed chin in the middle of my left shoulder and try to focus on the neat handwriting on the paper.
"How´s it coming, Jimmy-lad?" he slurs into my ear, and I cannot help but strongly suspect that he is somewhat more drunk than is his wont – which would explain the fact that even after I have answered "fine", he stays where he is, pressing his chest against my back, his hot breath tickling my earlobe.
I try to get rid of the clingy pirate with a shrug, but sadly it has no effect, and so I settle for ignoring the scallywag, focus on the still ongoing debate and put down what is decided. Even that is not without certain obstacles, as I learn the first time Sparrow adds his voice to a loud "aye" to some point or other, leaving my ears ringing. Still, I manage.
At some point I realize that the discussion has turned to body parts and the lack thereof – and to sums of money. At first I think they are debating the selling of such items – a grizzly business indeed, I would say, though not one I have ever encountered or even heard of – but then I realize that the subject is actually what compensation is appropriate for each lost limb – that such compensations should be given at all and that a man no longer able to perform his old duties aboard will be given new ones rather than be put ashore seems to be taken for given.
"Right leg?"
"500 pieces of eight!"
"Left leg?"
"400 pieces of eight!"
"Right arm?"
"600 pieces of eight – and a hook!"
"An eye?"
"100 pieces of eight!"
"A tongue?"
"Arrgh, pretty bird!" the only avian aboard proposes, only to be answered with a mixture of laughter and "ayes" loud enough to make the animal take wing and seek the safety of a lofty yardarm – and then they move on to the next body part – "Finger?" – as if the matter has been settled, although I am left uncertain of what exactly the decision was.
"Parrot, Jimmy-lad, a mute gets himself a pretty, talking birdbrain, savvy?" Jack slurs, having apparently noted my confusion through his intoxication.
I keep on writing the list of parts and sums, mechanically, feeling how very tired I am. I wonder what time it is? There are no glasses aboard this ship by which to tell the time, and the moon is absent from the dark sky tonight, so I cannot attempt to learn the time from it. Still, my body tells me that it is late and that it desires rest – considering that I slept half the afternoon away I suspect it might well be very late – or possibly even very early.
The body parts mentioned grow more and more obscure – how exactly do they expect anybody to lose his liver and live to tell the tale? – and the compensations more and more outlandish. When someone brings up the matter of a man´s private parts and Anamaria immediately proposes that a penny sounds like a suitable compensation to her (and if not for the fact that her glower scares every man who might dare to object into silence, I would have expected the ship to fall apart from the sheer force of the objections to such a meagre sum), I put down the pen, deciding that if they want me to take notes about their decisions, then the very least they can do is remain no more than a little drunk whilst making them.
For a little while I sit, tired but not quite able to gather the energy necessary to get to my feet and head for bed. Then Sparrow´s warm, moist breath (which has been tickling my ear for all this time) is replaced with something hot and wet and firm, snaking around my earlobe and tracing along the curve of the ear – in my weary state it takes a bit to realize that it is Sparrow´s tongue I am feeling.
Surprise – or rather shock – gives me the push necessary to get to my feet, hoping to dislodge the lunatic pirate in the process, or at the very least to make him stop what he is doing. Alas, it succeeds at neither.
"Stop it! You´re drunk!" I hiss, and he does, his impudent tongue immediately replaced by a low chuckle – or rather a giggle, except that men do not giggle, not even an odd man like Jack Sparrow. Unfortunately he seems less inclined to actually let go of me – quite the contrary, I realize, as he lifts his legs and wraps them around my waist.
I stand for a moment, Sparrow clinging monkey-like to my back, before deciding that since I am now on my feet I might as well take advantage of it and go to bed.
It takes no more than a single step before I realize that my walk is less than completely steady. The second step is no better and the third is nearly as swaying as Sparrow at his best (or should I say his worst?). Part of it is no doubt his fault, for he is quite heavy and making absolutely no attempt whatsoever to be an easy burden to bear, and part of it is probably due to my simply being tired, but still, this seems somehow insufficient when it comes to explaining this unsteadiness. Might it possible have anything to do with the fact that Sparrow´s head has been resting on my shoulder for quite a bit, his every rum-soaked exhalation gliding past my nose and mouth, enveloping my head? Have I somehow gotten inebriated by proxy, so to speak?
In the end I manage a grand total of six steps before tripping over my own two feet and tumbling ungraciously to the deck.
At least my landing is softer than last time – a human body, firm, but not nearly as unyielding as the deck, is, after all, behind my back. The "oomph" from Jack would seem to indicate that the air has been knocked out of his lungs, but he offers no objections or recriminations. Instead he simply lies beneath me, his arms and legs releasing their death grips, his breath tickling the nape of my neck.
When the disorientation due to the fall has faded somewhat it strikes me that it is not at all proper for a Commodore to be lying on top of a pirate – and besides, I was headed for bed, was I not? So I try to get to my feet again, preferably without Sparrow this time, but said individual grabs hold of one of the legs of my breeches and sends me tumbling once more. In the end I find myself sitting – or should I say sprawling? – in a large coil of rope.
"Stay awhile, Commodore Jimmy-lad. 'Tis but a bit of merriment, savvy?" Jack leans close to inform me. I cannot help but blink at him and I am almost about to tell him "certainly not!" and resume my attempts to reach the cabin and the bed inside it, but then I think – why not? What harm is there in staying on deck – for just a little while? It is not like I actually have to take part in whatever these amoral miscreants consider 'merriment'. And besides, this coil of rope is quite comfortable. So I nod, somewhat reluctantly, and Jack grins and then proceeds to walk away from me.
I sit quietly, observing the men enjoying the drunken revelry that I suppose they must think of as a party. The number of bottles of rum seems to be impossible to count, handed as they are from hand to hand, yet I rarely see anyone without one, and occasionally one man will have two or more. Raucous laughter rolls over me from my right where a group has gathered around Mr. Marty, swapping bawdy stories, whilst to my left raised voices originate from a small group that has apparently yet to notice that the debate about the articles has pretty much drawn to a halt. Someone somewhere has somehow managed to lay hands on a fiddle and the music is joined by stamps and claps as drunken hornpipes, intoxicated jigs and inebriated reels bring perhaps more amusement to the onlookers than to the dancers themselves.
I do not see who hands me the bottle, but suddenly it is in my right hand, still a third full. I assume it must be Sparrow, but a quick look around tells me that he is to be found at the other end of the ship, apparently trying to get some point across to the fiddle player.
I feel eyes on me, the eyes of the men around me. I am far from certain who most of them are – I see Mr. Gibbs among them, though. But their names are beside the point – the point is that they are looking at me and the bottle in my hand.
My first instinct is simply to hand it to whoever is standing closest, but then I reconsider. After all, this bottle is the first hint of anything from this crew that is not hostility or indifference – although it might simply have been the mistake of someone too drunk to know what he was doing. But in that case, would it not simply anger them even more if I were to scorn their 'hospitality´? Who knows what they might do if they thought I considered myself 'too good´ for their rum – especially in their present, far from sober state. I find myself wishing wistfully that Jack had stayed by my side – I imagine he might very well simply have plucked the bottle from my grip and emptied it himself, saving me from my current dilemma.
In the end – almost physically aware of the eyes on me – I lift the bottle and take a swig. Truth be told it is little more than a sip, but unaccustomed as I am to the beverage I find myself coughing anyway. Some hand pounds my back and a bear-like man grins at me before relieving me of the bottle and turning back to his fellows.
After that there is still nobody who pays me any attention, but on the other hand, I hardly imagine it to be mere coincidence the second time – not to mention the third and fourth and fifth – a bottle is pressed into my hand. Each time I wet my mouth and little more – still, the world, already blurred by my weariness, grows more hazy with every sip.
At some point I notice that Jack has drifted back into my immediate vicinity. He appears to be trying to teach some of his crew that ridiculous pirate song Elizabeth taught him – a process made more difficult by the fact that he does not seem to know the lyrics properly himself.
"We kidnap and ravage and don´t give a hoot,
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho."
A drunken chorus joins him on the refrain. It sounds like there is general agreement that this is an excellent song.
"We extort, we pilfer, we filch, and sack,
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho.
Maraud and em – em, embody? Embarrass? Embellish? Let´s see, rhymes with muzzle. Guzzle? No." You can almost see Sparrow´s tongue trying to tie itself into knots in an attempt to remember the word – though it does not seem to do him any good.
"Embezzle, Sparrow – the word you are looking for is embezzle." There, that will stop his ridiculous theatrics – hopefully.
I expect Sparrow to grab hold of the word and continue his less than enjoyable singing. Instead he slowly turns around to look me in the face. His eyes are slightly unfocused.
"Now where did you learn that little ditty, Com´dore Jimmy-lad?" he slurs, placing a hand on my shoulder, leaning even closer.
"In case you have forgotten I served aboard the ship that conveyed both Governor Swann and his daughter from Southampton to Port Royal. For nearly two months I heard that song at least once a day – and I was not drunk a single one of them."
"So, that means ye know it, aye?"
"Yes, Sparrow, I know it."
"Wonderful. Then ye can sing it for us." Sparrow smiles drunkenly.
"Absolutely not." There is no way that I – a Commodore of His Majesty´s Royal Navy – am going to sit aboard a pirate ship surrounded by pirates and sing perhaps the most ridiculous song about pirates that has ever existed. There is simply no way.
"Come, come, Com´dore Jimmy, sing. I´m sure you´ve got a lovely voice. What are ye, anyway? A baritone?"
"Sparrow, let me make this perfectly clear to you: I am not under any circumstances going to make a fool of myself by singing that song. Is that understood?" I try to add as much weight behind my words as possible, but I think I manage to slur at least once – damn that bloody rum!
"Aye, Jimmy-laddie, ol´ Jack savvy. The lovely Lizzie-lass said much the same thing – half a bottle later she was a-singing like a nightingale – or a swan. A Swann song, eh?"
"Sparrow, I am not some young highborn lady you can get drunk on half a bottle of that vile drink!" though truth be told he just might – I am not certain how much I have already had of the beverage in question, but I fear I am already more than just a little tipsy.
"I understand ye perfectly, Jimmy-lad," and he straightens, winking at me and tapping the side of his nose. "Oy, Gibbs – get me a -whole- bottle for the good Com´dore, savvy?" The loudness of his own shout leaves him swaying slightly.
"Sparrow, let me try again," and I spare the bottle that has suddenly – as if by some black magic – appeared in my hand a somewhat reproachful glare, "there is no way that you are going to make me sing!"
"No way?"
"None."
"But ye really should, Com´dore Jimmy. Come now, sing."
"No."
Sparrow sways a little, seemingly trying to think of a useful argument. Then he sways a lot, and suddenly he is lying on his back on the deck, his head having very conveniently landed right in my lap. Sometime during the night he has lost his bandanna and his braids are radiating out from his head like a halo, covering my lap like a fairly eccentric blanket.
Cinnamon eyes shining below an odd, upside down grin, Jack tries one more time. "Please sing?" There is something almost plaintive in his voice – no doubt he is an emotional drunk.
"No. However," I continue as his face falls in a way reminding me of a small child that has just been informed that Christmas has been cancelled this year, "if it will make you stop pestering me, then I might be persuaded to recite the bloody song to you. Will that suffice?"
"Aye, that´ll do just fine." With his right hand he plucks the untouched bottle from my hand, with his left he reaches out and grabs hold of mine. I look down and see my own fingers tangling with his, my other hand somehow having decided to stroke that wild mane entirely of its own volition – then I sigh and, hoping that it will be sufficient to make him stop bothering me, I begin reciting the first verse of the bloody song.
In the end I have to patiently repeat the lyrics over and over again to the more-than-usually drunk scallywag. I stop counting when I pass the first score. But eventually he gets up, gives me a somewhat unsteady hug and a sloppy kiss that leaves me with a wet spot on my cheek (as well as strongly reminded of an affectionate dog) and sways off. About five minutes later a less than melodious rendition of "A pirate´s life for me" can be heard from the aft.
The song spreads like wildfire through the ship. Soon I find myself to be the only one left who does not at the very least sing along on the refrain – and the crew squabble over the dwindling number of bottles so that they can "drink up me 'earties, yo ho" properly. It even sounds like a couple of the more creative ones among them are attempting to make new verses – with varying degrees of success and talent. But after a while their singing changes into a number of other songs, resulting in a genuine cacophony, although nobody seems to mind. Apparently Jack has finally grown tired of the song – or so I think, until he sways past me, still humming it enthusiastically. So, apparently the crew grew tired of it first.
The revelry continues with more songs, more dances – though they are no longer recognisable ones – and of course more rum. More and more often a bottle comes my way, and I feel my mind growing steadily more and more blurred every time I obey the good manners I have had ingrained in me since boyhood.
Sometimes Jack talks to me, his voice so slurred with drink that I can hardly comprehend his speech. This does not seem to bother him – he grins and laughs every time I try to answer something I think he said, though whether it is that what I say have no relation to what he said that makes him do so, or whether it is the growing slur in my own voice or simply his own drunken, crazy mind, I cannot say.
Sometimes one of the others aboard – once Gibbs, once Marty, once the peg-legged pirate who tripped me – will address me. Not often, but occasionally – but their voices are also nearly slurred beyond comprehension, though not nearly as badly as Sparrow´s.
Sounds wash over me like waves on a beach – jokes told by some and answered by the raucous laughter of others, the crash of one of the 'dancers´ missing a step and tumbling down on some of his fellows, clanging bottles, scattered snoring, and from somewhere comes the sound of a mostly-friendly brawl.
The night is dark outside of the flickering, dancing lights of the lanterns. Dark, but not quiet. Moaning, groaning, animal sounds, grunts and cries can be heard, faint but undeniable. I look at Anamaria downing some rum and I try hard not to think of what is going on beyond my sight.
The songs continue, a plethora of tuneless tunes involving all manner of creatures of the sea – pirates and mermaids seem especially popular and quite often both will appear in the same song – and each song grows progressively less and less fit for mixed company – not that Anamaria seems to mind. In fact, she is the one that starts many of the worst.
At some point I hear an oddly familiar voice rise up to join the rough voices of the pirates. The realization that it is my own voice leaves me deeply mortified, especially since the song – a ballad involving a mermaid and a pirate (how very surprising) engaging in a number of quite explicitly described activities, some of which involve a crab (for some reason no doubt best left in the song writer´s mind) – is one of the least proper of the evening´s selection. My voice, however, does not seem to respond to my attempts to make it stop singing – rather it grows louder at every attempt, and determinedly continues to sing along with the next few songs – no doubt to show me who is in charge. When it finally stops I hear laughter and jingling somewhere close by, but cannot spot the source of it.
I find myself sinking deeper and deeper into my surprisingly comfortable coil of rope – the world is spinning slightly but that does not matter since I make no attempt to stand, to walk, to join the erratic drunken lurching that passes for dancing at this time of night. Rather I sink further, feeling on the verge of sleep.
The sight rudely jolts me awake.
On the deck in front of me, apparently paying me no attention, is a man. There is something about him that makes me feel as if he does not belong here – this man with his scarred and weather-beaten face half-hidden behind a somewhat scruffy beard. On his head sits the most flamboyant hat I have ever seen, much more flamboyant even than the ridiculous piece of headwear that Mr. Turner saw fit to wear for my abduction. Somehow he seems familiar to me, this man, as I look at him laughing at something, as if he is somebody I ought to know, and yet I am fairly certain that I have never before laid eyes on this living, breathing man.
But it is not the sight of him that affects me so.
It is the monkey.
The monkey sitting on his shoulder, long tail wrapped around his neck like a furry necklace.
The monkey I last saw in a gloomy cave on The Isle of the Dead.
I thought it was dead, that its lifeless body had been thrown into the ocean along with its dead master – obviously I was mistaken, for how could it then be here now, baring its teeth at me in a shriek, skin and flesh falling off to reveal the unnatural beast I saw in the moonlight.
I lurch to my feet, a plan involving grabbing hold of the little monster half-formed in my head. But before I can make my way close to it, it leaps, landing on some other shoulder. I stagger after it, trying to get the attention of some of the crew. Surely they cannot all of them be so drunk so as not to notice this thing? But my imploring does not make a single head turn.
The simian thing leaps and leaps and leaps – from shoulder to barrel to rigging to shoulder, once hanging precariously on to a swinging lantern, always a step ahead of me. Still I follow it in between the dancing pirates that fill the deck.
The men around me grow paler and paler, grow thinner and thinner – and then they are no longer men, but dancing skeletons. Not the hideous unnatural things that boarded The Dauntless on that nightmarish moonlit night, though – they had scraps of skin and rotten flesh and sinews still attached and eyeballs rolling in the sockets. These are different – sun-bleached bones, straight out of the drawing I once saw in a ship´s surgeon´s book of anatomy – hollow eye sockets, empty ribcages, not the slightest hint that there has ever been more. And their movements – the things from before, the way they moved was perhaps the worst thing about them – smoothly, as smoothly as any living man can move. If I had ever taken the time to consider how a skeleton might move (which of course I have not), I would not have expected that – rather I would have expected the jerky, vaguely insect-like movements that the bony fellows around me are dancing with, looking slightly, morbidly comical.
Under other circumstances I might have laughed to see these skulls and bones try to dance – as it is I barely spare them a glance, intent as I am on following the horrid monkey. I follow even as it leaps into the midst of the crowd, elbowing and pushing my way past the creaking and clicking dancers. At one point I almost – almost – grab hold of its tail.
Suddenly I am past the skeletons, and at that precise moment I realize that I have no hope of ever catching the little beastie, for before me is a huge number of all sorts of monkeys and apes – gorillas, marmosets, howlers, baboons yawning to display their mighty canines – and my prey plunges into this new crowd, lost to me.
I turn around, intending to go back to my coil of rope – and realize I am standing on a sandy beach, on a small island. I can see monkeys setting the sails, monkeys hoisting the anchor, a large monkey at the helm of the ship. It is sailing away, this ship – my lovely Interceptor – and I know without the smallest doubt that she will never again sail into a port, that she will be lost forever to the greedy sea.
A single, salt tear trickles down my cheek.
A flock of monkeys with tattered black wings circle above the ship, looking most of all like some hideously obscene parody of the Lord´s own angels. They screech like so many gulls. I turn from the ill-omened sight, shuddering, revolted.
Before me is, once again, a crowd, a horde, a churning sea of all manner of simians and apes. Their numbers seem to have increased considerably while my back was turned. At the moment they are ignoring me.
Eating, grooming, screaming, jumping, wrestling, playing, engaging in – uhm, conjugal activities – the animals are in constant movement. I try to keep my eyes on a single specimen – a small gold-furred simian – but soon it is lost in the living ocean.
To my right is a large group of unusually disgusting beasts. There is something disturbingly humanlike about their appearance, yet they are too large and hairy to be human in the least. Some of them are throwing offal at each other. One is making an odd noise, like some gibberish word, repeating it again and again and again, louder and louder and louder: "Yahoo! Yahoo! Yahoo!"
A large gorilla is watching the disturbingly manlike brutes from a respectable distance, its face immeasurably sad. Huge tears come from its eyes – I did not know that gorillas could weep.
Behind it, further away, there are more gorillas, playing and tumbling. Among them is a being that seems even more manlike than the brutes – and yet not a human, for I do not believe that any man can move in the strange gait of this mangy, unkempt creature. Besides, if this sorry sight was one of Adam´s descendants, then surely he would have felt shame at his nakedness and tried to cover it – it does not seem to have ever crossed its mind, though. It wrestles with one of the gorillas, unmindful of my perusal, making the same grunting noises as the other animals around it.
I look right and left, back and forth, even jump up and down in an attempt to see further – trying to spot something on this island that is not an animal, some sign – however small – of human presence.
Far away, on the other side of the island, what seems to be a man is standing in front of the head of an enormous monkey. It would appear that the rest of it is buried in the ground. I start to run towards him, moving faster and faster the closer I get. It seems to me to be of the greatest importance that the only two civilized men on this strange island should meet and form some form of alliance. But as I run the monkey head opens its mouth – and the man enters. The animal´s lips seal themselves behind him.
I stop so abruptly that I tumble to the ground, feeling a sudden, terrible sense of abandonment and loneliness. I am all alone, here amongst these beasts, these brutes.
"Oook." I look up to find a large, orange-red ape regarding me. "Oook," it repeats, then picks up the couple of books lying at its feet and disappears among the bookcases. I look after it, sad – there was something oddly profound and important about what it said to me. If only I had been able to understand it.
A strange, rhythmic, noisy music makes me look up, craning my neck to see what is causing it.
High, high above me, floating on a cloud, is – by now it hardly comes as a surprise to me – a monkey. It is wearing a golden headband and there is something strangely – stone-like? metal-like? – about its fur. In its hands is a black staff, and it whirls it, and sometimes the staff shrinks until it disappears from my sight, sometimes it grows until it is so tall that it could reach the top of the sky while standing on the bottom of the ocean.
The monkey is dancing.
Kneeling on the ground I lean as far back as I can to watch the animal as the cloud that carries it slowly moves, casting its shadow on monkey after monkey, ape after ape – and occasionally on me. The dancer grins and shouts and stamps all the time – there is something irrepressible about this particular animal that strongly reminds me of Jack.
The thought of the rascal pirate makes me smile – somewhat to my surprise.
The cloud passes over me again and it begins to rain. Large, golden drops hit the ground with such force that tiny golden fountains briefly take shape every time a drop hits. And in the middle of the golden shower, like some second Danaë, I kneel.
Amber liquid falls on me – on my hands, on my shoulders, on my closed eyelids and the tip of my nose and my lips. A single drop manages to make its way inside to touch my tongue – and I open my eyes in shock (and am immediately forced to blink repeatedly when golden raindrops hit them at that precise moment) as I realize that it is raining rum.
A moment later I open my mouth wide to catch as many drops as possible – whether it is because I wish to drown myself or simply to drown the loneliness, I cannot say. I just swallow and swallow, golden liquid running down my throat, down into my belly.
And then it is not. Something hard hits a tooth – and then my shoulder – and then an ear.
I open my eyes again and see that I am now in the middle of a golden shower in the truest sense of the word – the air is full of coins from every nation under the sun. They gleam and glitter blindingly in the bright light of day.
Perhaps I ought to lift my hands to protect my face from the falling metal. Perhaps I ought to reach out to try to grasp some of it. For some unfathomable reason I do neither.
Gold turns to green – now it is raining emeralds, each one a perfect copy of the stone hanging around my neck.
And then it is raining Jack Sparrows, each one barely the size of my smallest finger, each one perfect in every detail – gold teeth and hair trinkets, sash and boots and weapons at his side. When they hit the ground they disintegrate into hundreds and thousands of even tinier, but just as perfect Jack Sparrows.
For some reason not a single one of them ever hits me.
Suddenly they are no longer falling. Instead they are circling me, like some swarm of angry insects – round and round and round it goes, making me hopelessly dizzy. It gets hard to distinguish the individual miniature scallywags from the general blur.
The circle tightens. The tiny Jacks come closer and closer.
A feather-light touch startles me, makes me take a step backwards – straight into more touches. Then they descend on me.
In less than a moment Jack Sparrow is everywhere, touching, kicking, clawing, scratching, stroking, biting, licking, fondling, kissing – making theirs – his? – way in under my clothing, past my every defence. I lift my hands to brush him – them? – off of me, but my hands are covered in a layer of Jack Sparrow. When I look down I see that they – he? – are everywhere, clinging, suddenly naked, covering every inch of my flesh like a second skin.
It is the most horrible sensation I have ever experienced.
It is the most wonderful sensation I have ever experienced.
A sunbeam doing a hornpipe on my left eyelid wakes me up sometime after dawn, but before noon.
Upon waking I immediately take note of two things.
The first thing is that sometime during my sleep my head has been placed in Jack´s lap. It is surprisingly comfortable.
The second thing I note is that I must have had quite a lot of rum to drink last night – the hangover is quite possibly the worst I have ever experienced, complete with headache and nausea.
Oh, the nausea…
Oh well – at least Jack does not seem to be -too- upset about having to change his breeches first thing in the morning. Thank God for small favours.
A/N 2: There seems to be a certain tradition of making recommendations to other people´s work when you post your own, so I am going to attempt to follow it. If you, like me, occasionally enjoy having something visual to support your imagination, I will recommend The Theban Band´s gorgeous Sparrington pictures. Seriously, go look - they are beautiful.
