Ferrier of Souls
Chapter 9: The Lull
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean characters are not mine, they belong to Disney. I am however borrowing them for this story…yadda yadda yadda…no copyright infringement intended…yadda, yadda, yadda: please don't sue me. Also the lullaby in this chapter is written by Sir Harold Boulton.
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"Capt'n, sir," Weatherby interrupted Turner from his captain's log. The boy was practically shaking with trepidation. "Might I ask, sir, what is happening?" His usually lively eyes seemed dimmer, secured away. The boy was as spooked as the rest of Turner's crew and he hadn't even seen the body.
Captain Turner felt a bit out his element with the boy. He could tell the lad was intelligent and willing to learn, but William was not altogether sure what would be appropriate for a boy with only seven or eight years under his belt, especially when the topic had grown men twice, thrice, and four times the lad's age scared out of their wits. Yet there was something inside him, something that said he had to be the one to inform this boy of the certain dangers surrounding the ship, like a father to a son.
He took the boy's hands, and while mentally noting their ice cold temperature, he led the boy farther away from some of the ruckus occurring around them on the lower deck. "There is something haunting this ship, boy," Captain Turner began. He felt it best to tell the lad exactly what he knew, albeit how little it was. All souls aboard had a right to know the dangers they were in. "We don't know what it is or where it came from, but this whatever-it-is is haunting this ship like a curse."
Weatherby took that knowledge in and soaked it up like a sponge. The wee gears were turning in his head faster than a spinning top on Christmas morn. "What did it do, Captain?"
"It killed a man, one of my men."
"…but aren't your men dead, sir?"
Captain Turner was taken aback. So, the boy at least knew that his crew was dead, but what about himself? "Aye, they are current members of the undead."
"Like the crew of the Flying Dutchman?"
"They are the crew of the Flying Dutchman."
"I thought as much, but you aren't Davy Jones," he spoke confidently before second-guessing himself, "are you, Captain?"
In spite of all the madness aboard the ship and even in spite of himself, Captain Turner laughed. "No, I'm not Davy Jones, boy. I'm Captain William Turner, current captain of the Flying Dutchman. You could say ol' Davy Jones was relieved of his duties eight years ago."
"So, this is a ghost ship doomed to sail the seven seas for all eternity?"
"Aye, it is," Captain Turner couldn't help but smile, "in a manner of speaking, of course."
"Then why aren't you all dead?" Once the can of worms had been opened there was no turning back. This boy could probably inquire until doomsday, asking questions, seeking answers.
"We are dead, lad…just as dead as you."
"But I ain't dead. I'm breathing and living and…" With every word, Weatherby grew quieter until the very last syllables were barely squeaks, "I'm dead?"
Sympathy filled the captain. How could one not know he was dead? It was a sensation as old as time itself and as familiar as the sensation of being alive. So familiar, in fact, that most often people took the feeling for granted until they lost it, until the other sensation replaced it. Sure, sometimes it took a couple of hours to pinpoint it exactly, the loss of one's own life, the casting off of one's own humanly shell. It always started when the heart stopped beating and the lungs quit taking in oxygen. Then the sensation would dig deeper into a soul, pulling it outside a body. Souls knew when they were free of the body, souls knew when their bodies were dead. But this boy did not.
"Weatherby," the captain asked solemnly, "Do you fear death?"
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"Capt'n!" a sailor shouted in search of Turner, interrupting the holy ritual of inquiry between ferrier and soul.
"Gunner," Captain Turner's eyes flashed, "Now is not the time."
"But it is, Capt'n. I followed your orders, sir, did a head count of every passenger and crew."
"And? Get on with it already."
"You hafta see this for yerself, Capt'n. Something cut out Wyvern's tongue!"
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As the night sky fell over the ship, the Captain and his crew were resolved not to rest, not to sleep, not on this night. Something or someone was threatening the souls Captain Turner ferried, whether they be passengers or crew. Something was definitely aboard this vessel. One man dead, another mutilated. No, no man, woman, or child was allowed to wander the decks freely. No sailor was allowed to go off in search of any noise by himself. These orders would be obeyed or there would be more twice deaths on the Flying Dutchman.
The moon graced its light upon the ghost ship as the little mother began gathering her boys for bed. Weatherby and Jack walked side by side bravely despite their fears, as the little mother opened her mouth to sing lulling the baby in her arms to sea.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
I my loved ones' vigil keeping,
All through the night
Angels watching, e'er around thee,
All through the night
Midnight slumber close surround thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
I my loved ones' watch am keeping,
All through the night.
The sailors that had already begun to look after the family found this tune soothing. As for the others, while they did not as attentively listen, their ears did tune into the song. It was lulling.
Within a couple of hours, every ghostly soul that had heard the enchanting lullaby found their eyelids growing heavy. Sleep was fast becoming an enticing inclination, despite years of wakeful nights. All souls, save a few, began to sleep and as the drowsiness rose so did the danger.
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Author's Note: So you guys figured out what's going on yet? In the next chapter all will be revealed. :)
