A/N Thanks to all those who have posted reviews again. Bleah to all of those who are putting me on alert and never reviewing. I know I have a bit of a fan base, with no less than 100 hits on the last chapter alone, but with that many hits and only 3 or 4 reviews for it, well… hmmmm. I do realize some of those hits are just checking to see if I've written more, but they wouldn't be checking if they didn't like it. Incidentally, I do sometimes get ideas from reviews.

I also realize that I am starting to sound like some of those review beggars, so I will try to keep it to a minimum… maybe once every 5 or so chapters… Unlike others I won't hold chapters in ransom just 'cause I haven't gotten one, but to tell the truth, it does become disconcerting to write and not get feedback.

Chapter 11: A Mystery

"I had halfway expected to see flanks of beef flopping about the island," he said with a shudder as he placed the book back onto his small shelf. Miraculously, along with the Bible and other interesting books in his library, it had survived the waters of the Caribbean as the Pearl had been dragged down by the Kraken. He had just been showing Elizabeth the passage that had described the ancient story about their hostesses' home.

"Well, what you saw can't have been much better," she sympathized. She watched him as he wandered about his cabin, as she sat at his table fondling his navigational tools, her lower lip clenched loosely between her teeth. If he hadn't been in a somber mood, he might have found it enticing enough to comment on it. Which would have made her glare at him. Which would have made him say something else seductive. Which would have made her toss off some pejorative as she flounced out of the cabin … maybe … Wait. Better not chance it. At least not now … although that lip was looking rather plump and inviting.

Suddenly he realized she was indeed starting to glare at him. She had been sitting there for a moment or two as she waited for him to continue. He cleared his throat and continued.

"It's a bit interesting that we should find ourselves on a mythical Isle, although the actual existence of such Isle precludes the fact that it remains a myth." She nodded, agreeing, but continued to be wary as he paced his cabin. "So, if such a myth is reality and as it is only one of many places discovered by Ulysses during his travels, we can presume we may stumble on further myths that are in fact … reality." He glanced at her after this revelation to see the wariness had turned into what looked like a smirk.

"Have you actually forgotten something Jack?" she queried. His eyes skittered about the cabin as he thought through things he may have forgotten.

"Probably," he offered hesitantly. "Since you mentioned it, you must have something to remind me … of … some nature."

"We have been devoured by a sea monster, Jack. You made a deal with a legendary cursed sea captain to have your ship raised from the bottom of the ocean. You won said ship back from your mutinous first mate who sailed for ten years as a walking corpse. Any one of these things very rarely occurs in a normal person's life, yet they seem to be always occurring to you or the people around you."

He shifted uncomfortably as the truth slammed home to him. He was cursed. He must have been, the day that Beckett had him held down as they were putting the fiery brand to his wrist. He could feel the searing burn again on his arm and smell the tang of cooking meat as it was lifted away. He had refused to give the pipsqueak the satisfaction of seeing his pain, but he caught the laughter playing at the edges of Beckett's eyes as his captors led him back down to the prison to await his hanging. As the guards mounted the stairs after locking him in his cell, Jack laid back down on the moldy straw on the floor, wondering if it would be worth it to gather it together to try to make a small bed. He was beginning to wonder if his refusal to transport slaves from the Gold Coast to their destination in Brazil had been a wise choice.

He had been sickened to find his captain's beloved Wicked Wench refitted with very close racks to stack the "cargo" he had been ordered to deliver. After weeks of watching men, women, and children get pitched over the side after dying from malnutrition and disease, he had used his charm and eloquence to convince his already loyal crew to belay the course to their destination. They anchored in a hidden harbor of a remote island off the heavy shipping lanes, and using the longboats, hauled off the bewildered Africans and set them free. Not too many had survived the trip, as it was, so he did not think that they would be found.

He joined the straggling few on the last boatload onto the island, wondering if they would be able to survive in a land with which they were unfamiliar. As he watched the people gather into little groups on the beach, he had the feeling most did not know each other, although there were some grateful cries of happiness as a couple of family members found each other.

He wished he had a better grasp of their native tongues, as he felt that not all were from the same areas of Africa, but they spoke in a sort of pidgin that they had all begun to learn in mere survival. He made do with the few words he had picked up surreptitiously on the trip over, not really sure who was loyal to the East India Trading Company or who was not. He had thrown caution to the winds though, when he began to realize that all of his officers and most of the crew had been doing the same. He easily avoided a mutiny, by quickly asserting that he, too, did not like what their employers had suddenly commissioned them to do. After a few years of serving together on the Wench, he and his crew made the life changing decision to set the slaves free.

He felt his jaws clench, as he realized he had nowhere to go after this. He wondered if staying with the slaves on the island might be the only option he had, when he heard a soft musical voice speak behind him.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," came the lilted, heavily accented tone and he turned to see who had addressed him. A lovely young mulatto dressed in what had been a beautiful gown when it was new stood assessing his jettisoned cargo as they bustled around her, before she turned to focus her attention on him. Her frowned a little at the name with which she had called him.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but you got the first part right. I'm actually Captain …" He ground to a halt when she placed a long, thin finger on his lips to silence him.

"You are who you are," she murmured.

"Aye, and that would be …" he began again, but once again, he was interrupted.

"… the savior of these people, and soon to be a fugitive yourself." He sighed heavily at the truth of these words, having just thought of them on his own. He smiled and shrugged meekly.

"What can you do?" he asked rhetorically. With this, she leaned back and laughed. It wasn't the delicate and simpering laugh of a woman of breeding, rather it was a great bark of one who was slightly hysterical, and he drew back a little, eyes widening. Apparently, the woman had spent a little too much time alone there on that island. "You do not know what you can do. Not yet." She began to circle him, appraising him, like he was a side of beef. Horrified, he began to feel a pull in his breeches, and his breath quicken. "But there be much that I can do. And much you can do for me, in return."

Suddenly she turned from him and marched over to a longboat, widening her arms in front of her as if shoving aside the crew members waiting there for Jack. She flung over her shoulder a command for Jack to follow her as she climbed into the longboat. In a daze, he did what he was bid and soon they pulled away from the beach, heading back to the Wench.

The straw prickled his cheek as he woke in the cell, night still holding its grip on the perpetually damp island off the coast of Britain. He missed the sun baked isles he had grown to love in his short career in the EITC, even allowing his skin to tan unfashionably for a man of supposed aristocracy. Being the younger son of a drunken fool of a Baron, he had to make do with a career as his inheritance was being frittered away with gambling debts. His older brother was just as bad. His own mother had died while birthing him, so he had never known her. There had been a lot of gossip as to who his father actually was, since he had been born with a much darker coloring than any of his family, but as the mother was no longer around to question, his father had to accept him.

He sighed as he realized that his discomfort was not going to allow for any kind of sleep, so he sat up, brushing off the straw and sneezing from the mustiness of his bed. A torch flickered slightly in its sconce outside his cell, causing him to wonder why they would bother to waste it to light the area when no one of consequence was due to visit any of the prisoners.

He stood and meandered over to the door to look out of the grating towards the warm solitary flame. He imagined shapes and figures within it as he brooded about his fate the following morning, when suddenly he realized the flame had brightened. All at once, the brand on his arm flared with a stunning burst of agony, as if someone had slapped the damaged skin. He hissed and winced, clutching at his arm, trying not to touch the welt, as his head dropped and his eyes watered. This was worse than the actual branding. He raised his head again to look out of the cell, and felt his chest spasm as he met the deep black eyes of the sorceress he met on the island where he had set the slaves free.

"You must go. Fly like the bird what give you its name. No sparrow should ever remain caged." With that, he heard a click near the locking mechanism of the cell door and it swung silently open. He glanced back to where the woman had been standing and saw something fall to the ground with a clatter. The witch was not there, but he bent over to retrieve a crab claw that had been dropped, the only evidence, other than the unlocked door, that she had even been there. He glanced briefly up and down the corridor, listening to see if he heard anything other than the snores and moans of the other prisoners in their cells.

Not one to sneeze in the face of good luck, he bolted, the second time in his life that he had deliberately rebelled against orders. Although it had not been how he had intended to live his life, he realized he was beginning to like the feeling. Trapped in the mediocrity of following commands, first from his father as he grew, and then from the EITC, he had strained to feel as if he was alive. Thanks to one act of kindness on his part, albeit a grandiose not-very-well-planned one, he now was being a chance to taste a freedom that he had previously only imagined. If Beckett was determined to call him a pirate, well, dammit, he would be one.

Alone with his thoughts, Jack slid by all the guards that were either distracted or strangely asleep at their posts as he escaped the prison. He blended into the night as he wended his way down to the docks, seeking a chance to start his new life, feeling as if he now had a special spirit to watch his back.