Chapter Eleven

It was only when the small boat fetched up against the thick sand of La Isla de Sueños that Will cracked open an eye. It took an effort; the sun and the salted wind that had enveloped him for the last two days had taught him that it was wiser to keep his eyes decisively shut. He managed one. He and his companions had made their way, evidently, to one of the many nondescript islands that sat scattered in this corner of the Caribbean like a handful of crumbs flung to a pigeon – arguably, they were only so big.

What he saw – with two eyes and eventually focused vision – was a shore of fine sand in startling near-white. The gleam of the beach was cut off by the shade cast by the border on the shore's other side, where the tree trunks were thin and curved; the massive thickness of the foliage was due only to the great number of trees that stood with their fronds moving slightly in the wind.

To Will, it looked eerily like they were shuddering.

He turned to Melanie. "This is it?" She nodded and stood to stretch, but did not seem to see him. Instead, her eyes wandered over the beach sands and the trees that lined it. "It's small," Will ventured, and earned a small smile from the mistress of the Yellow Dart.

"It's all that's needed. Believe me."

Will glanced back at Dana, who was remaining silent. Though her mouth was set in a grim line, her eyes were bright and measuring the nuances of the island as thoroughly as Melanie's. Sharp grey eyes, however, lacked the childlike, almost fond nostalgia of warm brown ones. Melanie, Will suspected – though he thought it not yet the time to ask – was surely reliving her own time on this island. How many years ago it had been, he could not guess, and he idly supposed this was because the vitality brought about by the vigors of piracy was rather different for men and women.

There were similarities, of course. Once, aboard the Pearl, Jack and Ana Maria had shown Will their hands, palms up, and he had been surprised to discover that he could not tell the difference between them. They had both been heavily browned and calloused, and the life lines on each had been like furrows. They were pirate hands - stone-rough and otter-quick.

But there was little else that could be compared between a he- and a she-pirate. A he-pirate's life was a frantic orgy of coin shine and ale musk wrapped in sea/sky. So too was pirate life for a woman, but such a self-gratifying way seemed to drink the youth out of pirate men, parching them and making them squint-eyed and knotted before their time, while pirate women seemed hardly to age at all. Will thought of Melanie and Ana Maria. What was it in the ocean wind that would erupt beard and split cracks on the face of a he-pirate, but smooth the cheeks and sleek the hair of a woman? It was indeed strange, but if a man could be said to find his wife in the open water, surely a woman could find a kindred spirit – a soul mate, an Other – in the vast blue.

Naturally, Jack Sparrow defied – consciously or unconsciously – Will's thoughts on pirate vitality. The Black Pearl's captain was a man whose life spring stemmed from a source that seemed surely to be oneapart. And far away, Will added mentally. And a different color.

The three climbed out of the boat and splashed through ebbing shorewater that threatened to creep in over the tops of their boots. As they hauled the boat behind them and out of the tide's reach, the hand of a Tortuga-savvy Melanie cupped her belt's coin-pouch absent-mindedly to measure its contents. It made no difference that the island they were on was nearly (but far from) deserted: such had the polished wood of Melanie's mind been carved, and one could not help but run into such grooves when one brushed fingers across its surface. Dana's mind was not altogether different, though it was not her hand that moved now, but her eyes; they were everywhere. Equal long experience had taught her the value of quiet appraisal in a world where things were rarely what they seemed to be.

"How do the two of you feel?" Melanie asked when the boat was a safe distance from the water. Though she would remain on the beach while Dana and Will ventured deeper into the island, she did not deny the fact that her attention would most likely be elsewhere. She did not want to have to mind the little boat. Being here, on this island again, was nothing short of surreal. The images that were crowding in -

"Well," Will replied. "I'm rather hungry, I'm more thirsty, I see sun spots whenever I close my eyes, and I've been thoroughly salted."

Melanie nodded. "That sounds about right. Dana Flint?" The gunslinger smiled.

"My mouth tastes like the countertop of the Poco pub, but I'm otherwise fit as a fiddle." She paused and seemed to reconsider that while raising and slightly flexing her arms. "On second thought, these few foodless days have dulled everything apart from my trigger fingers. In all unfortunate honesty, I'll not be winning any contests of strength today." Will made a noise of agreement and rubbed his hands over his face.

Captain Cash did not seem to be concerned. "Now, you're both armed?" Dana rolled her eyes but Will barked a nervous laugh.

"Armed?"

"Yes, William, and to the teeth. You should both have a gun and a blade at the very least."

Dana patted the holsters at her hips. "Firepower I've got, but there's not a blade on me." Will moved to fetch his sword and scabbard from the boat.

"And I'm gunless, but I can lend you a blade as long as you promise not to lose it."

"I can lend you a gun, Will," Dana returned over her shoulder. "As long as you promise not to use it." Melanie laughed, and Dana feigned seriousness. "What? Have you seen him shoot? My guns have an unsmirched reputation and I'd like to keep it that way." Blacksmith and gunmistress exchanged weapons and attached them appropriately before facing the captain of the Yellow Dart. She studied them intently for a moment before speaking.

The ocean air began to dance more furiously as the day wore into late afternoon, and Melanie had to make an effort to keep her words from being snatched away by the wind. "You're about to become pirates," she said, and could not help but grin. Both returned the smile, though it was Will's that was unmistakably genuine. "You are about to enter the dregs of society by becoming lord and lady of the ocean. You gain a brotherhood by shirking the company of all else – all family, all friends. That pirate brand is going to seal this voluntary choosing of fate." She tugged open the top of her shirt to reveal the pink 'P' seared into the brown flesh above her heart. She tapped it, and repeated, "A choice of fate. A pirate takes his life and his fate into his own hands. It is no one's but his own. That is piracy. That is why we are so feared." She smiled ruefully. "Freedom."

"Glory," Dana added quietly, and Will nodded.

Melanie grasped each of their shoulders. "That said, off into the jungle you go kids. I'll be here, waiting for a pair of scallywags, if you need me."

"You're not coming with us?" Dana asked.

"Not necessary," was the reply. "Just remember that it's one at a time when you get there, and meet me when you're done." She turned them both by the shoulder, and after glancing at one another, they started walking towards the line of trees that bordered the beach.

Melanie watched their retreating backs, recalling suddenly her own trek into the jungle and what had come before it. She and Carine had been so young, so small. Her father had towered over her then, all chest and arms and voice. He had spoken to them gently on that day.

"My little ones," he had said, and they had both beamed up at him, nearly twin-like with their dark, face-framing hair and brown-black eyes. "Today is an important day."

"We're going t' be like you!" Carine had chirped, and her father laughed.

"That's right, my petite fille, but only if you want to be like me. You know I am a pirate," he said, and they had both nodded breathlessly. "But just because my blood flows in your body, that does not mean that you are a pirate here – " he tapped Melanie's small chest, over her heart, with a finger, "– you are not a pirate unless you want to be. Are you both certain that you are making the choice that you wish?" Instead of answering, both girls had thrown their arms around his waist and squeezed him tightly.

And then they went into the trees.

Will was growing tired of waiting. There had been the long wait of the boat ride. There had been the long, winding trek on the jungle path that had exhausted him and covered him in spider webbing and tree saps. But, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, a voice that had slowly been edging its way to the front, but you've really waited years for this day, haven't you? Perhaps you've waited your entire life. He did not argue.

He stood at the entrance of a cave. It was deep in the forest, covered in growth and green, and would have been unremarkable – perhaps even missed by the tramping pair – if not for the signpost set in the ground outside its dark mouth. The sign was simple wood, and burned onto its surface (branded on, Will's mindvoice had insisted) was a skull and crossed-bones insignia. There was no mistaking the place. Dana had entered first.

But that had been a lengthy time ago. Will was beginning to fidget. He refused to pace – too many overly friendly spiders in this neck of the woods - and he could not help but notice that the sky was beginning to darken. He considered unsheathing his sword to stretch his arms, but decided against it. Dana hadn't taken the time to warm up. It might be unfair. After all, if he needed to -

- but then, after what had seemed an impossibly long time, Dana Flint emerged. Her mouth, though smiling, was decisively closed and there was a dancing light in her eyes. Will shouted happily and opened his arms to wrap her in a hug, then reconsidered.

"Your brand? Where …?"

She opened her coat and pointed toward her hip, just in front of the leather holster at her side, but was careful not to touch the skin beneath her shirt. A gunslinger made pirate, the gleam in her eyes told him, but a gunslinger nonetheless. Will let out a whoop of relieved air. "So you've done it." Dana nodded and smiled, then jerked her head towards the cave mouth.

"Your turn."

At first, the cave appeared to be as nondescript on the inside as it was on the outside. The tunnel ceiling was comfortably taller than Will, and he could not touch the rocky cave sides even with both arms outstretched as he walked. As the afternoon light grew smaller behind him he came upon torches bolted into the walls on either side, apart at regular intervals and blazing brightly.

Gradually, the tunnel floor became smoother under his feet, and eventually led him to a large wooden door that blocked the tunnel entirely. It was ancient and smooth, and was marked only on the shining brass of its knob. There, the letter P was etched in script so fine it might have been inked there by a quill. Will ran his thumb over it before opening the door.

The door opened onto a sight that was completely startling after the rocky, semi-dark tunnel. A fireplace roared immediately before him. A painting of blues and greens hung above it, illuminated by firelight – as was everything else in the grand room: four chairs, evidently in red velvet, ringed the fire. Beside each were small tables, one with a decanter of amber liquid and the others graced by fine glassware. A vast, thick carpet was under them with white tassels all about its edges. To Will's left were three tall bookcases, neatly brimming, and to his right was a long, unset oak table and a curtained alcove.

At the sound of the door opening, a figure stepped out from behind the curtain and grandly into the center of the room. He was the picture of finely tailored elegance, from his dark, curled wig and oiled mustache to the shining brass buckles of his shoes. The only mar on the man's perfection was his hand – or lack of one – that he raised to Will in greeting.

"Afternoon, lad," he said amiably as Will shook hands with the gleaming appendage. "My name is –"

"Hook," Will offered with a weak smile and released the shining metal. Could this man truly be …

"Precisely!" The gentleman said, pleased. "And you are?"

"William Turner, sir."

"William Turner? No! Not the William Turner Junior? Surely not?"

"I am, sir."

The well-dressed Captain Hook looked to be beside himself. "Well then lad, it seems that both of our reputations precede us – how perfectly excellent!"

Will found it difficult to find and keep hold of his voice. "You really are the James Hook?" The man laughed and stroked his moustache with his namesake.

"I know of no others. But similarly, I knew only one Bill Turner, years ago that it was. And – yes! Come in, boy, come in! Step out of those shadows there! Yes, yes you are, aren't you?" The man appraised Will warmly. "Such a time ago, it certainly was. Your father was only a lad, you know, when he came to stand before myself and the other Council members – barely sixteen if I remember correctly. Finest fencer – finest duelist – of his time, I have no doubt about that. You certainly look as he did then: hair more tame, to be sure, but an uncanny likeness." Hook seemed finally to hear his own relentless enthusiasm and put on a more sober tone.

"I heard what happened to him aboard the Black Pearl, and I can only offer my deepest regrets. Your father was a warm and brilliant man, a testament to the benefits of growing older and wiser –" he seemed to catch himself, then continued. "He was a pirate that was one of a kind. Although …" Hook trailed off, then smiled largely. "Perhaps there shall be two such pirates to have graced the waters with their presence! I can only assume why you are here, lad."

Will straightened his shoulders. "That's right."

"Excellent! Excellent! You make a father proud!" Hook clapped Will on the back with his hand. "Oh, and while I think of it, that feisty little creature who was before us moments ago, Madame Flint – is she, by any chance, your … ?" He raised his eyebrows.

"She's a good friend."

Hook nodded. "She'll make an extraordinary pirate, what with a tongue as quick as her draw. But, I'm sure you'll be able to talk about that with her later. For now, let's get to your pirate brand, shall we?"

Both men turned to the mantel above the fireplace. Lying atop it was what appeared at first glance to be a poker. It was, however, merely half a poker's length, and one end was twisted into a 'P'. Will's heart sped up as Hook lifted it and nonchalantly placed the branding end into the fire.

"The others should be along shortly," Hook remarked, facing away from Will. The fire lit his features. "Young Flint gave us quite the time, so they've had to step out for a moment, as it were. Ah, there!" He hefted the poker into the air and studied the gleaming orange metal. "What do you think?"

Will swallowed. He was still reeling from such close proximity to the legendary figure before him. Hook's nonchalance did not help put him at ease – in fact, it lent a heavy air of surrealism to the entire affair. "It looks … ready. But don't I have to - "

"Who said anythin' about bein' ready?" a voice bellowed from behind the pair, and Will spun around. Evidently the curtained alcove was home to a door or a passage, because three more men were emerging from behind it. The first man – the bellower – was enormously broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He wore a thin, sleeveless garment, and when he stepped into the circle of firelight it was revealed to be made up of many colors – blues and greens and reds and yellows – all swirled together in a dizzying mass. Thick beard and eyebrows could not conceal the craggy smile that erupted when his gaze alighted on the young blacksmith, and the man bellowed again. "Two in one day? Well, now!"

The man sat down heavily in one of the chairs and his companions followed suit. The bellower folded his hands over his great belly: Will found himself immediately liking the man, who seemed genuinely pleased to see him, and returned his smile. Into the chair on the big man's right eased an ancient looking pirate who was thin as a reed. His tufts of eyebrows were brilliant white, and he squinted through them to get a better look at Will. The third man plopped down in another chair with a jingle of jewelry chains. He was immensely fat. Rings glittered on every sausage-sized finger and the firelight shone off of his smooth, bald head. He did not smile. All three men, Will noted, seemed unharmed. What had Dana done?

Hook was delighted to see them. "You're back! Wonderful! And guess, Rupert, just guess who our second hopeful of the day is!" The first man, in the colorful sleeveless shirt laughed a deep, rich laugh and waggled a finger at Will.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say this 'un belongs to Bill Turner. Am I right, son?" Will nodded. "Well it's about time we saw yer hide in these parts! To think, we'd heard you'd settled down and become a respectable tradesman!"

"All that will change!" cried Hook, who had returned the brand to the fire. "Like father, like son, I always say!"

The fat man sniffed. "We'll see," he said, in a surprisingly high voice. "The boy's not branded yet." Rupert scoffed.

"Don't mind Captain Thrasher, Will. He's never pleased t' see a new face on the planks." He winked. "Personally, I think it does him good. Leaves ye more time fer eatin' and polishing those baubles, eh?" Rupert roared laughter and clapped Thrasher on one meaty shoulder. The bald man looked distinctly unimpressed and made a great deal of smoothing the sleeves of his spotless coat. The wizened pirate laughed too, in scattered wheezes, and Hook threw a glance back over his shoulder at him.

"Careful, now Rupert," he warned mockingly. "You're liable to give Blue a hernia." He turned back to the fire and removed the orange-hot poker. "Do us a favor, William," he said. "Close that old door behind you, won't you? There's a lad."

Will did as he was asked, and shut the heavy wooden door. The sound of it closing echoed down the long tunnel. "My thanks," Hook said. "Just one thing more. Won't you turn the key in the handle? Yes, just there. And bring it here, please." The blacksmith hesitated, then turned the key in the lock of the shining doorknob. He started to hand it to Hook, whose one hand was already holding the hot iron, then passed it to Rupert. The big man smiled through his thick beard and pocketed the key. He refolded his hands.

"You a fencer, Will? Your father was dastardly with a blade."

"Yes, sir, I am." Rupert waved a hand at him.

"No need for formalities here. We're a pirate council today, but who knows who'll be in these seats tomorrow? And beside, our job is actually very easy." Will surveyed the four – one legendary, one ancient, one merry and one glutton. They seemed a fitting council.

Hook spoke up. "William! I do believe the iron is ready. Where shall it be?"

The blacksmith was slightly taken aback. "On my forearm, I think. But isn't there something … I mean, don't I have to – "

"A fine place!" Hook exclaimed, and rose with glowing poker in hand. "Sleeve up, if you please." Will reached unthinkingly for his shirt sleeve and pushed it up past his elbow. Without waiting, Hook slid his hook under Will's arm – Will's wrist fit neatly into its curve – and flipped it over. With his other hand he applied the brand.

Will jumped and cried out, both from the sudden cold of Hook's metal encircling his wrist and from surprise at the pirate's speed. He caught Thrasher's eyeroll but had to grit his teeth as the pain flared suddenly and became steadily sharper. He could hear the sizzle of his own skin, and looked up at Hook. There was a mad light in the man's eyes, and he held the younger man firmly. Seconds later, when the iron was lifted away, the pain did not lessen immediately. Will's eyes were drawn to the wound.

It hurt – oh how it seemed to burn the greater from the weight of his gaze! But it was there; it was done. He, William Turner, was a pirate.

"Excellent work, as usual, Captain," said Rupert. Hook bent in an obliging half-bow before returning the poker to the mantel. He then settled himself in the remaining seat. Will was half-surrounded.

"Now, Mister Turner, do oblige us. Let's see how you well you look the part now. Strike a pose." Will blinked, but the four men waited patiently – though Thrasher cleared his throat – and so he flexed his unburned arm and did his best to glower at them, pirate-like.

"Splendid!" Hook exclaimed. "But you need a pistol, William, a pistol and a sword. Let's see, then!" Feeling more than a little silly, Will unsheathed his sword and plucked Dana's gun from his belt with his branded limb. Hook looked round at the rest of the council. "Does he meet with your approval gents?"

Rupert and Blue both nodded, beaming, and Thrasher huffed something that was not disapproval, so Hook seemed satisfied. "Now," he said, facing Will once more. "There's just one thing left for you to do." He settled himself back against the plush of his chair.

"What's that?"

"Prove yourself a pirate."

Will raised an eyebrow. Hook was watching him expectantly and Blue and Rupert were studying him with no less care. Their smiles were gone. "But – you've already branded me."

"Of course we have," replied Hook. "Now all you've got to do is earn it. Doesn't that make sense?"

"Well what if I … don't?" Hook smiled again, but this time a slight manicalness crept into the way he bore his teeth, similar to the one that had been in his eyes when he pressed the hot metal to the blacksmith's skin.It was not friendly.

Hook stroked his moustache carefully and his hook flashed. "Then you don't leave."

Author's Note – I'm back kids! Updates are fresh and smelling great and on their way. Sorry for the hiatus, but that's what happens when you're a McQuaid Sister! Hah!

Captain J. Hook belongs to J.M. Barrie.

Rupert belongs to his parents (and I'm sure part of him belongs to the guy who thought up the Survivor show: someone please tell me that they recognized this guy).

Blue belongs to the writers of Old School, who unintentionally invented one of the cutest pirates I've ever seen – "You're my boy, Blue!"