-Chapter 14: Cat and Mouse-
Hector Barbossa watched the whelp's bloody-necked body go limp in the arms of his impatient pirate crewmen. They dropped Bootstrap's boy without a second thought, overwhelmed by the sudden feeling of... feeling.
For a long moment, the hardened buccaneers all just stood there, savoring every detail- the tang of salt, the odor of old rugs, the whiff of exotic spices, the reek of decaying crab exoskeletons, the peppery scent of smoke from the blazing torches- yes, smells were the most readily noticeable change.
Barbossa's gnarled hand went to his wide pocket; he fished out the flawless, algae-green apple, and held it up to his nose, just smelling. Tangy, sweet, delicate... I can feel the beat of me own heart again, Barbossa realized. I can feel the damp soakin' through me old sea-boots, the warmth of me breath, the scratchy weave of me coat, the waxy smoothness of this here bit of shine... Smirking triumphantly, Barbossa crunched a bite out of the green fruit. Blimey. The taste was every bit as juicy and toothsome as he'd remembered it, imagined it, these past ten years.
Recalling his unfinished business, Barbossa dropped down on one knee in front of William junior's body, which was crumpled over on the golden swag, against the base of the Aztec chest. Casually, the pirate captain pressed two fingers against Turner's neck. Beneath the streak of hot blood and the sweaty skin, Barbossa felt a frantically racing pulse. Yep, the whelp was quite an actor. Handing his bitten apple to the incessantly chirruping capuchin monkey perched on his shoulder, Barbossa glanced around himself, and grabbed the closest scrap of fabric, a glitzy, black silk cravat, with little gold stars. Absently, he started winding the fancy cloth around Turner's limp neck.
"What're ye doin?" Mr. Dogear demanded, sounding downright flabbergasted.
"Bandagin' his neck," Barbossa answered calmly.
"What?" Twigg snapped in morbid disbelief. The question was echoed several times over, and not just by the cavern walls.
Patiently, Barbossa explained, "Lad's not dead, just passed out from lack o' blood."
"Then guess ye didn' do the job right!" growled Bos'un, scrunching up his African facial scars menacingly. Circling around the treasure mound a few paces so that the Aztec chest wasn't blocking his trajectory, he leveled his cocked gun up the mound, aiming at Turner.
Promptly whipping out his own flintlock, Barbossa cocked and fired at Bos'un's gun, shattering it to shards. "Oh, I was goin' to," the captain began in a snarly tone, standing up and staring down his out-of-line crewman, who was curling his gunpowder-scorched hand into a fist. "Right up till I saw that look on his pretty-boy face, jus' before the end. Turner's whelp was prepared ta die peaceable, with a clean conscience- fool lad was prob'ly expectin' Paradise. Consider careful now, mates- after the ten years of hell Bootstrap put us through- a simple slit throat is a powerful short ending, far, far, too quick. We ought ta give Bootstrap's spawn his proper dose of hell first, aye?" Barbossa's decaying teeth split into a wicked grin, as he added, "Let him languish."
Slowly, the crew started nodding, and grinning too, as they comprehended the sense of their speech-loving captain's words.
Sweeping his slitted teal sleeves out to his sides in a grand gesture, Barbossa crowed triumphantly, "Gents, we are freed from our purgatory! Our anguish is a thing o' the past! We live again! Celebratories are in order! Rum, roast chicken, broiled eel, scones and dainties for all!"
The monkey postponed its nibbling to interject a victorious screech.
Cheering raucously, the famished pirates began clearing out of the cave in short order.
Koehler, who'd always hated Bootstrap even before the mutiny, paused to land Turner a sharp kick as he passed; then, tossing his black dreadlocks over his shoulders with an bestial grunt, he charged back to the ship with the rest of them.
All except Barbossa, who remained, munching the second apple from his pocket. "I know I only gave ye a paltry paper-cut, lad- I know ye're faking," he drawled slowly, between well-chewed bites. "And unlucky fer ye, I find revenge sweeter than any scones."
The whelp remained as stiff as a corpse, as placid as pond-water. He should be in theater, Barbossa thought wryly. Although the kid had been sailing with Jack, he had no clear mark of a pirate on him- no, Turner had 'goodness' and 'innocence' stamped all over his young face like a tattoo.
Lad's probably never killed man in cold blood, or kissed a lass without her express permission, Barbossa guessed snidely. Fleetingly, the black-hearted old captain wondered if there were a way to corrupt that- to turn Turner into a real pirate, make him do piratical actions he'd be ashamed of, and then kill him- slowly, and painfully, and with a lot less hope of Heaven. But the crew'll have none of that, Barbossa knew. Aye, Turner's young life was practically foredoomed to end tonight... So, may as well make his life as hellish as possible in the meanwhile.
"Tis been a sore devilish bane, this curse," the hatted captain sighed dramatically. "I've felt hollow, like a shadow, fer oh... the longest time..." Turning around speculatively, Barbossa side-stepped into a shaft of moonlight, while watching his reflection in the large dressing mirror propped against one of the far cave walls. It was downright exhilarating to see his own, natural face mirrored in the moonlight, instead of some skull-eyed, graveyard creature. Still with his back to the whelp , Barbossa inquired nastily past the damp, furry monkey on his shoulder, "Did ye know that Bootstrap Bill pleaded for his life before I sank him? Begged. Implored. Quite pathetic, really." It was a lie of course- Barbossa was just trying to provoke some reaction from his 'guest'. "However," the captain went on, "as I'm in a jollisome, listening sorta mood, perhaps were ye to beg likewise- I may be inclined ta be lenient."
In the corner of the mirror, Barbossa saw Turner nab the stone knife from atop the chest, and quickly yank it through the ropes tying his hands behind him. So, when the whelp threw the knife at his spine, Barbossa was expecting it, and spinning on the heel of his boot, he deflected the weapon easily with his cutlass, sending a sharp ringing through the caves as steel hit stone.
The monkey retreated up behind the feather on its master's hat in alarm, babbling shrilly.
"Shall I take that as a no?" Barbossa jeered, scattering coins and trinkets as he advanced on the now-weaponless whelp.
"Filthy blaggard," Turner hissed, while staggering backwards down the treasure mound in retreat, glancing desperately around for something to defend himself with. Kicking a jeweled music box aside, and snatching a heavy brass candlestick from under it, he swung its ornate square base in front of him, blocking a hefty blow from Barbossa's cutlass. But as the whelp tried to twist free from their weapon-lock, he tripped on a string of blue pearls behind his heel, skidded the rest of the way down the treasure heap, and stumbled backwards into a shallow puddle of water.
Cornering him effortlessly, Barbossa gave the dazed whelp a sharp nick on the cheek with his cutlass-point, then shifted the point to the whelp's scratched throat, just under the chin. "A wiser fellow would've filched a cursed coin instead of a knife, when he had the chance..." Barbossa informed him derisively. But, noticing that the cut on Turner's cheek wasn't bleeding properly, Barbossa narrowed his yellow eyes suspiciously. He stabbed his sword experimentally through the kid's shoulder.
The whelp didn't cry out, or even flinch, and there still wasn't nearly enough blood.
"Ah," Barbossa concluded, "ye did." A cruel thought sprang to mind- Why not take young Bootstrap junior ta sea, keep him locked up, bring him out and shoot him or torture him whene'er the crew need cheerin' up, an' let him live miserable and cursed for oh, say... ten years? But the whelp had already proven himself an escape artist. Nah, Barbossa decided, can't risk havin' a vengeful, spirited, undead kid like that around. We torture him a day or two, and then he's dead. That's it.
Leaning down on his cutlass-hilt, driving the point deep between a crack in the seaweed-clogged rocks to keep the whelp's shoulder pinned down, Barbossa pried the skull-faced coin from between the whelp's shaky fingers, and swiped it on the blood seeping out from under the black silk cravat wrapped around the lad's neck. Sauntering back up the pile of loot to the Aztec chest, Barbossa nonchalantly flipped the bloody coin in.
Having pulled out the sword the moment Barbossa's back was turned, the whelp came charging up from behind-
-Predicting this, Barbs swung his flintlock over his shoulder, and shot Turner in the foot, stopping him dead in his tracks, and making him involuntarily collapse to one knee. This time, there was quite the proper amount of blood. Stepping on his fallen cutlass before Turner could snatch for it again, Barbossa smugly leveled his pistol squarely at the wounded lad's skull.
Turner looked like a hunted animal, bristling like a cornered cat. His soft, dark eyes were brim-ful of loathing, and as defiant as ever, as he glowered keenly over the loaded barrel of the flintlock.
"If I might ask, what were yer plans- escape?" Barbossa scoffed. "Where would ye go? Who on God's green earth or the devil's waters would come lookin fer ye?"
As if on cue, the clap of cannon-fire ripped through the night air.
A half-moment later, Mr. Twigg came rushing in on his gangly legs, gasping out, "Sparrow's crew on the Pearl has escaped, the devil knows how, and are firin' on the caves as we spea-"
-He was cut off mid-sentence, by a cannonball bashing through his very un-cursed ribcage. It wasn't a pretty sight.
"Aye... what he said," added the balding Mr. Pintel, darting behind the cover of a stalagmite. At least nine more of the crew scurried in after him, looking dazed, and keeping their heads low.
"Course of action, Cap'n?" Half-blind Hawksmoor asked nervously.
Barbossa thought hastily. There was no way in Hades his crew would go near the coins in the chest again, even to make themselves invincible. But Barbossa was distracted from answering his impatient, edgy crew by a sudden realization- Turner was missing. The captain whipped his hatted head around in all directions, like a seasick parrot. There, in the gleam of an abandoned torch, by the back tunnels, vanishing into a narrow tunnel mouth, he spotted a shadow. A shadow with backwards-jointed legs.
"AFTER HIM!" Barbossa hollered venomously.
Maybe, just maybe, that backward-legged, trotting shadow was a trick of the light, but Barbossa had a feeling something stranger was to blame. Yes, he had a feeling... a feeling...