'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney.
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May 23, 1982, Key West, Florida
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"A long, long time ago,
I can still remember how that music
Used to make me smile...
And I knew if I had my chance,
That I could make those people dance
And maybe they'd be happy for a while..."
The low voice was coming from a very short man- a dwarf, actually- seated on the next bench down from Jack's. He was softly singing to the music of a talented street musician- a young Haitian flutist, whose instrument was connected to an amp so all Mallory Square could hear. The dwarf's performance, in contrast, was strictly for himself.
"The February made me shiver,
With every paper I'd deliver,
Bad news on the doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step..."
Sparrow rather liked the ambiance of Key West... the sense of being at the edge of things. Small wonder it'd gained a rep as a haven for misfits of all sorts (a bit less so now, than before they'd built all those causeways), or that the Pearl's shortest crewmember had chosen to retire here. That singer on his left resembled Marty enough to be his descendant, but Jack refrained from addressing him. Even if this was Marty's progeny, the odds were he knew nothing of his ancestor's piratical heritage.
"I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day, the music, died...
"So bye-bye, Miss American Pie,
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry,
Them good ol' boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye,
Singing this'll be the day that I die,
This'll be the day that I die..."
It hardly looked or felt like February. This was, in fact, a beautiful early summer day. And Don McLean's notion of 'A long, long time ago' was undoubtedly far different from his own. None the less, Jack found the semi-morbid lyrics conducive to this sad anniversary. May 23 was the date Joshamee Gibbs had been killed, in a running battle between two Naval brigs and the Black Pearl, fleeing the no-longer-sanctuary of Tortuga. Though his ebon ship had escaped, one of the last fired shots had cut Gibbs down on the quarterdeck. A fast death, if not a clean one.
As far as Jack was concerned, the age of piracy, as he'd known it, had ended that day.
Learning of Hector Barbossa's passing, just a week later, had finalized that scuttling. The aging scalawag had been caught in a similar ambush, off a hithertofore safe anchorage, and hadn't managed to outrun it. From all reports, he'd gone down fighting, which was exactly what the blaggard would've wanted. First to the finish, then.
Captain Sparrow had taken that as a signal to make his own exit, and did so within the month. His own supposed end was far less glorious, but necessary to maintain the fiction- faking a death in battle would've required more participants than he could trust to keep quiet. But a single greedy Madame with financial motives to continue the deception... that he could count on.
So now, quite a few years later, Jack was in Key West's popular northwest corner, listening to a fine street musician, while his cabin cruiser, the Dizzy Izzie, received her annual maintenance work. Mallory Square was well populated with tourists during this season, particularly college students just coming off spring semester. Straight ahead, Jack could see a group of such, buying slices at the key lime pie stand (one long-haired lass apparently writing down the recipe.)
He himself had just received the benefit of a different spring; his latest dip in the Aqua de Vida. It was his habit to take it easy for a few days afterwards, to try to establish what 'bonus gift' he'd received this time. These weren't always obvious. Once, it'd taken five years for him to notice he could tolerate low temperatures better than he'd ever had before. Sparrow had almost commemorated this with trip to the south pole... it was just as well he'd changed his mind.
"I met a girl who sang the blues,
And I asked her for some happy news-
She just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store,
Where I'd heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn't play..."
Nowadays, if the 'bonus' wasn't apparent within a week, Jack would visit a fertility clinic to establish whether his sterility had been corrected. If that ever happened, he wanted to know about it. That change would necessitate taking specific precautions. And also open certain possibilities.
"And in the streets the children screamed,
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed,
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken...
And the three men I admire most,
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day, the music, died..."
As his diminutive neighbor almost whispered the final chorus, Sparrow's finger strayed to the scar dissecting his own left eyebrow. A souvenir from the night of Barbossa's mutiny. Jack had been so infuriated by the betrayal, he'd broken his own rule against getting into fights he couldn't hope to win. A breach which had very nearly cost him an eye. The remnant of that slash, and the faded P on his wrist, were the two marks from his original life which'd been least affected by his subsequent rejuvenations. Almost as though the Aqua de Vida discriminated according to importance. Perhaps it did. Sentient water wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd ever encountered.
American Pie concluded. 'Marty' vacated the bench and moved purposefully towards the docks- perhaps he was just a tourist after all. The young Haitian began playing some Broadway tune, possibly from 'South Pacific'. Jack didn't bother to specifically identify it, his memory being occupied elsewhere.
His recollection of Gibbs' death was still tinged with, if not quite regret, at least uncertainty. Jack still wondered whether, had he shared the secret of the Fountain with Josh, he would've had the man's agreeable companionship through the intervening years. Though it probably wouldn't have made any difference. Odds were they'd have ended up in that same ambush, in which case his first mate would've been killed anyway. Or, the two might have elected to go their separate ways, leaving Sparrow just as alone as he was now. It was even possible Gibbs would've refused the treatment outright. Others had.
For some while now, Jack had been on the lookout for people worthy to receive the Fountain's benefits. Even if they weren't willing to stick by him permanently (something he wasn't sure he wanted anyway), he liked the notion of having somebody in the world who knew who he was... of being truly visible to at least one other human being. Even occasional meetings with such an individual would be a great comfort to him.
But it was discouragingly hard to find anyone with the right credentials. It would have to be a person for whom he had deep fondness (preferably reciprocated), who was responsible enough to never breath a word about the Fountain, and who possessed sufficient savvy to manage a periodic change of identity. That last had become far more difficult through the just-past century, with it's insistence on written documentation- birth certificates, driver's licenses, passports and such. Fortunately, a bribe in the right place still worked wonders.
Sparrow had seriously considered several candidates over the years. There'd been Lady Hiroko, the Japanese fencing master who'd taught him Asian swordsmanship. Rather plain of face, but transcendently beautiful in motion- graceful, controlled, powerful as a panther, with steely intelligence beneath. Jack thought it a fine prospect, for her to practice and teach her art indefinitely. But a few philosophical discussions revealed she was of too stoic an outlook to want immortality. A person who considered life and death to be essentially the same would find little appeal in what the Aqua de Vida offered.
There'd been Shimza Jancsi, that raven-tressed Gitane he'd known in Málaga. A girl so brimful of life she energized any space she entered. The brilliant sparks they'd struck off each other, dancing far into the night... such an incandescent spirit should shine well beyond her own time. Unfortunately, after consuming half a bottle of oloroso sherry she'd demonstrated sufficient lack of discretion to disqualify her from being awarded such a dangerous secret.
There'd been old Chayna, the impressive Incan matriarch he'd encountered in Peru, possessed of wisdom as ageless as the Andes. A mind with such depth and compassion as hers should've been allowed to dispense advice for ages. Jack had gone so far as to explain the entire situation to Chayna, and she'd been appreciative. Regrettably, the woman was too closely attached to the earth to consider stepping aboard a ship, and too frail to make the journey to Florida overland. A bloody shame, that. There'd been many an occasion since, when he'd have exchanged his weight in gold for a chance to talk with her again.
There'd been marvelous Thelma Griffin... actually, she'd had only one credential, which had dispelled as soon as the night ended.
In fact, Jack reluctantly admitted, he might never find anybody suitable. This was a possibility he preferred not to contemplate for any length of time.
A large and noisy family was crossing the Square. Sparrow glanced over, noticed the smallest boy's souvenir hat; a black felt tricorn decorated with skull and crossbones. A reminder of how the pirates of his own era were currently viewed; as colorful, semi-comic entertainment figures. An image he himself had contributed to. Sparrow smirked, considering how these tourists might react if they knew they were walking past an actual buccaneer. That is, if any of 'em could believe a pirate would wear sneakers, cutoff jeans, a black Ernest Hemingway tee-shirt, and aviator sunglasses.
The boisterous group reached the far side of the Square, disappearing into the Shell Warehouse. Jack felt a pang of a different sort. Even from a distance, seashells always reminded him of Elizabeth. Though he'd not exchange any treasure for his least memory of that matchless wench, there was no doubt they extracted a regretful price.
Almost despite himself, he found himself recalling an exchange he'd had with Lizzie upon discovering she was teaching seafaring skills, but not piratical ones, to her son Willy:
/ "There's no point grooming him for a dying profession, Jack. The 'golden age' of piracy is in it's final days. We both know that."
"So, our victory at the Battle of the Maelstrom was for naught?"
"Hardly! We won an alternative to mass extinction that day- a chance to step down in times and ways of our own choosing. And to tell our own side of the history, not leave it entirely to those who'd paint us as vile miscreants without redeeming value. Definitely worth the effort."
"Then what future do you envision fer young Willy the Third?"
"He'll have the option of becoming a seafarer if he wishes. I've set aside enough swag to supply him with his own ship. And for any other offspring William and I may have after he comes home. Our children, and those of our fellow pirates, shall be the ones to pass our stories on- tales which may still be told centuries from now. That's certainly worth the price we paid, Captain Sparrow..." /
Twenty-first century Jack sighed. The lass must've had a bit of the prophetess in her, among other things. He still had moments when he almost wished he'd tricked her, and both Williams, into taking the Water. Or at least made a much stronger effort to persuade them.
No profit in brooding over that, either.
So half-believed legends and media entertainments were all that was left of the culture which had shaped Captain Jack Sparrow. Preferable to being forgotten completely, he conceded. Still... For a long moment he shut his eyes, his mind far away from this place, and even further from this time...
Jack perked up when the flutist started to play a Rolling Stones melody. He'd had always been partial to that band. Even to this, the mellowest song in their repertoire. He listened intently to the end. It turned out to be the musician's stopping point; when finished, the young Haitian disconnected the amp and began packing up his equipment. Jack strolled over to hand the lad a much-appreciated twenty dollar bill.
Leaving the square, Jack started south along carnivalesque Duval Street, towards his dinner reservation at Mangoes. He mulled over tomorrow's itinerary: inspect his renovated cruiser, get the air tanks filled, and be off to pay a diving visit to his Black Pearl. That prospect made him smile, though rather wistfully. There just might come a day when he'd decide to join her down there for good.
Though not anytime soon. For now, he had Mangoes' excellent conch fritters to look forward to. And then the Sunset Celebration at the Mallory docks, with it's lively collection of street performers- the bloke who balanced a shopping cart in his teeth was expected to be there. Afterwards, there was a generous stock of rum stowed in his cabin.
As he proceeded down the road, half-shadowed under late-afternoon sun, Jack idly sang the lyrics to the song he'd just heard so artfully played:
"It is the evening of the day,
I sit and watch the children play,
Smiling faces I can see,
But not for me,
I sit and watch as tears go by...
My riches can't buy everything,
I want to hear the children sing,
All I hear is the sound,
Of rain falling on the ground,
I sit and watch as tears go by...
It is the evening of the day,
I sit and watch the children play,
Doing things I used to do,
They think are new,
I sit and watch as tears go by..."
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FINIS
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Song lyrics are from American Pie by Don McLean, and As Tears Go By by the Rolling Stones.
BTW: This is the first occasion where I've included myself in a fic. May 23, 1982, is when I made my first visit to Key West, where I bought a slice of key lime pie from the Mallory Square stand, and asked the attendant for the recipe (which I've used ever since.) The Haitian flutist, the Shell Warehouse, Mangoes, and the shopping-cart-balancing guy are all real.