The Man of the Sea
"Here; ask the boy, ye old fool-I reckon it's the little boy's turn to ask ye fer a story! After all we've bin squabblin' round nigh all night long like some old pigeons, hardly listenin' to any a spare word…"
"Aye, even I'd say that that's fair enough…"
And so old Timothy swivels round to face me, the flicker of the oil lamps playing softly on his smiling, roughly chiseled face and the fire dancing in his giddy, twinkling eyes.
"So….what'll it be, Little Sparrow? Yer choice."
The old pet name stabs at my ears and my eyes skitter off into the glittering blackness of the clear night sky, frustration building like a blaze within me. I haven't a clue as to how old I am (haven't bothered to keep track), and yet I know that I'm hardly a child any longer. I simply know it. It cannot be. Seems that I've gone by the crew unnoticed, and I shift uncomfortably on my perch upon a creaking food-barrel, the Crest groaning and moaning beneath us as the sea breathes in and out in its cool, salt-misted rushes. I feel the refreshing touch of the breeze on my skin as well as the weight of the eyes of the small cluster of men who wait eagerly for my reply. And so I reply, lamely at best.
"I don't know-I don't know of many…stories."
"Oh, come here-I know every dang blasted legend that's ever spilled from the lip of man, boy; surely I know of any of the little tales that might peek their heads into that mind of yers!"
"No; it's just that…I can't say that-that I know of any of them, that's all…"
Tim shoots me a dumbfounded look, clearly taken aback, and I let out a sigh and cast my eyes back into the glimmering night sky, connecting my gaze with that of the winking Great Bear and wondering where Smith wanders tonight. He and I haven't spoken in many a fortnight, it seems.
"Never heard of one single story…Where've ye been all of yer life, boy? We pirates live on these bloody tales, ye know!"
There is a drunken murmur of agreement and I rest my chin edgily upon my knee, throwing my gaze out over the ring of ruddy faced crewmen, their cheeks flushed and their eyes twinkling with the drinks that they hold clutched in their soiled fingers. Tanner throws his head back and takes a sloshing swig, the sharp smell of alcohol burning in my nostrils. At least I have some company on tonight's watch. I sniff and shake out my hair and turn sourly back towards Tim, who is still laughing and ranting on about some rubbish, his companions nodding and jeering at his freely bouncing words.
"I say we tell the lad a basic one, shall we?" red-haired Bennington says, grinning. "How 'bout the story of good old Davy Jones; how'll that one do?"
"Aye!" Tim cries earnestly, his eyes sparkling merrily as he throws his hands up gleefully into the yawning curtain of night. "That'd be the one, it would-Now,…boy…"
My eyes dart over to him and are immediately pierced by the vigor of his deep gaze; I blink and nearly shudder with the surprise.
"How much do ye know of Davy Jones, young lad?"
"A fair amount."
"Well, spill it, won't ye?"
"Let's see…well, I heard that he was some sort of strange thing, nigh a sea-creature, and that he had no heart and that he used to run round the sea like a squall and strike down the ships of all men-not a soul ever survived it, I heard."
My voice falters and the swinging shadows of the overhead lines swamp round my feet.
"Ah, I see. So ye've got the right idea 'cross yer head…that's good, boy, that's good. Now just ye hold tight and I'll tell ye the rest…"
Old Timothy clears his throat with a hack and I can nearly feel the anticipation clinging in the air, aglow in the crewmen's eyes, tingling and smarting inside of myself. The barrel creaks beneath me as my weight shifts, my body leaning closer as to inhale every word that spills from his oddly wizened, wind-chapped lips.
"See, mates: Davy Jones is a fiend of a man; he's such an empty soul that a fellow could look straight through his eyes and gaze upon the nastiness inside of his rotted hide-there'd be not a soul there to look upon. He's got no feelings, old Jones. He's nothing but an empty shell, consumed by the sea and by the void of the emotionless-some say that he's half-fish, half-lobster, half-squid, but whatever he be, it ain't human. Not a chance. The man controls the sea and flits round with all the might of a hurricane, he does; his ship's called the Flying Dutchman, they say, and supposedly the thing plows along beneath the cold surface of the waves, creeping and slinking and blending into the body of the great ocean, waiting to terrorize all who cross his bloody path. And if his little vessel wasn't fearsome enough, it's been said that Jones has also got a mighty monster under his icy thumb: the kraken. This kraken can be unleashed upon any poor fool who Jones has damned to bear the black spot, and trust me, those cursed fellows have never, ever lived to tell the tale.
"But as ye might be guessin', Jones wasn't always such a beast, no, most definitely not. He was a real man, a man of life and dreams and everything glittery that beckons from way out over the horizon. Jones was a man of the sea. Jones is a man of the sea. He fell in love with the sea, oh, ever so desperately in love. But the pain it caused him was far too much for him to bear. It hurt him, crushed him, thrashed him and ground him into despair, and yet it did not kill the poor fellow. Alas it didn't, and poor Jones could not stand it for any longer. The desperate man committed the most unspeakable of humanly deeds: with a cold blade he carved out his own still-beating heart from his bosom, as to never feel the unbearable pain of mortal emotions, not ever again. And so he cannot.
"To this blessed day, Davy Jones roams the sea like the chilling arctic wind, undying, bound to live until the end of time. He's been consumed by the ocean and by the emptiness that swarms within his bosom, and the man yearns for nothing more than to damn every good man to an eternity trapped within his wicked, otherworldly domain, the fate that awaits all those who die at sea: Davy Jones' locker."
The silence hangs in the air like a sickness and not a man can bring himself to speak, to shatter the moment that swims eerily in this hovering, foreboding darkness. I stare out over the black waves and I do not know what to make of it. A myth? A legend? Or is there really a sea-man that lurks beneath the surface, ready to drag all of the innocent down alongside him? My eyes stare blankly and the water suddenly slams icily into the bow of the docked Crest, as if Jones himself was having a laugh at us.