Deep within the Caribbean,
Crescent Island....
The tiny atoll sat on the high seas less than a mile from Plunder. Though by no means invisible from its larger sister island, it was concealed from Puerto Pollo and the Governor's fort by Plunder's high central mountain. No one ever went out there, because there was nothing to see there besides a semicircle of jagged rocks, concealing a lean little strip of beach and one or two hardy palm trees. It looked absolutely inhospitable. It was absolutely inhospitable.
And this was precisely why Big Whoop had ordered Horace and Largo to make it their home for the duration of the mission.
Largo leaned on one of the struggling palm trees and wondered how any coconut had survived on this beach long enough to take root. The waves dashed with mad fury against the sand night and day, never a letup, making landing a boat here absolutely impossible, even if the sailor had enough skill to avoid running into the sharp coral rocks which composed three sides of the island, the interior of the crescent was by no means calm water. Waves crashed and rebounded off of the arms of rock extending out from the beach--any boat caught in that maelstrom would surely be dashed into the interior walls or, if a decent size, would have its sides scraped to ribbons merely entering the deadly C. They had little fear of discovery.
Big Whoop himself had landed them here through some mysterious power of his own, opening a portal and depositing them onto the damp sand. After them had come their pitiful stock of supplies--mostly small pieces of paper and various writing utensils--but with sundry other items as well. Two blankets (the undead didn't need to sleep, but it was comforting and brought a few hours of oblivion to what were rapidly becoming dull, boring lives), a pair of swords, a handful of skeletal guards, and, last but not least, a dollop of the living magma which composed Big Whoop. This handful of molten stone had shaped itself into a tiny simulacrum of its parent figure and apparently was somehow linked back to him. Whether he was a scout to see how the plan was going or a spy to ensure the cooperation of the two operatives, Largo was not sure. He had never been much for speculation, anyhow.
Wingbeats warned him that the now-familiar green parrot was coming in. She was their carrier of messages back and forth from Plunder Island, a near-tireless flier. Horace had been concerned about feeding her, but apparently she scavenged on Plunder and did just fine on her own.
Polly (for that, however unoriginal, was her name) glided in to land among the rocks, flipped her wings to her back with near-catlike fastidiousness, and cocked her head as she regarded Largo with bright eyes. Her left leg, carrier of three messages that morning, was bare once more.
Up came Little Whoop (Largo's private name for the simulacrum), followed by Horace and a skeleton. "Speak, Polly," he commanded, waiting expectantly for some kind of answer.
"Bwwwaaak. Get out of here, you damned bird! Get out! Bwwwacck." Polly was trained to remember the last thing she had heard, and could even mimic human inflections fairly well. There was no doubt from the parrot's recitation that the recipient of her last message was stretched almost to his limits and perhaps it wouldn't take much to send him over, to the breaking point.
"Well done, Polly," applauded Little Whoop. Unable to touch the bird directly (for obvious reasons), the lava-creature nodded at Horace, who scratched the green parrot gently on the head. She closed an eye and uttered a soft 'Bbwwaak' as she enjoyed the attention.
Little Whoop quickly lost interest in his pet bird. "I think we've pushed this as far as we can--clearly our target is unsettled and in no way able to think rationally at this point," he informed Horace and Largo. "It's time to proceed with Step 2. Stand by to be transported to your new positions."
The two unwilling partners exchanged glances. They'd had no orders besides "Wait here and write letters, threatening little notes designed to annoy and unsettle, but nothing more than threats." Puzzled, they'd done so, wondering why petty torments would bother a (reasonably) self-assured pirate like Guybrush Threepwood--only to see him overreact far beyond their expectations. They were, in fact, driving him to distraction. But if this was merely was Step 1, then Step 2 must mean something far more direct.
So they stood by, tense with anticipation, while Little Whoop curled into a rounded puddle on the sand (the shape requiring the least amount of energy on his part to maintain), communicating with Big Whoop. Suddenly, without the least amount of warning, the sand opened beneath their feet--before they even had time to gasp, they landed unceremoniously in a thick patch of bushes. "Hide here," whispered Little Whoop through the portal. "Wait for our target." After his whisper, a pair of swords came down through the portal, followed by something else. A pair of shackles.
"Now," Little and Big Whoops whispered to themselves/himself, "let us go sing another song to our fair Elaine Marley."
The green parrot raised her head from beneath her wing as Little Whoop approached her, but she was far too late to stop him from reaching a glowing mental 'hand' around her mind. Her end, when it came, was mercilessly quick--she had time for only one final Bwwwwwaaaak! of terror before collapsing bonelessly to the ground. With his birdlike talons, Little Whoop squeezed in a horribly indescribable fashion, crushing her mind until it was no more than bloody mental pulp, and only then, with slow and evil delicacy, did he insert himself into it. A moment later, the parrot stood and shook herself, then began to preen as calmly as if nothing had happened, then sprang into the air and flew heavily towards Plunder Island. Behind, on the beach, lay an already-cooling, rounded-puddle-shaped rock of unanimated magma, discarded.
The parrot flew out over the ocean, reveling in flight even as well-trained wing muscles bore 'her' over the water, over the shore, over a long string of docks, looking for one particular ship painted in dark red and gold. Men were below already, stocking and loading the ship--Big Whoop's operatives, cleverly disguised. The parrot perched on a cross-bar on the main mast and gazed down on the preparations below. 'She' went unnoticed.
For a few long minutes, the parrot stood silent. Then she threw back her head and began to sing the Song of Calling, hindered only slightly by her limited vocal chords. At the first sounds, all the men below looked up with such abruptness that it seemed their necks would break. They stared blankly up at the bird as she sang--and around them, more pirates joined their ranks, both hidden agents and clearly living human beings. From the direction of the fort, a small trickle emerged, including four men who had once served under Chariset Threepwood. With glazed, blank expressions, they moved down the road, up the gangplank, and onto the deck.
Following them was a red-haired woman. She passed two small patches of disturbance in the bushes without a pause--Horace and Largo, resisting the song--and walked up towards the ship, her lovely face filled with expectation. When she drew near to the side of the ship, the parrot swooped down, circled the woman, then landed with surprising delicacy on her shoulder. The Song of Calling diminished down to three or four whistled notes.
Elaine turned her head and gave the parrot an affectionate pat, then straightened "We must make ready," she began, with all the authority of a born Captain. "We have a long journey ahead of us." Eyes alight with near-manic purpose, the assembled crew hurried to obey.
When Big Whoop sang, even Chariset felt the tremor in the air now. Murray's hand tightened on hers convulsively, while the Amulet around his neck glowed too brightly to look at directly. Eyes squeezed shut, he endured without a sound. The other men in the cell, some close to half-mad, groaned on the floor or beat themselves with frenzied desperation against the sides of the hold. Over half of her crew inhabited the brig now, some of them so enthralled by the power of the song that they would have thrown themselves overboard and paddled under their own strength to Monkey Island. Or drowned in the attempt. Like Odysseus, she thought grimly. I've chained them to the mast so they can't go to their deaths. But they didn't even want to hear this song. And the rest of us didn't get the choice about the earplugs.
The air stilled, the men groaned, and some collapsed to the floor. Murray's grip loosed, and he leaned on the door, breathing hard. "Murray," she began, feeling heartsick, "It's so hard to watch you go through this. It's so hard on me to keep you locked up in there."
His labored breathing slowed a little as the Amulet dimmed its intense light. "I know...But it won't be much longer...now." He raised clear eyes to hers, eyes without a trace of insanity in them, and the light from the Amulet died entirely. "It's over," he said in a tone of near-wonder. "It's gone!"
"The song?" Chariset hardly dared hope she could have Murray back at her side again. "Are you sure?"
As if in answer, another tremor of song swept through. The Amulet remained dark. Murray looked at her joyously as it passed him right by, not affecting him any more than it did her. "It really is gone!"
"Oh, Murray!" She reached into the bars and hugged as much of him as she could, temporarily deaf to the moans of the other sailors. "It's so good to have you back!"
They embraced for a few moments before Murray made any attempt to pull away. "So...do you think you could let me out now?"
"Oh...right." Chariset felt a little foolish for not remembering sooner. She fumbled out the heavy ring of keys she'd been hiding in her sash, found the right one, slipped it into the lock, and turned. Murray was watching intently as she coaxed the old lock into opening, retrieved her key, and then slid the bolt open. "Hurry."
As soon as the door was open wide enough, Murray was through, catching her up in a huge bear hug. "I've missed you, Captain." Greatly daring, he lifted her chin up toward him and planted a small kiss, not on her mouth as she was expecting, but farther down her jawline, just before her ear. Oblivious to the staring prisoners, she turned her head and forced the issue just a bit, kissing him. He was obviously not expecting this, but she insisted, inwardly amused, scratching lightly on the back of his neck with her fingernails--and he gave in and returned the favor. How long this lasted, she had no idea, but they were both breathing slightly faster when he broke off the kiss.
Murray gently teased an escaped strand of hair from her ponytail back over her shoulder with one hand while he slipped the Amulet gently off his neck and dangled it teasingly before her in the other. "Looking for this?" he asked lightly as she made an unsuccessful reach for it. His smile was purely playful as he tossed it from hand to hand, keeping it just out of her range-and then he tossed it to the floor in the anteroom of the brig.
Suddenly, and too late, she realized that she had forgotten to close and lock the door behind Murray. She whirled around to snatch up the amulet even as hands reached from behind the door and pulled it inside. In the same instant, her forward motion was arrested by two strong hands on her arms, just above her elbows.
"Murray, this is no time for games!" Chariset struggled against his grip lightly, then with all her strength. He didn't let her go. Angrily, she whipped her head around to face him as well as she could, only to see him leveling a dagger at her eye level. Her dagger. In his hand. She froze in place as much from shock as from the eloquent threat of the cutting edge.
Face passionless, he rested the knife point against the side of the throat he had touched so gently a moment ago, while the mad captives in the brig broke free and swarmed up out of the hold to attack her unsuspecting loyal crew. "You're right," he responded calmly, the light in his eyes gone cold and murderous as he gestured to another insane crewman, bearing a strong length of rope. "This is no time for games."
For what seemed like the thousandth time, Guybrush paced around the interior of the fort, hunting for Elaine. Crumpled in his hand was a note from that parrot:
From the Concerned Citizens of Plunder Island.
We have reason to believe that the Governor not only is derelict in her duties but is planning to leave her post and the island altogether. And you, sir, are just the sort who would not only let her get away with it, but would probably help. If you mean to step down, step down, but if you flee, you are little more than a coward.
It was low, it was petty, he really shouldn't have allowed it to affect him as much as it had, but his nerves were worn down from almost two months of this treatment, especially since it eerily coincided with Elaine's strange behavior. He wasn't sure he bought Chari's explanation--that it was a call from Monkey Island--since the one who explained all this to her was suffering the strange effects as well. Perhaps it was time to go see the woman who generally helped him sort things through, the Voodoo Priestess. He'd been trying not to depend so much on her lately, after she loaned him the Mailer Daemon, but it was time to admit that he was out of his league. It was just that this problem was nowhere so blatant as a pirate curse or an undead zombie--he'd hoped to be able to handle this one himself.
Feeling just slightly more in control now that he had some kind of plan, Guybrush stepped away from the courtyard side of the corridor and glanced through one of the rare outside windows in passing-
And saw a sight which completely shattered his brief moment of collectedness.
The Seahorse was up near the closest Puerto Pollo dock, swarming with men. Antlike, the crew carried crates nearly as large as they were up the gangplank and into the ship--from the look of the cargo piles yet to load, the 'Horse was about to be better supplied than she had ever been in her commissioned life.
And there, down supervising the whole operation, was the figure of a woman with flaming red hair. Elaine.
She really is leaving, he thought astonished. Hard on the heels of that thought came another. I've got to stop her!
He ran through the corridors of the fort faster than was generally advisable and tore down the beach toward Puerto Pollo at the fastest run he could manage.
"Here he comes!" whispered Horace unnecessarily as their target came barreling towards them at a dead run, arms and legs flying in all directions. "How are we going to stop him?"
"Like this," responded Largo, who was slightly closer to the fort than Horace. And, without any hesitation, he stuck his foot out directly in the path of the running Guybrush.
There was a slight sound of impact, and then Guybrush himself came somersaulting past them, still at a considerable speed, to land on his face in the sand with a heavy thud, winded and probably a little stunned as well. Largo leaped after him, seized both his arms, and clapped both his wrists in the irons before either Horace or Guybrush quite knew what was happening. Largo stood on his prize in some triumph while Horace collected himself and stood up.
"I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do that," the ugly little man sneered, still pinning Guybrush to the sand with one long foot. The pirate himself showed no signs of being able to get up, so Horace helped Largo haul him to his feet. One entire side of his face was covered in sand which, hands bound, he couldn't brush away. Largo sneered into his dazed eyes. "This is for a bucket of mud on my head. This is for your precious voodoo doll. This is for making me look like a fool in front of LeChuck!" He punctuated his words with blows--a tactic which unfortunately had the exact opposite effect of the one desired. Because by the time Largo had run out of words, he himself was out of breath, while Guybrush had recovered himself enough to respond.
Eyes narrowed in anger, Guybrush regarded his hunchbacked assailant as though the handcuffs didn't even exist. "You pathetic flunky. I made you look like a fool? Maybe it's because you were one to begin with."
Largo responded with another blow, this one to the jaw. Guybrush made no attempt to evade but simply took the hit and went on. "You never did know when to pick your fights," he said scornfully. "You never even knew whose side you were on, most of the time. You like to pretend you were LeChuck's right-hand man, but he never trusted anyone until the day he died. I should know, I was there." Largo glared death at Guybrush with the same helpless intensity as if he wore the cuffs--perhaps he did, the cuffs of knowing the truth when he heard it. "And the same goes to you, Horace," he added. "You got what you paid for. There was only one way to serve LeChuck--undead. You'd have done better to stay with Chari. At least she would have kept you alive."
Horace stiffened. Largo gestured with his eyes. Fists clenched, they both sprang at their captive in sheer irk-
-only to have his step adroitly to one side at the last minute. Largo landed a punch directly in Horace's eye, received the same in his prominent nose, and the two collapsed on the sand, moaning.
A pair of handcuffs landed on the sand next to them. "And I won't be needing these. You're welcome to them," said Guybrush in parting.
Horace put a hand over his eye while Largo tried to stem the trickle of blood from his beak, and he was unable to decide whom he hated more in that instant--Guybrush, his sister, Largo, or Big Whoop. He settled on all four, with a dab of contempt for himself.
Guybrush hurried away, unwilling even to stop and enjoy his second victory over Largo LaGrande. He ran up the dock, over the plank leading to the Seahorse's deck, and across the smooth boards, searching for Elaine. An instant later, she dropped down from the rigging just behind him, landing with practiced ease, hardly a hair out of place, scarcely disturbing the green parrot who rode her left shoulder.
A green parrot?
"There you are!" she brightened, coming up to him with a dazzling smile of joy. "I've been waiting for you."
And then, without another
comment, she raised her hands and shoved him backwards with all her strength.
Too surprised even to fight for balance, Guybrush tumbled through a hatch
just behind him, down through blackness, and landed hard on a wooden floor
inadequately covered in straw. Even as the rest of him complained
bitterly at this treatment, his head slammed into the hard surface at his
back and all thought vanished painfully into starry blackness. He
never saw Elaine lower the grilled door over the mouth of the hatch and
padlock it into place above his head, then collect the crew and give the
order to cast off. But the green parrot fluffed up her feathers with
what looked suspiciously like satisfaction, gazing down on the motionless
form of one of Big Whoop's worst enemies.
Bright, cheerful sunlight streamed down on the Sea Cucumber's deck, sparkling on the water and casting interesting shadows over everything through the long, twisting ribbons of Caribbean clouds. Her crewmen, slightly less than half of the usual number, scurried about doing the work of twice that number, driven to their duties with a furor their former Captain had never seen before.
Why do they always tie prisoners to the mast? pondered Chariset from Odysseus' position, struggling with the expert sailor's knots binding her wrists and watching helplessly as Captain Murray left his place near the bow of the ship and strolled arrogantly down the port rail. She fought to suppress her anger and pain at his betrayal, even as his much-loved face turned toward her. He can't help doing what he's doing, she told herself, trying to see reason. This isn't even Murray you're seeing. Something else controls him now. Something on Monkey Island.
But what? LeChuck was dead. Wasn't he? If he was really gone, then what else could command the undead soldiers? What other power could sing this Siren song and command even those soldiers who were restored to humanity to obey? You have to admit this is a new one, she thought wryly. Even LeChuck's power ended at undeath. Except for a very few, he could never rule the living.
But what if something ruled LeChuck?
What could? All he ever wanted was power.
And where did he get that power?
Big Whoop.
A slow feeling of certainty rippled through Chariset as the name came to her. "Big Whoop," she whispered. The source of enormous power which had nearly killed them all once. The 'treasure' Guybrush had been seeking for close to half a year, once he found his feet as a pirate. The 'treasure' which had resulted in the resurrection of LeChuck as a zombie pirate and whose power had enslaved hundreds of innocent tourists seeking only amusement and the cheap thrill of a roller coaster ride. Did that incredible power now have a will and agenda of its own?
Chariset tried not to shudder too visibly at the idea of all of LeChuck's power free-roaming the Caribbean but without any of LeChuck's checks on it. It wanted her dead and was willing to subvert every crewman she had to do so. Why?
A flit of light at the corner of her eye caught her attention--she turned to see the Mailer Daemon, clearly agitated. (For an insubstantial spirit, to be clearly agitated was quite a feat). The creature's yellow eyes almost looked piteous as it gazed at her, bound to the mast, then it expanded to a large square. Lights flickered across the square, and she realized that it was displaying an image.
Chariset watched, half in wonder, half in horror, as Guybrush raced down the beach toward Puerto Pollo, was ambushed, taken prisoner, and attacked by Largo and Horace. Silently she cheered him on as he made his escape with what looked like careless ease and ran up the Seahorse's gangplank--a Seahorse loaded for a long journey and fully crewed. Elaine greeted him with a smile, and he began to relax--and then she shoved him backwards down a hatch. He fell from sight of the deck, but the Daemon managed to keep him in the center of its projected image, and she winced in sympathy as he struck the wooden floor below and lay motionless, as if the it had been she who had fallen. Barred shadows fell across his face as Elaine herself locked him into the doorless hold. And riding her shoulder was that green parrot.
"Go take care of Guybrush," she whispered to the Daemon. "I'll be all right for now." The spirit rolled itself up, made a motion very like a bow, and fled.
Chariset drew herself
as straight as she could. She had to at least try to be strong, for
both of them.
With only the occasional comfort break, Chariset remained tied to the mast for most of the afternoon, until scudding gray clouds on the horizon announced the approach of a spring storm. With unexpected fury, it overtook the small Sea Cucumber and spent itself out with a near-supernatural rage. But Murray and the crew stood firm, even as waves washed across the deck, and under their capable hands the Sea Cucumber forged on through the rough seas.
Chariset wished with all her might that she could be out there helping instead of bound helplessly to the central mast, thrown here and there with every wave. The salty water soaked her feet, washing boards already made slippery by heavy rain. She fought to keep her balance, knowing that if she slipped and fell she might not be able to get up again.
She had almost no idea where they were or how close to shore until a particularly deep wave brought up one of the skeletal soldiers who shadowed the boat. It rolled and tumbled on deck, apparently stunned, and a second huge wave carried it back under. They must be close to some kind of shore.
"Murray!" she called into the wind. "We're too close to land! You've got to turn her or we'll wreck!"
Murray heard and staggered towards her, bracing himself against the waves. Before she could say a word, he drew out his dagger and began slicing the rope holding her to the mast.
"What are you doing??"
He ignored her, stuck the knife into her sash, but left her arms bound. "Chariset, I have to deliver you to Monkey Island--but they never said I had to do so personally." Then, more loudly, "And they never said you had to be alive!"
She gasped in horror as Murray picked her up, her hands still bound behind her, and walked to the rail. His eyes blazed half-sane as he held her tightly, disregarding her attempts to get free. "You're a curse and a scourge on this boat," he declared loudly. "We'd be better off without you." Then, quietly, "God protect you."
With one swift motion, he tossed her over the side of the rail, just as the ship hit a huge swell of sea. She fell a long, long ways before she struck the water, drawing in air in one huge, prolonged gasp....and as she did, she saw Murray turn at the rail and put his face into his hands.
Then the waters closed over her head.
Above, the sea grew
calm and peaceful, but one being who was not technically supposed to weep
was crying anyhow, tears concealed in the rain--crying for his betrayal
and sacrifice of the only woman he had ever loved.