Or Murray...
Then she remembered...
With a desperate, almost convulsive movement, she yanked the knife out of her waist-sash. Her lungs already felt like they were about to burst, and her head swam as she turned the knife in her hand and hacked at the cords. She nearly gasped as salt-water invaded the cuts she made in her wrists, trying to loosen the bonds--then the rope broke. She bolted like a fish for the surface.
Two inches from air, her lungs gave out and she gasped in a deep breath of sea-water. She choked on burning salt--sheer blind panic and animal will to live gave her a brief burst of strength. She broke the surface with enough power to rise half-out of the water, falling over onto a large crate which just happened to be in reach. She coughed and choked until she cleared the water from her lungs, then clung to the crate, eyes shut and out of strength. Her clothes were completely soaked, her hair was in loose tangles around her shoulders, one of her boots was gone, her wrists were cut deeply enough to bleed in half a dozen places and stinging from the salty water, eyes likewise. She let them water until mock-tears fell down her cheeks, clearing out the salt.
It hurt to breathe...it hurt to cling to the crate...it hurt to move. Chariset tried to tell herself that at least she was alive, but she didn't feel like a survivor. Between physical and emotional hurts, she felt like a woman who had just lost a battle.
I'm alive...but out in the middle of the ocean. No food, no water...well, no drinkable water..no company. I've lost the Amulet and I don't know whether I can heal myself. I've lost Guybrush. I've lost Murray. I've lost-
Chariset stopped short when she realized what she was about to say: "I've lost the only man I ever loved."
But Murray had said he loved her, then tied her to the mast. He had thrown her into the ocean to drown, then given her a knife to free herself. And what had he said, just before she fell? Something....strange...
Delivered...to Big Whoop...but it doesn't say whether you have to be dead or alive. What does that mean?
Big Whoop kills its victims...could it be that he was actually giving me a chance to live? Was he trying to save me from certain death by sending me to near-certain death?
He can't have thought you'd survive, she thought. He must have been certain you'd drown anyway. You would have, if not for that knife. You were under a long time.
How long?
She raised herself up from the crate--hadn't there been a storm going on when she went in? Now there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the Sea Cucumber was nowhere in sight. Even with a driving wind, it would take several minutes for a ship that tall to disappear from sight, sails and all...but she was alone on the sea.
It had felt like an eternity--and to be honest she wasn't certain how long she had been out of the water--but even a conservative estimate said she'd survived under water for five minutes, perhaps longer.
So I might be able to hold my breath for ten minutes? It was a surprising thought, but clearly a welcome one, considering the ability might have just saved her life.
And one that will surely come in useful again, especially if I keep it to myself....
Chariset remained where she was for about an hour, recovering as best she could. Then she closed her eyes and tried to call the blue flame from the Amulet. It came, weakly, and danced over her mistreated wrists and hands. The wounds slowly closed, sealing into red scars which faded white. Now she didn't have to worry about infection from the salt water. Murray's knife--actually her own, she remembered--she embedded in the wood of the crate for the time being.
As she did, she heard a mistreated Bwwwaaaaak! from within. She was just curious enough to pry a board loose from top of the crate so she could peer inside.
A bright, beady eye met her gaze. She pulled back instinctively as the crate's lone occupant poked its red head out of the hole, then wriggled and thrashed until the rest of the feathered body emerged. A magnificent scarlet parrot with blue primaries shook its wings, ruffled up its feathers, and tilted its head as if to get a better look at her.
He seemed to be waiting for a greeting. "Hi there," Chariset managed.
"Hi there," repeated the parrot.
"How are you?" she offered, feeling a little foolish.
"Fine. How are you?"
She eyed his impressive beak, far too close to her fingers for her comfort. "Nice birdie."
"Me is a nice birdie," the bird reassured her.
Umm...."Pretty bird."
"Very pretty bird. Bwaaak."
She sighed. The bird was clever but ridiculously friendly--and not helping her situation any. "You ought to go get some food," she told it. "Just because I'm starving doesn't mean you have to."
"Get some food," the parrot agreed, bobbing its head up and down. "Get some food."
"Well....go on." She waved a hand at the red parrot.
He blinked jet eyes at her, not understanding. "Find a tree, birdie. Go find a tree!"
"Tree!" The parrot whistled happily, launched into the air, and took off with slow flaps of its wings, looking over its shoulder as if to make sure she was following.
Well, when she went overboard, she had seen signs that they were near land. A parrot might know where that was as well as she did. She turned the crate around and began pushing it through the water in the direction the parrot had left, using it to support her weight while she kicked with her feet. It might well be a long, long swim.
Below her, about a hundred feet down, a gang of perhaps a dozen skeletons turned and followed her slow progress. She was still too far away to reach, but they could wait...
Several hours later, she espied her feathery friend (a parrot has a very distinct profile in the air) flying directly toward her. He landed heavily on the crate, deposited a small object on the boards before her, and looked up expectantly. When she gaped at him, astonished, he helpfully explained. "Found tree. Food."
Half a coconut lay on the crate before her, cracked open through some unknown parroty means. What was more, it was so fresh that it still had some milk in it--milk the parrot must have deliberately carried by holding the shell carefully upright. And between inhaling sea-water and swimming in salt for half the day, Chariset felt more dehydrated than she had ever been in her life.
"You're amazing," she told the parrot in heartfelt gratitude, pulled herself up on her elbows, seized the shell, and drank it down before the illusion could vanish. It was richer than she'd expected, and warm, but wet, and that was all that mattered. "Thank you," she told the parrot when every drop was gone. He puffed out every feather and looked pleased.
She stroked his feathers with one hand and scratched out bites of coconut with the other. "So you've decided to look after me now," she mused. "Like Elijah and his ravens." He responded by leaning in closer and closing a bright eye. "Well, parrot, I don't know where you were going, but you just might have saved my life."
"Bwaaaaaaak.."
"I'm serious. And anyway, you seem determined to stick around..."
He leaned in even closer. "Bwaaaaaacck."
"I'll take that as a yes. And I can't just keep calling you 'Parrot'..."
A rapid shaking of the head.
"So.....how's 'Elijah' strike you?"
He purred.
She stifled a yawn and resumed kicking her way through the water. Elijah hopped onto her shoulder and shook his feathers lightly, a red shape just at the edge of her vision. The empty shell rocked slightly with the motion of the crate.
"Where land, Elijah? Where tree?"
He pointed with his black bill. The sky was slowly beginning to darken, but she could make out a black shape at the edge of the ocean. She sighed and resumed her progress.
Late night. The sky was alive with green-tinted light and a million stars. In a city, where candles or lamps over-brighten the sky, it would have seemed pitch-black, but this was the open sea. There was nothing to obscure the scene below of a woman, a crate, and a black parrot who would probably be red in normal light.
They were coming upon a rocky outcropping--a high coastline surrounded by deeper water. The island sloped down near the water to the left and right, but where the crate was about to touch, there was no convenient place to bring a boat out of the water.
Chariset was dozing, head on her folded arms, elbows locked into the raised edge of the crate's top, waking and sleeping at intervals. She told herself every moment of wakefulness that she was only going to rest her eyes, but her tired body was too exhausted to continue at full alertness for long. Elijah had tucked his head under his wing once it was clear that the ocean currents were carrying them into the island instead of away, and besides, he was just as tired as his new mistress.
All unawares, they drifted in closer, and closer to the low cliff which gleamed faintly in the dim light. They drifted in, touched with a light bump, and came to rest. Chariset raised her head, surprised by the sudden end of motion, dimly curious why there was a strange white obstacle in front of them.
Then, with no warning at all, they were under attack.
A sharp blade slashed at her legs, slicing through the cured-but-waterlogged leather of her remaining boot and cutting a burning line in the flesh beneath. Other skeletal fingers grabbed at her bare foot, cold as death, and more horrible. They got a grip around her ankle and pulled, trying to drag her down into the black water below.
In half a second, Chariset flashed from half-awake to hyper-alert. She was out of the water (though she had no idea how she'd managed it later) and standing on top of the crate itself before her mind had completely registered what was going on. Knife in one hand, bracing herself against the cliff-face with the other, she swiftly bent down and severed the hand which still gripped her ankle at the bony wrist. She kicked the horrid thing loose into the ocean, while Elijah came to life on her shoulder and shrilled angrily.
Another soldier lunged at her from the water--she stomped down with her hard boot-sole on his bony head as hard as she could, sending him under. More hands reached up to grab the crate, trying to tip it, while she fought for a balance that was none too steady as it was. Still more hands grabbed at her hair from above--other skeletons had come out of the water and were standing on the cliff-face above her. She seized the bone arms and threw him over her head into the water. The arms came loose in her hands--and one was still clutching a nicked but still perfectly good sword. She pried it from his undead grasp and swung around in time to cut the legs out from under yet another skeleton on the bank.
Elijah took flight, screaming insults. He fluttered between two skeletons on the left lower bank, causing them to swing at him simultaneously. He darted out of the way, leaving them to decapitate one another. She could have cheered.
Another assault on her hair. Another overhead toss. But this on was more tenacious-he kept his hold on her hair and tore a few hairs loose as he flew. She winced, even as she brought her sword down in a blow that would split his skull--when she noticed that he was strangely fascinated by the hairs in his hand. In fact, he had ceased to attack her at all, even though he still clung to the side of the crate.
That reminded her of her wounded calf--it was still bleeding onto the crate at a decent rate. But she was under attack from all sides--to stay here was to die when the skeletons managed to tip her into the water or cut her off from the island. Plus she was tiring as her adrenaline ran out. She needed to find a safe place for herself and Elijah to sleep before she collapsed somewhere.
With a desperate effort, she turned, tucked dagger into sash, thrust her sword into the top of the cliff, and scrabbled frantically up. Elijah tormented one skeleton, giving her enough time to tear one sleeve off at the elbow and throw it at another.
He stopped short. She kicked the other soldier off the cliff, where he landed on the abandoned crate. A few drops of blood still lay there, which held the entire remaining horde at bay for the time being.
That settled it. She tore off her other sleeve, used it to staunch the flow of blood from her leg as best she could, pulled out a few hairs from her head to add to the bundle, and left the entire mess lying on the beach. Then she whistled to Elijah and fled at the best pace she could manage. Her wounded calf still dripped blood, but she could only hope she'd thrown her pursuers off the scent for at least a few hours...
Much, much later that night--how much later she could not say--she found a tiny opening in a pile of rocks which led into a moderately large cave. With Elijah snuggled against her, she pulled herself inside, plugged the entrance with another rock, curled up against it, and did a fair imitation of a dead woman for the next few hours. Her last thought was to wonder where she would wake up.
Guybrush fought down a groan as he forced one eye to open. The thinnest possible thread of moonlight seeped down into the hold--somehow it managed to fall directly into his eye and burn directly through to his retina. He winced away, squeezing the eye shut, and rolled aside, off the thin blanket and onto a more-than-solid wooden floor, jarring his head slightly and reminding his entire body how much it hurt to land hard on a solid surface and then lie there for hours.
Wait a minute.... His thoughts struggled to work properly. Blanket?
He struggled up to a sitting position, then pushed off and slowly stood up, leaning on the wall as most of the blood proceeded to drain out of his head. After a few long minutes he began to feel more human again, though his temples were pounding in time to his pulse. No matter how many times something like this happened, he still couldn't quite take it in stride.
The hold in which he found himself was very small and very dimly lit. Only a narrow strip existed which was not directly beneath the locked door of the hatch (which he instinctively avoided). Back and forth he paced, slowly and unsteadily, over those three or four boards--the room was exactly five of his steps long, four was perfect since he didn't care to run into the walls. Step step step step, turn, step step.... What was he doing here? His last coherent memory was of Elaine...
Elaine with that green parrot on her shoulder, commanding an entire crew of the former undead. Elaine, who had locked him in here in the first place. Elaine, who had been acting strangely for close to two months now.
Elaine, who intended to make a present of him to whatever dark power she served now.
He had to stop her. Whichever power drew her to Monkey Island, it didn't have her best interests in mind. It would destroy her just as quickly as it would destroy him, this he knew with absolute certainty.
He scanned the tiny room, eyes narrowed in thought. In the center of the hold was a blanket and a small pillow, directly under the hatch. Someone had been looking after him. Not any of the owners of those busy footsteps overhead, though--the entire crew was too focused on their destination to be concerned over him, provided he was good and stayed put. Which he didn't intend to do.
A thin, misty form appeared in the corner of the hold--he had his answer. The Mailer-Daemon.
"Are you all right, sir?" the spirit asked before Guybrush could put a sentence together. "I've brought you some food and water." And he had--suspended in the spirit's thin substance was a small loaf of bread and a cup. He accepted both gratefully, only too glad for an excuse to sit down for a while. The Daemon anticipated this, gathered up the blanket, and draped it around him.
"How long have I been down here?" he asked, once he had moistened his throat enough to get the words out.
"Less than a day, sir," the voodoo creature responded.
"Where are we?"
"Still just off Plunder." When Guybrush blinked at him in surprise, he amended, "Captain Marley-Threepwood's crew is having difficulty deciding exactly where Monkey Island is."
"You mean the song doesn't call them in?"
"They all hear the song, but it seems to come from different directions, sir. The result: we're not going anywhere."
"I don't know if you even can sail directly to Monkey Island," Guybrush admitted. "Every time I've gotten there, it's been through something arcane."
That gave him an idea. "Can you carry anything larger than just this?" He raised the ceramic cup in indication.
"Oh, easily, sir. I can carry human beings, if you so desire."
"Good. Then first, I need you to find a few things for me, including the keys to the hold." He recited off the list from long memory. "And second, I want you to find out where Chari is."
The Daemon was gone an hour, leaving Guybrush to pace out his nerves and boredom in the hold, which was far from quiet even at this time of night. Judging by the stomping and shouts coming from above, Elaine had her crew hard at work, even if they were getting nowhere. Finally, though, he felt the familiar disturbance in the air which signaled the Daemon's approach.
"Everything's ready, sir," he said upon materializing. "I figured you would want to add the final ingredient yourself."
"Did anyone see you?" Guybrush asked.
"The galley is completely empty, sir. It looks like no one has been down there in weeks."
He nodded in satisfaction. "And Chari?"
The Daemon spread himself out into the familiar screen, showing a dark pile of rocks. In their midst was Chariset, asleep--probably hidden well-enough in the darkness, but in daylight her hiding place would be no such thing. And judging by the look of the sky, it was not long before dawn.
The picture changed focus, showed a wider area--and now the skeletal soldiers in the area were clearly visible. They couldn't find her yet, but it was only a matter of time. Guybrush felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach--when the sun was up high enough, they would be able to see and catch her.
"Daemon, did you say you could carry human beings?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, then...there's been a change in plans. Hide your work in the galley, then go get Chari and bring her back here. Hurry."
The spirit vanished with a dramatic wisp of smoke.
Chariset was running through darkness and darker mud, slipping and sliding, fighting for every step. Behind was a great and horrible something with claws and humid breath. It moved easily through the mud, while she did not.
She slipped, skidded, nearly lost her balance but planted a foot, spun, and ran on. A cliff dropped from beneath her feet--she gathered herself and leaped out into mid-air--
Landing unexpectedly in a clump of nettles that stung as she ran. The monster had jumped as well and the trees were everywhere by the time she finally had enough space to turn and look at the thing.
"Yarrr!!" screamed LeChuck, stone and larger than life. She gasped and swerved out of the way, trying to hide in the gray mist. Soft black anthills impeded her movements. The zombie approached, flanked by Horace and Largo, just as the monster whomped into view, shaking the ground. With puppylike abandon, he snatched up Horace, wriggled around Largo, then darted around and around LeChuck. He was huge, he was....he was a puppy! Tongue logging, tail whipping his playfulness, he barked twice, darted forward, snatched up the stone zombie, tossed him with a flip of his head, caught him, repeat. In seconds the trio simply vanished.
Puppy-breath in her face, he dodged back and forth in front of her, wanting to play. She tried to tell him he was too big, but then he caught her up in his jaws. Prickle of puppy-teeth on her shoulder-she gasped and then-
Chariset opened her eyes. The warmth at her back was still there. So was the light touch on her uppermost arm. She turned her head to see black claws and red feathers. Elijah whistled a good-morning.
She gently shooed him away from his warm perch so she could pinpoint the source of the other sensation.
Deep breathing. Lying on the hastily constructed straw mattress next to her was a sleeping form. Guybrush. To her great surprise, his face was beginning to show just the suggestion of a line or two around the eye and brow, and there were bags under his eyes sleep had yet to erase. Elijah fluttered down from a small wooden peg in the wall and settled on his shoulder, combing a loose strand of hair back with gentle precision. She sighed. It was a bittersweet moment, this first sight of her brother in close to a year, especially in what was clearly a prison room. There was not a door to be seen, and she'd have bet her remaining boot that the overhead hatch was locked. Of course, that's what the Daemon showed you, she berated herself.
The Mailer-Daemon himself was the familiar curl of smoke in the corner of the room--she slipped out of the makeshift bed, tucked the blanket closer around Guybrush, and walked over.
"Can you run a few errands for me?" she asked after a brief exchange of greetings and thank-you's, once she learned that he had rescued her. "Breakfast...for one, and I need some new clothing." She glanced significantly at her bare feet, noting that her wounded calf had been carefully bound up. "I can tell you where to find my closet in the Sea Cucumber--I have a spare pair of boots there, and some other items. Also..." she paused "..I want you to see whether you can get the Necromancer's Amulet for me."
He did something close to a bow, then vanished. She sat down upon the side of the 'bed,' stroked Elijah's back-feathers, and waited.
Two arms closed on her from behind. She gasped, even as a familiar voice said in her ear, "Hey, sis. Long time no see."
It took them well over an hour to catch up over a breakfast delivered by the Daemon. He had also brought in a number of other items, some more practical than others. "I'm glad for the chamber pot," Chariset commented. "But why two pieces of cloth, or more water? You are planning an escape, right?"
"Of course," said Guybrush, waving a small cloth pouch by its tie-strings. She caught sight of the gray powder within and smiled slightly.
"But no Amulet."
"I cannot carry that item, madam," the Mailer-Daemon had said. "It nullifies magic, and I am magic."
"We'll just have to wing it from here on."
She glanced significantly at the gray pouch. "I take that to mean you want to attack Monkey Island itself?" It wasn't really a question. "We're not prepared to do this, Guybrush. We aren't even armed. When we attacked LeChuck, at least we had the Amulet and the Mask of Medusa--but LeChuck's powers are probably next to nothing compared to this Big Whoop."
"I have a hunch....not much more than a feeling...that we're a threat to his power just by being here," Guybrush confessed after a moment of thought. "And besides, you don't have to actually touch the Amulet to use it, right?"
"If it's close enough."
"Your Amulet was what closed Big Whoop the first time," Guybrush pointed out. "Of course he's going to want it brought to his stronghold to destroy it--which he will--but he won't do it right away. He'll want to play with it first.."
She nodded. "Typical evil villain. And hopefully I'll have time to use it first. But what are you going to use?"
He chuckled at some secret joke. "I've come to Monkey Island..what, three times? Maybe four. I only came armed once, and when I did, I....."
You died. "I get the picture," she cut in.
"My point is, it looks like the only way to survive there, at least for me, is to go unarmed. It's crazy, but it works."
"You do seem to have an instinct for that place," Chariset finally admitted. "All right, you fight it your way, I'll fight it mine."
"Either way, Big Whoop has to be destroyed."
"Agreed."
"But first we have to get out of here..."
A few minutes later.....
Chaos reigned. "I'm over here!" called Guybrush from one side of the deck.
"He's loose!" With pounding footsteps, half the crew gave chase--but he slipped through their hands.
"Yoohoo!" He waved cheerfully from the port rail.
"Now we've got--Ooof!"
"Hey! Watch it!"
"Ha! Nice try, folks!"
More footsteps as the crew ran the other direction, thuds as men dropped from the masts.
"Stop playing around and grab him!" shouted Elaine.
"We can't get ahold of him!"
Something piratey and obscene.
"This way, fellas!"
"He's headed for the galley! Get him!"
The Mailer-Daemon, in the guise of a certain pirate, was running around on deck, luring all the entranced pirates into the kitchen area. Once there, he had only to toss in the little gray bag of gunpowder and then, hopefully, the Threepwood pair (and parrot) could make good their escape.
Tauntingly, from above: "Not even close!" Sounds of skidding feet, followed by a muted crash. More obscenity.
"He does a better me than I do," the real Guybrush groused. Chariset only grinned at him, probably wishing, like he did, that they dared watch the show. "How will we know when it's--?"
BOOM. The Seahorse rocked under the impact of a small explosion. Seconds later the Daemon floated down to where they were seated against the wall, on the mattress, holding wet pieces of cloth in their hands.
"I guess that answers your question," he put in, just as the first few wisps of acrid smoke drifted into the hold. Chari coughed and choked, covering her mouth and nose with the cloth.
"Hold your breath," he advised, taking in a deep lungful himself through his own improvised gas mask. She imitated him, drawing in almost as much air as he did, to his mild surprise. He had well-developed lungs, but it sometimes took a while to fill them completely. Then he squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging smoke, leaned his head against the wall, and waited.
He knew to the second how long his air could last--ten minutes and 3 seconds--and so he also had a fair idea of how long a minute 'felt.' He tried to take his mind off the situation; holding his breath this long wasn't exactly what he would call fun. The air burned more and more the longer he held it--it stopped being comfortable at the four or five minute mark--but better than the alternative.
Motion on his left side at about the seventh minute...Chari had run out of air. Had it not been for the fact that his head was starting to spin, he would have been more impressed at this new-found ability. She leaned forward, breathing hard through the piece of wet cloth as she tried to recover from the oxygen deprivation. He opened an eye, saw that the smoke was finally starting to dissipate, gritted his teeth, and waited for it to be over.
At exactly the ten minute and four second mark, he doubled over, expelling all the breath in a rush, and dragged in a huge lungful of air and thin smoke. That was a mistake--between the sudden flood of oxygen and the magic smoke, he felt dizzier than ever. The world began to fade out into shades of gray...
"Guybrush! Wake up! We're there."
Huh? What was he...oh, right..
He shook himself and got up. With the help of the Daemon, both of them got up to the top of the deck and looked around. Elijah came out under his own power, and perched on her shoulder. They gave near-unison whistles of surprise.
The deck was strewn with unconscious pirates. It looked like some terrible massacre had taken place, especially in the kitchen where the smoke had been thickest. Guybrush, who had been on the receiving end of that spell twice now, did not envy them.
"What do we do with all of them?" wondered Guybrush.
"We drop them into the cell," Chari replied. "They'll just follow us otherwise..."
It took a long time, but with the help of the Daemon, every single crewman was deposited in the hold, with plenty of food and water (neither of the duo were barbarians). Guybrush dealt with Elaine himself, lifting her limp form and placing her gently on the bed in the Captain's cabin. He tossed the limp green parrot in after her with far less ceremony, wedged the door closed, then locked the hatch and dropped the keys overboard.
"Now....how do we get to shore?" asked the practical Chariset.
"Rowboat?"
"There are none."
"Swim for it?"
"Sharks."
"The Daemon."
"That would work."
Guybrush scanned the deck. "But not nearly as much fun as...."
She followed his gaze. "A cannon??"
"Never traveled by cannon before?"
"Um...no."
"Then," said he with
an unholy gleam in his eye, "it's time you try."