Title: Rumors
Author: Cúdae
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own Jack Sparrow, William (Bootstrap Bill) Turner, or most everything else I borrow from Disney. I am not making any profit off this whatsoever.
Interlude…
Some say that the voices of the dead speak to the living in things that surround them. Others say they watch from the stars, or perhaps are the stars themselves. And yet still others speak softly, saying the souls of the dead are bound until world's end, for forever there will be one who remembers their name.
Chapter Two…
He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to rest. But the noise of the city kept him awake. He would have passed on all the beautiful women and all the strong liquor in the world if he found a bed. But he had nothing with which to pay for one. There were, of course, other ways that did not involve the exchange of money. But Jack could hardly see straight, let alone think straight enough to get himself a bed without paying for it.
He lost all strength for movement in a stable behind a tavern. He collapsed unceremoniously into a rotting pile of hay, not caring about or not noticing the dung encased in it. He had spent the past days running. He ran over land and over sea. He had gone from places familiar to places strange. He did not stop, an eating inside him prompted him ever forward until there was nothing left. He was not sure what he ran from. Perhaps he fled the Black Pearl, perhaps he fled the grief.
Now he could not move to save his life. Not that he cared, he was long past caring what he could and could not do. Days on the move with nothing to eat or drink and no where to rest cleared his mind of all illusions of pleasure. For was that not what pleasure was? Merely an illusion?
There had been a time, years before, when Jack had lived easily, happily even. The ship was small and the crew smaller. But both were trustworthy. William too had been there, standing at his side, mocking him and pushing him to do better. That life was too easy for Jack. The division of plunder without complaint agitated him. The pillaging of small ports long forgotten by the navies of the world was too easy. The people fled before him without a stand, handed him the very things he wished for.
It had been William who urged him to take command of the Black Pearl. And it had been William who helped him earn it. Irritably, Jack thought that William should have been captain, not he.
He rubbed at the kohl around his eyes. Even that had its roots in William. They had gone to India and Will had taken up with some dancer. He returned to the ship the next morning a highly superstitious man with kohl smudged under his eyes. When Jack asked, he told that it was meant to keep away evil spirits. Jack adopted the habit almost immediately and continued to smear the kohl around his eyes long after William had given up the idea.
He balled his fists and pressed them against his eyes. "What evil has it kept away now?" He asked bitterly and bit his lip until he tasted blood.
"No evil, for it cannot keep out which was already there."
Jack started in surprise at the answer and opened his eyes. Leaning lazily against the frame of the door was a tall figure silhouetted against the light from the tavern. He could not see his face.
"Who are you?" Jack asked, too tired to reach for his weapons, too tired to even care what happened to him now.
"What does it matter what my name is?"
Jack opened his mouth the answer, but before he could get a word out, the stranger spoke again. The voice was familiar, but Jack could not think of neither the name nor the face to whom it belonged.
"You can run from many things," the stranger said, "You are a pirate. Running is your business."
"I don't run from anything," Jack replied, deadpan. He closed his eyes again. Let this man kill him, let him, he would not fight back.
"Then why do you run? You cannot run from the truths of the world," he paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. Or perhaps as if savoring them before he let them fly. "Nor can you run from yourself, James."
"Who ARE you?" Jack cried in anger and shock. He climbed to his feet and reached for his weapons. But if an answer came, he did not hear it. The sudden rush of emotion and movement proved too much for his wearied body. The world spun and he felt himself losing his balance. Then all was silent and dark.
---
The dream was an ocean of grey images and scenes. He was trapped in the garret of some small building, or perhaps it was a prison cell. He could see the gallows from the window. The shut window was smeared with trails of dust. He made designs in the dust with his fingers, swirling designs like ancient runes that he did not know the meaning of. Ghosts seemed to surround him, touch him, and pull at him. Their voices cried out in strange tongues, shrieking tongues and singing tongues. They were torturing him with their meaningless sounds, taunting him with their feather touches.
He was in pain, great pain. And he was cold, cold to the very essence of his bones. He thought he saw his own blood pooling on the floor and catching in his hands, he thought he heard the laughter of the ghosts. Tears spilled over from his eyes and mingled with the greyness of the dream world. Someone came for him, grabbed his wrists roughly, bruising them with super human strength, and led him to the gallows. The grey of the landscape deepened until he could see only the grey hangman and the grey noose. [1]
---
He woke to the dawn filtering through the haze of the stables. He sat up slowly, keenly aware of the lack of food in his stomach. He shook his head to clear his vision and stretched his arms above his head. He took more care as he stood, becoming acutely aware of other parts of his body crying for attention. He staggered toward the door and steadied himself against the frame. An unpleasant lightheadedness caused his sight to swim and knees to weaken. As his head at last began to clear, his memory surged forward as well.
A thousand questions threw themselves at him. Who was that man? That man who had known he had run, who had known his name? Who was that man, Jack wondered as he reached into the pouch at his side, that had left him with enough money to get him from here to any port in the world?
After he had had a meal, Jack bought himself a mug of rum and took it out behind the building. He was in no mood for the raucous happiness brimming over inside. He sat and leaned his back against the sun-warmed stones of the wall and tilted his head into the daylight. He took a drink of the liquor and said aloud, "Forgive me, my friend, for living while you are gone."
He took a longer drink and added, "Forgive me for seeing your empty space beside me."
He stared at the remainder of the liquid in the mug and said, "Forgive me for grieving you and forgive me for still hearing you."
He raised the rum to his lips, but did not drink. "Forgive me for not knowing what everything we did was for."
He finished off the drink and, taking an almost an obsessive care while doing so, set the mug down beside him. Carefully, gingerly even, he lifted his pistol and held it in front of him. "Forgive me for following you."
After a long pause, he stuck the barrel into his mouth and ran his tongue over the dirt-encrusted metal.
---
To be continued.
[1] If you enjoy dream interpretations, or if you just want to find the hidden meanings I am getting at by messing around with Jack's subconscious, check out this website:
