[BORN PIRATE]
by Rachel Rockershousen
It was a cold, wet night. The wind whispered softly above the treetops; long, golden lightning-bolts flashed from the starry heavens, and the ground shook to the sound of the rumbling thunder and pouring rain. Not a soul passed through the darkness that nested itself in the streets and shadowy corners. Yet in a shabby house on the edge of an alleyway, a young girl named Anya lingered in the doorway. Her aqua-blue eyes caught the moonlight, setting an eerie effect upon her pale face and dark brown hair. For the moment, she was vigilant as ever, watching.
"Hadar, Hadar, where are you?" she murmured. "Come on.Come on."
"Oh, Anya, are you still looking for stars on a night like this?" a voice whispered from the inside. Suddenly the tempest stopped. The clouds parted in the sky, the rain withdrew to nothing, and the raging thunder and lightning ceased. In this moment a woman emerged from the comfort of the interior hearth, and she stood close to Anya as she continued looking for stars through the slight clouds. "Now, your eyes aren't meant for star- gazing on stormy nights, especially eyes of a girl your age. Honestly, Anya, you're coming inside right now. Besides, the doorway being held open isn't good; it lets cold air in." She paused and waited for a reaction. "For the thousandth time, get inside!"
"Yes, Mother," she said, scurrying indoors.
As Anya trekked upstairs, she took her hair down, letting the dark brown mass reach her waist in full curls, and she slipped off her shoes so she could feel more comfortable. She reached the bedroom, slammed the door and locked it, then plopped down on the ocean-themed bed cover. She began to play with her hair; twirl it and mess with it, and then she picked up a book that had been sitting underneath her bed collecting dust for countless years. It was called A History of Caribbean Piracy by Clark Merritt. As long as Anya had remembered, she'd had the book, yet her mother never spoke of it. Though she was quite tired and wanted to go to sleep, Anya, nevertheless, flipped through the pages and began muttering a song beneath her breath.
"Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate's life for me. . ."
After she finished her little chorus, the young lass kept fingering through the pages, until she came upon a paragraph near the bottom of the five-hundred-and-twenty-fourth page. Trying to keep her voice down, she read aloud: "'Captain Jack Sparrow, who is currently at large, is one of the most infamous pirates of the Port Royal and the Caribbean. Born to parents Mary and Alexander on June 9, (year unknown) Sparrow grew up in a blacksmith's shop, where he learned to make swords, axes, and all types of metal weapons, soon becoming fascinated with the handle of them. As he progressed, Sparrow learnt of a pirate named "Captain Barbossa" and was intrigued at the concept of piracy. When he reached age 20, Sparrow gave up his blacksmith's life and became a pirate upon the ship which Barbossa captained, the Black Pearl. At 21, Jack became captain of the ship, and Barbossa became his elderly first mate. One year later, however, Sparrow was mutinied and thrown upon a forsaken island in the Caribbean. From here on his ventures are unknown. What researchers do know, however, is that when he was 32 he helped current pirates Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann break the curse of the Black Pearl and save the Caribbean from falling into darkness.'"
Anya looked up from the book. "Wow," she muttered. "Rather intense life." She was saying this statement, in fact, to the small kitten who was cuddled up near the windowsill on the cold wood floor. This kitten had no name; it was a stray, and strays often found homes in Anya's. As the kitten got up and stretched to later jump onto the bed, Anya spoke: "You know, I think you ought to have a name, if I might end up keeping you." Anya looked the cat over once more. It was rather small, with messy white-and-black hair and bright green eyes. "Angéle. That's what I'll call you."
There was a knock on the door sent by rather dainty-sounding knuckles. Anya immediately assumed her mother had come to tell her to go to sleep, so she quickly fastened her robe and took of her slippers before answering, "Yes?"
"Can I come in?" asked a female voice. Anya's mother, (Mrs. Marthes, as she was known to many) slid through the door without an answer from her daughter. She strode over to Anya's bed and sat down on it next to her, here while Anya sat absentmindedly staring at the ceiling. "Listen, honey," she said gingerly. "I'm sorry I yelled at you for going inside, okay? I don't mean for you to be huffy about it. Secondly, there are some things on my mind.And I'd be much obliged if you would listen to them, Anya. Agreed?"
Anya nodded.
Mrs. Marthes took a deep sigh. "You know, a girl of seventeen should now be looking for a suitor," she said uneasily. Anya could tell how nervous her mother was about the subject, and she agreed, but did not say anything. "And there are some very fine suitors out there, Anyastasia. One of them.one of them goes by the name of Alexander Shaw. You two have met, I presume?" This last statement earned Mrs Marthes a disgruntled stare from Anya. She gave her mother a rather dire look and said:
"I think you know the answer to that," she said, glancing away.
"He's not very.er.respectable, lineage-wise, as he's an orphan," Mrs. Marthes remarked. "But that's not the point. He's an amazing young man. Alexander is an excellent sailor, especially while he was aboard the Interceptor. That's the very ship you two met all those years ago, remember?" Mrs. Marthes closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You didn't fancy him at all because he was just a rugged little thing. But now he's such a fine gentleman. There are many ladies after him, you know, and you should start following."
The downpour had commenced again, its hard-beating raindrops pounding on the strong-built roof above Anya's head. Outside, Anya listened for thunder to distract her from the conversation, but none was heard. At great length she spoke again. "But Alexander is so - unrespectable, quite frankly. And ever since we met we were never exactly best mates. Why can't I remain a free rose-pedal, just like Father always told me I was?"
Anya's mother sighed. "Your father was wonderful," she replied, her voice trembling. "And I loved him for that. He was wise, kind, handsome.All the things I could ever hope for. But sometimes I doubted his philosophies on life, Anya. That's why I tried to raise you apart from the customs he practised. Your father was -"
"A good man," Anya interrupted angrily. "Sweet, wise, knowing.And always there for me. What kind of person draws her daughter away from her own past? What kind of person keeps her daughter from her father's memory?" She looked at the ground. In a soft, steady voice, Anya whispered, "You."
Mrs. Marthes was taken aback. She looked at her daughter's bowed head as her dark brown eyes swelled up with tears. "He was burned, Anya!" she cried. "He was burned for thinking things that were not approved by the Royal Government! I loved him, and I wasn't the only one who lost someone!" She paused, her watery eyes unsteadily glancing around the room. Suddenly, she seemed to calm, her spine relaxed, and her tears seemed to slow, but were still slightly lingering in her coconut eyes. "He was burned because he was Wiccan."
"I know," Anya said. "I found the accounts in the chest in the attic."
"Really?" asked Mrs. Marthes, disbelievingly and angrily at the same time. "What else did you happen to find in the chest in the attic?"
"Nothing," Anya said quickly.
by Rachel Rockershousen
It was a cold, wet night. The wind whispered softly above the treetops; long, golden lightning-bolts flashed from the starry heavens, and the ground shook to the sound of the rumbling thunder and pouring rain. Not a soul passed through the darkness that nested itself in the streets and shadowy corners. Yet in a shabby house on the edge of an alleyway, a young girl named Anya lingered in the doorway. Her aqua-blue eyes caught the moonlight, setting an eerie effect upon her pale face and dark brown hair. For the moment, she was vigilant as ever, watching.
"Hadar, Hadar, where are you?" she murmured. "Come on.Come on."
"Oh, Anya, are you still looking for stars on a night like this?" a voice whispered from the inside. Suddenly the tempest stopped. The clouds parted in the sky, the rain withdrew to nothing, and the raging thunder and lightning ceased. In this moment a woman emerged from the comfort of the interior hearth, and she stood close to Anya as she continued looking for stars through the slight clouds. "Now, your eyes aren't meant for star- gazing on stormy nights, especially eyes of a girl your age. Honestly, Anya, you're coming inside right now. Besides, the doorway being held open isn't good; it lets cold air in." She paused and waited for a reaction. "For the thousandth time, get inside!"
"Yes, Mother," she said, scurrying indoors.
As Anya trekked upstairs, she took her hair down, letting the dark brown mass reach her waist in full curls, and she slipped off her shoes so she could feel more comfortable. She reached the bedroom, slammed the door and locked it, then plopped down on the ocean-themed bed cover. She began to play with her hair; twirl it and mess with it, and then she picked up a book that had been sitting underneath her bed collecting dust for countless years. It was called A History of Caribbean Piracy by Clark Merritt. As long as Anya had remembered, she'd had the book, yet her mother never spoke of it. Though she was quite tired and wanted to go to sleep, Anya, nevertheless, flipped through the pages and began muttering a song beneath her breath.
"Yo, ho, yo, ho, a pirate's life for me. . ."
After she finished her little chorus, the young lass kept fingering through the pages, until she came upon a paragraph near the bottom of the five-hundred-and-twenty-fourth page. Trying to keep her voice down, she read aloud: "'Captain Jack Sparrow, who is currently at large, is one of the most infamous pirates of the Port Royal and the Caribbean. Born to parents Mary and Alexander on June 9, (year unknown) Sparrow grew up in a blacksmith's shop, where he learned to make swords, axes, and all types of metal weapons, soon becoming fascinated with the handle of them. As he progressed, Sparrow learnt of a pirate named "Captain Barbossa" and was intrigued at the concept of piracy. When he reached age 20, Sparrow gave up his blacksmith's life and became a pirate upon the ship which Barbossa captained, the Black Pearl. At 21, Jack became captain of the ship, and Barbossa became his elderly first mate. One year later, however, Sparrow was mutinied and thrown upon a forsaken island in the Caribbean. From here on his ventures are unknown. What researchers do know, however, is that when he was 32 he helped current pirates Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann break the curse of the Black Pearl and save the Caribbean from falling into darkness.'"
Anya looked up from the book. "Wow," she muttered. "Rather intense life." She was saying this statement, in fact, to the small kitten who was cuddled up near the windowsill on the cold wood floor. This kitten had no name; it was a stray, and strays often found homes in Anya's. As the kitten got up and stretched to later jump onto the bed, Anya spoke: "You know, I think you ought to have a name, if I might end up keeping you." Anya looked the cat over once more. It was rather small, with messy white-and-black hair and bright green eyes. "Angéle. That's what I'll call you."
There was a knock on the door sent by rather dainty-sounding knuckles. Anya immediately assumed her mother had come to tell her to go to sleep, so she quickly fastened her robe and took of her slippers before answering, "Yes?"
"Can I come in?" asked a female voice. Anya's mother, (Mrs. Marthes, as she was known to many) slid through the door without an answer from her daughter. She strode over to Anya's bed and sat down on it next to her, here while Anya sat absentmindedly staring at the ceiling. "Listen, honey," she said gingerly. "I'm sorry I yelled at you for going inside, okay? I don't mean for you to be huffy about it. Secondly, there are some things on my mind.And I'd be much obliged if you would listen to them, Anya. Agreed?"
Anya nodded.
Mrs. Marthes took a deep sigh. "You know, a girl of seventeen should now be looking for a suitor," she said uneasily. Anya could tell how nervous her mother was about the subject, and she agreed, but did not say anything. "And there are some very fine suitors out there, Anyastasia. One of them.one of them goes by the name of Alexander Shaw. You two have met, I presume?" This last statement earned Mrs Marthes a disgruntled stare from Anya. She gave her mother a rather dire look and said:
"I think you know the answer to that," she said, glancing away.
"He's not very.er.respectable, lineage-wise, as he's an orphan," Mrs. Marthes remarked. "But that's not the point. He's an amazing young man. Alexander is an excellent sailor, especially while he was aboard the Interceptor. That's the very ship you two met all those years ago, remember?" Mrs. Marthes closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "You didn't fancy him at all because he was just a rugged little thing. But now he's such a fine gentleman. There are many ladies after him, you know, and you should start following."
The downpour had commenced again, its hard-beating raindrops pounding on the strong-built roof above Anya's head. Outside, Anya listened for thunder to distract her from the conversation, but none was heard. At great length she spoke again. "But Alexander is so - unrespectable, quite frankly. And ever since we met we were never exactly best mates. Why can't I remain a free rose-pedal, just like Father always told me I was?"
Anya's mother sighed. "Your father was wonderful," she replied, her voice trembling. "And I loved him for that. He was wise, kind, handsome.All the things I could ever hope for. But sometimes I doubted his philosophies on life, Anya. That's why I tried to raise you apart from the customs he practised. Your father was -"
"A good man," Anya interrupted angrily. "Sweet, wise, knowing.And always there for me. What kind of person draws her daughter away from her own past? What kind of person keeps her daughter from her father's memory?" She looked at the ground. In a soft, steady voice, Anya whispered, "You."
Mrs. Marthes was taken aback. She looked at her daughter's bowed head as her dark brown eyes swelled up with tears. "He was burned, Anya!" she cried. "He was burned for thinking things that were not approved by the Royal Government! I loved him, and I wasn't the only one who lost someone!" She paused, her watery eyes unsteadily glancing around the room. Suddenly, she seemed to calm, her spine relaxed, and her tears seemed to slow, but were still slightly lingering in her coconut eyes. "He was burned because he was Wiccan."
"I know," Anya said. "I found the accounts in the chest in the attic."
"Really?" asked Mrs. Marthes, disbelievingly and angrily at the same time. "What else did you happen to find in the chest in the attic?"
"Nothing," Anya said quickly.