Seven

- '…Impersonating a cleric of the Church of England.' -

He knew he was dreaming this time because Port Royal looked completely different. Even from the bow of the skiff, he could tell that the settlement was smaller, more rustic and had a lot less people. The fort, however, was still there but fortunately there were no naval ships in the docks. Even then, there were enough redcoats manning the fort to make him nervous.

"Tell me again, Captain. Why are we here?"

"B'cus we hav' a great booty to go af'er," Jack called from the helm of the skiff.

He eyed the port doubtfully. "In this place swarming with redcoats? We'll be lucky to get out alive."

"Don't w'rry 'bout tha' part. Ol' Jack got it cov'red."

Now I'm really worried, he thought gloomily.

Dream Jack must have read his mind (which, considering it was a dream, not impossible) because the pirate captain sidled up to his side and slung an arm around his shoulders. "If thangs go 'ccordin' to plan, an' it will go 'ccordin' to plan, them redcoats won't ev'n know we're here."

"And how are you going to accomplish that?" he asked drolly.

Jack flashed a gold-toothed grin and held out a pile of black cloth with a flourish.

He spread out the cloth and stared at it, then at Jack and back at it. "You're daft."

"Uh-huh. I'm Capt'n Jack Sparrow." The pirate captain tossed one of the garments to him. "Put it on, mate. We're goin' ashore."

"As priests? Captain, we don't look like priests, especially you."

"Ah, people pay atte'tion to th' cloth, not to th' man wearin' th' cloth. Hence, no one will think us to be anythin' else but men of th' cloth. Savvy?"

He raised an eyebrow over that questionable piece of logic and reluctantly pulled on the black cassock over his clothes.

Jack had already donned his cassock and he looked…passable. Somewhat rough around the edges but passable. After all, there were men of the cloth in the Caribbean who were even rougher looking. He had seen them – priests with bad manners, bad teeth and an atrocious tongue that really mangled God's word. Poorly educated folk who had found their calling in spreading God's message to the natives of the Caribbean. Questionable really, but still they had taken the vows and were men of the cloth. Compared to them, Jack appeared a saint – a somewhat questionable-looking saint with questionable values but still more saintly-looking than some he had come across.

So this should be plain sailing. Right?

He eyed his captain's hair. As long as Jack keeps his wild dreadlocked hair under his hat, he wouldn't (hopefully) have problems passing off as a priest, right?

His gaze traveled down to Jack's fingers. If Jack ditched all those rings on his grimy fingers, he might still be passable, right?

Finally his gaze settled on his madcap captain's smirking countenance. If Jack quit grinning and flashing those blasted gold teeth, he would definitely be able to pull this off, right?

"It will be a miracle if we get out of this place alive," he said at last.

Jack grinned. "Ye look smashin'."

"And you ought to keep from smiling," he retorted grumpily. "Those gold teeth will give you away in a heartbeat."

Jack's manic grin widened.

Oh God, if you can hear me, please let this be a lark.

Disguised as clergymen, both pirates entered Port Royal with no fanfare. He kept his head down and hands clasped inside the wide sleeves, adopting the proper demeanor of a priest. But he was very tense. They had been forced to leave their cutlasses behind on the skiff, seeing as how men of the cloth did not bear arms. Although he had managed to conceal a pistol under his robes, he still felt very naked.

His captain wasn't doing much to alleviate his nervousness. The crazy old sea dog had spent way too much time on the sea and it showed in his reeling gait. No one, he swore on the pain of death, no one would ever mistake the pirate captain for a priest. But somehow, he didn't understand how, they managed to slip pass the attention of the redcoats.

That was disturbing.

Either somehow their disguises were really working or the redcoats were not doing their job. He preferred to think the latter.

The dream blurred, as dreams were wont to do.

One minute he was walking down a street, the next he found himself running for his life with his captain matching him stride for stride and his cassock hitched up for easy movement.

"What the hell did you do?" he seemed to be yelling at his captain.

"Nuthin'!" Jack shouted back. "I only talked to tha' bonny wench!"

"More like insulting the lass's modesty, I reckon!" And knowing his captain, it was probably not far from the truth. He yelped as a bullet whizzed way too close past his ear. "You're supposed to be a priest! And priests do not outrage the modesty of women!"

"Quit yappin' an' keep runnin', mate! We've to lose these buggers b'fer we can leave this bloody isle!" Jack ducked down and shimmied past a low archway with his usual slippery grace. "I ain't came al' this way to die at th' hands of these redcoats!"

Cursing mentally at their – or rather, Jack's unpredictable luck, he pounded through the streets of Port Royal and out into the jungle wilderness. He would never EVER follow his captain on one of his crazy jaunts again, never EVER be fooled by Jack's nonchalant, casual 'come wit' me an' we'll hav' a whale of a time' invitation again.

No sirree.

He heard the crack of a rifle behind him and suddenly he stumbled. Pain flared –

Will woke up with a gasp of agony, clutching at his side.

…hurthurthurt…

And it did hurt. In that moment of confusion, Will thought he had really been shot. He curled up in agony, gritting his teeth against the fire burning through his body. Just a dream, he thought frantically, blinking back the tears in his eyes. It's only a dream.

A cool hand touched his burning sweaty cheek. "Will?" came the worried voice of his wife. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he managed to choke out.

"Nothing?" Elizabeth did not believe him. She sat up and turned him around until he lay on his back. With anxious hands, she tried to remove his hands clutching his side. "Where are you hurting? Tell me, Will!"

"I'm all right," he managed to reply in a more normal tone, panting harshly. He took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. The pain was abating and he finally allowed his hands to be tugged away and his shirt to be pulled up. He didn't have to look to know what she would find: whole unmarred skin.

"I don't see a wound," Elizabeth said in a puzzled voice. "But you act as though you had been stabbed."

He reached up and smoothed back a fallen lock of her hair. "A nightmare, Elizabeth. Just a nightmare."

His wife stared worriedly at him, fingers lightly stroking the unmarred skin. "A nightmare doesn't cause you to wake up in pain, Will. It has to be more than that."

"I'm fine, Elizabeth. Really, I am."

"Will, you have been having nightmares for the past week! That is not fine."

Will winced mentally. He had thought he managed to hide his nightly disturbances from his wife. "They're just dreams, Elizabeth. Nothing to worry about."

The minute the words left his mouth, Will knew at once it was the wrong thing to say to his wife.

"Nothing to worry about? I'm your wife! We share everything, including happiness and woe. And this classify as woe. You will tell me right now, William Turner, or I'll have you sleeping in the garden!"

"Interesting."

"'Interesting' is hardly the word I would use, Jack. He frightened me badly."

Jack flapped his hands, making vague soothing gestures at the ruffled lady. "Aye, aye. Go on, go on."

"Will told me that he had been dreaming of his father every night recently, vivid dreams that felt like a story being unfolded than being just normal dreams. He said he was never himself in these dreams, that he always took on the role of his father."

"Well, that's ce'tainly some dreams he's been havin'," Jack remarked.

"That was what he said too," Elizabeth admitted. "He tried to laugh it off but I know it bothered him. But I didn't think it was anything serious. They were just dreams, after all. Then the dreams started intruding into his waking moments."

"How's tha'?"

"Will still continues his blacksmithing work, much to my father's disapproval. He could never give up something he likes to do."

"Aye, tha's me lad." Jack nodded sagely.

Elizabeth smiled. "He made a sword for you."

Jack brightened instantly. "Really?"

"Yes. It's a very nice shiny sword inlaid with gold filigree and a nice shiny ruby. And it has your initials on it – CJS."

"Well, fancy tha'," Jack sighed dreamily. "Me very own Turner blade. An' he 'member th' 'C'." He looked at Elizabeth with bright hopeful black eyes. "I don't s'ppose ye brought it wi' ye, lass."

"Into this port? I'm not daft, Jack."

"Jus' checkin'. Wouldn't wan' to go af'er some lout fer me property I've ne'er even laid me eyes on yet. Go on wi' yer story."

"I remember that day very clearly, when it finally became clear to me that unnatural trouble had found my Will again…"

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