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Sometimes, in the night I feel it
Near as my next breath, and yet untouchable
Silently, the past comes stealing
Like the taste of some forbidden sweet...
~Dan Fogelberg, "Ghosts"
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Lost Flower
By Quinn
Chapter One: Stormfront
The Black Pearl rocked violently on the choppy Caribbean waters, tossing her inhabitants and their possessions about in their cabins. Those on deck held tight to their posts, balancing themselves with the rhythm of the ship as she swayed. A tropical storm was gathering force behind the Pearl, and would chase her straight into port, perhaps even carrying her in if the ship's captain didn't carefully play the hand that nature had decided to deal him.
And this seemed a likely outcome, as the captain had something else on his mind at the moment.
And something else in his hand.
Taking a generous swig of rum, Captain Jack Sparrow sprawled back across the velvet-cushioned bench in his quarters, gazing thoughtfully out the cabin window as he did. The moon glowed orange against the blue-black sky, its vibrancy rivaled only by the lurid embers sparking at the end of his cheroot. He lazily hung his head over the edge of the bench, allowing the blood to rush to his drunken brain as he watched dramatic lightning bolts splinter across the sky.
Jack Sparrow, for all intents and purposes, was terribly bored.
He'd spent the past year cheerfully sailing about the Spanish Main, showcasing the restoration of his beloved Pearl for any and all who cared to witness his triumph, while defending her hard-won decks from those who dared to attempt an ambush. Menial details regarding young virtuous lovers were prudently cast aside in favor of descriptive accounts involving cursed plunder, the living dead, that single bullet and, of course, sea turtles, to ensure the awe-inspiring telling of the tale. And for a year, Jack had greatly enjoyed the abundant wine, admiring women, and the melodious constancy of the sound of his own voice, until word had reached him in Bermuda that Will and Elizabeth were expecting a child.
Well, that was dandy. A new step for Turner and the little lass indicated that it was indeed time for Captain Jack Sparrow to turn his rudder as well. The question, however, remained: whereto?
Stolen ship salvaged, mutinous mate murdered, flattering folklore founded, and so on and so forth, and what remained for Captain Jack Sparrow, what awaited him on the horizon? As he smoked his cheroot, Captain Jack Sparrow began to wonder if the fire in his belly had suddenly burned out.
The rum swished about inside its bottle, lapping at the sides much as the mighty sea lapped the hull of the Pearl. Jack's head swam as he lounged, contemplating his plight. What was the greatest pirate in the Caribbean to do now that the excitement had died down? How was he to follow up such a stunning adventure, such a legendary tale? Quite a notch in his belt, it'd been, he had to admit. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, indulging his imagination a moment as he idly twirled his beard. He would have to cook up a great scheme, make the impossible voyage, horde the impossible swag. Perhaps he could pronounce himself king of some exotic, uncharted island...
Reaching into the folds of his coat, Jack Sparrow retrieved his trusty compass, examining its wayward needle with drunken eyes.
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She awoke with a violent start, as she often did, around midnight.
Her blood was chilled, her palms frozen, her stomach ice. Her teeth chattered despite the smothering humidity that swathed the night, and she reached for the down quilt at the end of her bed, drawing it up and around her shoulders before throwing her legs over the end of the mattress and touching her toes to the scratched wooden floor.
Padding softly to the window, the sight stole her breath, and for a moment, the briefest moment, Aveline thought she might faint.
Far off on the horizon, barely recognizable except to the keenest of eyes, brewed a storm. It seemed to lurk there, a predator stalking its prey, throwing down the occasional shard of white lightning to crack the smooth black eggshell of the night sky and prick the soft, flawless face of the Caribbean Sea. The storm's corrupt hand would not strike Port Royal until the following eve, yet when it did, Aveline knew, the devastation to the immaculate little outpost would be great.
As she gazed upon the slowly growing tempest, her green eyes darkened, and she felt certain the storm was taunting her. Would nature dare to interfere with her carefully laid plans? Tomorrow afternoon, a trade ship would depart from the port bound for Tortuga, and hidden within its hull, Aveline would bid a long-awaited farewell to the accursed little island, for on Tortuga she would find all walks of life, mostly outcasts and fugitives, and all of them willing to escort a woman across the Atlantic and to Le Havre for the right price...
Or so, she had firmly convinced herself.
Clutching the blanket tighter around her bare shoulders, Aveline watched the gale fester with increasing consternation, the threatening tumult in the distance inspiring in her dozens of 'what ifs?' that somehow, in her months of consideration and preparation, she had failed to take into account. What if Faulkner comes after me?
Stricken, Aveline paled with the realization that Faulkner would come after her, and she hadn't the forethought to prevent what would now be inevitability. If her luck held the storm at bay long enough for the ship to depart as planned the following afternoon, it would nonetheless be the only ship to leave port, and once Faulkner had combed Port Royal for her, there would be little question as to her whereabouts.
Worrying her lip, Aveline backed away from the window and toward her bed, seating herself on the mattress' edge without turning her back on the dark scene outside. She would have to think of something, and fast, lest her liberation be foiled before she'd even had the chance to attempt it.
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