Mark The Earth With Ruin

Chapter 8

Jack…

The singsong voice was in his head, not his ears.

Jack…

It frightened him, made him want to run, to scream, to cry for help… but he was mute.

I know you can hear me, Jack. Open your eyes, there's a good boy.

His eyes snapped open at the thinly veiled command, though the rest of his body was weighted, unmoving. The figure stood in front of him, dark and small yet somehow threatening, as though it would insinuate itself under his skin and burn until he was ash inside.

You know me, don't you, sweet Jack?

He could make out eyes, black as sin, hard as onyx, deep and desolate as an unheard prayer.

I know you, he answered in his head, unable to move his lips.

The figure held out a bottle. A wayward shaft of light caught it, making it shimmer and glow with… life? Jack could feel his heart thumping slowly, each beat reverberating through his chest.

It's time, Jack. Time to make you mine.

Long, white fingers pulled the cork from the bottle, and Jack felt himself tearing slowly from his body. His heart slowed.

Th-thump.

Th-----thump.

Th---------

"Jack! Cap'n! Wake up, damn ye!"

Somebody was shaking him roughly, slapping him across the face none too gently. Jack blinked. "All right, Gibbs, all right," he managed through his rattling teeth. "Leave a bone or two moored in place, can't you?"

"Thank God." The grizzled pirate sat back on his haunches and watched his captain through rheumy eyes. "Ye were havin' a fit 'r somethin', Jack. Stopped breathin'. Scared the life out o' me, ye did." He wiped a grimy, shackled hand over his face, slumping back against the hull. "Don't 'ee be doin' that again. I'm gettin' too old."

"Sorry, I – " But the particulars of the dream had faded, and Jack shrugged, vaguely on edge but not sure why. "Sorry."

"Where is your intrepid friend?" That was Zaid, peering curiously through the darkness of the hold.

"Ana? Overboard by now, I'm hoping." The ship gave the peculiar lurch and scrape that indicated she'd just come into dock. Jack got to his feet, with an assist from the large black man. "And on her way to Port Royal, with any luck."

Gibbs gave a nod. "Shouldn't take her more'n a day, by my reckonin'."

Jack frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Ah." Gibbs beckoned to him and pointed to the hull. "Found me a chink here, good enough t' take a bearin'. Reckernized the coast, I did, afore th' light went."

Jack pressed his face to the filthy wood and squinted through the crack Gibbs indicated, but it was too dark to see much more than some flickering torches and the weathered wood of marine pilings. "So where are we?"

Gibbs rubbed his nose. "Sorry, Cap'n. I plumb fergot t' say. We're back to Jamaica."

~*~

"'Tis kind in you to see me so late, Mr. Weston." Rose sat in the seat he indicated, settling her skirts.

Weston smiled across the desk at her. "'Twas no inconvenience on my part, Miss Rose. I have been keeping late hours since the Governor became ill."

She looked at her lap, feeling ashamed and shy, as she had ever since Bill died.. "I am grateful you don't share the Governor's opinion of me."

Weston looked bewildered. "He's said naught to me but that you're a fine young woman, miss."

Rose glanced up quickly. "I – are you sure?"

Weston came around the desk and took her cold hands in his warm ones. "What's put something different into your head?"

"I heard him. The day Bill died. He said – he as good as called me – oh, it doesn't matter." Rose sniffed loudly. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Weston. I seem to be all waterworks these days. Has there been any word on the Governor's condition?"

"His wife sent word today that –"

Rose got to her feet, galvanized. "His what did you say?"

Weston blushed. "His wife, miss. The former Mrs. Annie Palmer."

Rose narrowed her blue eyes. "Fast work, that. What did she say?"

Weston cleared his throat. "I think it could fairly be described as a whirlwind courtship, yes. The Governor is making a slow recovery; Mrs. Norrington has taken him to her plantation in Montego Bay to recuperate."

She folded her arms. "Married. And him ill, and Bill not even cold in his grave. And now Bill's gone… Have you found anything?"

The lieutenant governor shrugged. "I'm sorry, no. Truth be told I'm not even certain where to begin looking. 'Tisn't as though we have any medical establishments, and though there are pockets of voodoo worshipers – "

"Vodoun."

"Excuse me?"

Rose looked at him steadily. "'Tis called vodoun, not voodoo. And they don't muck about with human remains. They respect the dead."

Weston gave her a skeptical and apologetic smile. "Not what I've heard, miss. There are tales of reanimated corpses. Zombies, they call them."

Rose snorted. "Nonsense. Are you saying Bill climbed out of that grave on his own?"

Weston nodded. "Does sound a bit silly, doesn't it?"

She took her seat again. "I know what you're talking about, the legend of the zombi, though they aren't supposed to be dead, only in a deathlike state, their souls held captive…" Rose huffed out a breath. "Stories to frighten children, like the bogey man."

He eyed her. "You seem to know quite a bit about this… vodoun."

"You forget where I came from, Mr. Weston. Tortuga is full of the followers of vodoun."

Weston nodded. "Is there anything more I can do for you, Miss Rose? The hour grows later."

It was her turn to blush. "Forgive me. I am abusing your good nature by presuming on your time." Rose held out a hand. "You'll contact me or Mr. Turner if there's any word?"

Weston bowed. "Upon the instant. You have my word."

~*~

The slaves were unloaded onto a private pier, Jack was interested to see. He exchanged a look with Gibbs. Private enterprise, indeed.

The greater bulk of the slaves thus imported were hustled off toward a small group of cabins not far off the beachhead; Jack, Gibbs, Zaid, and a few others were prodded toward the main house, Nicodemus himself among the attendants.

It was a large house, neither so large nor imposing as the Port Royal Governor's mansion, but nothing to sneeze at. They could see a large galleried veranda stretching across the length of the building. Centered above that was a small balcony, which would be a prime place from which to view the goings-on in the yard below.

And unsavory goings-on they'd be, thought Jack with an involuntary grimace as he passed two pair of stocks and a large whipping-post. There were the blackened remains of a fire at the base of the post, on the opposite side from the blood and the hook; and the residue of some sort of circular design beside it.

Jack raised his eyebrows. A poteau-mitan. Now that was something he hadn't seen in… oh, twenty years or better. And he'd never seen one that was so clearly unsanctified. Infernal, in fact.

Nicodemus nudged Jack in the back with the tip of his cutlass, drawing blood. "Move along, Sparrow. Mustn't keep a lady waiting."

Jack growled, but he wasn't fool enough to argue with a well-honed blade.

They were led down a set of stone stairs to a passage under the house, where an open area had been hewn from the soft rock. There was an iron cage set to one side, and into this Gibbs and the rest were ushered, though not without a struggle.

In the far wall was a heavy wooden door, and it was through this that Nicodemus escorted Jack and Zaid, followed by several of his fellows.

Immediately they got into the room, the heavy door slammed shut with an echo. In the center of the floor was a brazier, the coals within red-hot and aflame; and of all horrors, a brand lay nestled among them.

Jack reared back wildly. "No! Damn your eyes, you'll not put any man's mark on me!"

He fought like a man possessed, clawing, kicking, writhing. Four of Nicodemus' crew grabbed him then, holding his arms and legs, while Nicodemus gave him a heavy clout across the head. Jack saw stars, sagging in his captors' grasp.

"No man… owns Jack Sparrow…" he managed between gritted teeth

"True enough," said a voice from the shadows beyond the brazier. "But as you well know, sweet Jack, I am no man."

Jack's skin crawled. "Who – who are you?" he rasped.

"You know me, don't you, Jack?" the voice said mockingly.

His knees gave out. "Impossible…" he whispered.

Annie Palmer stepped from the shadows into the dancing light of the fire. "Time to make you mine, Jack."