Title: "Funny Old World"

Author: Ivytree

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: (Almost) all characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, the Walt Disney Company, Terry Rossio and Ted Elliot, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, etc. And, of course, James Marsters and Johnny Depp.

Feedback: Please!

Summary: An adventure with two poets. ABSOLUTELY NO SPOILERS!

Setting: Post "Chosen" —and post "yo-ho."

"Funny Old World"

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Throughout the night, Spike felt oddly restless, even after a successful hunt, which left his prey confused and wobbly, but alive. He decided to spend a few hours exploring his new surroundings. After making his way through the tropical forest fringing the island's coast, and all the way back to the shore, he sat for a while on the deserted beach, listening to the roar and hiss of the waves, and letting streams of fine, dark sand fall through his fingers. Curiously, and unlike that of the small island where he'd first met Jack, the sand on St. Vincent was slate gray instead of white. He found its muted tone easier on the eye; even the sand in this place was vampire-friendly, he thought to himself, with a half-smile.

The moon had set, and constellations and galaxies glittered against a soot-black sky. Spike leaned against a palm trunk and watched the stars wheel across the heavens. Gradually, the muscles along his spine and across his shoulders loosened, which hadn't happened since—well, since ever, that he could recall. Even as a human, he'd tended to get keyed up; it used to worry his mother something fierce. He had a brief memory of her anxious face as she pressed warm milk on him until his always-sensitive stomach revolted (in those days, the thought of a deep-fried blooming onion would have made him queasy for a week). Of course, neither one of them would have dreamed of adding a dash of brandy to the milk—that might have helped. But nothing ever had done, when he was alive. Strange that here, in this utterly foreign time and place, so alien to anything he'd experienced before, he could finally relax.

Spike let his eyes close and concentrated on the world around him. Tiny crabs, their small awareness brushing his, burrowed near the water's edge, searching for food just as he had done a few hours before. Allowing his perception to widen, he sensed other aquatic life in the shallows, seahorses, conch, lobsters, bigger crabs, and what seeemed to be enormous shrimp. Farther out still were the cool, dim life signs of schools of fish—brightly striped flying fish, puffers, jacknife fish, blue tang, damselfish, red hind, cowfish, blenny, and various types of frogfish—all swimming busily about, quite unaware of his scrutiny. Larger sea dwellers, turtles, reef squid, manta rays, manatees, dolphins, sharks, and more, moved smoothly through the water at a greater distance still.

The beach—the island—the world was unimaginably rich with life. Somehow, having his soul allowed him to feel thrillingly in tune with that life, instead of debarred from it. Although, inevitably, even in these teeming waters he sensed traces of the frigid, familiar sting of of death, as well.



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Early the next morning, instinct began to warn him that daybreak neared. Shaking off the strange peace that had overtaken him, Spike rose from the smoke-colored sand, brushed stray grains from his coat, and turned back toward Yvette's house, following his own scent trail through the undergrowth. His thoughts returned to the present, and inevitably the tranquility he'd felt melted away, as consciousness of his immediate dilemma came again to dampen his mood.

He was still out of place, out of time, and facing a very iffy prospect of ever getting back where he belonged. He almost had to laugh, really. To some people—maybe most—the circumstances Spike found himself in would be almost paradisiacal. Here he had no ties, no debts, no responsibilities, an abundance of food, no fear of the elements, and easy shelter. No worries, in fact. An existence of harmony and ease could be his indefinitely.

Who would refuse such a gift? Should he refuse it? Was his arrival here a second chance offered by the Powers that Be? Was this his clean slate, his opportunity to begin again? What if this was his only chance? All of these were good, if unanswerable, questions. He knew quite well what the best course of action was; he should take his time, consider all the factors, and make a calm, rational decision.

But he hadn't had much practice with calm, rational decisions, over his long years. The flat truth was, the only paradise Spike could imagine was a world with Buffy in it. And if there was even the slightest prospect of his getting back to her, he knew he had to try, whatever the cost.

Approaching Yvette's smallholding through pre-dawn shadows, he saw a glint of yellow light from the window and the back door slightly ajar. Jack and Yvette were awake, then. As he stepped from the edge of the jungle, Diablo joined him on silent paws, and strolled majestically ahead up the path to the doorway, tail aloft. On the threshold, he halted and fixed his golden eyes on Spike.

"Had a successful night, have you, mate?" Spike said. "Sorry 'bout the rat I promised you. Perhaps next time, all right?"

With the magnanimous air of a cat who had enjoyed satisfaction in the spheres of both romance and cuisine, Diablo squeezed his bulky frame through the door without further comment.

Spike, too, slipped noiselessly within. Jack sat at the table, clad only in an open shirt and loose, homespun trousers, munching absently on a banana and examining a single sheet of paper by lamplight. Yvette was nowhere to be seen.

Jack glanced up. "'Morning, matey," he said, as if Spike had just returned from an ordinary constitutional instead of an all night hunt, and held the paper out. "You'll never guess what I have here. Yvette can't read herself, but she thought I'd want to give it the once-over. Take a look."

Spike took the paper. It was a roughly printed handbill, written in a curious mixture of English and French, and he found the 17th century lettering rough going until he remembered that a lot of those "f's" were "s's." The sheet read, in bold type:



"FORTUNE! AMOUR! REVENGE!

Can be had by ALL MEN!

The Mystique of the Illimitable East,

MASTER KOOMAH,

Sees, Knows, Tells, what will Come To Pass.

Any Man who would Cross His Palm with a

Bon Rémunération Will be Rewarded with TRUTH.

By special arrangement with

The Proprietor of Ye Three Merry Dolphins Tavern,

Visits can be made to MASTER KOOMAH

Après Coucher du Soleil Upon any Evening this week.

Pray arrive in Good Time.

No BLASPHEMY, THREATS, or BRAWLING Will be Permitted.

Any Man, whose Good Conduct cannot be Assured,

Will be Put Out at his Own Peril. There will be NO Exceptions."



An amateurish but striking depiction of a large, glaring eye, with wavy lines apparently meant to be be rays emanating from it, decorated the middle of the page.

"Well," Spike said slowly, "quite a turn-up, isn't it? Think it's genuine?"

Jack snorted. "Of course it's not genuine. 'Illimitable East,' indeed. Why would a seer of such marvelous powers be visiting Kingstown?"

"Loot?" Spike suggested. "That's what your average spiritualist-type geezer is after."

"Believe me, mate, I know that; but magical johnnies have an eye for far greater opportunities than our drowsy little harbor can offer," Jack said dryly. "Here, the great soothsayer will be paid more in chickens and bananas than 'e will be in gold—and that's if 'e's lucky enough to be paid at all. No, the fellow's sure to be a mountebank of some kind. However, it's quite an odd coincidence, wouldn't you say, that this remarkable gentleman arrives just when we do?"

It was odd. It was damned odd. "So what do you think it means?"

Jack leaned his head against the back of the chair. "I think it's a trap, matey; a trap for one of us, or both."

"Most likely you, then, isn't it?" Spike sat down, and stretched his shoulders with a satisfying crack. "How would anyone know I'm here?"

"We still don't know how you arrived," Jack pointed out. "Perhaps it was no accident, after all. And see here—'FORTUNE!' applies to anyone, but 'AMOUR! REVENGE!'? That about covers you and me, doesn't it? See where he 'knows, sees, tells what will come'? That's meant as a tempting lure. It's quite well done, in fact. I take my 'at off to the perpetrators, so to speak." He folded his arms, and his eyes grew distant. "Now, the question is, why was it done, I wonder? Why now? And how? And, last but not least—who's responsible?"

Spike smothered a yawn. "Well, there's one way to find out, isn't there?"

"Exactly my thought. We'll go tonight, then?"

"Agreed."

"We'll need to get kitted out before we venture into town…" Jack began. Just then, the door swung open, and Yvette appeared. She wore a calico gown over her linen shift, with her hair tied up in a colorful bandana, and carried a wooden bucket of water in one hand and a large basket in the other. Spike sprang to her assistance, taking the heavy bucket, while Jack relieved her of the basket and tipped it out on the table.

"Ooh, look at the lovely fruit," he exclaimed, as an assortment of ripe mangoes, bananas, papayas, green oranges, pineapples, and coconuts filled the room with enticing fragrance. "Thanks ever so, sweetheart." He selected an orange, and continued, "How would you fancy dressing in your finest gown, my love, and accepting our escort tonight? We're a bit keen to visit the tavern. We can show Monsieur Spike the many attractions of the town, you and I, eh?"

Yvette clapped her hands, saying, "Oh, yes! That will be delightful!" Her black eyes sparkled. "And so you must help me gather oranges this morning, Jack, and on our way to Kingstown I take them to Madame Gris-noir, and she will pay five shillings, because they are fresh, instead of four!"

"Well…" Jack temporized.

Her face fell dramatically. "Jack! You promised you would help me next time! And it's a whole shilling!"

"Far be it from me, my sweet, to deprive you of a whole shilling," Jack said, kissing her hand. "Of course I'll help you with your harvest."

Yvette rewarded him with a dazzling smile. "Though I think you will sleep under a tree instead of picking fruit," she said humorously. "But at least you can carry the ladder."

TBC