Tales of Piracy

"S'not true," the younger man cawed, sloshing his beer around. "Ghosts ain't real."

"They are real," the fat one with the grizzled beard said. "An' they run the pirate ship called The Black Pearl. Grizzly bunch they are."

"An' you've met 'em," the younger man asked.

"Aye," he said, nodding his head. "Under pale moonlight they turn to bones, an' I faced 'em and came out whole."

The younger man laughed. "They would have flayed you... gutted you alive!"

The fat man shook his head. "Why would they, I gave them no cause... helped 'em even."

"Helped?"

"Aye," he answered, grinning and letting out a laugh that chilled Jack to his bones as he resisted the urge to face the two drunkards. "They wanted me plunder, an' I gave it to 'em... then I tol' 'em where to get more."

The younger man laughed. "Alright, if ye know 'em, what're they're names?"

"Barbossa's the cap'n," the man said slowly, mulling things over in his head. "An' there's two gits called Pintel and Rigetti... A nasty lookin' colored feller by the name of Koehler..."

Jack ground his teeth together, images of his former mates making his guts turn black with bitterness. His hands clenched around the mug of ale in front of him and his body twitched to turn and face the two drunkards, spit bile at them for speaking of them as if they were exciting and interesting. Bloody mutineers is what they were, not interesting, not legends... leeches of the worst breed.

"An' they couldn't die," the younger one was asking. "They was cursed with livin' forever? Doesn't sound like much of a curse to me..."

"Aye," the fat man said, his speech filled with a condescending all-knowing tone. "But 'tis a curse when you can no longer taste, or feel, or take of a woman."

"They can't have sex," the younger man asked, aghast. "Well'n what good's it to be a pirate?!"

"Tha's the point, mate," the fat man said with a chuckle. "S'point of a curse."

"Still though... eternal life," the younger man said.

'Fool,' thought Jack.

"Though, there was one that died, least accordin' to the Cap'n," the fat man said.

"How? How can the undead die if the curse is that they can't?"

"What did they say his name was," the fat man questioned, tapping nasty fingernails into the wooden table. "Bootsie... nay, that wasn't it..."

Jack closed his eyes, a cold chill washing over him. 'Don't say it... don't say what I think..."

"Somethin' with a boot... or was it..." The fat man clubbed a hand against the table in frustration. "Anyway, the Cap'n took a dislikin' to 'im, and they killed him."

Jack whirled around, taking two large strides over to the table. "Bootstrap Bill was 'is name," he growled, grabbing a chair and sitting in front of the ugly jaundiced sailor. "An' you're goin' to tell me now, mate, how it is ole Bootstrap died when he's cursed to not."

Both men stared at him in shock, the younger one shrinking back slightly and looking to the older fatter one for reassurance. "You can't just barge in on two men havin' a conversation, there..." he ventured, his voice showing his trepidation.

"Looks like I 'ave now, doesn't it," Jack said with a sneer of a smile before turning coal eyes to the fat man. "Out with it."

"Well," the fat man spluttered out, letting out a nervous laugh. "So far as I understand, they sunk him."

Jack shook his head. "Can't drown a dead man made of bones, mate," he growled, slamming a hand on the table. "Gotta do better'n that."

"They, um..." the fat man rolls his eyes skyward, trying to recollect memories from years before. "They tied 'is shoes to a cannon I think is what they did..."

Jack sat still for a moment, anger and fear causing his hands to shake so much he hid them under the table. "Still doesn't explain how the undead dies."

"Why do you want to know," the fat man asked, glaring at Jack. "Why are you questioning me in front of my boy..."

Jack's eyes flicked to the younger man, seeing the same blue eyes echoing the fat man's. "So this is your son?"

The fat man nodded. "He is."

"So what we have here is dear old father trying to impress his son," Jack said, relief ready to spill forth once this man admitted to the lie.

"No," the fat man said, shaking his head, his eyes wide with fear as Jack looked at him with haunted eyes. "'Sides, why would I make up a story about a bloody Bootstrap Bill... isn't that what you called 'im?"

"Aye," Jack said, nodding, feeling the sinkin' in his chest take hold of his vocal chords. "How'd he die... what did they tell you?"

The fat man looked at his son before continuing. "They tied his boots to a cannon and shot him to the depths of the crushin' oblivion... shattered him to bits is what they did... so far as I understand that is."

"Tied 'is..." Jack sat back, the ache in his chest making him numb all over. "Shatter..."

The fat man leaned forward, his face concerned. "You alright, mate? You look a bit shaky..."

"That's none of your concern," Jack spat out, standing up and angrily shoving the chair away from him, toppling it onto the floor in his haste. "An' your sure he's dead?"

The younger one looked between his father and Jack, his eyes wide with fear. "He was your mate then," he asked. "You knew 'im?"

Jack pursed his lips together, glowering at the young man. "He was," he said, cursing his voice for shaking.

"I'm sorry," the fat man said, his voice sincere at last. "If I'd known his mate was listenin'..."

Jack didn't stay for the rest, turning on his heel and walking out of the tavern and into the cold black night. He looked up at the moon and felt the bitter bile rise once again in his throat. Sorrow and heartache crushed at his gut until he was bent over a barrel of fish, retching what bread and alcohol he still had in his system.

Six years of wishing for Bootstrap to come and find him, of the two of them forging their own scourge of the Caribbean crew.

Six years of trying not to let himself think that ole William Turner was in on the mutiny, of trying to believe that his friend wouldn't have turned his back on him like that.

Six years of reminding himself that the day would come when he'd be able to confront him, to ask him point blank to assuage his doubts as to his loyalties.

Six years... and all of it, down the drain because father wanted to regale his son with tales of piracy.