With Arms Wide Open

By: Skycat

"It's coming! The baby's coming!"

Arthur felt his heart convulse. Gripping his sweat-covered, beautiful wife's hand, he whispered encouragements into her ear. He didn't think she heard him. Her face was contorted in pain. "Just a little more, Elly-love. Our child is nearly here," he murmured.

No matter how many times they have done this every time was like the first. Horrified wonder washed through him as his wife let out a heart-wrenching scream. How can she be doing this?! the thought passed though his mind just as it had each of the three times before. Anticipation and hope nearly choked him into tears. Maybe this child would live past it's third year. He prayed.

A shrill wail split the thick air as his wife sagged against his side. Arthur cradled her exhausted form as he met the doctor's eyes. His heart hammered in his ears.

"Congratulations, Admiral. It's a healthy baby boy."

A boy.

"Does he have a name?"

Dazed, Arthur nodded. "James. His name is James Norrington."

He had a son.

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My earliest memory is of my father's face leaning over me. I don't know how old I was but I must have been very young considering the vagueness of the memory. He was quite the contrary to the traditional view of an Admiral of the British Navy. Instead of a stocky man with a face of iron and steel, my father's face was sharp and filled with laugh lines. A small smile often tilted the corners of his lips upward, as if he were sharing in some great joke. He wore the traditional Admiral's uniform, although it appeared slightly large on him, as if he were trying to fill more space than he did. He once told me that he liked the newest fashion of wearing a powdered wig because it hid his quickly thinning hair. It was one of his greatest amusements, that wig. When he was first presented it he said he felt rather sad that some unknown animal had given it's life just to hide unsightly hair-days.

He was a small man, my father. He always seemed slightly out of place, as if he didn't belong on land. His entire life was dedicated to the sea even before he met my mother. He told me many stories of the places he had been, Singapore, the Colonies, Spain… each tale an adventure that left me enthralled in the depths of his telling.

He smelled of the sea. No matter how long he was off duty he carried with him the fresh, acidic scent of the ocean. It was as if he brought some part of the sea with him, no matter where he went. Even now, when there is a sharp breeze from the Caribbean ocean I feel a stab of familiarity and security.

Every weekend that my father was off duty he would take my sister and I to the beach. My mother rarely came with us, for she was often ill since my sister's birth. We would stay there playing in the surf and sand until long past sunset. We also had a nanny with us, because my father could and would be called away at any time. The nurse would watch my sister for a time until she would slip from the nurse's grasp and run toward us, discarding her tiny, well-made shoes to join us in play.

Our poor nurse had it rough trying to raise us. She often complained to our mother about allowing us to do as we please. My mother would only smile in that vague way she had and say, "To keep my children bound would be like trying to cast chains on the tide. The manacles will only last so long before the currents become powerful enough to drown."

My mother called us "Spiritueux de Mer," which is French for Sea Spirits. She believed in all sorts of old superstitions, most of which she made up herself. One of which was that my father was a child of Neptune, that he rose from the ocean and could not remain away from it for long. I suspect that that belief was the only thing that got her through my father's long absences.

My mother beautiful. It was really no surprise that she had so much difficulty in having children. She had a slim frame, almost wren-like. After my sister's birth, her body decided that it had had enough. She was sick more often than not, easily bed-ridden. Yet, she had a will that surpassed most men and would never remain ill with any one infliction for long. Occasionally, she would be well enough to join us at the beach, where she would sit on an outspread blanket and watch us.

When I turned six, my first governess was hired.

I think she lasted two weeks.

My sister and I had grown rather wild due to our often absent father and perpetually ill mother. The hired help had their own duties so we were mostly left to fend for ourselves. After six years of this, the new absolute schedule that our governess tried to inflict upon us was absolutely unbearable. Our governess was used to good, obedient children. She couldn't handle our wild ways. I suppose we were each other's worst nightmare.

Our second governess lasted a week. The third, only a day. By that time, we had become quite adept at chasing them away. Yet, I think now that a snake in the bed was a little extreme.

I still find the memory amusing, though.

The last governess that my father hired for us, my sister was now six and I would be seven in a few weeks, was the one I suspect that would have remained. She was very lenient and used bribes instead of threats against us. Children are very bribable. Her name was Violet. She had the softest voice and smoothest hand. From her I learned etiquette and that the soft-of-voice can instill the greatest of loyalties. I adored her. I had even asked her to marry me. She had only laughed and said I was far to young to be worrying about getting married.

"But when I grow up I want to marry you!" I had declared.

"But by that time I will be terribly old and wrinkly. You won't want to marry me," she had said with a small smile. She was clearly humoring me.

I shook my head vehemently. "No. You will always be beautiful!"

"All right, how about this," she said, kneeling at my side. "If I am unmarried when you come of age, and you are still willing, we will be married."

I grinned. There was no doubt in my mind that the world would stand still while only I aged.

The last I heard of her she married a Irish farmer and moved to Ireland, but that was much later.

A few weeks after my seventh birthday, an epidemic of Scarlet Fever swept across London. Both my sister and I were among the first ones to fall ill. I remember very little of that time, only a sense of detachment as I drifted through delirium. Eventually, though, the fever broke. The first thing I saw when I awoke was my father. He was fast asleep in the chair next to me. My sister's empty bed was on the other side. I hoped that she had gotten better already, for she was taken ill first. I tilted my small head down to view my father. His cheeks glistened with still-wet tears. He woke not a few moments later. When he saw me watching him he embraced me and began to cry.

My sister was buried a week later.

After that, my father pressed down upon me the importance of growing up well. No longer was I allowed to run reckless through the gardens in nothing but my trousers. Violet was set to teach me how a gentlemen was supposed to behave. And I learned. The heavy toll of death subdued my wild urges. Still, there were times that I slipped away from my governess' gentle care to flee to the beach, to where my father, sister, and I used to frolic in the waves. I would sit and stare out at the horizon dreaming of lands of gold, of people with no clothes, and journeys that would last a life-time. I dreamed of a ship, sleek and beautiful, slipping through the silken waters. A sharp, acidic breeze imprinting it's scent into my skin so that no matter where I went I would be reminded of the sea.

A few weeks after I fully recovered from my illness, my father was sent on a voyage. He came to visit me before he left. He told me many things that day. He spoke of parents and children, of the land and sea. He told me about seagulls and the wind, of flowers and trees. Many small, unimportant things. Still, his voice was smooth and his hands were soft against my knee.

The last I ever saw of my father was the back of his gray wig as he shut the front door behind him.

I often wonder if he knew he were setting out to his death. But how could he have known that his ship would be attacked by a band of pirates not three day's sail out of harbor? He died honorably, that's what they told me. Acted true to his station as a gentlemen and a captain of his ship. He was a hero, they had said. He had even managed to sink the other ship with his own before the end.

I often wondered why there were heroes only in death.

The days of my childhood vanished beneath the waves along with my father.

His funeral was a quiet affair. There were no mourners hired to express their fake grief, no false announcements about the life he lived. The Navy performed a beautiful ceremony of swords and sharp uniforms, expressing their grief in the loss of their admired Admiral in that simple way officers do. My mother made it out of the house, dressed elegantly in black, a few light-colored locks spun gently in the soft breeze. A veil hid her face, but from my position by her side I could see the soft trails of tears running unchecked down her cheeks.

I was asked to sing for the ceremony, I having a smooth soprano voice that moved many to tears that day. I sang a hymn from the good Book, followed by a heartrending requiem I still remember to this day as they lowered the empty casket into the ground.

The adults were to adjourn to our private parlor after that to express their sorrow and condolences to my mother. I was soon left alone staring at the freshly mounted gravestone. Only being the tender age of seven I had only a small grasp about what had happened. I knew my father was gone and he was not coming back, but I couldn't seem to grasp the gravity of the situation for many weeks to come. I was left staring at the etched plaque with my father's name.

I do not know how long I stood there until a heavy hand placed itself on my shoulder. Startled, I looked up into the unfamiliar face of a man I would learn to know, oh, so very well.

"Do you know who I am?" was his first question to me. I replied that I did not. My voice was dull. I did not care who this man was, yet he seemed determined to educate me.

"My name is Jerold D. Norrington."

I only stared at him blankly. He frowned briefly. "I am your grandfather, child."

How was I supposed to respond to this pronouncement so soon after my father death? I turned my gaze away with a soft, "I see." But, no, I didn't see. I had no comprehension about what his relation would mean to me. You see, with my father gone, and I underage, all the lands and property lawfully was placed in my mother's care. However, my mother was not capable of taking care of me nor of the minor amount of land that we owned. So this man I had never seen before entered my life. Jerold D. Norrington, my grandfather, yet I would only be allowed to call him "Sir." He was not a military man, but the patriarch of the Norrington family. My father had distanced himself from the family when he had first joined the Navy. The British Navy, while both honorable and elite, was not an occupation that Jerold believed proper for our family's station. When his second son had declared his choice, Jerold had nearly disowned him. Theirs was a row legendary in the family. Finally, my father had simply walked out, vanishing into the sea.

He moved into our home not three days later. One of his first orders of business was dismissing my lovely Violet and replacing her with a vicious woman named Nancy.

She was not exactly vicious, I should say. To a child's point of view, however, she was the devil's incarnate. I was forced to call her Nanna Nancy because she thought it delightful. I was a doll in her eyes, something whose movements were directed precisely by her. I was greatly ignored by Jerold during the first few weeks of his arrival. I would like to say I remained mostly by myself, however that chance never presented itself with Nancy nearby. She was horrified when she discovered the state of most of my wardrobe. My clothes were not picked out by the staff for ceremony more than for durability. She promptly discarded my play clothes and set about purchasing me new, confining dress-ware. I felt horribly itchy and hot in the new purchases, and I would frequently remove as much as possible as soon as Nancy was not looking. Eventually though, Nancy perfected a technique of tying my waist-jacket so that my attempts of removing it resulted in my half-strangling myself.

Partially in revenge and mostly rebellion, I began trying my best to tear the horrible clothes in my attempts to escape my governess. It was after ruining my fifth pair of clothing, however, that my grandfather decided to have a word with me.

I never knew a belt had so much to say.

That man embodied everything I had learned to loath. Discipline was the 'D' in his middle name. I became well acquainted with that belt over the next year. There were many habits I had that Jerold had found improper and had to be corrected. He was not overly cruel, I admit. That is, he did not whip me over spilled milk or anything similar. He only brought the belt out when I had been overly unruly and disobedient. Which happened a lot during that first year. I was not used to having so many restrictions placed upon me. However, he and Nancy did not respond the way I had been used to with my former governess'. The pranks and terrors I preformed for my previous audience were now placed in front of a disinterested, easily annoyed crowd. I received only one warning before Jerold would grip my wrist with an iron hand and deal me a blow across my back with the flat of his belt.

After one such occasion, Jerold had been very upset over my vengeful stain of the terribly expensive Japanese silk tapestry, he punished me until my back was crisscrossed with red welts. I had never seen him so angry. So terrified was I that as soon as he released me I fled the house and the grounds. In retrospect it was not a overly clever idea. If Jerold were upset before he would most likely be furious that I had run from him. That realization kept me from returning for a good many hours.

When I had recovered myself from my fright I slowed my breakneck speed to discover myself in a place I had not been since before my illness. The smell of the sea slammed into my memory. My father's ghost drifted on the wind before me, haunting me with his intangibility. My throat tightened. I couldn't hide the sob that escaped. This was the moment that I realized my father would not be coming back. The scent of the open breeze would no longer accompany the warmth of my father's arms. Nor would it try to hide behind the soft smell of freshly washed skin. Never again will my father frolic with my sister and I in the white foam playing across the sand. Soft waves smoothed the beach beneath my feet as I stared out at the unattainable horizon and let the silent tears rack my body.