Author's Note: This story was the result of a challenge I set myself: write a female Pirates of the Caribbean original character, and make it not be a piece of sentimental tripe. I honestly hope I've fulfilled my goal and dodged Mary-Sue-dom . . . as you can doubtless tell from the text, I'm not very fond of 'Sues myself. I suppose the theme of this little yarn comes from reading the PPC's PotC stories, and wondering what the canon characters really do think about the way their lives are batted around.
I hope Jane Fanchon isn't a 'Sue, and I hope her thoughts make interesting reading. I've noticed that many original pirate characters seem to be less acquainted with the basic mechanics of day-to-day life on the high seas, not to mention the dangers of snapping in people's faces and letting your temper get away with you. Many pirate ships and crews were highly disciplined, and these were far and away the most commonly successful.
If I've farked up somewhere, or Fanchon is a 'Sue, please let me know and I'll endeavor to correct the problem immediately. Yes, I do accept constructive criticism, and I'd like to encourage my readers to give it. If you have any more elongated questions, or a line of debate in mind, my email address is all goes well, I might add another portion to this; right now, it stands alone. Happy reading!
Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean in any way, shape, or form. I do, however, own Jane Fanchon, and that's not much a problem as I doubt anyone else would want to. If there is indeed a female original character out there named Andromeda Malaiya Sparrow, my apologies- I plucked it out of thin air in hopes that it was an unused name, and it was not intended as a jab at or slur on your character.
A Pirate's Life for Me?
by Morrigan, the Nightmare Queen
Jane Fanchon was a lot of things. Some people called her a pirate; others, a murderer. Well, if the boot fits- it wasn't uncommon that she owned up to both charges when presented with them . . . and if she didn't like the manner of her accuser, then she would hold her tongue, and not make difficulties. As a common seaman before the mast, it wasn't Fanchon's place to start quarrels which might end in trouble for the Captain- worse, trouble for the Pearl. She had a thick hide. Unpleasant reactions, though galling, were not something to lose one's temper over. But the others . . .
The others were unbearable.
How many times had Fanchon seen it? A young woman, or perhaps two, would come on board; sometimes she would be innocent, sometimes she would be bold as brass, but it never changed: she was always beautiful, and beloved of every man that had the misfortune to cross her path. Sometimes this newcomer would be after the Captain; sometimes, instead, Turner would be the one to suffer. Occasionally, she had spotted one making eyes at that stuffish Commodore fellow. As a marauder, Fanchon had never cared for the Commodore (she found thought a capable seaman, but not the sort of fellow you could get chummy with over a pint), but she pitied him every time the latest harpy in red or purple made her entrance. No man, however law-abiding or nobby he was, ought to suffer that sort of torment.
For torment it was, after all. Fanchon had only had glimpses of these creatures; sometimes they would come on board, sometimes they would be found in the ports, whenever the Pearl was buying supplies or drydocked for refitting. Dressed like ladies of the evening, they were; many claimed to be pirate lasses, but in such clothing, Fanchon could never understand how they might climb the rigging to mend a broken rope or swab the ashes and charring from a cannon's muzzle. Fanchon was not a schooled woman- the daughter of a seaman who spent eight or nine months of the year working on a whaler 'round the coast, she had spent her girlhood helping her mother with the washing and mending, never mind letters and words- but she had plenty of experience in her chosen profession, and had a bit of a thought that gold and brilliant green silks might not be the wisest choice of garb, either on land or sea. In town, silks mark you as nobby, and make a thief all the more eager to relieve you of your purse- and at sea, such bright colors soon fade away, and there's no point in wearing rich fabrics on board a ship where even the drinking water is rationed, let alone the washwater! Even worse, should you meet an enemy and be forced to fight, brilliant clothing marks you as a target.
So why, time and again, did these bizarre women appear- clad in scarlet and blue, green, silver, gold, yellow, colors that never before appeared on a pirate's back or a seaman's coat- posturing and painted like the whores of Tortuga, brandishing outlandish weapons or claiming to come from "other worlds"? From the future? And even worse, why did the Captain believe them? Fanchon wasn't much given to musing- not when there was work to be done- but it was her belief that these women had the freedom of some unheard-of . . . what could she say? Some . . . power . . . that neither she nor the rest of the crew had proof against.
The fight with the undead pirates had shaken her formerly Agnostic views; she knew now that there were powers she had never even imagined, cosseted away in the dark niches of this world. But she couldn't believe that the Captain had that many lost daughters . . . and wives . . . and lovers . . . and sisters . . . and half-sisters . . . and nemises . . . and mentors . . . and former crewmembers . . . why, for even half of the women that claimed to be his children to be legitimate, the Captain would have had to start tupping the ladies before he was much more than a sprout himself.
And why did he go to pieces every time one of these creatures came on board? Since joining the crew at the Captain's call for men in Tortuga, she had seen the brilliant fellow at his many moods- jovial, sly, braggartly, reverent, and just a small bit of falling-down-drunk (his odd step more lurching than ever, but never slurring a word or missing a beat) when they'd had a good haul and the grog was passed about. She had never seen him weep, nor bemoan that he had a "hole in his heart", nor mistreat a woman or mismanage his affairs- until one of these painted ladies came aboard. Then it was sigh, cry, stumble, drink himself into a stupor over the latest of these women, incessantly mumble bizarre phrases about "true love" (and some very disturbing information to the leeward of Will Turner that Fanchon would rather not discuss), and speak in a stilted and hypnotized manner that was not at all like his usual rapid patter.
Even worse- whenever one came aboard, every barrel of grog in the hold instantly became apple cider. Some miracle of fermentation, perhaps- for though Fanchon had no great love for the taste of grog (the lime juice made it bitter), it prevented the sailor's disease, and she'd rather taste bitterness and be healthy than taste sweetness and be dead.
It seemed as though . . . no.
Aye, she'd spoken with Gibbs and the others, and they'd seen it as well, but how was it possible?
How could these creatures so change things- change the world- to suit themselves?
Gibbs had a word for them- he called them malkins. A malkin, he told Fanchon once, was an old word for a woman of the lower orders. And though Fanchon could have called herself a true malkin, she'd no love for the prancing clothes-horses that now bedeviled her.
Oh, they left Fanchon herself alone. None seem to know she existed, for she'd never been prominent in any of the Pearl's deeds- manning the lifeboats, climbing the rigging, running out the long nines and bringing up barrels of gunpowder. Not only did the malkins ignore her, they seemed not to acknowledge these actions as well; to them, a cannon was something that you merely fired, never mind how or what might be involved in it.
If it had been only her that they had bedeviled, Fanchon might well have left the malkins alone. But Gibbs noticed, and Cotton, and practically every bloody other man on the ship. Fanchon didn't know about Anamaria; she held too much respect (and a bit of fear) for the woman to try and engage her in conversation. But many times, when a malkin was on board, Fanchon had seen Anamaria's jaw visibly tense- or looked in vain for the short-tempered second mate, only to discover that she had completely disappeared.
Inevitably, the malkin left, and all of the men who had vanished during the siren'stime onboard would reappear. But a new one would crop up almost every day, and it seemed they had no power to stop it.
Fanchon would have loved to destroy them, but she didn't have a choice in the matter. Every time she turned to a malkin, willing her arms to reach out, her fingers to grasp the pistol or the cutlass or even the mangle with which she wrung out that month's load of laundry. But it never worked. Her hand would not move, her mouth would not open to shout or curse, and the malkin passed on her way- ever perfect, ever unstoppable.
Someday, I'll find a way, she promised herself wearily, as she watched the proudly arched back of Andromeda Malaiya Sparrow. And when that day comes, there'll be no more of this idiocy.
After all, it won't last forever. Once the Captain recovers his wits, I shan't be seeing any more young Miss Sparrows prancing about as though they had any claim to power. Oh, aye . . . I can almost hear it now. Good old Gibbs, his words are always best.
Curse you for breathing, you slack-jawed idiots!
TO BE CONTINUED . . . ?
Notes on the text:
Tupping- old English slang for having sex. Common circa 1700-1890or so, at which point fastidiousness broke down and the language acquired a great many more modern swear words.
Grog- contrary to popular belief, grog is neither pure rum nor apple cider. It's a mixture composed of a shot of rum, several squeezings of lime juice, a bit of sugar, hot water, and- if available- a pinch or stick of cinnamon. Concocted to prevent scurvy in seamen, and also to vary the extraordinarily uninteresting diet aboard ship.
Paint- slang for makeup.
Long nines- type of cannon.
Malkin- another old English word, this one popularized by Shakespeare. It does indeed mean woman of the lower orders, although modern novelist and commentator Florence King has updated it to mean "irritatingly earnest woman who worries about her femininity."
Sailor's disease- scurvy. A type of severe malnutrition caused by a lack of vitamin C and other nutrients commonly found in fresh fruit. Normally, captains and crews got around this problem by drinking straight lime juice, but that was a pretty unpleasant experience in and of itself- hence the invention of grog.
Nobby- noble, highborn, or otherwise upperclass. Could be technically applied to anybody in a higher position, such as Commodore Norrington, although it's also used to describe someone who puts on airs.