Chapter Three: Gossip and Ghosts

Galadriel gazed around her in exasperation. The glass walls of her prison allowed her to see her surroundings, but it kept her from moving very far. Silently she cursed her own carelessness; if she hadn't let her guard down, she would never have been trapped in this jar.

She had been quietly inspecting the ship's barnacle-crusted hull, looking for any slight leak, when suddenly a bucket had scooped her up. Unable to move fast enough to escape, Galadriel had been hauled aboard the ship and had a pumice stone dropped on her head.

After being subject to a jolting round of deck-scrubbing, the water-spirit had been promptly dumped back into the ocean. She had found her way into the water supply down in the hold, only to be ladled up again and taken to the galley by the cook, who had poured her into the jar she now occupied.

And speaking of the cook, there he was now.

The fat Corsair banged into the room, his ample girth something of a hindrance, owing to the door that was slightly narrower than he was. His tunic was stained with splatters of food, if the word did justice to the slop the man was now dumping into a pot on the stove.

Even through the glass of her jar, Galadriel caught the stuff's foul stench, and wished fervently that she had no nose. The Corsair, however, seemed to be enjoying the smell; he hummed tunelessly as he stirred the lumpy brown gunk in the pot with an already grimy spoon.

The cook scraped up bowlfuls of the brown stuff, still humming as he arranged them on a large tray. Then he bustled out again, the door slamming shut behind him. Galadriel sighed in relief as a voice reached her ears, slightly muffled through the glass.

"Merciful Valar! Did something die in here?"

"That, Elrond, is what the Corsairs call 'dinner'," Galadriel replied wryly.

"Where are you?" Elrond called, staring this way and that.

"I'm over here," she replied. "In the jar on the table."

"Thank goodness," the wind-spirit sighed. "I was wondering what was keeping you."

"Can you get me out of here?" asked Galadriel.

"I'm not sure," said Elrond nervously, glancing down. A moment later he brightened. "This is perfect!"

"How is my imprisonment a good thing?" Galadriel demanded.

"Because my new friend Daeglir is just below us," Elrond told her, his face breaking into an invisible smile. "And he dearly wants to meet you."

"And how will I meet him in here?"

"You'll see," Elrond smirked.

He moved swiftly to the opposite side of the jar, and pushed. As the vessel teetered on the edge of the table, Galadriel cried, "I hope you know what you're doing…"

"Trust me," said the wind-spirit blandly, giving the dangerously-positioned jar a final nudge. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"ELROND!" Galadriel shrieked as she fell.

Elrond's trajectory had been perfect; as the jar hit the floor and shattered, sending tiny shards of glass flying, most of its contents fell through a crack in the floor just where the jar had struck. Galadriel fell with the water, now inside a droplet.

She hit the floor below, splashing down into the puddle that had formed there. Elrond breezed down to join her, saying, "Are you all right?"

"I've been better," she replied. "Where is Daeglir?"

"Over there." Elrond pushed the puddle of water with a slight gust of wind, nudging it toward Daeglir's tiny prison. "I'll try to lead you."

He propelled the water forward, with Galadriel edging along within it. It didn't take them long to reach the cupboard and slide through the gap.

"Daeglir, I'm back," Elrond called. "I've brought my mother-in-law, Lady Galadriel."

"Pleased to meet you, my lady," said the boy politely.

"The pleasure is all mine, Daeglir."

"Well, now that we all know each other," said Elrond, "I'll tell both of you my plan for Daeglir's escape…"

"How do you expect to accomplish this, Elrond?" asked Galadriel.

"With time, patience and co-operation, as well as luck," the wind-spirit replied. "The Corsairs must brag and gossip about their crewmates a lot; I'm sure I'll be able to use something to our advantage."

"And where do I fit into this?"

"Daeglir told me a little about the Corsairs' understanding of water-spirits," said Elrond calmly. "He said that the pirates believe they are malevolent creatures who drown sailors by seducing them with their music. I think you could do the same."

"And Gandalf?"

"We'll see."

Galadriel nodded. "But how exactly will I get out of here? I can't ride the wind like you can; I'm a captive to whatever body of water I choose to occupy."

"The cook should be bringing me my scraps soon," Daeglir told her. "I could put you into my water glass, and wait for it to be cleaned up. All of what I don't eat or drink gets dumped into the sea."

"An excellent idea," the water-spirit smiled.

"I'd best pass this along to Gandalf," Elrond spoke up. "If you'll excuse me…" He slid through the crack under the door, just moments before footsteps sounded outside.

A brawny Corsair wrenched the cupboard door open, and bright light streamed in. The cupboard was revealed to be short and very narrow; Daeglir was huddled up in a corner. The Corsair thrust a plate of bread and a cup of water toward the boy, who accepted them warily.

As he moved into the light, Elrond suppressed a gasp of shock. Daeglir's body was skeletally thin, his ribs showing clearly through his threadbare shirt. And where his eyes should have been, there was nothing but skin stretched over two slight dents below the eyebrows.

He groped around until his hands found the rims of both plate and cup, pulling them with him as he retreated into the shadows. The Corsair grunted and jerked his head, and slammed the cupboard door behind him as he stalked away.

Galadriel sighed in relief as Daeglir carefully scooped her droplet up and let it slide off his fingertip into the cup.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him. "That feels much better. But you poor boy… it's no wonder you can't see. Were you born this way?"

"What way?" Daeglir frowned, his eyeless brows furrowing. "I don't know what you mean."

"Daeglir, you have no eyes," the water-spirit explained as gently as possible. "Has no-one told you? Your parents, other relatives…?"

"No," said the child sadly. "I barely remember anyone that could have been family. I've been here on this ship for as long as I can remember."

"But that's six years at least!" Galadriel gasped. "How on earth did you survive? The Corsairs—"

"They didn't really help matters," Daeglir replied sullenly. "I've lived off of bread and water for Eru knows how long."

Galadriel made a silent vow to help the poor boy any way she could.

----

"Gandalf," Elrond called out, gusting up into the galley and hovering near the oven. "I have a plan."

"Tell it," said the fire-spirit from the embers.

Elrond did, as Gandalf listened patiently. "Will I be able to assist you in some way?"

"I'm sure I'll find something for you to do," the wind-spirit assured his friend.

"Good," said Gandalf. "This is growing tiresome."

----

Elrond glided smoothly through the ship, unnoticed by all. He floated inconspicuously above the Corsairs in their barracks as they talked loudly and contemptuously among themselves. Most of their conversation seemed to be about the behaviour of former crewmates; Elrond eavesdropped carefully on a group in the far corner of the room.

"Remember ol' Blackfinger?" one Corsair asked another as he took a swig from a mug of ale. Much of the stuff slopped down his chin and got in his tangled beard.

"Yeah, I remember him," the other replied haughtily. "Stupid lump o' lard. He never could spell to save his worthless hide, not even his own name."

"Why'd they call him Blackfinger?" spoke up another pirate.

"'Cos he never used a pen when he wrote," the first answered. "Used to dip his finger in the inkpot an' write that way."

Elrond hung over that conversation like a cloud over a storm. This was proving useful.

"So how'd he die?" asked the second

"Some say he drowned when he fell outta the ship durin' a storm two years ago," said the first Corsair, lowering his voice ominously. "I think he was pushed."

"Who did it?" asked yet another man.

"Dead men tell no tales," the first Corsair replied. "Not that you could trust a word he said."

Elrond had heard enough to make a plan. He exited softly, with a whispered, "Thank you, gentlemen."

"Whazzat?" cried a Corsair, who had obviously heard. "I heard somethin' – coulda bin Blackfinger!"

"Blackfinger's dead an' gone," muttered another. "Sleepin' with the fishes."

Not if I have anything to do with it, Elrond thought with an invisible smirk.

Galadriel swam swiftly through the briny waves of the sea, where she had been poured unceremoniously from Daeglir's cup of water. All she had to do now was wait for word from her son-in-law. She heard Elrond arrive in a rush of wind.

"I've spoken to Gandalf, and I'm about to begin phase one of our plan," he told her in a triumphant voice.

"Excellent," Galadriel smiled. "What should I do?"

"I'll let you know when the time's right. It should be soon."

"Good. I'll be waiting."

Elrond flew back into the ship, breezing through many rooms in his search for supplies he would need for his plan. Parchment and ink… parchment and ink… didn't anyone write things down?

Aha! The wind-spirit beamed as he spotted a ship's log lying open on a desk, beside a pen and an open inkwell. Well, he certainly wouldn't need the pen.

Elrond carefully turned to a blank page in the log, ripping it out and setting it aside. He dipped his forefinger in the inkpot, wondering what kind of message a deceased pirate would write to his fellow companions.

Inspiration struck him, and he began to write with his finger, making sure his spelling and grammar were dreadful. He added a few senseless blobs of ink for good measure, and smiled at his finished work:

Death weights for al whoo remayn heer. Bewear of the sirens – they drownd me. Their cumming back four mor. Don't folow the muzick.

Blakkfingur