DISCLAIMER: I do not and will never own any of the characters or settings appearing in this chapter. They were conceived by Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio, Jay Wolpert and Stuart Beattie and are owned by Disney Enterprises, Inc. Some of the dialogue can be connected to the first film and, hence, is not mine but was inserted into the story to put connections between my story and the film.
Chapter 6
"They're Angry...."
Stumbling out from the dark, dank brig into a dimly lit hallway with his comrade, lantern in hand, it was difficult for Ragetti to refrain from grumbling and murmuring to himself– so he didn't refrain.
"Bloody pirate," he grumbled over the scuffle of his shoes against the wooden planks upon which he walked. His voice had the sound of a whale in song– round and deep in feel and yet not quite so in pitch. "Call me slow on the uptake, 'e did. I'll show 'im."
"Shut up," Pintel puled gruffly, slapping his trailing companion harshly from over his shoulder. "Blast it, 'e insults ya every single time ya step into that stuffy 'ell, an' ya always act like s'not normal or nothin'. 'e's called you 'smelly,''slow,' 'stupid,' 'harebrained,'a 'woman,' a 'pig-nosed bug-eyed two-headed git,' uh..." he faltered, trying to recall other affronts that had been batted at his ally.
Ragetti decided to help with Pintel's dilemma, suggesting, "Stupid?" over Pintel's shoulder, a hopeful look barely visible in the swaying shadows caused by the swinging lantern.
"No, I already said that, ya fool!" Pintel growled back with a sharp glance behind him.
"Oh...righ'." He became downcast, as was custom in these sort of conversations.
"No, what was that one insult he had the other day?" Pintel thought aloud as he stopped his face-paced steps and placed himself at a firm stop in front of a door. He rubbed his whiskery chin thoughtfully before turning around to ask his friend directly. "Tha' one big word?"
Now, yes he would have liked said word to come to mind, but, in all respects, if it didn't come to him instantly, then Pintel honestly didn't care whether the word was recalled or not. It was just a stupid word, after all– who would give the dumb thing more than a passing thought? He sighed, deciding to let it pass and turned to his friend, opening his mouth to speak. But he did not speak. Rather he snapped his jaw shut and cocked his eyebrow in a slightly amused manner.
Ragetti stared back at him– actually past him, his face slackened in excessive thought, his brows furrowed in almighty speculation and his real eye rigidly fixed on where Pintel's face stood whilst his wooden eye twitched lightly back and forth in his mental exercise, squeaking quietly as it did so.
Pintel heaved a great sigh, rolling his eyes around in annoyance. "Never mind, you!" he growled as he clasped Ragetti's shoulder in an iron-vice grip. "S'not important– jus' forget about it!" And he opened the door that they stood before, swung his friend in front of him and shoved him out the door without a thought of gentleness, shutting it behind him something much louder than a simple snap.
The wind was a good strong breeze and the ship fairly steady as she cut through the water as smoothly as a knife cuts through warm butter. And the ship herself... she was a beauty. Once. Yes, in some respects she still was, but the majesty that her crew held her in wasn't what her full potential promised. The wood was a rich and beautiful black. Once. Now, it was faded and dull and her dark sails, though once regal, now flapped about the wind in shreds, apparently futile to any of the most ignorant of sailors. But, under the light of a clouded-over moon, the vessel cruised through the crystalline Caribbean waters with the speed of any good ship under full-sail. An unusual sight, to be sure. It was a marvel that she could manage so much as a creep or hobble! But there she was, moving along with enough tempo to make up for her shabbiness.
Pintel and Ragetti swaggered their ways onto the main decks of the large vessel, where the crew was buzzing about, doing whatever business was theirs. What it was wasn't any of my business–nor anyone else's.
Pintel inhaled a deep, hearty breath and sighed. It was good to be out of that brig, no matter how quickly they were in and out. It was so stuffy, musty and the rats smelled something awful. Oh yes... there were rats on the ship. A good plenty of them.
"Aye, it's good there ain't no fog about anymore– eh, Reg?"
"Uh...yeah," Ragetti answered a bit absent-mindedly, obviously not paying attention. Something in the rigging seemed to be of great importance to him.
Pintel frowned to himself as he attempted to see whatever it was that Ragetti was looking at. Espying nothing but fellow pirates, lines, pulleys, yards, sails and other rigging items that he looked at everyday onboard a ship, he soon lost interest, deciding his friend had been lost momentarily to his over-active imagination. He stretched his arms and yawned lazily. He'd like a good nap before his watch.
A large, dark hand landed heavily on Pintel's shoulder and he only just refrained from letting out a sharp yip in response as he went rigid. The hand was far too strong for Ragetti– in fact, he knew that grip all too well, belonging to someone far less friendly. He turned around to come eye-to-eye with the bo'sun– a very tall, broad and muscular black man, with a voice as deep as anyone could possibly get and ornaments decorating him that suggested his originating from a western civilization in Africa.
He grinned none too kindly, his mouth full of dirty, crooked teeth and his eyes, although not threatening at the time, menacing in their off-color sheen. Just as quickly as his grin slid on it slid back off into a slack, cold expression.
"Cap'n wants ya," he rumbled frankly.
Pintel would've scowled if it weren't for the ultimate fear he had of the black behemoth– for he also had a great dislike for the man and his hectoring ways. Instead, he grinned toothily and very constrainedly, giving a strange timid wave as he managed to squeak, "Okay," between gritted teeth.
The bo'sun rolled his eyes in evident disgust and annoyance before he continued on his way. He held no respect for this one nor the witless pathetic excuse for a crewman that he called his friend. They were useless for everything except playing pawns, as he was concerned. Had no brains at all– though they had enough bronze and bravery to handle whatever situation they faced... but that had been due to the curse.
Pintel threw a sour look after the man. No, he didn't like him at all. The man was so arrogant and haughty that he didn't even bother to tell anyone aboard the ship his name. They just called him 'Bo'sun,' because he was the bo'sun and that was the closest thing they had to an actual identification. They didn't even know exactly where he was from or any specific information of that sort. He mostly just kept to himself and glared at anybody who dared attempt conversation with him– friendly or not.
The short, greasy pirate's attention was drawn by the faint squeaking and creaking of wood directly behind him and he turned around to see Ragetti also staring after Bo'sun– though a bit more dumbly than heatedly– as he steadily but vigorously rubbed at his wooden eye with a balled right hand, creating a soft creak with each rubbing motion of his fist.
Pintel snorted. If he complained about splinters in his sockets so much, then why didn't he ever just stop rubbing the useless thing? Didn't use his brain, this one.... Of course, this was Ragetti. The man wasn't exactly known for his genius and Pintel frowned as he recalled this, slapping his mate's hand away.
"Stop. Rubbing. It. Why do I always have ta be your, mother?!" he snarled in a vexed tone.
Ragetti threw him an outraged (and yet lethargic) look at him. "I loved my mother!"
"Shut up!"
"Sorry," Ragetti muttered as he placed a shaky hand to his mouth as if unsure what to do with it, his face contorted with worry at the displeasure he'd caused.
Pintel shot him an annoyed and disapproving gaze, but Ragetti, eyes darting about the rigging uncertainly once again, didn't make out his friend's stare until Pintel had already rolled his eyes much like the bo'sun and marched off to the captain's cabin in a huff.
With a sudden loud screech a monkey leapt from the rigging, landing on the ship's rail beside Ragetti and causing him to jump in catching him off guard before it scampered off in the direction of the cabin, passing Pintel. Gathering his wits about him and clutching the metal lamp firmly in his awkward hands still, Ragetti swallowed to wet his dry throat and also in turn went to answer to his captain's bidding.
The ship resembled the last ship they had held: the Black Pearl. Strikingly. Thus, seeing their captain, Hector Barbossa, nestled comfortably behind a large mahogany desk, absentmindedly stroking the ship monkey as it was perched on the armrest of a large comfy chair and having a form of repulsed scowl placed upon his countenance was nothing new to them. (Though once Ragetti entered the cabin, he immediately began casting confused glances about the small enclosure, his eyebrows knit as if he were trying to remember something he had forgotten.)
If Jack or Will or Elizabeth had been in the room they would have noted on how little the man had changed since they had last seen him. In fact, the clothes he wore seemed to be just as much the same as they had been two years ago. Now, of course, he donned the white billowy shirt that all pirates– er– people of lower class wore in the Caribbean. Rather than a plain, scratchy brown vest like Will and Jack wore, Captain Barbossa had his own taste. A silken vest of reds, rubies, golds, purples and other magnificent colors scattered amongst a collage of small, oriental-like designs...that was his preference.
But it was hard to tell that he wore such light colors. For, other than the reddish belt, brown pouch and yellow sash, Barbossa wore black pants and boots, a large coal-grey coat and large-
rimmed black hat topped off with a very long black plume (although, I assure you, the feather atop Will's most decorative chapeau is more than enough competition). The only other thing that I have not mentioned is the green bandanna that he tied around his head... that sat under his large hat.
And yes, like most pirates, Barbossa loved pretty little trinkets and bobbles. Just like Jack Sparrow had his share of rings and beads, Hector had his own little treasures, though his were few in number. A large ring that was intricately carved with many flowing gold designs and had a golden lion's head placed atop a black onyx stone, though not adorned with a jewel of great value, presided on his right-handed ring finger. Other than the cross-like pendant that he wore on a chain around his neck, that was his only artifact of jewelry.
But I digress. True, his clothing and ornaments remained the same as ever– from the buckles on his boots to the polish of his pistol and sword. But Barbossa himself also seemed unchanged. His hair was still red and shoulder-length in wavy locks of copper and his beard as wispy as a breath of cloud. The skin on his face was still pulled taught from years of walking upon this earth; his cheeks still glistening from having burnt and healed in the same places a hundred times over and a two inch scar from a cut under his right eye from some untold past happening. Then his hands. Those awful hands which were coated a hundred times over in blood. The nails on those hands were long, thick, cracked and yellowed and the scales he attempted to call 'skin' that wrapped about his hands were so dark and coarse that Will's callused blacksmith hands, rough as they were, were as soft and pure as a newborn babe's belly in comparison. And his eyes...believe it or not, Barbossa's blue and yellow eyes bore testimony of a soul that was even darker and more crass than that of his hands. He had a heart blacker than coal.... No, upon first glance Barbossa hadn't changed one bit and in some ways that was very good and in others... it was a pity.
Pintel smirked respectably enough (for a pirate of his standards) as he slowly cocked his head to one side, presenting an air of casual and cool without disrespect as his smirk warmed up to a more smooth tight-lipped grin.
"Captain....You wished to see us?"
Barbossa smirked back, inclining his head with approval and his gnarled fingers still running through the monkey's dirty fur.
He opened his mouth to respond, revealing what was possibly the dirtiest set of teeth on the entire ship, "I had the bo'sun down a few days ago to check up on our little guest." His voice had a wispy and sometimes raspy quality to it but a keen edge, nonetheless. "Apparently, he either hasn't been eatin' or someone hasn't been feedin' him properly, because he's lost plenty o' meat off of 'is bones in the last few weeks."
Pintel watched his captain with patience– something he saved for only this person.
Barbossa smiled. A smile that was about as sweet as unsugared cocoa and yet very sarcastic. "Ye wouldn' jus' so happen to know wha' be goin' on there, would ya?"
"Well, cap'n," Pintel sighed casually but with an amused air, "truth is tha' the ol' cook ain't fond of ol' Bootstrap. Only gives him one meal a day, tha' one." He shook his head as if in pity– but the mischievous glint in his eyes and smirk ruined the effect.
Barbossa smirked as well, a small laugh escaping his lips. "S'that all?"
The pirate nodded as he threw a glance at his crony. Ragetti had remained silent for the entirety of the tiny meeting and currently still had an excruciatingly thoughtful look on his face as if he were trying to remember something long lost from his memory. Pintel cocked an eyebrow but thought nothing of it with a shrug of his shoulders as he turned to leave, Ragetti jolting out of his reverie to follow. "Guess we'll be goin', Captain."
"Aye, Captain," Ragetti muttered.
"Now, hold on, jus' a minute," Barbossa's harsh drawling voice called out coldly and commanding regardless of its softness.
Ragetti halted immediately and turned full circle to look at Barbossa for a few seconds before his mind visibly wandered away.
Pintel stopped stiffly and tense. He could not see Barbossa, but being so long in the presence of the man made it so he could picture almost exactly what was going on behind his back. He could picture his face with the dangerously low tone in his voice that had come: a menacing and blood-chilling glare. The hairs on the back of his sweaty neck prickled. The captain was angry. Barbossa was hungry...for blood.
"There's somethin' yer hidin' from me, Pintel. No need to deny the facts because I can smell it. Watcha got behind that spineless back o' yourn?"
Pintel visibly tensed as he gritted his teeth and refrained from muttering the curses coursing through his head out loud. "There ain't nothin'...Captain," he grumbled.
Barbossa's displeased expression edged more toward angry as his eyebrows furrowed. He stood slowly and the monkey, finding that it would receive no more pampering leapt off the chair and scampered out the door–which none of the three men seemed to notice was open a slight.
"Oh there's somethin'." Barbossa held a wise look in his eye, along with the angry fire. "Plenty o' somethin'. I know it. I've seen the looks of the crew of late. What's goin' on Pintel?"
Pintel hesitated. Truth be told, Barbossa was right. There was something. But he couldn't let on to it– it could mean his life. The choice of words had to be convincing without giving away what he had sworn to keep secret. The choice of words had to be careful.
He stood still for several seconds, his back still full facing Barbossa, before he finally spoke, calmly. "What to do you suspect?"
Barbossa also took a moment before he walked around the table with slow, careful steps. The soft thud and jingle of each time a heavily booted foot touched the wooden flooring loud and distinct in Pintel's ears. He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back to half-sit upon his desk. "Wha' do ya think?"
Pintel hesitated. Again, his words had be perfect. If he answered wrong, Barbossa would know. But, to Pintel's horror, before he could create an answer, it was then that Ragetti had to get a brainwave and recall the word that Bootstrap had labeled on him.
"Lethargic twit," he mumbled to himself.
Barbossa's gaze shot knives in Ragetti's direction. "I beg yer pardon?" His voice held an ominously menacing quality to it.
Ragetti looked up, confused for a moment before his eyes went wide with realization at the pickle he'd gotten himself into. "I-I mean– I didn't mean– s'all a mistake–"
Barbossa's glare heated further, fire seeming to brim in his eyes. "You dare to affront the captain of yer ship?" he hissed as he approached the stupid pirate with anger in his very walk. Ragetti flinched, preparing to receive a blow (when, in all honesty, he probably only would've gotten several weeks of extra deck-scrubbing).
"Leave 'im alone, Barbossa," Pintel sighed and Barbossa froze to look at Pintel, half curious have affronted that Pintel would even in the least defy him. "'e wasn't referrin' to you. The git has spent the last half an hour tryin't remember an insult Bootstrap called 'im a while back. Bad timin's the one to blame."
There was silence. Pintel risked glancing over his shoulder. A sharp and lightning-quick chill ran up his spine as his gaze met his leader's and he sharply looked away. But he sighed heavily. He would have to turn around now. He had looked and to stay facing in the opposite direction– that'd only add to Barbossa's suspicions that something was up. So, hesitantly, he circled round to face the man behind him.
He looked at Barbossa cautiously before speaking. "If ye want to know what I think, I best be tellin' you now, I suppose....The crew is restless."
Barbossa's anger diminished and, after taking a set of cooling breaths as he sauntered back round the table, he dropped into his chair, Ragetti dropping his great flinch slowly and opening his good eye to ascertain whether his realization that nothing was going to happen to him for his great blunder was real.
Now, Master Pintel is not a very observant bloke. Little details are of little importance to him, and great impatience from years of pressure under a curse didn't help reduce it. But it was at this seemingly unimportant particular moment that Pintel noticed a rigid tenseness residing in his commander's shoulders.
He scowled, suddenly finding a form of courage and defiance inside him. "You know they're angry, don't ya?"
Barbossa looked up sharply at Pintel– a nigh untraceable hint of shock locked away in his tired, pale blue orbs. "What? Who? The crew?"
"No," he replied darkly, and Ragetti also joined Barbossa in looking at him curiously. "Them Aztec Heathens– them gods. They're angry with us...." His scowl deepened into a sickly glare as Barbossa decidedly cast his gaze else where, glaring at some corner in the cabin. His plans were flawed, and due to the trail of the conversation, even Ragetti's attention was fully caught now.
"Why're we not doin' what they told us to do, Barbossa? Why're we dawdlin'?"
"We're not dawdlin'," Barbossa snapped back hotly.
"Then why'd we stop to grab Bootstrap's brat?" Pintel retorted, his own anger rising in it's turn. "That's not what they asked us to do. What're you up to, Barbossa?"
"Tha's Captain Barbossa to you," Barbossa hissed through gritted teeth. He wasn't at all pleased with the sudden defiance he was receiving from one of his most trusted men. "We're doin jus' as them gods told us– we got the chest didn't we? Jus' because we're running a few errands of our own along the way doesn't mean that their angry at us. We'll find that coin. There's no need for your fussin'...." Barbossa's voice softened and he suddenly seemed to calm over before Pintel's eyes as he slouched back into his chair. "No need to fear..."
A growl emitted from Pintel's stubby throat, accompanied by a glare from Ragetti as he finally began to understand the argument at hand.
"Stupid blighter," he uttered softly.
"Point is," Barbossa continued unheedingly, "we're gettin' the job done. Dawdlin' would be slowin' down for no apparent reason. But for us...that's not the case. The reasons for our delays are well enough, gents, I assure you." He paused as he looked back at Pintel and Ragetti, as confident and cool as ever and a sarcastic half-hearted smirk on his old, sun-worn face. "Yer dismissed."
Pintel scowled and Ragetti turned to leave. As his friend turned to follow suit he looked skeptical and angry. Then he stepped out the partially opened door into the night.
"Stupid blighter," Ragetti repeated, a swarthy look upon his brow.
"I know," Pintel muttered as they marched back onto the main deck. "'e's gonna be the damnation of us all...." He faded out as he looked about himself, a bemused look worthy of Ragetti gleaming in his yellow-stained eyes.
The ship was clear of men now. Crew members who had been busily working were suddenly absent. The only sound to be heard was the gentle creaking of worn rigging calling from up high and the only sight was the silhouette of the sails and deck placed across the clouded moon.
"'ey...where'd everybody go?"
For the second time, a large dark hand fell weightily upon Pintel's shoulder, and he jumped internally at the surprise.
A boomingly deep voice resounded from over the back of his head. "We've been waitin' for you two."
The smell in the air was all too familiar, the sights too acquainted, the sounds. Men grabbed their finely polished blades and guns, placing them into their belts and taking them into hand with stony faces as preparation for the time at hand. The time that belonged to them.
Twigg and Koehler wordlessly lit lanterns and torches, passing them out to all but the few who were assigned an especially important and somewhat difficult task. And with lights in one hand, weapons in the other, the men assembled before the door leading down to the depths of the brig.
Bo'sun smirked to himself as he thudded loudly down the wooden steps. The crew had gathered together and talked about it when ever they could. Arguments broke out over who deserved to take the helm come sunrise and why? Too many times. In fact, it got to the point that the fighting was so frequent that they realized something: they were all too similar. All of them were greedy, backstabbing pirates who would probably make the same mistakes as any selfish bloke. They didn't need a Barbossa at the helm of their ship, they needed someone who knew how to be the greatest pirate in the Spanish Main. They needed someone who knew how to stay out of the kinds of trouble they got themselves into. They needed someone smart. Someone clever.... They needed a Sparrow.
Bo'sun opened the door of the brig with a silent creak and he stepped wordlessly into the musky room, surprising its soul captive.
Oh, they had talked about it. And they all agreed. Since Jack Sparrow would never return to them as a friend, they needed someone else. As much as they had hated him before, they needed someone who could think like Jack Sparrow. They needed it badly.... And they were lucky. They had the perfect man for the job right on this ship.
Bo'sun stuck the correct key into the key's hole and turned it, unlocking the cell with a metallic clank as the mechanisms inside the simple machine turned. He swung the door open and looked down at the man in the cell. The prisoner glared.
Bos'un smirked. They were ready. "'ey Bootstrap, I've got a bit of a proposition for ya."
Sleep was not coming easily. Something was nagging in the back of his young and troubled mind as Will lay in his new hammock, nervously twisting the smooth metal band that he had upon his finger...again. It was a habit now. Will had been doing it for several hours as he sat, wide awake in the barracks of The Predator. With so long of doing it, he no longer could help it. He didn't notice. He just thought. Deeply. About many things, usually. But not tonight. Tonight he only thought about one thing.
Try as he might to get to sleep, thoughts kept pushing themselves into his mind. Thoughts surrounding the events that had occurred mere hours before. That voice, that awfully nagging voice gnawing at the back of his brain. It wouldn't go away.
'I'm sorry, Will.'
'...Elizabeth has healed my life. There's no need to be sorry.'
'No, Will. There is a need to be.... You have to know what your father was really like...he murdered your mother....'
His stomach turned, uncomfortably. Partly because he desired food, but over all it was because the thought disturbed him. Yes, part of the reason came from his instincts as an offspring of the persons in question. Nonetheless, there was something suspicious about the stories he had been presented with. Oh, they had made enough sense, sure enough, but as Will turned the tale over in his head he couldn't help but have a very stubborn and large part of his mind disagree with it. There was something...wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it–it was solely a gut feeling– but neither could he shake it away. The thought cast a dark sense of foreboding over his heart.
He turned over onto his side and tried to get in a comfortable enough position. Hopefully, if he relaxed enough, he would drift into a form of sleep peaceful enough to take things off his mind. He listened. Quiet groans and snores from other men emitted out of the darkness, revealing much more were there than he alone. The soft whisper of the waves could be heard from somewhere over head.... And yet sleep teased him, refusing to come home as his mind began to whirl in another storm of ideas.
'...Your father's still alive, Will....'
His eyebrows twitched in sudden speculation. 'What he said about Mother may not be true, but what if he's right about this? What if he still were alive?' he frowned as he rolled over onto his stomach, letting his cheek rest on the makeshift pillow he made with his forearm. 'But... but that would mean that he's out there somewhere.... What if this Foulkes character was telling the truth?'
A surprise throb from somewhere inside his head caused him to stop suddenly, and he flinched. This took too much thinking for going so long without sleep. Whether it was for his thoughts or his body, tossing and turning was not doing the young man any good, and he soon came to realize it. He had been doing the same thing for a few hours and nothing had changed, after all.
First he turned to his left and he sat and thought, then he turned to his right and he sat and thought, then he turned back to left to continue his unwanted pondering, after that he laid flat on his back, attempting to distract himself with the shadows cast on the ship's bulkhead, then he rolled over onto his stomach to see if that pleased him, but it didn't. He turned around back onto his back. Left, Right, Back, Front, Back, Right, Back, Left, Front, Back, Left, Right, Sit up, Lie down, Back, Right, Left, Right, Back, Right, Front....It wasn't any good at all. Finally becoming more upset than tolerable with his state of insomnia, he rolled lazily out of his flimsy hammock, and stood upon the creaking wood.
Slipping his feet into his fancy silver shoes with their shiny buckles, he stared at them with a slow frown creasing into his brow. William sat back down with a heavy sigh of frustration and fatigue, as he turned and fingered the silken material of his jacket, which he had removed and hung on a peg near his head at night. These shoes weren't designed to be taken onto a ship adventure with pirates. The soreness of his feet proved it hours ago– when he had first put them on, in fact. Neither were his fine clothing appropriate for the situation. They weren't cut and sewn for month-long journeys and battles at sea, they were made to be endured for less than a day. A day so blissful that enduring slightly uncomfortable and achy shoes for the duration of it was far more than worth it. A special day.... A wedding day.
His frown deepened. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. He wasn't supposed to be captive on some leaky, dilapidated boat in the middle of the Caribbean right now; he was supposed to be at his new, transitory home. He wasn't supposed to be fitfully wide awake in a hammock that was too small and felt as if it were going rip and send him to the floor; he was supposed to be sleeping peacefully in the welcoming cushiness of a soft mattress, feather pillows and warm quilts. He wasn't supposed to be smelling the sent of human sweat, rotting fish and rat droppings, feeling the cold drafts breeze in from above; he was supposed to be savoring the scent of a lady's fragrant perfume– sweet and delicate as the flowers of the island on which he dwelt– and feeling... much, much more.... He wasn't supposed to be alone.
Perhaps he was acting like a child,... but he could not help it. Everything had become one big mess. Even before the ceremony things were going wrong! He had awoken late, Jack had been disruptive and then had that incident with Anamaria at the church– it seemed that there was only one moment in the whole of the day that actually went right! Everything was supposed to go one way and the only thing that hadn't gone the wrong was that he and Elizabeth had, indisputably and unbreakably, been united into one as man and wife....
There he went again. Twisting the bobble that he had so quickly become attached to as his thoughts took flight for a special someone in the city of Port Royale, Jamaica. He let his head relax lazily as he did so, his body rocking in the large hanging cloth with the motions of the sea. Deciding he wasn't about to fall asleep soon, with the way his thoughts were tumbling, he stood and made his way as silent as he could onto the main deck. The air was calling him.
A soft breeze met his warm face and nipped at it sharply before his skin became accustomed to the sensation. He looked about himself, breathing deeply the freshness of it all. The sky was as clear as glass from there. Oh, he could spot a dark smudge to the south which he guessed was a gathering of clouds, but it didn't ruin the effect that the sky can have on a person when they look up at the heavens at night. It does something to you.
He wandered over to the rail, his eyes still skyward, and he smiled as his hands gripped the wood lightly, his thumb fiddling with a notch he felt.
One of the first things Will made note of after he left England as a young lad, was that the stars shone as bright as diamonds on top of black velvet reflecting noon sunlight when at sea. They were so clear, so close, so numerous that he had felt almost certain that he could reach his hand up and catch one of the glowing orbs and put it in his pocket for safekeeping. He had almost felt that if he reached high enough, his mother would come and take his hand in a gentle but loving squeeze, just to reassure him that she was there. But he had only almost believed...for he'd learned angels couldn't come to him.
When he was very young, he used to watch the stars at night with his mother and sometimes his father. Will would look forward to these simple outings with great excitement. And when they finally did get on the move toward their favorite spot to sit, the lad would be literally bouncing with joy, hopping in his excitement. They'd walked down to the docks, each parent taking one hand of their precious little boy in one of their own and they would walk as a threesome, the lad in the middle. Then, once they got to the docks they'd sit and look at the stars, Will being never afraid to hop into Papa's lap and chirp, 'And what one is dat?!' stretching a finger towards the sky gems.
Will smiled fondly to himself. Things were so simple then. Things of hurt and struggle didn't exist in his tiny world. There was no such thing as hunger, no such thing as budgets and debts, no such thing as murders and rapes and kidnapings, no such thing as betrayal, no such thing as lies, no such thing as suspicion. The contents of inside his mind was the way life would be if the world were perfect. Pure. Clean. Honest. Safe. It hadn't mattered to him that his father would leave for months at a time, as long as he came back with his ticklish kisses, his large playful hugs and his fun trinkets and games.
Later, when Will came to Port Royal and found he had no one, he would wander to the docks on his own– when he dared– and gazed at the stars, by himself. Sometimes he felt like his mother and father were with him, his mother lovingly brushing his tousled hair out of his eyes as he leaned back into his father's strong arms....And then there were times where he felt very much alone. Like he would always be alone. Sometimes he'd smile, recalling fond memories. And sometimes he'd cry, feeling that he was as unloved as some dirty street rat.... But, praises be sung to heaven, he hadn't felt that way since... he couldn't recall when exactly his loneliness began to dissipate. But he did know how it came to be. And he grinned thinking about it, twisting his wedding ring.
'When I get back home, I'm going to have to take Elizabeth to that spot...she'd love it.' As he thought as much, his smile began to lose a little bit of its luster, and held that specific radiance before it faded out all together. He leaned his elbows on the hard wooden rail of the ship and pressed his fingers to his lips as he closed his eyes, tiredly.
The fact was, he missed Elizabeth. Tonight was supposed to be reserved especially for them, but it had been shattered with some madman's pride and foolhardiness–and that just made him angry and ache for her all the more. He missed her radiant smile and her melodious laugh. He missed her eyes and their ability to convey thoughts and emotions to him so richly and vividly. He missed her lunatic ideas for fun and romance–ideas that most of society would frown at. He missed her pouts and begs, her lectures and scolds and even her tirades and rampages. But currently, the thing he missed most was... her hair.
Will barely caught himself before he let out a snort of amusement, but not managing to withhold himself from cracking a smile. To others it would seem quite silly. Here he was being poetic in thinking of things with beauty and meaning in how they were said; but above all these things described and expressed he missed one of the basest most simple things the most: her hair. Of course, the humor of the thought left him as he took the time to contemplate such a thing. In a sense, it made sense.
Most of his fondest memories with Elizabeth had ties of some sort to her hair. Moments in which she felt distressed or hurt, snuggling into the strength of his opened arms for safety or warmth and vigorously burying her face in his chest as if to shrink into his being and hide. He'd hold her and comfort her as he stroked the back of her neck soothingly and whispered words of peace and promise. And she'd gratefully accept his ministrations–her face remaining submerged in the nape of his neck and her hair tickling and teasing his nose and face with feel and scent.
Then, there would be the time in which he was the one who would be in need of ease from a troubled soul. Warm embraces and appeasing words would calm the storm raging within him and he'd feel comforted. Forehead to forehead they'd be, and he'd reach out and touch her hair, twisting it through his fingers and winding them up in the honey tresses.
Sometimes long talks with her father would be on demand. Whether for business or because the governor was just in that mood that calls for a drink and long conversations, many hours would be spent with the three (and sometimes four, if the commodore attended) chatting and laughing. But eventually those lovely eyelids of hers would begin to droop and that pretty head of hers would bob as the night rolled on into its latest hours. Then Will would place a gentle arm around her dainty shoulders and lean her against him for rest. She would doze into a peaceful sleep and he would rest his cheek upon her head, her hair feeling silky and soft to the touch....
"Lovely night, isn't it?"
Will all but jumped before he spun around quickly to confront the speaker. But his shoulders dropped and his jaw slacked as he relaxed himself in slow realization–it was just Foulkes. Will held himself from scowling as he turned back to face the clear waters around him. 'Stupid man.' "Yes. It's lovely."
It was silent for a moment. The soft sounds of creaking rigging reaching his alert ears. Soft footsteps made it through the quiet and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the despised captain took his place beside Will.
They stood there for a few minutes, the soundlessness as tangible as a brick wall between them, before Will finally turned on heel and made his way back down towards the barracks. He didn't want to talk to that man. He didn't want to have to even look or hear that awful man.
But his reasons for leaving weren't solely based on his dislike for the man. As he stood there, he began to feel his eyelids wanting to droop and his brain beginning to grow sluggish. At long last, his mind had begun to agree–it was time for sleep. So, he decided to return to his hammock and ultimately retire, grumbling to himself about how that 'idiotic buffoon' had ruined his mood. Silly thing really, but–
Wait. As he was about to take a turn that lead him to the barracks, the flicker of a light caught his eye. A warm light. A flickering light. Candle light. And it was coming from the brig.
Now, Will is a decent chap, I can assure you. But, as you probably are able to tell from the tales you've heard about him, he's a curious lad when the befitting situation arises. Sometimes he could care less whether or not he knew who, what, when, where or why; but this time–call it 'fate' if you will–he wanted to know. Who would be lingering in the brig at this time of night when there wasn't anyone who was being held there?...Probably someone that wanted something to do with that chest.
'...The Pearl's crew stole the stone chest of the Aztecs and had it placed upon the Pearl. But, as you know, that chest is evil. It granted some strange power the Pearl that rendered its victims helpless. A dark power. And I'm not sure why, but they used it for the last time on Port Royal. They brought the chest along with you two and ordered us to keep it with us at all times. I don't like that chest, so I've put below in a place where I can't see it and now we're headed to Tortuga for reasons I don't know of....'
A muscle below Will's eye gave an odd twitch as he thought about that. That chest was bad. There was nothing good that could come out of it or any fiddling with it. Glancing down at the cold white line of a scar that shone on his left hand, he said such thoughts to himself. No good came out of it with Barbossa, and no good could nor would come out of it. Period.
'And whoever is fiddling with that accursed thing must be stopped lest they cause more trouble that I don't need.'
Thus it was that William Turner decided to go and investigate. So, creeping as silently and carefully as he could find capability for, Will made his way toward the brig. The silent part was difficult, as his shoes were inclined to clack a bit as the heels connected with the wood. He attempted for several seconds to prevent the clatter, taking as light and careful steps as was possible. But it proved to be frustrating. No matter how much he tried to lay down his foot light as a feather a hollow and louder-than-pleasing 'clack' would emit from his foot. Eventually, he became fed up and removed his shoes all together, able to walk much quicker in his silken stockings without noise.
Needless to say, he made it to the door. The light still sliced its way through the narrow opening, and it appeared to not have moved or changed. However, whether anyone lied beyond it wasn't perceivable. He'd just have to find out by opening the door.
Will reach his hand out to give the door a light push and enter the room. But something stayed his hand and he hesitated. If there was someone beyond in the brig, he didn't know who. It could've been anybody. It could've been Foulkes (though how he could've gotten there before Will was beyond him), or that bumbling old Briggot...it could've even been Stripes. And if it were the angry giant, who was to stop him from avenging himself on Will, when no one was present to stop him or make witness of it?
Will gulped. With a sword, he hadn't much fear for Stripes. He now knew his strategy– which was to make short work of the fool. But without a sword...Will couldn't help but notice that, blacksmith or not, he was quite flimsy in comparison to the muscular mammoth and his tiny fists would be like pebbles up against his boulder-sized hands.
...Perhaps this wasn't as good as an idea as it had seemed before? No, it wasn't. It was rash. It was best if he went to bed and did nothing about it. It wasn't his business anyway. Yes, it was definitely best to leave it be. Will gave a firm nod of his head and began to walk away.
He stopped. A sudden anger coursing through him. What sort of cowardly unmanliness was this?! He was acting like a stray dog, putting his tail between his legs and running full force in the other direction when he realized that his opponent just might be stronger than him. Why? He'd faced undead skeleton pirates before and he was afraid of some goliath that had a murderous temper? No. He wouldn't stand for it. He was going to get to the bottom of this if it killed him...his pride wouldn't let him do otherwise.
He stepped back up to the door and squared his jaw as if he were about to walk into a large pub and wanted to give the impression to not be messed with. He took a deep breath. And reached out his hand....
He faltered again. His thoughts were beginning to make him back out again. 'What if's and 'perhaps'es racing through his mind.
Perhaps it would've been better if he just opened the door as fast as he could. Then, if it was Stripes he could bolt away before the stupid git had any time to think about throttling him....Yes, that seemed like a fairly good plan.
And yet, Will could've kicked himself for his unmanly cowardice. He'd never done this before, why was it happening now?
Biting his lip and placing his free hand firmly on the smooth wood, he decided to put such thoughts aside and get the job done. Just to follow through with 'the plan' on the count of '...1...2...3!'
He shoved the door open with as much force as he could and threw his eyes frantically around the room to take in its contents as rapidly as he could. From what he could see, there was... no one. As quickly as the excitement had risen within him, it seeped away. No one was in the room.
'That's odd....'
He poked his head through the doorframe to make sure no one was hiding in one of the corners he had been blind too. He didn't want to get attacked from something stupid like not looking behind himself, so he looked.
Nope, nobody.
He took cautious steps into the room, attuning his senses to a high awareness for the sound, look or feel of movement as he peaked behind the door to make sure no one was hiding behind the door.
Nope.
He looked back around the room, the candle light casting strange shadows along the walls, thanks to the bars of the cells. 'That's very odd....' Why was there a candle left burning in the brig? Any right sailor knew that it was dangerous...but then again, it could've been that Briggot character. He didn't seem to be aware of what was safe and what wasn't.
Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he spun around preparing for an assault, but it was just the odd jerk of a candle-lit shadow that had seized his attention. Nothing more. He let down his guard, half cursing himself for being so jumpy and half praising himself for being on the alert. He felt half torpid and half clever, and it was rather strange.
The shadows jerked again and he looked at the object that was casting the shadows. It was the cloth the covered the chest. Will's eyebrows shot up with inquisitiveness and surprise as he came to realize: it had been disturbed.
'So, at least some of my suspicions were right....'
Maybe it just was where Charlie had sat before. Maybe someone had been fiddling with it. Whatever it was, we do not know, but Will came to a conclusion that caused him to get into a second round of trouble in the same night: he'd have to check it out. Placing his shoes back onto his feet, he looked at the chest warily before approaching it. It was as if he were looking it over. Which he was. The last time he laid so much as a finger on the chest it moved–on its own. Will wasn't sure how it did it or if it would do something of the sort again, but it gave him the strange feeling that the large stonework could have a mind of its own. It wasn't an easy thought to cope with, as it defied all that he had taught himself to be logical. Stone didn't think. Stone wasn't alive...except, maybe this one.
But still, in the end, stone was stone. I mean, what could it do besides throw its lid onto his foot, right? Right. So, he took a calming breath and he closed the space up between him and the chest, taking a glance around him to make sure no one had come while he was thinking. No one had.
He took hold of the cloth and ripped it off with as much force as he could muster. Such force was more than he expect, however, he ended up stumbling backwards a few steps before regaining his suddenly lost balance.
When he was standing soundly on is own two feet again, he looked back at the chest. He did not know whether to be surprised or angry. Someone had opened it. The lid lay there, half slid off from its position on top of the chest, revealing a warm, spotted reflection of shining gold coins. And, oddly enough, the icy fear that had gripped Will outside the door only seemed to suddenly grow, sending waves of chills up his spine as it squeezed his heart– but he did not know what he was afraid of.
Will scowled in retaliation and defiance. He would not be afraid. And those coins. He didn't want to have to look at one of those condemned things ever again. Yes, they had brought him and Elizabeth together, in a sense, but they had played their part and that was enough. He wanted nothing more to do with them.
He turned to leave the room, irate that someone would want to toy with the vile things when Foulkes even knew that they were dark– nothing but blood money. Like I said before, he wanted nothing to do with them....But, William made a mistake in not closing the lid before he turned away. What Will did not realized was that, at that moment, he didn't have much of a choice. He may not have wanted anything to do with the coins, but they wanted much more to do with him. So much more. And so did that chest. They wouldn't let him go.
That was why as he began to take his steps towards the door, his legs began to feel heavy. Very heavy. Abnormally heavy, he noticed as it began to get difficult to even lift his foot an inch off the floor. It was as if someone had gotten hold of a canon and tied it to his ankles with heavy chains.
It was too weighty. He soon found he couldn't move at all. His feet would not leave the ground, burdensome with those blasted weights. But as he looked down at his feet to see what was holding him back, he saw nothing but his own limbs and bemusement took hold of his mind. He tried to lift his feet from the ground, watching to see if he could figure out the problem. But there was nothing. Nothing holding him down. It was as if his feet had been welded to the ground– try as he might he could not get them to budge. It was like in some dream– some nightmare. The sort of nightmares where Elizabeth needed him, however, try as he might, he couldn't go to her. But this wasn't a nightmare. It was real....
Panic began to take a grip over him. What was happening? Why couldn't he move?! He could only recall such awful things in his nightmares: being trapped in a boat at sea, unable to move when it suddenly started sinking after a fierce explosion. But wait! That couldn't be happening, could it? Those dreams were just irrational.
An abrupt bang made him startle and he looked up to see the door swinging back and forth, banging loudly every time it met the doorframe. He stared at it suspiciously for a moment, willing his innards to calm themselves, when Will suddenly became aware of the breeze that was blowing his hair about. It was blowing gently, just a little bit more than stillness, but it was enough to tug lightly at his thick locks that had fallen astray. It was cool and refreshing, oddly enough, helping Will to begin to breath easier. He was okay. The ship was fine and he was fine....But the breeze was blowing... upward?
Bang, bang, bang.
Confused, he looked down and, sure enough, the breeze kissed his face as if it were blowing up from through the floor. But how could that be? Wind could not travel through wood, he most definitely knew that.
Bang, bang. Bang.
'Turner...'
A violent shiver ran up his spine and Will went stiff as a board, as a whisper, cold, high, raspy and very unearthly, met his unwary ears. His eyes bolted to the door to see who would dare play such an unfunny joke at this time? But no one was there. Just the empty door and the steady bang, bang, bang for proof.
'Stop it, Will,' he told himself. 'Don't be an idiot. It's probably all just your imagination–you have been up too long, after all.'
Yes, he had been up quite a long time. Perhaps his mind was playing very elaborate and strange tricks on him. It probably was best if he just went to bed.
'Turner...'
Another intense tremble of ice climbed his back, like freezing lightning. The voice was behind him this time....Or was it overhead? Wait–he couldn't place it. Surely the thing had a body.... Didn't it?
...Yes. It did. It probably was just Stripes trying to get some sort of vengeance on Will for making him come to trouble.
Bang, bang, bang.
Then why did Will begin to feel fear unlike anything he had felt before? Growing up as a lad in Port Royal, he had been terrified of water, never setting foot onto ship or into sea until that day when Elizabeth had been taken away. Elizabeth had once gotten some of the town boys to shove him off the docks when they were fourteen, trying to teach him that the ocean was nothing to be afraid of. But he had covered his terror and claimed that he just didn't like getting wet unless it was to take a bath. It had convinced everyone, as he had appeared cool and confident– but angry– enough as he climbed back onto the dock. But what they didn't know was that he had been terrified. So scared that he still blushed with shame when he thought about it, trembling internally like a leaf in a hurricane! But that fear, that was nothing compared to what he felt now.
Then, he had a reason to fear. He was traumatized by an experience of having his sturdy, safe ship blown to bits beneath his feet. Changing into a useless wreck and leaving him to be food for whatever hungry shark came his way in a flash of fire and smoke. It held things that he didn't want to ever encounter. It hid monsters. But now... why he was afraid, he did not know. Yes, some peculiar things were happening and the voice was a bit chilling, but he shouldn't have been so frightened. He should have been stubborn. Possibly stupidly stubborn, as Jack would put it. But he wasn't. What was wrong with him?
'Turner...'
A sudden rushing of warmth from under his skin flooded his head, making an abrupt dizziness overtake him as sweat broke upon his brow. His eyes were still fixed on the door, but his vision began to fade, fuzzing over into a blurry mesh of color and then fading into darkness around the edges, spinning from his view. He felt himself wobble but still managed to stand– his consciousness on the verge of slipping away. His skin began to prickle numbly, starting at his head and then working it way down his spine and to the tips of his fingers and toes.
'Bang, bang, bang.'
'Approach me...'
He abruptly became vaguely aware of his legs moving. But he hadn't wanted them to move. They were taking him to where they pleased, and he was only by a hair's breadth able to make out where he was going as he felt his whole body begin to prickle numbly, especially at his chin and at the very top of his head– he was heading for the chest.
Suddenly, from somewhere in his mind, comprehension took a hold of him. There was no other person in the room. The voice didn't belong to some bodiless specter and it didn't belong to some lethargic prankster. It was the chest. The gold was calling him! But how he managed to keep a grip on such thoughts cannot be discovered nor explained, as he could feel the dominant amount of his consciousness having been desensitized by some unknown force....By the chest.
'Bang, bang, bang.'
His vision faded in and out repeatedly, darkening and lightening as well. He was moving but not sure what he was doing nor why he was doing it. He standing before the chest. And he felt a sudden rush of ice over his sweaty back as the breeze in the room gave a sudden shudder of energy, causing the candle to flicker and the room to seemingly sigh. Then he heard other voices. Voices he recognized from somewhere, but he couldn't recall exactly. His mind was so fuzzy....
'Turner...'
'Mother?'
He was reaching for something. Something inside the chest. Something shiny. What was it again? He knew that he knew what was, once, but he couldn't remember! It was something of importance, that much he knew, but he couldn't recollect what it was.
'Give me the gold, kid.'
The light that shone from inside the chest. It was gold. What was gold that was in the chest? He had to remember. Gold.... Gold.... Gold?... Gold! The coins! He was reaching to take a piece out of chest! For a brief moment, triumph pierced through the clouds of his despaired mind and he felt proud for his remembrance...but then he remembered something else. The gold was cursed. He couldn't take a piece then he'd be cursed and something bad would happen. He wasn't sure what it was that would happen, but he knew, somehow he knew that it was bad.
'Bang, bang, bang.'
'You listen to me, William. I don't care what happens or who tells you otherwise...never give this coin to anyone. Your father gave it to you and I expect you to treasure it. Don't lose it. Do you understand me?'
'Yes, Mother.'
He had to stop reaching for the coins. His mind had decided to stop reaching for the gold....Then why weren't his arm and hand listening to him? Why were they still reaching? He wanted them to stop. He mentally willed them to stop.
'You give me that gold boy, or I'll kill you just like my friend killed your mother!'
But they refused to listen to him. His hand kept inching closer. 'No!'
'Hey! Come back here, you little brat! You give me that coin! Give it to me!'
His fingers were still reaching forth towards the golden blurry mass before him. 'No....Stop. Please stop.'
'Turner...'
He began to strain with all his inner will power. He had to stop. He had to. Something of great importance depended on it, he just knew it somehow.
'Dear Will I hope you and your mother are well. I may not be coming home as soon as I had originally hoped, so take this gift from me until I see you again. If you're curious as to where I am, I'm in the Carribean. Port Royale, to be exact. I'll try to make it home to you and your mother soon. Take care, Son. With love, Papa.'
The dizziness was coming back, stronger and more potent than before.
'Pirates!'
'We best be on our guard. Let's see if we can outrun them.'
'Captain! It's the Black Pearl!'
He couldn't see clearly anymore and found himself swaying a bit with the prickly numbness that had taken over his body and head.
'...I'll kill you just like I killed your mother...'
'Please stop....' He fell to one knee, his hand still reaching for the chest in an outstretched position as he vision began to fade to blackness. 'Please...'
"Turner!"
Another voice, stronger and more human. But he wasn't to know its speaker, for darkness took him before he had even managed to connect with the floor as his body collapse from the strain. The battle was over.
Author's Notes: ARGH! TYPOS! I go back to my older chapters to refresh my memory and, no matter how much time I spent to find them all, I still find more!!!(Sigh.)
Yes, school's finally started. (I'm actually doing this over lunch!) But, you know what? I'm not letting that stop me! Yeah, I hope you liked this chapter... mostly. Just you know, I'm not weakening Will- you'll get an explanation for the weird stuff that went on here with Will and on the Black Pearl in the next chapter.
Tell me what you think of Pintel and Ragetti. Did I hit or miss? Did I overdo them? What about Barbossa? I need to know, 'cause I'll continue making mistakes throughout the story if I'm not made aware of them, 'kay?
Trinity Day: Thanks for the reviews! They surprised me a bit, I wasn't expecting any for a while. But they were encouraging!!!
Ila: Glad you like Jack. That gives me release. Sorry he's not in this chapter.
betty sue pirate- The Black Pearl Sails, huh? Guess what? Thanks to you, I went and joined that group. And I will say I enjoy it. A lot. Thanks for the reviews to. I love your confidence in my writing.
Crazy Pigwidgeon- Ah! Madame la Guillotuine! Spare me! ... Don't worry, the William Turner spins will clear up- they are intended for confusion for now. I want things to be more mysterious, secretive and then clear up along the way so suddenly a light clicks and you go "oh!"
williz-Yeah, well Jack deserved it. Just kidding. Glad I tricked you with the Bootstrap and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
OpraNoodlemantra- Oh! Glad to have you back again! I hope the plot isn't becoming unintriguing.... Keep reviewing!
And a BIG shout-out to lovely ol' Erin for posting my fic on that Recommendations Page o' hers. Love ya, Cap'n! And for those of you who would like to have some quality PotC reads. You should check out said page for yourselves, if you haven't. Check out my bio.
Till next time, guys... I hope I'm not disappointing you. I've got the whole story finally figured out. This is going to be twisted and a bumpy ride. Hope you enjoy it on the way. La'ers!
Jack E.