If I Were a Herald

by ChaosLightning13

The Heralds have long protected Valdemar from harm. But the events about to unfold are like nothing they ever expected. Will this new Herald save them from certain doom, or will she cause the destruction of all they hold dear?

46. Talk Like a Pirate Day

If I Were a Herald

Chapter 46

Talk Like a Pirate Day

A/N (1/11/06): I mentioned this song in one of my earlier author's notes, and here it is. September 19, Talk Like a Pirate Day. My favorite day of the year—save for Christmas and my birthday.

A/N (1/12/06): Another long chapter, due in part to the inclusion of "The Ballad of Mary Read." About Dancing Jack Duvall—to my knowledge, no such character existed. However, I did do some research, and according to one account, Mary was in love with one of the sailors aboard Calico Jack's ship. And she did fight and kill a man he was supposed to fight, in order to keep him safe. But it wasn't because he was a coward; it was because she didn't want him to risk his life. And I'm still bothered by the Blackbeard business.

A/N (1/14/06): I've begun my revamp of "Daughter of a Pirate." I was going to rewrite each chapter individually, but then I went back and re-read it and realized it was way fangirly with only slight redeeming factors, rather like the original version of this story—but several orders of magnitude less crappy. Still, I figured it'd be best to start anew. I have kept the same characters and plot, at least, which is an improvement over what I did for this one. If you feel like doing me a favor, go read and review DoaP, because that would make me really, really happy. And I'll finish it this time around. I swear.

Jay: You're a dear. Thanks for the review. I'll get around to making the updates you suggested…eventually.

Fireblade: Well, Kali is using her Projective Empathy on them…maybe I'll go rewrite that. Mom faints, Dad freaks out? I dunno. I just have trouble imagining that scene. My parents do tend to be pretty laid-back, and they don't freak easily. Like that time when I broke the water pump and flooded the garage. Although this would be a good opportunity for, "Bright Havens! You look as if you'd seen a ghost." As for her dad, he was trying for a joke. Entering horse-races would be cheating…but not against the rules. rubs hands together gleefully

---

Morning. Not a very bright morning. In fact, it was rather dim and shadowy. Had clouds moved in overnight? Or—

I jerked upright. As my hand reached for a dagger that wasn't there, my head connected with something solid. I swore viciously. Peering about, I saw I was on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, which meant—

Home.

With a sigh, I sank back against the mattress. Safe. No Karsites, no bounty hunters could find me here. Hell, I could even sleep in, if I were so inclined.

:Get your lazy butt out of bed: Lyrna drawled. :You've slept twelve hours.:

I groaned and looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. Well, at least I'd gotten to bed at a reasonable hour. Or had I? Last thing I remembered was watching Stargate with Jacoby's warmth wrapped around me like a cocoon. So, make it that I'd gotten to sleep at a reasonable hour. Someone must have carried me to bed.

Might as well get up. Lyrna certainly wasn't going to leave me alone. And from the sound of things, Daddy was getting ready to wake me up anyways. Nine o' clock. Damn. That was early, for a weekend. It was a weekend, wasn't it? Yeah, yesterday had been Friday, which meant today was Saturday. September 19.

It's Talk Like a Pirate Day, I realized. Suddenly I was wide awake. I threw off the covers and dove for my dresser. Empty. Damn, where were my clothes? Not here, obviously. Probably in the attic. I could take something from the saddlebag, which was on the floor between the dresser and the door, but that wasn't Earth clothes. Although…it was pirate clothes. Yes. Pirate clothes would be perfect for Talk Like a Pirate Day. Just like that time six years ago, at college. I'd played the pirate all day long. Pirate clothes and pirate songs.

There was my computer, where I'd plugged it in—fully charged now, with iTunes up and running. I clicked on the playlist entitled "Pirate Songs." I had a cd of it, but that was back in Valdemar. But what did that matter when I had my computer right here?

The playlist contained all my pirate favorites, plus some bawdy songs that hadn't fit onto the other cd's. I just sat for a while, listening to the songs, until my stomach growled its dissent. It wanted me in the kitchen, where I could feed it.

Yeah, yeah, fine. I'll feed the cats while I'm at it. I'll just bet Mom's been starving them.

On the way down, I passed Dad, who was heading for the kids' rooms to wake us up. We nodded to each other in passing.

As soon as I appeared downstairs, the cats, who had been locked outside for the night, set to yowling. Yep, they were hungry. They wanted food, or, failing that, they wanted in.

"Aw, shaddup. I'll feed you as soon as I feed myself. Come on, there's got to be something edible in this fridge." Well, there was cheese, and some roast beef that looked like it was at least a week old. Smelled like it, too. I took an experimental nibble, gagged, and threw the rest in the trash. Hmm. Aha! Pizza. That would fill me up.

I stuck two pieces in the microwave to warm them up. The paper plates were easy enough to find, and the paper towels were still on the side of the fridge, but I couldn't for the life of me remember how long to zap it. Ah well. I started with 22 seconds, and tested it to see how warm it was. Not warm enough, so I stuck it back in there for another 22 seconds, at which point it was plenty warm enough and actually blistered my fingers. While waiting for the pizza to cool, I went outside and fed the cats. Instead of expressing their undying love, they fell upon the food and ignored me. Typical cats. I scratched them both behind the ears, then returned to my breakfast.

By this time the pizza was a decent temperature. I gobbled down both pieces in less than a minute. Well, that took care of my stomach.

Now, it was Talk Like a Pirate Day. Time to do piratey things. Like throw a party.

Ah, yes. A party. And I could invite all my old school friends—in fact, why not invite everyone who'd ever gone to West Shore? Begin the party around eight and keep it going at least until midnight, if not later.

I'd become much more motivated in recent years. It really didn't take all that much time to track down the emails of practically every single alum. Took a while to type them in, but not as long as one might expect. I'd been a pretty fast typist before, and my fingers remembered how it was done, even when my brain did not.

The pirate songs were still playing. Jacoby entered in the middle of "Pirate Bill and Squidly," which was actually about parachuting. "And the only limit in this world is the one within your mind."

Next was "On the PC," the pirate version. It was a parody of "Under the Sea." "The source code is always cleaner on somebody else's drive. You dream about each new upgrade without which you must survive. You're not a registered user; you're more of a pirate bold. You've got no support or manuals for software that's four years old."

"Heyla, Jacoby."

"What's that? Another television?"

"This is a computer. Like the music? It's"—I looked at the screen—"Tom Smith. He's a pretty funny guy. He did other stuff, like 'Seven Drunken Nights in Space' and 'Talk Like a Pirate Day.'"

Then nothing would do but for me to play "Seven Drunken Nights in Space," pausing the song every other line to explain things to Jacoby. Luckily he caught on quickly. "Talk Like a Pirate Day" got the same treatment.

"I like that song," Jacoby decided at the end of "Talk Like a Pirate Day." "Since it's today, let's go to this Wal-Mart and buy all the beer."

"You're drinking it, not me. I want rum, thank you. Captain Morgan. The good stuff. I've spent the last six years drinking whiskey, and that's long enough. I'm gonna go for the 'trade me computer for rum' line. Oh, an' mate?" I deliberately slipped into my old pirate accent. "Today be Talk Like a Pirate Day. So what're ye thinkin', talkin' all high-toned an' fancy?"

"Alright, love. If that's what ye want."

"Much better. Now, I'm gonna ask Mum if I can use the car."

In the end, it was Blake's car that I used—the white Toyota minivan with the teal stripe down the side. He was loathe to let me borrow it, but I promised to bring him to my party, later. "It's gonna be out by the ocean, an' there'll be great dancin', an' lots of pretty girls. Oh, an'—don' tell Mum an' Da, but there'll be rum. An' beer. An' jus' abou' every other kind o' alcohol imaginable."

Getting the car out of the driveway proved to be a problem. Not that there was anything wrong with the car—okay, there was—but the driver was the main problem. Luckily the roads around my house had absolutely no traffic. We used to joke that it was rush hour if two cars passed each other going opposite directions. That had changed, somewhat, when we got some new neighbors whom we'd suspected were drug dealers, but it seemed they'd moved out sometime in the intervening years. Maybe someone had finally called the cops on them—or maybe they'd realized that living two streets away from a judge really wasn't a good idea after all.

As I drove, I sang "The Ballad of Mary Read." It really wasn't accurate at all—except for its information about pirates in general—but it was a fun tune, and I liked it.

"Come all ye filibusterers and roving buccaneers,
Ye rapperies and picaroons and wayward privateers,
Ye gentlemen of fortune, roaring captains, one and all,
Come hear the tale of Mary Read and Dancing Jack Duvall.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

Her hair was full of twilight and her eyes were like a game.
Her face was like the deep sea that never stays the same.
She knew as many rakish songs as any might desire,
And she danced along the rigging like St. Elmo's bloody fire.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

"Reminds me o' someone I know," Jacoby commented. We shared a quick grin.

"Yeah, well, this song be none too accurate. It talks about this guy called Jack Duvall—an' I researched Mary Read, an' ne'er came across a man by that name. There was a lover name o' Jack—but 'e were Calico Jack Rackham, Captain o' the Queen Anne's Revenge. Bards. They never get anything right."

Then it was on with the song.

"She went on the account at fifteen years, I do declare.
At sixteen with Anne Bonny, she drew a fighter's share.
At seventeen with Blackbeard, she'd a hand in every haul.
And all men took her for a man but Dancing Jack Duvall.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

Yeah, really. What actually happened was, when Anne Bonny tried to seduce her (because she thought Mary a handsome lad), Mary confessed her secret, and the two women became friends. When Anne's lover (who may have been Calico Jack at the time, or may not have; it had been too long for me to remember the details) became jealous, because Anne was spending so much time with Mary, and challenged Mary to a duel, Mary revealed her identity during the duel by ripping open her shirt at the opportune moment. From what I'd read, she never sailed with Blackbeard, either; she went straight from the Navy to the Queen Anne's Revenge.

"Now Jack Duvall had one wild eye and a pale and greasy jowl.
He never struck an honest blow if he could deal a foul.
His pleasure was in corners, and the dark was all his creed;
But women love the strangest rogues, and so did Mary Read.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

Talk about strange rogues. Although at least I'd had more sense in picking my rogue than this fictional Mary Read. The real Mary Read would never have stood for a coward like Jack Duvall. Not the Mary Read who had said, "As to hanging, it is no great hardship, for, were it not for that, every cowardly fellow would turn pirate, and so infest the seas, that men of courage must starve."

"We were lying south of Cuba, just off the Isle of Pines,
When Jack hit Buthy Davey with a jug of brandy wine.
Now they downed the jug together, and Duvall was in his cups.
'Twas the only time he ever struck a grown man standing up.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

When two men fall to fighting in the buccaneering bands,
They set them on some stony isle with iron in their hands.
There's the longboat for the winner, and the devil for the ghost;
And that's the way it happens with the brethren of the coast.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

Buthy Davey got his pistols; Buthy Davey got his blade;
And Jack went in the tween-decks and that was where he stayed;
'Til they caught him in the stern-sheets, a-sliding over side;
And he laid down in the scuppers, and he kicked his feet and cried.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

Anne Bonny was for dragging him all underneath the keel,
And Blackbeard was for sending him to feed the moray eel.
But Mary nursed him tenderly, and kissed his scurvy face,
And took his sword and pistol to the island in his place.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

The only gift he gave her was the only shield she bore:
A shawl of Spanish laces that he stole in Singapore.
Anne Bonny begs her not to go; says Mary, 'If I fall,
Be kind to my poor scoundrel, my handsome Jack Duvall.'
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

Yeah. Handsome. Right. I guess that talk of pale jowls earlier didn't mean anything to Mary. Then again, she was in love.

"They rowed ashore together, Mary Read and Buthy Dave;
One bound for life and whiskey, and the other for the grave.
She looked back once and saw the crew, a-crowding to the rail;
And Dancing Jack among them, cracking jokes and drinking ale.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

Her pistol would not fire, being flooded with the waves;
And when he pulled the trigger, no more would Buthy Dave's.
So they went at it with cutlasses, they fought for half a day;
And Mary cut him down and dug his grave and rode away.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read.

Four months later, off la Guiro, on the Caribbean tide,
In Blackbeard's bed and Annie's arms, she bore a son and died.
Anne Bonny took the baby, and Blackbeard kept the shawl,
And no one knows whatever came of Dancing Jack Duvall.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

The truth was, Mary Read had died in prison—pregnant, yes. But she hadn't given birth.

"So here's to Mary Read, drink her health in Holland's gin.
She gave a face to courage and a decent name to sin.
And here's to Dancing Jack, drink to him in sherry wine—
'Cause there couldn't be no heroes if there was no bloody swine.
And it's a glass for every prize, and two for every dirty deed,
And three more for the soul of wicked, loving Mary Read."

That brought us most of the way to Wal-Mart. The rest of the way was spent with me making sure I hadn't missed my turn. It had been a while since last I drove these roads. Luckily Wal-Mart was one of the easier places to find. A parking spot near the door was harder—in fact, I had some difficulty finding a parking spot at all. "I circled 'round the parking lot, trying to find a spot just big enough I could park my old truck. A man with a big cigar was getting into his car. I stopped and I waited for him to back up. But from out of nowhere a Mercedes Benz came cruising up and whipped right it. Some beach, somewhere, there's nowhere to go and you got all day to get there. There's cold margaritas and hot senoritas smiling with long dark hair on some beach, somewhere."

Eventually I did manage to find a spot—about as far from the entrance as it was possible to get. Ah well. We could walk.

The two of us got some strange looks as we walked through the store. It may have been my singing (I was still going off about "Some Beach." "There's music and dancing and lovers romancing in the salty thin air on some beach, somewhere"). Or it may have been our outfits.

"You in some sort of parade?" a mom with two kids asked.

"Arr! It be Talk Like a Pirate Day," I replied, striking a pose for the benefit of the children. They giggled and looked away.

I tugged on Jacoby's arm and scanned the signs for the beer aisle. "That be where we're headed. Beer. Ye pick whate'er ye want—I 'ave no idea what kind o' beer is good, 'ceptin' that Milwaukee's Best tastes like piss. Other than that, yer guess be as good as mine. Try not to get in trouble. I be goin' after wine." Once I'd loaded down the cart with various types of alcohol, I returned to the beer aisle, where Jacoby was looking about confusedly.

"I ne'er knew there could be so many types o' beer."

"Aye, well, pick one. The booze is on me." It would have to be, since Jacoby didn't have United States money or identification. Before I left, Mommy had confirmed that my bank account was still active—they'd kept it that way in the hopes that someday I'd return. Pretty wishful thinking on their part, but I wasn't about to complain. It put a working debit card in my hand at a time when I really didn't want to tell my parents what I was buying.

The cashier squinted at me, then at my license when I presented it. "That's you?"

"That be me. Look, mate, that picture be seven years old. So gimme a break, savvy?"

"What's all this for?"

"Party."

"What's the event?"

I really didn't like his attitude, so I decided not to go with the strict truth. "I just got engaged." With a nodded response to his congratulations, I took the cart and left.

We still had some time before we had to be home, so I meandered through the streets until I found an actual liquor store, where we got yet more boozy goodness.

On the way home, we swung by the Blockbuster to rent PotC 2 and 3. This was Talk Like a Pirate Day—the perfect day for me to catch up on six years' worth of PotC addiction. To watch hotties on the television while snuggling up to the hottest of them all. I did get up in the middle to look up my old recipe for salamagundi. After all, it was Talk Like a Pirate Day; what better way to celebrate than to make an old pirate favorite?

Then it was off to the beach with Blake, to set up for the party. Blake went straight for the beer as soon as we got it unpacked. Figured. Beer was the manly drink, and Blake always had to be manly. More power too him. My manliness began with salsa and ended with jalapeno-eating competitions. I'd managed to down half a medicine cup of the suckers in one go. That was manlier than most men I knew.

There was pirate music mixed with the dancing music blaring in the background. I'd set up my old karaoke machine for those people who felt like singing. It would probably be me, most of the time. What the hell. It was all cool.

Guests trickled onto the beach as the sun dipped toward the horizon. First the ones who'd been friends with me, and were ecstatic to learn I was still alive. Then, as they called their friends to report that this party was for real, more acquaintances decided to trickle in.

The jolly roger I'd gotten along with the beer flapped proudly in the wind. I stood beneath it and sprayed everyone within ten feet with wine. With what was left of the bottle, I poured glasses for those who wanted some. Other people were grabbing beer cans and the occasional bottle of whiskey. I lifted my bottle of rum and announced, "A toast!"

Some wise-ass threw a piece of bread in the air.

"It be International Talk Like a Pirate Day. So here's to old Errol, and Depp as Jack Sparrow, and every damn one in between! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!" I knocked back my bottle of rum. "Here's to the killjoy I used to be, an' the party girl I am today. I'd like to introduce to y'all me fiancé, Captain Jacoby."

"So you finally got a date," one boy sneered. I didn't even remember his name, but I recognized his face. He was one of the ones who'd always pestered me in the past. "What's he marrying you for? Money?"

Okay, enough was enough. I started toward him, intent upon giving him the bitch-slap of his life, but Jacoby beat me to it. His punch laid the man out cold. Score one for Jacoby.

"Karaoke time y'all!" I announced. "Before we get too drunk to read the words on the screen."

No volunteers.

Not to be deterred, I grabbed the mic and popped in one of the cd's. I didn't even need to look at the mini TV screen to know what to sing. I knew this song. "She was aware of her insecurities as she took the stage. She was convinced if she got up there that she'd be discovered someday. So she belted it; she hit the high notes fearlessly. Oh she melted them and she brought them to their feet. She was a big star after nine at Joe's bar where she sang karaoke every night. She said, 'If you work hard to get where you are, it feels good in the hot-spot light.'…The only thought she entertains is where they are, and where she is now…."

"Damn Fine Sailor," then "Pirate Jenny" played in the background after I ended the song. I kept the mic and sang along just for kicks. Tom Smith's "Bermuda Triangle" and Jimmy Buffett's "Mother Ocean," a.k.a. "A Pirate Looks at 40." A heckload of drinking songs. Finally someone else took the mic to sing along with the Piña Colada song. "If you like making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape. You're the love that I've looked for. Come with me and escape."

Then it was back to me again, for some more karaoke. Only I didn't sing the right words. I sang parodies. "In the Brig," "Proud to Be a Buccaneer," "Born Pirate," and all the others I'd made up over the years. Plus—one new one. "How Do You Like Me Now," pirate version.

Hey I was always the wild one, I wanted to be the pirate one,
And I wrote 'Jack Sparrow' on the school's football field.
You were always the party boy, you wouldn't be me hearty, boy,
And so to impress you a sword learned to wield.
I only wanted to get your attention,
But you overlooked me somehow.
Besides, you had too many girlfriends to mention,
And I fired my cannons too loud.

How do you like me now?
How do you like me now, now that I'm on my way?
Do you still think I'm crazy, standing here today?
I couldn't make you love me, but I always dreamed about
Stealing all your booty—how do you like me now?

When I took off to the Caribbean I heard that you made fun of me;
You never imagined I'd make it this far.
You married a cute ditzy girl, ain't it a cruel and fritzy world,
She took your dreams and she tore them apart.
Now you're alone and the kids are at home,
And they hear as you cry down the hall.
The doorbell starts ringin', who could that be singin'?
It's me, baby, with your wake-up call!

How do you like me now?
How do you like me now, now that I'm on my way?
Do you still think I'm crazy, standing here today?
I couldn't make you love me, but I always dreamed about
Stealing all your booty—how do you like me now?"

By that time I'd had enough rum that my singing was beginning to suffer—and everyone else looked ready to dance. So, switch from pirate music to dancing music, and let the real fun begin.

It was, oh, about an hour later—well after sunset—when the music suddenly cut off. There were several disappointed cries and not a few threats as to what would happen if the music didn't return immediately. When the problem didn't solve itself, a hush fell over the crowd.

There was someone at the mic. Someone who, from the looks of his motorcycle leathers, thought he was a real bad-ass. "Party's over, kids."

Incensed, I pushed my way toward him. "Oh, aye? Says who?" I looked at the nameplate on his jacket. What kind of idiot has to have a nameplate on a jacket? "P. McGee, eh? What's the 'P' stand for? Pissy-pants?"

"It's Preston!" someone called. This was met with sniggers, and a glare from bad-ass motorcycle dude.

"It stands for Pistol," McGee growled.

"Well, alright then, Preston. Pistol's nice, but me nickname's Death. Killer Kali, that be me. An' this 'ere be Captain Jacoby. 'E's what the buccaneers call pistol-proof."

"Just pack up and go home. I'm having a party on the beach tonight, and you're ruining the atmosphere. I don't like competition from nerdy wannabes."

"Really? Well I don' like interference from assholes like you."

"I'll teach you some manners, bitch!" McGee started toward me. Jacoby cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Oh, so that's how it is, huh?" McGee said. I noticed that he didn't back off. That earned him points for courage—or idiocy. "You've got big man there to protect you."

"Be nice," Jacoby warned. "She gets bitchy when ye piss 'er off."

"What's she gonna do? Hiss at me?" The damned bully had the gall to laugh.

"I was thinkin' more along the lines o' keelhaulin' ye beneath me ship, so yer skin's flayed with the barnacles that cling to the hulls. Then I'll dip yer bleedin' an' broken body in a vat o' beer, pull ye out, an' have yer guts for garters." I gave him my best smile for effect. It was the one I'd used in that one picture from seventh grade, where I looked like a demon-child or vampire. Washed-out face, red eyes, braces teeth that looked like fangs, holding trophies in a way that looked like I'd stolen my father's horns, with a smile that seemed to say, "I just finished torturing a small, furry animal, and I'd love to start on you next." That had been back in the days when I was sweet and innocent. If anything, my smile now was even scarier.

"Oh yeah?" Now the points were definitely in the "idiocy" column; I'd seen brave warriors quake under the force of my smile, and this guy didn't even blink.

"Yeah." Now I was in his face. "They call me Death for a reason. I've killed—oh, there were those Sun-Priests in Karse, that's gotta be the most renowned one. Latest was Mortimer—now 'e were a real nasty. But at least 'e 'ad style, unlike yerself."

"You haven't killed anyone."

"Want me to prove it? There's several ways. I could kill ye," I began, pulling out a knife, "but that wouldn't be sportin' o' me, now would it?" I handed the knife to Jacoby, then continued to relieve myself of all my daggers.

His eyes widened. "Those are illegal."

"So is murder. Fair's fair. Ye wanna duel? Buccaneer-style, jes' the two of us. No pistols 'cause I forgot to bring 'em, but Jacoby has a sword ye can borrow, if ye like."

"You're crazy! You don't know the first thing about using a sword. I'd kill you in a heartbeat. I was captain of my fencing team three years in a row."

"So, do ye accept? We fight to the surrender, an' whoever loses quits this place. Savvy?"

"Yeah, sure. Give me that sword."

Jacoby handed over his sword with a barely-suppressed smile. He'd seen me fight—been on the wrong side of my sword—and he knew there was no way this bully was going to beat me.

McGee was pretty good, I'll give him that. He managed to draw first blood. Got this superior look in his eyes, like take that, bitch. Looked like he expected me to surrender.

"Oh, that's nice." I barely felt the pain. It was just a scratch, wouldn't even need stitches. In fact, the blood was already coagulating around the wound.

A flick of my blade cut a thin gash across his stomach. Another stab got him in the arm. Fencing, my ass. This guy didn't know the first thing about real fighting. He wasn't even watching my feet. It was so easy to kick him in the stomach while his blade was otherwise engaged. The sword fell from his hands to the sand. He staggered back a couple steps, clutching his stomach. Probably no one had ever kicked him like that before.

"You—cheating—bitch!"

I shrugged. "Pirate." Two steps and my blade rested against his throat. "Surrender."

"That wasn't fair," he gasped, indignant.

"We didn't specify rules. This was buccaneer-style, remember? The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do, and what a man can't do. Now surrender, before I cut your weaselly throat."

Something in my demeanor must have convinced him I was serious. Maybe it was the way I slid the sword along the column of his neck, leaving a trail of blood. "I surrender!"

"Good. Now get." I turned my back on him to address the expectant crowd. "Well, mates. Ye just got treated to a taste o' true buccaneer-style fightin'. No rules but to watch yer own back. If ye really wanna know what a pirate's life is like, ask Jacoby here. He's an expert on piracy in a place called Lake Evendim. Now, get back to partyin'."

"Would you really have killed him?" one of my erstwhile friends asked in awe.

"Aw, well, ye know. I haven't really killed as many people as me reputation makes out. Prolly woulda cut 'im a couple times an' let 'im crawl away."

"Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"Ah, now that's the question, ain't it? An' the answer be, I could tell ye, but then I'd have to kill ye." My grin invited everyone within range to join in a round of laughter.

"They're getting jealous," Jacoby observed. "Maybe we'd better show 'em a contest ye can't win."

"Right. What be that? Drinkin'? I'll pass, thanks. I already know I can't hold me liquor. Fact is, I can hardly feel me arms right now." I hadn't noticed in the single-mindedness of fighting, but the rum was definitely getting to my system. A familiar tug stole at my heart. The ocean. It was calling—and it was near. "C'mon, people. Dance."

Someone found the jukebox and turned it back on. Jimmy Buffett rolled over the beach like a gentle wave. Jacoby took me in his arms, and we swayed together. He'd just finished his last drink, so he grabbed my rum. "Might's well find out how this stuff tastes, right? There's gotta be some reason ye like it."

"Se—sensi—menda—sentimenta—ta—se—sen-ti-men-tal-i-ty," I stumbled over the long word. Not necessarily a sign that I was drunk, but it could be used as evidence. It was just that I tripped over my tongue, as over my feet, all the time—drunk, sober, or anywhere in between. "Remember 'Pirates o' the Caribbean'? Well, tha's why I like it. 'Cause Captain Jack Sparrow drinks it."

Jacoby took the bottle anyway. "Hmm. I prefer beer, but thi' stuff 'as potential."

I sang along with the music, only slightly off-key. "And we can blame it on the rum. We can say it was the tropical night. It was the gentle kiss of an ocean breeze. It was those tiki lights. It was the moon through the coconut tree, and the magic between you and me. When tomorrow finally comes, when it's all said and done, we can blame it on the rum."

About half the bottle later, I found myself on the very shoreline, with the waves lapping over my bare feet. Come, the ocean called. Come to me, and I will fill your heart forever.

God knows I was tempted. The ocean had been calling me for years now, and here was my chance to answer it. But that would mean giving up all I held dear. My duty. My children. My friends. "No, I won't listen. D'ye hear? I'm not goin' out there. I'm perfectly happy bein' a Herald. Lake Evendim's all the ocean I need."

To my surprise, the call ended, leaving only a vast silence.

---

So here's to old Errol, and Depp as Jack Sparrow, and every damn one in between! Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! And an invitation to Valentine PCP for everyone who reviews. Even if you can't come, you can tell your friends you were invited to an uber-cool party at New College, where partying is a sport.

This is about as far as my imagination takes me, for now. So…what else should happen while she's at home?