The Islands

Chapter Two,

I'm tired and I want to go to bed

The cell she was in was cramped. The rough wooden bench was soggy, and smelled like mold. At least its corrugated iron door wasn't locked. Isabelle only had to sleep in the cell, she was allowed to roam about the ship freely otherwise; as long as she stayed out of the crew's way. After all, where did she have to go?

The ship she was on was a sleek, scouting ship. It was meant to go short distances quickly, and had a small crew of fifteen men. Its sleek hull cut through the dark water in an almost dagger-like fashion. Isabelle was impressed and, had her circumstances been different, would have marveled at the craftsmanship of the vessel.

They didn't make her work; her only instruction was to stay out of the way. Isabelle had been around ships and sailors her entire life, so she had the wherewithal to keep away from the crew as best she could. She didn't fear for her safety around the men, nothing so dramatic, she just knew they were uneasy--bad enough to have a woman on board, worse yet to be sailing to the Edge.

The Edge, the end of the map, where there were monsters. Please God, she prayed silently, let there be monsters, and let them be merciful; let them kill me quickly. All she had to do was deliver a message.

The East India Trading Company would like to enlist your services.

Then she would hand over the sealed letter, and Davy Jones would either kill her, or send her back.

Davy Jones, she thought, her head resting on the wood. If her family's lives weren't at stake she'd have laughed at the proposal. Davy Jones wasn't real, but Beckette sure as hell thought he was. He'd claimed to have sent this message out a handful of times before, and gotten no response. Of course, he'd claimed to have sent men.

"You are aware of the legend surrounding a certain man named Davy Jones?"

"What kind of fish monger would I be if I didn't?"

"Then you'll know he carved out his heart for a woman—"

"What has this got to do with--?"

"—and I shall be a woman who delivers this message, maybe you will be greeted more favorably than the men…and maybe not."

She flipped over so that she was facing the hull, her body curled underneath the rough, woolen blanket she was given. At lest she'd been given something at all, she reminded herself. Not that it mattered, she'd probably be dead very soon. Lying to her daughter had been the hardest part of all this, but at least she'd been allowed to say goodbye.

Christine had been brought to the docks by her neighbor. The woman had agreed to take Christine in, 'Until this whole mess was sorted out'. Christine had cried like she always did when Isabelle went out to sea, but maybe that was because she was fearful she'd loose her mother like she'd lost her father…her fears were well founded.

Isabelle had held her little daughter tightly as she said goodbye.

"I'm just running a little errand for the man, Poppet" She'd said, wiping away the girls tears, while holding back her own. She clutched the girl to her and buried her face into the girl's blond hair; she hoped to carry the memory of the smell with her. "I'll be back before you know it. I love you, Chrissy, don't you ever forget that."

Isabelle had been led away after that, up the gangplank and into the ship. She was no stranger to heartbreak, but what she felt walking away from her daughter was the same feeling she'd felt years before when she'd walked away from her husbands grave.

She shivered from the cold, and listened to the ocean outside. It was lapping gently at the ship's hull, running its watery hands over the ship, pushing it on it way. It was a calm, clear night; the stars had just come out when she'd been sent below. The sea had been just as calm, its waters an inky black, broken only by the tiny reflections of the stars.

Smooth sailing, dear God, it'd been smooth sailing the whole two weeks. How much longer would it take to reach the edge? She wondered, she didn't dare ask, she feared it would be tomorrow--she also feared it wouldn't. It was the waiting, and the worrying; they were like to drive her mad.

She feared for her brother and father, Beckette had said they'd be freed when the ship returned to port (with or without her). The two were still in prison, awaiting the return. She'd given them the signed contract before she left; that was the other mercy granted to her. She's lied to her daughter, but she'd been able to explain things to her them.

"NO!" her brother had snarled, gripping the bars, his knuckles white with fury. "Let them execute me! I won't have my sister sent off to some monster!"

"I'm sorry," it was all that she could say.

Her father had sat there silently on the bench, boring holes into the floor with his stare. "Isabelle, listen to me. I know you feel you have to do this…but there's got to be some other way. I'm old--no listen! I'll offer my life in exchange for you or your brother."

Marcus tried to interrupt him, but the old man quickly dismissed him, when he began again his voice broke with sorrow, "I cannot loose anyone else. Not either of you. Bad enough to loose your mother…but I won't outlive my children. And what of Christine? Will you just leave her motherless? Let her grow up without a mother like you did?"

That had been a low blow, and Isabelle's will had almost given to that. Isabelle had grown up in a loving home, her father had raised her well, and her brother was a good man. Christine would be fine being raised by the two of them, and when she was old enough, they'd explain everything. She remembered the unshed tears that stung her, the burning sensation in her chest, and eyes. But her will wouldn't break; she had to do it. Her father and brother would grieve for her, but after a time Christine would replace her in their hearts they would love the girl twice as much for that…Isabelle could live (or die) with that knowledge.

"I'm sorry," was all she said when she left, the two of them calling after her, begging her to come back.

Isabelle finally felt her eyelids grow heavy and yawned. At last some sleep, she thought, at last. Then all she knew was darkness, she slept deeply, and dreamlessly—another small mercy.