By all measures, it had been a long night.
For Will Turner it had been a long night of unrest. He'd slammed doors aboard the Swan till he was locked in tight with his family. He'd thought it would be comforting but the close confinement with his own children brought to mind that he was not, nor may never be, all that close to the father he'd finally found. Looking at Jack and Lucy reminded him of the boy his father had long ago left behind in England. Looking at Elizabeth reminded him of the mother he'd left behind in England. Unsettled he'd been to think they'd both left her behind…
He'd been brooding when at long last Elizabeth had called lights out. That she and the children disappeared from his sight first relieved him—but that led fast to a gut-gnawing guilt he could not shake for the rest of the fitful night. He'd tossed and he'd turned and he'd shuddered off into an onslaught of nightmares only to shiver out of them with a wince or a whimper.
For Elizabeth Turner it had been a long night of dread. She and the children had spent the better part of the night avoiding upsetting Will. It had been easy to tell on his return that he hadn't been in the best of moods. As the night wore on though, it had become apparent that he was in the worst of moods. Every glance at Jack had darkened his gaze and every look at Lucy had saddened it.
On such occasions Elizabeth felt as if she were trying desperately to avoid stepping in quicksand. She never quite knew what might set Will off so she did her best to allow him as much space as possible, minding the children and their mouths in case either one of them might step dangerously close to the sinking surface of whatever it was Will was wallowing in. She'd therefore spent the night keeping Jack and Lucy in line and glancing worriedly at Will each time she'd thought they may have stepped over it. When finally she could take no more, she'd called lights out and put her family to bed.
Her night hadn't ended there though. She'd heard every worried whisper that had come from Will's sleeping tongue. She'd heard her husband's every whimper. She'd worried that his fitful sleep would wake the children and when it hadn't she'd almost felt relieved… except she'd wondered worriedly if Will had come to resent them as much as he'd seemed to when they'd first embarked on their journey. Maybe, she'd worried, he only saw in them the child he'd never been able to be instead of the children that he'd been blessed to bring into being.
Elizabeth Turner hadn't been the only one unable to sleep that night. Sam Samson had stayed up to make certain that those tricky Intuits didn't try to do anything stupid… like tie him to the bowsprit and demand whatever it was the skinny buggers had got themselves so worked up about. He'd noticed their stolen glances at each other when they thought he wasn't looking and he was worried for himself and the Turners. Threat of mutiny had kept him from sleep as much as Roth had kept Ana from it. And they, making quite an unearthly racket, had kept most of the Black Pearl from sleep as well.
For Alice Witter it had been a long night of waiting. She'd long since learned not to stop her rogues when they insisted on doing something stupid. So it had been on this night. She'd been reading one of Jack's favorites, a bawdy tale about a nymph, when Isaac had stormed the quarters in his Royal Navy getup. Only a glance had she spared him over the top of her book and he'd harrumphed out of sight without a word. He hadn't needed to speak one. She'd known immediately what he was up to and she'd known immediately that trying to talk him out of it would only serve to fuel his desire to carry out his plan of action—stupid though it may have been.
And it had been. For when it finally happened(WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU THINKING!), Alice had imagined all the sleeping sea awakened by the soul-shattering roar that ripped from the throat of Captain Jack Sparrow. She was certain that Jack had put the fear of God in the crew and perhaps those aboard the Swan… maybe even the one man remaining on the once-lost-now-found island. She had had no doubt that even those slumbering in Port Royal had been roused by the pirate captain's harsh protest of his son's joining their esteemed ranks. The whole of the Caribbean, and maybe even the coastal colonies, had probably been frightened awake by Jack Sparrow's thunderous roar.
For her part, she'd sighed and laid down her book. There would be little sense involving herself in the issue, she'd thought. And she'd lain down to sleep listening to the two rant and rave above her.
Jack had hauled Isaac off the sprit by the arm and dragged him bodily to the captain's quarters. Despite the racket they'd made cussing and spitting at each other the whole way there, and despite the rapidly appearing faces of his weary crew, Jack had felt no obligation to explain to anyone as he tossed his son headfirst into the privacy of his office. Snapping the doors behind them he'd railed at Isaac, who'd railed at him until he'd railed back again on into the fevered hours of the night. They'd shouted at each other, they'd screamed and threatened each other, and then Isaac had gone to tears.
Captain Jack Sparrow had cussed, knowing his weakness, and followed suit.
Then he'd stormed down the stairs to drag the woman who'd known but hadn't told him up to demand to know why she'd not informed him of the egregious behaviour of their one and only progeny. Alice Witter had not answered but poured him a drink, bade him drink it, and kissed him very sweetly on the forehead before she'd gone back down to resume her sleeping.
This had been quite a relief to the crew of the Pearl. They'd been doing their best not to be heard listening at the Captain's door. On as little sleep as they'd got that night, thanks to Anamaria and Roth who stood in the center of the group('wrapped in sailcloth for goodness sake,' thought Gibbs) such a task had hardly been easy. When they'd heard a muffled dismissal and the approach of heavy footsteps, they'd flown down the stairs quick as they'd come. Gibbs soon discovered that only Marty had remained behind. No doubt Marty was worried for his friend Faust's mental state after having had such a row with the Captain. Grumbling, Gibbs had gone back up to fetch the runt.
But when he'd caught sight of the uniformed officer walking towards them, Gibbs had done a double take. Faust had stalled beside the stairs to frown down at Marty who had done his best to stand tall in salute. Isaac had smiled and patted his bald head before raising a brow at Gibbs and retiring below. When Gibbs had finally nodded off, he had dreamt troublesome dreams in which his Captain had finally gone mad enough to stand at the sprit and proclaim himself, to the Pearl and the rest of the Caribbean, the King of the World.
Captain Sparrow had had his own share of troublesome dreams, each more troubling than the last. It had been his opinion that nightmares could not surpass the truly terrifying thought of Commodore Custard but he found, late in the night as he woke without breath to scream, that he had known no terror greater than seeing in dreams the possibilities deadly fate might deal his son. Glimpses of gunfire, of the silver blades of muskets slashing eerily against the dark night, and the sight of bright red wool stained crimson had waked Jack Sparrow through the night. Time and again he'd rolled over to groan into his pillow and time and again he'd thought, to his irritation, perhaps the very same uncertainty had plagued Bill Turner for all those lost years. When Jack had finally decided that sleep would not be had, he'd stumbled up the stairs and out onto the deck of the Pearl to grouse about.
Not even a streak of light was on the horizon and yet Jack smelled morning on the breeze. The smells carried on it were pungent and the salty air was thicker than balmy. The edges of the Pearl's furled sails that had fluttered frantically the previous night were now much at rest, flapping almost lazily above him as he stood lamenting their listlessness.
"Been still too long."
Jack glanced aside to watch the older man lower a bucket into the calm water below. For as long as Cook had been rising earlier than any of them to serve his crew, Jack Sparrow had met his acquaintance before the break of dawn only a few times. Each time there had been trouble in the water. Though there were no ships save the Swan in sight, Jack felt as if there was as much to worry about.
"So've I."
Cook glanced up to acknowledge the Captain from where he knelt on deck but did not remark before returning his attention to his task. Jack frowned, finding the man's routine as disconcerting as it was comforting. Captain Sparrow could scarcely remember what it was like to be a man with a certain set of obligations that took precedence above and beyond anything else—save the hoop-tee-doo of being the captain of a pirate vessel.
"Tell me, Mister Cook… does the crew take offense to the Black Pearl's sailing still waters?"
"Never was good at them metaphors, Cap'n…"
"Do the lot of ye…" Jack's mouth curled around the words, not appreciative of having to spit it out. "…miss being part and privy to piratical exploits?"
"Pardon me," said Cook, "but I was under the 'mpression we were part and privy to… being pirates… all the time. So's I can't figure how it is we'd be missing… that."
"We're not pirates."
Cook's third bucket plunked with a splash into the water. The slack line flew out of his hands and over the railing out of sight. He stared wide-eyed at Jack over the rims of his spectacles. "Say again, sir?"
Jack tsked and turned his attention upward. The sails were black as the flag he flew on the mainmast, but that flag had meant little to him of late. In fact, he'd at one point considered taking it down, folding it up, and laying it to rest in the very trunk where the cats had made shreds of his prized paper lanterns.
"Don't act as if you haven't noticed," he drawled, folding his hands on his chest and letting his fingers twitch and twiddle amongst themselves. "We've not plundered nor plunked a ship in so many months… I'm not certain we'd remember how to go about it were we to come upon an opportunity. S'been years since we sacked a single coastal colony. And more often we stop at the island and visit Port Royal than we jolly about Tortuga." Jack was surprised to hear the graveling growl of anger in his own voice but could not contain it. "May as well be merchants!"
"Bite your tongue, Cap'n!"
"Ach, what's the use Mister Cook? Doesn't make it any different not saying it!"
"Not sayin what?"
Both Jack and Cook turned to regard the woman who'd spoken with wary indecision. They were both aware of Anamaria's fierce pride of her pirating and they were both aware that stating that the activities aboard the Pearl lacked piratical merit would grant the both of them a squelching earful. Jack Sparrow, though, was nothing if he wasn't daring to the point of daft.
"That we're good as merchants on this silly ship."
Sparrow and Cook awaited her reaction on baited breath. To their dual astonishment, no volley of shouts rang out. They watched in horrified fascination as Anamaria's lips turned up in a quirk of a smirk.
"Why Captain Sparrow," she said lightly, "never thought I'd see the day ya called your boat a silly ship."
Jack scowled but the dark look slid off his face when he felt a smooth hand patting—not slapping—his cheek. Through eyes wide as Cook's had been he stared at Anamaria. That she'd lost her mind crossed his.
"Truth is we're the last of our kind," she said. "Those callin theyselves pirates these days ain't much more'n petty thieves learned how to row a boat. Merchants carry more guns'n they do." Her dark eyes took on a dangerous gleam. "But the Black Pearl'll outgun and outrun any Merchant any day and we ain't peddlers, Jack Sparrow—we pillage, we plunder, and we don't give a hoot."
"My lady," Jack said, "we have not pillaged nor plundered in quite some time. And we've peddled more than most Merchants could ever hope to trifle their loot."
The soft look on Anamaria's face faded to a scowl. "We ain't merchants, ya cad. We're devils and blacksheep and really bad eggs—you used to sing it all the time!"
Jack sighed and took a step back lest she decide to let loose a slap. "A silly song."
"You're still a pirate! It's in your blood and it'll show itself again when it wants to."
Captain Sparrow and Mister Cook watched her storm off, both grateful she hadn't let them have it afterall. Cook took to his tasks again, leaving Jack to his thoughts. He strolled starboard and looked out over the black water. It would soon be blue. A faint glow had illuminated the edge of the horizon, signaling that a new day was about to dawn.
Captain Sparrow surveyed the weary faces and bleary eyes of his crew. They'd gathered before him without complaint. Truthfully, he wasn't sure they'd be able to open their mouths—by the slouching way they stood it was clear he'd not been the only one unable to sleep. They had dragged and hobbled themselves to assemble and now they were swaying on their feet as if their legs were not sturdy enough to stand on.
If his early morning musings hadn't encumbered his spirit enough, looking at his tired, downtrodden crew might have struck at Jack's very soul. As it was, though, Jack Sparrow had seen the most of them worse for the wear. He'd seen Gibbs with a piece of silverware stuck through his ear, Cotton with a coconut lodged in his mouth, and Marty with a horde of starfish sticking to his shiny bald head. He'd watched the two redheaded men remove a grappling hook from Tearlach's hand and stood by while Cook removed shards of shrapnel from Quartetto's scalp. He'd stood before his crew when they were battered and bloody and he'd seen all the light of hope go out of their eyes—only to spark again at the sharp bark of a quick thought command. All this in mind, Captain Jack Sparrow's spirits were running fairly high.
"Gentlemen," he said, "and ladies…" He gave a mock bow to Anamaria before him then turned aside to kiss a stony-faced Alice Witter's knuckles. In such excitement was Jack Sparrow that when she snatched her hand away he did not notice—not much anyway. With a slightly sour face he turned back to his downtrodden crew. "I have gathered you here on this day to commend you on… your exemplary work."
A murmur passed through the assemblage and Gibbs, bless him, muttered a harried translation: "Means 'good job done.'"
"…due to iniquitous hindrance it's been a long and tedious task we've found ourselves set to…" Jack strolled comfortably to and fro before them, his hands folded behind his back. "…a slight misadventure we've found ourselves on, a little bit of a loss if I've counted them correctly but by all measure still could be considered a profitable venture."
To translate this took moments. Gibbs did his best and in good time the crew was staring daggers at Captain Jack Sparrow whose good nature was fading fast. His smile fell into a scowl.
"I did mention thinking we'd have our hands on a rather rare, mythical sword, did I not?"
"Mythical," scoffed Marty, "that's good as being air!"
"Might as well chased after a cluster of mermaids," sneered one of the men.
"Or the Kraken."
"Now look, see," Jack said, his temper flaring just a bit, "a Kraken's no laughing matter. And mermaids are very bad luck which we aboard the Black Pearl shall never chase after. But that sword was no myth, you dubious lot!"
"So you have it?" Jack frowned down at Marty, wondering how the smallest man aboard had more guts than all the rest combined, but the scowling pirate misinterpreted the scrutiny. "Captain," he clarified grudgingly.
The clarification, though, did speak to Jack Sparrow's very soul. He brightened a bit at the proper address—until he remembered the answer to the question Marty had posed to him. No sense dallying about—"No." He looked aloft at the clear blue sky. "Broke into a thousand emeralds though. We've got those."
"Oh," Marty scoffed. "Well at least there's them."
"Pipe down little man," Anamaria growled. "Jack, how's this wasted trip s'posed to still be worth our time?"
"Well," he said, bouncing lightly on his heels, "there is something that only I can do…"
A while later found Anamaria staggering along the shoreline, arms full of twine so tangled that she had to fight with it each time she made to stick one of the attached flagsticks in the sand. After each marking, she rose up to glare at the back of her captain's head. How it had come to be that she was the one stuck with the laborious task, she still was not sure.
"This is madness ya daft duck!"
"Ha!" Jack's laugh whipped him around. "Do you have any idea how much this map will sell for, missy?"
Anamaria stopped before him with a scowl. "I don't care. This is more work than taking a Frenchy's frigate!"
"And probably more profitable. You do realize—this is an uncharted island. And being uncharted means… no one else will have made it a nice map of its own. Which, by the way, makes my map's market value… priceless."
"But you have a price?"
"Don't I always?" Jack went a bit ahead of her and sipped water from his flask as he waited for her to catch up. When she had, he handed the drink off to her and watched as a few birds hopped from branch to branch toward them. "Wish I had someone to write up the visitation."
Anamaria shrugged. "I coulda done if ya'd let Roth do this part."
Jack waved that aside.
"Didn't ya say Bootstrap was something of a writer?"
As the birds began to clamor around them, Jack looked up. A very familiar face looked at him over Anamaria's shoulder. Giving a startled cry, Jack spun in the sand. It wouldn't do to allow Bootstrap the pleasure of knowing he'd given him such a shock.
"Heard tell he's a dab hand at it, meself."
Anamaria spun around snarling. There sparked in her eyes a bit of fire as she hefted her dagger in defense. Its hilt glinted to match her ire but Bootstrap was too quick for her. Her eyes darkened as he gripped her wrist and turned it to disarm her. When he'd placed an arm's distance between the two of them and treated her to his charmingest smile, he released her. Anamaria scrambled for the dagger. She stuck it in her sash, straightened, glared at him and spat at his feet. "Devil's tricks!"
William's eyes danced as he regarded her. "Don't know much about the devil."
"Funny then you don't know much about yourself!"
"Well at the very least I do know that I am a capable writer." He looked down at the mess bundled in Anamaria's arms. Understanding dawned in his eyes as he raised them to a wary Jack Sparrow. "Mapping, Master Starling?"
Jack was taken aback. He considered William and then flicked a frivolous hand at the air. "That's not my name. Let's move on, Anamaria." He turned, doing his best not to look over his shoulder, and moved forward. "We've much more ground to cover!"
"Jack," called Bootstrap, "maybe you'd cover it quicker with an extra pair of hands…"
"Well," said Jack, working hard to keep the smirk out of his voice, "if you've a witchery spell to sprout an extra pair on me person I'd thank you for it."
"But…" Bootstrap stopped a moment to absorb that and then there was the hint of a glare in his surly voice. "Stop then and turn around, I'll lay an extra hand on your person!"
"William," Jack chastised, stopping to wait for a griping Anamaria, "we've really no time for your needless violence. As you can see," he said, his lip curling a little as he remembered his discovery of Bootstrap's handicap, "or maybe not… Anamaria and I have got only the remainder of the daylight to mark distance. We're short on thanks for maybes, suggestions, and possibilities. If you'd like to certainly lend a hand or positively offer your services… then we'd long thank you."
Bootstrap glared at him for half a moment, then scooped half of Anamaria's burden into his own arms. For her part, the woman appeared no happier. She turned a suspicious eye on Turner as they followed behind Sparrow. He had taken the forward part of the bundle but she was careful not to take her eyes off him as she knelt to place the markers in the sand. The fewer she held, the gap between them lessened. When she placed the last she was a step behind him and he gazed down at her as if appraising her strength. It was the look she took on when preparing to strike and so she sprang up and laid her hand on the hilt of her dagger, her own eyes meeting his with a warning.
The devil had the nerve to smile!
Anamaria rolled her eyes and turned to look ahead at Sparrow whom it seemed was taking no notice to them. The pirate captain had clutched in his hand that infernal scroll of parchment that had started this messy affair and was muttering to himself as he looked down the line at the flagged markers she'd placed. He scribbled something, cast a glance in their direction, and went on.
"Suppose that means it is my turn," Bootstrap said.
"Yah," she snapped, "get on with it." She wanted to follow behind to keep better watch for any tricks he might attempt to pull on she and Jack. "Ya heard Sparrow, we haven't much time."
"Afraid the sea is going to swallow this place whole again?"
It was a frightening suggestion and one that Anamaria did not like. She glanced down at the water lapping at her feet. Her life had been spent with the waves and she knew better than most how careless the sea could be when it came down to human lives. It was a thought she did not want to think and so she glared at Bootstrap as she followed him as they followed Sparrow.
"It's really not all that terrible," he said, placing a marker. "There comes a strange yellow light that forms a sort of bubble all around your person, see, and the water cannot breach it. The worst part is looking out beyond it into the darkness, knowing it's water put between yourself and the air you breathe. Course… there's air in the bubble but you're not much for thinking at that point so you suffocate yourself to sleep."
"Shut up," she groused. "It only happens if you believe in it and I don't."
Bootstrap chuckled. "Believe what you have to."
It was dusk when the first marker that had been placed came into sight. William stuck the last in the sand a few paces from it. He and the woman regarded each other and then turned to watch Jack Sparrow scribble madly on the parchment he held before him. Having done his duty, William approached the swaying pirate to eye the figures Jack had taken. Long ago Sparrow had tried to teach him how to make a map, but he was far better at simply reading them so the figures made little sense to him—except that Jack might profit greatly from them and the map they'd make if Antolune wasn't sunk to sea again.
"You want an account of it?"
Sparrow didn't look up from his figuring but he lifted his writing hand and swirled the quill pen in the air. "Of what?"
"The island. Surely you could benefit from a proper description?"
"Oh," said Jack, scribbling again. He glanced aside at William and shrugged. "Sure. I'll write one."
Whatever breath William had been holding rushed out, leaving him deflated. "I see."
Jack looked up, finally, and regarded him for a long moment. "We leave with the tide." He wrapped the nib of his quill in cloth, stuck it behind his ear, and tucked his parchment away in an inner coat pocket. He didn't look back as he ushered the woman to one of the longboats they'd beached and gestured to the other, its oars lashed tightly inside. "I leave you with the means to leave this place in the way of your choosing." Jack and the woman pushed their boat out into the water and he leapt in it after her, his back to William. "Au revoir, William Turner."
William watched the distance between them grow. When they'd made it to the Pearl he looked from the ship to the boat at his feet. Giving a weary sigh, he turned away and began the long walk to the woods. The palm fronds shivered with anticipation of his return and he rolled his eyes. "Bloody birds."
Jack Sparrow had meant to sit down at his desk to begin preliminary sketches of the map he meant to make, but he found immediately that he could not concentrate. He therefore invested his time in a bottle of wine. When Gibbs peered in at him some time later, he was staring worriedly into the flame of his candle.
"Tide's swellin, Cap'n."
"Well then," the captain said, "rouse the crew and ready the sails, Mister Gibbs. And be quick about it."
"Aye, that I'll do, Jack…"
Sensing the man's lingering presence, Jack shook himself from his stupor and looked over at him. "I said be quick about it. What stalls you?"
"Should we signal the Swan, sir?"
Jack frowned out the porthole at the ship, dark with sleep as he'd suspected, and pretended to think the question over. He shook his head. "No," he said, "I don't think we should." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "And Mister Gibbs?"
"Aye, Cap'n?"
"If a man in a boat should come rowing," the pirate captain said, "leave him behind."
William was settling into his boat when he heard what could only be the sharp snap of sail. He frowned and squinted out at the ship lit with activity. Would Sparrow not wait a tick? Figuring not, and cussing the barmy bird, he slashed the bindings on his oars and took them quickly in hand. He knew well how fast the Black Pearl moved once she was set for a course, and he knew just as well he'd best be quicker if he meant to board her. Shortly he'd gained a good deal of distance and spared a glance up at Sparrow's ship.
The Black Pearl's sails were swelling with air.
"Wait, ye imbecilic bastard," Bootstrap ground out. "I've not the arms for this and ye know it!"
But the Black Pearl did not wait. Frothy foam fanned out behind her grand stern as she sailed ahead. Save for the sound of slicing through the water, she was quiet as she'd ever been. William struggled to turn his boat to follow and watched, with dawning comprehension, as she slid swiftly alongside the ship that sat still and silent in the water.
"No ye don't," he shouted at the pirate ship, rowing faster and harder than before. "Ye won't do this to me, Jack Sparrow!"
Furiously he rowed, and rowed, and rowed, and still the gap between he and the Black Pearl widened. He was gasping for breath when a whipping wind sent Jack Sparrow's ship so far ahead that William knew he'd never catch up. Still gripping the oars, he fell back and struggled for breath. When he'd caught it, he looked aft over his shoulder.
The Swan, too, had been left behind.
Cursing the imbecile he'd been daft enough to trust, William began rowing backwards. Unbeknownst to him, three slim figures stood silently watching his progress from the deck of the dark Swan. The Intuits had long been waiting for this very moment and had no intention of allowing it pass them by—in fact, they'd taken careful measures to assure that it would not.
"Ahswa," began the one on the right to the one in the middle, "do you believe we have done the right thing?"
"Do not question Ahswa again, Merito!"
Merito frowned at Kalek. "Do not speak to me so!"
"Quiet, the both of you," growled Ahswa, "it will not do to wake them so soon. Even sending the others to sleep, it was much work to tether the behemoth."
All three heads of the men turned as one. The Intuits stared warily at their red-faced prisoner. His eyes betrayed his fury at having been strapped to the mizzenmast and they worried what Samson, three times their size, might do if his bulging arms burst free of their restraints.
"I still do not know how we did it," said Merito.
"Our will to see our karosamina once more."
Kalek and Merito nodded in agreement but exchanged a sad look behind Ahswa's back. They knew well that the man in possession of their precious gem of the sea would not soon hand her over—especially to Ahswa. They were certain Ahswa knew all of this, but he had said nothing of it.
"It does not matter." But Ahswa's eyes were narrow as he said this, and Merito caught a whisper of his angry thoughts. Protos eroitoi… alla dinei huios! Huios mi… i no allotrios—silent went the sound of Ahswa's mind. He glared at Merito but turned away to stare out over the black water. "Only does it matter that she is in good hands."
But as Merito watched the man row first towards them, then away from them, and back and forth again, he was not certain that she was in good hands. In Kalek's mind he heard the same doubt. He dared not listen again to Ahswa's.
"He does not know where to go," Kalek said of the man in the boat.
"Then we compel him to us!"
"Ahswa—me arcon," said Merito, and quickly, "we do not compel! It is not right with the ways."
"We must in the case of this fool!"
"Nary a chance!"
The three Intuits leapt at the angry shout. Sam Samson had gnashed through the cloth stuck between his teeth. He spat it at his feet and glowered at the men who shook with trepidation before him. They paled under the moonlight.
"Bill'em wouldn't give in to yer tricks—his will's strong."
"It does not matter," Merito said, somehow finding his voice through his fear. "He must come to us. He has not a choice."
"And naether will the three of ye soon as I get meself loose! It'll be yer sorry lot in that boat! Ye can row yerselves home to yer ruddy island!"
As William rowed in close to the sleeping ship, angry voices gave him pause. With some amount of dread, he looked up expecting to see the stiff shape of his son stomping angrily into view. When that did not show itself, he gave a sigh of relief and looked around for his grapple. Sparrow had stowed it in the boat with a long coil of rope attached. William dropped one oar against his boot, reached behind himself for the hook, and in seizing it took it hard in his hand and threw it up and over the side of the Swan. Years of boarding vessels had made the task an easy one, but climbing up with a great big pearl clutched with one hand to his chest was another story altogether.
He struggled, all the while trying to figure out whose voices he was hearing. One was unmistakably Sammy Samson's. The others, even though they grew louder as William climbed higher, were less recognizable. They sounded familiar, though, he thought with a frown as he finally grasped the railing.
Immediately, there was a flurry of excitement on deck. William was startled to find himself in the middle of it. Three sets of slim hands had reached out to help him over the rail, to pat away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, and to smack him reprovingly across the face. Seeing stars, he blinked, and when his vision cleared he saw before him three Intuit men. By the man in the middle's scowl, William guessed him to be the one who'd struck him and would have treated him to a most vicious glare if he hadn't glimpsed beyond the Intuits a strange sight. Samson had been tied tight to the mast. Loops of rope strained around his bulging biceps, but held him fast. William raised a brow.
"Have I interrupted something?"
"Tied me to the mast, those buggers there!"
William looked from the big man to the slight men in disbelief. "These ones?" He looked between them again then frowned at Samson. "You sure?"
Sammy's face purpled, which was really rather awful in combination with his copper-colored locks. "O' course I'm sure!"
"We could not risk his refusal of you," said the man in the middle. "We feared it would be the last we laid eyes on you."
William looked over at Samson with interest. "Sammy, would ye have 'refused' me?"
"You're bloody well right I would," he thundered, clearly angry now at the situation. "I woulda let ye row yer boat all the way home—this here ain't mine to say if ye stay or go, but I'm steerin' it for young Will and I'm nearly convinced he wouldn't want ye here naether Bootstrap!"
William frowned. "Speaking of the boy…"
"The rest are below, sunk into a deep sleep," the Intuit told him. He smiled cruelly. "Your son is troubled by his dreams."
This time, William's vicious look met its mark.
"I am glad that my son does not suffer so."
Tell him to be quiet, he is hurting my ears.
William looked down at the place where his heart had just warmed, and saw the pearl he held there as if for the first time. It was black as night but lustrous in the moonlight—just as beautiful as Neris had ever been. No, I'll tell him to shut up or I'll box his ears. He looked up at the offending Intuit and found the man's reverent gaze latched to the pearl. For some reason, he had the strangest inclination to hide her—as far away from this creature as possible.
"Does she rest?"
It took William a moment to realize that the question had been posed to him—and that the man knew Neris was currently residing, somehow, within the pearl. He scowled. "No," he said, feeling quite angry all over again, "she doesn't. In fact, she says she's tired of hearing you speak."
Anger marred the Intuit's smooth features but his two companions held him back. He shook free of their grasp and pushed past William to grip the railing of the Swan. The others followed and William held the pearl closer to his heart as he strolled between them. Over his shoulder he saw the three men whisper amongst themselves.
"Took the Mickey right out o' him."
William looked up at Samson. He cast a glance backward at the man glaring out at the sea and shrugged. "Aye, and he deserved it." He looked up at Samson, who was yet tied to the mast. "Looks like you need cutting down yourself."
Samson scowled. "Appears so, does it?"
"Mmhm," murmured William, "that it does." But he'd spied the helm, and its glossy gold drew him to it. Ignoring Samson's protests, many of them old Scottish curses, he ran a fingertip along the glossy wood—it'd been long since he'd sailed a ship of the Swan's size but he needed to get home to Isobel. "You three," he called to the Intuits, "hoist the anchor—Spuedos!" He turned around and his eyes narrowed on the speck of light in the distance. "For your sake, Jack, I hope we can outsail your bonny boat. If Isobel gets her hands on you—ayuda del Dios!"
Author's Babble: Oh I know it's been ages, and I know I should have had this up over Christmas, but I'm exhausted and my life is chaotic so it's actually lucky that this is up at all. Sorry, ye sea rats.
Intuition... let's see..."karosamina"(my precious)... Ahswa thinks "Protos eroitoi"(she loved him before)… "alla dinei huios"(but she bore me a son)! "Huios mi"(a son of mine)… "i no allotrios"(and not any other man's)... Merito says me arcon"(my leader). William tells the Intuits Spuedos"(Quickly! or Hasten!)
Spanish... William says Ayuda del Dios"(God help you,literally Helpof God or God's help)
Readers, thank you for continuing to read my tripe, even though I take forever to publish it. ErinRua, I'm so glad you liked the Murtogg and Mullroy bit. I felt it was time for an interlude at Port Royal. Thank you for sticking with my tale! Rogue-Pirate, I apologize for the long wait you had with this conundrum. I hope this installment answers some questions- Jack isn't back in Port Royal, and it's his silly son who's done the wrong: joining the Navy that is. Thank you for reading! Thanks everyone for reading, I apologize in advance for neglecting email and Livejournal as well. I simply have less and less time to accomplish the necessary tasks, let alone frivolous fun such as fanfic writing. I'll try my best to finish this up before July 7, though. I promise you that!
