Chapter Six
His dreams were strange that night. Given, not as strange as, lying in a drunken coma on the floor of a Tortuga tavern, he had dreamt of a burning badger piloting the Dauntless while wearing Jack Sparrow's hat and singing a warbled shanty.
No, this dream was not as strange or meaningless as that nonsensical dream. There was something real about it. Two dreams, seemingly unconnected but linked.
The first was of a woman. She was a dark woman, her hair in dirty dreadlocks and teeth a shade of decay. She smiled warmly at him, and beckoned him nearer her table. She did not speak, but held out a map to him with an air of confidentiality. He took it, and studied its features. The map was real enough, but when he glanced back to the woman, she had disappeared and Norrington was left alone in a swirling darkness. He kept the map held close to him.
Suddenly, the dream changed, and he was in the sea. A ship was sailing not far away, and one of her sailors was hailing to him. He swam over, still feeling the bulge of the map in his jacket pocket. A warm hand pulled him up on deck, the man before him sporting a long brown beard and a wide-brimmed hat topped with a feather. He grinned dangerously, then stepped aside to reveal an undead Turner and Sparrow holding a screaming Elizabeth in their bony hands. Norrington took a frightened step backwards, stepping out over the water.
He fell. Fell for hundreds of feet, never touching the water. Time slowed. He could still hear Elizabeth's screams as he plummeted, arms circling around him in desperate attempts to reach for anything to stop his fall. Nothing. He fell backwards into the unknown.
He awoke with a jolt, sitting straight up in his bed. His breath was caught in his throat, and it took him a moment to remember how to breathe. He felt the ship rolling calmly over the sea, the softness of the blankets beneath and on top of him. Strange, he hadn't remembered pulling them over him. He sat fully up, inspecting the room around him-- the mirror was still hulking useless in the corner. His blood had yet to be washed from the planks where he had sat, just as useless, only five days ago.
The noises of the morning were filling his ears slowly, like sand draining from an hourglass. First came the low toll of the bell-- eight bells. He'd slept until eight bells. He had not slept that long since his days as a midshipman. Then came the voices of the men nearest the door, scrubbing the deck. They were speaking of yesterday's escape from the Dutchman. One of the men was obviously from the crew Gillette had assembled to rescue them, for he continued to ask questions concerning the nature of the creatures aboard, and the visage of the frightening Davy Jones.
Then came an authoritative voice-- Harry Buckler asserting his newfound position to order another sailor to climb the ratlines to loose a sail that had caught on a spar. The hearty laugh of a man was followed in chorus by his crew mates. A snatch of a song was caught in his ear. The young Samuel, wherever he was, sung out boldly, not caring who listened. Gillette joined Buckler in his order. Seemingly the man had lodged a foot into the wrong line and tangled it. Norrington smiled to himself, then stood, moving to the door. Before he exited, he took an old, brown longcoat from the wardrobe and slipped it over his shoulders.
The men scrubbing the deck near the door ceased their conversation as Norrington stepped out. The sun was beating down, a relief from yesterday's pelting storm. The faces of three men with soap and scrub brushes in hand beamed up at him. He nodded, then moved forward onto the deck. She still looked like a man-of-war; the descent into piracy had not yet affected their mode of transport. Norrington moved out onto the deck, the sun immediately warming him. Gillette and Buckler were still caught in the affair of the tangled sail. Suddenly, a man was at his side, and he turned to face him.
"Captain Norrington," he said in a small voice, "we've been sailing in a westerly direction for some time now, and the helmsman was wondering if you have a heading."
Norrington thought for a moment, and the image of the map from his dream flashed in his mind. A red mark, drawn with what he did not know, on an island circled many times. His mind stuck on that image, then furrowed a brow at the younger man beside him.
"Do you have a parchment on you?"
Gillette joined Norrington as he stood near the bowsprit, a pensive and introspective look on the captain's face. The sea parted before them, spray rising and falling like rain. They had not been sailing for half the day before Norrington had given the helmsman a strange piece of parchment and told him to find whatever he had drawn there. He was doing an admirable job despite the lack of distinguishing features or names. In fact, the man had said he knew almost precisely where the captain wanted him to go, although he himself did not know the name of the island.
Norrington did not face Gillette as he approached. The first lieutenant decided to initiate the conversation.
"Where did you get the idea to draw an island that nobody knows on a parchment?" He asked as innocently as he could. Norrington shrugged, only giving a passing thought to it.
"I saw it in a dream."
Gillette had learned to accept much in the past few days, but even this made his mouth turn down.
"A dream?"
"Yes, Gillette, it's what happens when a man such as myself falls into the sleep of a man robbed of it aboard a pirate ship."
"How can you trust a dream, Captain?"
Norrington paused, his gaze still on the sea. "I don't know," he answered. "But something told me that it was real enough to place my trust in it."
The man that Gillette had known was finally washed away. The Norrington he had known would never take such a chance. Something of the man before still lingered in the eyes of this man, but they were so very different. Gillette was unsure as to whether he was glad or not.
"What do you expect to find when we arrive at this mysterious destination, sir?"
"What do I expect, or what do I wish to find there, Gillette?" He paused, and when Gillette made no motion to answer he continued. "I expect to find nothing, or next to nothing, if not a port where we can refresh our supplies and take on a few hands that were lost in the battle on the Flying Dutchman. What I hope to find is much more precious." His hand on the railing tightened its grip until his knuckles turned white.
"Sir?" Gillette's voice snapped Norrington from his reverie.
"Aboard the Dutchman I had the pleasure of meeting William Turner's father." Gillette watched for the relevance of this information. Norrington indulged him. "I confessed to him that I had stolen the heart of Davy Jones, and he provided me with valuable information. Jack Sparrow is dead-- Beckett did not lie in that sense. The Black Pearl is gone with him. But Turner, the younger, is still alive. If we are to get that heart from Beckett, finding Turner is our surest route."
"And you hope that your dream leads you to Turner?"
"Turner, and perhaps something more."
A faint smile turned up on the edge of his lips.
The Gorgon plowed on through the clear water, the two men standing silent on her deck, quietly understanding without words.
They sailed on through the day, Norrington moving nervously from his cabin to the bow to the helm. The helmsman updated him on their route, telling him with each subsequent visit how much longer until their approximate destination. Gillette had never seen the man so on edge, never staying in one spot for too long, fingers twitching and clenching. His footsteps paced the deck back and forth, and when he had worn his path into the deck, he traversed below decks in attempts to calm himself.
That was where he found the rum.
The men that Gillette had hired on Isla Asilo to man the ship while Norrington and the rest of the crew had been aboard the Dutchman had brought it on board. There were two great casks of it, along with two dozen bottles scattered about the bottom of a crate. He stood over them, a deckhand or two giving him odd looks as they passed. One man finally reached past the captain to take a bottle and apply it to his mouth. Without thinking another moment on the subject, Norrington followed his motions. He pulled the stopper from the bottle and, with only a second's hesitation, put it to his lips and took his first swallow of the bitter liquid in almost a month.
It tasted like death and love in the same instant. He took another drink to wash it down.
Night descended on the Gorgon before too much longer, and Norrington was there to meet it. The rum had relaxed him, and he leaned almost childlike on the railing as he stared out into the black nothingness. They had not seen another ship cross the horizon, which seemed strange but nonetheless comforting. WIth a tired sigh, his arms stretched out and hanging over the sea with the rum bottle dangling precariously, he leaned his head into his arms and let the darkness take him.
"Sir!" Someone was calling from the edges of his consciousness. "Captain Norrington!" He jumped from his languid position, the rum dropping into the sea. He gave it no notice, seeing why the man he recognized now as Buckler had called out to him. A ship's lanterns were lit just inside cannon range. She was flying no colors, that he could see. He stumbled backwards slightly, and his hand darted into his longcoat's pocket, pulling out his spyglass.
The image blurred at first, and he wondered just how far the ship was, then he blinked and realized that the drink was affecting his vision. Damn it all... He refocused himself and stared through the lens of his spyglass once again. The shock almost sent him reeling backwards.
The man from his dream-- long brown beard, fierce face and a hat topped with a feather. Exactly the same. He stood near the helm, pointing in the direction of the Gorgon. Norrington was in for another blow as he saw the man at the helm was one of the dirty pirates from the Black Pearl. He snatched the looking glass from his eye and turned quickly to Buckler, who was still behind him.
"Ready the longboat. Send up the flag of truce. I need to talk to the sailors on that ship." He strode away, stowing the spyglass in his inner pocket again. Buckler's voice followed him, shouting, "Ready the longboat!" and having it echo across the deck. Buckler himself raised the white flag to the top of the mast, where it shown proudly despite the lack of light. Norrington motioned for Gillette and Samuel to follow him.
The three were soon in the longboat, Gillette and Samuel rowing toward the mysterious ship looming ahead in the darkness. Norrington kept his eyes fiercely locked on it as the sails were furled and anchor dropped at the sight of the flag. His heart was in his throat as the line was thrown down to tie up his longboat, which Samuel made short work of. The others climbed first up the side of the ship, and Norrington followed. His eyes trailed up as a set of feet met him and a hand was extended to help him up.
Two sets of eyes locked, brown on green.
"Turner?" Norrington asked in shock.
The eyes of William Turner stared in disbelief, then metamorphasized into purest anger.
Norrington felt Will's boot catch him mid-chest as he still hung over the side of the ship. His fingers lost their grip and the force of Will's attack sent him flying backwards into darkness.
He was falling, arms flying out to his side in any attempts to slow or stop his descent. This time, the water engulfed him in a sound-swallowing splash. He resurfaced, gasping for air.
"Why shouldn't I kill you?" Will shouted from his safe position aboard the ship. His eyes were filled with fury. Norrington treaded water, trying to find his mind amid the water and rum.
"Because," Norrington said as clearly as he could manage, "I have a message from your father."
Will faltered, hands clenched at his side, before a hand could rest on his shoulder, relaxing his anger. A set of too-familiar eyes stared down at the man floating helplessly in the water. He'd hoped to God he had forgotten her eyes. She stared in wonder, mouth slightly agape.
"James Norrington?" Elizabeth's voice was as melodic as it had ever been. Norrington grinned helplessly, and gave a slight bow-- the best he could give without receiving a face-full of water.
"My lady."
AN: Took me long enough. Anyway, this is prolly the shortest chapter, but there wasn't much to tell, I suppose. Now I get to write Will, Liz and Barbossa! GLEE. Here's hoping I get all of them right! Thanks much to all my wonderful reviewers-- I am nothing without you! Much love and happy reading!
