Disclaimer: I think we've held fire for long enough!
A/N: I was going to update much sooner… I wrote this chapter, but then, startled by someone invading my personal space, I closed without saving. So… that made me angry. And sad. So I had to start again. Forgiveness! Also, you may recognise something from the latter half of this chapter, if you've read the other Squirrel stories. Yee.
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When Squirrel rose from below-decks a few hours later, the jaunty tune she'd been humming to distract herself died in her throat.
Tortuga. They'd arrived.
Squirrel moved softly over to the rails and looked out over the town. I'm back.
"Miss Grey!"
Squirrel turned to the slightly-concerned face of Gibbs. She smiled to mask her trembling. "G-good evening! I've the inventory p-p-prepared," she said, holding a sheaf of papers out towards him. "Everything w-we need."
Gibbs shook his head. "I won't be organising the restocking of the ship this time, Miss. It'll be Cotton and the new lads this time. I'm going with Jack."
"Ah," Squirrel nodded, her voice low and angry. "You'll be doing inventory of a different sort, then?"
A slightly anguished look crossed Gibbs' face for a moment. "Don't be like that, Miss Grey. Please."
Squirrel looked sideways and down, pinking. "I'm sorry."
Gibbs sighed, then looked out over the town. "Well," he said, almost awkwardly, "Best get started. The night's young, but that won't last." He respectfully tugged at his forelock before he turned away. Squirrel watched him go, feeling dull and almost numb.
You didn't care about Leech and the other half of the crew that were left on the isle of the Pelegostas, a voice scoffed at her. So why should you care about a new bunch of louts? Particularly a new bunch of louts from Tortuga?
A flurry of feathers bustled out of the rigging and perched on her shoulder. "Spanish doubloons?" Which translated, according to Gibbs, as 'penny for your thoughts'.
Squirrel ruffled the bird's feathers as she turned around to face the grizzled but concerned face of Cotton. "Thankyou, but no. I'm fine." She smiled, then nodded to Pintel and Ragetti. "I've made the list of supplies," she said, handing the sheaf of papers to Ragetti, "Everything we'll need for the voyage. It's all there," she turned to Pintel, "As well as the prices of what we need. They shouldn't have changed much since…" She paused, cleared her throat, "Since I was here before. But just in case, make sure you get the best of everything, but for the cheapest price."
Ragetti squinted at the papers, and Pintel - looking over his shoulders - looked puzzled.
"What's wrong?" Squirrel asked. Her handwriting wasn't that hard to decipher. And she hadn't made that many ink smudges, had she?
"I ken't read," Ragetti mumbled, holding the papers back to Squirrel.
"I ken," Pintel said, screwing up his nose, "But I don't get them numbers."
Ah. Squirrel gingerly took the papers back. "Sorry, I didn't know." She sighed, then smiled at the disgruntled pirates. "Well, when you get back, I could teach you… if you want."
The admiring looks on the two pirates' faces brought both a smile and a redness to her face.
"Bless ye, miss!"
"Yore a right gem, you are!"
Jack chose at that moment to interrupt. "Enough of this lollygagging," he moved across the deck with all the purpose of a shark on the hunt, albeit a drunken and swaying shark. "We've got work to do." He glanced lazily at Squirrel. "I presume, Miss Grey, you won't be coming ashore with us?"
Squirrel flushed angrily. Jack had thrown that at her deliberately. "If you see my cousin," she said evenly, "Do me a favour and don't sleep with her. Even if she is the loosest cunt on the whole island."
Jack raised an eyebrow managing to look both amused and insulted. Occasionally he needed to be reminded about Squirrel's ability to blister the air with an assortment of curses. It wasn't a talent she used very often or was particularly proud of, but she'd overheard someone say that if they ever wanted a shirt dyed blue, they'd stand in front of her and make her swear at them.
Squirrel turned away from Jack, mouth pursed and brows pinched. "Make sure they don't cheat you," she said to Cotton, handing him the lists and a purse of clinking coins. She held out her arm, and Cotton's parrot walked down to her wrist then hopped back onto its owner's shoulder. Before Cotton turned away, Squirrel added, "Oh, and get all the powder you can. We're running low again."
Cotton nodded, and his parrot flapped its wings. "Wind in the sails!"
Pintel grinned at her. "I 'ave t' say that you're a better quartermaster than Kohler and Twigg ever were."
"Much better," Ragetti echoed, smiling awkwardly. "The Pearl's never 'ad such a pearl!"
Squirrel smiled, but faintly. "Good luck." She watched as the three pirates left the ship, then her eyes were drawn to a single figure waiting by the railing.
Jack.
She met his gaze, refusing to duck her head but flushing still. I can't believe you mean to do this. I can't believe you'd let men die for you without even a pause. That you'd do this to a friend … a man who had saved your life!
Jack gave her an ironic wave as he swung and stomped down the gangplank. As he walked down the docks, Squirrel saw him pull that damnable compass from his belt and shake it, stare at it, shake it again.
What happens if you can't meet your quota, Jack? Squirrel wondered, pulling her amulet out from under her vest. How much are we worth to you? If you'd abandon a friend who'd saved your life, would you abandon us? Are we worth your life? Frightened by where her thoughts were leading, Squirrel let the amulet drop from her fingers.
It's amazing what a man will do to forestall his final judgement. I can't read him, but I can't trust him either. Squirrel took tentative steps away from the railing. It's not just Jack's life on the line, it's not just Will's and Elizabeth's. It's ours - me and the rest of the crew. We're all in danger.
Squirrel looked up at the rigging, her senses and instinct telling her that she should climb up and out of this trouble and stay up where it was safe. But she knew that wasn't possible. They were all tangled up in this web of deceit. There was no safety anymore. Not here, not out at sea, not even on the Pearl.
What's happened to us? Squirrel thought, despairing. How did we stop being pirates and start being missionaries for the Devil?
The Devil.
Squirrel's eyes widened. That was it. The answer. They could all be saved; they could all be free. She could save the lives of the ninety-nine sailors; she could save the lives of the crew; she could save the life of Will, Elizabeth, Jack and herself. She just needed a way to control the one who wanted to control them. She needed the biggest bargaining chip, the most important piece in this whole game, in her possession.
I need the heart of Davy Jones.
Squirrel looked out over the docks. Jack was no longer in sight. Squirrel was alone on the deck, and Marty was resting on a pile of crates, a pistol loose in one hand in case some enterprising pirate or stowaway decided to board the Pearl and make himself at home. He was looking out at the dock, but Squirrel didn't want to take any chances. Gingerly, she dropped her hood low over her face and wrapped her cloak around her. Then slowly, as not to attract Marty's attention, Squirrel walked backwards across the deck to Jack's cabin.
Every sense was alert, electric; the feeling that she was doing something dangerous and unlawful was making her mouth dry. Guilt was making her reconsider. Fear of being caught made her hesitate. Determination alone kept her going.
I already have the heading. North-north-west. If I can use Jack's charts, I can find out where Davy Jones is likely to have hidden his heart. And if I know where it is… Squirrel paused, inches away from Jack's door. If I find out where it is, Squirrel made herself promise, I will tell Jack. I will. She paused, her lips twisting wryly. But after a day, at least. I want him to stew a bit longer before I help him out. Punishment for leaving Will behind.
Her conscience satisfied, Squirrel made the last few steps backwards, and her hands closed around the doorhandle. Keeping her eyes on Marty, she carefully tried the handles, and almost laughed out loud when the doors gave way behind her. They weren't even locked. Carefully, she pulled one of the double-doors towards her, her eyes on the back of Marty's head. If he should turn around now, she would be caught. No sudden movements… She moved slowly, fluidly, like a shadow, like a ghost. As soon as the door was open wide enough, she slowly paced backwards, and closed the door quietly in front of her. And then, breathing out with relief, she turned.
She was in Jack's cabin.
She leant against the door, breathing quietly to herself, taking everything in with her wide brown eyes and the dim candlelight. The boxes and collections of paraphernalia. The empty bottles of rum. The sea charts scattered across the table.
Charts. Squirrel unhooked her cloak from around her shoulders and lay it across a chair. Unburdened and unhindered, she moved quickly to the table. She didn't have much time. Jack could be back anywhere between an hour and a day, depending on how quickly he was able to find volunteers. Squirrel needed to work fast, and, in addition, not leave any sign of her presence.
Again, the feeling a guilt washed over her. Don't be silly, she reminded herself, You're not stealing anything. You're just going to learn something. Learning isn't stealing. Taking a breath, she sat down on Jack's chair and roved the paper with her eyes and finger until she found Tortuga. Three, maybe four hours ago, I was… she followed the line backwards… there.
Thankyou, Anamaria, she thought to herself. Before she'd left, Ana had given Squirrel ample advice about life aboard a ship, as well as teaching her a few practical lessons about cartography and map-reading. Taking a breath, Squirrel calmed her nerves and looked north-north-west. Her finger traced a line up, up, all the way to the edge of the map. Nothing. Squirrel frowned. Surely, Davy Jones wouldn't leave his heart at the bottom of the ocean. Confused, she found the Pearl's position once more and tried again. Still nothing. Nothing but open water, reefs, rocks.
Squirrel frowned, head tilted. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't thinking about Davy Jones' heart when I had Jack's compass. But as soon as she thought it, she knew it was foolish. Of course I was. There was no doubt. Her eyes strayed to the watermark on the map, and she frowned a little deeper.
How long, exactly, had Davy Jones been the Captain of the Flying Dutchman? How long has he been cursed? If he hid his heart long ago… maybe where he hid his heart is on an island no longer marked on normal maps. She looked up, searching the dimly-lit cabin. All the other charts on the desk bore similar dates. I need an older chart.
Rising carefully, Squirrel moved to a chest of drawers. Perhaps the rest of the charts were in here. She carefully tugged at the first drawer.
Seashells, bottles, pieces of dried… things? Animals? Whatever they were meant to be… nothing helpful. She shut the drawer, feeling disheartened. She opened the second one. This showed a bit more promise. Under tattered pieces of cloth and barely-together articles of clothing were papers with latitude and longitude lines. Smiling, Squirrel lifted the first of the charts - the date was over ten years previous. Perfect! Now she just needed to line up the two maps and find out where…
Those are my stockings.
Squirrel stopped, disbelieving for a moment, then reached and picked up the small bundle of white cloth. She unrolled it, abandoning the chart for the time being. There was no doubt. These were her stockings.
In one of the rare raids of 'honest pirating' she'd been a part of, the crew had uncovered a chest full of ladies' finery, and unanimously declared it to be Squirrel's. Though she'd left the corsets and bodices behind, the stockings and other undergarments were of great use. One of them had gone missing a few months ago. She'd presumed it'd gone overboard one laundry day, when she'd hung them out to dry.
Squirrel flushed. That no-good son of a… She didn't know whether to be outraged, or to simply roll her eyes. He took my stockings!
And, she thought, exasperated, I can't exactly take them back, now can I? Because he'll notice they're gone, surely, and then he'll know I've been in here! With an angry sigh, she rolled them up again and placed them back where she'd found them. And they were the best ones, too.
She resumed where she'd left off - she pulled the chart out of the drawer and carried it to the table, then sat down once more. She found Tortuga, found the spot three hours out, and then marked north-north-west.
Isla Cruces.
Squirrel felt her heart quicken. That island there. It was small, but it was there. Ten years ago, it hadn't been. It had been forgotten, or abandoned, or both. A perfect hiding place for a man's abandoned and forgotten feelings.
Stop that, something snapped at Squirrel. Davy Jones is the devil, you know full well. He's bartering with souls. He cut out his heart. He's not some tragic figure from some story - he's a monster. The Devil himself.
It was a logical thought, but something made Squirrel pause. Is he really the Devil himself? She wondered. Tia told us he was once a man. Just a man. So where did it begin? Who did Davy barter with in exchange for this…?
She shook herself. There was no time for this kind of philosophy now. She had what she wanted. Isla Cruces. Island of the… cross? 'Crux' was cross in Spanish, she knew well enough. Crossings, maybe; it was close enough. Cross indicated a church, maybe a missionary post. Could he have buried his heart near a church? In a cemetery? Certainly, it would be fitting and ironic enough. But if he can't step on land 'but once every ten years'… perhaps it was further out. In part of a permanent sandbank, so that, if necessary, he could sail over and retrieve it without having to touch the earth. Crossings - where earth and sea could cross freely.
Squirrel picked up the chart and dutifully replaced it, putting each of the articles of clothing - including her lovely white stockings! - back on top of the map. It looked just as it had been when she'd first opened the drawer. Nothing had changed. Allowing herself a slightly self-satisfied smile, she closed the drawer and turned back to look once more around the cabin.
Jack lived here, spent his nights here. All those nights when Squirrel couldn't work up the courage to knock on the door… and tonight, here she was. Alone. Breaking and entering like a common thief.
Pirate. She reminded herself firmly. Pirate.
She drew her fingers along the edge of the table and the chair, examined the detail in the silver candlesticks, lifted lids of boxes and chests to admire the contents. I'm in Jack's cabin, she thought with a sigh. I'm not likely to ever return here. Ever. Might as well make the most of it. She stood behind Jack's chair, stroking the worn padding on the arms and back of the chair fondly, then looked at the charts on the table once more. Had she left any sign of herself? Any fingermarks in dust? Not that she could tell. She turned to leave, but books holding the corners of the charts down caught her eye.
You can tell a great deal of a man by what he reads. Squirrel looked towards the door, then back to the books. I'll just check these, and then I'll go. That's it. Carefully, she peered at the titles. The two closest books were a copy of Shakespeare's Hamlet - how ironic, Squirrel thought with a wry smile, 'Mad but north-north-west' - and a strange leather-bound book with no title. Curious, Squirrel lifted the cover and read the inscription on the first page. She frowned, reading the title aloud.
"The Divine Comedy?" Unusual reading matter for a pirate. It didn't seem like something Jack would keep in his possession. But then, neither was Hamlet.
On the other hand, Jack would appreciate stories about revenge. But a work of Dante?
Squirrel gingerly picked up the book and began leafing through, looking for pages well-thumbed or dog-eared, trying to gain an insight into Jack Sparrow.
What she found gave her significant pause.
Someone had defaced the book. In a space at the end of the chapter about the deepest circle of hell, a childish scrawl depicted a group of stick figures burning and screaming. Most prominent was an older man with a silly hat, waist-deep in liquid fire, shouting 'Arrrgh' with a significant amount of exclamation marks afterwards. Floating on a cloud above, a grinning caricature of Jack Sparrow pointed and laughed, his halo lop-sided and his harp neglected.
Squirrel closed the book firmly, not knowing whether to giggle or sigh.
The Pearl rocked gently in the water, reminding Squirrel of where she was. Placing the book down where she'd found it, she moved carefully, slowly, not wanting to even accidentally betray her visit by a misstep or by something moved just a little out of position.
Stealth. That's how she worked. She wasn't strong enough or fierce enough to face things head on. She preferred to work from a distance, from the shadows. In secret.
She picked up her cloak, draping it over one arm, then carefully pushed the door open. She couldn't see Marty - that made her worry. Quickly and fluidly, she slid out of the door and pushed it closed behind her. Then she moved three paces forward. Still no sign of Marty. Where was he? Ah, there. Patrolling, walking back and forth across the deck.
"Marty!" She called, and was surprised that he voice didn't tremble, "I'm going to take forty winks. Wake me when the captain gets back." So I can watch his reaction when he goes into his cabin. Just in case.
Marty nodded. "Will do, miss." He turned his attention back to the docks, leaving Squirrel to climb up into the rigging, her cloak over her shoulder. It had been some time since she'd been able to sleep soundly - a nap would be more than sufficient to dispel this sudden fatigue she felt. When she was up in the crow's nest, she curled up, draped the cloak over herself and shut her eyes.
Isla Cruces.
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Several malicious snakes writhed and slithered across the deck, leaving trails of blood and broken wood. Squirrel lifted her feet in a silent dance as she moved to avoid them. She could have sworn they were all dead. She knew they should be. She'd slaughtered them all. Yet they were alive… once again. Moving carefully, finally found a safe place to stand. Shading her eyes, she looked out into the glaring sunlight out at the wide green sea.
"Not much to look at out there, ey?"
Squirrel turned, slowly; her movements were hampered, slowly, awkward, as though she were underwater. She had thought she was alone, but she recognised that voice, and was glad to hear it. "Anamaria? What are you doing here? I thought you left us when we put in at Kingston!"
Ana ignored Squirrel, and continued to deftly juggle the half-a-dozen eggs with fluid and sure hands. Then, Ana smiled, but it was with Tia's ink-stained teeth. The witch slowly replaced the pirate - it was now Tia who juggled the eggs, standing in Ana's place.
"Fire an' metal's what ties you to dee Jack," Tia laughed, dark eyes knowing. "But what ties 'im to yoo?" With a lazy arm, she threw the eggs at Squirrel. Squirrel cringed, an arm up to defend herself. She wished for her cloak, but she wasn't wearing it. The eggs cracked and shattered, covering Squirrel with blood. Staggering back, she tripped over one of those writhing snakes. Tumbling, losing her balance, she stumbled and fell overboard, landing with a splash.
The water was muddy and sour, mixing with the blood from the eggs. Squirrel spat out a mouthful of the foul stuff before she realised that the water was slowly getting deeper. She managed one weak cry before she sank like a stone.
Under the surface of the water - strangely enough - she was standing still, unmoved by tide or wetness; but, though she stood, she still sank. Squirrel breathed out a column of bubbles, and watched as they rose to the surface. Her eye was caught by other movement. Two dancing figures splashed waist-deep in the ocean, two graceful dancers. Elizabeth's feather-soft feet moved elegantly, while solid Will Turner moved with a more sturdy kind of grace. The dancers moved together, apart, together again, yet somehow always never touching. Their eyes were turned outwards, and their hands reached for others than each other. Yet, as Squirrel watched, those dancers came together one last time, and kissed, and did not part again.
Something tugged on Squirrel's hand - her burnt hand. She ignored it, looking up instead at the rays of light shooting through the water. Had she really fallen so deep? Already the rays of light were fading into mere slits. Squirrel turned her head - moving faster and freer now, compared to how she moved on the Pearl - and found herself nose-to-nose with the baleful visage of a dolphin.
"I hate you," it said, "But we'll be around for a while longer." Before Squirrel could even blink, the dolphin was gone with a flick of its bright pink tail. The thing gripping Squirrel's hand tugged harder, more insistently, and finally she gave way and looked down.
It was Davy Jones himself holding her hand, his tentacled finger wrapped around her wrist. Below them, held inches above the seabed by a huge silver anchor, was the huge, majestic, frightening form of the Flying Dutchman. Squirrel shouted a flurry of bubbles, and tried to pull free, but the captain's grip was firm.
"Join my crew," he whispered, his beautiful blue eyes calling to her. She had no answer to give him - not yet. Nodding his understanding, Davy turned and dived, pulling Squirrel with him. Alarmed now, she pulled, tugged, ripped at her arm, but she fell, fell, fell, sinking ever towards the Dutchman. There was no help for her.
She looked up, and saw Jack standing on the surface of the water, heels to the sky and head pointing down towards her. Staring, Squirrel lost all sense of what was up or what was down. Jack stood above/below her, looking down/up at her with his roguish gold-toothed smile. He walked surely on the bottom/top of that textured marble floor that was the ocean's surface.
"Not to worry, luv," he said reassuringly, "It'll all be alright in the end." He winked at her, then continued on his way, whistling a tune of freedom.
Squirrel breathed out her last, and drowned.
She woke suddenly, gasping for air, too busy trying to breathe to worry about screaming. Her senses reasserted themselves. It was just a dream.
Damn. Squirrel calmed herself, though adrenaline was still coursing through her veins like some potent poison. That same dream, once again. A recurring childhood nightmare, though details changed over time. Tia Dalma and Davy Jones now were a part of her dreams, were they? Strangely enough, those names - though potent enough on their own - had a strange kind of ring when they were together… Squirrel shook herself, lightly slapping her face. Foolish, foolish, foolish. It was just a dream.
It was a fairly cold night. The cold was what brought on the nightmares. Feeling foolish, Squirrel retrieved her cloak and wrapped it back around herself. She must have kicked it off in her dream.
How long had she slept? She was still in Tortuga, she knew that much. She could still hear the music, the laughter, the shots and the cries. And the Pearl was still moored; she could tell by the way it swayed side to side. Slowly, Squirrel rose to her feet and leant on the edge of the nest, looking out over the Tortugan night.
You're not my home anymore, she thought to the town. I don't miss you.
As though in answer to this challenge, a shot suddenly rang out in the night sky. Suddenly, even for Tortuga. Squirrel jumped instinctively, then blushed at her stupidity.
"Just a gunshot," she whispered.
Once again, Tortuga disagreed. The tavern erupted in shouts, frenzied music, the sound of shattering glass and furniture. A brawl, one of many. But somehow, this one meant something different to Squirrel. Chaos, destruction and mayhem.
"And you're right in the middle of it, aren't you, Jack Sparrow?" She murmured wryly, half-smiling and half-sighing. She banished the dream from her mind - it was nonsense, it meant nothing. There was only one thing important about tonight.
Isla Cruces.
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A/N: If you want to know what I mean about Jack walking underwater, just go to a pool and go underwater… and upside-down. The surface becomes the floor, you know? Very weird, especially when someone swims past and looks like they're rising out of the ground. That factoid about cold bringing on nightmares is a scientific fact. Woot for science. Also, the dolphin is an Indo-Pacific Humpback Dolphin. Visit Wikipedia, and maybe you'll get the reference :D