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Chapter 3

He clamored out the window like a spider, his lungs burning with the desire to be free, rid of the oppressive unhappiness of the house. Solitude of night beckoned to him, more so than the rough texture of his linen bed sheets. The roar of the raging sea matched the seething anger that beat within his caged heart. He slipped past the hanging cheery curtains, mustard yellow his mother's favorite color, and into the waiting, grand-fatherly arms of the great birch tree that had made its nest next to his window. He shimmied down the ancient limbs on his stomach, careless of the burn of the bark against his skin; leaves fell round him like hail and ash.

Midway down trunk of the tree he paused, disturbed by the sound of the night air, his finger tips clinging to a protruding knot in the trunk's smooth white skin. His legs dangled as he listened; there was a wailing moan, a stifled sob accompanied by the rattle of clanging bottles. Dangerous spirits lingered on the night air; he'd been told tales of a banshee who roamed the open cliffs of Shipwreck Island to claim the lives of wandering sailors. Mostly, he'd figured the stories were told to him by his mother to frighten him from stealing away on nights like tonight, when the moon was high and could light a clear path to his unclaimed adventures. The rattling continued, added to the whisper of wind that carried the sound to his observant ears. At any moment, his mother would come to the window, curious as to what had caused all the commotion.

Frightened that he might be seen dangling from the tree; Will released his grip on the bark and floated through the air, his shirt sleeves puffing with the wind like a white sail.

'Tuck your head to your chest, and roll along the ridges of your spine, ' he heard his father's voice command in his ear as he soared. Obediently, he followed the guidance, tucking his appendages into a tightly coiled ball as he rotated to land in the soft grass, clear of the uprooted legs of the tree. His spine made first contact with a heavy thud that jarred his level thinking and disrupted his father's imagined guidance.

Instantaneously, his arms and legs sprang free of his ball and with the momentum of his landing, young William revolved to his feet, a safe distance away from the house. Wincing, he twisted his neck and heard it pop. He hadn't quite mastered the technique as well as his father had, but with more practice, he'd soon be equally skilled. The joy of his easy escape was short lived; all at once the heaviness of his father's departure struck him, pushing his back to nestle against the safety of the tree.

His mind mulled the image permanently emblazoned in his brain; his father's stiff farewell at the docks still smarted. They had labored indecisively on the best method to bid each other adieu. Hesitation altered between the open arms of an embrace and the formality of a handshake. Young William had opted for the former, throwing his arms around his father's coat and pleading with him not to go. His father's hands had traced through his thick locks of lank, dark, hair and in his eyes, he thought he saw the remnants of regret.

Still, despite his desperate beseeching, the man he'd known as his father only in name and for a period of a few short months had turned to the sea, rushing off to live up to his legend as the great Captain and savior of piracy. His father, the legendary William Turner he'd known from infancy. His mother had never failed to tell him stories of his father; he'd climb onto her lap and beg her to tell the tales of the Dutchman over and over when he was younger. No longer—he wouldn't cling to the coat tails of a fable.

Hatred fueled his angry feet forward, down the sandy path; volcanic rocks and shells were no match for the tough soles that carried him down the steep terrain of the cliffs toward the beach. As he rounded a dark boulder which had cast a threatening shadow, the trail of sand which had been worn smooth with the heavy press of boots became blurred. Dampness touched his cheeks, and he realized it was not the mist of the salty sea air, or moisture from the heavy fog that lingered on the edge of the horizon, but tears. His fingers traced the wet rivulets that danced down his cheeks.

Irritated, William raked his hands through the sand, grasping at the pebbles that had chanced to take their rest on the beach. Clenching them tightly in his fist as though he wished to smother the life from them, he unleashed a strangled cry and tossed them as far as they could travel. A few of the smooth, round, stones had the good sense to skim the tumultuous waves before they sank to the bottom.

Valiantly he fought the tears, foolish, childish tears that ought never to have climbed into his eyes to reveal the tell-tale signs of his pain. One thing he knew with great certainty from observation of the men around him, the stories as well as his experiences with his own pirate mother—pirates never cried. If he was anything, he was his father and mother's son—he was unequivocally pirate!

In an effort to bolster his identity to his wavering psyche and the mocking crash of the sea, he progressed down the beach, tossing stones and shells as he went, his broken voice lifting to a tune that had ever soothed his heart.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me…," he sang with a trembling voice, accompanied by the 'plunk' of a stone dropping into the stirring waters of the sea.

He recalled the day his mother had taught the song to him. They had been standing in their kitchen, she with her arm wrapped around a large clay bowl; they were making scones and she had been telling him a story about the adventures she had had when she was his age and living in England.

'London is an amazing sight to behold, thrice the size of Shipwreck City, with horses, carriages and bridges,' she'd told him as she'd handed him the bowl to stir the thick mixture. The remainder of the day, he'd spent imagining what it might be like to visit London with his parents in tow, though he'd found it difficult to create the image of his father based solely on his mother's descriptions of him.

"Drink up me hearties, yo ho. Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me…" He gave a great sniff, and with it, the last of his tears had vanished. Though he'd not remembered all the verses, for it had been some time since he'd resorted to singing it to bring up his spirits, it'd done the trick. The sign of weakness had disappeared and he strolled down the beach, skimming stones, every ounce of him a fearless and blood-thirsty pirate.

"We kidnap…we pillage…" He stopped short of tossing another stone as a wave crashed to the beach. In the wan hours of dawn's light, his eyes caught sight of movement on the beach, like the wave of the Jolly Roger in the wind. More than likely, it was the sail of wreckage from the ships that washed ashore. Not many ships could manage to navigate the Devil's Throat without dire consequences. Scanning the horizon with a frown, he started toward the wreckage, but his foot caught on a singular disturbance in the sand. He stumbled and nearly landed face first to the ground which was cast in a pinkish hue from the early rays of the sun's light. With a frown, he turned to glare at what had impeded his wake; footprints, a man's boot cast like marble in the wet sand. The surf broke upon the beach and rinsed the print away, soaking William to the skin with stinging salt water. Odd; there were few who'd risk a jaunt down the beach in the dark hours of the night, not with sharp rocks to lure a man to his peril. Only those intimately familiar with the terrain could steer a course safely.

Will whirled around, his damp locks slapping into his eyes as he came face to face with a pair of thick black boots, partially obscured by sand. Frightened, he cried out and began to scoot away from the scuffed foot-wear in an attempt to escape. A strong pair of hands lifted him kicking and screaming from his crouched position. One hand muffled his mouth, trapping his neck so that his gullet was sorely pressed by the weight of the man's wrist. He smelled of must, damp fabric combined with the stench of blood and repugnant stench of body odor.

"Ye like tales of cutthroat men and dastardly pirates?" Will stood petrified, the sting of a sharp knife pressed against his neck. If his muscles so much as twitched, even if it was in accordance to the sentiments of his attacker, his throat would be slit from ear to ear.

"Aye, I can see ye do. Walk with me, young master. I've a sight to make your eyes weep and your blood curdle." He had no choice but to follow the man's instruction; he struggled with his assailant, dragging his feet in the sand to slow their progress. The sand! He could use it to his advantage if he could only get a little on the edge of his shoe. Golden brown dusted his brass buckle tipped shoe and with athletic grace he kicked the sand up into his attacker's face.

"God's Blood!" His aggressor unleashed a string of foul oaths while his hands covered his stinging eyes. He relinquished his grip around Will's neck and with a gasping breath Will crawled on his hands and knees to his feet at a run.

"Stand where ye are ye gutless cur!" He heard the devilish click of a pistol. Will froze mid-stride and turned to face the man with a slight gulp of fear.

"My assurances I mean ye no harm…" The fearsome pirate lowered his pistol to match his words with his actions and appeared to steel himself as he spoke his next words. His voice came low, and William was hard pressed to hear it over the din of the deafening ocean.

"I only require a moment of your time…help in a small venture…" He cocked his head in the direction they had previously traveled.

Will stood indecisively on a precipice. He was tempted to run in the opposite direction for the safety of his mother's arms and cutlass, but the plaintive note of desperation in the man's voice stayed his feet. Nodding resolutely, Will took steps forward to where the man with a hobbling step had motioned. He had a few stones remaining in his pocket; if the man had taken the notion into his head to kill him, he would make use of all means of escape. Will kept one hand buried in his pocket, the stones warmed and at the ready by his small fingers.

Beached on the gravel was a longboat, obscured by darkness and in part by an inlet surrounded by rocks. Whoever the man was, he did not want to be seen by prying town eyes.

"If you mean to kidnap me, I'll warn you that my parents are formidable pirates. They'll not rest until your head is in a noose," William informed the man with what he supposed was an intimidating air. To his chagrin, his captor openly laughed with a throaty 'har, har'.

"That's a smart lad. Ye got a name, boy?" the grisly pirate quizzed as they made their way together around the obscuring rock. Will's name died on his lips as he beheld a curious sight.

The location of the rocks had been strategically chosen; a hideaway that concealed a lump in the shape of a man, who, as though cued by the approach of his friend, groaned and raved with a fierce yowl.

"T-T-Turner. My name is Will Turner," he squeaked as the groans of pain continued to a near frenzy before they subsided into the dull crash of the sea. Alarmed, Will took two gigantic steps backward and crashed headlong into the stomach of the other man.

"William Turner…," he pirate repeated, drawing out the vowels as though tasting the name for the first time. He lowered his great height to Will's level staring trustingly into the young boy's eyes.

"He's a dying man, Master Turner and as true a pirate as they come; as true as you and I. He needs the likes of a doctor, and I think ye would do well to make all haste to fetch your mother…"