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Chapter 11

White caps graced the heads of the tumultuous waves like a crown of gleaming snow, their pure color a perilous soothsayer of the ship's misfortune at sea. Dark clouds dropped horizontal sheets of rain that were dumped in intermittent showers that alternated between bucketing and downright torrential. Ahead, enshrouded in an ethereal veil of sinister mist, the Cape of the Sinner's Tongue loomed, a mountainous fortress of black rock, deceitful in its singular modest dimensions. The anecdotes had made the thick canyon peaks seem interminable, impenetrable by a lowly ship comprised of weaker elements than that of ancient rock and the indomitable sea.

All winds blew to the Cape, the whispered stories insinuated that it was where Captains, made barmy by the temptation of the sea and who had no further desire to live led their unsuspecting crew to make their end, in an attempt to best what could never be crushed.

The mad psychosis of intrepid Captain Turner had led the stalwart crew of the Captive Swallow into the heart of a vicious squall, with a wind so ferocious that when applied to the sails, made the mainsheets squeal in bitter agony at the force. The brawny schooner was tossed like a child's plaything between the waves which resembled hands, nearly capsizing in the enormous strength of the surf.

Slip-sliding across the decks, the crew had transformed into drowned rats, knocked off their feet by the break of the water against the boughs, struggling to fulfill the duties rattled off in a storm of words more furious than the squall by their otherworldly commander.

"Capt'n." He was nearly swept off his feet by the rushing water; he clung to the mast as he might a lover, not anxious to be swept over board.

"Mr. Garrison," Turner bellowed into the wind; a footloose sheet was left flailing in the current of air, and the crew struggled to regain tension in the frayed ropes.

"We must drop canvas sir, or we risk being torn to shreds by the whipping winds. We'll be blown straight into the rocks..." His bootless cries went unheard, a sheathed telescope the only answer to his entreaty. Heedless of the crashing walls of sea which collided with the ship like an avalanche of water, Will sprinted toward the helm at all haste. If they deviated off the charts but a fraction, the ship would be another victim of the sea and if he survived, Will a hapless victim at the mercy of Teague's unflappable aim.

"Change of course, Mr. Garrison …," Will murmured with grim satisfaction, his eye sight fixed on their quarry. He'd wanted to search the supposedly haunted Cape in daylight, hoping to belay the superstitious fears of his comrades. Their last shred of hope, flimsy as the tattered fabric of the beleaguered ship's sails, was to venture into the heart of the Cape and into the hands of a greater fiend. He'd sooner take the wrath of a mortal, than the full fury of the heathen goddess, whose foul mood had turned the afternoon sky dark as the night, lit up with a zealous explosion of lightening that sparkled like a brilliant star in the water's unsettled reflection.

"Aye, Capt'n. What be your heading?"

Will jerked the wheel from the helmsman's hands, giving it a hard spin to the left. The rudder protested the abrupt shift and the Swallow jerked in retaliation, disinclined to take to her new bearing.

"Zounds, you're taking us into the rocks, sir? Calamity, we're done for sure!" Garrison lamented; the figurehead of the Swallow dipped into the swell, a smoother path that lead into a host of scattered rocks, aligned in such a way that the series of caves worn into the cliffs took the shape of a death mask, complete with a fiendish snake-like slithering tongue that adorned the slack-jawed opening of the rock face.

"Into the Cape—the cliffs will shield us from the storm. Our only chance, brace the sheets and prepare to furl."

Garrison hesitated, made apprehensive by the vehement gleam in William Turner's eyes. The storm had disturbed his tidy person, leaving the collar of his shirt open, the scar where his heart had been torn from his chest glowed red in the circling darkness, a reminder of the fragility of life and death. Yet, the man had who had been given the gift of immortality by the goddess Calypso had returned to the living land a mortal, and if he was unafraid to navigate the haunted straits, Garrison would take courage from his Captain's considerable foresight and strength.

"Brace the sheets and prepare to furl." The call, parroted by the other sailors clinging to rigging or whatever availed them a sure footed strong hold was echoed into the swirling mist as the schooner dipped down into the gorge of hell.

"Tighten those boom lines! Mind the jib!" Will's voice bounced between the cliffs, barely discernable with the screaming wind blowing at their backs. A rush of sea water pressed the schooner through the narrow opening, a crack of cleavage in a mass of black. The forked tongue of rocks drew the ship between the cavernous cliffs, an uneven line that stretched as far as the eye could see, disappearing into a thicker wall of fog. Beneath the rudder and keel, the sea boiled with rage, punishing the moss covered rock in fury, as the ship was tossed and narrowly avoided being torn asunder into a million fragmented pieces.

Hot air, like the warmth of putrid breath oppressed rather than liberated nearly knocking them off their feet with the fetid stench of death and gaseous sulfur. Portions of ships, long having met their fate in the Cape were scattered along the rocks, like grave markers, protruding from the water to serve as a reminder of bitter ends and dashed dreams.

"Hard to port! Hard to port!" Will shouted hoarsely; the sea was rough and the Cape walls so narrow that he'd taken to navigating from the stern of the ship, calling over his shoulder to his first mate and helmsman, both of whom had thrown their full strength on the wheel to prevent the Swallow fromrunning aground.

"Garrison, look …," the helmsman hissed into his ear, the ship fishtailed, as though the sea had frozen to slippery ice; there was no stopping the inevitable collision—the ship would be permanently wedged between two solid boulders. Their foreseeable doom was not foremost on the helmsman's mind, however. His eyes had been directed to the sickening glow of another ship's lanterns, burning in the fog like the yellow eyes of a jungle cat, unblinking and all seeing, waiting for its prey to come within reach of its vicious claws.

"The Ghost Raider! We'll be a sitting duck—lost to the devil for certain," Garrison whispered in near-silent horror, his breath stolen from his chest. They'd wandered into a trap, a deceitful web of deadly rock, where the ghostly phantom lurked to finish them off if the rocks failed to do the job neatly.

The under current of the water took on the character of a swollen river, flooded by rain water and stirred by wind. They were riding rapids; the rudder was pulled sideways with a remarkable crack that outstripped the roaring voice of the thunder. Will was thrown from his feet onto the deck, as the ship rattled to a screeching halt. Aching from the cold rain and the force of the fall, he staggered to his feet.

Blast! The ship, if it survived the strait, would be listing near the scabbards and there was not a pirate friendly port within easy reach. He wondered what had enraged Calypso to stir such a storm; whether he'd not by some accident done offense to the goddess, and as a result she had ceased to favor him with friendly seas. Calypso flung the answer to his unspoken question in the form of a large swell that lifted the Swallow until it had nearly capsized. If they did not free themselves from the rocks, they'd be tipped to their side, all the men left to fend for their lives in the open gushing water. Will pushed himself up to his feet; his mind at a loss. It was madness to push the ship any closer to the gaping mouth of the cave where the current was leading.

"Madness, or brilliance?" He spoke aloud; his eyes alight with a fresh plan. "Starboard, angle the ship towards the cave, Mr. Garrison." A cowardly breeze of silence lingered in insubordination to his direct orders; he turned to face his crew but found none present, save for the brave helmsman, who struggled to do as his Captain commanded.

"Where is Garrison?" Will ran to the wheel and with a surge of strength and wet muscle, loosed the rudder. Joyful to be free, the Swallow surrendered to the commands of the Captain, rushing with glee to the low hanging opening of the cave mouth.

"Overboard sir, poor blighter; lost to the sea." Will's hand released the wheel as though it had been burned, and he staggered against the force of the sea to the railing. Lightening flashed overhead; illuminating a path to a solitary figure, flailing in the wake of the ship.

"And you're just going to leave him?" His incredulity rose above the wind as he stripped off his coat and unbuckled his belt.

"Cast a line!" Will commanded sternly, furious that his men had gathered to watch their first mate drown, but had done nothing to help him from his plight. The crew sat fixed, their stares torn between the upcoming shrouds of ominous fog and the hazardous cave entrance.

"To stations, all hands to your stations." He'd not submit an honest sailor with a young wife and newborn child anxiously awaiting his safe return. Too long he'd been in the company of dead men, ferrying them to their place in the afterlife. He did not relish the reminder of his curse by bringing home the body of a good man in a wooden crate.

He took up a coil of rope in his hands, looping it at the elbow and prepared to launch it into the boiling sea. Garrison's screams for help pushed him into action, and he nearly cast the line when he was grabbed from behind by his men. Restrained, he fought like a desperate animal, unwilling to surrender.

"No, Capt'n Turner. It's too dangerous! Think of your family…" Will struggled against the hold of rough hands against his arms, jerking the length of rope free. He paused; Garrison's progress had stilled, he'd managed to cling to one of the great rocks to avoid being swept under by the tide. Turning, Will handed one end of the rope to the most burley sailor of his crew, his only assurance that there would not be two crude wooden boxes filled during the course of their venture.

"Whatever you do-" He tied the free edge of rope with a figure eight knot squarely across his chest. "Don't let go!" His men shook their heads, and barred his passage.

"Any man who falls behind gets left behind. Those be the rules…," one sailor interrupted, stepping into Will's path as they both became drenched with the sea. Shaking his loosened hair back to be free of the salt water that dripped into his eyes, he glared at any man who dared to defy him.

"Not on my ship!" He vowed fiercely as he leapt up to the wooden siding and before any man could prevent him from his folly, he dove into the heaving ocean, leaving his crew at the mercy of the rocks and an ever observant glimmering phantom light behind the fog.

He was fighting a ceaseless, unchanging current that pulled and tugged at his body, leading his fatigued, aching arms away from the petrified man. Salt stung his eyes and his lungs burned with fury, deprived of air as he took fewer breaths to urge his body on with greater speed. Two strokes forward, his powerful limbs pulled him closer to the rocks, where the water was steadily rising.

In the frantic cries of his men, who begged him to return with each breath he took, he thought he heard a feminine voice command:

"Prepare to broadside!" Startled, he whipped his head around, transported into battle. The deck of the Swallow morphed from mahogany to pitch black and the sails dripped onyx. He saw Elizabeth, soaked to the skin, her body burdened by the weight of her soggy uniform. Her face had lost its virtuous softness as her eyes skimmed the horizon as though to read the intentions of their enemy.

"Make ready the guns and prepare to fire!" The choice to muster the cannons had been his, the decision to prepare for battle to defend a cause that was not inherently their own, Elizabeth's. Their voices echoed from the past; how young and unaffected by the world they had been, blissfully unaware of the life that would await them on the other side of the maelstrom! A swirling vortex of change, unassailable, inexorable, their fate had been sealed within one revolution.

The waters of the past were resurfacing; he was caught in the same revolutions, a current that recalled his crewman's parting words: 'Think of your family.' He dove into the treacherous seas without second thought, but Elizabeth's visage had recalled his mind to the duties and responsibilities he'd left behind. Her parting words too had been of the same element; home, family. Will's first thought had been for Garrison's prized possessions but not for his. Torn, he looked between the Swallow and his drowning shipmate.

Elizabeth's stinging words at their parting had been cutting, but as he considered them, they had an edge of truth that was unmistakable. It was true that he made his decisions alone; there was what a man could do and what he couldn't. Courage was in his nature; he rushed in where lesser men stumbled—would Elizabeth love him any less if it were not an engrained portion of his soul? He sincerely doubted it, as she never struggled to sleep at night mulling her choices to send brave crewmen to their deaths in battle. He was not so fortunate to sleep with that same lightness of conscience; he couldn't drown the screams of the men trapped on the Dutchman during his interminable servitude. There was no choice when a man's life hung in the balance; if he could spare men of their journey to the afterlife, he'd risk all he had. He and Elizabeth were Pirate Captains, lords in their own right. They were leaders among men who searched for strength, but it had always been thus. It was so during the Maelstrom; it had been so in their daily lives in Shipwreck City. Their choices had always been made as unique individuals, always been made alone. His arms reached out to part the raging waters, as though the decisiveness of his touch and peacefulness of his soul might calm their fury.

"Garrison, you have to let go. I can't swim any further, I'll catch you." Will felt the rope around his chest pull taunt—he needed more slack! He tugged on it with a firm pull to indicate to the crew that they ought to give him as much rope as he needed.

"Captain!" Garrison yelped, releasing the rock to point to somewhere beyond Will's shoulder. From the corner of his eye, Will caught a flash of movement, like the break of a wave on the bough of a ship. Blinkingly, for his eyes were covered with a thick film of salt water, he squinted into the distance. A ship! The lanterns twinkled unmistakably, through the halo of fog that enshrouded its movements. A rough wave crashed over it, temporarily clearing the fog and though it may have been a trick of the light, he thought he saw a mast, with sails as black as the storm clouds that lingered above.

Shaking his head, Will wrenched his eyes closed and opened them again. The ship was gone, the mist had cleared and all that lingered were Garrison's terrified shouts. Disoriented by his hallucination, he struggled to make out all of the words, but one was unmistakable.

"Raider!" The wet twine around his chest cut abruptly into his skin, and the weight of the ship pulled him back with a rush. Water gushed over his head and the speed of the rope pulled him underwater. Kicking, paddling and twisting, he did what he could to free himself of its dangerous pull. His lungs were seizing, his heart pounding into his throat for genuine fear. The rope which had been a life line had become a liability, a pathway to certain, and most gruesome death. Two divergent currents met, pouring with such force that along with the pull of the rope, his body became stationary. His thrashing, resistance to his fate weakened and he felt his limbs retreat with defeat. He'd soon meet his fate in Davy Jones locker, a hapless soul trapped to sail on the Dutchman forever. His mind snapped to rapt attention and with a fierce struggle, he loosened the rope around his chest enough to reach into his boot. His father's knife, a symbol of a promise made long ago was reborn anew a symbol of his freedom.

He sawed and cut, hacked away at his bond until at last, the silver blade had done its duty and he was free. The rope slid away in the current and Will powered himself upward. With a sputtering cough, he surfaced, drawing air into his fragile lungs and taking in his environment in the same long breath.

"Garrison!" He hollered into the face of the storm, defying it to answer. He was infuriated with himself for not having anticipated the dangers of the rope, more so with his spineless crew who'd defied his orders and sailed away to honor the code.

"Here!" Will scoured the cliff walls to ascertain the location of the weak cry, and he saw that the force of the water had driven Garrison to cling to the cave opening, downstream. He treaded water, his eyes analyzing the strength of the swells, the position of the ship and his first mate's location. He had a plan!

His arms ceased to tread, his legs no longer kicked, rolling over to his back, he capitulated himself to the current of the sea, resisting only when the path led him toward sharp rock. Downstream he traveled, his speed increasing as the howl of the wind over head was magnified by the echo of rock. Yes, he was nearly there; he turned his eyes to the Swallow, scrutinizing the formation of the waves. He shot out his arm and with a tight grip, wrapped it around Garrison's shoulders, ripping him away from the alcove. They traveled together downstream, with a force so furious with the lightness of their combined berth that they outstripped the speed of the struggling Swallow.

"Cast a line!" He ordered again, his fury heard over Calypo's antagonism. A rope sailed his grateful hands, he gripped it hard. Garrison had collapsed; blood poured from a seeping, angry head wound, a battle scar from the terrors of nature.

"Heave! Heave!" He groaned as little by little, they rose from the depths, flew into the air, and landed in a soggy puddle on the deck.

"Rations of rum for Mr. Garrison, see to it his wound is cleaned," Will gasped, rolling to his back to rest in his exhaustion. He was wracked with an inexplicable chill, but it was not from the dampness of his attire. There was no responsive movement to his commands, not an answer or a word to greet him, no cheers of joy at the rescue of their comrade. There was only marked silence, broken only by the crashing tide; he knew from the shivers of his spine that he was being observed by a bizarre, haunting pair of eyes, he heard the man's foul breathing as he stomped across the deck with the stride of a giant. They'd survived all the perils of the storm save for one---the monstrous Ghost Raider!