Happy New Year!
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean
"Yo, ho; yo, ho, a pirate's life for me…"
Despite popular belief, sturdy Joshamee Gibbs was not superstitious. He was simply more alert than the average sea-worn chap and this was why he stiffened when he heard the girl's voice, his wide face turning grim. He brushed his sideburns and squinted out at the mist.
The first explanation he rapidly invented for the chilling song was a innocent girl fleeing cruel relatives across the Caribbean had been killed when pirates attacked the vessel she rode. Now her spirit was slipping past the Dauntless.
"We kill and we ravage and don't give a hoot, drink up me hearties, yo, ho…"
Gibbs shivered at the cruel words and leaned heavily on the starboard rail. He swigged a mouthful of bitter rum from a small canteen, his most precious possession. When filled, of course. Aye, the fog sucking at the ship and water was the perfect place for those invisible to the naked eye to suffer. And not just little girls. There was room for a ship full of cursed men…Gibb's pushed his worn hat tighter on his balding head.
"Yo, ho; yo, ho, a pirate's life for me…"
Pirates. He could feel them lurking, threats prickling at his neck. He moved for'ard, heart speeding heavily. The voice was growing louder. He squinted ahead-
And saw a very live human girl standing just right of the bowsprit. He moved closer and the singing grew louder. Anger and embarrassment surged through him and he glanced around tensely, knowing he was not allowed to touch her.
"...extort, we pilfer, we filch, we sack, drink u-" she gasped when he seized her shoulder and whirled her around. "Quiet, missy," he hissed. She blinked her brown eyes when his breath reached her delicate nose. "Cursed pirates sail these waters; y'don't want to bring 'em down on us now, do ya?"
Her eyes widened and her curls quivered, but she she didn't say a word.
"Mister Gibbs. That will do."
No one Gibbs knew could make a simple 'Mister' feel as deadly as the Lieutenant could, like an icy dagger being dragged up one's spine. Gibbs slowly turned. Brown-haired and proudly uniformed, the young British officer stood some yards off, looking coolly down his nose, hands folded behind his back.
"She was singin' about pirates!" Gibbs pointed at the finely dressed girl. "Bad luck t'be singin' about pirates when we're mired in this unnatural fog, mark my words."
"Consider them marked." The younger man turned his green eyes to the side. "On your way."
"Aye, Lieutenant." Gibbs trudged past the officer, who refused to look at him. "Tis bad luck to have a woman on board, too," he muttered, ignoring the scathing look the girl's lavishly-dressed father gave him, "even a mini'ture one." He leaned again on the starboard rail and took a comforting pull at his rum.
The girl fixed the Lieutenant with an even gaze, hands clasped in the folds of her creamy skirt. "I think it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate."
Gibbs scowled but the Lieutenant smiled with an adult's stiff condescension. "Think again, Miss Swann." His slightly nasal yet deep voice was like the finest cherry wood, polished by his perfect accent. "Vile and dissolute creatures the lot of them." He stepped to her side and gazed outward. "I intend to see to it," his voice hardened, "that any man who sails under a pirate flag or wears a pirate brand gets what he deserves: A short drop and a sudden stop."
He smiled sourly at her. Frowning, she looked at Mr. Gibbs, who, shamefully partial to frightening her again, grasped his necktie and gave her a grisly rendition of a hanged man's expression. Her eyes went wide and she turned her back on him.
"Lieutenant Norrington…" her father stepped between the grim pirate's bane and the naïve maid, "I appreciate your fervor, but I'm concerned about the effect this subject will have upon my daughter." He looked at Miss Swann with a tight brow framed by the chestnut curls of his wig.
Lieutenant Norrington glanced at Miss Elizabeth, taken aback. "Apologies, Governor Swann." He turned on his heel and stalked past Gibbs, who hid his smirk with a respectful nod.
"Actually," the girl said pertly, "I find it all fascinating."
"Yes," the Governor's eyes nervously took in the fog from under the rim of his feather-trimmed hat, "that's what concerns me. Elizabeth," he paused wearily, "we will soon be landing in Port Royal, and beginning our new lives. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we comport ourselves as befits our class and station?"
Father and daughter stared each other down. Gibbs watched them.
Mr. Swann had not carried the title of governor for two months yet. He was tall and pale, his narrow face made solemn with worry and grief wrinkles. He had an aristocrat's voice which, while it could carry authority, was almost feminine and laced with a perpetual sort of breathlessness. His girl needed someone with more backbone on display.
Governor Swann finally turned and walked away. Gibbs shook his head and silently wished Miss Swann some common sense.
Twelve-year old Elizabeth Swann watched her father walk off, his heels dully smacking the deck. She turned sharply and looked out to sea.
How she despised being the youngest passenger on a warship full of people who were either grown up or trying to be. She despised the latest hair style, which involved poking pins. She despised the fact that her favorite sea tales were all locked up in a chest somewhere in the Dauntless's dank hold.
She loved the fog, though, and she loved the glassy, rippling water. It seemed to hold its breath, afraid to jostle the cotton layers of cloud lying upon it.
It made her angry when her father spread his wings over her like a nervous goose. She liked pirates, yes, but that was only because she liked adventure best. The characters in pirate tales had more dash than knights and flimsy damsels. There was nothing more to it than that.
She sniffed. Fog isn't made of smoke...but she was sure she had just–
Her face lit up and she peered at the water ahead.
A small bit of white floated nonchalantly out of the mist, and soon disappeared near the hull. Barely breathing, wondering if she had just dreamed it, she stepped to the rail and leaned over.
It was a white parasol, open, upside-down. Sliding silently over the lazily rippling water like a lady over a ballroom floor, it looked as if it should have been carrying something in its pleading, webbed arms. Gooseflesh prickling her neck, Elizabeth searched the fog for something she didn't know. But there it was: a half-submerged shard of planking bobbing uneasily through the haze. Heart speeding, she fought to make out the limp pile that lay on the planks. She stiffened.
"Look!" she cried to the rest of the ship, pointing. "A boy, there's a boy in the water!"
Faces turned toward her, then everyone clambered to the starboard rail. The Lieutenant pulled himself up onto the railing, grasping a rope. Elizabeth clutched her hands together, wishing he would hurry up.
"Man overboard!" he finally shouted, and chaos ensued as sailors scrambled all directions. "Man the ropes, fetch a hook," he snapped, thudding down the deck. "Haul him aboard!"
Minutes later, Elizabeth approached the crowd gathered around a break in the rail, trying glimpse the limp bundle being lifted by a burly crewman. Many hands gentled the boy's descent to the smooth deck, and then Elizabeth could see only blue or white backs. Afraid to go near the jostling group of tall males, she hung back, biting her lower lip.
Then the Lieutenant announced the boy was still breathing. Everyone relaxed, and Elizabeth's poor lip was given a respite. "Where did he come from?" demanded Governor Swann.
"Mary, mother of God!"
Mr. Gibbs stood at the rail, his gaze fixed with horror. Softly spoken oaths rose up as everyone stumbled to join him. Elizabeth turned, and her blood turned to ice.
The fiery remains of a ship jutted from the water a hundred feet away and burning shards of it sullied the water as far as the eye could see. Powerful waves of heat came across the water, carrying streams of ash that gathered on skin and clothing.
"What happened here?" Governor Swann gasped.
"Explosion midships," Norrington replied. "It was most likely the powder magazine; merchant vessels run heavily armed."
A crack broke the following silence and the mainmast fell, trailing flames. Only feet away from the stunned observers, a torn Union Jack floated just beneath the water's surface, soon to sink.
"A lotta good it did them," Gibbs rasped. At his side, Norrington gave him a sharp glance. "Everyone's thinkin it," the weathered sailor protested, "I'm just sayin it." He looked out, and the flames were reflected in his eyes. "Pirates."
Governor Swann huffed at him. "There's no proof of that." He looked over the destruction, adding softly, "It was probably an accident."
He shook himself. "Lieutenant, these men were British and therefore under my protection. If there is any chance one of those poor devils is still alive, we cannot abandon them!"
"Of course not." Norrington moved away, a focused whirlwind. "Rouse the captain immediately. Heave to and take in sail, launch the boats." He pinned two seamen in a sharp gaze. "Move the boy aft; we need the deck clear."
Elizabeth found that it was better if she stood still instead of trying to get out of everyone's way. So swallowing repeatedly in an attempt to moisten her dry throat, she let everyone scramble around her and tried to get a good look at the poor boy as two sailors lifted him up. Then, there was a familiar rustle of clothing and then her father was there, down on one knee. The fear in his eyes made her heart stumble. "Elizabeth," he said, "I want you to accompany the boy. He'll be in your charge. Take care of him?"
Elizabeth made herself nod, and marched off, shaken but determined. Alone, she made her way to the quarterdeck, carefully lifting her skirts when she climbed the steep steps. At the top, she looked down.
It was like being on a small hill. Above, rigging swayed and sails rasped. Below, she could see sailors running around, her father standing at the rail, the captain in all his glory marching about and giving orders. Looking toward the tortured crackling of the burning ship, she felt as if she was looking on a dark green sky dotted with black and orange stars. Like timid explorers, longboats were working their way into the mess. She suddenly felt queasy.
"Excuse us, miss."
She moved to let two sailors hustle down the steps. They had the right plan: keep to business. She hurried over to the lump of wet clothing, and was finally able to see the person inside it.
The boy lay half-covered with a rough blanket, arms akimbo. One foot was exposed; there was a hole in his shoe. His face was turned slightly away from her, but she could see his features were well formed. Part of her warmed. Here was a boy her age who would not try to act like the midshipman he wanted to be, scorning her for being a girl in a dress.
His eyelashes were so dark…no, his skin was so waxy. His freckles, which would have been charming, looked like cinnamon tossed onto vanilla pudding. His lips were slightly blue. Nervousness rose in her when she watched his chest for a moment and did not see it rise and fall. What if he died? The thought's entrance into her young mind changed her anxiety into fear. She reached desperately, but the barely emerging young woman in her soul kept her hand from touching him. He was a boy. Where was it safe to touch a boy?
There, this had to be safe, like touching a baby - she carefully smoothed a dark hair from his forehead, supposing she could learn from the temperature of his skin whether he was dying or not. Her heart sank. His forehead was cold–
He gave an explosive gasp, but that did not scare her as much as the way his eyes flew wide, just like windows slamming open as thunder snaps. In an instant, his icy hand clutched her wrist and she was gaping into his terrified face, heart stumbling, ears ringing.
As her smothering box of adrenaline fell away, though, she could feel his fingers trembling. Then he coughed and she felt exactly as she had when she'd found a bedraggled kitten on the doorstep of her old house in London. "It's all right," she gulped, trying to sound reassuring. "My name is Elizabeth Swann."
"W-Will–Turner," he managed. Both words sounded like they hurt.
She smiled. "I'm watching over you, Will."
He fought his drooping eyelids valiantly, but then his eyes rolled back and his head thumped back down. His hand fell to his side. Elizabeth took deep breaths and rubbed her sore wrist, wishing she could have comforted him more. She looked at his chest, and sighed. He was still breathing.
She frowned and her eyes traced a gleaming chain she'd never noticed before. It circled his neck and disappeared under his ragged shirt, where there rested something like a thick coin. Curiosity swelled, but she kept her hands at her sides, afraid he'd grab her again, afraid of touching him anywhere but his face. Then she realized that whatever was under his shirt might have helpful information on it.
She carefully pulled the object free of the soaked fabric. The chain came undone easily and slid off the boy as she lifted the metal piece before her face.
It was a medallion that glowed warmly despite its the coldness against her palm. Deeply imprinted skulls surrounded by alien symbols grinned on both sides. She'd only ever seen skulls in one place: her books, and as realization crashed upon her, she stifled a gasp and gaped at the senseless boy. "You're a–pirate!"
"Has he said anything?"
Elizabeth whirled around and found herself scrutinized from a distance by Lieutenant Norrington and her father. She clutched the medallion behind her, in the folds of her skirt. "His name is William Turner. That's all I've found out."
"Mmm." The Lieutenant frowned. "Take him below."
Minutes later, Elizabeth stood alone at the quarterdeck rail, dwarfed by one of the many-paned rear lamps, a massive British flag billowing above her head. After glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the fog-shrouded deck, she slowly lifted the medallion.
Cursed pirates sail these waters.
She thought of William Turner's shocked eyes. How glazed they had been. Was he a victim or a criminal?
He couldn't be anything but a victim. Not with his face, his thin arms…
A shadow in the fog snatched her gaze. Just past the medallion, the shadow took shape as a breath of fell wind brushed fog aside. Rooted, Elizabeth frowned in confusion and fear. A great, ragged black galleon was sailing away as a monster retreats to its lair after committing some chill deed. Elizabeth's gaze followed the tattered ink sails, up; up...
Whipping back and forth from the mizzen-top in a wind that did not exist there was a black flag marred by a flickering white skull, a replica of the medallion's ghoul. Except this skull seemed to find her with some impossible gaze, and then, it grinned, revealed and unafraid and utterly wrong. She clutched the medallion and squeezed her eyes shut against the mocking pit-eyes and crooked teeth–
Tell me what you think!