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Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean
Wind whipped across the mouth of Port Royal, bringing smiles to sailors' faces and fraying the tips of the waves as it soared into the morning sun. It was to be a fine day.
On its way the wind slipped past a small vessel, not much more than a rowboat with a single sail. There the breath of Aura faltered, as if doing a double take, before rushing on with a soft sigh.
The vessel with the power to make the breath of a goddess pause was the Jolly Mon, a weary fishing dory that looked somewhat out of place in the entrance of well to do Port Royal. It was clear: if boats could talk, this one's story would never end at a polite hour. Still, its lone passenger most likely could story-tell far longer considering he rode on the dory's single yardarm, perched high above his vessel. About his angular face and behind, his beaded ebony hair flipped wildly under a worn tri-cornered hat that was pulled tightly to his head. Grasping the slender mast with one tan hand, he squinted ahead like he was Apollo himself riding his sun chariot into the new sky.
He averted his gloriously burning gaze.
And saw that Apollo's chariot was less than first-rate. His upper lip curled; his brow furrowed. It was clear: 'Devastation' would have not done his sentiment justice. 'Annoyance' was far more suitable.
He grasped a rope hanging from the tip of the mast and, stepping blithely into midair, slid down into his boat.
Marvelously sans rope burn, swashbuckling luminescence intact, he landed, his tall boots hitting with a plash. Everything below his ankles disappeared in brown sludge. His loose breeches billowed below the wide sash at his waist as he stumbled across his vessel and bent to snatch up a bucket that floated amongst rotted fish heads and shards of netting.
He managed to bail one stinking bucketful before a hollow clacking reached his ears.
Some yards off, a cluster of rough sea arches rose towering and foam-washed from the celestially sapphire waves. From the arches' undersides hung three corpses whose mottled skulls were cocked at shuddering angles, the cavities of their faces brown and crusted. Rags that had been clothing streamed from bone limbs; long tufts of salt-stiffened hair swung across gaping eye sockets. And the monsters grinned.
Beside an empty noose hung a crude wood sign that had scrawled crudely upon it: 'Pirates Ye Be Warned.'
As he passed, the man removed his hat, placed it over his heart and solemnly saluted the sign with grimy fingers, his black eyes levelly mocking.
I'm tellin'you, mate, people these days…they've b'come so inhospitable. It's a lamentably lamentable sign of the times…
Into the waking harbor he went.
Port Royal never slept, but when day found her, she became nothing short of astonishing. Her dull roar reached far across the rippling bay and her scent mixed intriguingly with the briny air of the Caribbean. Her collarbone was smothered with docks, cranes, trees; her shoulders writhed with persons, wagons, and animals. Rounded merchant ships hovered breathlessly at her elbows; dinghies swarmed up and down her undulating arms; fishermen tossed their nets into her rich hair. Her eyes welcomed every horizon; every nationality circled her long fingers...honesty shone from her forehead even as slyly evil pondering lurked behind her ears.
And profit poured from her mouth, into the Union Jack that hung about her neck.
Aye, Lady Royal was British perfection.
And she had a bodyguard,as befitted any female of worth. The warship lurking on the right side of the bay did not escape the newcomer's notice. Graceful yet bulky, her Union Jack stirring in the morning air, she gleamed in the bluff's shadow, her presence filling the bay as only a behemoth's can. From the opposite side of the harbor, the gold words curving over her glittering stern were readable: DAUNTLESS.
Port Royal became more and more intimate as her guest ventured closer. Uproar became furious haggling; almost-sinking dinghies became miniature shops hovering around massive square-riggers. Arms reached down for bales of wool and the squalling sheep to which the white fluff had formerly belonged. Meaningless jostling in the dinghies became a display of talent: it does, after all, take skill to lift a struggling animal up while standing in a dinghy that is trying with all its might to get you to topple over. Add to that other workers nudging past you and discarded oars and crates trying to trip you and the air full of shouting voices and gesturing arms, and it presents a challenging situation indeed.
Old Malerd, a white-haired stevedor was an example to the rest. Calm as if standing on solid ground, he paused to catch his breath, his tanned, arthritic hands brushing his thighs. His watery eyes took in the glassy, ripping water below him.
A half-submerged bucket bobbed merrily past, for an instant framing a reflection of his surprised face. He wondered if this were a good omen or a bad.
He was not prepared for the sight that awaited his lifted eyes.
Like an embarrassed woman with a ripped skirt, the Jolly Mon was rushing toward the haven of the docks. All that was visible of the dory was its slender mast, which was rapidly disappearing. The creature perched up on the crow's nest did not seem concerned, however, about the water that gurgled up toward his boots with dire purpose.
A vacuum whirled in and out of existence as a hundred mouths sucked in shocked gasps. And then, utter silence.
Puzzling characters were a given in any port and Port Royal was no exception, but there were puzzling characters and then there were Puzzling Characters, and this one fell quite heavily into the latter category. Loftily aloof, his mien betrayed not an iota of embarrassment; in fact, his observers themselves began to feel embarrassed, for no reason other than they could not picture themselves filling this creature's grandiose boots.
The not so jolly Jolly Mon slid right up to an empty dock, the passenger extended a straight leg, lurched neatly off his ride, and sauntered down the sunbathed planks, all clinking beads and swaying coat. He didn't even show signs of getting his land legs back.
The Jolly Mon thudded to a halt on the dock's underwater supports, and continued to shrink down in humiliation.
Old Malerd grimly hefted a crate of oranges. Ain't a good omen at all.
The Jolly Mon's erstwhile passenger was headed into the maze of docks. On his way he swaggered straight past Hubert Darrel the Harbormaster, a spectacled old man who did a double take. Upon noting the mournful mast at the end of his dock, he frantically whirled after the smelly sight that had only just assaulted his senses. "Wh–hold up there, you!"
The queer man lurched to a stop and swiveled drunkenly.
"It's a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock," Mr. Darrel said testily, glaring as the strange one minced up.
The creature blinked doubtfully at his boat. The Harbormaster followed his gaze.
A tiny, decorative crow's nest and a soggy, stocking-like flag returned their stares, wounded and indignant.
This Harbormaster of many years did not still possess his position because he constantly made exceptions. "And I shall need to know your name," he added firmly.
Digging into some pocket, the strange man produced three coins and slapped them onto the open logbook Mr. Darrel held.
Brown-black eyes like the Harbormaster had never seen gazed into his own. Underlined with kohl like a nomad's, they stared out of a tanned, exotically triangular face, made so by high cheekbones and a straight, fine nose with a black mustache beneath. Wide red fabric and hat covered the forehead, and beads mixed with dreadlocks and braids and loose hair to frame the face's sides. More disconcerting, narrow scruff followed the man's jaw to gather just beneath his narrow chin in twin beaded braids.
When the man spoke, his voice was lax, velvety. "Whadya say to three shillings, an' we forget the name?"
The Harbormaster gazed from behind his spectacles at those sunlit eyes. They looked half-mad, he reflected, like a heat-dazed rabbit's. He thumped his ledger closed with the shillings inside, puckering his thin mouth into what might have been a smile. "Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith."
The newly christened Mr. Smith pressed his open hands impertinently together as if in a prayer of thanks. Mr. Darrel sniffed and quickly retreated down the dock to inspect the remnant of Mr. Smith's boat.
Mr. Smith lurched in the other direction. He paused, eyes upon a sturdy writing desk that was built onto the rail. A thick braid of his hair swished at the back of his head as he reached out and delicately picked up the small purse that rested on the deck's surface. He shook it.
Coins jingled. Smirking, Mr. Smith tightened his grip on it and strolled off.
Mr. Smith was always fair to himself. When he had done something worth rewarding, he rewarded himself. He could not resist spending the money he had so cleverly lifted off the sour old Harbormaster, and that was why he ended up in a quiet tavern called The Cackling Barmaid. The sign with a leering hag–warts on her nose and all–holding frothy mugs did really intrigue him, and he knew shortly after entering that the drink was not so bad at all.
Besides, he was in Port Royal, of all places. There could only be more taverns in Tortuga, and he'd been to Tortuga recently, relatively speaking, whereas he had not had the opportunity to sample the delights of Port Royal for a long time, relatively speaking.
He sipped at his flagon, snug in a shadow, far from the morning sun. As it was morning, the tavern was empty, save for himself and three old hardy drinkers who sat at one table in the dusty light. They were the type that have long since reached the end of enthusiastic life and begun an existence of motionless reality, where graves loom closer and closer over bald heads. They chatted worn thoughts in worn voices, and Mr. Smith listened with growing curiosity.
"He can't be that big–how else could he have slipped through th' cannon port like an eel?" This man had a jaw that was as heavy as his muscled body, and spotted skin that was clearly growing tired of clinging to his muscles. He resembled, Mr. Smith reflected, a prune.
"He was big!" insisted a second man, slamming his flagon on the table. His brow was heavy and shiny, low over a chubby face, which crowned a flabbier body. "He's huge," Chubby continued, "gotta be huge, or how could he 'ave heaved up the heavy cannons Admiral Coonts put over the hatch to keep 'im in the Peerless' hold?" His voice went higher and higher as he spoke, because Prune was shaking his head and smiling condescendingly. Chubby ended up slamming his flagon again, glaring.
"I 'eard he tied bits o' sharp metals in his hair–that be why 'e clinks so–and 'e whips people with 'is hair!" This weepy-eyed gentleman was the eldest. His voice was like the creaking of a mast, and he did not seem to be quite there, Mr. Smith decided.
"Oh, yes, of course he does," Prune agreed dryly, all wrinkles. "And then, when he's whippin' people, he's whippin' himself–an' how would he sleep? Honestly, Cap, y'can't believe everythin' you hear, 'specially not about ole Jack Sparra."
Cap was either half-deaf or miffed because he closed his watery eyes and started humming a nonsense tune to himself. Prune and Chubby ignored him.
"Never forget the first time I heard a' Sparra's Peerless adventure," Prune said with a toothless smile, stroking his massive, stubbly jaw. "The ingenuity of the fella, impersonating a naval officer, after committing a fair bit a'arson to get the money for a uniform and bribes. An' old Admiral Coonts took 'im on the Peerless, and then couldn't understand how all his fortune disappeared!"
"Yes, until th'addled pirate walked up'n'explained he'd stole it all," Chubby said. "And still he managed to get away, after the Admiral locked him in the brig and set cannons over the hatch into the hold to keep him down. Sparrow managed th'escape 'cause of his huge self," he added pointedly, but when Prune ignored the jab, Chubby went on: "The British want 'im so bad now, he can't do much more without gettin' caught'n hung. And there's such a price on his head!" Chubby cackled. "If we found Sparrow an' turned him in, we'd be able to buy this place with the reward money."
"What a life," Prune mused. "So free an–"
"I heard 'e files 'is fingernails to nasty points, an' gouges people with 'em!" said Cap.
Mr. Smith looked at his ring-graced hands.
Prune and Chubby snickered. "An' what else did ya hear?" Prune asked Cap.
"He ain't real, gents," Cap said heavily, staring into nowhere. "He be a spirit, a figment of boyish imaginations–"
At Prune's and Chubby's protests, Cap straightened and his eyes focused. "Have ye seen 'im?" Cap demanded, voice stronger as he glared at his companions. "'ave ye's?"
"No," reluctantly said Prune.
"No," Chubby mumbled.
Mr. Smith smiled.
"An' the Navy ain't, either," Cap snapped. "They're just always makin' up stories like Jack-O's so they can seem to still 'ave a mission about these parts. Th'Navy used t'be somethin' truly great but now its only a bunch a' heavy-footed ol' ego-puffers."
"Hear, hear!" Mr. Smith cried. His exclamation made the sunlit trio jump. They squinted at him as he sauntered up to them, flagon in hand: a spirit from the shadows. "And as for the reality of Jack Sparrow," Mr. Smith planted his free hand on their table and leaned into their circle, "I think he's real enough, but so truly, realistically unreal, he could be standing here with us right now. Really," he added, smiling a gold-toothed smile.
Cap's eyes became unfocused and he began to hum again. His friends frowned and scrutinized the character that slouched lopsidedly before them. "That may be so," Prune said. "Who're you?"
"A fellow rum-lover and optimist," Mr. Smith said.
"Wot?" Chubby shifted, and both men exchanged glances.
"Lovely t'have made your acquaintance, sirs," said Mr. Smith. "Continue to have fun blowing air 'round this place." Cheerily, he emptied his flagon and set it on their table. They scowled at his back as he left.
Mr. Smith was not ready to surrender lovely water for filthy cobblestones yet, so he ambled his way down Port Royal's extensive waterfront, keeping an eye out for the vessel that might was meant to fulfill his secret purpose.
He could smell the fish market before he saw it. A few steps more, and then he paused beside a clump of palms to take in the sight of a hundred fishing vessels crunched between makeshift docks and dragged onto gray sand. And then he looked over the market itself, a huge expanse of overflowing nets, barrels, crates, and tables already swarming with housewives and servants. Men gleaming with sweat toiled constantly to ferry fish from the waterfront to the market, where other men hacked the fish to neat pieces, arms coated with slime and scales. The sound of haggling was almost deafening. Mr. Smith grinned appreciatively.
Thunk.
Beside his left ear.
It only took one glance to identify the thunking object. It was sharp. It was shiny. It was a knife, embedded into the palm tree's hairy side. Mr. Smith whirled behind the tree as–thunk–another blade slammed into where his midsection had just been.
Bad form, mate…there be no need to bring innocent bystanders into this. The palm trees never hurt you, did they?
Mr. Smith huddled, making himself as thin as possible, breathing shallowly.
Nothing happened.
Finally, he peeped out.
He met the almond-shaped eyes of a man who stood twenty feet away, fingering a third knife. Mr. Smith retreated quickly, eyes wide. "Who're you?" he shouted at the palm tree in front of his nose.
Nothing happened. He dared another glance.
The man beckoned. With his knife.
Mr. Smith began to hold up a finger, then changed his mind and quickly pulled it back to safety. "I was just wonderin' if y'could tell me why you're throwing things at me with th'intent of–I'm goin' out on a limb here–skewering me."
The Oriental man smiled, revealing black teeth. His short, wiry body seemed to ripple as he took a step forward. "Feng say to you: 'May you die like the pathetic, nerveless dog you are.'" He drew back his arm to throw.
Mr. Smith frowned at him. "Well, to die as a nerveless dog means I can't come out an' bravely become an easy target. You don't mind, d'you?" He jerked back as the blade sang past his temple, and then threw himself to the ground. His momentum carried him under an abandoned cart and he surged to his feet on the other side, sprinting full tilt into the market. He heard the Oriental's yowl behind him.
Elbows first, he shoved his way through laborers. A barrel toppled off someone's shoulder; a crate was dropped on a man's foot. Squid flopped and plopped; fish slid rasping, staring. Smith looked back. The Oriental was leaping onto a table and now off it, sending conch shells flying. His teeth were barred; his knife flashed.
That was when Mr. Smith ran forehead first into a huge tray carried on the shoulders of two men. He slammed onto his backside and looked up just in time to get a first rate view of a codfish cascade, right before it hit him on the head. He twisted to the side. The cold, rough bodies of codfish enveloped him, the tray hit his leg, and then he was underneath a table, ears ringing with outraged shouts. He rolled to his hands and knees, panting, dirt and scales caught in his hair. He clutched a fish in each hand, watching the scrambling feet all around him.
A very hairy head popped into view. The face twisted into a scowl. " 'ere he is!"
The man got a cod in the eye before he knew what was happening. In the two seconds it took him to cover his face and become truly outraged, Mr. Smith was gone.
Feng's man slowed his full-out charge, then came to a halt and looked around, breathing hard. A worker was huddled near a table, holding his eye. Others were angrily gathering up codfish onto a tray.
Calm had returned; his prey's trail of disaster had run cold. He gritted his teeth, furious. Then his attitude became wary, almost afraid as he realized his disadvantage.
Behind him, a mincing worker with a sash about his waist and clinking beads in his hair carried a large pail on one shoulder. Suddenly the worker turned twisted and shoved his bucket onto the Oriental's head. Slimy fish innards slid down the Oriental's neck as he reeled, his knife falling to the ground. On his knees he struggled to pull the pail off, heart pounding.
Someone wrapped an arm around the pail and yanked his head back. He had time to remember his lost knife, time for his blood to run cold, before a thread of ice slid into his neck.
Sayonara, mate.