Sorry about the long gap between this chapter and the last. I suffered a minor case of writers' block and didn't want to upload something of minimal quality. The more I flesh this story out, the more I'm finding that using elements of the third POTC film can work. I guess it just proves once again that The Doctor's presence anywhere messes up what is actually supposed to happen ;).
Chapter nine:
Moments after her conversation with Admiral Norrington, Martha had gone below for a much needed rest. She had been charged with the morning watch, meaning that she would have to drag herself off her hammock earlier than she had become accustomed. Sleep didn't come easily, and she found that staring up at the damp wood above her used up less energy than actually trying to leave the waking world. It wasn't as though her lack of sleep mattered much; this was a time where it was difficult to measure the hours at sea. In fact, Martha didn't know whether or not hours even existed. She concluded that in the modern world, she only felt tired because she knew how much sleep she had missed. If that was the case, why was she still yawning?
Her eyelids were heavy and had begun to close of their own accord. The sound of water lapping against the ship and the snores of her fellow crew grew weaker. As Martha's hand slowly slipped from her chest, everything faded to black.
Suddenly Martha was standing up, a cool breeze caressing her neck and blowing her loose hair behind her shoulders. She was confused; the sand against her now bare feet appeared to be extremely real. She flinched as a chilly sensation licked at her feet. Martha looked down as the water retreated. She looked to her left and realised that she was standing on a beach and that the vast expanse of water next to her was the sea. In the distance, she spotted a ship that looked suspiciously like the Dutchman; except for it was more human, without a trace of marine life upon it.
She walked away from the shoreline and followed to beach around to her right. This island appeared to be deserted. There was nothing but trees stretching on for miles and the single indication that man had once occupied this land was a ruin. Martha continued her journey at a leisurely pace, savouring the sensation of being on solid ground, not caring that this was probably a dream. The sun was setting, colouring the sky with brilliant oranges and yellows. This was also reflected in the clear waters surrounding the island and Martha felt strangely peaceful. She was glad that the island was deserted; it didn't deserve to be spoiled. However, she quickly learned that she was not alone. Her weight sank against the sand in advance of her footsteps and upon closer inspection she noticed a boot print surrounding and dwarfing her foot.
Martha looked up and her gaze followed the boot prints off into the distance. There was a figure ahead, a silhouette against the setting sun. "How?" Martha muttered before glancing back toward the sea and answering her own question. A small boat had been pulled up onto the sand and from it a trail of those same boot prints originated. Martha's attention returned to distance. The silhouette had not become any smaller, suggesting that the figure was no longer moving. Without thinking, Martha bunched up her skirt so that it was completely above her knee and ran.
"Hey!" she called once she was a little nearer to the figure. "Hey! Hey, are you ok?" she asked, almost upon the figure now. "Are you lost?" still no answer. As she suspected, the figure was a man but curiously he was kneeling, his shoulders hunched as though he was looking at something. He was wearing a large hat, from under which long greying hair fanned out over his back. His lower legs stretched out behind, partially covered by his dark crimson frockcoat. From her limited understanding of old nautical dress, Martha guessed that this man was a captain.
The man refused to answer her calls and Martha grew increasingly agitated. She wandered around so that she was in front of him and crouched down. "You're being really rude you know!" she remarked. The man continued to ignore her presence, his blue eyes were fixed ahead but it was as though he was staring right through Martha's body.
Between Martha and the stranger was an assortment of objects. There was a large chest, a bunch of flowers, several letters and a knife. There was also no logic to the arrangement, at least not until Martha noticed a much smaller chest sitting directly in front of the man. She instantly recognised the Dead Man's Chest and gasped. "It can't be…" she whispered. She looked at the man again. He was gazing out to sea now, which provided Martha with a good view of his profile. He was clearly middle aged, for his face was lined around the eyes and his blonde beard greying like his hair. However, it was the high cheekbones that confirmed matters and the braids in his beard, arranged in a way that reminded Martha of tentacles. There was no doubt in her mind that she was observing Davy Jones in his uncorrupted form.
"Breaks da heart, don't it?" a female voice, the accent alien and somewhat unsettling. Martha froze, there was no evidence of a third presence on the island and the human Davy Jones continued to be oblivious. Martha shuddered and looked to the right. The owner of the voice was standing next to her, a dark skinned beauty with a chilling grin across her face. "An' de heart is what dis be aboot,"
"About what? Who are you?" Martha asked nervously.
"You would not understand chi'le, for you I am a ghost, dat is de simple explanation," the woman replied.
"What about him?" Martha enquired, pointing at Davy Jones. He closed his eyes and a single tear rolled down his left cheek. "Is he a ghost too?" asked Martha.
The woman shook her head "him but a shadow, a reflection of what al'ready has come to pass," she moved closer, reaching out to stroke two fingers down Martha's cheek and under her chin. Martha gasped as another chill claimed her spine. "Can you see chi'le, de pain? Do you t'ink dat a compassionate ear can change all dis?"
"She wasn't there," Jones whispered, his eyes fixed upon the now open Dead Man's Chest. He was a shadow, a mere replay of the past; his address had been to nobody but himself.
"Who wasn't there?" Martha demanded but the woman simply chuckled. "What are you trying to show me?"
"You'll see…" the reply was ominous and Martha had to look away. The expression on Jones's face had changed from hurt to an anger of which Martha was all too familiar. He sat up straight and threw his coat off his shoulders. He then ripped his shirt open and grasped the knife in his right hand, breathing heavily as he positioned the blade over his heart. Martha's eyes widened as she realised what was happening, and she suddenly felt violently ill.
"Stop this!" she cried, looking back toward the woman. She had disappeared and Martha clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. "Stop this now! I don't want to see this!" she yelled through her fingers. In a panic, Martha turned away from Jones and ran. She ran so hard that her legs ached and her heart pounded relentlessly against her rib cage. She slowed down to a light jog once she was satisfied that she had covered enough distance, but her relief was short lived. In front of her was the exact same scene, Davy Jones kneeling in front of the chest with a blade over his heart. "You've got to be kidding me!" Martha groaned.
Certain that she was in a nightmare, Martha willed her body to wake up as she ran back in the opposite direction. She didn't wake up and she encountered the same problem, she was running towards Jones again. She admitted defeat and walked slowly towards Jones. It was impossible to look away, inside her mind Martha was screaming that she didn't need to see this but for some unexplained reason she could not turn her head nor close her eyes. "Let me wake up," she pleaded, her lip trembling "please let me wake up,"
As a child Martha had experienced some extremely awful nightmares, but she always knew that they were not really happening. What she witnessed now made childhood fears seem tame and the sting of knowing that it was a real event worsened her trauma. With an almighty roar, Jones plunged the blade into his chest, a trickle of dark liquid instantly oozing over his knuckles. At the exact same moment, the sky appeared to be bleeding too and a deep red reflection crept across the clear seawater.
Jones doubled over in pain as a lighting strike ripped through the bloody clouds but he pushed the blade in further, red spit covering his lips as he groaned. Martha had always lacked a squeamish disposition around blood and torn flesh. Had this been a dissection, Martha wouldn't even flinch, but this was a man purposefully mutilating his body. The emotional anguish that had driven him to it was just as unbearable as the physical pain he was enduring. Martha wanted to cry, but even that function appeared beyond her control now.
Blood was streaming from Jones's wound, staining his shirt and the sand around his knees. He was shaking as he pulled the knife out of his chest and Martha hoped that the mysterious woman had made her point. Her hope was in vain, she screamed as Jones pushed the fingers of his left hand into his chest, lifting the knife again to finish the deed. "You see," the woman had returned, standing at Martha's side again. "If dis is what him do de first time him believe him misled…" there was a sinister pause as the woman leaned closer to Martha's ear "imagine what him do to you…"
After an ear-splitting thunderclap, Martha's awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in her hammock. It swung from side to side, threatening to throw her off onto the deck but she steadied herself, patting her chest at the same time. Maccus was standing to her left, his lip curled in curiosity. "Everything ok Martha?"
"Yeah," Martha blinked rapidly "sorry Mr Maccus, bad dream, that's all," she said, her heartbeat steadying.
"Anythin' ye need to talk about?"
"Yes, but I think I'd better talk about it with Captain Jones," replied Martha, sliding off the hammock and onto the floor.
"Sure ye want to do that? I know he's starting to trust ye, aye, but he still isn't a very patient man, y'tryin' him some," Maccus almost sounded concerned. Martha was quite amused.
"He's goin' to want to hear this…trust me," said Martha, walking over to the hatch up to the main deck.
"Just remember, when you're done, that ye still be on mornin' watch!" Maccus called after her.
-0-0-0-
"Behave!" snapped The Doctor as he wielded a mallet against his troublesome console. "I know, I'm attempting to access real information that is actually filed under Earth mythology, I know I'm trying to travel within the same time period thus carrying a risk of intercepting my own time line! When has that ever stopped you?" he mused, pulling on the console monitor and inputting some more data. He had left the TARDIS in flight mode while hurriedly changing back into his normal attire but landing was proving to be more of a problem than he had anticipated. The TARDIS was blocking any attempts at landing in a new location on the date that The Doctor has just left.
"Well, you might be refusing to acknowledge that it isn't mythology, but at least you've given me some dates, albeit estimates," The Doctor sighed, quickly reading the extensive information trawling across the screen. "They met anyway! That's…unexpected," He set the co-ordinates and leapt backwards, rooting around in an open toolbox that was resting upon the control room chair. "Aha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a familiar pen-shaped object. He grinned and squeezed the new sonic screwdriver tightly in his hand. He wanted to prolong the moment, "I've not gone so long without you for at least half a dozen lives, or is it five?" he mused, "I was right to always have a spare handy," he said as he pocketed the new model.
The console beeped as some new writing flashed up on the monitor. The Doctor grasped the sides of the screen in both hands and cocked a curious eyebrow; grinning again once it was obvious the news was good news. The TARDIS had given in and allowed him to land. "Good girl!" he called, patting the console, which hummed in appreciation of his touch. "I'm travelling forward one day, after that I'll travel forward another day, it's so simple, ha! Absolutely no risk of running into myself," he paused to smooth the lapels of his coat "although, me being the only one left theoretically makes me the rule-maker, I could do what I like…but that would be a little bit naughty of me," he grinned "wouldn't it old girl?"
The Doctor inhaled deeply, bracing himself for a new and possibly difficult situation. The TARDIS landed and he lightly skipped over to the door, his coat tails spreading out behind him. No matter what happened, he had a sonic screwdriver and was no longer dressed like a member of the Royal Navy. In a time where small mercies were so far hard to come by, The Doctor was temporarily in a better mood.
Davy Jones was at the helm and Martha spotted him as soon as she stepped onto the main deck. His hat created a silhouette that was too distinct to cause a case of mistaken identity. From a distance Martha couldn't see his face, and it was as though a long-horned demon was steering the ship. The illusion was only ruined once he lifted his right hand from the wheel and lit his pipe. He seemed to be in a peaceful mood but Martha still had to take a deep breath and relax before she climbed the steps up to the helm. Jones was definitely in a world of his own, he didn't notice Martha until she was at his side.
"Didn't think the captain steered the ship," Martha remarked. There was an awkward pause as Jones used a single tentacle to place the pipe in his mouth and returned his hand to the wheel. He sighed and faced away from Martha, ensuring that no smoke was blown in her face. "That's bad for you, you know," she said in a playful tone.
"Not exactly captain at the moment lass," Jones replied, "and yer forgettin' that I cannae die, though I never knew of a pipe managin' tae kill a man," he sighed again.
"Still, you can order us around surely? I didn't swear an oath to Captain Fancy Dress and his miserable northern friend," Jones didn't answer, he simply stared ahead, turning the wheel slightly. "Why are you up here?"
"Cannae sleep lass, got Company men in officers quarters, reckon they've got their beady eyes on my cabin next. Do nae think yer safe either, that one and only hammock will have some red or blue coated sea dog in it soon enough," said Jones with a brief smile. He extinguishing the pipe on his clawed hand, putting the pipe back in his pocket.
"No wonder Maccus was down with the crew, and not playing cards or that dice game either,"
"Aye, he's none too happy," replied Jones "and to what do I owe this pleasure Miss Jones? Havin' another rare moment of not hatin' me?"
"Can't sleep either. And…" Martha bit her lip, unsure how to broach the subject, "I had a dream,"
"Ha! Everyone dreams lass, nothin' special about that," laughed Jones.
"It was about you!" snapped Martha. Jones glared at her, sporting a look that was a cross between confusion and perhaps absolute horror. "Well, that came out wrong," said Martha, Jones's expression intensified "I mean you were in it, that's all, I'm not hitting on you or anything,"
"I do nae understand what ye just said,"
"Oh god, how do I explain? It's an expression from my time. I suppose it means, buttering you up? Trying to get on your good side? Getting a bit too friendly?" replied Martha, cringing.
"Hmm, I'll take yer word fer it lass, yer feelin' awkward, y'don't have tae explain it," said Jones, smiling again at Martha's relieved sigh.
Martha decided that it was best to launch into a description of the dream, seeking permission was so trivial when it was involved a matter that she had already witnessed. Jones would have no choice but to satisfy her curiosity. "You were human," sighed Martha, dropping her gaze "and I saw what you did to yourself,"
"Powerful imagination ye have Miss Jones," replied Jones dismissively.
"No, no I saw it as it happened Captain. It was like being tortured, in fact I'm certain that's what she was trying to do to me," said Martha, the tremble in her voice becoming more obvious.
"She?" hissed Jones.
"A woman, standing next to me in the dream, she didn't tell me her name. She only told me why she was showing your…self-injury," Martha winced at her choice of words "sorry Captain, I didn't know how else to put it,"
"And why was she showing you?" he demanded. Martha clasped her hands together and closed her eyes, wishing that there was a better way to answer his question but honesty was the only option.
"Because, originally I was pretending to be your," she gulped "…friend and she said that if that was how you reacted to one deception, imagine what you'd do to me,"
"Ye picked the wrong man tae deceive lass," Jones replied angrily, violently turning his head away from her. "You have nae idea what yer dealin' with, if y'think that a little pretend kindness will get ye off this ship…"
"I am not pretending!" yelled Martha "everythin' I've said to you has been genuine, I thought I'd have to pretend but the more I talked to you, the more I realised that I couldn't pretend. I said I sympathise Captain, and if you don't believe me that's your problem,"
"I do nae need sympathy!" hissed Jones, facing her again with a glare.
"Fine! You don't," replied Martha, holding up her hands. "But at least believe me when I say I do want to help you, I want you to get the heart back, and some creepy witch in a dream isn't going to change that,"
"Did ye say witch?" asked Jones, his expression somewhat pained.
"I thought she must be, she was quite, eccentric, and had a strange accent,"
"Hmm," Jones took one hand away from the wheel and leaned back "take this," he ordered. "We're goin' straight ahead lass, isn't hard!" he growled when he noticed Martha's reluctance. She obeyed, hesitantly gripping two spokes in her hands. Jones stomped over to a corner of the deck and gave something a swift kick. There was a groan as the hulk of a crewman rose up, a hand reaching out for balance on the railing. "Y'had nae need fer sleep fer nigh on twenty five years, get that idle carcass back to yer post!" said Jones. Following orders, Greenbeard walked over to the helm and snarled at Martha, who gladly gave up her position.
Jones was at the final set of railings now, standing with his back to the bow and looking out to sea. Martha waited in silence. "I'm not goin' tae stand here ferever!" snapped Jones. Martha tutted and rolled her eyes, thankfully neither action clear enough for Jones to witness. She took small steps over to him, and rested her elbows against the railing, sinking into a slouch.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"The land lover requested that I follow him tae the Brethren Court, more fool him, I already know where it is but he's none too smart and did nae realise this!" replied Jones.
"I can't believe you're lettin' him order you around," said Martha quietly.
"What other choice do I have lass? Death? Leavin' the charlatans who caused all this free tae rule my seas, the thought sickens me!"
"I've seen enough of you to know that this isn't like you, he's making demands that go against your character,"
"Ha!" Jones's chuckle was cold and patronising "ye know nothin' about my character. The sufferin' of others is my craft, what do another two deaths matter tae me?"
"Two?" Martha queried.
"The leviathan, dead as ordered," Jones smirked as Martha's mouth fell partially open "do nae worry yer typically female instincts Miss Jones," he goaded "was a quick, probably not painless,"
"I hope the second one wasn't some sort of amusement!" Martha snapped. Jones glared at her again, baring his teeth. It was as though he couldn't decide between anger and distress.
"The Kraken's been with me fer years, did nae want to do it, unfortunately it had tae be done," sighed Jones, rooting around in one of his pockets. "Hold out yer hand…" he said. Martha looked him up and down suspiciously but did as she was told, sucking on her bottom lip as she lifted up a hand with the palm facing upwards. Jones pulled an object out of his pocket that glistened in the faint light and dropped it into Martha's hand. It was cold and the chain almost slipped through her fingers. "That belonged to her,"
"Who?" asked Martha, now cupping the locket in both hands.
"The woman in yer dream, she was called Calypso. I asked Beckett tae kill her in return for my services," said Jones closing his eyes with a pained sigh. "I wanted nothin' more than tae see her suffer and now…"
"You regret it?" Martha butted in.
"Ha! Regret is fer the weak minded," Jones cruelly remarked "besides, she's clearly not completely dead, obviously takin' delight in tormenting her own sex now as well as cursing men,"
"How is that possible?" said Martha, the locket beginning to feel like a dead weight in her hands. "I mean, she said I wouldn't understand so told me she's a ghost,"
Jones shrugged "probably another trick of accursed sorcery," he replied.
Martha sighed and held the locket up in front of Jones's face. "Here, you better have this back," she said.
"Keep it," replied Jones, waving his right hand in a dismissive manner "nae point in me havin' two of them,"
"But…it was hers," said Martha, furrowing her brow.
"Aye, and if she wants it back she'll come fer it. Fer now, keep it. Maybe if yer Doctor ever loves ye, y'can give it tae him," he paused to chuckle again "if he ever gets ye off this ship,"
Martha curled her fingers around the locket and clutched it to her chest. Now she was angry and confused, was he encouraging Calypso to haunt her dreams further? Or was he simply looking for a way to cast away the memory. Now that Martha had the locket, Calypso was truly out of sight and mind. "Perhaps its another peace offering," Martha thought, reminding her of something she had been meaning to ask for a while. "Was this dress hers too?" she gestured with her free hand.
Jones shook his head "the crew like tae keep things from raids, that was on a ship we attacked about a year ago," he grinned "was either that or make ye dress like a cabin boy!"
Martha opened her mouth to speak but a commotion from the direction of the main deck halted her efforts. Jones tore away from the railing and almost flew down the steps, his crab leg striking the wood like thunder. Martha quickly stuffed the locket down her dress, not wanting to wear it in case anybody got the wrong impression, and followed Jones with much lighter footsteps. Two men were struggling against one another near an entrance to the cargo hold, one had a sword held against the others neck and both were sporting a variety of cuts and bruises. Jones was demanding an explanation, which in turn stirred the rest of the crew up from their slumber.
"Not that this concerns you former Captain Jones, but the Admiral here was assisting the escape of a prisoner, shame isn't it?" said Mercer with a patronising sneer. Norrington dug his fingers into the arm that was against his shoulders and continued to struggle. Mercer simply pressed the blade harder against the admiral's throat, causing his breath to hitch.
"What?" Jones hissed. "Greenbeard ye incompetent slime!" he yelled in the direction of the helm.
"Our good friend The Doctor, escaped in that strange contraption of his," Mercer replied and Martha couldn't help smiling at the news "and I overheard Admiral Norrington telling him to help our enemy, bit of a problem for the both of us, don't you think?" asked Mercer.
"Ye can kill each other fer all I care, one less problem fer me I'd say!" snapped Jones. Mercer tightened the grip of his free hand and moved the sword away from Norrington, pointing it toward Jones.
"You forget, this ship is now solely under my command, one false move and you're no longer alive to even consider defying my Lord Beckett," growled Mercer.
"Goin' tae see tae that personally?" laughed Jones. Mercer's gaze remained cold and calculating as he idly pointed the blade at Martha.
"Perhaps your lady friend there would like to have a stab at that bothersome heart of yours!" said Mercer, a smug smile creeping across his face as Jones hesitated.
"Yer bluffing!"
"He'd better be," hissed Martha.
"Want to test that theory?" Mercer asked sternly. "What would you suggest that I, your new commanding officer, do with this common convict?"
"Keep him alive," replied Jones after a moment of silence "so that when The Doctor returns with his latest allies, he can watch the admiral die before I kill him fer his lies,"
"What?" Martha yelled. "You can't do that! He's trying to help! They both were," she said, giving Norrington a supportive glance.
"He can't," Mercer interrupted "but I happen to think that his request is reasonable, Lord Beckett would also prefer a dead Doctor,"
"Don't do this!" demanded Martha, shaking Jones by the arm. He pulled away from her grip and growled.
"Yer Doctor's latest trick has tried the very last of my patience, he can nae be trusted again, and fer yer little outburst, yer goin' tae be scrubbin' this deck so hard this week that yer fingers will bleed!" he snapped.
"I'll let the admiral here become reacquainted with the brig," snarled Mercer, dragging Norrington with the assistance of Clanker. As they disappeared below, Martha stood her ground, staring expectantly at Jones.
"Get out of my sight," he snapped. Martha obediently bowed her head.
"Sir," she hissed "and if you don't mind, I'm still keeping the locket,"
"So ye can put it around yer Doctor's lifeless neck?" Jones scoffed.
"No, so I can remind myself that you once had a heart!" Martha spat back, storming toward the crew's quarters and not once looking back.
-0-0-0-
"From the Caribbean to South China," The Doctor muttered as he closed the TARDIS door. "Woah there!" the surface onto which he had landed was evidently less stable than expected. He had almost slipped, for the ground below was quite slimy. The drop wasn't steep but for miles ahead all that could be seen was black water. Several eerie creeks echoed one another in the howling breeze and the ground rocked slightly.
It didn't take long to realise that this was no ground at all; the island was constructed entirely of ships, wrecked ships that had run aground or sunken ships creating the foundations. The TARDIS was perched upon an overturned hull, leaning against the main mast of another ship that was lying over the side. Another mast rested over the roof of the TARDIS, effectively locking it into place. With a sigh, The Doctor shuffled around, trying to find the best way down without having to set foot in the water.
"No telling how deep that is," he mused, lifting up the sonic screwdriver for more light. "Now this is ominously familiar," he said, remembering the events that had started all this. While attempting to climb down one level, hoping to discover the entrance, The Doctor skidded and fell over onto his back, coming to rest on a ship that was partially submerged on its side. He groaned as he sat up, rubbing his back with his other hand. "Odd," he said as he noticed a woven hat floating in the water directly in front of him. "Fits in with this part of the world, but what happened to the owner," he whispered. He would never admit it out loud but talking to nobody was becoming tiresome, he missed Martha's encouragement. He sighed and lifted the hat from the water, shaking it dry. It was a poor disguise given the rest of his clothing, but he was anticipating a crowd inside and wearing a hat would give him some extra cover.
The Doctor picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it, ducking into the shadows as the distracted guards temporarily left the main entrance. The Doctor tiptoed behind them and slipped into the main body of ships, following the sound of voices in a distant chamber. After facing the devil of the seas, The Doctor now had to face those trying to regain control of the seas. "Welcome to the Brethren Court" he sighed before turning a corner.