James Norrington was at her side in an instant. He had been forced to watch as she'd gone down like a sack of bricks. He'd seen women faint before, usually landing on their backs or sides; Isabelle had gone down face first in a heap. He rolled her over gently and pulled her across his thigh, cradling her neck against his other knee. He was prepared to see blood, to find that she'd broken her nose in the fall, but thankfully, other than being completely unconscious, she seemed fine. Her skin was pale and cool to the touch, and her breaths seemed to be thin and shallow. What sort of fit has seized her now? Several other soldiers gathered around the spot where he knelt with Isabelle and stared. They'd noticed the woman hovering about the courtyard and had wondered at it. Though hangings were often a public entertainment, these proceedings were unlike anything that had come before and were certainly no place for a woman.
"The boy must have been the last straw." One of the gathered soldiers murmured. James looked up and saw someone tossing the small body onto the cart followed by the larger corpses of his adult counterparts. The Admiral had not even noticed the young boy upon the gallows. What sort of monster was Cutler Beckett to hang a young lad? A shadow fell over them and James looked up into the cold eyes of that very man.
"What has happened here?" Cutler snapped.
"Your sister, my lord…she's fainted." James said for lack of a better term. Isabelle could be dead for all he knew, but one look at her eyelids told him that was not so. Her eyes raced beneath her closed lids as if she were seeing too much.
Isabelle was taken home immediately and the best doctor in Port Royal fetched. She lay in her bed, her skin practically green, veins showing deep blue beneath the marble like skin. The physician placed leeches on her arms when a fever set in. He said it was all he could do.
She'd been in the grips of the fever for two days when her maid realized that Isabelle was muttering beneath her shallow breath.
Some have died and some are alive
Others sail on the sea
With the keys to the cage and the devil to pay
We lay the fiddler's green.
"What does that mean?" Cutler snapped when he sat beside Isabelle a few moments later. Isabelle muttered the verse over and over, chanting it like a mantra. "What is that?"
"It sounds like a song sir." The maid answered softly. The next day, there was more.
The bell has been raised from its watery grave
Can you hear its sepulchral tone?
A call to all
Pay heed the squall
Turn your sails to home
Now Cutler was sure she was singing. But why? And what did the little ditty mean?
Sri Sumbhajee, in his elaborate Indian silks, his high turban, and his waxed mustachios, felt comforting. In her dream, she thought she could even smell the saffron, the heady aroma of curry and jasmine made her head spin and she felt giddy. Below decks of his elaborately painted ship incense smoke curled upwards and gathered in the dark spaces of the Pirate Captain's cabin. When he set foot on to other ships, his countrymen knelt before him begging blessings and forgiveness. He might have been a ruthless pirate to outsiders, but to his own kind he was quite kind, merciful and was a spreader of their holy teachings. He never spoke; he had an assistant for that, his dark eyes conveying much emotion. He was always attentive to those coming for his guidance. Isabelle saw Sri Sumbhajee staring across gray waters, the wind tugging playfully at his beard. The blue silk standard snapped in the air above him and he looked up at it curiously in the pale morning light. She stood transfixed on the deck opposite him and watched as he took a snuff box from his sleeve and stare at it before returning it to the hidden place. He moved up the decks looking for his assistant that he might issue orders for a change of course. Something great was happening, though Isabelle could not fathom what it was.
The fourth day of her fever she tossed her head violently against the pillows. This day through the inane babble and the subsequent moaning, a name was discerned.
"Who is Sri Sumbhajee?" The doctor asked Lord Beckett.
"He was a pirate in India. She must be dreaming of our childhood home."
Sri Sumbhjee's image had been thrust aside and she'd been forced to watch a dark eyed, swarthy man with long yellow teeth lay siege to a convent. She stood helplessly by as the pirates stormed the small, drab structure and entered the sanctuary. They did not care that the place was holy or sanctified. The nuns cowered beside the altar, hands clasped in prayer, their eyes locked on the image of their crucified savior. The priests who helped run the convent held up their arms, murmuring their prayers trying to protect the sisters, but the pirates didn't care for the holy men and cut them down as they would any other. The shrieks of the terrified nuns echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the simple chapel and the pirates laughed heartily at the fear inspired in the poor sisters. One of the women, older and calmer than the others, stood and challenged the pirates. She was laughed at and hauled away from the others. Isabelle didn't want to know what happened to the abbess. She watched as one of the men strolled around the altar and picked up a small pewter goblet. He smiled as the light glinted off of it and tucked it into a pouch on his hip. Angry yelling reverberated off the stone walls as one of the other pirates challenged him. Isabelle didn't understand everything that was said, but understood that the man was angry his captain had hidden the goods, believing he was denying the crew a rightful share of the treasure. Without a word, the captain leveled a pistol at the arguing crewman and blew a hole in his chest, spattering gore across the religious relics within the tiny chapel. She saw time pass by. The sisters' robes became threadbare and faded, and they still cowered beside the altar, but the small nooks and crannies of the convent now shone with gold, silver and jewels. Rich silks were hung from every buttress and window sill and stacked in piles upon every pew in the chapel. She saw entire rooms strung with fragrant spices. The dark eyed man smiled as the Abbess approached him in the courtyard. She allowed him to keep his looted goods within the walls of the convent in exchange for his protection from marauding bands of heathen natives that roamed the inlands. She had been excommunicated by the pope, as had her sisters for what had happened at the convent years before. They knew that she was no longer a pure soul and yet maintained her station as abbess. She didn't care. She and her sisters could worship as they always had in the protection and sanctity of their convent, safer than they ever had been simply because Armand's men patrolled the area and kept others at bay. She knew that God would forgive whatever sins she may have committed, even if one of them was allowing earthly goods to be stored in their simple, holy place. Isabelle strained to hear what Armand said to the abbess but knew the man was agitated. He sighed heavily and turned on the heel of one of his ornate shoes calling to his men to leave the walls of the abbey. It was time to sail on.
Mr. Mercer and Admiral Norrington were discussing crew manifests, rosters and duty schedules with Lord Beckett when the Doctor entered the room.
"Who is Armantha?"
"Armantha?" Lord Beckett asked with disgust at being interrupted. "I know no Armantha. Where did you hear such a name?"
"Perhaps it is Amanda?" James ventured. But the Doctor shook his head and continued to stare at Lord Beckett.
"Your sister, my lord." The doctor said softly. "She's been uttering the name repeatedly; Armantha Corser."
"Armand the Corsair!" Mr. Mercer whispered. "He's a fearsome blaggard from the Black Sea. Prayed on Christian ships he did."
"How would Isabelle know his name?" Cutler asked. "That's the second pirate in as many days…."
"I don't know my lord." The Doctor said shrugging. "Who knows what happens in a woman's mind?"
Every day Isabelle thrashed violently, her brow beaded with sweat, her breathing labored. She grasped the sheets of her bed and whimpered at whatever her fevered dreams revealed to her. Isabelle was never aware of such actions; such was the deepness of her slumber and the magnitude of her terror. It was all Lord Beckett could do to keep a maid with her at all times. The women were so terrified of Isabelle's fits that he had two house servants quit.
"She's possessed, my lord!" The one girl had insisted, tears running down her cheeks. "Lady Beckett was always very kind to me, but I can not stay. God has cursed her."
"Firstly, Miss Isabelle is not and shall never be Lady Beckett." Cutler said sharply to the girl. "And second, what on earth would make you think she was cursed by God? Isabelle is a terribly devout soul."
"Her eyes my lord! I saw her eyes and they were silver!" The girl said crossing herself. "It is a sign of the devil, I know it!" She raced from the room without getting a reference or her last week's pay.
Some days Isabelle would utter just one name, but on a few occasions she call out more than one.
The man she saw with the long curly wig and the pale face seemed like a fop to her, but he was a ferocious pirate, firing on all ships flying Spanish or English colors. He was ruthless to prisoners, but a good host and fond of strong wines and poker. He favored hands with queens for she saw queens constantly when she saw him. He surrounded himself by others of similar tastes; a pallet for wines, an eye for fine things, and the stomach to kill without question or mercy. He was waxing the tips of his thin mustache when another heavily wigged man entered and whispered something in rapid French. The captain, for Isabelle was sure that that was who the first man was, turned, his eyes boring into his crewman. "Certainement?" the crewman nodded nervously and stepped back as the captain slammed his hand onto the desk in front of him. He issued orders in rapid French that Isabelle could not understand and stared out the large windows at the rear of his cabin.
Hot on his heels came the image of a short, round man in a big hat. He was armed to the teeth and stood calmly amongst the carnage of battle. The smell of gun smoke clung to him like a cologne and his face was smeared with spent powder. The fight was over, and many Frenchmen lay dead. The dandies beneath his feet had fought well, considering. He pulled the fine lace of his cuffs from his sleeves and polished the ornate buckle of his baldric. He rattled off orders in Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese. Isabelle had never been very good with languages and didn't understand a word the man said. She saw the man's home life flash before her eyes and saw that he was devoted to his family and doted on his young daughters. Something that was deeply at odds with the ruthless nature with which he treated with his enemies. She saw the long haired man and the short man go toe to toe, cannons roaring around them and shaking the ships beneath their feet. The Spaniard often fingered the necks of rum bottles, eyeing those that questioned him with slit eyes and an edge towards anger.
"Captain Chevalle" She muttered one morning.
"Villanueva" She mumbled in the afternoon.
"Those two could barely keep away from each other. Thank goodness they had such deep hatred for one another, if they ever banded together, English shipping would suffer greatly." Admiral Norrington supplied at hearing the names mentioned in the library. "Frightful men, blood thirsty pirates both, they claim to be privateers in the employee of their mother countries."
"Bloody Pirates!" Cutler muttered.
There were times when Isabelle's dreams were blissfully dark, and silent. She relished these times and tried to build her strength up for the next wave of visions that she knew would come. She had no idea how long she remained in the dark. She had no idea of the frantic actions around her.
The white faced woman that appeared to her was the thing that Isabelle's childhood nightmares were made of. Isabelle could hear a shrill voice and hated the way the woman's small eyes squinted into her very soul. The woman's yellow teeth were barred in a snarl as she ordered a man to be put to death for spying. He was strapped to the deck and gutted like a fish. Isabelle turned her head away. She could smell the stink of blood and burning flesh as they burned the man's intestines in an open brazier on the deck of the junk. The woman puffed on a long, thin stemmed pipe and watched the whole proceeding. Glancing around at the sailors that sailed her ships, she made sure none were watching too closely and pulled a set of spectacles from her oriental silk robe. They perched precariously upon her nose as she watched her crew complete the torture of the spy. She glanced out over the rest of her fleet and saw a flag raised on the furthest one to sea. She had ordered the flag made special; its meaning meant that what they dreaded had come to pass. She barked out swift orders in the quick staccato of her native tongue and swept into her cabin.
After the white faced woman, the next man seemed benevolent. Though he had stringy hair and a pox marked face, he seemed jovial. Somewhat like Jack. His eyes, yellowed from years of drink and of staring over sun streaked waters had lines in the corners from laughter, maniacal laughter though it might have been. His eyes were those of a hawk, trained on his prey and unwilling to let it move from his sight. He bit into an apple and stared at a tall skinny man who didn't look all that intelligent. They were all working diligently on the deck of a merchant ship. Isabelle saw several others that seemed familiar to her, including Mr. Gibbs, Jack's old first mate. She did not scan around the deck for anyone else…they'd all be far safer if she kept her head down and ignored the remainder of the crew…
The names of Mistress Ching and Hector Barbossa followed those of Chevalle and Villanueva. James Norrington knew of Hector Barbossa, had heard of his death from Elizabeth after the debacle on the Isle de Muerta. In her fevered state, he was sure Isabelle's imagination was running wild, centering on the fearsome tales of the pirates of the age. How she'd heard of them all, when her brother, Mercer and himself, a well traveled navy man hadn't was beyond him. His thoughts were further muddled after a particularly frightful night when Isabelle cried out the name Jocard.
Isabelle walked through a tobacco plantation. The broad leaves rustled beneath her fingertips. She saw slaves working the fields, pulling bugs from under the broad leaves and weeds from around the stalks. She saw an overseer raise his arm in anger but the man he was about to strike turned and grasped his wrist. He pulled the whip from the overseers hand and beat him savagely with his own quirt. Isabelle watched the large dark skinned man's eyes change and he made strolled towards the large plantation home. He walked proudly and with a purpose. Isabelle had seen slaves the world over who shuffled when they walked and kept their eyes trained on the pebbles beneath their feet. Not this man; he knew he had royalty in his blood, carried across the ocean on a slaver. He would not be beaten, he would not be put down. It was time to free his people from the oppression of the Louisiana Plantation. Isabelle watched, horror stricken as the slave tied a white man to a chair in the parlor and laughed menacingly. Isabelle realized the white man was a slave owner and an evil man, but his actions could not have justified what she next saw. The wife and children of the slave owner cowered in the corner of the parlor, unable to leave as, the slave cut off the white man's fingers with a tobacco cutter. When all ten digits were gone and oozing blood onto the floor and fine horsehair coverings the large man peeled the boots from his master's feet and started on the man's toes. The man's wife screamed and begged the slave to stop. He struck her and Isabelle flinched. She knew only too well what it felt like to be struck down by someone with the upper hand. The slave turned back and in one move removed the tip of the slave owners nose from his face. Isabelle wanted to rush away, but could not run from the room. The last thing the slave did was cut out the man's tongue. He left him, bleeding in his own parlor…but quite alive, the tobacco cutter still in his hand.
No one had ever heard of Jocard and it took a merchant from the Americas to tell them that he was a well known pirate, harbored on the bayous of the Creole colony of Louisiana. Her maid ran screaming from the room when the fit was done and sobbed in the arms of one of the grooms. Isabelle had gone so still that the poor girl had thought Isabelle dead.
Isabelle relished the dark that over took her after such a vision. Something in her mind told her that she was almost done. She only hoped she forgot everything she had witnessed; or that she died at its end. She did not think she could live with the crimes of the pirates in her mind.
A day or so later, Isabelle went from having the pallor of the dead, to sweating profusely. James Norrington was standing in the foyer when one of the nurse maids went by carrying a bundle of sheets.
"It's as if she's in a steam room! She's hot all over and putting off so much sweat! I've never known a woman to sweat so."
Slowly, as if walking through a river mist, Isabelle emerged into an open room. She saw a man whose head and face were scarred and his long nails often brushed over the raised flesh of the wounds. A long red sash hung from his wrist and he brought his cuff to his face, inhaling something fragrant. Isabelle thought she caught the scent of oranges. The man turned cold eyes on her and she felt her heart stop. He was quiet in his fierceness, but it was no less sharp than any of the others she had seen. In fact, it might be worse. He was unforgiving and would as soon lash out and kill a man than see him imprisoned and tortured. He disappeared in the same shroud of mist he had appeared in.
When Isabelle whispered the name Sao Feng, Cutler had had enough.
"We don't know any of these pirates, except by reputation alone." He snapped. "But we do know Sao Feng, if only because he prays on our ships in the orient. The Dutch have had a fair number of run-ins with him. Sources say that he's somewhat retired now, running his ships from a bath house in Singapore." He turned to face Mr. Mercer who stood in the dim Library staring stonily at a place on the mantle. "I want you to go to Singapore and find him. I have the distinct notion Isabelle has been naming off those that can do us the most harm…those that, should this bed time story be true, can release Calypso. We can't allow that to happen. Go to Singapore and stop Sao Feng." Mr. Mercer left with the tide the following morning.
Isabelle's slumber grew calmer, though the fever still gripped her. She'd been asleep for over a week and James Norrington had finally been granted the opportunity to sit at her bedside. Her maid was exhausted and the doctor had cleared Isabelle, coming to the conclusion that it was not Yellow or Scarlet fever that she had contracted.
James sat at her bedside and tentatively took up her hand in his. It was deathly cold and he remembered back to the previous summer when they had been stranded at sea in a small boat. Her hands had been deathly cold then too, but she had survived. What was this ailment that had befallen her? She took a deep breath suddenly and exhaled a name that Admiral Norrington had dearly hoped would never be heard again.
Isabelle next saw the flattest, bleakest plain she'd ever seen. Heat shimmered off the cracked, white sand that stretched as far as the eye could see. Above her stretched the massive hull of a ship. The lines were beautiful and Isabelle ran her hands along the wood lovingly. As she walked forward along the starboard side of the vessel she looked up at the bowsprit to see the figurehead. Carved with care and an eye to detail, the beautiful English pine had been battered away by time, the elements and countless battles. But Isabelle stood, rooted to her spot staring at the carving as if the bird in the woman's hand might come to life and swoop down to peck her eyes out.
It was the Black Pearl. But, only a few months before, she had seen the death of this beautiful ship in a vision that had been as clear as this one. She had seen it battered into cordwood and pulled to the bottom of the sea. What trick of her mind was this? A rope was coiled beside the boat and Isabelle climbed up, using all the strength she had in her body. When she stood on deck, she felt the presence of many but saw no one. She walked along the faded rails and looked into the empty cargo hatches. The rigging was excellently maintained, the sails reefed perfectly.
"What are you doing here?" Isabelle stopped short and looked up to the helm. There, before her eyes stood Jack Sparrow. She whispered his name and saw an exasperated expression grip the corners of his mouth.
"Captain! How many times must I tell you people?"
"Jack I thought you were dead!" Isabelle grasped her skirts and ran up to the wheel. Jack took another look at her as she stopped and stared at him curiously. "Wait…you can see me?"
"Can I see you? Of course I can see you!" Jack turned over his left shoulder as if he were speaking to a subordinate. " Mr. Sparrow, is there not a young woman standing to the starboard side of the helm here?" Jack's dark eyes came back and raked her over. "Yes, well…I suppose I have been gone for some time. Surrounded as I am by you ugly lot, I should think that eventually I might be delivered."
"Jack what's going on?"
"I haven't the foggiest. Have you?" His eyes swung quickly back to the deck and he stalked down deck issuing orders to unseen individuals…all mysteriously named Mr. Sparrow.
Jack ignored Isabelle and she eventually sat down upon a pile of rope to wait for his return. The sun never seemed to waiver from the zenith and soon its warmth seeped into her very core. She leaned back. Perhaps this was heaven. She was warm, and it was quiet, except for when Jack shouted unintelligible orders or discharged his pistol into the air. She eased back against the wood of the ship's rail and turned her face up to the warm rays beating down on her.
Isabelle opened her eyes slowly. Her throat felt like sandpaper, and her tongue felt swollen and thick in her mouth. She tried to swallow, testing the motion but coughed at the effort. She felt pressure on her hand and slowly turned her head.
"Isabelle?" She blinked a few times to clear her eyes as she saw James Norrington looking down at her. Suddenly everything washed back over her and she tried to sit up.
"The boy! What happened….?" She lay back heavily against the pillows and coughed violently, the pain tearing through her body. James raced to the foot of the bed and poured a glass of water before coming back to her bedside. He perched on the quilt and slowly raised her into a sitting position before bringing the glass to her lips and letting her drink.
"Slowly now…slowly!" He admonished, pulling the glass from her. "You'll drown if you don't take it a bit slower. Small sips now…" He coaxed her into taking a few small sips and then lowered her back to the pillows after she had emptied the glass. Her eyes were still red rimmed with fever and her skin pale, but her eyes were bright and she stared at him for a time.
"What happened?" She finally asked. She knew what had happened in her own mind, but wondered what had happened while she'd been dreaming. James shrugged his shoulders. "Tell me." Her eyes were unnerving and the stalwart Admiral felt the need to avert his eyes. She tried to rise again but he gently pressed a hand to her shoulder.
"The boy was hung. Shortly after…well, you fainted." Isabelle saw the scene play out as James had, the sound of the trap door dropping from beneath the prisoners was loud in her ears and she saw herself fall to the rough cobbles of the fortress. "You were brought back here. You would not rouse."
"What then?" Isabelle and James were both distracted as the door opened and the little nursemaid came in.
"Miss? Oh! Miss, you're a wake!" The maid came in suddenly and knelt at Isabelle's side, her face looked drawn, as if the girl had not slept well for some time.
"Anna, you look ill yourself. Have you not been taking care, girl?"
"Ma'am I've been sleeping at your bedside throughout your illness. Admiral Norrington gave me a few hours to beg off and have a lie down. I heard his boots on the floor and came running thinking something was amiss."
"Tell me, how long have I been ill?"
"Nearly two weeks, miss." The maid whispered. Isabelle's eyes darted around the room as if searching for some sort of confirmation of the time.
"Two weeks?" She whispered. "That can not be…."
"It's true ma'am. You were having frightful fits. Everyone thought you would…."
No one dared to finish the girl's thought. Isabelle had been so close to death, now her clear, open eyes reflected emerald in the dim light. She was whole again. There was hope to be had if she was now aware of her surroundings.
"I will take leave of you, Miss Beckett." James said rising. "You must get your strength back. I'll inform your brother of your recovery." He left the room quickly, preventing her from asking any further questions.