James:
"She ruined my wig."
Theodore Groves vexed by a woman is not a frequent sight to behold. Granted, most of them get a positive impression upon meeting him. He has an intuitive understanding how to behave, bringing out either the serious or humorous side of his personality to be well accepted by women of various temperaments. However, there are exceptions, his charm being all lost on Yulia.
"Complaining - is this any way to thank a woman for trying to save your immortal soul?" I ask. As much as I want to commiserate, everyone who witnessed the event think it amusing.
Theodore makes an exaggeratingly sour face, his natural sense of humour is already trumpeting over the indignation. "I don't see how turning my wig green is going to save my immortal soul. She chased me down the road with a bucketful of liquid, which turns everything green at the contact, shouting, 'Thou Who hast rebuked all unclean spirits and by the power of Thy Word has banished the legion, come now, through Thine only begotten Son upon this creature, which Thou hast fashioned in Thine own image and deliver him from the adversary that holds him in bondage, so that, receiving Thy mercy and becoming purified, he might join the ranks of Thy holy flock.'"
"It is Holy Water according to her."
Theodore huffs critically and runs an irritable hand over his head, feeling exposed. He shaved his hair off only two days ago. "Some sympathy would be nice, especially since I've suffered because of you."
"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."
Theodore spares me a half-hearted glare for the Biblical reference. "Explain this to me - you reject a woman, and she blames me for it when common sense dictates that she should have directed the exorcism at you. That sprinkling was even less fun than playing dead at the Fountain of Youth."
Theodore shared with me the details of his last expedition. His reluctance to confide even to a friend is understandable because the adventure involved mermaids and magic. I confess, I would not have believed him had he told me this story two years ago.
At the Fountain of Youth, he suffered a firearm wound that nearly killed him. Alive, but badly hurt, he feigned death as the fighting broke out, lacking strength to crawl out of the way unnoticed. The water from the damaged Fountain began to rise, advancing up his cheek and eventually covering him entirely. Theodore held his breath. When the last shred of air was gone, he made a desperate attempt to escape death. And succeeded. There was no pain as he regained his footing, springing up to his waist in the water. The wound had closed.
Everyone was too busy saving their skin to pay attention as he borrowed a coat and weapons from a dead pirate. Posing as a scoundrel was safer than being an honest man. He blended in with an escaping group, and then left their company at the nearest port. No one noticed his coming and going. Two weeks later, he was hired as a sailor onto a boat that held course to Port Royal. It was a good day when Groves showed up at my office, seeking to reinstate his position within the Navy. I needed his help and friendship, which was about to be tested once more with Lieutenant Gillette nearly at a run coming up the terrace steps and a deep intake of breath once he reached us.
"Phillip, what brings you here?"
Theodore makes no inviting sign to join us. Gillette is no good at concealing his feelings. Judging by his look, the news is not worth sitting down for, though perhaps a drink is in order.
"It's HMS Victory," he informs us, once he's sure he has my undivided attention. "Something eerie is happening below the deck. Midshipman Black was the first who spotted the problem. Initially, I thought it was one of his crackpot tales that seashells are invading the ship. Just last month he claimed he saw the port's founder playing cards with a ghost dog on the church steps. I believe it is the rum fairy that has him seeing things. Normally, that is, but not this time."
"Lieutenant," I interrupt impatiently.
The endless stream of babbling ceases in favour of a quick conclusion, "I've set the watch, so no one else ventures below, and set out to find you immediately."
The Victory attracts trouble far too often, I consider, putting aside a drink and abandoning a perfectly comfortable seat in exchange for investigating the mysterious seashells, which apparently are taking over my ship.
Gillette drops his voice as I rise and pick up my hat. "There is that uncanny, magical feel," he tells us, "similar to what we've encountered at Isle de Muerta."
Groves:
Exaggeration could be Phillip's middle name, but his confusing report proves to be fairly accurate when we reach the hatch that looks no more or less like a black, impenetrable square cut out in the deck. I cannot see the bottom of the stairs that should be visible during the day. The two sailors left to guard the hatch fumble with their weapons, ill at ease. The Admiral tells them a few encouraging words, ordering them to maintain their station, and then leads the way down. The light shining through the entrance is quickly lost as we descend.
Below the deck, the ship is no longer recognisable as one belonging to the Navy. The air is damp. Shimmering dully like darkened silver, the water droplets are sliding down the bulks. There are swift shadows crossing the floor that scatter with low hisses as we step onto the treacherous floor. Phillip carries the lantern past the walls, which are covered in black and brow layer of seashells, glittering in yellow light. Instinctively, we group together, watching each others backs. The weight of the sword on my hip is a cold comfort. I won't be able to draw it in a twisted, crammed space.
"I hope this is not another skeleton ploy," Phillip mutters. "Last time they've shot my hat, this time they may shoot my head." He bumps his shin on a box and adds in a low undertone, "unless I break my neck first."
James leads us deeper to investigate. Wet, utterly slimy seaweed entangles my foot like a snare, and I shudder in revulsion. As I stop to shake it off, darkness falls around us. Phillip utters a curt oath, fumbling in the darkness to relight the lantern. There is a spark. Briefly, James' figure ahead is illumined, and then the door set between two compartments slams shut, separating us.
"Admiral!" I call loudly, but my voice is muffled by the walls. The hull feels like we're trapped inside a giant seashell, which has clammed shut.
Phillip twists the handle. His effort makes not the slightest impression on getting us to the other side.
"Move," I order. There is little room. Phillip presses his back against the slimy wall, letting me charge past and ram my shoulder into the door. Loud ringing in my head makes me regret doing so. The thin door made for separating two sections rather than for keeping men out became hard as a rock. I may have been more successful moving a mountain.
"Shhhh!" Phillip hisses, pressing his ear against the door.
I follow his suit. It is difficult to interpret the speakers' feelings because the door muffles the intonations too much, but James' voice is distinguishable.
"You've planned this," he accuses an invisible to us adversary.
"Do not mistake my foresight for your human ability to plan for the future," we hear a woman speak. Her accented voice, rising from her chest rather than her throat, resembles a whispering tide, soft yet merciless; a tide that may carry far away from the shore unaware souls. "I've felt that our paths will cross one day. Thus, I've given you another chance at life for this purpose."
"You need not threaten me. I'm not some cozener pirate to refuse paying my debts."
Phillip doesn't fully understand the implication, but I have a good hunch who the speaker may be. It was a part of our agreement. I've told James about the Fountain of Youth, and in exchange he told me what happened to him on the Flying Dutchman. His death was no easy recollection. Memories of the past are like seashells. You never know what you may find inside once you unlock them. James had been resurrected by the sea Goddess on his promise to do her great service one day. She must have come to collect the debt.
"It is no coincidence that your first thought comes to pirates," I hear her say. "There is one who needs to be found."
It is no difficult guess whom she speaks of. The weariness sips through the door like an oil. There is only one man James holds in such contempt.
"What has he done this time?" he asks.
"You need not know what, you need to know where. He is on land where my power does not extend. You must find him and bring him to me."
Indignation builds up inside me. This is the fools errand. Why must James embark on this mission as soon as he gets an opportunity to find happiness? There is no predicting how long it will take merely to find Jack Sparrow, and then even longer to capture him.
"Caribbean is no small puddle. It doesn't lack hiding places," James states. "I assume you have clues that will shorten our search."
I silently cheer that he treats her like an equal. For all the power she holds, this woman needs us, although her opinion differs. She takes delight speaking in riddles to let us foolish mortals know how ignorant we are.
"Sometimes, what you seek may be closer than you believe if only you will open your eyes to see it," she says.
The only thing up close under my nose is the door, I muse glumly, inwardly uttering sceptical insults at the prophecy tellers for their always ill timing and ambiguity. I have not the foggiest what she refers to, but at least the Admiral does.
"Port Royal!" he exclaims.
The door we're leaning on falls open and we pitch forward. The luckless lantern clatters against the floor. There is no sign of the intruder as we light it once more.
"We've heard everything," I inform the Admiral.
There is a low hum around us, coming from the seashells getting sucked into the walls. The crabs sprint away, escaping through narrow cracks and holes. Within a minute the hull looks no different than prior to this short invasion, but our lives cannot return to normal this easily.
James makes no attempt to hide the urgency. "We must organise the search immediately," he claims. "It cannot be widespread; otherwise the pirate may get suspicious and leave Port Royal."
I know what James is thinking. The worst exaggeration is too mild to describe the problems Jack Sparrow is capable of creating in town.
"No," I say quietly, prepared to overcome James when the worst stubbornness ceases him. I tap Phillip's shoulder to show that he will take my side. "We will organise the search. You will attend the ball as we have planned."