The Adventures of James Norrington

Wayward Waves

By Z. H. Hale

In the heart of the Caribbean Sea, there lay an island. It was one of the smaller ones that sailors took refuge in when they were being tracked by unwanted attention. It held a small fishing port, created by years of sailor docking and undocking, giving birth to a community of lowlifes. The only people who settled there were the children of those who knew there were better places to be. Every day, the village was alive with a bitter mood. The village streets were filled with people and animals, both trying to survive on this unforgiving patch of land. Back and forth, someone was trying to sell something to the other, both were too smart for their good. When night fell, the entire village was silenced and drained of life. People took shelter in their homes, as if in preparation for nightly specters who roamed the land, leaving the streets lonely and dark. The only sign of life was the bright light and sounds stemming from the local tavern.

Every night, the tavern was alive with a chipper mood. Seated at every table, was a group of dirty sea men, drinking to their exploits. Fitts of laughter and pipe smoke filled the air. A woman with a pleasantly oversized corset was dancing to the jolly piano music with several men gathered at the stage cheering for her. The tavern keeper was handing out jugs of rum by the dozen. It's almost as if the village people became so gloomy during the day, that they brought themselves back to life again at night with songs and stories. Their symbol of joy attracted many of those in the darkness. The swinging tavern doors stood as barriers between the brilliant candlelight of the tavern and the foreboding darkness of the outside street. Suddenly, that barrier was crossed.

A gust of wind roared in through the swinging doors and blew away the tavern candles. The laughter and music ceased as everyone froze in the darkness. They looked toward the doorway. Standing there, with both hands on the tavern doors, was a tall, dark-clothed man with a tricorn hat. The man took a step closer and let go of the doors. They danced back and forth behind him before stopping dead. The man looked about the room. He had a greasy face, a small, but disheveled beard, and long, unruly brown hair. He had a lost feeling about him. He looked around aimlessly and was unmoved by the sudden age of attitude due to his arrival. It's almost as if his soul was ripped out of him and he was searching helplessly for it. The occupants claim they felt his icy gaze.

The man stepped toward the bar and that was when the whispers began.

"It's him. It's really him!"

"Whose him?"

"The Sea Drifter!"

"The Lonely Wind!"

"The Half Man!"

"The Sea Man!"

The man either didn't hear the whispers or ignored them. He drifted past an old captain and his younger quartermaster. They had to whisper to not let their voices be heard.

"Could it really be him?" The Quartermaster said.

"Did you see how the wind followed him?" The Captain asked, "No man can make the wind follow him. He must be him! They say he can control the seas."

"They say he's invincible."

"They say he's a demon!"

The man with no name took a seat at the bar next to a boatswain. With one look at the man, the boatswain, picked up his drink and left for a table. The tavern keeper stared at the man with wide eyes.

"What's your rum?" He asked.

"Excuse me," The man spoke with a surprisingly polite and dignified voice, "What's your name?"

The tavern keeper looked surprised, "Gerald."

"Well, Mr. Gerald," The man stood upright, "I would like a glass of red wine, please."

Gerald gave him a puzzled look and went to the brewery. Without even knowing, the man had the entire tavern's attention. All the occupants were staring at his back and neck. Even those who were relighting the tavern candles, which caused them to nearly burn themselves. When the man looked behind him, each occupant turned their head away immediately. When Gerald came back with a wooden jug, the man turned his head, and the occupants stared back at him again. Gerald placed the jug on the counter. Blood-colored wine swished back and forth inside.

"Thank you," The man looked relieved for the first time, "How much do I owe you?"

"Two Silvers," Gerald was afraid to say.

The man reached into his coat pocket and dropped two gold coins on the counter.

"Oh, that's too much..."

"Keep the rest," The man smiled, "Consider it an appreciation for your services."

Gerald looked back and forth between the man and the coins. He then returned a smile, "Thank you, sir."

Gerald took the coins and walked away. The man then focused on his drink as the tavern occupants continued their whispers.

"Of course, I suppose he has plenty to spare."

"Probably robbed the corpse of the men he drowned."

"Wait, what's he doing now?"

The man picked up the mug using both of his pointer fingers and thumbs. He carefully brought it to his lips and drank with pleasure. He placed the mug back down and looked toward Gerald, who was counting his coins.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gerald," The man held up a finger, "May I have a napkin please?"

Gerald gave him the puzzled look again, "Uh, yes sir."

Gerald then reached under the counter and brought up a single square of cloth. He whipped the dust off it and placed the napkin down on the counter next to the mug.

"Thank you," The man said.

Just when Gerald set the napkin down, the man placed another gold coin next to it. The man took the napkin and Gerald stared at the coin. He looked at the man and took the coin. The man dabbed his lips with a napkin. By this time, all the tavern occupants became bored with the show. They faced back toward each other, restarted their conversations, and drank their rum. The piano player continued his song, and the dancer continued her show. The party was reignited as if nothing happened. Gerald brought the gold coin to the other ones and the man finished dabbing his mouth.

"Ah, thank you," The man called over to him," "I'd use my handkerchief, but..."

The man began to laugh, "I'm afraid I lost it on the Flying Dutchman."

The tavern occupants ceased their conversations. The piano man stopped the song by holding onto a C key. The gold coin slipped from Gerald's hands and dropped to the floor with a small clink. Then all was silent. The tavern occupants were staring at the man once again. The man brought his hand to his face. He seemed to regret what he said.

"What did he say?" A tavern occupant whispered.

"He said he was on the flying..."

"Don't say it! It will curse you, by God."

"He was on it?"

"He couldn't be...the damn ship is gone."

"How is he still alive?!"

"How do we know he's even alive?"

The Tavern keeper stared at the man, "What was that you said."

"Please," The man waved his hands, "Let's forget what I said."

He looked around for a distraction and spotted a picture on the wall, "Oh, have you been to Jamaica? I've been to Jamacia. Granted, I went there when I was still in the British nav..."

Gerald walked around the counter and up to the man's face. For the first time, spoke to him with a threatening tone, "I've had quite enough of you, son."

The man locked eyes with Gerald, unable to speak.

Gerald went on, "I thank you for the gold coins, but I don't want any trouble in my tavern. Aye?"

The man nodded, "Understood...sir."

"You've come around to spread some unnecessary omens? Some...black magic perhaps?"

"No sir."

"I believe you had enough wine, son. Time to go home now."

"Excellent suggestion, sir."

The man stood up from his chair and was about to race toward the tavern doors. That's when I took my chance to speak, "Aye, wait a moment!"

The man looked at a booth against the wall and saw a long black beard with a face attached. That was me. It was one of those slow nights in terms of work, so I decided to come to the tavern to shuffle off some mortal coil. One could imagine I didn't look my best that night. I was wearing my old tricorn and red coat. That was good since I didn't look especially threatening to him.

I spoke again, "You were on the Flying Dutchman?"

The man nodded with caution. I gave him a smile, "Well, you lived, now tell the tale."

I took the bar stool next to him and said to Gerald, "Gerald! Two red wines this time."

I dropped four silver coins on the counter and locked eyes with Gerald. To give him some reassurance, I nodded. Gerald looked at the man, then turned back to me and nodded back in understanding.

"These two are free of charge."

Gerald went back to the Brewery. I gestured to the man toward the chair, "Please sit."

The man looked at me and carefully sat back down on his stool. While I picked the silver coins, I asked, "So, you were on the Flying Dutchman."

"Yes...sir I was," The man said, trying to remain civil.

"Then, what in Poseidon's name are you still doing here?!"

The man and I looked behind us. The old captain was standing up from his chair. His quartermaster tried to usher him down, but he slapped his hand away. The captain began to yell, "We don't need you devils disturbing our land! You already disturb our seas. Get out here! Get out..."

"I suggest you sit back down and continue your drink, Carouser," I said.

I swung around on my stool and draped my coat back, revealing a yard-long cutlass. The captain noticed it and slowly sat back down on his stool. His quartermaster pulled his head away from the two men. I smiled; it was an old gesture I use on everyone looking for trouble. It was used to see if they wanted it or not.

I swung around back towards the counter and asked the man, "So, are you a sailor?"

"...Yes," He was studying me, "I'm an admiral…(He paused) Was an admiral for the British Navy."

"Ah," I said, "You quit?"

"No...actually yes, I suppose you can say that," The man stared at the counter, "I quit."

"Hm," I pondered. Gerald came back with the jugs. I took one of them and handed the other to the man.

"I was a sailor too, but not in the navy. My father held his trading system, and I was his quartermaster, before becoming captain."

"Are you still?"

"No, it all ended when we had a run-in with pirates."

"And you became a pirate!"

The man looked back again and groaned. The captain was standing from his chair again and started toward us, "You are a pirate, aren't you?"

"Please captain," His quartermaster stood up and tried to pull him away, "We really shouldn't..."

"No," The captain said to him, then looked back at me, "You're a pirate. It's written all over you. Admit it!"

"Very well..."

In one quick, expert motion, even if I do say so myself, I stood up from my chair, threw back my coat, and drew my cutlass. When a moment, the tip of my sword was up to the captain's throat. The captain stopped dead in his tracks, the tavern occupants froze, the dancing woman gasped, the quartermaster was speechless, and Gerald came out of the brewery, saw what was happening, and went back inside. I stared at the captain's shocked face.

The captain then straightened and spoke, "I've never seen anyone draw a sword that fast."

It seemed like he was trying to keep his ground, I respected that.

"Of course, I'm not anyone," I said, "My name is Roman I. One day, I saw pirates rob my father blind and decided, like any young boy, it's pirate's life for me."

I then surprised the captain by drawing my sword away, "Now, I've given up life. I work for the British navy, hunting pirates down and bringing them to justice."

I placed my cutlass back in its scabbard. I flipped my left coat lapel over, revealing a small, white, and red crest. On it was a small red inscription: Roman Bell British Navy Enforcer. I flipped the label back over, "You will find no devils with me, sir."

The captain rubbed his neck. There was no blood. The captain nodded to his quartermaster, then looked back at me, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"The only devils are over there," I pointed to the bar stools. They were both empty.

I raced out of the tavern and down the village street. I knew the town well and used a shortcut behind the butcher's store. When I emerged from the bushes, I came to a path between the street and the docks. The dock entrance was a wooden archway, standing before the sea with a large lantern hanging from it. The wind rocked the lantern back and forth. I looked to the dark street and knew the man was due any second. I dove back into the bushes. Kneeling low enough to peek through the shrubs, I looked back out onto the street. I heard footsteps. The man came from the darkness and slowly approached the archway looking anxious and worried. I smiled.

I picked up a stick and tossed it far into the street behind the man. It made a small snap. The man spun around and looked fearfully at the street. I took my opportunity and snuck out of the bushes and under the archway. Being illuminated by the sign's lantern, I leaned against one of the poles, drew my cutlass, and began cleaning it with my handkerchief. The man looked away from the street and back toward the archway, where he spotted me. The man froze in his tracks. While keeping my eyes on my sword, I smiled. It was an old trick I used on my bounties. It was corny, but theatrical. I decided to keep it going and spoke while keeping his eyes on my sword, "You didn't finish your drink lad."

I stepped away from the lantern and began toward the man. It was there I saw the fear in the man's eyes.

"You said you were once a part of the British Navy," I said, "Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right," Despite his fear, the man was still trying to keep his composure. He must be from the Navy.

"And then you quit?"

"...yes."

"To join the pirates?"

"I'm not a pirate!" the man insisted.

I stopped approaching, "Then why were you on the Flying Dutchman?"

"I was assigned to it when it was under British control."

"Ah," Then I understood, "When it was under Beckett's control."

The man gave a distasteful look, "Yes."

I dropped my smile, "Ah, anything I hate more than a dishonest man, is a hypocrite. Any people actually believed him."

"Yes," The man looked to the ground, "Foolish people."

"Best day for the navy is when he finally died. The pirate lords had enough, banded together, and struck down that puny little man. I was still a pirate that day. Doing small exports in Cuba. They called all scoundrels to help join the fight, but I refused. I suppose that was the day I realized I wasn't cut out for the pirate's life. I guess that makes me a hypocrite..."

The man was about to enter the archway when I noticed and blocked his path with the cutlass. I pressed the side of his sword on the man's shoulder and pushed him away from the docks. I held the sword to the man's chin and, "Now what just happened after you quit the Navy? Did you join Davy Jones's crew?"

"No!" The man spat.

"Of course not, you don't look the part," I analyzed the man from top to bottom. It was true. All of Davy Jones's men were humans turned into cursed, sea-like zombies. They had coral growing on them, they dripped with water and were not alive. I looked at the man, he was alive, but there was something off about him. Like he is trapped in-between human and zombie.

"What happened?" I asked him.

"Simple," The man mumbled, "Jones killed me."

Before I could respond, the man grabbed my sword hand and pulled me forward. With his other hand, the man grabbed me from behind and threw me towards the ground. He got me with my pants down. I got on my hind legs and searched around for my sword. I was expecting another blow from the man at any moment. It was hard in all the darkness, but I was finally able to grab hold of my cutlass. I clenched it in his fist and pointed it back toward the man, only to find that he was gone. The street was deserted except for me. I then quickly got to my feet and ran through the archway.

I found myself on a stone platform stationed against the sea. Laying before me were rows of docks stretching across the black water. My eyes searched them for any living soul. I spotted the dark silhouette of a man walking towards a dock. I stepped closer and knew for sure it was the man. The man walked slowly, like a specter in the night, sad and alone. I darted up the dock toward him. I gripped my cutlass in hand, ready for a strike. Yet, as I ran closer, the fog seemed to get thicker. I blew out the salty air and continued the sprint. The man was within reach. I throughout my arm for the man's shoulder. Suddenly, the fog clouded my view. I could no longer see the man. When I waved the fog away, he was gone.

It was strange. I was left alone on the dock with only the sea for company. There was a man there with me, but then there wasn't. I left in a daze as I looked around. I spotted the man again, walking on another dock. I ran back down to the platform and then ran up the other dock. The man was in sight, but, like before, the fog thickened as I became closer. Once again, the fog covered my view, and the man disappeared without a trace. So it went, every time I spotted the man, I would chase him down, only for the fog to cloud his view and spirit the man away. Then I was left alone, looking from one dock to the next, questioning my own sanity. Then I heard a voice behind him say, "Came to see me off?"

I swung around. A few feet from the dock, the man was standing on a large raft drifting in the ocean. The raft was built out of wooden planks, doors, and windows, with several small barrels and crates the man used for storage on top of it. The man was holding a long paddle, half deep in the water.

I looked on and asked, "What are you?"

"I don't know what I am," The man answered, "But I can tell you who I was."

He took a deep breath and straightened his back, "I was once James Norrington, lieutenant of the British Navy."

"Norrington," I repeated it to himself. The name didn't seem familiar to me.

Norrington went on, "I assisted Coronal Beckett in taking hold of the Flying Dutchman and its crew. I was then made an admiral and stationed on the Dutchman during the war. I committed treason by helping pirate prisoners escape captivity. Davy Jones himself caught me in the act and stabbed me in the heart."

A cold wind came through, but Norrington took no notice of it. Neither did I.

"His crew tossed my body into the sea, where I was saved and resurrected by the goddess Calypso. I'm now adrift in the ocean, without a home, without a country, without a worry. I don't care what you do to me Mr. Bell, because there isn't enough left to hurt."

I could do nothing but stare at him, fascinated and shaken. I then let his cutlass slip from my hand and drop to the dock with a loud clang. Norrington took that as his clearance to leave, "Thank you, Mr. Bell."

Norrington used the paddle to push off against the water and drift away from the dock. He called over his shoulder, "Have a pleasant night!"

As the raft drifted farther and farther away, it was soon swallowed up by the immense fog and disappeared. I spent a few moments looking for it, then picked up my sword, turned around, and walked back down the dock, and then up to the tavern with a tale worth telling.