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Chapter 9. - The games we play
by Oneiriad
Disclaimer: No, I have not by some miracle acquired the copyright for Pirates of the Caribbean.
Previous chapters can be found in my memories here.
People who have spent their entire lives in England or similar places have no idea how hot it can get in the Caribbean when no wind blows and not a single cloud drifts by to challenge the sun’s supremacy. And even the people who have spent part of their lives in the West-Indies have no idea how hot it can get under such circumstances when one is aboard a black ship.
The first couple of days many of the men seek relief in the cool waves around us, lead by their captain, who even goes to the length of having a sail lowered into the sea to create some shallow water and then proceeds to give lessons to those of the men who cannot swim. I sit on the railings and look down on his endeavour, slightly bemused – though some captains in the Navy think it wise to have men who can swim, considering the element they are surrounded by, by far the most are of the conviction that it is unwise. Men who can swim will more often jump ship at any harbour, they argue, and unlike those who cannot, they cannot simply be kept confined aboard to prevent it. Besides, men who can swim are worse off if they fall into the water – they take that much longer to drown.
At first I absolutely refuse to even consider taking a dip myself, despite repeated invitations from Jack, but eventually – on the second windless day – I break down and swim a few ship-lengths (pointedly ignoring the rascal who keeps splashing water on me, no doubt trying to draw me into some childish game of his).
Sadly, the dawn of the third day spells the end of such entertainment – the water immediately surrounding the Pearl has grown – unappetizing, to say the least, since the waste from the ship and her crew are not as usual left far behind. With no wind to move the ship we are stuck in water that grows filthier by the day.
At night the temperature drops – not that it ever as much as approaches cool, but enough so that most people go below deck to sleep, and enough so that you will wake up shivering in the hour just before dawn if you do not have a blanket. At
Life is lived in the mornings and evenings – and mostly on the shaded deck. The men make themselves busy, some with ordinary pursuits like splicing rope, others whittle or amuse themselves in other ways – I notice one man with a bag full of dried cloves, carefully working on a small model ship of the unusual material. Others again engage in games of the sort that one might expect – the dice tumble far from the players on the deck, while the cards need no pebbles to prevent them from flying away. Strangely enough there are no money changing hands during these games. – One day I ask Jack about that.
“’Tis the Code, Commodore James – no playing dice or cards for money.”
“Are you meaning to tell me that pirates do not gamble?”
His answer is to guide me down into the hold by a most circuitous route, repeatedly shushing me when I try to ask what we are doing. Well hidden behind an extravagantly luxurious sofa (part of Sparrow’s stored furniture) I watch a group of men cheering, while a single one stands within a large circle of rope with his hands tied behind his back. Silver sits in the corner, apparently fascinated by the spectacle. Then a man upends a bag – and the circle is suddenly full of squirming, squeaking rats, their naked, wormlike tails covering what their small, furry bodies does not. Silver pounces on one, carrying it away in triumph – but the panic spreads among the rodents not due to this, but because the bound man has kneeled down and is using his teeth to break the backs of the vermin. Finally nothing stirs in the circle – the surviving rats having managed to make good their escape – and he stands up again. There is blood on his face. Only a little bit comes from a single bite on his cheek. Coins change hands between the entertained pirates.
The spectacle is revolting. Sparrow laughs – no doubt at my expression of distaste, for I sincerely hope that he at least has sufficient refinement to not enjoy such ‘entertainment’. Heads turn at the sound suddenly coming from what appeared to be an empty corner, but turn away again when they spot the familiar figure of their captain – who is presently tugging at my arm to make me join him on the sofa.
The sofa is quite comfortable, but Sparrow seems to be of the opinion that I am a part of it – or at least a cushion. At least, that is surely the explanation for why he is lounging as much on me as on it. When the pirates start getting ready for another round of their game, I push him off and head back up on deck, not wishing to see any more of it. Sparrow’s ringing laughter follows me up the stairs.
Most mornings I try to keep busy – not an easy task as the matters stand. It is Jack who reminds me of the ship’s articles – and of my almost-promise of turning the draft into an actual document. I most confess I pounce on it and very determinedly repress all thoughts about whether it is an acceptable task for a naval officer.
Six mornings I spend my time doing rewrite after rewrite, shaping a document that has the ring of something very official – and wasting quite a lot of paper in the process, but somehow I cannot seem to summon up any guilt over that. After all, I am not the one who will have to requisition or purchase more of it – not this time. And every step of the way there is Jack – keeping me company, reading through my drafts, making suggestions regarding the phrasing of a particular passage – the man has quite a vast vocabulary (though he seems inordinately fond of the word flagitious) -, at times distracting me with jokes or stories (and when I ask him why, his answer – which he refuses to elaborate on – is simply: “All work and no play makes Jimmy a dull boy” (and I cannot help but bristle on the inside at his presumption – it is bad enough that he has the audacity to call me James, but Jimmy ?!)), sometimes bringing me water and oranges – he seems to have noted my fondness for the fruit. I never ask him why he lavishes me with so much attention – I tell myself it is most certainly not because I am worried about what the answer might be.
By the end of the sixth morning, Jack and I both run out of ideas for improvements to the document – and I fully expect to have nothing to do on the seventh morn. Not so, as it turns out, because Jack insists that I help him with the actual signing of the bloody thing, too – a process that involves me writing down peoples’ names one by one as he calls them over to us, then watch as they sign next to it – or rather, some of them sign. A considerable number simply put down their X, and a few shape words in manners of writing unknown to me – I think I recognise both Arabic and Chinese among them, though.
Jack himself is the very last to sign – a large, ornamentally curled piece of calligraphy that takes up half a page. I almost expect him to add ‘savvy’ to the ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’ – it is almost more surprising that he does not.
“And now you, Commodore James.”
“Sparrow, are you –completely- mad? How on Earth can you possibly imagine that I would be willing to sign your –pirate- ship’s articles?” I glare at the pen he is offering me.
“Oh, I don’t want you to sign ‘em, my dear Commodore James – I dare say you’d be too much of handful to have on me crew for me tastes. Bad enough with Anamaria. No, I want you to write that you’ve witnessed it.”
“Why?”
“’S only proper, aye? Official-like papers should have witnesses to say that those that signed ‘em are those that signed ‘em – and who better than a fine and fair Commodore?”
I glare a bit more at the pen before practically wrestling it from his fingers. “Fine!” I grumble. Jack just grins at me. I raise the pen to start writing something to the desired effect – ‘I, Commodore James L. Norrington, hereby etc. etc.” – and then I pause.
“Sparrow, I will need to date this if it is to be done properly.”
And he tells me the date.
I hurriedly cover up my reaction by writing. Besides, I am not certain what reaction is proper – part of me is saying “not any longer?”, because sometimes it feels like my captivity has lasted for years, part of me is saying “that long?”, because at other times it feels like I was pulled over the edge of the cliff just yesterday. And part of me is wondering how much longer it is going to be.
Not that my stay aboard The Black Pearl is completely unbearable – quite the contrary. For one thing Jack has actually kept his word – I am, mostly, treated as cordially as a guest should be. Furthermore, some of the crew have actually begun to speak with me – mostly it is simply a “hallo, Mr. Commodore” (or “Mr. Norrington” or “Commodore Norrington” – or “Arrgh, ye scurvy dog” (though I suppose a parrot should be given some leeway) – only Jack ever uses my given name). Occasionally there will even be a brief exchange about the weather – seeing as the change in the crew’s disposition happened after the night-long debate, that is a subject offering very little in the way of variation, though I am hardly going to complain about that.
Quite a few of the crew are still ignoring me – I suspect that quite a few of them would love to throw me overboard, but refrain out of respect for their captain – when it comes to Mr. Hawkins, who will occasionally glare at me when he thinks nobody notices, it is more than mere suspicion. Still, mostly people are polite to me – mostly.
The mornings are long – partly because people rise before dawn – but eventually the rising heat will spell their end, and people will find their way to their places on the deck. I have a fairly comfortable seat, reasonably well-shaded (Jack picked it and shares it with me, occasionally rising to get the both of us mugs full of water (not a soul is drinking rum in this daytime heat – Gibbs held out to the third day, Jack to the second) – the one time I try to do it he pulls me back down and asks me what kind of a host I think he is, if I think he will allow me, the guest, to do that).
The people onboard cope with the heat by shedding as much clothing as possible – a few are on the very verge of indecency, though most settle for relieving themselves of shirts and suchlike. The deck is nearly hidden by tanned and darker skin and vivid tattoos. The only item nobody considers removing are hats – quite the contrary, from somewhere Jack has even dredged up an old tricorn for me. He presents me with it on the first day – by suddenly standing in front of me and placing it on my head.
I take it off and look at it.
“You could not have lent me this sooner?” I ask, squinting up at him. Wherever he found this, it must already have been there before, when I had a need for one – so why has he waited until now?
“’Tis just an old thing, really – still wouldn’t have fitted with your pretty uniform, Commodore James.”
“And why exactly did you decide to provide me with it now?”
“’Cause of the sun. It’s glaring something fierce, and I’ve a hunch it’s barely getting started.”
“I see”, and I place the hat on my head. It is slightly too small for me, but I am grateful for the shade it provides.
“Speaking of the sun,” Jack continues as he flops down next to me, “just hold still for a moment while I put this on ye, eh?” In his hand is the porcelain jar he keeps his kohl in.
“You are not going to smear that stuff all over my face, Sparrow.”
“Nope, just ‘round your pretty eyes, mate.” A long finger dips into the jar, then reappears visibly darkened.
“Sparrow, you are not going to…”
“But it’s just for the sun, my dear Commodore James, to take some of the glare of it. After all, you are my very own fine guest – only proper I make sure ye’re comfortable, eh?” I glare at the man. His hand approaches my face.
“No!” I jerk back.
“Commodore James, will ye stop acting so bloody ridiculous?”
“Ridiculous is how I will look, if I allow you to do this – and I will not.”
“Not ridiculous, Commodore James. Quite the contrary – I think you’ll look right pretty, very…”
“Sparrow, no!”
He looks into my eyes. I look into his, trying to communicate my sheer stubbornness through my gaze alone. Eventually, Jack sighs – a long-suffering, theatrical sigh.
“Oh, all right then. Have it your way. That’s what you get for trying to be thoughtful and considerate,” he grumbles, but at least he has stopped his attempts, and I can settle down to enjoy the shade provided by the tricorn.
Anyway, as I was saying, most of the people aboard remove part of their clothing.
Anamaria walks slowly past where I am sitting, then leans languidly against a mast. Her fingers carefully unbutton her shirt. Then she follows what seems to be well-established custom and unceremoniously drops it on the deck.
“See something ye like, Norry?”
“No! I mean yes! I mean – madam, my name is Norrington, not ‘Norry’. Kindly use it.”
“Ah, but ye look like a Norry – or maybe I should call ye Noreen?” She taps her foot. Like almost everybody onboard she is wearing sensible sailor’s shoes (in fact, make that everybody except the captain) – I have never before noticed how very pointed they are.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
The woman throws her head back and laughs, and is joined by a number of the men sitting closest. I feel my cheeks heating somewhat. Then she walks away, leaving a few well-placed slaps in her wake (but only a few, because most of the men she passes are too heat-lazy to try to paw at her – charms) before sinking down between Mr. Marty and Mr. Cotton. Men look at her through half-lidded eyes and from under the rims of hats. Nobody makes a move.
Jack returns with the two brimming mugs of water he has been off fetching, handing one to me, then surveys the scene.
“What’d I miss?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing, mate.”
“Nevertheless, it is nothing.” He sinks down next to me and follows the direction of my gaze.
“Ah.”
“Indeed.”
“She really doesn’t mean it so bad, you know – our Anamaria.”
“She most certainly had me fooled.”
“’Tis nothing personal, Commodore James, nothing to do with you.”
“I think my previous statement is still most fitting.”
“’Tis not –you-, Commodore James, - ‘tis the Navy. They hanged her dad, savvy?”
“Oh?” I turn my eyes away from the woman pirate to regard Jack. How has that nothing to do with me? I am the highest-ranking officer of the Royal Navy in the area.
“Aye. A long time ago, a-fore your time here. So you see, nothing to do with you.”
Perhaps it is to stop this conversation that he then proceeds to lean his head back and raise his mug to pour water into his mouth. More than half of it misses. Tiny rivulets cascade down his chin and cheeks, down his throat, down his shoulders and arms, down his chest – sparkling like tiny mountain creeks in the sun, following the riverbeds of old scars. A trickle cascade out over his left nipple, forming the tiniest waterfall I ever did see.
On his shoulder and back the long, winding dragon tattoo sparkles from the moisture – you can almost see the tiny, perfect scales and the sharp edges of its ebony claws, the bright yellow of its eyes – and suddenly the yellow vanishes and reappears, as if the tattoo just winked at me. I blink – then glance up at Jack’s face, fully expecting him to be grinning at me, laughing, having just performed some trick of muscles akin to those sailor’s who can make a mermaid on their arm undulate. But Jack’s head is turned away and he does not seem to have noticed my gaze. How very strange.
Anyway, I am the only one aboard who refuses to remove my shirt – even though Sparrow tries to persuade me a few times (even going so far as to try to remove it himself once, although he does stop when I ask him to – for the fourth time). Mostly it is practicality – the shirt sticking to me might be somewhat unpleasant, but it is vastly better than the sunburn I have no doubt of swiftly acquiring – even sitting in the shade – if I were without it. As it is, I can already clearly see that my hands have darkened somewhat. The last thing I need is to turn a bold red colour – and no doubt have the crew make lobster jokes behind my back (that is, more such jokes than is undoubtedly already made).
In the privacy of my mind I can admit a second reason: embarrassment. All around me I see people vividly marked by their lives – even Anamaria has her share of scars and tattoos – not that I look too closely, of course. And I, what do I have? Skin that is pale from having been hidden under a shirt for so very long (for it is not proper for a high-ranking officer to walk around partially undressed, not even when the common sailors do – and besides, I have always had a tendency to burn easily) – and skin that is mostly unblemished, besides. I do have a couple of scars, but they are fine, pale things, barely noticeable (I have always had the fortune to get injured in proximity of a skilled ship’s surgeon or doctor) – but not even remotely similar to the horrid marks that life has left on these men, claiming vast expanses of skin as its own. That most unpleasant day in
So, in conclusion, I opt to face the sticky, sweaty noonday heat rather than the ridicule I imagine this crew would offer – and I try to tell myself that this has nothing to do with mere pride and everything to do with not giving pirates cause to laugh at the Navy – they have been given plenty of opportunities for that as of late.
Evening will bring salvation by way of removing the glaring sun from the sky, though for an hour or more after sunset this will simply mean that the unbearable heat radiates from the black ship herself rather than the sky – really, none but a madman would dream of sailing around in the Tropics in a black ship!
Eventually, though, the heat does diminish, and the time will come for everybody – myself included – to go looking for spare clothing (or to simply reclaim what was discarded). In the still stifling heat of the cabin I twist and turn, mirror in hand, to assess how close to completely healed the marks on my back are – until Jack laughs at me, plucks the mirror from my grasp and proceeds to hold it at an angle that permits me to make a thorough study. He makes no remarks while doing so, for which I am thankful – though somewhat surprised.
The stay in the cabin never lasts long – it is still far too hot for comfort – and we will return to the deck where the entire crew share the evening meal. Jack brings me my food, just as he brings water for me during the day, and when I try to object and do it myself he once again asks me what kind of a host I think he is. I pointedly refrain from answering, but I do not try to change the situation again – besides, if the scallywag wants to play at being my steward, then by all means let him. Why should I object?
After dinner the crew will amuse themselves with songs and stories. A number of bottles will be brought out, but the merriment never approaches the heights that were attained on that first, hot, drunken night. I am not unhappy about this.
For some reason Jack seems to prefer to stay by my side during these evenings – probably just making sure that I do not get drunk enough to be sick all over his breeches again. Some of the time he will sing, usually a loud and annoying rendition of “A pirate’s life for me” – what on Earth possessed me to teach him the lyrics? – although he also seems uncommonly fond of a terribly improper song detailing unnatural acts with a number of animals, though not a hedgehog. Some of the time he will swap tales with his mates, moonlight glinting in gold teeth with every smirk and crooked smile.
One night he brings out a chess set and challenges me to a game. I accept, pointedly refraining from asking where he stole it – it is obviously valuable, detailed pieces carved in ivory and ebony.
Jack plays the same way he seems to do everything – wildly (almost verging on childishly – except he occasionally ceases to verge) and unpredictably, apparently with no rhyme or reason, an impression that only lasts until his seemingly randomly arrayed forces suddenly massacres my far more orderly troops – and so the first game goes to him, an event marked by the changing of handfuls of coins by men who has found something new to bet on.
When the second game starts I am somewhat more prepared for Jack’s unusual approach and apparent ability to plan ten or twenty steps ahead, though it is not until the third that I actually succeed in turning the tables on him – to the vocal delight of the handful of men who betted on me and consequently wins a very tidy sum. Jack, on the other hand, proceeds to berate his pieces – one of his rooks in particular – for having failed to rise to the occasion. I find myself smiling at his antics.
Out of the following games, some are swiftly played, some drawn out, some orderly, some not, some I win – some not. Around us the betting expands, men no longer satisfied with simply trying to predict the outcome of each match. Instead they focus on who will next claim one of the opponent’s pieces, not to mention which particular piece – and, at the other extreme, they bet on who will eventually wind up winning the most games (while I am pleased to realize that the odds are about even and that neither loyalty to their captain or dislike of the Navy seems to influence them to any particular degree, then it is not so pleasant to find – by the end of the last game – that Jack has won by four games).
A mighty (and quite theatrical) yawn from Jack announces the end of the last game, and he scoops up all the pieces, puts them in an ornate box, and heads for his cabin. I find myself trailing in his wake, carrying the chess board.
That night – for the first time since we sailed into
In my dreams I find myself back in the cave on the Isle of the Dead – or, to be precise, in a cave that I know, with the absolute certainty that one can know things in dreams, is –the- cave. Despite the fact that the ankle-deep water I had to wade through is nowhere in sight. Despite the fact that the mountains of gold rising to either side of me make the heaps I clearly remember seem pitiful midgets in comparison. Despite the fact that the light I distinctly recall – moonlight reflected by metal and gems as well as the flickering light of smoking torches – has somehow been replaced with strange, moving beams of brilliant light – some silvery, almost bluish tinged, some emerald green.
A snatch of a tune I have heard far too often lately winds its way through the strange-familiar place. It is too faint for me to hear the actual words.
I start following it.
Through a maze of gorges between glittering metallic mountains I walk – and for every steep I take the tune grows a little clearer, until I can hear the words (“yo ho”) and recognize the voice. An inexplicable sense of foreboding fills me and my steps lengthen, quicken, and I am running – dashing left and right and sprinting straight forward so that the individual coins in the piles around me turn into long, golden lines.
Then I stop.
Towering in front of me, rising up from a sea of gold, is an immense ziggurat – so huge that it dwarfs even the coin piles around me. At the top is a great platform. Immense statues stand guard in each of its four corners. The nearest one is a monstrous snake, feather-crowned head rising as if ready to strike, wings – wings? – unfurled as if to help it keep its balance.
Chapter continues in the next post.