![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
On the middle of the platform, lit by a great pillar of silvery light, stands a large stone chest – a very familiar stone chest. The lid is nowhere in sight and the gold glitters in the moonshine-like light.
Then the singing stops.
Feeling as if I am moving through water, my every movement unnaturally slow, I climb the ziggurat. I open my mouth to shout a warning, but no sound leaves my mouth.
All to no avail.
At the exact moment I reach the platform, Jack leans down – apparently not as much as noticing me – and dips his hand into the contents of the chest.
Coins fall like drops of water between suddenly skeletal fingers. Most of them miss the chest, falling on the hard stone slabs of the platform instead.
During the return trip to Port Royal I was told – though not in great detail – how Jack had for a short while allowed himself to be cursed in the same way as his former shipmates. I never saw him as such with my own eyes. I did see the others, that night aboard the Dauntless, but it was rather dark and I was busy fighting for my life and commanding my men, so I had precious little time to study their appearances in detail.
Standing frozen on the edge of the platform, unable to tear my gaze away from the grotesque sight before me, I have plenty of time. Time to notice that the bones are not white, but an awful yellowish colour, and that they are not clean – bits of what I realize must be skin and flesh are still attached. Time to notice that all of the hair is still attached to the skull – each braid so dry and crusted in filth that I suspect that one could break it off with ease. Time to notice that his face, despite having lost most of its skin and flesh – even the soft cartilage of the nose is gone, leaving nothing but a gaping hole – is still recognisably – undeniably – Jack Sparrow’s. Maybe because that ridiculous forked beard of his – like his hair it is terribly filthy, but also still very much present – and still framing that infuriating gold-toothed smirk (and only God knows how he even manages to smirk without lips). Or possibly it is his eyes – which apart from being lidless now seems to be the only part of him that are still as they have always been: deep and dark and – and looking straight at me.
As they have been doing for quite some time.
I am halfway down the pyramid before the rational part of my mind has time to point out that headlong flight might not be the most appropriate response to the situation at hand. After all, Jack has not exhibited any real desire to hurt me – at least not as of late – and my understanding of the Aztec curse is that it is only supposed to change the victim physically – and not in such a way as to, for instance, give him a sudden, overwhelming need to bash in the head of every person he meets and feast on their steaming brain. So there is really very little reason for me to be running like this.
Unfortunately, by the time my reason has reminded me of this, my ears have heard the rapid click-creak-flapping of far too naked feet behind me and so there can be no question of stopping now. After all, what possible intent could there be behind a pursuit, if not the intent to harm?
The hard stone of ziggurat steps gives way to the cold, treacherous footing of cold coins. I keep on running, sometimes slipping or stumbling, but never falling – and behind me still, and closer and closer, that horrible sound.
And then I put a foot too close to the edge of the pile and it collapses under me, sending me tumbling down.
I land on my back – and before I can get up bony fingers close around my wrists, pinning my hands above my head, and sharp hipbones press against naked hips. Staring up into those brown eyes I realize that I am naked, that I have been so all along.
It does not matter how naked I am, however, not really – because Jack is more naked by far and in a far more ghastly manner, despite the pitiful remains of what was once those outlandish clothes of his. Now, unravelled pieces of thread have gotten themselves caught in the joints between bones – not that it seems to bother him. No more than his inner organs do, still caught within his ribcage – I have a hard time imagining that the small, black clump that I think must have been a heart once or the slack, hanging lungs are of any actual use to him anymore.
He leans down, face close to mine – I can see the trinkets in his hair (tarnished silver, cracked beads), not so much braided as tangled into it now. Closer he leans, far too close – through a hole I can see his brain – rotten, maggot-ridden thing.
I want to scream, to let some of the horror of this escape by way of my mouth, but there are no sound in this place, not now.
He leans back, cocking his head and relinquishing his grasp on my wrists – but when I try to lift them, to push this horror away from me, I find that I somehow been bound with chains of purest gold. I try to buck, to throw him off – but bones slip and slide and he manages only to get impossibly, unnaturally closer to me.
I stare into his face, desperately searching for some sign – any sign – that I am in no danger, that this is still the strange pirate who wanted to spoon-feed me when I suffered from a bad cold. The eyes that look back at me from that horrid ruin of a face cannot wink at me – how can they be his?
Bones move – thighbones, hipbones sliding around, close, pressing closer still, curving, segmented spine – impossible! impossible! – pressing firmly against my groin. Fingertips – fingerbonetips – glide over my torso, almost tickling. Then the flat of hands, gliding over my belly, chest, shoulders, throat, slowly massaging, kneading. As the bones move over my skin, joints open and close, catching soft skin between surprising hard edges, pinching, leaving tenderness behind.
I can hear my heart now, pounding away, too fast – too fast, like my breathing. Beads of sweat run down my skin. I want to beg this thing – Jack – to please stop, but even if I could get the words out, I fear I have forgotten them.
I stare at his face, not daring to look down, not daring to face what he is doing to me. Instead, I hold on to the only part of him that still seems to be his, if only to a degree – those gleaming eyes.
And then he lowers his head.
I halfway expect him to bite me with those gleaming gold teeth of his. He does not. His skull does not even touch me. Only his beard – surprisingly soft and smooth, defying all logic, and surprisingly warm – sliding over my belly just below the navel. Slowly, slowly, never actually touching, bony hands planted to either side of me, he slides upwards. Softness travelling across tender skin, gliding between my nipples as if they were the Straits of Gibraltar, glides tickling over my Adam’s apple, over my skin, my lips.
For a moment we are exactly face to face.
Then he slides upwards yet a bit – and stops. His closed mouth hovers a hair’s breadth above the tip of my nose. Through a gaping hole in his cheek I can see his tongue – a shrivelled, black thing, like some hideous dead slug. Then his teeth part.
I scream…
…and open my eyes, scream still ringing in my ears (so loudly that I am surprised that there does not seem to be anybody – including my bedfellow – who have reacted to it), to find a tiny silver-furred cat trying to insert itself nose-first into my left nostril.
I make no conscious decision to back away from the feline. I just act – and manage to slam painfully into the bedhead. The one good thing that comes out of that is that it apparently is just the thing needed to convince Gold that I am not a comfortable place to lie. Sitting on the floor, it glares up at me, acting as if I was somehow the one to act in an unacceptable manner – but then, what did I expect from any creature voluntarily associating with pirates?
It is while I am staring into those unblinking, green-gold eyes, that my sleep-addled brain finally manages to comprehend what my body has been trying to tell it – namely the embarrassing fact that I have apparently managed to wake up whilst – uhm, whilst standing to attention.
Now, of course, it is not the first time I have experienced this. Quite the contrary – though it is no longer quite as common an occurrence as when I was still a youth. Still, I would probably be worried if it had stopped happening altogether. No, it is not my present condition in itself that disturbs me.
But it has been many a long year since last it occurred when I was not alone. Furthermore, it has certainly never happened after any dreams even half as disturbing as the one I have just escaped.
Finally, it has certainly never before happened while I was sharing a bed with another man – let alone with a vile, amoral drunkard of a crazy pirate whose captive I presently am (and who a panicked glance reveals to be sweetly sleeping still, the only discernable reaction to the ruckus an unintelligible mutter).
Never before – but now it undeniably has, no matter how fervently I might wish it otherwise. After all, I can hardly imagine what could possibly be more humiliating than if Jack decides to wake up (possibly if he knew that I had just been dreaming about him – albeit a most monstrous him?).
I glare again at Gold (sitting on the floor, washing, pointedly ignoring my existence). Bloody cat! Could it not have left me alone, so that the dream – however disturbing it was – could have finished what it started? And then, if Jack decided to enquire about the nature of any unfortunate stains, I could truthfully have claimed to have been asleep (and lied if he had wanted to know what dreams might have produced such results).
Unfortunately, it did not happen so – and it is quite out of the question for me to finish this. With the choice out of my hands (so to speak), I feel confident that I could have endured and possibly lied. I strongly (too strongly) suspect that it will not be the case if I handle this in the most direct manner possible. Besides, there is the possibility of Jack waking up while I am in the middle of – it is simply out of the question.
In an attempt to convince my body to subside, I search my mind for the most unappealing image it can conjure up. Old Mrs. Walker, the elderly widow with whom I lodged once as a lieutenant on half-pay in
Shaking my head to clear it, I try again. This time, I call up the image of Governor Swann, naked apart from his wig and his stockings – old and wrinkled and pale and slack and muscled and tan and taut and stop!
Two further attempts divest me of any hope of settling the matter in this way – it would appear that my body feels that it has been far too long since the last of my rare visits to the most discreet house in the worst part of
God damn you, Sparrow! Why did you have to put me in this position? You could have allowed me to sleep in one of the smaller cabins or the brig or even in a hammock in this very cabin, somewhere were I could be alone with my embarrassment – but no! You had to insist I share your bed – and now look! No, by the way, do not. Stay asleep. God knows, if you wake up and witness this, my humiliation will be complete.
Enough. I tell myself sternly to calm down.
Right.
So, Jack Sparrow is lying next to me and there is nothing I can do about it – not even leave the cabin, since my presence on deck this time of night would undoubtedly attract undesired attention. Nor can I expect my body to settle down on its own. So there is really only one thing to do – the only question is how to go about this without leaving some embarrassing traces behind?
Men sweat profusely under the merciless sun, especially in the absence of any cooling breezes. Those with sufficient clothes change as often as possible. Jack has enough to change those ridiculous long-sleeved shirts he seems to favour almost daily. What he does not have seems to be any sense of order – the garments are left wherever they fall.
On the floor, within convenient reach, lies a sweat-stained shirt. I grimace in distaste before reaching out for it. Unfortunately, the sight of a (mostly) white garment being pulled slowly across a moonlight-dappled deck is taken as a challenge for a game of tug-of-war by Gold. I fear the sleeve is far beyond salvation when I finally pull it up to me. At least the spectacle is a silent one – oddly enough, the cat makes not a sound.
I arrange the item of clothing – and then, biting my lower lip so hard that I can taste the coppery tang of blood (though I cannot keep back the tiny mewling noises I would wish I was not making), staring as if one hypnotized into the eyes of Gold, hoping it is not going to jump up in the bed, praying to every pagan god I can recall (because the matter seems most improper to connect in any way with the Lord) that the pirate is still asleep somewhere behind my back and will continue to so be, I commit the sin of self-satisfaction. It does not take long.
Afterwards, I crumble up the tainted shirt and throw it under the bed, where it joins a few garments that have already accumulated there. Hopefully, Jack’s sense of orderliness will not make an appearance and force him to clean his cabin for a long, long time – long enough to ensure that I am somewhere else when the ruined shirt is discovered. If I am particularly lucky, Jack might not even link the stain to me. If I am particularly lucky.
It is not before I have put my clothes in order that I dare to turn around to see if Jack Sparrow’s dark eyes have been studying me this whole time – but thankfully he lies as before, relaxed in sleep. With a grateful sigh I curl up on my side (not willing to risk inviting further feline exploration), my back to the rest of the cabin, pulling the rumbled blanket tight around me. Alas, I soon realize that there will be no more sleep for me tonight. I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from Jack’s face – every second of the long nighttime hours I expect those gleaming eyes to open, those lips to curve into a knowing leer, as he reveals that the sleep was indeed faked.
It never happens.
Just before dawn he stirs, and now I am the one faking sleep, keeping my eyes tightly shut, forcing myself to breathe slowly and regularly – and I do not stop until the cabin door is closed – surprisingly quietly – behind him.
Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, perhaps it is the heat, perhaps it is simply the strain of having been held captive by a group of unwashed pirates for several weeks – it might very well be all of these things combined. But whatever the reason might be, it is still undeniable truth that the dawning day finds me somewhat – grumpy.
I suppose that the general heat-induced lethargy could be considered a fortunate circumstance – when nobody has any energy to spare on longwinded conversation, it is less noticeable that my own rare comments are more terse than ordinarily. Jack certainly does not seem to notice – apart from a single brief outburst of laughter at a particularly terse comment – nor does he notice the odd glares I aim at him. In fact, I have begun to notice that Jack seems to have developed a talent for not noticing things – slips of the tongue, glances lasting just a moment too long, restless acts in the bed next to him. It is downright uncanny, how he always seems to manage to miss the things I most want him to miss – and it is beginning to drive me mad.
Because I am also beginning to strongly – very strongly – suspect that he is only pretending to miss them. After all, Jack has already proven himself a most perceptive kind of man – and a most sneaky one as well.
But why would he pretend to be ignorant if he has noticed? The thought torments me as I look at its subject, laughing at some remark… is that it? Does he not say because it –amuses- him to see me squirm? Does he find my discomfort –entertaining-? Is that it?!
I look at Sparrow’s laughing visage, and I feel the overwhelming urge to throw caution to the wind and give in to the temptation to confront him, to demand the truth from him. Throttle him, shake him until the beads in his hair break from colliding – shake him until all the lies and secrets fall off like so many specks of dirt, leaving the truth and nothing but the truth behind for me to see.
Oh, but it itches in my fingers to do it.
What keeps me back is not fear of retribution – though I have precious little doubt about whether or not such activities would fail to incur the wrath of my captors. No, what keeps me sitting, my back to the railing and my legs stretched out in front of me, is the thought of what if – what if Jack is really not pretending? What if he has really not noticed anything? What if I were to grab him and shake him and yell at him: “Admit that you lay awake last night, listening, while I interfered with myself! Admit that you have noticed it every time I have looked at you!” and he had no idea what I was talking about? No flogging or keelhauling would be as severe a punishment as the sheer mortification if that was the case – not to mention that if he had not suspected before, then he would certainly know now.
And so I keep my tongue and remain seated, settling for an occasional glare and – as far as possible – the use of monosyllabic words when called upon to speak – and if he notices, then he does not show it.
An observation: anger does not in any way shorten the length of the day – quite the contrary (or so it feels). Finally, evening comes – and so does suppertime. Bowls are passed out with something I suspect was intended to be lobscouse, but was left on the fire for so long that it has turned into a kind of thick soup. The amount of meat is negligible – perhaps five or six tiny pieces in every bowl. After some fishing I finally manage to catch one – only to see it stolen by the sharp teeth of a silver-furred feline.
The words that leave my mouth are hardly some that I use often – in fact, I am fairly certain that I have never before uttered at least two of them on any previous occasion – but right then they seem appropriate, as I glare at the cat that has just stolen part of my dinner with the same ease that it stole my good night’s sleep as well as my peace of mind.
As I turn back to my meal, I catch a glimpse of Jack out of the corner of my eye. It would appear that his eyebrows are presently located at least an inch higher on his face than I seem to remember.
“Now, where did such a fine and upstanding fellow such a yerself learn to talk like that?” He sounds almost impressed. I refrain from giving him an answer, but a moment later I make a sound of disgust as he actually offers the bloody cat one of his own pieces of meat.
“That’s hardly becoming, my dear Commodore James – what has this poor kitty ever done to your own self?” As if I would dream of telling him.
“You mean apart from stealing my supper instead of catching its own?”
“Ah, but I thought you knew – cats only bother people they like,” he smiles and winks at me.
“Well, if you knew that, why did you not acquire some less bothersome ratters?” I ask, thinking of a trio of terriers my first captain had. Excellent ratters, all three of them – and they never climbed on you or jumped into bed with you or stole your food right out of your hand (though they did have a habit of begging at the table).
“Ah, but I –like- cats, Commodore James. We understand each other, them and me, savvy?” Oh, I am sure they do – blackguards the lot of them. “But I suppose I could have taken Anamaria’s advice…”
“Which was?”
“Snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Aye, you know – long, scaly, seem to have left their legs in their other skin. ‘Course, you’d need quite a lot of ‘em – lazy critters, snakes. They’ll eat themselves a nice, juicy rat, see – and then they won’t even bother to look at another for a week or more…”
I listen with barely half an ear to Jack pointing out all the ways in which snakes are inferior to cats, and I imagine if it had been a snake that had crawled into the bed last night, sliding and encircling skin, slithering in under clothes, up a pant leg. I shudder in sheer disgust. Jack chuckles – oh, so –that- he noticed. I send him a disgusted look which merely turns the chuckles into real laughter. Forcing myself not to react, I turn my attention back to my neglected meal.
After dinner Jack sees fit to challenge me to a game of whist. I find myself looking at him doubtfully – after all, whist is a gentleman’s game, and Jack is hardly a gentleman. On the other hand that has not stopped him so far – so I accept his challenge, almost expecting to lose. The necessary materials for the game are assembled on deck – a table and four chairs, a deck of cards decorated with very inappropriate images that seem to be inspired by ancient Greek pottery (and which make the crewmen who have begun assembling begin to mutter, until someone reminds them that there is no prohibition against betting on card players), a couple of extra players – Jack picks for his partner an elderly pirate dressed in what must once upon a time have been a gentleman’s clothes, including a wig that looks – well, dead – the man’s name escapes me. My partner turns out to be Mr. Marty, who sends me a sour look. I suppose, if I had ever any doubt about losing, then it is gone now.
The four of us sit down to play.
I think the one that is most surprised is Jack, though I dare say I follow a close second as the points begin to accumulate (for we play for points only – it strikes me as very odd that on naval vessels I have seen (but only rarely participated in) games where the wages of many months were at stake, but here – among the scum of the seven seas – we only play for points (“’cause of the Code, savvy?”)). The reason for our surprise? It would appear that The Black Pearl’s captain is not the only man capable of surprising people – as it turns out, Mr. Marty is a more than able whist-player. As a matter of fact, I do not believe I have ever encountered anyone better – and I have the good fortune to be his partner.
At first Jack takes it fairly well, joking and gossiping as is his wont. Then he quiets down, focussing – his brow furrows. After a while the game ends. Asked if he would care for another, Jack simply answers: “No.”
It seems like a role reversal has taken place – being on the winning side of the game has to a certain degree cheered me up (especially since Jack was on the losing side, though I admit it is an unbecoming reason). Jack, on the other hand, seems – I would almost say offended. Odd – I would never have taken him for a sore loser. Nevertheless, that is how he acts. He does not tell stories, does not sing drunken songs, does not laugh and only drinks a surprisingly small amount of rum.
He retires early – for the first time before myself. I stay on deck to watch the stars for a bit before deciding that doing so for much longer without him holds little appeal – the crew seems to have gotten used to my presence, but there is no reason to risk some enterprising fellow throwing me overboard under cover of darkness, hoping the captain will not find out who did it (or if he does, that when the deed is done and cannot be undone, then the repercussions will not be so severe).
Entering the cabin I notice that Jack has already climbed into bed – and that he has gathered every blanket, pillow and cushion in his arms or behind his back. I divest myself of as much clothing as I am willing to do in company, then take a long look at the very empty half of the bed that I have grown to think of as mine. Then I turn to Jack and politely ask him to relinquish a blanket. His answer is to simply tighten his hold, moulding his face into a – a pout? Now that is just childish. But very well, then.
A brief bout of something halfway between a wrestling match and tug-of-war later, I find myself in possession of a blanket. I briefly consider a second attempt in the hopes of securing a pillow as well, but decide against it and start walking around the bed, heading for my side of it.
And then a pillow hits me on the side of my head.
I pause and turn to look at Jack, who looks perfectly innocent – or as innocent as a scallywag like him can manage (which is about as much as a little boy caught with his sticky fingers in the cookie jar). I bend down, pick up the pillow and continue on my way.
And then a second pillow hits me, this time on the shoulder. This time there is no trace of pretended innocence. It has been replaced by a glittering in Jack’s eyes, the curve of a small smile on his lips. Looking at him I adjust my grip on the first pillow. I raise my eyebrow.
Jack’s smile widens into a grin. His stretched-out legs – hidden beneath a blanket – begins to be pulled up under him. I lift my leg and place a foot on the bed. Jack rises, the blanket sliding off him to lie in a pile by his feet.
The engagement has begun.
After a little while, things begin to fall. First, a whirling whiteness originating from an uncommonly fluffy pillow, a downy blizzard to remind me of surprisingly old memories of real ones. They are soon joined by one of my shirt buttons, torn free when Jack grabs hold to steady himself (and is rewarded for his trouble with a pillow to his face). The brass button rolls away, across the floor and into a hidden corner.
Chapter once more continues in the next post