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Soon, words begin to fall from our lips – few at first, then – slowly – more and more – mock threats, at first, and silly challenges, low growls and whoops and then, after a while, laughter. Almost cautious to begin with, and it feels somehow strange in my mouth, but then – little by little – it begins to feel more and more right. And as it does, it feels as if with every laugh, all my worries and anxieties, my indignation and anger and frustration fall with it, a dribble turning into a flood, emptying my mind of all that has been dammed up during my captivity and before – until there is nothing left. Only a feeling as if it has gotten somehow easier to breathe, the air less heat-stuffy, a heaviness that has been lifted from my shoulders and chest. My laughter mixes with Jack’s – his eyes are gleaming and there is no trace of his earlier sullenness – and I feel nothing except that this is right and good.
The last thing the sweat takes with it is my knowledge of how to keep my balance – it is hardly surprising that this is soon followed by the fall of both myself and my worthy opponent. And so we lie on the bed, hearts pounding, trying to catch our breaths – and there is nothing else in the world.
Awareness returns only slowly. After a little I grow aware of a pressure on my chest – apparently my opponent has fallen down on top of me. It strikes me that we were probably quite lucky to fall on the bed and not on the hard, hard floor.
It feels like a long time that I just lie here, taking slow, deep breaths, letting heart slow down, feeling warm and empty and sleepy – if I was to choose a word to describe this long moment, it would have to be contentment. I feel content.
However, after a while, I grow aware of the fact that I seem to have fallen on top of some cushions. Now they are three uncomfortable lumps under my back, and the weight of the man on top of me – Jack, his name is Jack – Jack’s weight does not exactly alleviate this discomfort. If I fall asleep like this – something that seems more and more likely, as my eyelids grow heavier and heavier – then I shall regret it profoundly come morning.
Jack is sheer deadweight – I suppose he must have fallen asleep – as I try to get comfortable before going to sleep (a process ideally involving getting rid of the cushions and having Jack wind up on the floor – or just not on top of me anymore). I succeed in getting rid of two of the cushions and have almost dislodged the pirate when he slips an arm around my waist (pushing the final cushion away in the process) and part moves, part slides on top of me, getting more comfortable. The tip of his nose impacts with the emerald lying on my chest, sending it tumbling away. It does not seem to bother him. In fact, I cannot even tell if he is awake.
I plant a hand on his shoulder and try to push him away – he does not as much as budge. Both hands on his chest – some give, but not nearly enough – and still no reaction. Then I try to move sideways and suddenly his grip tightens and a knee pushes back against my thigh. Jack’s free hand reaches up to pat me a couple of times (and I shall be generous and presume that it was not my nose he intended to pat, that it is simply a mistake due to his facing the other way, eyes probably still closed).
“Stop wriggling, there’s a good Commodore Pillow,” he half-mumbles into the fabric of my shirt.
No, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not. I am not going to let him degrade me into a –pillow- - there has to be a limit, and this must be it. I will not. It is improper – even if we are both wearing breeches and I a shirt as well – and besides, after what happened last night, it is even more out of the question. After all, what if my body decides to repeat the performance? Then mortification would not be a sufficiently strong word. So it is simply out of the question.
“Sparrow, get off…” I start, pushing at him yet again.
This time his fingers find what they are supposed to – or so I fancy, since their pressure against my lips fit quite well to the words: “Shh, ‘s sleepy-time.” Jack moves as he speak, getting even more comfortable on top of me.
Oh, but this is an outrage. Is this how Jack Sparrow treats his guests? Although I must admit that his latest shifting around has actually made the arrangement marginally less uncomfortable by shifting some of his weight off of me. Not that it is nearly enough to make me forgive him for curling up on top of me – just like a big cat. A brief burst of memory tempts me to cover my nose, but I resist – catlike Jack might be, but I somehow doubt that he will act like Gold did yesternight. I am also beginning to strongly doubt my ability to move the man – currently pretending to be asleep (for I have no doubt that he is still awake), his breaths slipping in through the opening left by a shirt button that has come undone, tickling the fine hairs on my chest. All of which is quite unacceptable, and if I was not so tired I would do something about it. As it is my mind thinks strange thoughts, no doubt due to said tiredness – how else could it ever cross my mind to consider my current predicament cosy? On top of me, Jack simply breathes – long, slow, tickling breaths, and I can practically feel his chest rise and fall, separated from me by a mere piece of fabric.
I give up.
With a deep sigh and a brief prayer that there will be no repetition of last night, I allow my eyes to close. If Jack’s lips curve into a smile I cannot feel it through the fabric of my shirt.
It feels like only a moment has passed (though it must be longer, for I glimpse the dawn through the windows) when I am awoken by the feeling of warm skin moving under my palm. Jack is almost out the door before I have time to realize that my arm must have curled around him of its own volition during the night.
Oddly enough, I start this day in an uncommonly good mood – despite the sleeping arrangements of the bygone night. The uncommon awakening does not have the power to dispel this feeling, nor the sweat-soaked state of my clothes, requiring that I change. Even when I catch a glimpse of myself in Jack’s mirror and realize that I am badly in need of a shave, it does not change – I simply find my razor and get to work.
The suddenness and noisiness of Jack’s return, carrying breakfast for two, makes me lose my concentration long enough to feel a brief, sharp pain on my chin, but even this small accident does not have the power to destroy my inexplicable feeling – not even when a frowning Jack puts down the bowls of porridge, takes the razor from me and proceeds to shave me. I know I ought to feel angry or even nervous at the thought of a pirate holding something this sharp so very close to my throat – but I do not. I just stand there, meekly, and if I feel anything it is a vague embarrassment at having cut myself – something I have not done for the longest time even in the worst weather.
Jack dabs the cut with a rum-soaked rag and it almost hurts more than the cut itself – and still I feel cheerful. He downs some of the bottle’s remaining contents, then grins when I smilingly shake my head at the offer of some. We sit down to eat our now-cool porridge, and still that feeling is there.
It is going to be a fine day.
It is not until we leave the cabin – since it is that time when it begins to grow uncomfortably hot – that my conviction begins to waver. And then I see Anamaria stalking across the deck and the wavering worsens, even though her glare is not for me – not this time.
“Ye all stink!” and her eyes sweep across the pirates who have come out to enjoy the relative coolness above deck. It is a very accurate assessment, it must be admitted. A considerable number of Jack’s men are indisputably a part of the great unwashed. And even those who have otherwise made a habit of relative cleanliness have been severely impaired by the deplorable state of the water just around The Pearl. Personally, I have been having wistful thought about my lovely bath and my nice, cool swim of not too many days ago.
But I digress.
Anamaria’s fairly accurate assessment of the situation is met by a few comments along the lines of: “Well, what d’ye want us to do ‘bout it?” spoken in tones leaving precious little doubt about whether the speakers believe that any possible solution to this problem exists. Unfortunately for them, the piratess has already come up with one – unfortunately, because this particular solution is of a sort to cause quite a few objections, many of which refer to the fact that the proposed solution is both unhealthy and most likely very bad luck. It is soon pointed out to the objectors that it would be even more unhealthy and even worse luck to refrain from agreeing to Anamaria’s ‘proposition’.
And so it is officially declared washing day – despite widespread muttering and grumbling (including from the Captain, which surprises me, since he has not previously shown any particular aversion to basic cleanliness). A few empty water barrels as well as every container that can conceivably be pressed into service for the purpose – including several chamber pots, a couple of emptied kegs, some pots and the bathtub. From somewhere soap appears. Boats go out, manned by strong rowers, and the clean seawater they return with is taken to the galley where a good fire has been stoked.
From every corner of the ship, from every nook and cranny, clothing begins to appear, as if by magic. Breeches, shirts, scarves, waistcoats, sashes, stockings, drawers – even a few dresses (and none of them appear to belong to Anamaria), as well as a few more exotic garments the names of which are mostly unfamiliar to me. It is with a sinking feeling that I am led back into the cabin and told to gather my laundry (slightly rumbled, but folded neatly enough, all to be found in my sea chest), while Jack begins to gather his own. From chairs and corners and nooks and crannies and tops of cabinets he drags it out, then kneels down and reaches in under the bed. I turn away, expecting some comment about the state of a particular shirt, but none appears. When I turn back, he is staggering to his feet, a surprisingly big pile of clothes in his arms which he is trying not to drop on his way out – a challenge, especially until I take pity on him and open the door for him.
I trail after him, my eyes perversely searching the moving clothing-pile for the object of my concern, but the fact that seven probably-white sleeves are protruding from as many corners of the pile makes it more or less impossible to determine if one of them might be attached to it. None of them –appears- to be torn, but – and then the pile is tumbling, falling, getting lost in a blur of foam and steam, gone from sight.
Jack turns around to find the sight of me standing with my far smaller load still in my arms. Without further ado he relieves me of it, dumps it into the nearest not-yet-full container of soapy water – and I feel somewhat wistful as I see it go, wondering if it is realistic to hope that I will actually be able to reclaim these breeches and shirts when the current chaos ends, or if I will be given some other clothing instead or maybe none at all.
My musings are cut short when I notice that Jack is pulling off his shirt and that all around us men are doing the same, stripping until they are standing in nothing but breeches or – in some cases – simply nothing. I retreat from the improvised orgy of washing before someone might suggest that I should also take the opportunity to wash myself as well as my clothes – unlike most of the crew I have been trying to keep up a minimum of cleanliness and therefore I feel less of a need. From a safe distance I watch men who for all their earlier protestations seem to be perfectly happy with splashing and scrubbing and pouring the occasional bucket of water over each other, until everything is wet and soapy and glistening – and of course Jack is right in the middle of it.
It amazes me how carefree this pirate crew is capable of being. Here we are, becalmed for more than a week now, and yet not one seems to be overtly worried. True, we have only recently left port – the water is still fresh and not yet the unpleasantly lively liquid it will turn into eventually, the food is still fresh and not yet alive and crawling off the plates. Also true, that if worst comes to worst, The Black Pearl has her sweeps and could make an attempt to reach shore by way of them. Even so, there seems to be no attempts made to ration the supplies – something unheard of anywhere else I have been, and in my eyes a sensible precaution since there is no way of telling how long it will be before the wind returns. But the only acknowledgement of our situation would appear to be the whistling, which – as every sailor knows – can lure the wind – although I have witnessed a few squabbles about which particular tune works best. I see another such one now, as two pirates throw water and random wet clothing after one another in favour of drier arguments.
Youths, agile as monkeys, go aloft, long ropes in their hands. They string them out, from mast to mast, yardarm to yardarm, rigging to rigging and everything to everything, until it forms a crisscrossing web that would make any spider proud. Once the last rope has been attached to their satisfaction, the youths come back down – but only to climb back up straight away, carrying the far more cumbersome load of very wet clothing. Trailing a wake of drops – drip, drip, drip – they carry their load forward, starting in the bow and working their way aft, gradually covering The Pearl in a canopy of laundry – and all of it drip, drip, dripping. It feels as if a rain cloud has somehow appeared and settled right on top of us – and nowhere on deck can a man stay dry, so I settle for moving myself out of the way of the worst ‘rain’.
Once the last item of clothing – which my eyes tell me is a kilt, improbable as that might be – has gone aloft, the washing water is put to one last use. Strong men topple the tubs and barrels, sending waves of soapy, tepid water out across the deck, to break against bare feet and ankles and form tiny maelstroms at every scupper. Men move through the water, seeming disorganized, and yet, when the last water is gone, the deck is left the cleaner for it. The improvised wash tubs are returned to their various original locations – no doubt also the cleaner for this experience – and it is done.
Jack slumps against a mast, patting the dark wood, his lips moving. I am not close enough to actually hear what he is saying, but I fancy he might be promising his precious ship that the indignity of laundry day will soon be over. Then he turns his back to the mast, leaning on it, his head falling forward and every braid and trinket following suit, forming an eccentric veil, unrestrained by the bandanna he has surrendered to the warm water.
Personally I find a place by the railings fairly close to Jack where I can collapse comfortably – and almost immediately regret it, but cannot make myself attract undue attention by moving. Instead I lean back, unbuttoning my shirt nearly completely – for the heat is too much, heavier and worse than on any of the previous days – I find that I could not care less about propriety. I lean my head back against the railings and close my eyes to block out the sight that I know would otherwise find my gaze perversely attracted to it: a long-sleeved, white shirt, the left sleeve partly shredded as if by claws, hanging right in the middle of my field of vision. Even with my eyes closed I can almost see it. My imagination tempts me to open my eyes, just to take a peek, to see if the white colour is the same almost-pristine all over – but I resist.
Sounds fade – conversations, hushed to begin with, ebb out, random whistling ceases, no planks groan as nobody moves. There is silence.
And then there is a jingling sound.
At first my mind ignores the faint jingle – after all, it has become a common occurrence. Every time Jack shakes his head or nods or moves quickly it is heard. Then I hear the jingling again, and I realize that there is something wrong about it, though I am unsure exactly what it might be. And then there is a third faint jingling noise and suddenly I know.
It is –too- faint.
Whenever Jack’s mane is put in motion, the trinkets will collide, making more noise than this. And if Jack is moving, then where are the other noises? Where is the creaking of planks under his feet, the muttered annoyance from whoever has to make way for his progress on the crowded deck? Where?
I open my eyes and look straight at Jack. His dark eyes are visible behind the veil of his own hair, but he has not moved a muscle. The hair hangs down, motionless. And then a single trinket moves – barely, just barely, but it moves, and as it does the jingling sound is heard for the fourth time.
Around me men are stirring, sailing men realizing the significance – some swiftly, some not so. A few are getting to their feet. Jack is raising his head, slowly, inch by inch, taking care not to put his hair decorations in motion. Everyone – myself included – are almost deadly silent – as if this is some spell, some sorcery, and a single word will dissolve it, like some desert fata morgana.
Like some tiny animal, the faintest of breezes slides up my thigh, up my belly. It dips into my navel, jumps back out, then slithers its way up my torso like some intangible snake, eventually coming to rest, curling up at my collarbone. Throughout I sit still as a statue, not moving a muscle, as if worried the wind is some shy animal that might be easily spooked.
The men work in silence, directed by gesture, not word, and sails are set, carefully adjusted until the breeze fills them, and the silence is broken at last by the sound of straining wood. I get to my feet and look over the railings and aft – it is faint, barely noticeable, yet undeniable: a wake. We are once again on our way.
Words are heard now, but only just this side of whispers – as if no man desires to risk drowning the noises of a ship underway. Jack himself has taken the helm, smiling widely at nobody in particular. I lean back against the railings, letting my eyes close again, revelling in the breeze.
And then, as if the gentle zephyrs have quite suddenly lost all meekness and taken up pugilism, the wind slams into my stomach, making me gasp and nearly double over, tearing loose my only buttoned shirt button.
I look out at the horizon and see it darken, fast enough to be abrupt. I suddenly feel chill and turn my attention to buttoning my shirt again, thin as it is.
Suddenly, everybody’s attention is diverted when one end of one of the laundry lines is torn free with a thundering crack. It must be called luck that it narrowly misses Mr. Gibbs.
Above the hubbub – for now nobody worries about scaring away the wind – I can hear Jack roar: “Get those bloody lines down! Batten the hatches! Douse all fires!” I walk towards him, halfway thinking to offer my advice – for I have seen my share of storms at sea and besides, while I would never be able to justify aiding a pirate at most things, then weathering a storm is certainly one thing that I can – especially since it will clearly be in my own best interest to do so. Of course, I will most likely find that he is already taking the necessary steps to make sure his beloved
Imagine my astonishment when I draw near and hear him giving orders to the effect that certain sails are to be set and I realize that he means to make use of the storm. Perhaps in a ship that had actually been cared for in the last decade, but in this ship? This ship, so debilitated I am not even sure that her masts can bear half the strain that this storm will put on them without falling? It is madness.
And chapter is finished in the next post
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No, no, no, no, no! Absolutely not. I am not going to let him degrade me into a –pillow- - there has to be a limit, and this must be it. I will not. It is improper – even if we are both wearing breeches and I a shirt as well – and besides, after what happened last night, it is even more out of the question. After all, what if my body decides to repeat the performance? Then mortification would not be a sufficiently strong word. So it is simply out of the question.
This is EXACTLY why I love Sparrington. And Jack and Norrington. It's brilliant. It's so hilariously funny that I can't stop laughing at the mental image. *gigglefits*
And it's getting very very intriguing now. *hops to next post*