Falling into Heaven, falling into Hell chapter 9. part four

[oneiriad]

  A considered opinion that I find myself quite unable not to share with the man whose madness it is.

   “Ah, how good of you to remind me. Commodore, get ye below,” is his only answer, and he barely spares me a glance.

 

  Below? Below like some common landlubber? As if I am not a man of the sea, as I have not ridden out many a storm on deck? He wants me to hide below?

 

  Once again I find myself unable not to share my opinion. This time I actually warrant a frustrated sigh.

 

  “Tell me, Commodore, what is the single most dangerous thing a captain can have on deck when things get – interesting?” I hold my tongue and he soon answers his own question. “Someone bloody well questioning his orders, that’s bloody well what! So get ye below – savvy?”

 

  And of course he is quite right. I can think of few things more likely to cause a disaster than if the men were exposed to contradicted orders. Nevertheless, my answer is still: “No.”

 

  “No? Do you think that wise, Commodore?” His voice is low and cold and I know that I am no longer talking with Jack, my eccentric host. This is the pirate captain, the man who had me flogged for disobeying his order, and I find myself having absolutely no illusions regarding whether or not that might happen again if I am not careful.

 

  “Indeed, Captain. Surely, in a storm you will need every able-bodied man you have?” I refrain from commenting on the fact that several crewmen have actually gone below already, out of the way, taking the ship’s assorted animals with them

 

  “Able-bodied, -obedient- men, aye.”

 

  “I understand the need for discipline under the given circumstances, Captain.”

 

  “Oh good,” and just like that it is once again Jack. He grins. “Now, go get yerself a coat and some oilskins, then come back up here. Oh, and a safety line.”

 

  “A safety line?” I am indignant. I am not some landlubber who needs…

 

  “Aye, ‘cause I don’t much fancy explaining to the Admiralty how I let their fine Commodore get himself washed overboard by a bit of a blow, savvy?” A raised eyebrow warns me that the step from Jack to the Captain is a very short one at times.

 

  “Very well, Captain.”

 

  Some of the crew – young Mr. Hawkins among them – snigger as I make my way to the cabin to fetch what I have been instructed to. I ignore them, but allow myself a small smile at the sound of Jack asking them what is so bloody funny and why are they not getting their own safety lines, considering that The Pearl does not have enough men to be able to afford losing even “a bunch of poxed buggers like yourselves” to the storm.

 

  I quickly return to Jack by the helm, narrowly avoiding being pushed overboard by one of the now frequent gusts of wind. Then I begin to put the extra safety line I brought around his waist.

 

  “Oy, what’s this?”

 

  “Surely, a captain should be the first to obey his own orders – in order to set a good example. Besides, I would hate having to explain to young Mr. Turner and Miss Swann how I let their favourite pirate get himself washed overboard by a bit of blow, as I believe you so eloquently put it.”

 

  “Bloody cheeky Commodores,” he grumbles, but allows me to finish what I have started, then instructs me to grab hold of the helm and lend my strength to his.

 

  And thus I find myself standing at the helm of the most notorious pirate ship in the Spanish Main, feeling the immense pull under my hands, as the world grows dark and the wind strengthens. All around men are struggling with laundry and sails, and Jack bellows some new order every few moments. I, on the other hand, find myself in the novel position of having to follow orders instead of giving them – although the orders to me are simply given by acts, as I am expected to simply follow Jack’s lead. A task that leaves me plenty of time to observe.

 

  The sea grows dark – no longer even blue, but a deep, dark, leaden grey making dark promises. It rises and falls, rises and falls – and every time a little more. The Pearl slides down into small valleys and up onto hills.

 

  The dark clouds come rolling in over the ship. I crane my neck back and see the St. Elmo’s fire dancing in the riggings, bright and blue and eerie. I remember sailors telling that ships where St. Elmo’s fire is seen will not sink in a storm, remember wondering if it might be true or if the men who were aboard such ships were simply never able to tell anybody apart from Davy Jones.

 

  Lightning flashes in the horizon. The thunder comes rolling, languorous, low – only barely louder than the growing roar of the wind. Louder even is the creaking of strained masts, pulled at violently by bulging sails. Eventually – an eventually dangerously long in the coming in my eyes – Jack bellows for one to be taken in. Another eternity before the next bellow, and then again, and again.

 

  Under my hands The Pearl is a wild animal, fighting to tear free. I spread my legs and fight back with all my might.

 

  The lightning has come closer, far too close for comfort now – if one of them hits us, it will probably spell our doom – and every thunder-crack roars louder than the howling, screaming, shrieking wind. In the white flashes of brilliant light I can see The Pearl rise and fall, the sea turned into mountain after mountain, grey and merciless as granite.

 

  I turn my head to look at Jack, illuminated by lightning, and what I see both frighten and fascinate me. His eyes are shining, his hair dancing wildly with the wind, and he is laughing, laughing as wildly as any storm, though I cannot hear it over the wind.

 

  I stand next to him and the wind howls like a wounded animal, like many wounded animals. The ocean churns and the lightning flashes and the thunder roars. I sweat and I feel my muscles grow tender from the strain, but I never relent.

 

  At some point, the darkness grows darker still – blackness everywhere, black as the ship. I pray that we are far from land, for in this darkness we will not see it before we are hurled onto it by the waves or crushed against it.

 

  My face grows wet and I halfway suppose it to be salt spray, but I am thirsty – have been for quite some time now – so I open my mouth, hoping for it to be rain, sweet rain. It is. Drops trickle down my tongue, down my parched throat, refreshing.

 

  Time passes. The rain falls, the wind howls, lightning, thunder, darkness – it all simply is. And so is Jack, still at my side, now mostly silent, for the last sails have long since been furled and there are no more orders to bellow – and his laughter has ceased.

 

  And then it starts to cease – the lightning flashes grow rarer, the thunder fainter. The sea calms. The rain turns into a drizzle, then stops completely. The world goes from black to dark to leaden grey – and from that to the deepest, darkest blue. The wind fades – not completely, but it settles at a fresh breeze.

 

  At one point I am shocked at the sound of Jack’s bellow – unnaturally loud, as it seems – as he orders men aloft to set the sails once more. And then the sun rises, fiery red and orange and yellow, bathing the world in light. Bathing me in light, practically slumped over the helm as I am.

 

  I blink – not quite awake somehow. There is an almost dreamlike quality to the activity on the deck, men who have weathered out the storm below - men who have slept at least a little – handling the morning chores. Mr. Marty is gathering the fish that has been thrown up on deck during the long night, then sits down to clean them. After a while a scent of frying fish and – almost unbelievably – coffee reaches my nostrils.

 

  And still I stand, watching without really noticing anything around me.

 

  A bloody fish gut throw casually overboard. A harsh cry. Something dirty white-grey catching the redness before a splash is caused.

 

  I turn my head slowly, too tired to follow the gull with only my eyes. I free myself from the helm – my fingers almost seem to have petrified in their curled position, and they take some time to disentangle – and stagger over to the railings, leaning heavily on it.

 

  Staring.

 

  In the middle of the bright, blue sea, outlined by the dawn sun, is an island. It is not a very big island – compared to Jamaica it is not even a dwarf – but an island nonetheless. Most of it seems to consist of a large, rocky area – steep and inhospitable-looking, almost a mountain. Nearest to us are trees, deep green, growing closely together, lushly, jungle-like. White sand separates them from the ocean. It looks quite pretty, like an absolutely marvellous place to stop for a bit. I wonder, though the thought is of course quite ridiculous, if this might be Jack’s ‘island that cannot be found’.

 

  “Aye, that be the place.”

 

  I am not sure what surprises me more – Jack’s voice suddenly coming from right behind me or the fact that I must have spoken out loud.

 

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” A pointed chin comes to rest on my shoulder.

 

  “Quite.” I feel my legs giving up under me and slowly collapse on the deck, blinking up at the pirate still standing.

 

  “Tell me, Captain Sparrow..:”

 

  “How’s about ye call me Jack, eh, my dear Commodore James?”

 

  “Jack.” I close my eyes, tasting the name, finding it not unpleasant. “Yes, Jack. So, Jack, would you mind terribly if I were to fall asleep on your quarterdeck?”

 

  “Only if you’d mind me joining you.” And he glides down to lie next to me, closing his eyes and apparently falling asleep immediately.

 

  “Oh. Good.” But even though I am terribly tired, I find myself unable to fall asleep. I lie with my head on the hard wood and a thousand thoughts whirl through it, keeping me awake. Thoughts about the island we have arrived at, about the sheer impossibility of it being Jack’s island, the sheer impossibility of somehow miraculously navigating through such a storm and successfully finding any particular place, the greater likelihood of it simply being some convenient coincidence that Jack has seized as an opportunity. Thoughts about Jack – this man asleep next to me – my captor, my genial, albeit eccentric host, my enemy, my… Mad, absolutely and completely, and yet. The very thought of the seamanship required to sail a ship that has almost degenerated into a wreck due to a decade of neglect through a tropical storm, let alone required to actually find a particular island (if indeed it is that island) under such circumstances. Thoughts about madness and brilliance and the fine line between the two. Thoughts about Jack laughing with the storm.

 

  Thoughts crowding my mind, going over and under and around each other, starting, stopping, colliding, splitting, uniting, and somehow I think two, three, four, a dozen things at once. And then a single thought pulses through my brain – ridiculous, insane, impossible – and suddenly my mind is completely empty of all other thoughts.

 

  I know – I need – to consider this thought, to rationalize it, refute it, pacify it. To prove its madness, disprove its point, argue with it.

 

  Alas, my treacherous body decides to fully exploit the sudden lack of activity in my mind. I feel my eyelids sinking – cutting off the view of my ‘bedfellow’ – and my body plummeting into rest. The very last thing I do before letting completely go of the waking world is to let the thought – preposterous, impossible, insane – run through my mind one more time.

 

  I think I am falling in love with this man.

 

And that was chapter nine. And I hate Livejournal for forcing me to post this in bits. Anyway, don't hold your breath waiting for chapter ten - in case you haven't guessed already, then I am a slow writer.