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Title: Of shadow-truths and warnings
Author: Oneiriad
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: PG
Archiving: ask
Series: Falling into Heaven, falling into Hell chapter 4.
Disclaimer: Potc not mine, end of story, alright?
Summary: Sailing can be pretty monotonous, and it doesn´t help when there is nothing to do on account of you being a prisoner aboard the ship - nor when the crazy pirate captain decides to have complicated, philosophical discussions with you...
Notes: Thank you to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
raphe1 for being so kind as to point out a minor inconsistency in this chapter, so that I could try to fix it. Hmm, and the word "shadow-truth" comes from Neil Gaiman´s The Sandman: Dream country.
Sparrow’s prediction regarding our time of departure from La Isla de Muerta does not – as it turns out – prove to be terribly accurate. It is well into the afternoon before we weigh anchor and set sail.
In all fairness it should be noted that most of the delay is caused by events outside of Sparrow’s control – first there is the matter of the cursed monkey having to be caught and uncursed. Catching it appears to be difficult enough, since the simian apparently knows every nook and cranny in the rather sizable cave, but at long last Mr. Gibbs has it in his grasp – only to turn around and find the stone chest closed and chained shut, and while some of the other pirates fumble with the chains, the little monster bites Gibbs, causing him to let go of it, thereby starting the entire process anew. It takes several attempts before someone thinks of getting the chest open –before- catching the monkey and finally the creature is uncursed and the lid slapped in place just in time to prevent the light-fingered animal (which has once again managed to get loose) from picking up another coin. Again it attempts to get away, but this time the sound of a gunshot echoes through the cave and it falls to the ground – dead. I look up to see Anamaria standing with a smoking pistol in her hand.
The whole monkey business takes hours – plenty of time for those of Sparrow’s crew left on board the Pearl to grow quite curious about the treasure – so in the end they have to be rowed back and forth in shifts to allow each and every one of them a chance to gawk at the cave’s contents and to fill his pockets with sundry coins and pieces of jewellery - not that all the looting seems to make much of a dent in the treasure heaps. But eventually we leave the damned place behind.
I find it amazing how quickly even the most unusual situations can become routine – yet once were back on the open sea I find myself repeating the same pattern of living as I have done pretty much every day since my abduction. Every morning I wake up to the noise of rattling keys and a pirate (rarely the same one twice – I am getting a feeling that it is a duty for which they draw straws and send the loser) puts the manacles on me before escorting me up to the captain’s cabin and then, after breakfast, I am left to my own devices until sunset signals the time for my return to the brig.
Breakfast with Sparrow – who has thankfully stopped serving me chicken soup, though the apples remain on the menu -, lunch with Sparrow – more apples – and dinner with Sparrow – even more bloody apples. In between meals I am mostly left to myself, for which I am grateful – it gives me time to think about my situation – mostly about Sparrow’s queer behaviour in the cave. –He- does not as much as mention it – during meals he either spends his time questioning me about Mr. Turner and Miss Swann (or Will and Lizzie, as he prefers to call them, although he adds a `future Mrs. Commodore´ to the mix every once in a while – to taunt me, I have no doubt) or he regales me with stories of his great adventures – stories that I am quite sure are in the very least partly made up as he goes along.
Having just spent half a dinner listening to the third version of `the island incident´ (which bears about as much resemblance to version one and two as it does to the facts of the matter – that is to say: precious little) I make a comment about this. I am not sure why I do so – maybe to get some sort of reaction out of Sparrow – any reaction, even anger – but he just smiles at me.
“But, Commodore James, who are we to say which one of the stories is true and which is false? Who knows, maybe they’re all false, or all gospel truth, eh?”
“That’s ridiculous!” Ah, but surely I did not expect reason or logic from a known madman.
“Well, in that case, my dear Commodore James, why don’t you enlighten me?” and he leans forward, still smiling.
“What really happened is the truth. The rest are simply stories.”
“I see. But what if only one person knows what really happened? If he chose to tell something else, wouldn’t that then become the truth, eh?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I seem to remember Miss Swann mentioning something about rum-runners.” I hope he hears the sarcasm in my voice.
“All right, bad example,” but he does not appear to be the least bit annoyed at my retort. If anything he looks as though he is just beginning to enjoy himself. “How about this, then: An event occurs – say, like a famous pirate captain miraculously escaping a desert island. Now, lots of stories gets told about said escape” – “mainly by said pirate” I interrupt, but he just grins – “aye” – and continues: “Now, the years pass and the world turns and what do you know – the next thing a hundred years has gone by and everybody who knew what was originally the truth has gone to a better place. So who can now tell which tale is true and which is a lie? Not to mention if every version –except- one is forgotten – won’t that version then become the truth, no matter what actually occurred?” and then Sparrow drinks deeply from his mug of rum – apparently all his talking has made him thirsty (not that he is ever -not- thirsty for that particular beverage).
“Hardly. In that peculiar scenario of yours the truth would simply have been forgotten – the facts would not have changed in the least.”
“Oh, but Commodore James, why do you keep insisting that the facts have anything to do with the truth? Truth is that which lasts, and mere reality have absolutely no say in the matter. I mean, it’s not like people are too keen on the facts anyhow.”
“What do you mean, people are not `keen on the facts´?” Almost against my will I find myself intrigued by Sparrow’s illogical arguments.
“Well, how about our little adventure?”
“What about it?”
“Well, let’s see if we can agree on the facts – not the truth, mind, the facts: Pirates, curses, Aztec gold. Agreed?”
“Yes. And so?”
“So we have the facts. Now, do you really seriously think that anyone without personal acquaintance with said facts are ever going to even consider considering them the truth?”
“Maybe not,” I admit, suddenly reminded of the half-written report to the Admiralty that lies locked in my desk drawer back at the fort – a report that simply refuses to sound even remotely credible no matter how I put it. I can just imagine how the high lords will react (“Cursed pirates – what a ridiculous fairytale! Now, where is the real report?”). Still, I refuse to let Sparrow win this argument. “But that does not mean that it is not the truth.”
“No?”
“No. The people who did experience this `little adventure´, as you insist on calling it, will remain quite sure of the truth of the matter.”
“And you’re quite sure about that, are you?”
“Of course.”
“But what if I told you, Commodore James, that already some of the people who shared our little adventure are questioning what happened? They’ll be busy telling themselves that they went temporarily insane that night, that it was the moonlight playing tricks on them, that they had had a little too much rum – not that you can ever really have too much rum - or that their last meal had been of a – shall we say - doubtful quality – anything except admitting to themselves that there really are things that go bump in the night,” and then he leans back to quaff some more rum.
“You’re telling me that people will deny the evidence of their own eyes?”
“Aye, in favour of the evidence of their common sense,” and then he leans forward, perhaps noting my expression (which might presently be troubled or merely thoughtful – I’m not entirely certain) “I’ve seen it happen before, mate. Seen people make up such – why don’t we just call `em `shadow-truths´ and save your precious word’s integrity, eh? – anyway, seen `em do it rather than admit to the facts.”
“Are you saying, then, that we are going to invent one of these – shadow-truths as well, Captain Sparrow?”
“Well, you might, seeing as how you’re such a fine and sensible man from such a no doubt fine and sensible world, and you won’t be finding anybody back in that world who’ll support you in remembering the real truth. And really, Commodore James, be honest – has it not crossed your mind at any time that it might all have been some sort of nightmare?”
Briefly I think back on the dawn after the battle against Barbossa´s men – how unlikely it had all seemed in the cold, clear light of day – how unreal. But I still refuse – perhaps simply on principle – to let Sparrow make me admit anything. So instead of acknowledging his point I ask: “So, I suppose the great Captain Sparrow alone is immune.”
Once again I am treated to the sight of a gold-toothed grin: “Nay, not immune, just perfectly aware of how it works – I see what’s happening, so sometimes it doesn’t happen to me, savvy? Maybe you’ll get some of the same now, if you just hold on to the thought, eh?”
Something about the idea of receiving anything from Sparrow (even something as intangible and ridiculous as this alleged `immunity´) makes me feel oddly ill at ease (and suddenly the emerald necklace feels unusually heavy), and I hardly listen when Sparrow continues in an odd and almost dreamlike tone of voice: “`Sides, I have much more to forget from this little adventure than anyone else,” and when I do spare him a glance I see him looking oddly at his own raised hand, wiggling the fingers simply for the sake of moving them. It seems like a madman’s gesture – or would, except I once again remember Mr. Turner’s retelling of the events that took place within the cave that night and suddenly Sparrow’s behaviour makes perfect sense. I wonder how many other parts of his seemingly crazy behaviour are simply souvenirs from various adventures – and the very thought manages to send a chill down my spine and make me shiver. Perhaps it is to force myself to think about something else – anything else – that I look back upon our conversation and grasp at a point as though it was a rope thrown out to a drowning man (or maybe it is looking at Sparrow appearing to study his own bone structure intently that I wish to escape?).
“But despite of all that, then by agreeing to call this idea of yours a shadow-truth, you are admitting, that I am correct and you are mistaken.”
My words appear to get through to Sparrow, for his eyes turn to look at me and he raises an eyebrow: “How do you figure that, Commodore James?”
“A shadow is not a real thing, Captain Sparrow. A shadow is merely a poor imitation of something.”
“Pure semantics! Give it another name then!” he scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“You picked the name, now you are stuck with it.” Ah, but it actually feels good to win one of these word-duels with Sparrow. Wonder why he is still smiling, though.
“Stick with it I will, then. But Commodore James, what makes you think that a shadow is not a real thing in and of itself?”
Again? Won’t the man ever admit defeat? “The shadows on the cave wall might appear to be real, but they are cast by what is really real,” and I lean back, prepared to enjoy Sparrow’s dumbfounded look when he fails to figure that one out.
“Actually, what’s really real would be what’s outside the cave altogether, mate,” and I feel the smirk fade from my lips. Where the Hell did he learn Plato?! “And actually, my dear Commodore James, you’ve just made my point, because those shadows on the wall, they are what everybody thinks is the truth – the shadow-truth, as it were – while in actual fact they are double false. Now, maybe this is a little bit like math, eh, Commodore James? I wonder, does two lies make one truth?”
I feel my mind reeling at Sparrow’s twisted logic – and especially at the fact that I am seeing a certain amount of logic in it. I hurriedly gulp down some water to hide my temporary confusion. I wonder if it is possible to get intoxicated merely by being in the presence of an individual completely saturated with alcohol – that would certainly explain my current state of mind. I shake my head, trying to get rid of some of those mists that seem to be clouding my mind, looking for something that will make this conversation turn in my favour.
Sparrow, however, seems to interpret my head-shake as denial, for he launches into yet another one of his examples: “No? How about this little example, then? One day in the not too distant future when we’re well rid of each other, we both tell the tale of your stay with me. Now, you stick to all your lovely little facts, I’ll think up something really outrageous, and then we’ll see who people believe, savvy?” and I feel a coldness in my belly at the thought of this. Not only is Sparrow perfectly aware that the present facts are hardly something that I would want other people to know – as the weight of the emerald constantly reminds me – but my mind is oh-so-unhelpful as to supply me with several `outrageous´ ideas, all of which could get me into serious trouble if they were ever so much as whispered in a rumour, no matter how great a lie they might be.
“It is hardly good manners to be telling lies about other people. How would you feel if people started telling tales about you?”
I wonder how Sparrow manages to give the impression of smiling a little bit wider at every remark I make? “But my dear Commodore James, people are already telling tales about me. Why do you think I go around doing the very same thing myself?”
“So it would not bother you, if, say, hundreds of years from now, someone made up a story about Captain Jack Sparrow with absolutely no foundation in the truth?” I ask, incredulous.
“Ah, but that would actually delight me, my dear Commodore James.”
“Even if that story then, by your own logic, became the truth of you?”
“Aye, even then – maybe even especially then. I mean, why would I, more than those storytellers of a time yet to come, know the story of ol´ Captain Jack, eh? It would be rather flattering, truth be told. Who knows, maybe they’d make me out to be a new Robin Hood, eh?”
The thought makes me smile, despite of myself. “I wonder what your motto would be, then: `Take from the rich and spend it all on rum?´”
“Why not? You can never get too much rum.”
“And of course your crew would be your merry men.”
“Of course. Quite the merry bunch, they are, and that’s a fact. And then, of course, I’d have the entire ocean for my Sherwood Forest.” The thought seems to please him.
The atmosphere has been considerably lightened by this little Robin Hood-fantasy. Sparrow has begun inspecting apples, weighing them in his hand. Ah, but a dark little thought crosses my mind: “And let me guess,” and I guess that the sudden bitterness in my voice is what makes Sparrow look up, dropping the apple he was presently inspecting, “I’ll wind up appearing as your very own Sheriff of Nottingham.” The thought of being remembered as the villain to Sparrow’s hero is far from cheerful – no matter how completely ridiculous the thought actually is.
“I’m afraid that the part of my nemesis was taken near on a decade ago. But don’t worry, my dear Commodore James – I’m sure we can find the perfect part for you,” and I blink, slightly startled – for the briefest of moments I imagined that Sparrow’s voice had once again become a purr, but of course that is ridiculous – almost as ridiculous as the thought of Jack Sparrow as Robin Hood.
Anyway, I am not at all certain what sort of reply would be appropriate, so instead of making one I turn my attention back to my half-eaten dinner (which has gotten quite cold during our discussion). Thankfully Sparrow seems to consider our conversation to be at an end – or at the very least postponed – so once I have eaten my fill I can lean back and wonder about this pirate who juggles as easily with Greek philosophy and tall tales as he is presently doing with four bright green apples – wonder about Jack Sparrow, wonder about who on Earth this strange man is. Of course I have heard the stories, but something tells me that they are mere `shadow-truths´. I wonder about the facts behind them.
Wondering about Sparrow becomes a pastime for me over the course of the next few days – mainly because life at sea is a pretty monotonous thing most of the time and my present voyage is particularly dull thanks to a complete lack of anything to actually do, not to mention the fact that I have a grand total of one potential source of conversation, since Sparrow’s crew very obviously do not want to have anything to do with me. So I wonder.
Wondering brings me back to the events in the cave – the kiss and the emerald. Sometimes I think it must have been my imagination playing tricks on me – but the weight of the emerald is undeniable reality. But the kiss then – surely that did not really happen – and I reach to touch my cheek, rough with several days worth of stubble, and no trace is left to confirm anything (and what exactly did I expect? a burn? a scar? a brand?) – but then I start wondering about why on Earth I would imagine Sparrow kissing me, and –that- thought soon banishes all doubts as to the reality of the occurrence. Which still leaves me wondering at the why of it. Probably just Sparrow’s way of amusing himself – driving me as mad as he is with this bloody wondering.
Sometimes I try to remove the emerald necklace – I have no desire to wear a `pretty´ piece of jewellery like it, and the fact that actually wearing it has earned me more than one glare from Sparrow’s crewmembers (though never when he himself is around to notice) make it an even less desirable state of affairs. Only problem is that reaching the locking mechanism involves nearly strangling myself in the manacles that I am forced to wear, and on the few occasions when I do manage to reach it – well, suffice is to say that I have not exactly had much occasion to try to remove such objects from anyone’s neck, and my fumbling usually proves to be in vain. One time I actually manage to get it off and am about to throw it into the waves when Sparrow (appearing from out of nowhere as is his wont) plucks it from my hands only to put it back around my neck. He doesn’t say a word, but something about the look in his eyes convinces me to wait until I can be damn sure he is not looking before making another attempt.
One such chance I get (though my fumbling with the lock does not succeed in opening it on that occasion) is the day when Sparrow orders a boat to be put in the water. It is a clear day and all around The Black Pearl the horizon seems endless – and very, very empty. He has the stone chest with the cursed treasure placed in the boat, then chains Barbossa´s corpse (brought along from the island wrapped in a piece of tattered sail and currently making headway towards regaining the appearance that I imagine he must have had whilst cursed) to it – and the dead monkey, too.
Later a very wet Jack Sparrow is standing next to me (almost casually reaching out to adjust the necklace just so) while we watch the rowboat slowly fill with water (and I wonder – could that possibly have anything to do with the hole Sparrow made in it before swimming back to The Pearl?) and sink. “Now they’re ol´ Davy´s problem,” and he smiles.
I cannot help but wonder, though: “Why chain Barbossa to the chest?”
“Even a mutineering son-of-a-whore like him deserves a burial at sea – he was, after all, a pirate.”
“But surely you could simply have thrown him in the sea back at the Isle of the Dead.”
“Aye, surely I could,” and he turns to look at me, “but then I would have been short one corpse to tie to the chest, now wouldn’t I?”
“And what purpose could possibly be served by such a thing?”
“Serves as a warning, Commodore James, in case anybody ever chance upon the treasure again.”
I look out on the seemingly endless expanse of water surrounding the ship, then down at the undoubtedly deep water beneath it. Surely Sparrow must be more than ordinarily crazy of he thinks that anybody will ever `chance upon´ anything down there, and I tell him so – diplomatically leaving out the part about him being crazy. He just smiles: “Only a few hundred years ago they would have called you worse things than a madman if you had suggested that there might be a few whole continents just lying about waiting to be discovered across the Atlantic Ocean. A millennia or so ago they would have burned you for a witch if you had had a pistol, or so I’d guess. Who knows what they might be able to do some day, Commodore James? I certainly don’t, so I’m not taking any chances, savvy?”
For one time’s sake Sparrow’s reasons sound more farsighted than crazy (though this might simply be his madness infecting me) – I doubt that I would have thought along those lines – so I settle for a shrug. And then he goes back to his helm and I go back to my wondering (and my occasional attempts to remove the bloody necklace).
At least I do not have to wonder about our present destination, which Sparrow informed me of on the first day out from Isla de Muerta. However, I can honestly say that I am not particularly enthusiastic about paying a visit to the not particularly fair town of Tortuga...
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From:
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Oh, it would be easy to fix - the fact that I have been thinking about it shows I sadly have too much time on my hands or that I SHOULD be studying surgery BUT - simply make it a puzzle lock - some kind of complex thing that is difficult to open without seeing. Chain can't be very long or he would just take it over his head.
Ok, getting a life now . . .
From: (Anonymous)
no subject
Hi, I know I'm coming late to this, and I don't know what the original inconsistency was, but I think there is still one: James' manacles are taken off each night as he is brought to the brig. Why doesn't he try to take it off then?
I also think that the events in the film take place during a longer span of time than just the one week you mentioned somewhere in an earlier chapter. There is no actual evidence in the film, but all that journeying from place to place on the ocean, with stops on Tortuga, the rum-runner island, Isla de Muerta, and the time of their return until Jack's hanging must have taken at least some weeks.
Apart from these minor inconsistencies, I'm very much enjoying the story so far. Spot-on James-voice, and I think you have nailed especially Jack's gestures particularly well.
Also, the premise sounds very believable and actually would have been a very prudent tactic of Jack, considering the condition of the Pearl.
I know that this story has been in an unfinished state for a long time now - do you intend to go back to it and finish it? I very much hope so!
Candia
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I do hope that you had someone around to give you CPR - I would hate to think I had caused any damage :-)
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That may very well have been my favorite line out of the entire chapter. Made me literally laugh out loud. But then, Robin Hood was always one of my favorite story characters. =) Named my first ever pirate rp character Robin after him. (She almost ended up being Robin Sparrow... but that just sounded cheesy.)
But anyway! Cheers! Am loving the story thus far.
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I too am a fan of Robin Hood - as you might have guessed from my including him - and that line, I don´t know where it came from, but suddenly it was written...
Love your icon :-)
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were -> we're