This chapter and the one following after are both noticably shorter than average. This is because these two chapters were originally one incredibly big chapter, and rather than make something unreasonably long, I decided to go on the short side. Hopefully the content is good enough to compensate for this.

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Ocean Soul

Chapter IX - You Knew It Was Gonna Happen
 
 

    The three ships with the four pirate captains sailed into Freetown, Sierra Leone, in the early evening in the seventh week, and wasted no time in weighing anchor and rowing into port. Although plans initially stated a quick run for supplies and, at best, a few brief encounters with the local girls, everyone aboard the Black Pearl, Blessed William, and the Tirghráthóir were so glad to be rid off the endless weeks at sea that they found the nearest tavern and inn and took them over. Quite literally.
    "What'll it be, captain?" Delphine asked Kidd cheerfully, drying a mug with a well-worn cloth.
    Kidd approached the bar cautiously, glancing around at the other gavorting, gabbling patrons in the room. "Used to this, are you?" he inquired.
    "Aye, sir," said the woman, all but slamming the mug down and pulling up assorted bottles from beneath the counter. "Just tell me what you fancy and I can see to it right quick, mate. They've got about everything 'ere."
    "Just milk, if you don't mind," said Kidd, and was greeted with an inquisitive glance. "Just having to watch what I drink these days, miss. If I have one drink I'll chase it down with twelve more. T'ain't a fair sight."
    "You're an admirable man, Mister Kidd, to understand his own limits," Delphine told him, returning the bottles below. "I haven't some milk on me but the tavern keep's missus might keep some about her for the wee ones. I'll go round back to the store room and terrorize some out of 'em, won't be a moment..." she said, hoisting herself up onto the counter and over the other side.
    "Oh, no, no, no rush," said Captain Kidd, stopping her. "Please, don't let me inconvenience you."
    "It's no trouble," Delphine said. Before Kidd could protest further, she disappeared into the crowd, ducking under the linked arms of two cheerfully laughing, tankard-clinking Irish pirates. She dodged a fat old man dribbling drink into his beard, squeezed through a cluster of sailors from the Blessed William, passed some crowded tables (picking up at least three drink orders along the way) and was just about to reach the hallway leading down the the storerooms when a large hand clapped down on her shoulder, spun her around, and held her in place while another hand, formed as a fist, punched her in the face.
    "Oh, sorry," Inigo said hurriedly, as Delphine staggered back, hand clasped over her cheekbone. "I thought you were Jack."
    "You thought I was Jack."
    "Yes."
    "Jack Sparrow."
    "Well, you know, from behind... The hair and the clothes, and..."
    "So, in essence, Jack looks like a girl?"
    "Broadly, yes."
    Delphine gave this some consideration, while wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. "You know," she said blandly, "that's so very amusing that I think I'll let you go with a warning this time."
    "My sincerest thanks," Inigo said, trying not to smile.
    "Jack's over there."
    "Right. Thank you."
    "Right."
    Inigo and Delphine parted ways without another word, one going off down the hall and the other weaving between the tables toward a secluded corner pointed out to him, where Jack Sparrow sat engaged in conversation with Granuaile.
    "Does it not strike you as odd," Granuaile was saying, "that allied together now are four famous pirate captains? It's unconventional."
    "How do you mean?" Jack asked.
    "Don't you remember the old legends? Any group of heroes comes in threes. Symbol of the Trinity," Granuaile said matter-of-factly, taking a swig from her tankard.
    "Oh, no, no, no," Jack warned. "Don't drag your Catholic logic into this."
    "Not that Trinity," the Irishwoman said, sounding insulted. "The old Trinity. The tri-form goddess. Almost any group of legendary heroes fit the aspects of it. Were it not for the inconvenient fourth member of our party, we'd likewise match."
    "I'll bite. How?"
    "Age and experience, Jack. Mister Roberts is the Maiden, for he's the youngest. I'm the Mother, on account of being the only one among us with a decent claim to parentage."
    "Wait, who's the odd one out, then, hey? Me?"
    "Mister Kidd was my thoughts. You'd be the Crone."
    "I'm the Crone?"
    "You are the oldest of us here, Jack."
    "Would you get off it already?" Captain Sparrow said furiously.
    "Actually, I think the Crone description fits him rather well," Inigo said, sliding into a chair next to Jack at the low table.
    "Bugger off, Roberts."
    "With who? You?"
    "Vulgar," Granuaile remarked disinterestedly. She shook her head. "You two are such children."
    A few tables away, sitting alone with not even some manner of alcohol for company, Anamaria grew tired of the scene playing out before her, and left.

    Freetown, upright British colony that it was, turned in early, usually when the sun went down. Even if this was not the case, the presence of three different pirate gangs was enough to shut most people up in their neat square houses, so when Anamaria walked the nighttime streets, she did so in solitude.
    That suited her fine. Being around other people hadn't helped her mood in the tavern, and it wasn't likely to help her now. These days, nothing was helping.
    How long had she worked for Jack? Far too long. How had she come into his service? She owed him something, wasn't that it? No, that didn't sound right...
    She couldn't remember.
    After a while it just seemed natural that she worked for him. When Gibbs had passed on, the poor bastard, she was the most qualified sailor aboard the Black Pearl, so it was no issue to anyone that she would take his place. It also made sense that she would be named quartermaster, a position as powerful if not moreso than the captain in certain circumstances, within a year of her reassignment, leaving the position of first mate open to someone probably mythical, for all that Jack let on about it. She never did find out who he meant for the post. She wasn't sure he even remembered anymore.
    What had all these years of hard work for Jack won for her? Nothing beneficial, except perhaps experience, something of dubious value. There was, perhaps, the day, about ten years since her arrival, that she experienced something akin to waking from a dream and realized that while she was gaining wrinkles to her flesh and aches in her joints, Jack was the same as ever.
    How many people had known about his curse? Gibbs, maybe, although he probably wasn't bright enough to have figured it out on his own. Jack's old crew had all left or died over the years, and only Anamaria remained. If he was concerned for hiding his secret, he could have ousted her years ago. But he didn't, because he trusted her.
    Some curse, that, one that afflicts others and not the person it's laid upon. Watching someone remain young and beautiful while you grow old, weak, and withered, every passing year becoming less and less the kind of person you want to be, and the person someone else wants you to be.
    If he ever loved her, he had stopped by the time her forties were setting in.
    She'd hoped, vaguely, that his extended life would help him realize a good catch when he'd found one, but most of that hope was dashed in the next port they came to. It was always one creature after another, enjoying them and savoring them like a good meal, and then quickly casting them aside in time for the next one.
    And there were no end of admirers, of course. That scene in the tavern proved that. They gathered around him like, well... moths to a flame.
    (In another time and another place, Anamaria's weapon of choice would have been a flamethrower.)
    Well, fine. Let him have his groupies or whatever he chooses to call them. Just so long as he gave her due respect.
    Which he didn't.
    Damn.
    It was almost bearable provided no one on the Pearl called her his mother.
    But they did.
    Damn.
    "Careful, dear, you'rl catch yer death."
    Anamaria looked up, into the eyes of an old, wizened woman with skin like gnarled oak, bent nearly double and held up with the support of a cane.
    "What are you talking about, ol' bat?" Anamaria asked. "S'warm as anything out 'ere."
    "I meant the influenza. Spreadin' through the air, it is. Come over here by this wall, so you'rl stay out of its way."
    Anamaria didn't know much about medicine, science, or how the world worked, but she didn't need to to know the old woman was mad. She sidled off the main road toward the wall of a building anyway, enveloped in the shadow of the overhand. Beside her, the small, old lady finished rolling a cigarette and lit it.
    "Is it gone yet?" Anamaria asked, trying to sound innocent.
    "Almost," said the old woman. "That's a ha'penny for the warning, by the by."
    "Sorry?"
    "I make me living giving predictions to people. Fortune teller, that's me."
    "Fortune teller."
    "Yes'm."
    "Well, that's just lovely," said Anamaria, pushing herself off the wall she'd been leaning against. "My mum always said it takes all kinds and all. Well, good evenin' to ya--"
    "You'll be wanting to know something from me," the woman said, taking a long pull on her cigarette. "That's why yer out 'ere."
    "I didn't come out here for you, old lady. An' me reasons for being about are none of your--"
    "It's about a man that you've come," the woman interrupted, her voice growing louder and more authorative. "A Methuselah among men yet youthful in appearance. Am I right?"
    Anamaria hesitated.
    "I dunno if I'd say Methuselah, per se..."
    "Oi, close anuff, close anuff. You've got to have some leeway for artistic license, miss, elsewise a poet'd get nowhere indeed. Now come along and we'll get into your predictering stuff, all right?"
    Where the two ended up coming along to was an old shack erected at the end of an alleyway, lit with misshapen candles in dented lanterns to illuminate a strange assortment of red drapes embroidered with occult symbols, ugly stacks of tarot cards, and a chipped and fractured crystal ball lying in one corner. It was a small, cramped space, made smaller by the broad table and two stuffy chairs situated on opposite sides, taking up most of the floor space not already consumed by the bed (or, more accurately, heap of rags) and the kitchen counter (some crates).
    Anamaria and the old woman sat down in the chairs opposite each other. Anamaria shifted uncomfortably; there seemed to be a spring digging into her back.
    The old woman snubbed out her cigarette on the table, leaving a black mark, and slipped the dogend behind her ear. "Now," she said, lacing her hands together, "Where d'you want to start, love?"
    "Don't you need, er, your crystal ball and--"
    "Oh, nah, thing's only necess'ry if you're doing really big predicterings. Seeing into the future for boats that'll sink and kings'll be killed. Oh, and America. You can't look into the future without seeing America smeared all over the place. Like a bad rash. They do do some things right, though. Breast implants, dearie, they're gonna be big. Dual meaning, that." The old lady winked horribly. "Now, it's thruppence for yer general reading. One gaze beyond the veil o' mysteries an' one 'splanation 'bout what I see there, orright?"
    Anamaria shrugged and pulled out a drawstring bag of coins. It wasn't like she was going to go spend the money on whores or something.
    Moments later the old woman, clutching the coins in her fist, the ancient creature went very still, eyes lightly shut and breath shallow. There was nothing particularly mystic about it, although if Anamaria tried she could pick up a faint drop in temperature in the shack. It wasn't enough to hold the pirate's interest, however, and after three minutes or so of silence she began examining the wood grain of the table, the shambling curtains and the tea spotted counter tops.
    She was just getting around to examining the dirt under her fingernails, when, out of nowhere, the old woman croaked, "The man, he has travelled far, and seen many things."
    "Well, yeah," Anamaria said, after she'd gotten over her mild startlement. "That's not much of a revelation, grandmother."
    "He has seen many women..."
    "I was aware o' that."
    "And many men too..."
    "Er. Not so much that."
    "Yet in his travels there is but one that holds his affections truly and everlastingly..."
    "Aye?"
    "One of... black..."
    Anamaria froze up like a statue.
    "There," said the old woman in a normal voice, opening her eyes and beaming at the younger woman. "Wasn't that a right thrill, dearie?"
    "'Old on..." Anamaria said slowly. "What kind of a prophecy is that?"
    "Wotcher mean?"
    "Well, look," said Anamaria, leaning forward and stabbing the table with an index finger pointedly. "Right, so I'm a negro, that's pretty damn black. One of our fellows's got black hair. Another one wears black. Saying 'black' don't really make as an enlightening description. How'm I 'sposed to derive anything from that?"
    "Tha's all ye get on thruppence," the old woman said stoicly, jutting out her chin. "Any more an--" She was cut off by the sound of an entire bag of gold and silver coins hitting the table. "Orright then." She wiggled in her chair a little to become better situated, drew her breath, and closed her eyes again.
    Anamaria set herself up for another long wait, which was why she jumped when, after three seconds, the old woman snapped her eyes open and burst out, "Your man's in danger!"
    "'Course he is. He's always in danger--"
    "No! Right now!"

    Jack was only vaguely aware that someone had slinked their arms around his shoulders, and this knowledge was gained mostly by the expressions on Inigo and Granuaile's faces. He began drawing his brain out of a muzzy, intoxicated haze when the said arms' hands were stroking and massaging his shoulders and neck.
    "Why, here you are, sweetheart," a woman's voice cooed, a pair of breasts pressing into Jack's back. "Want to get away for a moment?"
    The drunken Jack Sparrow grinned in only a way a drunken Jack Sparrow could grin, turning his head to meet the woman's face. "Now that's what I'm talking about--"
    "Oh, I'm sorry," said Anne Bonney, pulling away sharply at the sight of him. "I thought you were Delphine."
    Jack gave Inigo, who seemed to be struggling not to laugh, a perturbed look.
    "She's over there," Jack muttered, jabbing a finger in the direction of the bar.
    "Ta muchly."
    "Nn," the pirate captain replied, hiding his face with a hand as Inigo and Granuaile couldn't contain themselves any longer and burst out into riotous laughter. Bonney, too preoccupied to notice this, thanked him and raced off, nearly knocking over tables and people as she went.
    "I'm surprised you're not going after her," Granuaile said, between chuckles. "Voyeur that you are, ol' Jack."
    "Not interested," Jack said immediately, up-ending the rest of the contents of his tankard.
    Inigo grinned eagerly, getting up from his chair. "Well, I'm going to go--"
    Face still in his glass, Jack used his spare hand to pull Inigo back down into his chair. "No you aren't."
    "I don't see what's the trouble," Inigo said, shooting Jack an accusatory glance. "You haven't claimed her yet. As far as I see, that makes her free game."
    "No one is touching Delphine on my watch," Captain Sparrow said, in unheardof serious tones. "Do I make meself clear?"
    "Crystal," Inigo said reluctantly.
    "Good."
    At least, that's what Jack meant to say. He was cut off abruptly by the Southern wall collapsing inwards, and two dozen armed pirates pouring in. Which was not usually how things went, no matter how rowdy Jack's crew got, so it only took perhaps twice the normal (sober) amount of time to note the inconsistency, bolt out of their seats, and reach for their swords.
    "Roberts?"
    "Yes?"
    "Where are our weapons?"
    "We took them off at the door, remember?"
    The eyes of three pirate captains moved to the pile of guns and swords amassed near the front entrance.
    "No matter," said Jack resolutely, while around them their equally unarmed crew were running at high speed to avoid getting ruthlessly slaughtered. "We'll just work around that."
    "How?"
    "Just follow my lead, mate." Jack took a few careful strides forward, both hands in plain view. "Good evenin', gents! To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"
    He ducked as someone swung a cutlass at his head.
    "Now, now," he said, holding up a finger. "I'll invoke parlay if I have to. Don't think I won't."
    "Hang your bloody parlay, Sparrow!" one man roared, and with that final statement barreled toward the pirate captain at full speed, brandishing a sword in both hands.
    In the far east there is a style of martial art known as drunken boxing, and the principle of it is simple. The style of movement associated with the form makes the opponent think the boxer is drunk, given the latter the edge of unpredicability coupled with the already-present advantage of a fluid, fast fighting style that can outdo more rigid styles of combat. Some masters of the art feel they get even better results if they're actually drunk while they do it.
    It was with this principle in mind that the very inebriated Jack Sparrow waited in one spot while his attacker ran up to him, swayed off to the right to dodge the first blade and ducked to avoid the second one, then barreled headfirst into the man's stomach, slapped the swords from his hands, kicked his legs out from under him, and left him in a very painful position on the floor.
    "How'd you do that?" Granuaile demanded.
    "Do what?" Jack asked, staggering a little and holding his head so his vision could refocus. Another pirate ran up behind him. Without glancing around, he swung his fist against the side of the man's head and sent him sprawling. Then he shook his hand a little grimacing. "Well, come on, let's find the leader."
    "Without these?" said William Kidd, smiling his familiar, calm smile as the three other pirate captains snapped their heads around toward him. He held a bundle of swords and pistols in his hands. "I think I procured the right ones," he added modestly.
    "Certainly are useful, aren't you, Bill?" said Jack, as he, Inigo and Granuaile each took their weapons. "Right. Now we go."
    "Hold on," said Kidd. "Shouldn't we be putting our swords together and saying 'all for one' and all that?"
    His companions glanced at each other, puzzled. "All for one what?" Inigo asked.
    "Just... all for one. You know, the saying."
    "Is this a Scottish thing?" Jack asked suspiciously.
    Kidd started to say something, and bit it back. "Yes," he said irritably. "A Scottish thing, as you say."
    "Oh good. 'Would hate for it to be French or something."
    "Indeed. Then shall we?"
    "Later, man, later. For now... Tally-ho, good men and lady!"
    "Tally-ho?"
    "Don't look at me. It was Roberts's idea."
    "It was not, Sparrow!"
    They tended to go on like this.

    To understand what happened to the town at this point requires a look into the nature of human civilization. As evolutionary infants, humanity was at the mercy of the elements, the tides of the seasons, and the play of shadow and light. When night fell, it was a time to fear, to hide behind one's defenses and huddle together for protection. The advent of fire drove away the darkness, but only for as long as it burned, and the inevitability of this kept the fear in man. Though there was no terror now, there could very well be terror later.
    Fear of the uncertainty of darkness is as inground in mankind as breathing. It's part of their instinct, and it controls their lives, which is why even in the possession of their own light, people rise and rest with the sun. Manmade light can't be trusted like the sun.
    So as Anamaria ran through the cobbled streets and the town awoke all around her, she felt the uncertainty and the fear rising with the lantern light, long before she heard the clash of swords. Freetown, as a unit, was afraid, and one man's fear was another man's endangerment.
    She ran faster.
    It was probably because of this that when a pirate, hiding in an alleyway, stuck out his arm to connect with her neck, she wasn't able to react in time.
 

End Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter VIII