POTC Fic - Tiger Wings - Part 2/6
Authors: madam_pudifoot and mary684
Title: Tiger Wings
Characters: Young Jack (age 8), Teague, Sala, Mister Smithson and a handful of miscreants.
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part Two 1,045
Disclaimer: We own nothing. We don’t even own this universe, as it’s an odd mish-mash of each of our worlds, but we’re as content as cucumbers to play in it.
AN: We owe a huge thanks to florencia7, whose drabble, A Family Night was the sole inspiration for this piece.
X-posted to blackpearlsails and redux_08 as well as our respective journals.
Part One here
Tiger Wings
Part Two
For the better part of an hour, Jack sat in a recessed corner of the hull; the worn timber rough against his back. An occasional tear slipped from his eye and he swiped at it, irritated. Through the boards, he could make out the sound of drizzling rain; it calmed him while he weighed his options.
Teague was a shark; the first thing he'd notice was the missing knife. For as long as Jack could remember, the knife had been a prized relic. Teague kept it in his boot, and though he rarely used it, its value to him was evident. Many a winter's night, when the cool breezes caused enough pain to keep his arthritic fingers from the guitar, the old pirate would clean salt from the blade with a rag dipped in lamp oil. On these nights, Sala would encourage Teague to share stories of his childhood. On the eve of his eighth birthday, Teague shuffled into Jack's chamber and laid the knife on his bed. "Time you took over its keep, Jackie. 'Tis the only thing left of me da. He'd want you to have it."
Jack sighed. Teague would never forgive the loss of the knife, nor would Teague ever trust him with anything so fine again. Jack had little choice, but to do as Kenny asked and deliver the Code. He felt he had a fair shot at getting in and out of the Library without being seen. He often wandered into places he didn’t belong and managed to keep himself well hidden. With a bit of luck, it would be years before Teague noticed a page or two was missing.
He took a deep breath. It was time to get moving.
His clothes were still damp from running home in the rain; he hadn’t thought to change them. As he climbed upward toward the family quarters, the humid air clawed at him, and his breathing became labored. He paused a moment before the great door and tried to catch his breath before knocking. The familiar squeak of rusty hinges and scraping wood terrified him. He was home - the safe haven he would soon besmirch with perfidy. He shuddered.
Smithson’s eyes flicked over him, and with a quick glance into the dark space beyond, ushered him in. As he passed by Smithson, Jack ducked his head, hiding his split lip. Mister Smithson had an uncanny knack for sniffing out mischief, and Jack’s shoulders tensed as he walked past him.
“Where ya headed, lad?” the older man questioned as Jack ambled in a direction opposite his own room.
“See my ma.” Jack said and continued on his way, forcing himself to ease his gait and adopt a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He felt Smithson’s eyes zero in on his back, but Teague’s former quartermaster said nothing.
He slowed as he came near the Library. From the bedchamber, he could hear the faint sound of Sala’s singing. The ribald shanty was one of Teague’s favorites, and sung in her lilting voice, it took on the melody of a lullaby. Jack smiled. His mother was, in all things, a lady, though there was no mistaking Teague’s influence on her. Jack wished he could take a moment to surprise her and enjoy her embarrassment.
All too soon, he was in front of the Library door. He’d give anything to continue on his way and visit Sala in her chamber. She’d coddle him and coo over his lip and admonish in the tender way she had of making him feel foolish, but unlike Teague, not stupid. His nose burned as hot tears again sprung to his eyes, and a fierce anger began to churn in his stomach. He’d make Kenny pay for this.
A glance back proved Smithson had forgotten him, and Jack turned his attention to the door. The ancient wood was worn smooth around the handle; it felt warm to his touch. He held his breath and listened. No sound, save that of Sala’s singing. He slipped the latch and the door eased open.
How many days had he stood in this spot wondering what lock and key protected the Codex? Had it always been this simple? Slip the latch and enter?
He looked around the corridor one last time, took a breath and entered.
The room was dark, lit only by the port-holed window and the spill from the open door. The ceiling was higher than he remembered and the chandelier smaller. Soundlessly, he shut the door and the room grew even darker. Kept closed most of the time, the air inside was chilly and dry. Jack shivered in his damp clothes.
He took two steps and stopped, terrified to realize his footsteps echoed in the vast chamber. Using a lighter tread, he set off again; this time satisfied he would escape notice.
As he hoped, the Codex was where he had expected, centered on Teague’s mahogany desk. Outside, the sound of thunder rumbled as another line of storms advanced toward the Cove. Sporadic lightning flashed at the port window illuminating the text.
It was beautiful. A fine hand had scribed the passage; the flowing script was large and formed with an artistic flourish. By some small miracle, which at the time Jack accredited to fate and later to cosmic folly, the page before him held the secret of concocting poison from Jamaican rum and powder. Jack mumbled a prayer to providence. If Kenny Freeling was intent on murder - why not by means of poison?
With a finger along its spine, Jack tore out the page, careful to tug gently on the parchment lest he ruin the very thing he came to steal.
Jack eyed his find appreciatively, holding it up to the light to better admire the worn parchment. He grinned triumphantly, congratulating himself on a job well done as he folded the dirty scroll and casually tucked it into his belt. A heist worthy of the most notorious rogues, to be certain - it took a different breed to steal from the Keeper of the Code.
Just then a click sounded from beyond the chamber; a series of rough clangs, then the unmistakable squeak of rusty hinges and the scraping of wood in the distance.
Not good!
TBC...
Title: Tiger Wings
Characters: Young Jack (age 8), Teague, Sala, Mister Smithson and a handful of miscreants.
Rating: PG
Word Count: Part Two 1,045
Disclaimer: We own nothing. We don’t even own this universe, as it’s an odd mish-mash of each of our worlds, but we’re as content as cucumbers to play in it.
AN: We owe a huge thanks to florencia7, whose drabble, A Family Night was the sole inspiration for this piece.
X-posted to blackpearlsails and redux_08 as well as our respective journals.
Part One here
Tiger Wings
Part Two
For the better part of an hour, Jack sat in a recessed corner of the hull; the worn timber rough against his back. An occasional tear slipped from his eye and he swiped at it, irritated. Through the boards, he could make out the sound of drizzling rain; it calmed him while he weighed his options.
Teague was a shark; the first thing he'd notice was the missing knife. For as long as Jack could remember, the knife had been a prized relic. Teague kept it in his boot, and though he rarely used it, its value to him was evident. Many a winter's night, when the cool breezes caused enough pain to keep his arthritic fingers from the guitar, the old pirate would clean salt from the blade with a rag dipped in lamp oil. On these nights, Sala would encourage Teague to share stories of his childhood. On the eve of his eighth birthday, Teague shuffled into Jack's chamber and laid the knife on his bed. "Time you took over its keep, Jackie. 'Tis the only thing left of me da. He'd want you to have it."
Jack sighed. Teague would never forgive the loss of the knife, nor would Teague ever trust him with anything so fine again. Jack had little choice, but to do as Kenny asked and deliver the Code. He felt he had a fair shot at getting in and out of the Library without being seen. He often wandered into places he didn’t belong and managed to keep himself well hidden. With a bit of luck, it would be years before Teague noticed a page or two was missing.
He took a deep breath. It was time to get moving.
His clothes were still damp from running home in the rain; he hadn’t thought to change them. As he climbed upward toward the family quarters, the humid air clawed at him, and his breathing became labored. He paused a moment before the great door and tried to catch his breath before knocking. The familiar squeak of rusty hinges and scraping wood terrified him. He was home - the safe haven he would soon besmirch with perfidy. He shuddered.
Smithson’s eyes flicked over him, and with a quick glance into the dark space beyond, ushered him in. As he passed by Smithson, Jack ducked his head, hiding his split lip. Mister Smithson had an uncanny knack for sniffing out mischief, and Jack’s shoulders tensed as he walked past him.
“Where ya headed, lad?” the older man questioned as Jack ambled in a direction opposite his own room.
“See my ma.” Jack said and continued on his way, forcing himself to ease his gait and adopt a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He felt Smithson’s eyes zero in on his back, but Teague’s former quartermaster said nothing.
He slowed as he came near the Library. From the bedchamber, he could hear the faint sound of Sala’s singing. The ribald shanty was one of Teague’s favorites, and sung in her lilting voice, it took on the melody of a lullaby. Jack smiled. His mother was, in all things, a lady, though there was no mistaking Teague’s influence on her. Jack wished he could take a moment to surprise her and enjoy her embarrassment.
All too soon, he was in front of the Library door. He’d give anything to continue on his way and visit Sala in her chamber. She’d coddle him and coo over his lip and admonish in the tender way she had of making him feel foolish, but unlike Teague, not stupid. His nose burned as hot tears again sprung to his eyes, and a fierce anger began to churn in his stomach. He’d make Kenny pay for this.
A glance back proved Smithson had forgotten him, and Jack turned his attention to the door. The ancient wood was worn smooth around the handle; it felt warm to his touch. He held his breath and listened. No sound, save that of Sala’s singing. He slipped the latch and the door eased open.
How many days had he stood in this spot wondering what lock and key protected the Codex? Had it always been this simple? Slip the latch and enter?
He looked around the corridor one last time, took a breath and entered.
The room was dark, lit only by the port-holed window and the spill from the open door. The ceiling was higher than he remembered and the chandelier smaller. Soundlessly, he shut the door and the room grew even darker. Kept closed most of the time, the air inside was chilly and dry. Jack shivered in his damp clothes.
He took two steps and stopped, terrified to realize his footsteps echoed in the vast chamber. Using a lighter tread, he set off again; this time satisfied he would escape notice.
As he hoped, the Codex was where he had expected, centered on Teague’s mahogany desk. Outside, the sound of thunder rumbled as another line of storms advanced toward the Cove. Sporadic lightning flashed at the port window illuminating the text.
It was beautiful. A fine hand had scribed the passage; the flowing script was large and formed with an artistic flourish. By some small miracle, which at the time Jack accredited to fate and later to cosmic folly, the page before him held the secret of concocting poison from Jamaican rum and powder. Jack mumbled a prayer to providence. If Kenny Freeling was intent on murder - why not by means of poison?
With a finger along its spine, Jack tore out the page, careful to tug gently on the parchment lest he ruin the very thing he came to steal.
Jack eyed his find appreciatively, holding it up to the light to better admire the worn parchment. He grinned triumphantly, congratulating himself on a job well done as he folded the dirty scroll and casually tucked it into his belt. A heist worthy of the most notorious rogues, to be certain - it took a different breed to steal from the Keeper of the Code.
Just then a click sounded from beyond the chamber; a series of rough clangs, then the unmistakable squeak of rusty hinges and the scraping of wood in the distance.
Not good!
TBC...