At Worlds' End: Part 7/15
Chapter VII: Journey to Hell
The bow of the Blind Betsy hit the boiling waves with a fearsome splash. For a moment, it seemed all was lost. Then the familiar figurehead emerged from the water. The entire boat bobbed up, scalding water pouring back over the sides and steam rising from the foredeck.
A powerful voice echoed through the cavern. "DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES."
"Awk. Dead men tell no tales. Dead men tell no tales. Awk," Mr. Cotton's parrot felt fit to repeat.
"Quit that bird's yammering, or I'll take care of it myself," croaked Barbossa, pistol drawn and pointed. Cotton quieted the parrot, and the Captain swung the gun round to the shore with narrowed eyes as they picked up speed once again.
"Put dat away," commanded Tia Dalma. "You will not be needin' dat down here."
But as she spoke, a dark shadow flitted over the sails. Barbossa threw his pistol up in the air and fired. There was the echo of the shot, and one last whisper of a laugh. Then the cavern was filled with an ominous rumbling. The crew of the Blind Betsy ducked as the roof of the cave crumbled away, stones splashing into the water, narrowly missing the small ship on both sides.
As the rocking of the boat calmed, Tia Dalma stood, shaking the dust from her matted hair. "I can't be taking you nowhere," she muttered. But no one heard her speak, for they were all staring overhead in horror.
The sky swirled with dark clouds, lightening crackled, and smoke rose from thousands of fires. The horizon glowed red above imposing gates built at a fork in the river. The stench of sulfur increased as they drew closer, along with an unnatural, almost sweet smell. It was the smell of things burning that never should - hair, bones... and flesh. Will and Elizabeth both buried their noses in their sleeves. Barbossa's nose twitched, but his pistol was away, and both hands on the wheel. Tia Dalma walked up to the prow, staring straight ahead with watchful eyes.
From his position in the crow's nest, Will spotted a rowboat. They were set to overtake it at any moment. Will cried out a warning, and the little old man in the craft looked up at the Betsy with blind eyes.
"Ye watch where yer goin'!" The old man was making slow progress, being short one oar. Will swung down to the deck and ran over to the side to join Elizabeth, who was calling to the man in the boat below.
"We're searching for a man. We think he may have come this way. His name is Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow."
The old man's milky eyes narrowed as he paddled to keep up. "Friends of his, are ye?"
Elizabeth's mouth dropped open, and she smiled in spite of herself. "You've seen him?!"
The old man glowered.
"Seen being a relative term," said Will apologetically.
"Follow me through the gates."
"He says to follow him," Elizabeth cried back to Barbossa. Barbossa looked to Tia Dalma for approval, and he steeled himself as she gave a slight nod.
"Inter the depths of Hell we go," he muttered. As the old man in the rowboat pulled ahead, the black gates swung open slowly, revealing the landscape beyond.
On either side of the river, a vast desert stretched as far as the eye could see. It was dotted with strange rock formations and jagged mountain ridges. Severed heads stared at them with dead eyes amidst a field of limbs on pikes. There was no shade - the light of the black sun beat down mercilessly upon the wasteland. The air was filled with wailing, screams, and sobs. Demons tortured the dead in unspeakable ways. The Betsy neared a rocky outcrop along the rivers edge where a woman was chained, her demon tormentor creeping toward her. She cried out to the ship, pleading for help. Will poised himself to jump to her aid, but Tia Dalma grabbed him at the last moment.
"Her far too gone for a hero, Wi'yam," she warned.
As they realized what the demon was about to do to the woman, Elizabeth turned away, instinctively burying her face in Will's shirt. He held her arms tightly, jaw clenched as blood splattered across the deck. Elizabeth made a little choking gasp against his chest, and Will released her wordlessly.
Even the boiling river they were floating on was no longer made of water, but of blood. The skeletal remains of bizarre marine life popped up between blackened bubbles. The hull of the Betsy had begun to make funny popping noises from the heat of the river. Marty and Gibbs nervously leaned over the edge to examine it. Marty turned away as though sick, and Gibbs reached for his flask, gasping. "Mother's mercy!"
"For what?" Will asked, but Gibbs shook his head and refused to speak of it.
The light of the black sun seemed to be getting hotter, or perhaps they were getting closer to the source. Barbossa adjusted the brim of his hat, sheltering a chattering monkey-Jack, who was clinging to his neck with fear. Will shaded his eyes, and realized that the light shone from atop a great tower. They were very close now to reaching their goal. This could not end well.
Silently, they floated closer to the tower. "Let me deal with 'dis," said Tia Dalma, turning back and looking at them all seriously. No one argued.
"We be seeking an audience wit' de Star of de Morning!"
There was a rush of wings, and the heat of the inferno was suddenly chilled by an icy wind. The great dark light was blocked as something came swooping down from the top of the tower, and hovered in the air, a hundred feet above the prow of the Blind Betsy.
The Devil, Satan, Lucifer, Old Hob... not one of the names invoked even an iota of the fear the creature before them inspired. He was not an ugly, disgusting gargoyle, with cloven hooves and goat's horns. He was as beautiful as one would imagine any angel, but even his beauty was terrible. His eyes shone with the millions of fires of his dominion, and his wings were blackened, charred, and leathery, hanging on skeletal frames that ended in sharp claw-like points. His face made his displeasure quite clear.
"You have entered Our realm, mortals. We are not in the habit of allowing those who enter Hell to leave unscathed. Who are you that dare to call upon Us?"
Tia Dalma offered a low curtsey. "We do not wish to offend Him Majesty. We come to make a deal."
Lucifer smiled.
* * * * *
Norrington awoke to the scuffling of boots. He did not know how long he had been asleep, but his stomach growled with hunger. That rat would not get his breakfast this time, if indeed, it was breakfast. It could've been dinner. It was getting harder to tell what time of day it was, or indeed, how many days he'd been locked below. He sat up to grab his plate as it came through the bars, but the boots stopped at the first cell. The door clanged open and a dull thud suggested a body had been tossed inside.
"Tha's what you get for snooping 'round the Governor's quarters," rasped one of the figures that had done the tossing. "Next time, it'll be the lash for ye."
The door swung shut, and heavy footsteps tramped back up the stairs. Small snuffling noises came from the next cell. Norrington peered into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he realized it was the sunburnt boy he'd seen on deck more than a week since. Curiosity satisfied, he rolled over and closed his eyes. But the snuffling from the next cell didn't stop; instead it turned to outright sobbing. Norrington opened his eyes and stared at the low ceiling for several minutes before sitting up in exasperation. This was it. A man could only abide so much. No food. No sleep. Locked in a damp, rat infested hold. He was in Hell.
"Oh, stop crying. Some of us are trying to sleep."
There was an audible snort of a nose being blown into a sleeve, then relative silence, followed by a small, defiant voice.
"I'm not crying."
"You bloody well were."
"Not anymore."
"Good."
Norrington rolled over once more and tucked his head between his arms. Between the creaking timbers of the hull, and the occasional sniffle from the next cell, it took him some time to return to sleep.
* * * * *
While Norrington's hell was in fact much nicer than the actual place, it was similar in that it was difficult to tell how much time had passed in Hell, or truly how long the crew of the Blind Betsy had been there. Presently, they stood in Lucifer's chamber, making great attempts to touch nothing, and to remain as quiet as possible while Tia Dalma hashed out a deal with the adversary of the heavenly host.
"Dere is a key," she began. "I t'ink you might have some interest in it."
The Devil scowled. "We have no need for keys."
"But dis one belongs to... an aspect... of Him Majesty."
Lucifer leaned forward in his throne, looking mildly interested.
"It is de key to de Dead Man's chest. I promise you dis key in exchange for dere lives."
"And your own?"
Tia Dalma smiled, and sauntered closer. She spoke a few low words to the Devil that none of the rest could hear. The Devil remained expressionless.
"We see."
The Devil got up, crossed his hands behind his back, and strolled over to the balcony that overlooked Hell. He considered the trade for a moment.
"We accept your offer." The Devil snapped his fingers and a woman appeared, bearing parchment and a quill in her right hand. In her left, she clutched a dark half mask. She was quite beautiful, in a cold, haughty way. She was dressed fashionably, in a towering powdered wig and a black silk gown, but several alterations to her costume made it clear she was not a lady. Her bodice was without a stomacher, baring a large V of flesh to the world, including a small heart tattoo on her chest. Her skirt and petticoats were tattered round the edges, revealing pale ankles and dainty black slippers with satin bows and silver buckles. The earring that showed (for she stood in profile) appeared to be made of a cluster of pearls at first glance, but upon closer examination, was several tiny skulls fused together. As she noticed the curious glances, she grinned a dangerous smile, revealing vampire-like canines. But this escaped the crew's notice, for as she smiled, she turned toward them, her half mask slipping away. The flesh of the left side of her face was missing - or perhaps had never been there. Taught red muscles stretched across her cheekbone, clashing horribly with the stark whiteness of her jawbone. Her skull opened at the top, glistening brains drooping out.
The Devil seemed not to notice the crew's horror as he took the quill. "Thank you, Mazikeen." She offered them all a curtsy, disappearing as quietly as she had come.
The Devil handed the quill to Tia Dalma. "Sign here." She did so, pricking her index finger with the sharp nib in the absence of ink. The Devil looked over the document, and set it on his desk, satisfied. "We also assume you have come here with a purpose. Name it."
Tia Dalma nodded deferentially. "We is searching for a man who passed dis way. We would like to bargain for his soul."
"And what would you offer Us for that?"
"Two souls for one."
"Whose souls might these be, that you give up so freely?"
Out of the corner of Will's eye, he saw Barbossa make a sudden movement. Will turned his head ever so slightly to look at the pirate captain, but Barbossa now stood as still as a statue. The two souls... could they be?
"I cannot say but dis - dey will be souls dat have sinned, and have so far avoided judgment."
The Devil grinned as he turned back to face them. "The best sort," he said in a low purr. "But while some may believe all sins are equal, We prefer a good story to match the wicked deeds."
"Oh," Tia Dalma answered in a purr of her own, "dey shall have both."
"Then before We agree to these terms, tell Us," replied the Devil, "what is the name of your soul in Hell?"
Tia Dalma spoke each word with gravity. "Him is Captain Jack Sparrow."
The devil laughed, a horrible sound. Tia Dalma stood her ground, waiting quietly for him to stop. When he did, he spoke with a rather angry edge to his voice.
"Captain Jack Sparrow declined Our hospitality. He is now outside the borders of Hell. Do not ask Us where he has gone, for We know not and care not. Now leave, before We change Our mind about Our first bargain. As to the second... We shall still expect payment, deed or not."
Tia Dalma and Barbossa exchanged a grim glance before offering a curtsy and a bow, respectively. The whole party backed out of the hall as quietly and quickly as they could, Pintel and Ragetti tripping over one another to reach the double doors first. Once the demons on either side had closed off Lucifer's audience chamber, the entire crew raced down the stairs pell-mell. "Raise canvas! Hoist the anchor!" Barbossa barked. "We be needing to leave 'fore he changes his mind."
"So evil Hell spat you back out, eh?" Will gasped.
"You mind the yard, boy," the Captain growled, "and live ter tell the same tale yerself."
The Blind Betsy had never been seaworthy so quickly. But which way to go? The river flowed through a large, pointed archway in the black tower, then splitting off into several branches. Tall, rocky walls divided the branches and obscured their destinations. Did all lead out of the heart of Hell, or would some maroon them there for all eternity? Inexplicably, Tia Dalma beamed.
"How kin'. Him give us a gift."
"What are you talking about?" Will panted. "We'll be stuck here forever."
"We won't - him give us a labyrinth." She hitched up her skirts, and joined Captain Barbossa by the wheel. She stood by his shoulder, whispering directions. At each new branch, the Blind Betsy sailed purposefully forward... left, center, left, right, right... The landscape flattened out, and gradually, the twisted natural arches and rocky plateaus of hell faded into the graceful archways and marble columns of antiquity. The sun faded from scorching blackness to a deep evening's red, the weather became temperate again, and neatly manicured grass poked up through the soil. A sense of calm fell over the crew, a sense that things had been, were, and would be as they should be.
"Ye must'er sailed us straight on ter heaven," said Barbossa.
"You t'ink heaven be like dis?" asked Tia Dalma, amused.
"I never expected ter see the place, so I suppose I never gave the matter much thawrght," said Barbossa.
Tia Dalma looked down at the main deck, where Will was standing, leaning against the rail. She touched Barbossa gently on the arm, before descending the stairs to join Will. She stopped next to him, leaning as well, and spoke softly.
"What is troubling you, Will Turner?"
"Back there - he didn’t stick to the terms. He didn't have Jack, and we're left with a dead end. And you... am I correct in assuming you paid for that information with your soul? Yours and his?" Will nodded back to Barbossa.
Tia Dalma looked at Will gravely. "I make deals. It is what I do - to survive. And him soul was promised to de Devil long ago. We lost nothing dat wasn't already."
A little way down the opposite rail, another serious conversation was taking place.
Ragetti frowned. "T'weren't as I was 'specting it to be. I mean, 'e 'ad the fire an' the brimstone. But 'e let us leave."
"Well, thank yer maker for that," said Pintel.
"That's just what's troubling me, see? Why should I be thanking up there," he asked, pointing emphatically, "when down 'ere's the one that let us go?"
Pintel shrugged. "If yer feelin' so philosophical-like, maybe ye should quit pirating and join the clergy."
Up at the ships prow, Elizabeth gasped.
"What are they?"
The Blind Betsy floated silently past seven monumental statues. The largest was turned away from the riverbank, but the other six faced it, and as the Betsy passed, different members of the crew saw faces they recognized. Elizabeth gazed into the cruel eyes of Desire. Barbossa tipped his hat to the figure of Death. Will stared at the face of Destiny, then looking down, noticed the original likeness standing on the bank before them. A hood shrouded the gaze of Destiny, but his head moved as though his eyes were upon them. In his arms, he clutched a heavy book, the manacle on his wrist attached to its binding.
Tia Dalma narrowed her eyes as she looked at Will, whose hand had gone to the ropes as though willing his body not to jump overboard. "A touch... indeed!"
* * * * *
Norrington (who at present would have best recognized the twin of Desire, completely opposite to him or her in every way) watched lazily as the boy etched a name into the wooden frame of the next cell with a sharp knife.
"Where did you get that?"
The boy shrugged. "Brought it on board."
"They didn't search you and take it away when you were found skulking about?"
"No sir."
The boy gave him a sideways glance. His freckled nose had begun to peel horribly. Norrington leaned back and narrowed his eyes.
"What were you planning on stealing from Beckett?"
"Nothing he actually values," he said, with a vicious jab at the post.
"Specifically?"
"Life."
Norrington gave a short laugh. The boy stopped carving.
"Why do you laugh?"
"You're lucky you failed," replied Norrington.
"This time. I will see Cutler Beckett dead."
"You've done a poor job of it so far."
"I'll have other chances."
"And what was your brilliant escape plan, once you'd stabbed Beckett to death, taken care of his ghoulish manservant, and evaded capture by the rest of the Navy?"
"To jump overboard once the deed was done, and let God take care of the rest. I survived so once; whether or not I'd be saved again would be out of my hands."
"Indeed." Norrington looked away, having lost interest with the tale, but the boy continued anyway.
"My father was a captain with the East India Trading Company. He possessed something that Beckett desired, but refused to give him. Beckett promised my father safe passage from Calcutta regardless. Instead, he waited until our ship had left harbor, and fired upon it. My mother killed by cannonade. My younger brother was drowned. My father survived, only to be picked up by a long boat and run through by Mr. Mercer before my very eyes."
Norrington uttered a humorless laugh. "You've come almost all the way around the world, only to fail now? My apologies, young man - I've underestimated your fortunes."
"You're one to talk about fortune," muttered the boy. "Once an upstanding officer of the British Navy, twice disgraced. Unable to follow orders, or so I've heard. Sir." The respectful final word was said quite coldly.
"Taking that ship down would hardly have been the honorable thing to do. Do you know who was on it? Elizabeth Swann, the daughter of the Governor."
"Aye. And the Navy only indulges in honorable activities these days."
"Take care not to confuse the actions of Cutler Beckett with those of England."
"England has sent no one to reign him in."
"England has no one who could," admitted Norrington. "Not while Beckett holds sway over Davy Jones."
The boy began carving again, more vigorously this time. "They say Beckett sold his soul to the devil for that power."
"Not quite. He stole Jones's heart."
The boy let out a sharp, derisive laugh.
"I thought it was a myth as well," said Norrington. "If I'd fully realized what I was handing Beckett..."
The boy left his knife stuck in the post, listening intently now.
"Beckett only has power over Jones as long as he controls his heart. I imagine it's stowed safely away in his cabin, under lock and key. That's why I wished to know what you were after," Norrington admitted. "A false hope, as ever."