Fic: Metal and Words, 6/16
Title: Metal and Words, 6/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: nearly 3 400, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OC
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
Jack tied the hundredth or so knot, winced and stretched his sore fingers. Then he sighed and bent, looking under the billowed sail’s foot towards the stern. Anamaria, comfortably lounged, foot on the tiller and hat lowered on her face, didn’t moved a muscle. Jack sighed again, almost besting the wind this time.
A corner of a smirk peeked from under the hat’s brim.
Jack ground his teeth, looked forward over his shoulder and cheered up. A pale strip of a beach shone no more than a mile away, the steep green slopes of Hispaniola’s mountains towering over it.
***
A short time later, Jack looked for the last time at the Jolly Mon tacking in the shallows, then turned and plunged into a grove. When the rustle of leaves and quarrel of parrots drowned out the hum of waves, the path widened and, like a brook into a river, came to a track, two mules wide and deeply rutted, running alongshore. This was the pride of civilization, active with statistically three mules and half a cart a week. A colonial road, in theory blessed with the gracious reign of the oversea king, in practice covered with the lawless yet enterprising lease of outlaws.
The pride of civilization looked fairly dry this day. Jack stepped onto the flat strip of sun-baked clay between the ruts and walked east. After some two hundred yards the road turned sharply towards the sea, round a huge mossy rock which leaned out from the trees. Jack cast a glance back, then slipped behind the biggest tree and stood still, listening intently. After a moment he pressed his hat firmer down, and brushed aside a curtain of vines climbing the rock. What they revealed wasn’t a solid wall, but a shady passage between boulders.
Almost a year ago Rusty Hans had neglected both the looking back and the listening. That’s why Jack could now enter the passage. The path running behind the rock turned toward the mountains, going away from the road. Soon it began to climb, first gently, then rising so much that the track zigzagged. Unlike the sunburned road, in the lower parts of the murky path lingered squelchy mud, then it began to give way to hard ground and stones, and the sunlight shined again between the foliage, more sparse at that height. At some next turn, Jack puffed and stopped, leaning against a trunk. He always was of the opinion that climbing was a nice and useful activity. On a rigging.
He looked back at the way already covered. Observed from above, the tree crowns resembled green clouds, crossed by the road’s ochre ribbon. Farther there was the nearly white strip of the beach, melting into the sapphire expanse of water. The sun, far to the left, was lowering over the mountains’ peaks.
Jack threw a final glance at the path behind him, just in case, then walked on. The trees there were much smaller and seemed to have a desperate hold onto the ground, and grass was more prevalent. More and more stones were underfoot, growing to slabs and boulders. Finally, the rocks grew to double height of a man, and then, behind the path’s sudden turn, they rose higher than any mainmast.
The mass of rocks leaned inwards intertwined with roots and moss. The path led to a cleft at their base, high enough that a particularly tall man needn’t take his hat off, and almost as wide.
Jack looked back once more, mostly on principle, then warily examined the tunnel’s canopy. Privately he valued wooden ceilings and floors more, especially if they had at least twenty fathoms of water under them. As far as he was concerned, a self-respecting pirate shouldn’t wish to make acquaintance with stone, unless it was sparkling, colorful and fitted into a pocket.
He sighed and delved into the cleft. Well, at least it hadn’t iron bars embedded anywhere. It was also lit much better than many of the stony places, the ones with bars, that he had had the unpleasantness of visiting. The exit was a close and bright spot.
It was blocked by two solid rods, wedged into the fissures in the opposite walls, one knee-high and the other chest level. Jack thoughtfully examined the wooden ends, worn from being pulled and driven back. Just in case, he didn’t take the rods down, only slipped through the gap between. There he stood on a small rock terrace that overlooked the private haven of Rusty Hans Snoggerson.
There wasn’t much to look over. The miniature hollow, enclosed by vertical slopes, held a few haggard trees and a rivulet trickling through the thick carpet of fluffy grass. A small wooden shed nestled against the slope. Jack glanced that way, but the splash of the water was too enticing. Well, at the next chance, somewhere in a tavern, he would be spinning tales about faraway lands, where trees drop oranges into rivers of rum punch, but now he had to content himself with what was at hand. He perched on a boulder and reached to sip a few handfuls.
Something huffed behind.
Jack fell off the boulder. He swore when the cutlass hilt banged him in ribs, brushed his sodden hair back, and from the corner of his eye noticed his tricorn floating with the current. He grabbed it, sprang to his feet, and spun, splashing the water. And then he froze, eyes wide.
After a moment, he absentmindedly donned his hat, and shook off, gasping, when the cold water ran down his collar.
The horse standing before him accepted all this in stoic calm, watching the pirate with interest. Then it huffed again and stretched its neck out.
At the sight of the approaching snout, Jack sprang backward, startled, tripped over the boulder and sat hard.
“Ei…!” He tried to push the velvet nose away.
The horse, undiscouraged, sniffed at a pocket of his coat, then tried to thrust its muzzle into the other.
“Ei, mate…! Ow, slow down, we weren’t introduced to each other!”
Having found nothing interesting, the horse snorted as if in reproach, and grazed on the rivulet’s bank. Chewing a tuft, it glanced at the pirate. It befits to come with a gift, the glance seemed to say. Especially at the first visit.
“You have the grass at least,” Jack said, suddenly realizing how much time had passed since his poor breakfast.
“Be glad I don’t like horsemeat,” he muttered in a lame try at restoring his sodden dignity. Sodden and tattered: his shirt cuff missed a button. He glanced under the coat sleeve, then looked around. A waste of a quite big piece of mother-of-pearl… But nothing shone except the water. Jack examined the cuff again, then lowered his arm. The ragged sleeve drooped, covering his fingers. Jack stooped to a pile of pebbles and moved his palm over them. Now one pebble was missing. The pirate smiled and shook his hand, letting the pebble drop back.
His mood improved, he looked at the horse, methodically cropping grass. Come to think of it, discovering something of the four-hooved nature in this place was nothing strange. The hollow had served Hans’ secret store for delicate - by way of being alive - loot between acquirement and sale. And if something strange happens to a thief, it’s best to look for the answer in his lair.
That brilliant plan had failed at that point, Jack admitted reluctantly, watching grass blades disappear into the horse’s mouth. The grass-eater didn’t look like an explanation. It looked like… well, a grass-eater. A light brown stallion, with white stockings, snout, and a spot on his forehead. A common horse, admittedly quite nice and not so big as it could be. In Jack’s opinion all horses were too big, and the most of them malicious.
“You took me by surprise, s’all,” he said. “You shouldn’ stalk around like that.
The horse gazed and pricked an ear. Yeah, of course.
Jack narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Then he slid off the boulder and sidled to the big head bent over another grass tuft. Not that horse ears were as everyday sight as his own ten fingers, but this particular pair looked bizarre. The hirsute tips were bent inward, curled almost like ringlets on a powdered wig of some fancy fop. Probably some flaw Hans could surely name and tell what loss it meant in a horse’s price… Jack shrugged.
“No worries, not everyone’s perfect,” he stated magnanimously, adjusting his hat. “Surely someone will ‘preciate your inner beau…”
He sprang back when the horse lifted his head and passed, moving to more lush spot. Jack suspiciously eyed the beast. He could swear there had been amusement in that big eye. He frowned and turned away.
“Stop gettin’ in me way, I have weightier matters than natterin’,” he announced firmly, going towards the shed. More for the lack of ideas than with any hope, but this… this gelding didn’t have to know that.
He stopped on the threshold, or rather where the threshold should had been, and peeked through the door, or rather a wide gap in a wall. ‘Shed’ was far too noble name for the rickety shack of planks driven into the ground and covered with more, overgrown with moss and grass tufts. Here and there peculiar reinforcements were visible, in the form of additional boards nailed crosswise, and more criss-crossed over those, when the nails had rusted and the wood warped from humidity. All this gave the shed the look of an abandoned nest of some monstrous bird. Jack doubtfully eyed the irregular row of wooden scraps, apparently serving the dignified duty of eaves, and tentatively poked the ‘door-frame’.
For a wonder, it didn’t move. The pirate slipped in to look around. The inside was spacious enough for two horses to turn, and surprisingly bright, for the sum total of gaps in the walls could have made a big window. Only the ceiling was sealed with clay, which made the space too dark for grass and too dry for moss. Overall, the shed was as empty as the life of a law-abiding burgher, and equally uninteresting. Here and there was a vague hoof print on the earth, a few scraps of rope under the walls, and a bundled blanket in a corner. More on principle than with hope, Jack worked along the walls, trying the planks, checking the solidity of the tamped ground, moving the line scraps aside, lifting the blanket…
Silver shined in the dark. The pirate froze, staring at the mass of glittering metal heaped on the ground. He threw the blanket aside to look closer. Silver, indeed. Not a shapeless mass, but engraved metal plate, with polished wood underneath, framing a broad patch of red leather. A saddle.
There was no one in the shed to see the pirate’s teeth shining no less than the heap of wealth at his feet, no one saw how his eyes shone even brighter. Jack crouched to gently run his fingers over the intricately ornamented plate and through softly chiming festoons of spangles and sequins attached to the lower edge. He tilted the saddle to discover a set of silver whatsits for feet, and a bunch of neatly coiled leather straps: from thongs adorned with studs and smaller sequin garlands, to broad embossed belts, still stiff and creaking. The smell of fresh leather was distinct over the whiff of horse sweat. The saddle was new.
A stamp of a hoof drew Jack’s attention to the door where the horse stood staring. Jack thoughtfully regarded the beast’s height. It wasn’t impressive. And the saddle was rather small too.
“Dandy, ain’t you?” he murmured and heaved the saddle up. “Move aside, you’re blockin’ the light.”
The sun had already dipped behind the rocky skyline of the hollow, but the light outside the shed was still sufficient to observe the tiny details of engraving and the padding stitches. Jack got down to the inspection with the concentration of a cat hunting a flea. The horse quickly lost interest and went back to nibbling grass, occasionally pricking his curled ears at the jangle of adornments as the pirate ransacked the saddle’s nooks and crannies. Maybe the brown grass-eater didn’t exactly match the ciphered letter, but his service outfit was its very essence. It had the same air of ostentatious luxury, this time in polished mahogany, scarlet maroquin, and silver plating inlaid with gold. Even the intricate ornamentation brought to mind the ink calligraphy, though the pattern was different, as if… oriental? Except one detail on the upper surface of the front arcuate piece. Jack frowned.
Tiny, definitely Latin-script letters formed a row running from the left up over a flat knob on the curved top, and down the right side. Delicate tooling meandered between the signs, concealing their shapes, just like on the paper. Jack, irritated, ground his teeth and looked closely, searching for the first letter. E… G… O… M… E… R…
He frowned again. Looked like not only the script was Latin. But something was wrong here. Ego Mercuri… Mercuriun? And after it: sun… tiiad… fero? It meant nothing.
He stroked his braided beard, thoughtfully gazing at the bizarre inscription. The engraver’s mistake? Or maybe…? He followed the entire row again, examining each letter separately. Two and only two, the middle ones, the twelfth one from the beginning and the twelfth from the end, were atop the knob. N and S. One of those few in the alphabet, which looked the same, whatever way they laid. Interesting.
He traced the inscription with his fingers, stopping at the knob. He pushed down.
The knob yielded, sinking into its base. Jack hesitated and tried to turn the knob inside the hole. Suddenly it clinked and sprang high. At the same time something squeaked - the front sheet of plating flipped down, to reveal a narrow slit in the saddle’s front edge. Jack grinned and studied the inscription again. Having turned with the knob, the letters were now switched.
Ego Mercurius nuntii adfero.
I, Mercury, am bringing the message.
Jack turned to look at the horse, head down, seemingly dozing.
“Mercury, eh?” The pirate chuckled. “Well, not your fault, mate. I can call you Silvers.”
One big eye blinked, and a snort sounded.
“Maybe Platino? Even worse… Hey, what about Argento?”
The horse turned and stomped away.
“Fine, you’ll be the Horse, over an’ done!” Jack yelled. “You should appreciate I asked!”
He turned back to the more interesting matters. He pushed the ajar plate, opening the slit further. It yielded with a quiet squeak of hidden springs, revealing a small niche. Empty.
Jack’s face surely wouldn’t have looked different than if he’d opened a sealed bottle to find only sand. He examined the cache inch by inch, tapped at the smooth walls, traced the corners with the knifepoint… Nothing. He tugged at his beard in frustration. What’s the use of a cache which…
His eyes narrowed. He drew the paper out of his pocket and examined it anew. Then he began to fold it carefully, trying to follow the old creases. Finally he had a small thick packet. He opened the cache again, grinning at the packet’s neat fit. The plate obediently clicked shut, the springs creaked, the knob turned back. The saddle looked innocent again, hiding the message carried by Mercury.
After a moment of self-admiration, Jack’s face went long. Nothing uncommon in a message going on horseback, but its usual place was a bit higher, namely under the rider’s hat. Something, or rather someone, was missing here. Another puzzle sprouted from the previous one’s solution.
The pirate propped his head on his hands and stared gloomily at the ground, feeling very tired, very hungry, and a bit cold. It was already dark, and he suspected that grass and rootlets didn’t become more edible since the last time he had tested them, many years ago. Horsemeat was becoming more alluring now…
Hooves rustled the grass behind him, and then his tricorn was knocked forward. Jack waved half-heartedly, warding off the importunate snout.
“Better don’ tempt...” he murmured. Then he reluctantly rose and trudged to the nearest tree. When he came back with an armful of dead twigs and bark, the horse was dozing again. He didn’t awake even at the clatter of the wood thrown on the ground and the crack of sticks being broken. Nor at a grumbling pirate, who felt mistreated by the world in general. He was even more annoyed by the vague feeling he ran aground these reefs on his own wish.
“One sleeps nicely after supper, eh? If you’re lucky, you won’t end up in a pot before I’ll sell you.” Jack raked up some crumbled bark into a pile. “No matter where.” He picked the most rotten scrap. “And whom and for how much.” He blew into sparkles. “Will be enough for a better dinner than your bones.”
A wisp of smoke wafted from the tinder and drifted into the darkness. Hearing a loud snort, Jack raised his head. The horse stood on stiff legs, his ears pricked and nostrils distended.
“Aye, better! Anyway, what you can know about it, you grassophile…” Jack looked hastily around, in searching of another piece of wood. Being drier than he had thought, the wood disappeared as if the flames were starving too. As he flung more in the fire, he glanced at the remaining stock of fuel, and decided a visit to other trees would be advisable. He took a blazing branch from the fire. The moon had waned further this night, and beyond the bonfire’s ring of warmth and light the hollow sunk in the darkness.
A panicked squeal stopped him dead. Jack lifted the torch higher and saw twin flames mirrored in the horse’s wide eyes. The ears were no longer pricked, but laid flat to the head. The horse squatted down on his hind legs, meaning to retreat, and kicked backward when he ran into the shed. The planks resounded with a hollow thud and something creaked. A cloud of rot mingled with dust from the thrashing hooves as he reared, whining wildly. Jack instinctively sprang back, shielding himself with the torch… then he looked at it, and again at the horse. He hurled the torch back into the bonfire and jumped aside. He tripped over a grass tuft, fell and rolled, looking back in time to see the horse dash forward and vault over the waning flames, a leap worthy of a forest fire. The hooves thudded, the tail waving a farewell as it vanished in the darkness.
Jack blinked, and remembered to shut his mouth. He waited until his heart regained a rate more suitable for a dauntless pirate, adjusted his hat, and decided to get up. He looked at the glowing remains of the bonfire, the clouds of dust settling about the shed, and then the darkness into the horse had disappeared.
“Huh…” he said weakly. He cleared his throat and spat dust.
He stooped to examine the wooden wall. Then he glanced up at the roof, warily stepped back, and regarded the wall again. A hole gaped in one plank, broken and bent inward. Another board, one of the crosswise ones, lay on the ground, rusted nails up. Jack tugged his beard, and looked backward, recalling the leap he had witnessed a moment ago. Five feet? Six, like as not.
“You’re clever in legs, mate.” He looked back at the broken planks. “Maybe I’ll think yet on the ‘where’, ‘whom’, and ‘how much’”.
He looked up at the stars. The night promised to be cool. He picked up the detached plank, and peeked inside the shed. The blanket laid beyond his reach, so he caught it with the nail jutting from the plank and retrieved it. Lighting the plank in the coals, he looked around a bit nervously, and went in search of another tree.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
Plata (Spanish) - silver. Platinum’s name comes from Spanish platina, being diminutive of ‘silver’. Platino is the masculine form of the word, and the modern name of platinum in Spanish.
Argento (Italian) - silver.
Mercury’s old name was quicksilver, but it’s also the name of one handsome Roman fellow with wings at his heels, having the post of gods’ messenger.
The next part
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Your thoughts welcomed, as always! :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: nearly 3 400, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OC
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
Jack tied the hundredth or so knot, winced and stretched his sore fingers. Then he sighed and bent, looking under the billowed sail’s foot towards the stern. Anamaria, comfortably lounged, foot on the tiller and hat lowered on her face, didn’t moved a muscle. Jack sighed again, almost besting the wind this time.
A corner of a smirk peeked from under the hat’s brim.
Jack ground his teeth, looked forward over his shoulder and cheered up. A pale strip of a beach shone no more than a mile away, the steep green slopes of Hispaniola’s mountains towering over it.
***
A short time later, Jack looked for the last time at the Jolly Mon tacking in the shallows, then turned and plunged into a grove. When the rustle of leaves and quarrel of parrots drowned out the hum of waves, the path widened and, like a brook into a river, came to a track, two mules wide and deeply rutted, running alongshore. This was the pride of civilization, active with statistically three mules and half a cart a week. A colonial road, in theory blessed with the gracious reign of the oversea king, in practice covered with the lawless yet enterprising lease of outlaws.
The pride of civilization looked fairly dry this day. Jack stepped onto the flat strip of sun-baked clay between the ruts and walked east. After some two hundred yards the road turned sharply towards the sea, round a huge mossy rock which leaned out from the trees. Jack cast a glance back, then slipped behind the biggest tree and stood still, listening intently. After a moment he pressed his hat firmer down, and brushed aside a curtain of vines climbing the rock. What they revealed wasn’t a solid wall, but a shady passage between boulders.
Almost a year ago Rusty Hans had neglected both the looking back and the listening. That’s why Jack could now enter the passage. The path running behind the rock turned toward the mountains, going away from the road. Soon it began to climb, first gently, then rising so much that the track zigzagged. Unlike the sunburned road, in the lower parts of the murky path lingered squelchy mud, then it began to give way to hard ground and stones, and the sunlight shined again between the foliage, more sparse at that height. At some next turn, Jack puffed and stopped, leaning against a trunk. He always was of the opinion that climbing was a nice and useful activity. On a rigging.
He looked back at the way already covered. Observed from above, the tree crowns resembled green clouds, crossed by the road’s ochre ribbon. Farther there was the nearly white strip of the beach, melting into the sapphire expanse of water. The sun, far to the left, was lowering over the mountains’ peaks.
Jack threw a final glance at the path behind him, just in case, then walked on. The trees there were much smaller and seemed to have a desperate hold onto the ground, and grass was more prevalent. More and more stones were underfoot, growing to slabs and boulders. Finally, the rocks grew to double height of a man, and then, behind the path’s sudden turn, they rose higher than any mainmast.
The mass of rocks leaned inwards intertwined with roots and moss. The path led to a cleft at their base, high enough that a particularly tall man needn’t take his hat off, and almost as wide.
Jack looked back once more, mostly on principle, then warily examined the tunnel’s canopy. Privately he valued wooden ceilings and floors more, especially if they had at least twenty fathoms of water under them. As far as he was concerned, a self-respecting pirate shouldn’t wish to make acquaintance with stone, unless it was sparkling, colorful and fitted into a pocket.
He sighed and delved into the cleft. Well, at least it hadn’t iron bars embedded anywhere. It was also lit much better than many of the stony places, the ones with bars, that he had had the unpleasantness of visiting. The exit was a close and bright spot.
It was blocked by two solid rods, wedged into the fissures in the opposite walls, one knee-high and the other chest level. Jack thoughtfully examined the wooden ends, worn from being pulled and driven back. Just in case, he didn’t take the rods down, only slipped through the gap between. There he stood on a small rock terrace that overlooked the private haven of Rusty Hans Snoggerson.
There wasn’t much to look over. The miniature hollow, enclosed by vertical slopes, held a few haggard trees and a rivulet trickling through the thick carpet of fluffy grass. A small wooden shed nestled against the slope. Jack glanced that way, but the splash of the water was too enticing. Well, at the next chance, somewhere in a tavern, he would be spinning tales about faraway lands, where trees drop oranges into rivers of rum punch, but now he had to content himself with what was at hand. He perched on a boulder and reached to sip a few handfuls.
Something huffed behind.
Jack fell off the boulder. He swore when the cutlass hilt banged him in ribs, brushed his sodden hair back, and from the corner of his eye noticed his tricorn floating with the current. He grabbed it, sprang to his feet, and spun, splashing the water. And then he froze, eyes wide.
After a moment, he absentmindedly donned his hat, and shook off, gasping, when the cold water ran down his collar.
The horse standing before him accepted all this in stoic calm, watching the pirate with interest. Then it huffed again and stretched its neck out.
At the sight of the approaching snout, Jack sprang backward, startled, tripped over the boulder and sat hard.
“Ei…!” He tried to push the velvet nose away.
The horse, undiscouraged, sniffed at a pocket of his coat, then tried to thrust its muzzle into the other.
“Ei, mate…! Ow, slow down, we weren’t introduced to each other!”
Having found nothing interesting, the horse snorted as if in reproach, and grazed on the rivulet’s bank. Chewing a tuft, it glanced at the pirate. It befits to come with a gift, the glance seemed to say. Especially at the first visit.
“You have the grass at least,” Jack said, suddenly realizing how much time had passed since his poor breakfast.
“Be glad I don’t like horsemeat,” he muttered in a lame try at restoring his sodden dignity. Sodden and tattered: his shirt cuff missed a button. He glanced under the coat sleeve, then looked around. A waste of a quite big piece of mother-of-pearl… But nothing shone except the water. Jack examined the cuff again, then lowered his arm. The ragged sleeve drooped, covering his fingers. Jack stooped to a pile of pebbles and moved his palm over them. Now one pebble was missing. The pirate smiled and shook his hand, letting the pebble drop back.
His mood improved, he looked at the horse, methodically cropping grass. Come to think of it, discovering something of the four-hooved nature in this place was nothing strange. The hollow had served Hans’ secret store for delicate - by way of being alive - loot between acquirement and sale. And if something strange happens to a thief, it’s best to look for the answer in his lair.
That brilliant plan had failed at that point, Jack admitted reluctantly, watching grass blades disappear into the horse’s mouth. The grass-eater didn’t look like an explanation. It looked like… well, a grass-eater. A light brown stallion, with white stockings, snout, and a spot on his forehead. A common horse, admittedly quite nice and not so big as it could be. In Jack’s opinion all horses were too big, and the most of them malicious.
“You took me by surprise, s’all,” he said. “You shouldn’ stalk around like that.
The horse gazed and pricked an ear. Yeah, of course.
Jack narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Then he slid off the boulder and sidled to the big head bent over another grass tuft. Not that horse ears were as everyday sight as his own ten fingers, but this particular pair looked bizarre. The hirsute tips were bent inward, curled almost like ringlets on a powdered wig of some fancy fop. Probably some flaw Hans could surely name and tell what loss it meant in a horse’s price… Jack shrugged.
“No worries, not everyone’s perfect,” he stated magnanimously, adjusting his hat. “Surely someone will ‘preciate your inner beau…”
He sprang back when the horse lifted his head and passed, moving to more lush spot. Jack suspiciously eyed the beast. He could swear there had been amusement in that big eye. He frowned and turned away.
“Stop gettin’ in me way, I have weightier matters than natterin’,” he announced firmly, going towards the shed. More for the lack of ideas than with any hope, but this… this gelding didn’t have to know that.
He stopped on the threshold, or rather where the threshold should had been, and peeked through the door, or rather a wide gap in a wall. ‘Shed’ was far too noble name for the rickety shack of planks driven into the ground and covered with more, overgrown with moss and grass tufts. Here and there peculiar reinforcements were visible, in the form of additional boards nailed crosswise, and more criss-crossed over those, when the nails had rusted and the wood warped from humidity. All this gave the shed the look of an abandoned nest of some monstrous bird. Jack doubtfully eyed the irregular row of wooden scraps, apparently serving the dignified duty of eaves, and tentatively poked the ‘door-frame’.
For a wonder, it didn’t move. The pirate slipped in to look around. The inside was spacious enough for two horses to turn, and surprisingly bright, for the sum total of gaps in the walls could have made a big window. Only the ceiling was sealed with clay, which made the space too dark for grass and too dry for moss. Overall, the shed was as empty as the life of a law-abiding burgher, and equally uninteresting. Here and there was a vague hoof print on the earth, a few scraps of rope under the walls, and a bundled blanket in a corner. More on principle than with hope, Jack worked along the walls, trying the planks, checking the solidity of the tamped ground, moving the line scraps aside, lifting the blanket…
Silver shined in the dark. The pirate froze, staring at the mass of glittering metal heaped on the ground. He threw the blanket aside to look closer. Silver, indeed. Not a shapeless mass, but engraved metal plate, with polished wood underneath, framing a broad patch of red leather. A saddle.
There was no one in the shed to see the pirate’s teeth shining no less than the heap of wealth at his feet, no one saw how his eyes shone even brighter. Jack crouched to gently run his fingers over the intricately ornamented plate and through softly chiming festoons of spangles and sequins attached to the lower edge. He tilted the saddle to discover a set of silver whatsits for feet, and a bunch of neatly coiled leather straps: from thongs adorned with studs and smaller sequin garlands, to broad embossed belts, still stiff and creaking. The smell of fresh leather was distinct over the whiff of horse sweat. The saddle was new.
A stamp of a hoof drew Jack’s attention to the door where the horse stood staring. Jack thoughtfully regarded the beast’s height. It wasn’t impressive. And the saddle was rather small too.
“Dandy, ain’t you?” he murmured and heaved the saddle up. “Move aside, you’re blockin’ the light.”
The sun had already dipped behind the rocky skyline of the hollow, but the light outside the shed was still sufficient to observe the tiny details of engraving and the padding stitches. Jack got down to the inspection with the concentration of a cat hunting a flea. The horse quickly lost interest and went back to nibbling grass, occasionally pricking his curled ears at the jangle of adornments as the pirate ransacked the saddle’s nooks and crannies. Maybe the brown grass-eater didn’t exactly match the ciphered letter, but his service outfit was its very essence. It had the same air of ostentatious luxury, this time in polished mahogany, scarlet maroquin, and silver plating inlaid with gold. Even the intricate ornamentation brought to mind the ink calligraphy, though the pattern was different, as if… oriental? Except one detail on the upper surface of the front arcuate piece. Jack frowned.
Tiny, definitely Latin-script letters formed a row running from the left up over a flat knob on the curved top, and down the right side. Delicate tooling meandered between the signs, concealing their shapes, just like on the paper. Jack, irritated, ground his teeth and looked closely, searching for the first letter. E… G… O… M… E… R…
He frowned again. Looked like not only the script was Latin. But something was wrong here. Ego Mercuri… Mercuriun? And after it: sun… tiiad… fero? It meant nothing.
He stroked his braided beard, thoughtfully gazing at the bizarre inscription. The engraver’s mistake? Or maybe…? He followed the entire row again, examining each letter separately. Two and only two, the middle ones, the twelfth one from the beginning and the twelfth from the end, were atop the knob. N and S. One of those few in the alphabet, which looked the same, whatever way they laid. Interesting.
He traced the inscription with his fingers, stopping at the knob. He pushed down.
The knob yielded, sinking into its base. Jack hesitated and tried to turn the knob inside the hole. Suddenly it clinked and sprang high. At the same time something squeaked - the front sheet of plating flipped down, to reveal a narrow slit in the saddle’s front edge. Jack grinned and studied the inscription again. Having turned with the knob, the letters were now switched.
Ego Mercurius nuntii adfero.
I, Mercury, am bringing the message.
Jack turned to look at the horse, head down, seemingly dozing.
“Mercury, eh?” The pirate chuckled. “Well, not your fault, mate. I can call you Silvers.”
One big eye blinked, and a snort sounded.
“Maybe Platino? Even worse… Hey, what about Argento?”
The horse turned and stomped away.
“Fine, you’ll be the Horse, over an’ done!” Jack yelled. “You should appreciate I asked!”
He turned back to the more interesting matters. He pushed the ajar plate, opening the slit further. It yielded with a quiet squeak of hidden springs, revealing a small niche. Empty.
Jack’s face surely wouldn’t have looked different than if he’d opened a sealed bottle to find only sand. He examined the cache inch by inch, tapped at the smooth walls, traced the corners with the knifepoint… Nothing. He tugged at his beard in frustration. What’s the use of a cache which…
His eyes narrowed. He drew the paper out of his pocket and examined it anew. Then he began to fold it carefully, trying to follow the old creases. Finally he had a small thick packet. He opened the cache again, grinning at the packet’s neat fit. The plate obediently clicked shut, the springs creaked, the knob turned back. The saddle looked innocent again, hiding the message carried by Mercury.
After a moment of self-admiration, Jack’s face went long. Nothing uncommon in a message going on horseback, but its usual place was a bit higher, namely under the rider’s hat. Something, or rather someone, was missing here. Another puzzle sprouted from the previous one’s solution.
The pirate propped his head on his hands and stared gloomily at the ground, feeling very tired, very hungry, and a bit cold. It was already dark, and he suspected that grass and rootlets didn’t become more edible since the last time he had tested them, many years ago. Horsemeat was becoming more alluring now…
Hooves rustled the grass behind him, and then his tricorn was knocked forward. Jack waved half-heartedly, warding off the importunate snout.
“Better don’ tempt...” he murmured. Then he reluctantly rose and trudged to the nearest tree. When he came back with an armful of dead twigs and bark, the horse was dozing again. He didn’t awake even at the clatter of the wood thrown on the ground and the crack of sticks being broken. Nor at a grumbling pirate, who felt mistreated by the world in general. He was even more annoyed by the vague feeling he ran aground these reefs on his own wish.
“One sleeps nicely after supper, eh? If you’re lucky, you won’t end up in a pot before I’ll sell you.” Jack raked up some crumbled bark into a pile. “No matter where.” He picked the most rotten scrap. “And whom and for how much.” He blew into sparkles. “Will be enough for a better dinner than your bones.”
A wisp of smoke wafted from the tinder and drifted into the darkness. Hearing a loud snort, Jack raised his head. The horse stood on stiff legs, his ears pricked and nostrils distended.
“Aye, better! Anyway, what you can know about it, you grassophile…” Jack looked hastily around, in searching of another piece of wood. Being drier than he had thought, the wood disappeared as if the flames were starving too. As he flung more in the fire, he glanced at the remaining stock of fuel, and decided a visit to other trees would be advisable. He took a blazing branch from the fire. The moon had waned further this night, and beyond the bonfire’s ring of warmth and light the hollow sunk in the darkness.
A panicked squeal stopped him dead. Jack lifted the torch higher and saw twin flames mirrored in the horse’s wide eyes. The ears were no longer pricked, but laid flat to the head. The horse squatted down on his hind legs, meaning to retreat, and kicked backward when he ran into the shed. The planks resounded with a hollow thud and something creaked. A cloud of rot mingled with dust from the thrashing hooves as he reared, whining wildly. Jack instinctively sprang back, shielding himself with the torch… then he looked at it, and again at the horse. He hurled the torch back into the bonfire and jumped aside. He tripped over a grass tuft, fell and rolled, looking back in time to see the horse dash forward and vault over the waning flames, a leap worthy of a forest fire. The hooves thudded, the tail waving a farewell as it vanished in the darkness.
Jack blinked, and remembered to shut his mouth. He waited until his heart regained a rate more suitable for a dauntless pirate, adjusted his hat, and decided to get up. He looked at the glowing remains of the bonfire, the clouds of dust settling about the shed, and then the darkness into the horse had disappeared.
“Huh…” he said weakly. He cleared his throat and spat dust.
He stooped to examine the wooden wall. Then he glanced up at the roof, warily stepped back, and regarded the wall again. A hole gaped in one plank, broken and bent inward. Another board, one of the crosswise ones, lay on the ground, rusted nails up. Jack tugged his beard, and looked backward, recalling the leap he had witnessed a moment ago. Five feet? Six, like as not.
“You’re clever in legs, mate.” He looked back at the broken planks. “Maybe I’ll think yet on the ‘where’, ‘whom’, and ‘how much’”.
He looked up at the stars. The night promised to be cool. He picked up the detached plank, and peeked inside the shed. The blanket laid beyond his reach, so he caught it with the nail jutting from the plank and retrieved it. Lighting the plank in the coals, he looked around a bit nervously, and went in search of another tree.
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Footnotes
Plata (Spanish) - silver. Platinum’s name comes from Spanish platina, being diminutive of ‘silver’. Platino is the masculine form of the word, and the modern name of platinum in Spanish.
Argento (Italian) - silver.
Mercury’s old name was quicksilver, but it’s also the name of one handsome Roman fellow with wings at his heels, having the post of gods’ messenger.
The next part
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Your thoughts welcomed, as always! :)