erinya
in
erinya_fic
PotC: The Pirate's Progress (1/5?)
When he came to himself, with mild surprise--he hadn't been sure there would be any himself to come to, despite all those things in heaven and earth, Horatio, that he'd seen and dealt with and cheated, too, up 'til now--he was standing on a field of greyish sand, and the light was queer: twilight or underwater, no hint of sun or moon.
Inventory. He found that he was breathing, and there were no wounds, no marks on him but the scars he'd always worn. No pain, not even from the host of aches and bruises earned in his last few frantic days. He wasn't (or hadn't been?) as young as he once was, though it wasn't a thing to be admitted even to himself, and it was almost a shock to not feel that toll now, in his joints, in his blood, in his bones. Check the goods: still there. Praise be. Wouldn't do to be a eunuch for eternity. And he'd still got his hat.
Not so bad at all, then, this being dead; if that's what this was.
He tipped his head back. There were stars up there all right, feeble and faint; but they were all wrong, and that gave him a turn. These were no earthly constellations. Nothing to get a bearing from, nothing to chart his way. The weird unlight seemed to emanate from the sand itself, and from the dull sky, and the sand stretched forever, seeming to blend with the horizon; or maybe there were no horizons here, and that thought gave him another turn, worse than the first.
"So this is the Locker," he said out loud, just to hear words and to stave off the panicky boxed-in feeling that had wrapped chilly fingers 'round his heart, though that meant he still had one, which was a bit of a comfort anyway. "Not much to look at, is it? Definitely lacking in that woman's touch. No surprise there, of course... But ol' Davy ought to get around to decorating the place one of these days--make a nice change from the soul trade--"
Here he stopped short, in part because he realized he was babbling, but mostly because some of the dark grey lumps a little ways from him on the light grey sand, that he had taken for rocks, had straightened up and turned their heads to look at him.
So it wasn't an empty locker, after all.
"Who're you?" demanded a voice, quite close at his shoulder, and he jumped and yelped before he can help himself; and then capered and yelped again, nonchalantly, before he turned, on the theory that whoever was behind him should think that it was a quirk, and not that he was startled in the slightest.
"Why, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he said, squinting at the speaker: a worn sailor with a perpetual scowl, a sallow face, and a long scar down one side of his face. "Don't tell me you've never heard of me."
"Never did hear of you," snapped the other. "You're new, aren't you? Fame won't get ye far here, scabbie. And as you can see, there be nothing for ye to captain, here. No sea, no ships. Get used to it."
"No sea," Jack said, blankly.
"That's right." The scar-faced man guffawed suddenly, toothless and mirthless. "Welcome to Hell, Jack Sparrow!"
Other shades had gathered around them as they spoke, drawn more perhaps by the promise of novelty than anything else, and at these words they broke out into laughter, too, an eerie, raucous noise that sent a cold prickling sensation down Jack's spine.
"Thanks, mate." Jack grimaced, backing away from the man, and felt a sudden tug at his jacket; he yelped again, and craned his head about.
But it was only a little African boy, no older than eight or nine, barefoot and as ragged as the other; he wore a red kerchief around his neck and a battered tambourine tied to his salt-stained sash. "Please, mister," he said. "Are you a pirate, mister? You look like a pirate."
"I am indeed," Jack said, relieved by this small modicum of recognition. "And a jolly good one at that, I assure you."
"I always wanted to meet a pirate," said the boy, in proper tones of awe.
"Well, now you have." Jack smiled, dropping to a crouch to put himself on the boy's level. "What's your name, then, sailor?"
"My name's Pip, sir," says the lad. He offered his hand, and Jack shook it, gravely.
"So where did a fine young man like yourself go wrong to end up in this blasted place, Pip?"
The boy looked surprised. "Nowhere, sir, but that I died at sea. It's the Locker for them that get no proper burial. Them bein' us, I mean, Mister Sparrow. The ferry won't take those ain't been consecrated 'cross the river."
"Always sounded like a bloody poor system to me," muttered Jack. "Punishing a brave sailor for meeting his end before the mast. Still, there's one good thing about systems, and that's that I never met one I couldn't work to my own ends. Well, with one possible exception, but it doesn't signify.... Pip, where might I find that river you mentioned?"
Pip screwed up his face in concentration before shooting a pointed finger out towards Jack's left. No telling whether it was north, south, east or west, if such directions even existed in this place.
"Ah. Good lad." Jack straightened up, ruffling the boy's curly hair in a distracted fashion as he stared off into the indicated trackless, featureless gloom. "I think I'll go and have myself a spot of negotiation with that ferryman. Not like I don't have the time, eh?"
"'S no use," broke in one of the others, in hollow tones. "He won't take you. Not without you've been blessed, and not without the fare."
Jack eyed him. Most of the sailors appeared more or less solid, but this one blurred at the edges like ink feathered by water, his form misty, near-transparent; he wore the doublet and helmet--the one faded and the other tarnished--of an age long past. Jack found this worrying: was this dematerialization what happened to a man after too many unmarked years in this place? "How do you know?" he challenged. "Have you ever tried it?"
"'Course I haven't tried it! Them's the rules. Everyone knows that."
"Bollocks," said Jack, rather rudely. "Piffle. Twaddle, even. How can you know that you know it won't help to try it if you've never tried not knowing it, and tried it? Answer me that!"
The faded man frowned, wavering quite literally, his lips moving as he tried to work this out.
"That's what I thought," crowed Jack. "Look, you lot! I don't know who makes these bloody stupid rules, but odds are they're more like guidelines anyway. Nothing what a bit of friendly persuasion can't bend, if applied with the correct amount of pressure and perhaps a bit of cunning on the side. But it might be accomplished a mite easier in numbers, if you take my meaning."
Baffled looks all around, a bit of uneasy muttering. "What do ye mean, then?" demanded one bold soul out of the general murmur, apparently elected spokesman in a hasty draw of lots.
"I mean," Jack said, "that we may get over that river yet, mates. And what do you think lies beyond it? Has any man of you not dreamed of that place the songs call Fiddler's Green? Just imagine it, if you can, lads! Can you not see all the fine willing lasses with smiles on their faces? Can you not hear the bright notes of the reel and see the dancers whirling? There's rum that flows like water in that land, my friends, and wine that never runs out, and never leaves you with a sore head in the morning, either." Caught up in his own narrative, he could almost taste it; he licked his dry lips and pressed on. "And the long boards of the tables all but groan with a fine feast the likes of which the likes of you has never seen, I'll wager."
He paused, looking them over: a sorry enough lot, the forsaken and the drowned, but he'd crewed a ship with worse. "And if all else fails, we can't be much more damned than we are now, aye? So let's hear it, then. Are ye with me?"
"Aye!" came the scattered chorus, somewhat doubtful in tone, but Jack was good with that. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at them, pleased as he'd ever been at the beginning of a new venture, however hopeless and however mad. Beating the gods at their own game. Wasn't that what he was best at? With one notable exception; but even that game, he felt just then, might not be entirely up.
No, this death business wasn't half-bad, after all.
Inventory. He found that he was breathing, and there were no wounds, no marks on him but the scars he'd always worn. No pain, not even from the host of aches and bruises earned in his last few frantic days. He wasn't (or hadn't been?) as young as he once was, though it wasn't a thing to be admitted even to himself, and it was almost a shock to not feel that toll now, in his joints, in his blood, in his bones. Check the goods: still there. Praise be. Wouldn't do to be a eunuch for eternity. And he'd still got his hat.
Not so bad at all, then, this being dead; if that's what this was.
He tipped his head back. There were stars up there all right, feeble and faint; but they were all wrong, and that gave him a turn. These were no earthly constellations. Nothing to get a bearing from, nothing to chart his way. The weird unlight seemed to emanate from the sand itself, and from the dull sky, and the sand stretched forever, seeming to blend with the horizon; or maybe there were no horizons here, and that thought gave him another turn, worse than the first.
"So this is the Locker," he said out loud, just to hear words and to stave off the panicky boxed-in feeling that had wrapped chilly fingers 'round his heart, though that meant he still had one, which was a bit of a comfort anyway. "Not much to look at, is it? Definitely lacking in that woman's touch. No surprise there, of course... But ol' Davy ought to get around to decorating the place one of these days--make a nice change from the soul trade--"
Here he stopped short, in part because he realized he was babbling, but mostly because some of the dark grey lumps a little ways from him on the light grey sand, that he had taken for rocks, had straightened up and turned their heads to look at him.
So it wasn't an empty locker, after all.
"Who're you?" demanded a voice, quite close at his shoulder, and he jumped and yelped before he can help himself; and then capered and yelped again, nonchalantly, before he turned, on the theory that whoever was behind him should think that it was a quirk, and not that he was startled in the slightest.
"Why, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he said, squinting at the speaker: a worn sailor with a perpetual scowl, a sallow face, and a long scar down one side of his face. "Don't tell me you've never heard of me."
"Never did hear of you," snapped the other. "You're new, aren't you? Fame won't get ye far here, scabbie. And as you can see, there be nothing for ye to captain, here. No sea, no ships. Get used to it."
"No sea," Jack said, blankly.
"That's right." The scar-faced man guffawed suddenly, toothless and mirthless. "Welcome to Hell, Jack Sparrow!"
Other shades had gathered around them as they spoke, drawn more perhaps by the promise of novelty than anything else, and at these words they broke out into laughter, too, an eerie, raucous noise that sent a cold prickling sensation down Jack's spine.
"Thanks, mate." Jack grimaced, backing away from the man, and felt a sudden tug at his jacket; he yelped again, and craned his head about.
But it was only a little African boy, no older than eight or nine, barefoot and as ragged as the other; he wore a red kerchief around his neck and a battered tambourine tied to his salt-stained sash. "Please, mister," he said. "Are you a pirate, mister? You look like a pirate."
"I am indeed," Jack said, relieved by this small modicum of recognition. "And a jolly good one at that, I assure you."
"I always wanted to meet a pirate," said the boy, in proper tones of awe.
"Well, now you have." Jack smiled, dropping to a crouch to put himself on the boy's level. "What's your name, then, sailor?"
"My name's Pip, sir," says the lad. He offered his hand, and Jack shook it, gravely.
"So where did a fine young man like yourself go wrong to end up in this blasted place, Pip?"
The boy looked surprised. "Nowhere, sir, but that I died at sea. It's the Locker for them that get no proper burial. Them bein' us, I mean, Mister Sparrow. The ferry won't take those ain't been consecrated 'cross the river."
"Always sounded like a bloody poor system to me," muttered Jack. "Punishing a brave sailor for meeting his end before the mast. Still, there's one good thing about systems, and that's that I never met one I couldn't work to my own ends. Well, with one possible exception, but it doesn't signify.... Pip, where might I find that river you mentioned?"
Pip screwed up his face in concentration before shooting a pointed finger out towards Jack's left. No telling whether it was north, south, east or west, if such directions even existed in this place.
"Ah. Good lad." Jack straightened up, ruffling the boy's curly hair in a distracted fashion as he stared off into the indicated trackless, featureless gloom. "I think I'll go and have myself a spot of negotiation with that ferryman. Not like I don't have the time, eh?"
"'S no use," broke in one of the others, in hollow tones. "He won't take you. Not without you've been blessed, and not without the fare."
Jack eyed him. Most of the sailors appeared more or less solid, but this one blurred at the edges like ink feathered by water, his form misty, near-transparent; he wore the doublet and helmet--the one faded and the other tarnished--of an age long past. Jack found this worrying: was this dematerialization what happened to a man after too many unmarked years in this place? "How do you know?" he challenged. "Have you ever tried it?"
"'Course I haven't tried it! Them's the rules. Everyone knows that."
"Bollocks," said Jack, rather rudely. "Piffle. Twaddle, even. How can you know that you know it won't help to try it if you've never tried not knowing it, and tried it? Answer me that!"
The faded man frowned, wavering quite literally, his lips moving as he tried to work this out.
"That's what I thought," crowed Jack. "Look, you lot! I don't know who makes these bloody stupid rules, but odds are they're more like guidelines anyway. Nothing what a bit of friendly persuasion can't bend, if applied with the correct amount of pressure and perhaps a bit of cunning on the side. But it might be accomplished a mite easier in numbers, if you take my meaning."
Baffled looks all around, a bit of uneasy muttering. "What do ye mean, then?" demanded one bold soul out of the general murmur, apparently elected spokesman in a hasty draw of lots.
"I mean," Jack said, "that we may get over that river yet, mates. And what do you think lies beyond it? Has any man of you not dreamed of that place the songs call Fiddler's Green? Just imagine it, if you can, lads! Can you not see all the fine willing lasses with smiles on their faces? Can you not hear the bright notes of the reel and see the dancers whirling? There's rum that flows like water in that land, my friends, and wine that never runs out, and never leaves you with a sore head in the morning, either." Caught up in his own narrative, he could almost taste it; he licked his dry lips and pressed on. "And the long boards of the tables all but groan with a fine feast the likes of which the likes of you has never seen, I'll wager."
He paused, looking them over: a sorry enough lot, the forsaken and the drowned, but he'd crewed a ship with worse. "And if all else fails, we can't be much more damned than we are now, aye? So let's hear it, then. Are ye with me?"
"Aye!" came the scattered chorus, somewhat doubtful in tone, but Jack was good with that. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at them, pleased as he'd ever been at the beginning of a new venture, however hopeless and however mad. Beating the gods at their own game. Wasn't that what he was best at? With one notable exception; but even that game, he felt just then, might not be entirely up.
No, this death business wasn't half-bad, after all.