(no subject)
"Ah," she sighs, with the waves lapping up over the sand, sighing with her.
She had been waiting.
But not for Jack. Oh, no, to wait for Jack is folly, she knows well: this would never be his decision to make. Not any longer.
"So be it, your choice," she says, and reaches out, as if to lay one hand on Will's cheek, but an instant before her palm touches his skin, she jerks her hand away, her eyes pleased, brilliant in the sun. Her face is transfigured, bright and eager with a wildness that is only barely contained.
There's a wind growing, a fair stiff breeze, and it swirls at the Pearl's rigging, tugs at Will's jacket and hair.
She stands on her toes, stretching up as though to kiss his cheek, and whispers in his ear with her voice laughing and sighing all at once. "A touch," she says,
(And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him)
(the wind sighs, and pulls, and the Pearl shifts in her berth)
(He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them")
"of destiny."
Her steps away are quick and decisive; she walks to the meeting of the sand and the water, where the little inlet seeps into the heavy forest and makes it smell of fresh dark water. She clutches something before her chest; her words are low and muttered, strange words that echo and then fade away, rippling through the air. She lifts her hands as though in prayer, tosses them, and
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
little drops fall, into water that has turned utterly placid. Somewhere far away, a rustle stirs through the leaves of the woods and then stills.
At the water's edge, Tia Dalma clutches at the locket that hangs at her throat, and waits, her eyes wide and impatient, a small figure dwarfed by the ship before her. She is waiting, waiting, and the time has finally come.
And then the wind comes.
With it races the scent of salt; the wild lilting calls of the curlews and the gulls, and the woods--the land--shiver, and shake, groaning.
She closes her eyes, and raises her arms, embracing the wild wind that smells of salt and sun and dim-lit rainforests; sand and storms and tar.
(But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone")
And when she drops them again, the inlet is larger. Much larger; it stretches and shines, unfolds beyond into a great dark and hazy line, over which rolls purple clouds and the beginnings of the final glints of a Caribbean sunset.
It's to this horizon that she turns her face now, eager as a girl, her hands dropping to her sides--no. One goes to her side, the other falls to her stomach, where it cradles the silver locket that is laid there--
And she waits.
It won't be long now.
She had been waiting.
But not for Jack. Oh, no, to wait for Jack is folly, she knows well: this would never be his decision to make. Not any longer.
"So be it, your choice," she says, and reaches out, as if to lay one hand on Will's cheek, but an instant before her palm touches his skin, she jerks her hand away, her eyes pleased, brilliant in the sun. Her face is transfigured, bright and eager with a wildness that is only barely contained.
There's a wind growing, a fair stiff breeze, and it swirls at the Pearl's rigging, tugs at Will's jacket and hair.
She stands on her toes, stretching up as though to kiss his cheek, and whispers in his ear with her voice laughing and sighing all at once. "A touch," she says,
(And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him)
(the wind sighs, and pulls, and the Pearl shifts in her berth)
(He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them")
"of destiny."
Her steps away are quick and decisive; she walks to the meeting of the sand and the water, where the little inlet seeps into the heavy forest and makes it smell of fresh dark water. She clutches something before her chest; her words are low and muttered, strange words that echo and then fade away, rippling through the air. She lifts her hands as though in prayer, tosses them, and
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
little drops fall, into water that has turned utterly placid. Somewhere far away, a rustle stirs through the leaves of the woods and then stills.
At the water's edge, Tia Dalma clutches at the locket that hangs at her throat, and waits, her eyes wide and impatient, a small figure dwarfed by the ship before her. She is waiting, waiting, and the time has finally come.
And then the wind comes.
With it races the scent of salt; the wild lilting calls of the curlews and the gulls, and the woods--the land--shiver, and shake, groaning.
She closes her eyes, and raises her arms, embracing the wild wind that smells of salt and sun and dim-lit rainforests; sand and storms and tar.
(But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone")
And when she drops them again, the inlet is larger. Much larger; it stretches and shines, unfolds beyond into a great dark and hazy line, over which rolls purple clouds and the beginnings of the final glints of a Caribbean sunset.
It's to this horizon that she turns her face now, eager as a girl, her hands dropping to her sides--no. One goes to her side, the other falls to her stomach, where it cradles the silver locket that is laid there--
And she waits.
It won't be long now.