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"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this."

"Didn't do it for you. She was sailing nowhere with sails like those. Holes like a net. No speed."

"Still, thanks, love."

"Don't call me that!"

"Refreshing to see you ain't changed, sweetheart."

"That neither. There's more'n one of us who hasn't changed."

"More than two of us. The old lady's still the same."

"Creak."

"See, she agrees."

"You're mad. Perfectly crazy."

"Mad, me? Well, nobody's ever said that before."

"See, daft."

"Daft or no, I'm glad you looked after 'er. So, thank you."

"Is Jack Sparrow turnin' soft?"

"No, he's just home - savvy?"

The Black Pearl

First, the hull. A skeleton of pale wood, curves steamed and shaped and fitted together. A skin laid over the bones. Decks, smooth and straight.

Then the adornments. A figurehead, to drive the vessel onwards into storm and wave. Carvings at the stern - sea creatures, looping and diving. Patterns on the Great Cabin's walls, leaded glass at the windows.

Masts and rigging. Mile upon mile of rope, acres of canvas, tightened and checked and checked again.

A final touch; wood stained black as night. Finally she sets sail, equipped with everything she needs, prepared to become what she is.

Freedom.

Blood and Gold

Blood, crimson, glistening. The blood of men fighting for their ships, fighting for their goods, fighting for their livelihoods – fighting for their lives.

Gold, cold and entrancing. Yellow coins, heavy as they drop in pockets. Shiny trinkets, without use but full of value.

Men give gold to save their blood, and blood to save their gold. It never fails to amaze him, as his blade reddens and his treasure chests grow heavy, that they will fight so for a few coins, a serpentine necklace. But this greed feeds his profession, for where would a pirate be without blood or gold?

Blue

He arrived at the lookout post a little breathless, the wind whipping through his hair. Above him, the sky, a vast canopy of blue shot through with light. A few wispy clouds floated gently.

Settling into a comfortable position, he looked down. The deck was a long way below, dark against the sea. All around, water. Rolling hummocks of grey-blue, the sun shafting through to illuminate patches of greenish brown. On the horizon, the blue of the sea met the blue of the sky, melting into one. It was unutterably beautiful. He sighed in pleasure, and settled down to gaze. 

Cold

So this is revenge.

Ten long, bloody years I spent tracking this man, hunting him - hunting my own ship - filled always with this red-hot rage, lust for his sorry life. I wanted the bastard dead. I was burning, all those years.

And now, now in the darkness of this cave, it is over. He falls. "I feel ... cold," he murmurs, as the light goes out behind his eyes.

The odd thing is, so do I. I expected to feel joy at this moment, when he was dead and the Pearl was mine again. But I don't.

I feel cold too.

Condemnation

"Mr Sparrow."

"Well, aren't I honoured? Commodore himself comin' to give me the bad news."

"You had a number of passionate advocates, Mr Sparrow."

"Two."

"Yes, two. Miss Swann and Mr Turner both argued forcefully for your release. But I cannot allow that. You are a pirate, convicted by your words and deeds."

"So? Spit it out, Commodore."

"Three days hence, you will be taken from this place and ... and hung by the neck until dead. I am sorry, Mr Sparrow."

"No, you're not. But do me a favour, Commodore."

"What?"

"It's Captain Sparrow. Just - please get that right?"

Faith

"To be a good leader," someone had once told James Norrington, "you need faith in your men. And you need faith in yourself, and in your decisions. You must be utterly sure that what you do is right."

Norrington had followed that advice and followed his own strict principles throughout his career - he was ever his own harshest critic. Yet as he stood now overlooking the crowd and the gallows, listening to the charges, he found himself faltering.

He raised his chin, and looked at the pirate. He had to keep his faith, for without it, where would he be?

True Freedom

Will had long since resigned himself to his lot in life. He was an orphan; and as such could count himself lucky to be indentured in a good profession.

But now, as the white sails filled above his head, and the water began to rush underneath the prow of the Interceptor, he found his horizons suddenly expanding. A smile crept across his face.

“Discovered there’s more to life than three hours’ sword practice a day, lad?”

Will nodded.

The pirate grinned a sparkling grin, one be-ringed hand resting lightly on the helm. “Aye. This is the life. This is freedom.”

Hoping

Jack Sparrow had always been an optimist.

When he walked the Black Pearl’s plank, he hoped he would not drown.

Sitting on his island, he hoped rescue would come swiftly.

During ten years of wandering, he hoped Barbossa would do nothing to harm his lady.

When the opportune moment finally arrived, he hoped devoutly that young Will Turner would not do anything stupid. Then, he found himself hoping that the blacksmith would do something stupid, and save him from the gallows.

But as he stood at the Pearl’s helm, he knew that none of the hoping had been in vain.

Left Behind

They watched Elizabeth Swann row away, teeth gritted and eyes burning with anger.

"Nice of 'er to let us out," said Gibbs. "Now what?"

"Weigh anchor! Weigh anchor!" squawked the parrot.

There was general agreement, and men began to ascend the masts, to turn the heavy capstan.

Anamaria stood, looking out towards the dark bulk of island. Gibbs came to her.

"He'll look after himself," he said. "Always does."

"Aye." She turned. "Bastard stole my boat, anyway. Only fair we steal his. Tortuga?"

"Tortuga."

They both cast one last look at the Isla de Muerte.

"See you, Jack," said Gibbs.

Longing

Outside, the sky and sea were an uncharacteristic blue. Within the workshop, it was hot and stuffy.

Jack staggered in from the small backyard with an armful of planks. “What shall I do with this?” he asked.

His father looked up from hammering. “Put it there!” he said, pointing. “Don’t be so daft, boy – I know it’s your first time in wi’ me, but that doesn’t mean you can be a fool.”

Dumping the wood in the designated corner, Jack wiped his brow and longed to be out in the open, away from the carpenter’s destiny he did not want.

Masked

"Come along, Mr Sparrow!" The order was brusque. Elizabeth, watching from the boat into which she had been courteously handed, feared the pirate would fire that pistol, would get himself shot in some desperate move.

Jack Sparrow did not look up, his eyes fixed on the sandy beach beneath his bare feet.

"The commodore's waiting." Lieutenant Gillette was clearly getting impatient, and Elizabeth bit her lip. She needed Sparrow; she needed him to find Will.

Finally, the pirate lifted his eyes, the mask back in place, his grin carefree and glittering.

"Then we'd better get a move on, hadn't we?"

Caribbean Nights

He is asleep now, or maybe unconscious, the empty bottle cast aside. For a while she sits and watches him, the strange dark-rimmed eyelids and outlandish clothes. The fire burns still, sending an orange glow up into the night sky. It is cool but not cold; the stars above her are clear in the indigo heavens.

She leans back, propping her elbows on the sandy beach, listening to the sound of the Caribbean night. The rustle of the wind in the trees, the crackle of the fire, the lap of the waves - and the gentle snoring of a drunken pirate.

The Pride of the Killer

"Well done, lad." Thornton clapped Jack on the back. "Well done."

Jack stared down at the body on the deck; at his sword dripping blood over the clean planking.

"Well done?" he said, turning his gaze to the Black Pearl's first mate.

"It was well done. He'd've stabbed old Josiah in the back, had you not got him. You should be proud of yourself."

"Oh." Jack looked at his blade, and bent to wipe it on the dead man's shirt. "Good."

Thornton nodded in a friendly manner, and moved away.

Proud? Jack thought. How could anyone be proud of this?

Red Sky's Warning

He had not slept well since leaving Portsmouth. His nights were broken by dreams of his mother, vague memories of a father he had never really known. On waking, he found himself clutching the golden coin around his neck.

And so he was up to see the dawn. The sailors had long since ceased to notice him, and Will could stand quietly by the rail to watch the sun rise.

On this day, the dawn was red, casting a rosy gleam across the water, playing amongst the wispy clouds. He gazed in awe, wondering what the new day would bring.

Safety

He slides the ring on to her finger and keeps hold of her hand. The metal feels cool against her skin; his hand comfortingly large and strong. She smiles at him. He squeezes, tightening the grasp, and mouths, “I love you,” before they turn back to the priest.

Later, when all the words have been said, the church register signed, he leads her out into the bright Caribbean sunlight. He is still holding her hand, calloused fingers entwined with hers. The link makes her feel safe, secure in the hands of her blacksmith – she knows he will never let go.

Soaring for the Sun

Jack watched the marine unlock his manacles through the cell bars.

"Ta," he said, as the cuffs were removed. The marine scowled, disappearing up the stairs towards freedom.

Turning his back, Jack sat down on the damp floor of the cell, looking down at his wrists. The skin underneath his sparrow tattoo was bruised from the chains and the marines’ rough treatment, and he rubbed it ruefully. Ironic that an image of freedom should bring him captivity.

He traced a finger over the bird soaring for the sun. He wasn’t dead yet; still time to spread his wings and escape.

Unspoken Connection

Jack took the helm, and the ship shuddered beneath his hands. He caressed the wood, soothing her, calming her, turning the wheel just a little so her sails caught the wind. She seemed to pause a moment, before leaping forwards. The waves foamed under the bow, the wind sang in the shrouds. He smiled.

Across the deck, Anamaria looked at him, a sardonic quirk hovering on her lips. She caught his eye, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

Jack grinned cheerfully at her, and patted the helm consolingly. It had been a long ten years, but he was finally back.

Captains

Joshamee Gibbs had known many captains. Those who strode the quarterdeck, surveying the ship with a haughty eye but leaving the running to the men. Those swift to order the lash, dealing out punishment with booming voices and cold glares.

But he had never known a captain like Jack Sparrow, who guided his ship himself with a gentle hand, who was as likely to be found halfway up the mainmast as in his cabin.

As he obeyed the order to trim the sails, Gibbs realised he rather liked the Sparrow style of captaincy. Grinning, he hauled away with a will.

Reflecting

James Norrington stood in shirt and breeches before the mirror.

"Miss Swann," he began, and frowned. "Eliz … Miss … Elizabeth, I …"

He tailed off, and rubbed his brow.

"Dear Lord, James, what are you doing?" he asked himself. "Pull yourself together, man!"

He straightened up, put his shoulders back, and tried again. "Elizabeth Swann, I love you …"

There was a sharp rap on the door, and Norrington turned around. "Yes?"

His valet put his head into the room. "Captain - I mean, Commodore, sir, Governor Swann has arrived. They're nearly ready." The man looked aghast. "You're not …"

"I'm also nearly ready, Jones," Norrington said, reassuringly, and quickly put on his waistcoat and shoes. Jones hurried across and tied Norrington's cravat with nimble fingers, passed him his wig, hat and coat and brushed imaginary dust off the coat's shoulders.

"There, sir, you look just the part. Ready?"

Norrington glanced back at himself in the mirror, and smiled wryly at the reflection.

"As I'll ever be, Jones," he said, and walked smartly out of the room.

Ready

"Three more barrels o' tar," said the owner of the dock where the Pearl was hauled out. "Got some news, too."

Gibbs handed over some of the Spanish gold discovered in the hold. "What's that?"

"They're hangin' Jack Sparrow, over at Fort Charles, in a week."

Gibbs thanked the man, and went to find Anamaria.

She was overseeing the repairs of the deck, but looked up as Gibbs approached and heard his news silently.

"A week?"

"A week," he confirmed.

"Can we be ready?"

They looked together at the great ship.

"I reckon so," said Gibbs.

And they were ready.

Nostalgia

I was a pirate once, you know. Don't look at me like that, chérie, it's not as unlikely as it sounds. Lots of women sail the seas. It was good, it gave me freedom. And there was a man … oh, such a man, a unique, really! He was my captain, and we fought so, you have no idea. Some called him mad. He might have been odd, but he was not mad. He annoyed me, yet I loved him, as many grew to love him when they knew him.

But he's dead now. It was a long time ago.

English Apples

"D'you remember how apples tasted in England, Gibbs?"

"Apples, cap'n?"

Jack nodded, twirling a fruit in his fingers. "Apples. They were … crisper, somehow. Greener. Different."

"It be the climate, cap'n," said Gibbs wisely. "Too hot here for apples."

"Must be … oh, thirteen years since I had a proper English apple," Jack mused.

"Remember, this is the Caribbean," Gibbs pointed out, examining one of the apples from the captain's fruit bowl.

"Yeah, so?"

"You could always try a different sort o' fruit. I'm told mangoes are good."

"Not the same." Jack frowned at his apple. "Just ain't the same."

Sea Creature

Jack always swore the Black Pearl was alive. His crew usually laughed indulgently, humouring this whim of his as they humoured so much else, because he was a good captain.

But at night, when the deck was quiet and the only sound came from the wind in the sails, the slap of rope on canvas, the waves beneath the hull, Jack knew he was right. The Pearl was no lifeless lump of timber. She sang under his hands. His breath was her breath. She was as alive as the fish swimming under her keel – truly a creature of the sea.

Ecumenically

He’d always been good with words. The town priest having taught him his letters, he read scraps of pamphlets and newspapers, when he could – picked up the longer words, and stored them away inside his head for future use.

And he liked using them. He found it confused people, who always expected someone of his profession to curse, bluster and generally be very coarse. The looks on their faces were to treasure as much as the gold he was taking.

Worked on anyone, too. The look on the Governor’s face had been something else. Ecumenically was a damned good word.

All Hallows

It is the year’s ending, and tonight the dead walk.

Somehow the idea disquiets Jack more now he has seen the dead walking, or what passes for the dead, which amounts to the same thing.

He wraps his coat more firmly around him, and rests his hand on the wheel. The contact with the Pearl helps somewhat.

“If you’re there, Bill,” he says, just in case the stories about this day are true, “I know you can’t help what happened.” A pause. “You, Barbossa, I’m certain you could help it. But just so you know, I’ve no quarrel, not any more.”

There is silence, except for the ever-present noise of water and ropes and wood.

Jack nods. “Good. Glad you think that way.”

He falls quiet, and the rest of the watch passes without incident.

Deception

He lied to me from the start. Told me he was a merchant sailor - and because I loved him, I chose to believe him. I believed him when he brought me back nice dresses and bits of silk and fancy jewellery, telling me he'd bargained for them in some country on the other side of the world. It was a pretty fancy.

But I lied too. I lied to our son, because I didn't want him to hurt like I'm hurting. I don't want him to know the painful truth.

I suppose that's what happens when you marry a pirate.

The Absence of Joy

Barbossa regarded the monkey, which was sitting on a perch chattering at him and trying to bite its way through the recovered medallion.

A stroke of luck, it had been, laying hands on that girl. Turner’s daughter. Funny, she didn’t look much like Bootstrap, but maybe she took after her mother. Handy she’d had the gold on her, hadn’t had to search for it. The Port Royal expedition had worked out well all round.

So he supposed, looking at Jack-the-monkey, that he ought to feel something. Joy. He ought to be feeling joy.

But somehow, he couldn’t even feel that.

Reason Enough

“Do you like it?”

“Like what?”

“This. Sailing. Being a pirate. How did you become a pirate?”

“I met Jack Sparrow. After that, there was not much choice.”

“I have the feeling he does that to people.”

“What? Sweeps them away? Ouais, he does that – with his sweet words and promises he will never keep.”

“But you wouldn’t leave him, would you?”

“He owes me a ship.”

“That’s not why you’re staying.”

“He hasn’t given me it yet.”

“I still don’t think that’s why you’re staying.”

“It’s not like you and Bootstrap’s boy, if that’s what you reckon.”

“Isn’t it?”

Unfulfilled

She knew she shouldn't have listened to him. Him with the silver tongue behind those golden teeth, and eyes as deep and enticing as the sea itself. He'd always made her all sorts of promises, so what made her say "yes" when he asked if he could borrow her boat, swearing he'd bring it back?

And now - as he stood before her, saying he'd give her the beauty at anchor out in the harbour - what in heaven's name was making her agree to crew for him, again? The promise of that ship?

He'd never fulfil his promise. He never did.

Dawn

He woke as his valet pulled open the curtains, letting in the day. It was a bright morning, unwarranted; and unlike himself he rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. He did not want to rise today.

* * *

Sun shone through the cracks between the shutters, and he dressed without finding a candle. As he found his sword and drew it, the light caught the metal, bouncing off the plain wooden walls. He was ready.

* * *

It was not the first time he’d faced this, and he was composed as the guard came to unlock the cell door and lead him into the courtyard. Still the light caught him unawares, and he blinked as the sun blinded him after the days locked in the dark. At least, he considered, letting his gaze wander over the assembled townspeople, it was a nice day for dying.

How Cotton met Parrot

The bird caught his eye for two reasons. Firstly, it was large and very brightly coloured, in vivid blue and gold. Secondly, it was sitting on a perch in a cage telling passers-by, very seriously, that “Davy Jones is dancing a jig”.

Cotton stopped, and eyed it up. It stopped squawking and eyed him back, and then cocked its head to one side and asked, “When do we sail?”

Money was handed over, a cage door opened. And Cotton walked back aboard his ship with the parrot on his shoulder, and a voice for the first time in five years.

Hair in the wind

Generally, she kept her hair tucked up under her hat. It stayed cleaner that way, less likely to become tangled in a Sparrowish fashion, or caught in lines.

She had thought about having it chopped off. But she’d never actually managed to hack off more than a few strands before giving up.

When it came down to it, her hair was one of the few concessions she made to her sex. Even if one day it would betray her, it was worth it for the moments when she let the long, loose locks fly out behind her in the wind.

Fire in the Forge

The unfinished blade was red with heat, turning a dull orange as he hammered. The sound of metal on metal rang sharply through the forge, and sweat ran down Will’s face.

He plunged the sword back in the hot coals, wiped his brow with his sleeve; took the weapon out again and continued his hammering. Under his skilled touch the new sword took shape, long and thin and ready for sharpening, ready for the hand of its owner.

A strong hand, and good steel, and the heat of the fire – all that was needed to create a tool of death.

Spoils of War

He had never been a soldier, but nevertheless these were the spoils of war. To an untrained eye, mere baubles and trinkets; to him, small bits of meaning, of memory. A bead, pocketed when his mother’s old necklace broke when he was five. A bit of whalebone, gifted by a shipmate. A coin from his first haul. Glass found on a North African beach, smoothed by the waves. From the woman who took his youth, a wooden die, for luck. And tied on tight, so it would not fall - a scrap of timber from the ship that took his heart.

Numb

“For de cold, and de sorrow.”

Elizabeth looked up, at the proffered mug and at Tia Dalma’s strange, compassionate eyes. She took the drink to avoid argument; she was not in the mood for it.

“Already,” said Gibbs from the doorway, “the world seems a bit less bright.”

Elizabeth gripped the mug. That was her doing. She had cut out their light; had shackled it to a mast and kissed it farewell. At the time it had seemed the right thing to do. Now, all she felt was the vast crushing emptiness of the deep that had swallowed Jack Sparrow.

Christmas Eve

Billy bounced. “But I can’t sleep tonight, Mama! It’s Christmas tomorrow!”

“And why does that mean no sleep?” Elizabeth Turner asked, hands on hips.

“‘Cos … ‘cos I’m too excited!” said Billy, still bouncing. “There’ll be presents. And food. And maybe Captain Jack?” he added, hopefully.

She smiled, despite herself. “There’ll certainly be presents, and food. I can’t guarantee Jack, though.”

“But he said he’d come.”

“Yes, but even Jack can’t command the wind. He’ll come if he can. Now, bed!”

“Mama!”

Elizabeth began towing him up the stairs. “Morning will come quicker if you sleep.”

He grumbled, but complied.

© Joanne Harris 2008