Until the strangers arrived it was a perfectly normal night in Tortuga. The ‘Scarlet Wench’ was busy with customers – people singing, people fighting, and mostly, people drinking.

Around a large corner table were most of the crew of the good ship the Black Pearl. The vessel herself was anchored out in the harbour in all her dark glory, and her men were celebrating a fruitful few weeks. Leading the celebrations, the slight, vivacious figure of the Pearl’s eccentric captain could be seen waving a tankard of rum about.

The strangers came in together, three figures in odd, outlandish clothes that made even Captain Jack Sparrow look normal. One was certainly a man, but the others appeared to be female despite their tight-fitting trousers.

Most of the clientele of the ‘Wench’ were drunk enough to take no more than a passing notice of the newcomers as they wove through the crowds and took up a position at the end of the bar. There was a brief and fierce discussion amongst the three, and then the man leant forwards and ordered some drinks.

Over at the Black Pearl’s table, Jack Sparrow ended his tale, drained his tankard and stood up. He sauntered across the room, nodding cheerfully at acquaintances, and ended up leaning on the bar by the three strangers.

“Pint o’ grog,” Jack told the barman.

“Comin’ up,” the barman agreed, and went off to fill the tankard.

Jack turned to the strangers. “New to Tortuga?” he asked, lightly.

The three exchanged glances, and the one with long, straight black hair and skin that looked as though it had never seen the sun spoke quickly in some staccato language Jack didn’t recognise. The man responded, before turning to Jack and offering a thin, ironic smile.

“Could say that,” he said, in English.

“Then have another drink, on me,” said Jack.

“I will – the girls haven’t got very far into theirs yet,” the man replied. He held out his hand. “John Crichton.”

“Jack Sparrow,” Jack introduced himself, shaking hands. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you stand out a bit.”

The other man eyed Jack and his colourful sash, waistcoat and beads, and raised an eyebrow. Jack waved a hand at Crichton’s strange black trousers and the shirt without buttons clinging to his muscled torso.

“And is that a pistol in your belt?” he asked.

Crichton touched it. “Yeah.” He drank. “This is good.”

“The ale?” Jack asked. “I’ve had worse.”

“It’s alcohol,” said Crichton, with a look of absolute bliss. He swallowed another mouthful. “Look … Jack … can I call you Jack?”

“Go ahead,” said Jack, cheerfully.

“I’ve got two questions for you,” Crichton said. “One, where the hell are we? Two, when the hell are we?”

“Tortuga, mate,” Jack replied. “It might be Monday.”

“Country? Year?”

“Touch of memory loss?” said Jack. “Somethin’ bash you on the noggin?”

“Touch of interstellar space travel,” Crichton said.

Jack frowned, and shrugged off the odd comment. “Jamaica. Last I bothered to look, I think it was 1690. Dates don’t really concern me.”

“Jamaica?!” exclaimed the stranger. “The Caribbean?” He grinned, lifted his tankard to his lips and drained it before turning to his companions and speaking enthusiastically.

The pale one frowned, folded her arms and replied brusquely.

Jack glanced back at his crew, who were singing raucously across the room. “You’ve got a story to tell, mate,” he said. “Come and give it to me crew. They like a good yarn. And do introduce me to the ladies.”

“Aeryn,” said Crichton, waving a hand at the stern-faced woman. “That’s Chiana.”

The third member of the group, her head covered by a grey hood, put her head on its side and examined Jack intently. She said something to Crichton, who grinned.

“She likes you,” he told Jack.

Jack put his hands together and gave the girl a little bow. “Likewise. Even though I can’t understand what she’s saying. C’mon, let’s have your story, and a bottle of rum.”

He led the way across the room to the Black Pearl’s table, introducing the strangers. The crew made room for them, and Jack persuaded John Crichton to tell his tale.

It turned out to be a good one, though not many of the pirates really understood all Crichton said about wormholes and stars. But there were strange creatures, and pitched battles, and comradeship, and all that they understood.

At the end of the tale there was applause and a call for more drinks. Cotton was asleep with his head on the table, and a number of the other men were preparing to leave with their arms around buxom girls.

Crichton’s female companions stood up, and he looked resigned and finished his drink.

“Gotta go,” he said. “Ship to catch.” He put down the empty tankard. “Thanks,” he said. “I kinda wish we could stay here.”

“If you can sail there’d be a place in me crew,” said Jack. “For all three of you, if you want. There’s some who won’t take lasses on board, but I’m not one of them.”

“Wrong sort of ship,” Crichton returned. “Nah. I’ve been looking for Earth and humans for a while now, and it’s good to find a form of them. But you’re the wrong century for me. It’s been good, though. Nice to have a drink.”

Jack picked up a bottle of rum from the table. “Take it with you, mate. Wherever it is you’re going.”

“Not like I know that myself,” said Crichton. He held out his hand. “Been good.”

Pale Aeryn spoke, briefly, and Crichton nodded.

“Better do what the lady says,” Jack said.

“You’ve no idea,” Crichton returned. He raised the rum bottle. “Thanks.”

“Hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” said Jack.

He watched as the three strangers left the tavern, and turned back to his pint. Looking into the liquid depths, he murmured, “whatever it is.”

© Joanne Harris 2004