As man hath caused a blemish...

Capt_Davy_Jones_Lover - :) I'm hoping she will change but we'll have to see :s

Cassiopeia - lol that line about walking? That took me forever to try and figure it out. I wanted to describe it a little bit more elegantly but *shrugs* the truth's a little bit more plain heh ;)

Chapter Two
Duties

After three weeks in the brig being as sick as humanly (or un-humanly? I don’t know what I was classified as) Mr Clay designated a job for me…

Cabin boy.

Or girl. Or should it be cabin *person* in today’s pc world? But either way, can you believe it? That’s what they made of me. I was deemed too weak to “be of any real use”. And this was from Mr Clay. A man who was more barnacle than flesh and more seaweed than barnacle. And yes before you start sniggering I know the innuendo’s that surround the words ‘cabin boy’ and believe you me it is not bloody true. At all. Except possibly that Mr Clay found it amusing to put a hole in my sweater that ran from my left elbow to my right shoulder just so he could leer at my chest...but anyway...

It’s real hard work. I was given a list of chores, from deck swabbing to pan scrubbing, carrying up the Captains meals to painting the spare canvas with a nasty mixture of tar, wax, resin and some sticky, smelly stuff that I’d really rather not know about. Then there was mopping the deck. Which sounds a lot easier than it was. It was actually mopped before it was scrubbed. They used long blocks of soap for that job. They were about two inches thick and four inches wide. Someone called it Life Boy. It looked like a red brick and smelled like chemicals. God alone knows where they got it from. My hair got in the way during this time - my hair bobble had snapped when I was, er, rescued so I had to find a strip of cloth to tie it back with as best I could. That didn't stop it from getting trod on as I scrubbed at the deck, my hands raw and blistered by the end of the day. I'd got used to the slaps on the ass off the crew but that didn't stop me from throwing whatever was closest at hand at whoever did it. Much to the amusement of the rest of the crew.

I think of all the tasks the one I disliked the most was taking the Captain his meals. He ate twice a day, like the rest of the crew but rather than eat in the galley or on deck he’d sit alone in his cabin.

Breakfast wasn’t so bad. It was a case of knock on the door, go in, leave the tray on the table and try not to disturb the rumbling mass in the bed. He fell asleep at a massive pipe organ that lined one side of the wall sometimes. But you could usually tell when he was going to do that thanks to the dark concerts he’d treat the crew too the night before.

Supper was *not* so much fun. If that could be classified as fun in the first place. Breakfast usually meant a little fruit, bread – if there was any that wasn’t wet, mouldy, stale or writhing with…well…anyway… Captain Davy Jones was usually awake when I took him dinner. I also had to wait around whilst he ate. Sometimes he’d talk with me, short sentences purred in that accent of his, other times he’d bark orders and often I’d be sent from the room with something he’d thrown flying at me. Depending on his mood and whether or not my stupid, suicidal mouth said something...well, stupid or suicidal. Duh.

Supper meant a few things that I hated…

The first was having to go into the kitchen where the cook – a cruel man who went by the name of Pritchett – resided. He did not like me. Which was fine really considering the first time I ventured into the kitchen (a small room – and I mean *small* I could touch both sides if I stretched my arms out – off the side of the galley) he turned round holding a knife and promptly sliced off the right sleeve of my sweater, cutting into the skin beneath. Okay so whilst under the command of Davy Jones I couldn’t, technically, die but that didn’t mean I couldn’t feel pain. Pritchett was a bastard who spat in the stew and took great delight in shoving me into anything pointy or anything that would hurt…but anyway…

After venturing into the kitchen I’d then have to balance the tray full of food (usually a hearty stew, or cheese and some meat, chicken too if we had it) *and* carry a full tankard of ale or rum – depending on the captain’s mood. Not an easy task when your hands are as small as mine. I’d have to carry it all through the decks up top, then across the top deck and to the Captains cabin. Usually it was easy enough, if you yell loud enough, harsh enough and with plenty of swear words scattered here and there people generally tend to get out of your way. I did a *lot* of shouting. But on a day that was particularly windy or stormy it was hell.

And after venturing the kitchen, through the crew (who, honestly, scared the living daylights out of me), through the decks, across the top deck…then there was braving the Captain. Of an evening. Oooh boy was that a toughy. Usually you could tell what kind of mood he was in through the music he was playing. There was a lullaby that had been turned into a threatening explosion of music through the pipe organ, that usually meant he was in a good mood and it was safe to go in. The crew used to work to that, hauling on ropes in time to the beat, mopping the deck, anything really that had a rhythm was set to the music. On the other hand…there was a darker waltz and a worse toccata that showed how bad a mood the captain was in. The waltz usually meant he felt melancholy whereas the toccata meant…anything…the toccata frightened me.

It had been a few weeks. Don’t ask me exactly because I never bothered remembering. Remembering meant realising time had past and that meant thinking about the ones I’d left behind and all the questions that surrounded that. It was an awful night out. The ship heaved and groaned on every swell, she was having a real bad time of it. It was nights like these that you saw a lot of the crew men reach out and touch the sides of the ship, as if offering comfort to her. Yeah, there was evil on this ship but there was also a hell of a lot of good.

I’d managed – for the very first time – to stagger across the top deck with the waves beating over it, the slippery deck and crewmen crashing into me and not spill *anything*. I got to the captains cabin with a ludicrously huge grin, insanely proud of myself and on the verge of yelling ‘hell yeah!’. I shouldered into the Captains cabin, letting in a slues of saltwater that I knew I’d have to clean out again later. Kicking the door behind me I didn’t even have to look up to realise something was wrong.

Usually the music roared around the little room, loud enough to feel the bass notes through your feet and the high notes through your teeth. That night it was barely audible over the racket of the storm outside. It was almost as if Davy Jones was submitting to the rage of the sea, as if *he* was the cause for it. Two tentacles pressed against the keys, picking out the Waltz slowly, melancholy evident in the tune as well as the low set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his head,

“How are you findin’ life amongst the crew?” He asked without turning round. I started to set the things out on the little desk of his. Crusted with barnacles and seaweed the wood had long ago rotted away to be replaced by living things. I flicked off a tiny crab from the top as I set his meal out. A question like that, in a mood like this deserved a careful answer,

“Bearable, sir” The ‘sir’ part had taken a while to get used too but it fairly rolled off the tongue now. There was a snort of dark laughter from the direction of the pipe organ and I smiled a little. Almost the second day of being on the ship I’d decided that I adored his laugh – no matter that I was usually being laughed *at*. It was a purely dirty sound. Even in this sort of mood I’d figured out that if he could laugh he wasn’t *too* dangerous,

“A diplomatic answer, Miss Spyce, if ever I heard one” He replied as dryly as a man with tentacles could reply,

“I want to go home, Cap’n” My suicidal mouth then chose that moment to speak for me and I nearly winced as he turned round slowly in the seat,

“That was less than diplomatic” He said, that little spark of humour lurking in the back of his gaze…or at least, I *hoped* it was humour, “where is home?” He asked, turning round fully to face me. I fidgeted under the strength and weight of that gaze, it was moments like these that made me loathe the man. He never let me just vanish into the background, he always picked me out and made me…think…

“Aberdeen” I replied automatically, “Land, where my family is” I floundered as he tilted his head to one side, regarding me silently for a moment before asking,

“Is it now?” I stared at him for a moment, trying to understand what he was getting at but my brain froze and promptly turned to mush as he stood up and limped towards me. I backed off until my ass pressed against the table. He didn’t stop until he was stood right in front of me, pinning me there by leaning forward and resting his, er, hands on the table either side of me – I was arched back a little so our hips pressed together, I tried very hard not to gasp at the sensation. I was a lot more frightened than I was willing to let on as those blue eyes stared into my own, “you mean, home is where the heart is?” He looked slightly disgusted when he said that, his breath surprisingly warm as it ghosted against my face, scented with rum but not…in an entirely…unpleasant way…

“I…I guess…sir” I mumbled, not entirely sure what he was getting at and wondering if his eyes kept darting to my lips for a reason. I raised a hand to scrub at them self consciously only to have three of those tentacles wrap around my wrist, holding my hand still, away from my face. I was expecting - wait, expecting? Since when did I start expecting to be touched by him? - the touch to be slimy but it was merely cool, strong...diferent...

“Then you would prefer a heart in chains to freedom?” He asked, his voice a low, rough whisper. How much had he drunk? I knew he’d had at least a bottle and a half of rum – they were rolling around on the floor with the heave of the ship. He’d had *that* much but he could still think such deep thoughts?

“What?” I whispered in reply. My own voice breathy and lost to my own ears. He smirked, leaning forward so his body was pressed against my own, I took a breath in and held it before he pulled away suddenly, the tankard that I’d brought now in his hand, my wrist was released and I felt its loss instantly,

“If your heart belongs to someone or some place then how can you ever truly be free?” He asked, turning away to limp back to the pipe organ, shoulders tighter than usual. I wished I could see his expression so I knew how to reply. Unfortunately I was left to guess. An old saying popped into my head, something about taking refuge in the truth,

“My heart’s never belonged to someone else” I shrugged. He froze, turning slightly to look at me over his shoulder, “and I think if it *did* it’ d be a pleasurable kind of imprisonment” I was rather proud of that. At least it *sounded* poetic. Overly mushy and romantic but poetic none the less. Another bark of laughter as he settled himself down,

“Spoken like an innocent” He shook his head as if I’d said something really funny, “you’ll learn. Love’s a myth. Invented by women-“ Women here said in the same tone as ‘cockroach’ or ‘dung beetle’, “-as a device for inflicting pain” The waltz he was picking out was starting to change becoming dangerous, “love’s a myth…” He was quiet for a while and I was starting to get *really* fidgety,

“Orders for the evening, Captain?” I asked softly

“None for tonight. Get out” He ordered over his shoulder. I all but ran for the door but…something made me stop. I looked back at his hunched form. I could just about see the tankard clasped in his crab clawed hand, the dangerous toccata was almost in full swing now but…his heart wasn’t in it,

“Sir?” I called out, hating the warble in my voice. The music stopped. I don’t think I’d ever produced such a reaction before, I wouldn’t know how important a gesture it was until much later. It was the only sign that he gave that he was listening to me, “I thought *you* were a myth” I opened the door and fought my way out into the howling night, making my way down into the ship to try and find a safe place to sleep.