Apprentice To The Sorcerer

Jack slept all during my morning shift.

The men wanted to know how he fared, fretted over him like old women even, but no one would risk going inside to see. He’d broken Gibb’s wrist, knocked a tooth out of Pintel, and popped Mokulu’s jaw loose, not to mention he’d nearly gutted them all.

When I went to see about him, he still slumbered. I watched his chest rise and fall with his deep breaths. Never had I seen him so far under. He always slept so lightly.

Worried, I sat down on the edge of his bed and felt his forehead. He didn’t have a fever any longer, thankfully. His jaw didn’t look swollen anymore either. I wiped his face carefully, then his neck, getting the dried sweat from the night off his skin. I eased off his scarf completely, stared down onto that nearly unmarked brow. He looked so young, so vulnerable, so incapable of the violence I knew he could do.

I cleaned up where he’d smeared his liner and after searching awhile, found the container it came from. Carefully, I re-applied the kohl. He had remarkably few creases around his eyes for a forty three year old man. I supposed his habit of wearing the kohl had kept him from squinting and making wrinkles. Giving in to impulse, I smoothed out the hair on his right eyebrow, making the scar more distinct.

Moving on, I looked over his newly-sewn finger. It seemed to be healing well and wasn’t a bit red. Not having any other excuse for touching him, I moved his hair away from his neck and face.

I couldn’t get over how young and innocent he appeared. He didn’t have the face of a experienced pirate. He had the face of a Fae. All he needed were pointed ears. Thinking that might explain his wizardry and open to that idea, I moved his hair back for a look. I’d never seen his ears. They were delicately shaped, like much of the rest of him, and pierced. He had a gold hoop in each ear.

Scorby jumped up on the bed. I patted her. She butted me affectionately before curling up beside Jack’s head. “He’s going to recover,” I said. “It would take more than a bad tooth to do in the most fearsome pirate on the seven.”

Scorby chirruped.

After seeing his performance the night before I knew his reputation as a brawler wasn’t a false one. I found it strange for that to be a truth about Jack; he rarely fought. He preferred to sneak away or double talk his way out of trouble, and he was good at it.

I got up and wandered the cabin, taking in details I’d never had the time to study. Jack had few possessions that didn’t involve his occupation. He had plenty of maps and instruments, paper and ink, but only two shelves of books that weren’t atlases or navigation related. A dusty stack of foolscap tied shut with twine caught my attention.

Placing the bundle on the table, I untied it and started sifting through. They were drawings. After looking for a moment I found a sketch of my father, his face concerned and dismayed. After that one was James Norrington, also looking concerned but equally outraged. The next showed me, staring into the viewer with eyes full of anger and disgust.

Ah, the faces of everyone involved with me and my stupid corset then.

The next few were of Will. He’d captured Will’s honest, open face and clear emotions perfectly.

Jack had real talent with drawing. I kept looking, found landscapes, ships, and foreign people in their native costumes. He’d sketched quite a few pictures of Ragetti and Pintel together, doing justice to their unique friendship. He’d done a few of Gibbs too, and they were the best. He knew his subject very well here. Every bit of the man’s practical personality and solid trustworthiness showed.

I put the drawings away, feeling like I might have violated Jack by looking at them.

Mokulu cracked open the door. “De captain?” he asked simply.

“Still sleeping,” I answered. “Will you tell cook to make him some kind of soup? And tell him to boil it a long time.”

“I do,” Mokulu assured me. “But how he eat if he asleep?”

“I’ll wake him up,” I said. “He has to eat.”

Mokulu shuddered. “I feel conflict,” he confessed. “I not want you in dere wit’ him while he off his head, but I not want to be in dere myself. He not hit you, he prove that last night, but he could kill you if he did.”

“He won’t hurt me,” I replied, knowing it as truth. I didn’t have much concern over my welfare. “Not even by accident.”

Mokulu left us. I busied myself with dusting the cabin and setting things to rights. I emptied his bucket and cleaned it out. I straightened his books and picked up his clothes. It occurred to me I acted exactly like the cabin boy everyone had thought I was. Or a wife.

As if. Jack Sparrow wasn’t the marrying kind.

Suddenly Jack sat straight up in bed, eyes not even open. His hand shot out and grabbed the bucket, though I knew not how he’d found it. He spat a gob of bloody linen out of his mouth and then spat again, screwing his face up in revulsion. The bucket clattered to the floor as he fell like a cut puppet back to the mattress.

I watched, almost mesmerized as his reaching hand unerringly found the vodka bottle. The contents splashed over his neck as he poured a healthy portion down his throat. Spluttering, he let the bottle drop, open. I snatched it up and forced the cork back in it.

“-that my Passion's so lively and strong,
That your Name when I'm silent still runs in my Song.” Jack sank in a drunken way, though I knew damn good and well he wasn’t the least bit intoxicated. “Sing Ballynamony ho, ro, Ballynamony ho, ro, Sing Ballynamony ho, ro, O Ballynamone ho, ro,” His slurred enunciation wasn’t at all clear.

“Since the first Time I saw you, I take no repose, I sleep all the Day to forget half my Woes: So strong is the Flame in my Bosom that glows, By St. Patrick, I fear it will burn thro' my Clothes. Sing Ballynamony ho, ro, Ballynamony ho, ro!”

He trailed off, smiling, looking for all the world like a man lying on a beach somewhere. Mokulu came in with the soup and left, the entire procedure taking only twenty seconds or so. I took the tureen over to the bed and sat beside my patient. “Jack,” I said softly. “Wake up and eat something.”

Jack’s eyes opened. He took me in, clear-headed, his mind churning over the why-for’s of my presence in his cabin. “Lizzie,” he greeting quietly. “What’s happened? Something’s happened or you wouldn’t be in here.”

“You fell ill,” I answered. “Sit up and see if you can eat. But first, let me see your mouth.”

Jack flexed, brought his whipcord body erect. He let me look inside his mouth, but his eyes were searching me.

His injuries looked red from blood. I saw no more pus anywhere. The hole where his molar used to be didn’t ooze. While I had his mouth open I packed a tiny square of clean bandage in the gap and added a dropper or two of vodka. Jack shuddered as the alcohol hit his raw gum. “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. “I pulled out a bad tooth and took care of a boil. It’s going to be tender for awhile. Don’t drink rum until the holes are closed in there and try to keep your mouth moist. Don’t chew on that side if you can help it.”

Jack nodded listlessly. He ran an absent hand over his naked brow.

I frowned at his lack of energy. Blood would be here in twelve hours or less, leading a flotilla of rogues. If Jack didn’t have some presence about him, things wouldn’t get very far. I drew out two nice cocoa leaves, dried, and wedged them in between a few layers of vodka and water-soaked cloth. “You’re going to have to rinse your mouth out pretty often,” I instructed. “I’d just carry a flask of vodka. Swish and spit every hour and then bolt a shot down afterward every other time.”

“Doctor’s orders to drink,” Jack muttered, half-smiling. “I like that.”

“I thought you might,” I answered. “Can you eat?”

“Fuck-all if I know,” Jack grumbled. “I’m still trying to figure out if I’m really awake.”

I reached out and pinched him on the arm. He jerked. “What was that for?”

“To show you that you are indeed awake,” I smirked. “Now, pick up that spoon and eat.”

“What is it?” Jack stared down into the bowl suspiciously.

“I don’t know, taste it,” I said.

Jack grimaced. “Me stomach’s not likin’ the idea of victuals,” he hedged.

“Jack, you threw up until nothing but bile came out, and you slept eighteen hours,” I said, putting my hands on my hips in irritation. “You’ll eat if I have to make you.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jack muttered. He picked up his spoon and started to eat. Satisfied he meant to obey me, I went about puttering with my supplies. I had an idea for a paste that would clean Jack’s teeth and keep infection down.

Jack watched me grind herbs while he slowly made his way through the soup. I added orris root, precipitated chalk and tincture of myrrh, smashing everything together so fine as to be only mildly abrasive. I didn’t like the method of cleaning teeth with a rag, but little else seemed feasible.

“I dreamed of strange things,” Jack said quietly, breaking the silence. “But I don’t remember falling ill.”

“Likely you wouldn’t,” I assured him. “A septic tooth and an abscess can cause dementia. You whipped the tar out of Pintel, Mokulu and Gibbs before we got you under control.”

Jack winced.

“And you kept a constant litany of French,” I went on. “I was the only one that could understand you. You called them all children of common street whores, among other things.”

Jack put his head in his hands, soup forgotten. Beside him, Scorby stuck her head in the bowl.

“After nearly opening their guts just as you threatened, you got it into your head that I was in danger. Not long afterwards you put up a tremendous fight in here. Pintel is missing a tooth and Gibbs has a broken wrist. Mokulu fared better; he only got his jaw dislocated.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Jack asked quickly, raising his head.

“No.”

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. He started to pick up his spoon again, but Scorby had already finished the few spoonfuls of soup left in the bowl. He smiled at her. “Good puss,” he praised. “I don’t like squash.” She butted his hand before moving to the foot of the bed to bathe.

“Seems strange to apologize for something I can’t remember doing,” Jack muttered. He hand went to his stomach. “I think I might lose my soup,” he said.

I nudged his bucket closer to him. “Try not to, if you can. You’ve had nothing else for quite awhile and you’re likely weak.”

Jack downed about a finger’s worth of vodka, shivering all the while. He then swished his mouth out and flattened on the mattress. “Pfaugh,” he uttered. “Potato juice.”

“It isn’t made with molasses, that’s what I care about,” I said.

“Gin?” Jack said hopefully.

“Sugary,” I argued. I scraped the contents of the pestle into a tin container and closed it. “How did you split your tooth like that?”

“I’ve no idea,” Jack grunted. “Been like that for weeks.”

“Don’t let it go if it happens again,” I warned. “It can kill you Jack, I’m serious. Your mouth and your heart are tied together somehow. Anything that poisons your mouth is poisoning your blood.”

“Duly noted, Lizzie,” Jack answered me, sounding tired. “It was gettin’ right painful there last few days. Knew I should pull it, but I kept forgetting about it.”

“How can you forget pain?”

“Easily, long as its not mortal agony,” Jack answered. “If you actually think about what yer feelin’ and don’t bother to shove it in that ‘pain’ category up in the noggin’, ye can sorta change its name.”

“You must be feeling better,” I commented. “You’re talking like a pirate again.”

“What do you mean, again?” Jack threw his arm over his eyes. “I am a pirate, therefore I talk like one.”

I sat down in a chair beside his bed. “I know you haven’t always been a pirate. You’re an educated man, and certainly as educated as anyone I’ve met.” I shoved his arm off his eyes, making him look at me. “You’re full of shit. If you wanted to, you could shave that beard and moustache off, cut your hair and completely disappear. You could be anybody you wanted to be.”

“Ye sayin’ I’m a fraud?” Jack asked softly.

“I’m saying you reinvented yourself. Having only just started that process, I can smell it all over you.”

Jack faced me fully. His large, deep eyes drew me in, made me forget to do anything but meet his gaze. I felt I might have stopped breathing. I lost my way while following a pinpoint of light, slanting across his iris. With the rest of him partially shadowed he looked feral, like a big cat peering out of a thicket. The intelligence of him staggered me.

“You’re a smart man, Jack,” I said. “You’re so willing to tell people what you want that they think they know how you feel, but it isn’t the case. You wear a mask. Being captain, you aren’t allowed to feel, are you?”

A tiny, sad smile moved Jack’s lips. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you, assuming yer right,” he said softly.

“Then give me one glimpse,” I asked. “Just one. I want to see.”

“What will I get in return, Lizzie-beth?” Jack asked, smiling gently.

“What is it worth?” I countered quietly.

Jack looked at me a long moment, eyes sober. “I want another night with you in my bed.”

I raised my chin. “I’m not bartering my chastity.”

“I would never make your chastity a bartering matter,” Jack said. “I’d take it as a gift, not as a business deal.”

“Alright, Jack,” I relented, choosing to ignore the topic of my chastity. “You show me that real emotion, whatever it is, and I’ll sleep alongside you for another night.” It seemed a reasonable trade.

“You’ll stay with me the entire night?” His voice betrayed his doubt.

“Yes. Will you show me some real emotion instead of this wanton act you put on?”

Jack smiled. “Tomorrow, Lizzie-beth.”

“Then I leave you to the rest of your day,” I said. “If you need me I’ll be pitched near my sling. I have mending to do.”

“Skin or cloth?” Jack enquired as I made for the hatch.

“Cloth. I told the mates I’d mend their clothing if they’d gather some shells for me.”

Jack gave me a puzzled look. “What do you want shells for?”

“Various things,” I answered. “I just don’t have time to gather them.”

Jack grinned, rolled over on his side. Scorby jumped to join him.