Apprentice To The Sorcerer

Jack shut and bolted the hatch, sighing. I sat down on his bed, watched him pace around the room. Dishes cleared, guests gone and bloodstain removed, the cabin looked as it usually did. Jack set a few bottles back on the shelf, took off his bandana, and leaned on the table with both hands. Eyes closed, he again sighed. I wondered what he was doing. This behavior seemed entirely new to me.

“Bloody Barbossa and his bloody smarts,” he muttered. “Talks so little and yet says so much.”

The venom in Jack’s voice took me aback. His shoulders were balling up, becoming tight mounds of forced restraint. The veins on the back of his hands stood out. He jerked upright, shrugging out of his baldric. His pistols clattered to the table. He tore at his vest, throwing it wildly behind him once it came free of his body.

Jack paced to his wardrobe, thrust his arm inside it to withdraw a shirt. I saw the reinforced seam on the shoulder and the patch on the lower left side. His lucky shirt. He tossed it to the bed and removed the one he already wore. Soon his boots were off too. Standing there in all his muscled, tanned, tattooed glory, he flipped his head and sent his hair ornaments jangling.

“Where’s my bead, Jaaaaack?” Jack mocked, sounding frighteningly like Barbossa. “It’s right. Sodding. Here.” He grabbed a braid from his head, twisted a bone bead on it viciously. “Here’s your double–cursed bead, traitor.” His voice lowered to a terrible, black pitch I’d never heard. “He’ll tow the line on my island or I’ll kill him permanently. Tia won’t be able to resurrect what I leave of him.”

I thought of how long Jack had carried a single bullet for Barbossa. He could hold a grudge. The actual mutiny must have been ugly. I didn’t understand the talk of beads at first, but as I watched Jack worry at the little braid I noticed a new, red bead in the bottom of it. Figueroa’s bead.
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Jack opened a bag. An assortment of blown glass beads fell into his hand. He smirked. “How convenient,” he murmured. He picked a red one out and let the rest fall into the white sand.
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Jack had a bead for every man he’d bested, or killed, at least in a duel.

On this thought, I ran my eyes over the wild sculpture of Jack’s mane. He easily had twenty to thirty beads in that thick tangle.

My Jack was far rougher than any gave him credit for. He could kill, and kill well. The only reason people talked about his daring exploits instead of his successful kills had to lie in the fact that he never bragged about the kills, only the risky escapes. Jack’s personality didn’t call for gratuitous murder, only gratuitous attention.

He paced up and down, back and forth, his fingers laced and tightly clenched behind his back. I thought hard, trying to recall at what point Barbossa would have asked the question of his bead. Nothing came up. I had to conclude he’d asked it while they stood at the rail. As angry as Jack seemed now, he’d had remarkable control over that anger to sit so impassively at supper.

“Smug, self-serving, son of a bitch,” Jack went on. Suddenly, he whirled on me. “You are not to be alone with him,” he commanded. “Mokulu or I as escorts, do you understand?” His eyes burned with dominion over me.

“Yes, Captain Sparrow,” I answered automatically. His turmoil prompted me to become his soldier again, to answer quickly, firmly, showing solidarity. I let out a breath as he turned back around, observing that his response to me had been every bit as automatic. He took my affirmation, went on with his thoughts while content over my acquiescence. I almost feared to move and draw attention to myself.

“Avoiding the clergy,” Jack muttered darkly. “If anyone’ll need a prêtre, it’s him.”

I realized Jack hadn’t employed a bit of piratical vernacular for several minutes.

He stalked to his books, jerked one down, and flipped through it. I thought he’d forgotten about me, he looked so intent. “I’m over-reacting,” he said quietly, seeming to deflate just a hair. “I’m being too sensitive to the relationship. What’s done is done. I can do this.”

Oh Jack, I thought. You can do anything. I’ve never believed otherwise.

Jack shut his book with a sharp snap. He re-shelved it while running a hand over his main braid to loosen it. He had three times the amount of hair a normal man had.

“I’m tired, Lizzie,” he announced softly. “Being a scourge is exhausting business. Pirating is terribly fun, but there’s no rest in it.” He turned to me, walked toward the bed and knelt down in front of me. His huge, brown, kohl-lined eyes were naked to me. I couldn’t look away from him for anything. Those eyes captured me, had always captured me. The pain and fatigue in their sienna depths drew my woman’s heart inexorably.

Now I knew why no one ever saw the inside of Captain Jack Sparrow. He felt things deeply, too deeply. Like this he was vulnerable, easily read. Jack hid himself under the guise of a lucky buffoon, shielding his feelings in much the same way as a certain man with his heart in a locked chest.

I’d asked Jack to expose his throat for me, never imagining seeing so much. His utter compliance humbled me. I could do no more than honor his faith in me, to prove he could trust me even though I’d already proven otherwise.

Slowly, I lifted my hand and brought it to his head, finished the job of undoing his braid. His hair felt both slick and rough between my fingers, indicative of the man himself. He shivered, closed his eyes as I smoothed that thick, dark curtain back. Prompted by compassion, from sheer instinct, I leaned down and put my lips on his forehead. “There’s nothing Jack Sparrow can’t do,” I whispered. “All you need is to remember that.”

Jack smiled gently. “Always know what to say, don’t you Lizzie?” he asked. Rising, he sat down beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. Warmth suffused me. I remembered sitting on the deck with him like this, my regret that I would never have such a simple gesture offered to me as Elizabeth Swann. I’d been wrong, happily.

But this wasn’t exactly the same. Jack had breeches on and nothing else. The scent of him curled seductive tendrils in my brain. I wasn’t ready to give him my body; I didn’t have quite enough assurance yet, but my body cared little for my reason. He was a lodestone and I was ferrous metal.

We sat quietly. I searched for my star, felt it tugging me toward the island we moored around. Gently, I disengaged our companionable embrace and eased back in the bed, pulling him down with me. He allowed me to settle his head on my shoulder. I stroked his naked brow, pushed his hair away from his eyes and patted him in much the same manner I might pet Scorby. The only difference being Jack was a much wilder beast than Scorby could ever be.

“I don’t always know what to say, Jack,” I told him. “But I have faith in you.”

“You always did, luv,” Jack answered softly. “A shame I have to shake it by being only a man.” Gently, he pushed one arm under my shoulder and wrapped the other around my waist. “I could demonstrate, but I won’t. I’m too tired. I’m like the sails we replaced in Madagascar; frayed around the edges and beaten by relentless opposition.” He pulled me tightly into his embrace, inhaling the scent of me at my neck. His strong, corded arms bulged and rippled, thrilling me with the primal force of healthy man.

“We can go back to the dance later,” I promised. “Your name is the only one on my card.”

Jack’s soft, breathy laugh stirred the hairs on my nape. “You promise, Lizzie? You’ve been sitting out the dance, you know.”

I pushed Jack’s head firmly against my shoulder. “Don’t push your luck, pirate.”

“That’s like telling me not to breathe,” Jack answered, but his voice had a sleepy quality. In a few minutes I felt his body slip into deep rest. Nevertheless, his hold on me didn’t go slack.

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I woke up. Though the sun still hid, I knew by my own internal clock it would be up soon. I had no duties today but I eased out of bed and Jack’s embrace, desperate to relieve my bladder. Feeling unusually calm for a change, I wrote Jack a note and told him I intended to go ashore.

Most of my mates slumbered when I went to retrieve my sword, except for my brother. Mokulu stood up, looked at my wrinkled clothes and guessed correctly. “You talk all night,” he murmured very softly. “About what?”

“We didn’t talk that much,” I whispered back. “Jack felt tired. He fell asleep less than an hour after our guests left.”

Mokulu nodded. “You go somewhere dis morning?”

“The island,” I confirmed. “I need time alone to think, to walk, you know. I’m taking Scorby with me though. Might go hunting like Jack does.” I clamped my baldric closed and put on my hat. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Be careful.” Mokulu hugged me gently. “I know what you do. You walk alone to clear de head.”

“That’s it,” I agreed. I gathered up my knapsack and an empty rucksack, slung both on my shoulder and went back on deck. Scorby waited for me at the rail.

“I didn’t tell you I was going anywhere,” I said playfully, scratching her behind the ears. “How did you know?”

Scorby chirruped.

I took a dingy to the island. Just as I dragged it onto the pristine sand, the sun came up. Scorby stayed just to the front and right of me, her body gleaming blue-black and showing obvious signs of health. She’d grown quite a bit. Now she looked dangerous, sleek and muscular.

Even without the benefit of Jack’s compass, I found the cave again. This time I hesitated but a moment before entering. Some things inside looked disturbed, but I knew building had commenced so I dismissed ideas of foul play.

A hot bath. Alone.

For some time I soaked. Absolute silence except for my own noises went a long way to soothing the turmoil in my head. I didn’t know how long I could hold out against my urges for Jack, and I worried over it. Every calm that I acquired seemed utterly temporary. No sooner would I find my center then thoughts of Jack would loom in my mind.

I wanted him. I loved him. I needed him. Yet, I couldn’t ask him to give up his freedom and be tied to me, his murderess. Criminal to expect Jack to stay with one woman, to settle and make a home, even here on his island. I could give him my body and my loyalty but I could ask for nothing in return, which would not be true to my own needs.

I had been better off as Lei. Lei hadn’t killed Captain Jack Sparrow. Lei hadn’t kissed him, betrayed him, and vacillated on loyalties.

I shaved, washed my hair and got out of the tub. Scorby rubbed against my legs as I dried off, tried to dry me off herself by rasping her rough tongue against my ankles.

We went back out. I walked down the hillside a fair piece, wondering how Jack had trained her to hunt. “Scorby,” I said, feeling ridiculous. Scorby stopped, turning her head toward me. Her brilliant green eyes were positively sentient.

“I want to hunt,” I said.

Scorby regarded me. Her ears flicked. She came back to me and positioned herself by my legs, seeming to wait. I began walking again, this time for a different direction, a direction I had never gone. Watching my feline companion, I took note of her intense attention to our surroundings.

I stopped and sat on the ground, abruptly just overcome with pent up feelings. Scorby came to me, making her little endearing chirruping noises.

For awhile I just stroked her, reveling in the simple pleasure of giving affection and having it returned with no complicated overtures or clumsy words. Suddenly, she reared up on her hind legs and placed both paws on my chest, looking deeply into my eyes. I melted. Sweeping her up in my arms, I hugged her tightly. “You are the best kitty, ever,” I told her, feeling her whiskers on my face as she bumped her head against my cheek.

Even though I’d just bathed, I lay upon my back and invited her to sit upon me. Scorby, purring loudly, nestled up against my side and relaxed. I stared up into the canopy of trees while stroking her, bereft of human company for the first time in a very long time.

I wondered just exactly what I wanted.

In my fantasies I had a nice little home close to the sea. I had a ship, hopefully the Pearl, waiting for me in dock. I could go out any time I pleased. Jack was there. Jack was my lover, my friend, a person I could tell anything without fear. We had children. We had servants. I learned to cook. I practiced medicine. I went to bed every night secure in the knowledge of my safety, my children’s safety, and Jack’s safety.

My children were beautiful. They looked like Jack. One boy, one girl, close in age and close in heart, they ran up and down the imaginary sand dunes in my mind, laughing and naked and free.

“Scorby,” I whispered, letting the tears fall. “I’m so wanting. I’m so unworthy.”

Scorby nuzzled me.

“I want Jack,” I said aloud. “I have no right to him and it doesn’t matter. I’m a horrible person, and a coward.”

Scorby got up and rubbed her forehead against my face. I smiled, feeling a bit of my pain subside. “You love him too,” I said.

I drifted awhile. The beauty of my surroundings, the silence and the cool wind spread a fragile balm upon my frazzled nerves. The smell of ripening fruit, salty ocean and green things blended in the breeze.

Remembrance of murdering Jack slammed into my brain. Every detail of the moment burned white hot and sharp. Of its own accord, my abdomen curled, brought me from my stretched out position to a wobbly kneel. I retched, gagged, stopped breathing as I vomited up pure bile. Water filled my eyes. Sobbing, choking, I brought up bile again and again, my mind whirling with images.

Jack.

Jack, the solid strength of him under my wandering hands, trusting me. Trusting me so much that he closed his eyes as my tongue plundered his mouth. I’d have never succeeded with his eyes open.

I’d violated him.

His soul shone out of his eyes, smiling as I led him to his death. He’d even been proud of me for what I did.

I vomited until dry heaves took me over, wringing my body like a dishrag. Gasping for breath, I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the broad, green leaves of the palm trees. Scorby wrapped herself around my side, her throat bring up chuffing noises. She licked my cheek.

I cried.