The Miniscule Victory of Davy Jones

5

Four long, humiliating, tormenting, hellish days. The last attack had left him with the impulse to gag if he even so much as thought about what had happened to him. Beckett could not even think about having a bowel movement or even eat without resisting the urge to throw up. Only the thought of what future endeavor may be visited upon him were what kept the reflex at bay.

He had to keep things in perspective after all.

What was the point of these exercises during his stay on the Flying Dutchman? Certainly he had done terrible things throughout his life, but what was it compared to what he had done to Jones and his crew? He could have been crueler to them, shown them what a real monster was like, and then laughed in their faces as they faced their own dark abyss… perhaps he really had. Perhaps he could no longer tell the difference between mildly cruel and truly evil in his own acts against others. But he had never violated someone like this.

Had he? In his own way?

Yet there was that girl… so many years had passed and in his long life of cruelty he had nearly forgotten it. Take the necklace, be my guest, he told her late at night in his bed chambers. I shall give you more if you come with me… take it, you stupid girl and learn to repay me in your own way. Keep your mouth shut, you whore…

Did she feel like Beckett did now? Worse? Or was his punishment the ultimate in what so many like him had done?

The dressings had been removed from around his loins and Beckett dared to look down at the quickly healing wounds. He swallowed down bile when he noticed the scar tissue was not human flesh, but some hard craggy substance which could not be explained away by mere scabbing. This was a flaking, scaly mass, spreading like mold from the wounds and resembling the skin of a fish. Stitched lip quivering, he turned his tentative gaze to the sewn lash wounds on his limbs. The same was happening to the dark, jagged lines, black veins sprouting under the surface of the skin. Spines he had mistaken for thick hairs were growing from between the stitches.

By the time Jimmylegs and Urchin went down into the brig, Beckett had not made it in time for their usual daily visit. The bosun cackled at the puddle on the floor beneath their new crewmate and put down the bucket he was holding, figuring they had no use for it today.

“Looks like someone needs a diaper,” Urchin snickered, poking at the pale exposed flesh and causing Beckett to jerk away from him. Beckett avoided their gazes and continued to wallow in his feelings of misery and self-disgust. His anguish, added to the shock of discovering the first stages of his transformation had been too much on his bladder.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Jimmylegs responded. “Give me one of your smaller spines.”

“What for—OW! You blighter!” The spiky individual shouted as one was plucked callously from his arm.

“Seein’ as we sort of… disadvantaged him, we’ll help ‘im out a bit.” The other pirate said, a foul grin twisting his ichthyoidal visage. “Hold his shoulders.”

Fists like the creature of Urchin’s namesake held Beckett against the bars of his cell and he burst into tears, knowing screaming would not avail him anymore.

“God, this is like torturing a lady anymore,” Jimmylegs remarked. “Not that I mind.”

Urchin had grimaced in antipathy at the statement, but his reaction went ignored and he merely looked away for what would happen next. The bosun took out a knife and cut both ends of the spine.

“This here is hollow, little lass,” he said. “And I think it’ll help you with your… little problem.”

Beckett continued to sob, merely waiting for what would happen next. And when it did happen, he did not even yell. The whimper which escaped his trembling lips seemed even worse than his screams.

“Oh stop it already, I’m sick of this rot,” Urchin finally said, and he let go of the shivering man and went upstairs.

Glaring, the remaining pirate looked back at his source of amusement. Beckett was trying to close his legs and curl up in a ball of his own bodily fluids, but he continued to accidentally prod the spine now sticking out of his missing phallus’ hole.

“Casting a spell on them, are ya, wench?” his tormentor asked him. “I think I’ll do ya a favor and leave that in for ya.” He looked up the stairs and saw no one coming, so he proceeded to unbuckle his trousers. “And while we’re here… we can pass some time.”

Hours later, a longboat approached the Flying Dutchman and was lifted onboard. Davy Jones approached the two visitors politely, though warily. He had them to thank for his life, but his past with them as well as his instincts of distrust caused him to used caution.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Turner, William…” he greeted in a faintly pleasant tone that could have been missed if one was not listening for it. “I trust from my current state that you have taken care of the chest…?”

“Indeed,” Bootstrap Bill Turner replied, dripping and crusty with oceanic parasites. “We placed it safely back in Isla Cruces, though this time in a place far deeper within the island.”

“One can only hope the plague did not become friendly with us while we were there,” the young man at his side said. His sarcasm was far more easily to detect. Bootstrap waved a hand at him in warning.

“Our gratitude to you and your son is great, and I thank you deeply,” Jones stated, letting the boy’s derision pass without concern. “Were it not for the intervention of you and your crew, pirates would be a race driven into extinction.”

“It’s the least we can do to help keep the seas free of the East India Company’s grip,” Bootstrap replied.

“And the least I can do for what they did to Elizabeth.” Will added, his eyes distant.

Davy thought to laugh at the statement, but he knew better when dealing with those who had sworn to guard his own heart, which had come dangerously close to being utterly destroyed by the East India Trading Company’s forces only days earlier.

“Yes, it is a cruel man who kills love and its worshippers. I should know.”

“Captain…” Bill addressed the man standing before him. “We made an agreement, as a debt to be paid when Will and I helped you. We saved you and the Dutchman, and we hid your heart from the world once more.”

Jones watched as the man known as Bootstrap knelt before him, looking up with the meekness of a lamb. The starfish permanently perched on his face crept a hair to the left.

“My kraken,” the captain said. “She no longer lies on land?”

“No sir,” Will answered, “Calypso has laid her to rest.”

Both father and son found themselves in doubt that Jones would keep his word. After all, they were the only ones who knew of the location of the chest and they were alone without anyone to assist should things go wrong. Elizabeth had been killed by Beckett himself, and Barbossa and the Black Pearl were off in search of Jack Sparrow, who mentioned something about a fountain of youth. Though Calypso had been freed and favored the pirates, no one could ever predict the decisions of the almighty goddess of the sea.

“You have done your end of the bargain… and I shall do mine. Bootstrap Bill Turner, I hereby break your oath to the Flying Dutchman and to me. You are free from your debt.”

Bootstrap double over from a sudden pain in his chest and Will would have rushed forward to him if not for Maccus’ firm but harmless hand on his shoulder. As the man fell to his knees, he was awash in a warmth he had not felt in over ten years, and the thumping in his chest finally felt real, not just some noise he thought he heard once or twice in his servitude to the Dutchman. At first appearance, he looked to be falling apart, but soon those observing came to realize only pieces of him which were corrupted by his curse had hit the floor. Carefully, Bill placed his hand against the starfish which had seemed glued to his face moments before. It curled under his touch and came loose right in his palm. Dropping it to the deck, he stood on shaky legs and faced his son.

“Will…” he mumbled as he was taken in the amazed young man’s arms. He returned the embrace until his legs were steady again.

“Thank you, Jones,” he said with all the sincerity his replenished heart held. Will echoed his thanks.

Davy Jones nodded to him, his expression strangely unreadable. “You did us a great favor in fighting alongside us. The seas are safer once again.”

“We’re only glad that Beckett is dead and that Calypso is free to protect her home from the likes of him.”

“Oh, but he is not dead,” Jones replied, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile.

Will’s brow knitted first in confusion, and then anger.

“Where is he?” he demanded, stepping forward as though ready to search the entire vessel.

“I assure you, he is well taken care of,” Jones answered, putting himself in front of the young man. “He may not be dead, but he’s currently praying for that day to come. Which should be… one hundred years from now…”

Finally Jones allowed himself a laugh, joined in by some of the crew surrounding the trio in conversation.

“You made him a part of the crew, Jones?” Bill Turner inquired in disbelief.

“What would you have done as punishment,” the captain asked him. “Given him the mercy of death? It takes a cruel man who’s had wrong done to him to truly punish another for his sins.”

Bootstrap thought deeply on the concept and finally gave a defeated sigh. “May we see the damage done then?”

The two men were led down into the brig and shown the cell in which Beckett resided. Will stopped in his tracks at the sight of the chained man and had to blink in order to fully believe his eyes.

“What did you do to him?”

“Jelly, go report this to the captain,” Maccus ordered, his one human eye narrowed. With slick, wet footsteps, the other pirate ran up to the dock. The shark-like pirate allowed the two Turner men to enter the cell and left them in peace, though he remained at the top of the steps in case the ship’s guests had any bright ideas. Bootstrap slowly entered the cell and approached the shivering creature shackled and cowering in the cell corner. The once proud and powerful Lord Cutler Beckett’s face was hidden by long dark hair, though the father and son figured it was caked in blood and other vile fluids like the rest of him. When Bootstrap knelt down to take a closer look, he saw how much more violently the unclothed body quaked. Beckett had never looked so small to Will before now.

“Beckett?” Bill addressed the filthy figure before him, reaching out to see what the gesture would do. Like he predicted, Beckett flinched roughly and murmured something inaudible, turning his head away.

“We won’t hurt you,” he felt the need to say, though both he and his son in the past had thought of what they would have done were they given the power to take revenge against the horrible man. They glanced at the flaking patches of skin where wounds were slowly becoming something inhuman and unearthly.

“Will,” the elder Turner said, the fine spray of sea mist having wet his hair in a way which reminded the young man of the way his face once looked minutes before. “Go get the longboat ready.”

“What will you do?” Will asked, lowering his voice to a whisper and leaning into his father’s ear. “It would be better just to kill him, not to leave him here alive like some innocent.”

“I will see to him. And if he dies tonight, the reason is because it was the right thing to happen. Leave it at that, boy, and go.”

Doubt in his brown eyes, Will turned and left, passing Maccus who still kept a close watch on the cell.

“I’m not going to hurt you… Cutler,” Bootstrap said to the prisoner. Oddly enough, he thought to use the man’s first name, as though trying to regain trust in an old friend. Though he had not expected the words to work, Beckett turned his head at the sound of his name. His eyes gazed in Bootstrap’s direction, but did not hold any focus.

“My name…” he mumbled. “My name… is Cutler Beckett…”

“Yes, that’s right,” Bill answered. He wondered if the broken man had already thought to lose himself against the Dutchman’s will, to forget and to sleep his humanity away. Experimentally, he lifted a hand – it was still a surprise to see his own skin without the barnacles which had grown there over a decade – and touched Beckett’s cheek, pushing aside strings of hair and wiping away grime and blood. It was then that the vulnerable little wretch focused his vision, as though finally seeing his visitor for the first time. He most likely had.

“Yes… it’s you…” brow wrinkled, Beckett’s crudely sewn together bottom lip quivered and tears fell, adding to the streaks against the dirt of his cheeks. “It’s you, I knew it… Mercer, you’ve come back.”

Bootstrap was utterly confused and instinctively shook his head in rejection. “No, you’re mistaken, I”—

Though his hands were chained to the bars, Beckett reached out for Bootstrap nonetheless, his unclean fingers stretching and curling in a needful fashion. Though his head still remained bowed, his eyes looked up at the other man, desperation ebbing with the tears from those dark orbs. Bill noticed the thin spike which protruded from between bloodied legs where a man’s third limb should rightly be, and he grimaced in unease when it was jabbed in painful directions as Beckett lunged for him.

“I’ve been here five days…” Beckett gasped as Bill came closer, though he did not know his visitor had only come nearer to make him stop wriggling against his wounds. “… the torture… evil… I think maybe I deserve it… and God… I’ve been so afraid… feel like… whore… how they… oh God, five days…”

When Beckett leant into his guest’s shoulder, blood and something which smelt strongly of cod liver oil poured out from between his legs, adding to the foul puddle the man had the misfortune to constantly sit in.

“It’s alright… yes, it’s me…” Bill whispered, feeling the brief pang of sympathy for the Dutchman’s newest member of the crew. Would William have taken pity on this man now, if he knew what the punishments had been? How much had to be done to measure the scales of justice for all those Beckett had wronged in his evil life? Lord, he had done worse things than Davy Jones himself. At least Jones still had a heart, though he had literally parted with it because of the pain it caused.

Beckett began to nuzzle Bootstrap’s coat, his tears wetting the cloth. “Please, Mercer… please…”

Bootstrap Bill Turner carefully put his arms around the sobbing man, though in his sleeve he had readied a dagger. He removed the blade carefully and without a sound, so as not to alert Beckett or Maccus, who still observed the scene with curiosity. If he did this quickly enough…

Do what? Once you swore an oath to the Dutchman, you were bound to her. Bootstrap would not kill Beckett because he could not.

“Please… take me…”

The way Beckett spoke now in his delirious state, as well as the way he snuggled against him, Bill wondered what those words now meant.

“We’ll go away… find the heart… kill them… bastards, all… mangy… evil… pirates…”

Bill waited for Beckett to fall asleep, which was only a matter of seconds, and pocketed his dagger. If he did anything to help this pathetic mongrel, he would only be aiding in setting the East India Company’s plans back on track, and sooner than ever. If he left him here, he would not die, but he would someday never remember who he was either.

Climbing back up to the deck with Maccus close behind, Bootstrap Bill bid the captain adieu and got in the longboat with his son. They left with respect to one another; a solemn assurance was made that day that should one crew need aide the other would give it. Giving another of his heavy sighs, the eldest surviving Turner told his son they could now return to Singapore, home of their prospective crew, which Will would now captain in place of his wife who had now truly been avenged.



.

.

To be concluded...