White and Black Pearls 1 - Seven Pearls

Chapter Three


For the first few years, Jack anticipated the return of the woman his father respectfully called ‘Celestiana’ with a sort of rebellious fervor; he practiced with his shotgun and he practiced with the cutlass, trying to prepare himself for whatever might come when she returned. His father had stressed rather pointedly that she was not somebody to be trifled with and that Jack should avoid interaction with her as much as possible, but telling that to Jack was as much help as kicking an angry dog to make it back down: it only increased his determination.

By the third and fourth years, Jack’s thoughts had changed instead to curiosity. The more he had given pursuit to information about her the tighter-lipped his father would get, but each time he asked, he would hear just a little bit more about her from the crew. She was a goddess, she was the sea, she was the sky, she was mother earth… she was a pixie, she was a faerie, she was a demon… the stories were wild and hardly believable, but on some level Jack suspected that one of them was right. What he knew for sure was that she came now and again, under the cloak of the night when his father was alone, and she shared information with his father. She gave him secrets and guidance, she pointed at maps as he asked questions and she told him things that made him smile for days and caused that adventure-seeking twinkle to rekindle brightly in his eyes.

By the last year, Jack had tried to convince himself that she didn’t exist and was a figment of his wild imagination as a child. He tried to conclude that he’d found the pearls elsewhere and the crew were all just toying with him by telling him tales about the witch-woman, and he sincerely tried to pretend that he wasn’t aware about the seven year anniversary approaching steadily with every rise and set of the sun. He mostly tried to pretend that he hadn’t been outrageously jealous and angry with his father for getting all of her attention and for being so intimate with her in years five and six as Jack felt that she should be more his than his father’s.

He found himself pinching his finger and thumb tightly at the tip of the third braid from the front on the left side of his head, and when he realized what he was doing, his hand dropped away from his hair. That particular braid was a little thicker than the others and braided through it with his hair was a strap of leather to keep it sturdy. If somebody was to reach out and give the braid a squeeze, they might perhaps feel seven hard little lumps inside the braid, about the size and shape of pearls.

‘You’re looking the wrong way Jack,’ one of the crewmen spoke up with a laugh as he lugged on by, carrying a sack of supplies onto the ship from port. ‘You’re looking at the ocean. You’re supposed to be looking up.’ He pointed at the sky, and laughed again before moving on to do his work.

Jack glared at the man over his shoulder, but still, when he was alone again, he dared to slowly lift his gaze to the sky. The corner of his mouth pulled back on one side as he tilted his head to the side and squinted, trying to stare at the sun. Jack blinked a few times until his eyes began to water, unable to stare any longer. He wiped the tears away and rubbed at his eyes with his fists until he could see again with only most of his vision blacked out with sun-shaped blobs, and gasped when he heard the rustle of dress hems against the Wicked Wench’s deck. Turning quickly, he spun to face the woman nearby, but his heart sank back down out of his throat when he saw that the dress was a cheap and tacky looking thing of bright colours and the woman wearing it also adorned too much jewelry and makeup. His Celestiana would never wear things so gaudy. He paused at that thought though, and frowned. His Celestiana? When had he started to think that way? He shook his head. This was madness, foolishness, all of it. She wasn’t coming, she didn’t exist, and he was the jackass that was hoping some goddess would come visit him. Jack rubbed at his eyes one last time before wandering off the ship to hurry and help with loading up supplies before they left port again.

When the loading was complete, Captain Teague dismissed the men for a night of exploring the city where they’d made port, so that they could relieve whatever tensions ailed them. It took naught ten minutes for every last man to disappear from sight, leaving Teague and Jack alone on the dock before the Wicked Wench. Father turned to son then, and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘What do you say to a drink then?’ Teague mused. ‘We’ve worked hard today and we’re ahead of schedule.’

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. His father usually discouraged Jack drinking at such a young age, never mind inviting him to join his father for a drink together. ‘Alright,’ he agreed with an eager nod. Together the two of them boarded the Wench and entered the Captain’s Quarters, where his father waved a hand at one of the chairs for Jack to sit in while Teague went to his personal cabinets and opened them, removing several dark glass bottles and carrying them to the table. When Jack was seated, Captain Teague placed two heavy glasses on the table and opened one of the bottles; again Jack was surprised.

‘Special occasion Jackie,’ Teague muttered in response to his son’s surprise at the use of a glass rather than just drinking straight from the bottle. He filled both glasses to the brim before taking a seat across from Jack and lifting one of them. When Jack had hold of the other, Teague clinked the glasses together. ‘You’re nearly a man now Jackie,’ Captain Teague said slowly, though it didn’t seem to be what he wanted to really say. ‘I’ve watched you grow these last seven years, into the young man you are now. You’ve worked hard and you should be proud of yourself.’ The man paused then, and there was a moment where he was left staring at Jack almost longingly, as though the boy was dead and not sitting right in front of him. ‘Drink.’ That, he did; Teague tipped his own glass back and drank deep, draining the tumbler in a few draughts.

Jack sipped his own drink slowly, and savored it, but was more intent upon watching his father. The mention of seven years couldn’t have been chance. This, all of this… was his father saying goodbye? It was true then, Jack wasn’t imagining things, that woman had been there, Jack had shot at her, she’d promised to come back… He felt very, very sick suddenly. He put his glass down as he paled visibly and lifted his hand, touching the braid in his hair. What did his father know that Jack didn’t? Was she going to kill Jack? Why now seven years later and why not then? And if she was going to kill him, why would she say something like she would be back every seven years after that? His mind was spinning with even more questions as he slumped back in his chair like a man freshly punched in the gut.

The gazes of father and son locked together one last time and lingered for a while as Jack sat there, neither of them able to voice anything they wanted to say to the other.

_______________________________________________________