Pirates of the Caribbean: Barbossa and the King's Messenger (Book 1)

Intermezzo: Perambulans In Tenebris

 Chapter Six -- Intermezzo: Perambulans In Tenebris

Author's Note: This chapter does not contain any graphic material, but it contains vulgar language, is strongly suggestive and portrays some sex-related activity. It may be inappropriate for younger readers, so please use good judgment when deciding whether to read it or not and skip it if you prefer to avoid such subjects.

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It is almost midnight, but he has been restless all evening. He tells himself that the cause is anger, and quite natural. Still, he glances up from his charts once more. The hairpin is exactly where it was five minutes ago, when he last gazed at it. His mouth tightens as he remembers. The walk to her cabin, after forcing Sparrow overboard. The door swinging slightly, the captive gone. His surprise – and displeasure. She has vanished, just as completely as if she had never existed. No, not quite; the pin winks at him, jammed into the keyhole. All evening it lies upon his table, glinting, taunting, distracting him from his work.

He yawns and makes ready to retire for the night; snuffing out lantern and candles, removing his hat and coat, his weapons and waistcoat. He stretches out upon the bed. Sleep circles about like a wary cat prowling the room. He will permit himself a few hours of sleep thus: half-dressed and ready to act, should anything threaten the Pearl. All is in order; the ship's activity is muted, and he is weary.

Once abed, however, sleep glides away to a far corner. He thinks of her again.

Is he thinking of a ghost? Is she dead, her glistening body, pale and cold as a reflection of the crescent moon, slipping along in the currents of the Caribbean?

What does it matter? There will be plenty of women in Tortuga, and he will have all the gold he needs to buy them.

Why spare a moment's thought for the one he can't buy?

She is a corpse tonight.

Probably, perhaps, in all likelihood, yes. He shifts his position, uncertainly, calculating the odds. Yes, death is the favoured outcome. Unless. Could she be with him, Sparrow? He closes his eyes, but his mind's eye is not so easily tamed. A vivid, intimate picture springs to life; the girl, vulnerable and supple, clings to Sparrow with tender fingers. Sparrow's nimble hands unfasten her garments and slide, snake-like, beneath them.

He stirs uneasily, resentfully. Hanibal Bitter's daughter, by the gods! He recalls their confrontation; the fear in her eyes. Now Sparrow will play the hero, and she will fall into his arms. Such easy prey. He grimaces. Why did he not post a guard at her door? She'd be here with him at this moment. He would persuade her, force her, win her, and she would beg for his attentions.

He allows himself another thought of her, and pictures Sparrow, edging closer . . . no. He twists his thoughts away. The two of them torment him, mocking his pride. From the moment he stepped aboard, he had despised the easy and obvious familiarity between them; a privilege denied him from her first shocked stare in his direction. She averted her eyes; she wanted nothing to do with him. He imagines Sparrow enjoying her smooth skin, her warm flesh. His mind settles on a pyrrhic consolation, and he grunts as he considers it: if she's with Sparrow, if she is even alive, it will be a final tryst before they starve on that godforsaken island.

What does it matter? But it does.

Sleepless, he moves his hand, silently acknowledging his desire. The urge becomes overwhelming. She calls to him, promising him. Sighing, he leaves his bed. He makes his way to the girl's cabin, speaking to no one. He lets himself into the dark room. Closing the door, he turns the key, hearing the click of the lock catching.

In the empty bed, her smiling phantom invites him with outstretched hand.

He loosens his breeches, sits upon the bed, and lies with face pressed to her pillow, breathing in the last traces of her. He clutches her pillow with one arm; the other reaches down his body. After a moment, he takes a corner of the bed-sheet, holding it as though it is her soft hand that he guides. "I'll teach ye," he mutters through clenched teeth. He presses it against himself. Her phantom murmurs, wanting him.

"I'm goin' t' fuck ye now," he whispers into her shadowy ear. And her ghost responds; gasping, crying out his name, giving herself to him. His pulse quickens; his body strains with passion. Then he groans, and possesses her for one ecstatic interval, where time vanishes.

For some moments afterward, he lies quietly; he holds the bed-clothes as though he can use them to conjure the shape of her body. At last, he rises from her bed, pulls himself together, and takes leave of his ghostly, imagined lover. He returns to his own bed. Sleep emerges silently from its corner, stretches, and leaps lightly upon his bed to welcome him.

Next: Part 7 - Marooned - In which two old friends contend with misfortune, and Jack tells an unexpected tale.