A Pirate's Life For Me

The Beginning

The crowd cheers as the guards lead me slowly up to the platform.

My wrists, bound tightly, chafe with every step, rubbing in time with the chains wrapped around my feet. The guard in front of me pulls harder at the metal collar around my neck, tightening the loop of chain, and the guard behind me shoves me forward square in the middle of my shoulders. I would spout some smartass comment to drown away the pain, if there weren't a leather muzzle tied tightly across my mouth. The doctor must have gotten fed up with my stream of criticisms during his torture sessions.

"Get moving, pirate," the guard behind me growls, leaning forward to blow a stream of hot, heavy, and probably rancid breath over my ear and cheek. I wouldn't know how badly it stinks. All I can smell is leather.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" A voice booms over the people. "I PRESENT TO YOU; A MAN WHO CALLS HIMSELF A PIRATE!"

The crowd rises in volume, waving their arms in the air like idiots. I'm pulled forward, to the top of the platform, where one of the guards shoves me down onto my knees, my bones connecting solidly with the wood. I roll my eyes.

"NOT EVEN THAT; A BOY, WHO THINKS HE CAN RULE OVER THE SEAS!"

The screams multiply. Finally, my wandering eyes land on the announcer, a short, spindly little man standing in the King's booth, calling out to the crowd, stationed next to a large gong. My skin crawls with the insult, whispers of my father's standard insult crawling over my bare feet and over my shoulders, tickling down my spine as the thin shirt they'd oh-so-graciously given me billows in the tiny breeze.

"THIS BOY HAS HIMSELF A NAME, AND A MIGHTY MOUTHFUL, AT THAT," the announcer continues, waving once at the guards standing beside me as the crowd laughs.

My skin prickles again, standing the tiny hairs on the back of my neck on end as the two men haul me none-too-gently to my feet. I gaze at the crowd through the crown of rope, watching it sway in the breeze. Everyone framed inside the noose looks glad to see me done for, except for the one kid in the back, muddy face drawn down into a scowl, clothes that once were nice torn into rags. Their hair is pulled back in some complicated updo in the process of falling apart, but they are concerned only with glaring daggers into my guards. I roll my eyes back to the announcer, watching him teeter on the edge of his balcony, dressed like a jester presented before the king.

"HE CALLS HIMSELF THE ONE, THE ONLY—" And here he pauses, leans down with his ear crooked to the crowd, grinning at the well dressed man seated in the throne behind him. The man in purple, lounging on the throne, looks very pleased with the clown's announcing skills, and waves his hand in a gracious signal for the jester to continue.

"OLIVER—"

The crowd roars.

"ARAMIS—"

Screams.

"CASPIAN—"

Laughs.

"JEWELL!" He draws out the 'L' until the crowd drowns it out, jeering up at me as the guard on my left rips the leather ties apart and pulls the muzzle from my face. I wait for the crowd to silence. It does, slowly, gradually, falling into a murmur before rising in one shout as someone pokes fun at my patient stare. The announcer takes control again, riding the wave of the crowd's emotions as he raises his hands to his mouth.

"IT LOOKS LIKE THE BOY HAS SOMETHING TO SAY."

The crowd loses it, screaming and jumping and shaking one another in a writhing mass of flesh six feet below the wooden planks my toes stand on.