Pirates of the Caribbean: How Many Miles to Babylon?

Dies Irae ("Day of Wrath")

Dies Irae 

How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candle light? Yes, and back again.

- Traditional nursery rhyme

.........

What had he done that was so wrong?

Mutiny? Mutinies happened all the time; they were part of life on the high seas. Theft? Theft was his business, he thought angrily, his livelihood---theft, and all that went with it! Take what ye can, and give nothing back: the rule of sailor and plunderer, both.

Yet even as he raged against his fate, Barbossa knew the answer. Alone in the captain's quarters, his sharp mind forced him to confront one immutable truth after another. He was not innocent; he had transgressed. He had taken something that was under supernatural protection.

You do not steal from the heathen gods. How many myths and legends make that point? Yet he had dared it, and now the consequences were unfolding before his eyes. Unstoppable. Inexorable.

He was damned - damned for all eternity. That was how these vengeful gods treated thieves. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He stared at the little square of moonlight on the chart table.

He had only to extend his hand into that unholy light to see once more the rotten bones with shreds of flesh and nail clinging to them. Keeping his arm folded protectively against his chest, he studied the knuckles of his enfleshed hand, and clenched his fist. He could still feel the first wave of helplessness and sick horror that had swept over him. In that instant, he had learned what despair felt like---true despair, total loss of hope. Blackness.

Using one hand, he pulled a chair away from the table and into the shadows, carefully averting his eyes as he did so, and slowly eased himself into its seat. He must think. If he refused to give way to despair, he might still win: so long as he could use his wits, he was still in the game.

The punishment had been swift and sure. First came the wakefulness, no matter how fatigued they were. They had put this down to their anticipation of the spree awaiting them in Tortuga. But no sooner had they made port in that brigand's paradise, than the truth became undeniable: not a man among them could taste the rich food they could now afford, or feel the effects of the rum that they consumed like water. No perfume could they smell, nor tempting flesh could they feel, no matter how they tried. Starving, thirsty, and aching for the touch of a lover, they were sad, bewildered dogs, all of them.

But Barbossa had been first to discover the worst effect, the final prison: his own body. He had reached towards a seductive, regal-looking strumpet who stood laughing outside the Faithful Bride, just as a thin ray of moonlight punched a tiny hole in the overcast night sky, and illuminated his outstretched hand.

He had drawn back in an instant, quickly enough to insult the sensibilities of the haughty wench. She turned away from him in a show of disdain, but he was hardly aware of her departure. Heart pounding, he had already turned his face to the wall and, thus shielded from prying eyes, was examining his hand closely. What sort of delusion could have made him see a skeleton's bones in place of his own elegant hand? He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but fear gripped him like an iron collar; this was no drunkard's dream, for he was stone cold sober. It was then that he recalled the moon striking his outstretched hand as it had mouldered before his very eyes.

He edged towards a patch of moonlight where he would not be observed, and slowly extended his hand. The moment the moonlight fell upon it, his flesh rotted away and his ring hung loosely on the bone of his finger.