Pirates of the Caribbean: How Many Miles to Babylon?

The Supplicant and the Priestess

The Supplicant and the Priestess

Each day, Hector Barbossa opened his eyes as the early morning light began to filter into the great cabin. A pantomime of awakening, performed by a man who never slept. That healing comfort, like all others, had become a thing of the past. But he was a stubborn man. Every evening, when his limbs felt heavy and he longed for rest, he would try once more to sleep and, more importantly, to dream.

His hand found the hairpin he carried in his coat pocket, and he fingered it thoughtfully. He could still see the girl whose hair it had adorned. Before joining the other mutineers, who were busy forcing Sparrow into the sea, he had caged the girl, locking her in her cabin. Or so he had thought. But when he returned, only the hairpin jammed into the keyhole told him what had happened. She had picked the lock with insulting ease and vanished from the ship. He sighed. Drowned, that was his opinion. She had looked too slight to be a swimmer. It would be as likely she could sprout wings. But then, who would have reckoned she could pick the lock?

Alive or dead, she still haunted him. During the watches of the night, as he lay on his bed with eyes closed but mind awake, he would will himself to fall asleep and see her in a dream even though he knew the futility of it. He lay silent, imagining these particular dreams, an ideal world where there were no awkward, inconvenient circumstances to overcome.

To start with, she would not be the daughter of a man he wished to kill. She would not be attached to Sparrow---in fact, she would treat Sparrow contemptuously and reject his advances.

She'd be alive and would belong to him alone. She would be wealthy and titled---perhaps a duchess---but he would have won her affections completely. She would admire everything about him, and to pleasure him she would venture anything he asked.

He shifted his weight. This was where the trouble began. At this point, his dreams had usually intersected with his desires; but sleep and dreams eluded him, nor could he even remember certain sensations clearly. Not that his craving for carnal pleasures had departed. Indeed, at times he thought it would take twenty women to sate his urgent longings. But for now, all of his appetites were fated to torment him until the curse could be lifted.

With eyes half-closed, he sat staring at the chart table, his thoughts returning once more to the dead girl: Nina Bitter, friend of Jack Sparrow. Where had she gone? Beneath that calm gaze, she must have been as hot-blooded as himself. He had seen it in her eyes, they way they had shone as she joined the Pearl's crew in fighting off some ship of miscreants just one day before the mutiny. Not the best fighter, but bold as a tigress protecting her cubs.

He smiled at this notion, then imagined the little tigress in another setting, not with her usual placid expression, but fiery-eyed with lust and adoration for him. His eyes closed and he conjured up a dream of heated but amorous wrestling. She would wrap her arms around him. She would rake his back with her fingers as she pressed herself hard against him, and he would know exactly how to direct her passions. He would give her kisses she would never forget. His breathing grew heavy as he pictured her surrender. And then...

"Let go the anchor!" came Bo'sun's sharp order from the deck, bringing Barbossa back from his reverie with a jolt.

The shouted command told him that they had reached the mouth of the Pantano, and were anchoring just offshore. The hour was at hand for him to confront a certain petite, dreadlocked lady and have answers from her. He looked at his hand and was surprised to find it gripping the hairpin tightly. He slipped the small memento back into his pocket, and made ready to negotiate with Tia Dalma.

...........

Not far from the bay where the Pearl was anchored, the great cypress trees of the Pantano cast deep shadows across an eccentric little house in their midst. Even on the brightest days, the light was dim and indistinct, necessitating the constant use of candles in the parlour where Tia Dalma sat. She herself had no need of the flickering little lights, but her visitors did, and she was expecting one of them to call on her.