A Most Unusual Interest | By : Nemain Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > General Views: 5187 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
A Most Unusual Interest Chapter Twenty (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Goddess Foxfeather is going to be overrun with Wataris
and 003s soon…*sends muses *
Readers/Reviewers: Sorry I’ve
been so slow updating. *kicks RL * And *glomp * Thanks!!!!!
Usually,
the smell of the sea soothed him. Jack
loved the odor of oakum, the tang of salt air, even the smell of the vendors
and sheer press of people on the docks.
He loved them every day but that day.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” he smiled toothily to the harbormaster, “My men
an’ me, we were just blowin’ off steam.”
“You owe
three thousand…” the red-faced man began.
“And you
shall get it,” Jack soothed, cutting him off.
Inside, he was screaming. Dawson
and Johanson had taken orders too seriously and literally overturned every cart
they found in search of Myrtle. Some of
Anna Maria’s crew had joined in, drunken sensibility leading them to have
assault added to the charges. “I’ll
just go back to my ship and…”
“Not bloody
going to happen,” the harbormaster snarled, tightening his grasp on Jack’s
wrist. “You get on that ship and you’ll
never return to Zoruba again!”
“I assure
you,” he said tightly, his kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing, “I have no intention of
leaving Zoruba until I have found what I…what I am looking for.” He bit back “what I need” in the nick of
time. Gibbs ambled up behind the harbormaster with a bland smile. “Ah, Mister Gibbs. Give this man what he is asking for,” Jack ordered loudly,
twisting free from the man’s grasp deftly.
“I have a bit more business to attend to before retiring for the
evening.” He sketched an elaborate bow,
sweeping his hat nearly to the ground, before turning on his heels and delving
into the crowd milling on the dock. He
felt hands fluttering for his pockets, fumbling for his belt, but he ignored
them, moving too quickly to allow theft.
Not a trace of Myrtle had been found, the residents of Zoruba as silent
as the grave when asked. The only trace
he had found of her had been the pearl buttons, preternaturally heavy in his
pocket. She is not dead, he told
himself stoutly, she is merely misplaced.
Jack had spent nearly two hours that day forcing himself to contemplate
her meaning for him, two hours he could have spent tearing up the town with
Dawson and Johanson, he mourned. Two
hours of intense pondering mixed with even more hours of searching and, he had
to admit to himself, near panic, had led to one of the more searing headaches
of his life. He was just about to give
himself a little break for a swig of rum when he heard the screams.
“A
head! A head!”
“Someone
get her to shut her hole!”
Jack
knocked over one of his own men trying to get to the source of the shrieks
before they stopped. A red-haired
woman, reminding him strikingly of Scarlet, was leaning heavily against a
shopkeep, her mouth open in a slack O of terrified shock. “A head,” she screamed again. “God, a head…”
:1'> Jack
stopped so suddenly his knees buckled.
There, in the middle of the group of people which was quickly growing
into a mob, was what at first sight appeared to be a white-green stone. An imprudent nudge from the shopkeep’s foot
turned the lump over to reveal a mottled, swollen face, hanks of dark hair
falling away, gelatinous eyeballs seeping from open lids. “Myrtle,” he breathed, a moment of sheer
terror overriding logic. He knew at a
glance that this head had been long separated from it’s body and it had been
long in the tropical heat. Patches of
bone and obvious signs of insect predation showed on the soft skin and tissues
of the cheeks and lips. But, he noticed,
there were the remains of a disturbing resemblance to Myrtle. _Many women have dark hair, _ he chided
himself. “Where did you find it?” he
asked steadily, making a point not to look at the poor remains.
“In the rubbish
bin,” the red head sobbed. “I were disposin’
of some scraps for the hogs an’ there she were, starin’ up at me…”
“I see,”
Jack nodded, licking his lips. “And…did
you happen to be seein’ a rather large man today? Maybe running?”
“Aye,” the
shopkeep nodded. “Just a bit ago. He damned near knocked me down!”
“Cap’n
Sparrow!”
Jack nearly
cursed Gibbs’ timing. “Yes, Mister Gibbs?”
he growled, never taking his eyes off
of the shopkeep and red head. “I’m a
bit busy!”
“You need
to be seein’ this sir!”
Gibbs sounded
like he was moving closer, pushing through the crowd. Jack heard murmurs of his name shoot through the people and he
was absurdly pleased he was known even in Zoruba, the worst backwater that side
of the Spanish Main. “Unless it’s what
I seek…”
“It is,”
Gibbs said simply.
Jack turned
to find him within arm’s reach. “Do not
tell stories, Gibbs,” he responded tersely, jerking his chin to indicate the
severed head. “There seems to be a bit
of a problem in lovely Zoruba.”
“I’m not
tellin’ stories, sir. Someone’s seen
her.”
“Where?” he
breathed, aware of the silence that had fallen over the gruesome scene.
“You’d…you’d
best be comin’ with me, sir.”
Jack nodded
slowly. “Bring the head, Gibbs.”
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