the Dalaverse

Halloween present. James gen and a ghost.



Linger


There is a dead man in Port Royal and James is the only one who can see him.

At first he merely catches glimpses in sight, sound, scent – the drag of worn boot heels across the cobbles, a moth-eaten feather wafting in a breeze, the smell of water-rotted wool. All is still and silent when he turns his head to investigate, and no one around him ever senses anything out of the ordinary. Thus he knows better than to show any reaction when he begins to see the man in full.

Never has James been witness to a more complete realization of the imaginary pirates he vanquished as a child. He is not old, precisely – one might call him aged, in ways that are evident to the eye but have nothing to do with years. He wears rags like the finest velvet. Beneath his waterstained hat hangs thinning brown hair and a rough tuft of beard. The blue appears to be washing out of his eyes, filmed over by weak yellow. His gnarled hands and ragged nails fill James with revulsion, but his sword and pistol do not. They are in excellent condition.

He does nothing, says nothing, but he makes things happen nonetheless. Wherever James has noticed him, there is soon a bad temper or a ruined supper or a fistfight. He has never favored the cat, but now and then a sailor makes a move toward violence and there is no choice, not if he doesn’t want the rest of them lashing out as well. His two lieutenants become involved in some private quarrel that leaves both tight-lipped and speaking only when it is absolutely necessary, which makes neither of them any sort of decent company.

The fort and the ships seem to be the dead man’s favorite spot, aside from any property belonging to the Turners. Their home is vandalized one afternoon while the maid is setting the table, just before Will comes home for the evening. Elizabeth comes upon one of intruders in the parlor and shoots him in the head, but the other two escape with several heirlooms passed down through her mother’s family. The men are never found and the stolen items never recovered. Not a week later, a normally placid horse belonging to a wheelwright aims a kick directly at Will’s head. He manages to duck out of the way, but breaks his collarbone in the process, which will leave the smithy in the hands of his young apprentice for at least six weeks. From what James hears, his recovery will not be eased by domestic bliss. Most attribute the couple’s rumored difficulties to youth and new marriage, while some claim smugly that it only serves them right. No one but James sees the stranger’s leer as he slips around the corner.

He has no idea why he should be the only one to whom the dead man is visible, but it isn’t foremost on his mind. No matter the reason, ridding the town of this unwanted guest is clearly his responsibility. His theory that the church may be able to help is dashed when he goes to a priest and finds a woman of a certain reputation occupying the confession booth. He hopes this lapse in judgement is also due to the ripple of bad behavior caused by Port Royal’s self-appointed foe.

At twelve o’clock midnight on a clear, windy Friday, James Norrington steps out his back door. The dead man is standing under the broadleaf tree by the gate. He inclines his head and grins nastily, showing rotted teeth.

James is struck by a sudden urge to straighten his uniform, adjust his wig, but he keeps one arm straight at his side, the other hand at his blade. There is a cross clumsily embroidered on his breast pocket, beneath the brocade.

“You do not belong here,” he says evenly. The wind picks up, stinging his eyes.

The man waves one arm in a lazy gesture oddly reminiscent of Jack Sparrow. “I’ve always had a talent fer insinuatin’ meself inta places I don’t belong.” His voice is as oily as his smile. Yet as James crosses the yard to stand nearer, he notices that the moonlight clings where it shouldn’t, and he smells fresh salt air instead of decay. He wonders briefly if his presence is even necessary, if the dead man will simply fade away like so much mist whether or not James intervenes.

But he is reminded of the pirates of Isla de Muerte, and the pirates had to be killed, down to the last.

“Leave.” His voice turns harsh and his fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword.

“Don’t be sassin’ me, lad,” says the dead man. “Ye may puff up like a rooster, but ye’d die as quick as yer men did.”

The pirates – of course – absurd, that James failed to make the connection beforehand. Then again, he never saw the captain, and perhaps he still shrinks from thoughts of that night, no matter how brave he might seem on this one.

Seeing his face change, the captain’s sickly blue eyes glow with pleasure. “Aye, they bled an’ died, an’ some wander that rock still. Maybe a soul or two walks yer deck at night, weepin’ fer th’ commodore’s pride, fer their lost sweethearts.”

He wants James to flinch, watches for it with avidity. He seems almost desperate now, needing this one final haunt, reaching for a man’s guilt with greedy fingers. Though his chest contracts and his feet cramp in his shoes, James does not set his jaw, or raise a brow, or turn his head away, or give any other outward sign that he has heard.

“You have no power,” he says, forcing himself to speak calmly. “What little you once had was stolen, and it cannot be claimed in death.”

“I claimed that bitch’s dreams,” the dead captain snarls, his shoulders hunching in rage. “I took her in ‘er sleep, showed ‘er what we’d’ve done t’er, an’ laughed when she screamed in th’ whelp’s arms.”

James allows himself a moment of anger on behalf of Elizabeth and Will before countering, “But you can’t touch the Black Pearl, or you would be deviling Jack Sparrow until the day he dies.”

Even as he gnashes his teeth he is growing paler, black fury washing to gray. “He’ll die alone, cursin’ th’ day his mam birthed ‘im, cursin’ th’ sea fer her treachery – an’ so too will thee, James Norrington.”

“Perhaps,” says James, clasping his arms behind his back. “I pray I can find peace where you have not, and Sparrow, too.” He is surprised to find that he means every word.

He looks aghast at that, rocked by the notion that James should wish an enemy anything but pain and misery. With a thin smile, James turns and walks back to his door in slow, steady strides. He thinks he hears some invective called to him, but it is too faint to make out. When he turns at the steps, there is nothing beneath the tree but a rotten apple core.