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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was only a flaunt the first time they met--tantalizing, to be sure.
He didn't begin to really scrutinize the captain until he noticed the
man's curious fixation. The younger pirate had many and varied,
but one was of particular interest.
So the sailor found he couldn't look away when Captain Sparrow
told long, elaborate stories late at night on the foredeck, his
features lit only by the moon and its reflection. He did as much
talking with his gestures as with his mouth, but it was the latter that
tripped deftly through a mash of vulgarity, obscure literary terms,
and complete nonsense. Most crewmen only listened to the words-
-the sailor was mesmerized, watching them being molded and
forged with a roll here and a flitter there.
Mealtimes were near torment. The captain would slap a few backs
before sliding onto a bench with the other men. Then he would
proceed to fill his plate and tankard high and dig into the offerings
with a singular focus and enthusiasm. The hardtack disappeared in
huge chunks, with the weevils being spat out at regular intervals
like seeds from a watermelon. Then the captain would nick (or as
he would say, "momentarily commandeer") a knife from a
crewman and use it to stab at the curious brown lumps in the stew
before lapping the up the gravy-like liquid. Or if the ship was fresh
out of dock, he might be found brandishing a goat shank, licking
and tearing at its honey-glazed skin when not waving it to
embellish his wild gesticulations.
The urge to stare was nigh irresistible--aye, and fantasize--so the
sailor often found himself eating alone in his bunk or on deck. But
once in a while, when he was on the captain's shift, he would
venture into the galley for dinner. And God help him if there were
apples. The sticky juice would be removed from the captain's
fingertips one pink flicker at a time.
Then there came the discovery of a small cleft between two boards
of the Great Cabin's walls, opened up during a narrow escape from
port. It was late into the first watch, long after the sun had
absconded with its light, and most of the crew were either tending
the sails aloft or asleep belowdecks. The sailor was returning from
the head to mind the helm when he noticed a faint glow emanating
from the crack in the paneling. He cast a glance around, his weary
heart speeding a bit as he committed himself to voyeurism.
Behind the thick planks, a single lantern cast orange rays into the
darkness. The captain was atop his bed, stripped to the waist and
straddling a half-reclined and decidedly nude female form. The
space between their bodies dwindled to nothing. The woman's fists
grasped the ropes of his hair, and the captain's mouth...the
captain's mouth was plundering hers with vigor. He lifted his head
slightly, his tongue lingering between her lips before drawing a
glistening line down the middle of her throat. The two tangled
shapes shifted, and his back arched as he continued tracing the trail
down her chest, her abdomen. The captain paused and moved
lithely down her body. The woman's head lolled back when their
shadows met again.
The sailor thought he could hear a low groan, or perhaps it was a
growl, but the sound was difficult to discern from the Pearl's own
language. He gulped and backed away, blinking the blur from his
eyes before slowly ascending the steps to the helm. He slipped the
lines from the spokes and rested his hands on the wheel, but they
would not stop shaking. In the midst of trying to gather himself,
the sailor was interrupted by a flapping, squawking projectile.
The blue and green macaw landed on his shoulder.
"Any port in a storm! Raise the Jolly Rog-"
Cotton pinched the bird's beak shut and shook his head. The parrot
clicked and fussed at him, ruffling its feathers before flying back
into the rigging. The sailor was once again left alone with his
thoughts and memories...and his silence.
But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil. A wistful grin
pulled at the corners of Cotton's empty mouth.
Oh, to be evil once again.
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