[POTC fic series] - SAILING IN SAMSARA, C.2 - "Of Teacups and Tempests" - 1/2 - rated PG-13
Title: “Of Teacups and Tempests”
Series: Sailing in Samsara (2/2 - thus far)
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: Post (my hypothetical) AWE
Pairing: Jack/Elizabeth, Saraswati (OC)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,721 (posted in two parts because it's too long for one)
Disclaimer: I don't own POTC or any of the people in it. They belong to Disney. Would that I was so rich.
Summary: This is Chapter Two of a series that will address Jack’s backstory and the role of family in his life. Jack, Lizzie, and the gang get swept up in the drama of the summer monsoons. Learn Jack's real name. See Lizzie faint. meet the mongoose. Chapter One can be found here: http://writing-samsara.livejournal.com/3166.html
Note on this work: After much consideration, I have opted to include in-text translations of the long phrases in Malayalm, Hindi, Urdu, and Tamil. Single words are excluded, and will be translated in the annotated version of this work. My apologies if this effect is jarring, but with such a long fic the more traditonal forms of translation proved ineffective. Three out of five of my "test subjects" found they preferred this format to relying on contextual cues. If you find it difficult to concentrate on the work with these additions, please shoot me an email at Nikita61482ATaol.com, and I will provide the story sans translation. Stay tuned for an annotated version of the work which will feature many insights into the culture/customs within (give me a day or two). Thanks for reading, and please feel free to ask any questions you may have.
Acknowledgements: Many, many thanks to my stellar "Writing Team": erinya as the beta superstar, djarum99 as my concrit darling, and compassrose7577 the voice of read-through reason.
Sailing in Samsara: Of Teacups and Tempests
Jack felt the shift in the dual currents of air and water even before he sent Gibbs to take another reading from the barometer. If they were lucky, the powerful swoop of the summer monsoons would merely blow them off course, towards Porbandar or Karachi. He dared not contemplate the alternative, and he urged the crew in brusque tones to coax more speed from the sails. The Pearl groaned, settling in anticipation. Dawn had risen in long, red fingers from the West. The mare’s tail clouds, then raw and wispy, had mellowed, stippling the horizon first coral then peach before settling into white speckles across the pale sky. A tall ceiling she has this morning, Jack thought. Bad news all around. He studied the water’s graying skin and felt it swell beneath the boards rhythmically, the Pearl heaving in low breaths.
“Me sleepy darlin’,” he patted the wheel gently. “Time to wake up, sweet. Need you to soar for old Jack.”
Another rush of easterly wind swept across the deck and Jack’s braids lashed his face. The dusty ropes of hair burnt lengths across his neck, cheeks, and the whole of his skin tingled with the air’s salt-sting. Gibbs ambled towards the wheel, his flask a steady pendulum as he walked.
“She’s lower, Captain. Movin’ in moderate, I’d say - mackerel sky to the west an’ all. I expect we can ride ‘er out, though, what with this wind and not a drop fallin’.”
“Best to take in, but be ready to pick up pace and draw ‘round once we sight her. The summer monsoon moves north, and the clash may be fierce.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Gibbs set to barking orders, and Jack raised a hand to his ear, hopping back a bit but maintaining contact with the wheel. The man’s got a mouth to wake the dead, he mused, turning his attention to his sister. She sat folded, lotus-style, at the bow with her palms skyward and resting on her knees, thumb to forefinger. She recited the morning mantra in a low hum. Occasionally, a member of the crew would dash by, led by Gibbs’ colorful instructions, forcing her to scoot further starboard. He bit back the urge to laugh when Marty nearly mashed her against the rail. She muttered and cursed in Malayalam, mumbling something about little men. After the fifth pass, she stood and stalked towards Jack. From the look in her eyes she was seething something fierce.
“Suprabhaatham, Sis. Engineyaanu ningal urangiyathu (how did you sleep)?”
She clucked her tongue, nostrils flaring, “I slept decently, if sleep is what you call that mess of roll-rolling. Can’t even perform a proper puja on this barge of yours, Raj.”
“Well, you’ve chosen a fine spot for all that holy prattle.”
“Aiyo! Your smart mouth is only smarter, athe? Ammah would box your ears, Raj - ah, no, no Captain Master - if she heard you talk-talking like that. This sailing-wailing nonsense, you can keep. All these ships and silliness when you could have settled with a nice girl in Cochin.”
“Nice is overrated, darling sister, and you could try to be just the tiniest bit appreciative, maybe? Just a teensy, weensy bit, hmm, Choti-Kai?” Scrunching his nose, he raised his thumb and forefinger to illustrate just how small he meant.
“Oof! Because I’m not praise-praising your desertion - ah, what I mean is, ki, you could have much more than this rotting boat.”
“Ship, Sister-Dear. Ship.”
“Ah, but you said boat last night.” She twirled the end of her braid, leaning heavily on one hip. Jack fancied she was an eyelash width from tapping her foot, arms akimbo.
“You remember that?” Cocking his head, he did not pause for her answer. Instead, he continued to sway about happily, but he grasped the wheel tight-handed, crushing his fingers against the spokes with clenched fists. His free hand twitched. “No matter - though you might just try - once again - to acknowledge that this boat and her ridiculous, irresponsible Captain have sailed decidedly off course, braving the perilous monsoon - and forgoing a hefty profit, I might add - for the sole purpose of whisking you away to your good home, as it were.”
“Vaah, vaah! Brilliantly acted, Ranjit-ji.” His eyes darkened, and she stepped forward, a palm’s distance from his face. Pantomiming small slaps on her cheeks, she continued with narrowed eyes.
“Oh, please-please excuse, Captain. I forget,” waving her hand towards the crew, lip curled, “these Gorehs don’t know your real name, isn’t it? You sound so, so English.” Walking around him, his eyes shifting with her, she paused at his back and leaned over his shoulder. “You can drop the theater now, Raj-bhai. I know who you really are underneath all this froth and blather.”
Stepping aside, his right hand still guiding the wheel, Jack cocked his head parrot-like and glared.
“You know who I was, Saraswati. Not who I am.” He relaxed slightly, exhaling a long breath, and gestured loose-wristed towards the ship. “But that’s beside the point, Sister.-Dear. I’ll stop when you stop.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Excellent.”
“I did stop.”
“So did I.’ He resisted the overwhelming urge to stick out his tongue at her.
Gibbs toddled near them, clearing his throat and trying desperately to appear casual and unassuming. Fiddling with his flask and pointedly avoiding Saraswati’s heated stare, he asked in an unusually quiet tone, “Bell’s nearly to ringing, Jack. Should I send Ayub to wake Miss - I mean, Elizabeth?”
“Bugger. There’ll be no livin’ with her for sure.” Gibbs nodded, turning, but Jack grabbed his arm. “Make sure the coffee’s fresh, hmmm? No need for bloodshed on top of everything else.”
“Aye, very astute of ye, Captain.” Swiveling, he began to amble towards the galley.
“Oh and Gibbs?”
“Aye?”
“See that he brings her some fresh fruit as well.”
Nodding, Gibbs scratched his beard and retreated, already calling for Ayub in his thunderous baritone. Jack turned to see his sister standing at the rail, humming under her breath.
“What’s that, Choti-Kai?”
“You remember it, don’t you? Ammah would sing it by the river, doing the washing.” She turned towards him, approaching in slow, measured strides. Her dupatta whipped around her in a fierce gust of wind, a swooping, emerald streamer, and Jack was reminded of their mother suddenly - saw her clearly as the wood of the Pearl, as surely as the sea. She was Ammah in the back garden, swatting blue-green flies and singing monsoon songs. “Drizzle, drizzle, too much sizzle. Hoping, Beta, that the rains won’t fizzle,” and she’d winked, returning to her plants and her riddling. The garden had been thunderdark, the clouds bulging seamlessly, rain ready to erupt from the sky in bursting drops like overripe mangos falling smash-flat to the ground. She had been tending the vines, chanting softly. Jack remembered the thrill of waiting with her, sweating and draped in the velvet curtains of midday heat. Remembered longing for the rain’s silken sheets against his arms, for the slither of water through his hair. They always met the monsoon in the garden, and both mother and son were anxious for the sky to release its liquid cool, impatient for drenched hair and quickened skin. The parched earth had crackled and flaked, had opened its wounds to the approaching clouds. He recalled, with haunting lucidity, that first fat plop of water against his nose. And he remembered her running through the tangle of plants, dancing and spinning in her green silks. She had grabbed his hands, and they had splashed through the tea-brown puddles. In his memory, she looked up at him and spoke in her smoky way, told him to scrub himself and take Saraswati her new salwar. “Your father will arrive this evening, Beta. And, vaah-vaah, aren’t you excited?” He’d never asked how she had known, but her instincts rarely failed. She had winked at him then, scolding him in her playful way. “Hurry, hurry, Sultan-Sir. Do you want your father to come home and see your sister in her plain choli, ah? Quickly, my little bird! What did I tell you about these winds whisking your papa to Cochin?” At dusk his father had arrived, gifts in tow: Chinese silks for Ammah, trinkets and magic tricks for he and Sara. One night, he had snuck to the garden and seen them dancing in the rain, his father blazing drunk and his mother twirling
“Raj, are you feeling alright?” Sara stood beside him waving a hand in front of his face, her forehead wrinkled with worry. Her scarf filled in another gust, scooped sail-like behind her and swept free of her hair. Clutching her dupatta under her chin, she seemed smaller and more fragile than he remembered. Like a little girl. Like a phantom of the past.
“Just thinking how much you look like her.”
“Who?”
“Ammah. You were too small to remember it, but Papa brought her a bolt of Chinese fabric. It was a green just like this. Never saw her wear it but once, though. Saroj-Aunty pilfered it, I think.”
“Ah, yes-yes, I remember it. It was covered in leaves and blossoms. You know, Thambi,” she tilted her head, her mouth softening. “You look just like Papa yourself.”
He returned her smile, fluffing peacock-proud and miming a small bow. He winked at her and smiled to flaunt his gold. She began to hum again, and he joined her, remembering the tune in fragments.
“What’s the name of that little ditty?”
“Aaja mausam bada beiman hai.”
“Ah yes,” he said, adjusting the ship’s course and studying in the dove-gray horizon. ‘Today the weather plays tricks on me.’ Liked that one. Rather appropriate to our present circumstances in any case, eh Choti-Kai?”
“Tell me one of the stories about her, hmmm Thambi? Like you used to?”
Shifting his gaze to survey the crew, he answered with a slight headshake. “Not today, Sis. Another time. I promise.” Scrunching his nose, he pressed his free hand to his heart and spoke in his most serious, solemn-sounding voice, “On my honor as a pirate.”
“And wouldn’t that be just slightly contradictory, Thambi?”
“On all the rum in me darlin’ Pearl’s hold then.”
“Ah.” She turned to survey the ship and crew. “There may not be another time, Raj - but you judge as you will, hmmm? Ethra dooram pokanam (how much distance to go)?”
“Bloody monsoon’s swept us off. The winds are changing. I’d guess it’ll take us at least two more days, bordering on three if she holds.”
“So long as that? You told me this was the fastest in all the seas - exactly and approximately, kya - and now two more days in addition! Please, please tell me how I am keeping my sanity on this boat with nothing but that wo - matlab, with no one for proper company, ah?”
“Bess got under your skin, I presume?”
“Not so much as anything. Enikku enthu cheyyan kazhiyum (what can I do)? In any case, she’s your achi, kya- and so we must be fast-fast friends.”
“Pirates aren’t wives, Sara. Elizabeth is free from all that twaddle, savvy? We have an accord is all.”
“And I thought you were stop-stopping the act, Raj-Bhai.”
“Not an act anymore, I’m afraid. Besides,” he flashed a golden smile, “what’s all this ‘color-color kya matlab’ nonsense of yours?” He clutched his dreadlocks under his chin, scarf-like and rolled his head, batting his eyelashes.
“Ah. Sorry-sorry. My mistaking. Why should you have a proper wife when you can’t even stomach the thought of your family, kya? Matlab, I am not so enamored with these Anglos as to imagine that I am one of them.”
~
Elizabeth awoke to a sandy-feeling mouth and the clatter of metal on wood. The scent of coffee and the green smell of some tropical fruit wafted through the cabin and lifted her in measures from the fog of sleep. Bless you, Jack Sparrow, she thought, the image of his naked body still lingering from her dreams. Thank the Lord for coffee and captains. She cleared her throat and weighed the pleasures of breakfast against the pleasures of slumber, conjuring the coffee’s bitter bite and its bloom into roundness as it slid down her throat. Remembering the acid slice of Jack’s thick morning brew, grainy and spiced and burning away the crackled feeling at the back of her throat, she attempted to wake enough to rise and enjoy it. Her eyes throbbed in protest. A hollow ache rumbled in her head and pooled beneath her eyelids. Bloody rum. Damn-blast. Just another moment’s sleep, Captain. Just one little spoonful. She nuzzled the pillow decisively.
The sound of pouring filled the room. Damn it, Jack. Can’t wait one bloody minute for me to gentle out of it, can you? Should be on watch, you scoundrel. Gibbs must be boiling. Smacking her dry lips in protest, she rolled onto her back and stretched, delighting in the sudden caress of cool air against her breasts.
A roaring crash, like metal clashing against wood, filled the cabin. The thud of oranges rolling across the carpet and onto the deck followed.
She opened her eyes, sat up, and promptly screamed. There stood Ayub with his hands over his eyes, brown back facing her. He floundered towards the door with one hand stretched forward, stumbling a bit and shaking his head. She knew that if he could speak, he would mumble something ridiculous and apologetic. Blushing furiously, she wrapped herself in the sheets and shot out of bed, cursing Jack under her breath.
“It’s alright, Ayub. I’m decent now. You can open your eyes.”
He shook his head and kept his hand plastered to his face, nearly slamming into the door. Bowing, he waived his free hand at her before ducking out of the room.
“Damn it,” she swore, dropping the sheets and yanking on her breeches and shirt. “Bloody damn, damn, damn it!”
Hopping about the room on bare feet, the chill patches of wood tingling her soles, she stooped to collect the scattered fruit. Their tarnished bowl rocked on its side beneath the table, filling the room with silver sound.
Setting the remnants of her breakfast on the table, she swore when her right foot made contact with something thick and gooey. Smashed neatly underfoot was a slice of guava - half a guava to be exact - lumps of pulp squashed and curling pink between her toes. Scanning the room again, she noticed a few others halves resting in the corners.
“Must have been a lovely spread,” she muttered, stealing a sip of coffee and hopping on her clean foot to grab her boots. Left leg properly protected, she plopped into the chair with a sigh and began cleaning her sole with the elegantly folded napkin Ayub had arranged for her. “Whole lot of bother for nothing - bloody know he’s laughing, too. ‘Go wake Bess, Ayub.’ ‘Take her some bloody sliced guavas, Ayub.’ ‘I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, Ayub, and I am King of the fruit baskets, don’t you know?’” Pausing mid-rant, she realized she was flailing like a simpleton, in an empty cabin no less. She plucked at the tiny yellow seeds stuck between her toes with a grumbled, “Bloody brilliant. Now I’m talking to myself. He’s driven me to the brink of insanity.”
The watch bell tolled. Elizabeth exhaled in frustration, the throbbing behind her eyes returning in pulses. Rubbing her temples and reaching for her vest, she paused for another swig of coffee. Slowly, a soft rapping against the door separated itself from the general din of her aching head. Bloody impatient pirate. Can’t wait to pass off his duties, can he?
“Why the blazes are you knocking, Jack? For the love of God, just come in already. I’ll be finished in just one-“
Sara poked her head into the cabin, obnoxiously bold emerald scarf rubbing against the frame in a deafening, grating swish. Oh, just perfect, Elizabeth mused, mustering her most counterfeit smile.
“Good morning, Sara. Lovely scarf. Please tell Jack that I’ll be out in just one moment.”
“So sorry to disturb, but he’s told me to tell you to take your time. Something about pressures and crow’s foots and whatnots.”
“Oh. I see. In a way. Yes, thank you, Sara.”
“And he told me to give you - aiyo, what is this word - yani, company until you finish.”
Glancing at the table, Elizabeth nearly smacked her forehead noticing the pair of cups and plates spread on the table. Grinning so broadly that the corners of her mouth stretched nearly to cracking, she gestured for Sara to sit.
“Oh yes, of course. How silly of me. Please, do sit down and make yourself comfortable.” She bit back the sudden urge to offer a guava from the floor.
“Shukriya. The fruits look lovely, no? So much color-color.”
“Oh yes, it is a treat to be sure. And what a wonderfully bright outfit you’re wearing. So festive for the morning.”
“Oh, thank you.” Sara curled a viciously sweet smile. “It seems your dress - accha, meaning lack of dress, so sorry - gave the poor cook-wallah quite a fright.”
“Ha. Funny little accident that was.” Elizabeth drew her dagger from her boot and began hacking at an orange, separating wedge from skin in deft strokes. They sat in silence for several beats, Sara sipping and Lizzie peeling, until the quiet became unbearably laden. True to form, Elizabeth spoke first.
“May I ask you something, Sara?”
“Accha, of course. Anything at all.”
“I noticed that you refer to Jack as ‘Raj’, and I was wondering -“
“If it is his real name, kya?”
“Yes - yes, I was.” Feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment, Elizabeth ducked her head to sip her coffee, the warm brew’s dusty texture sliding thickly down her throat. She managed to smile politely from behind the cup’s porcelain rim. Cardamom-scented steam rose in hot breaths, kissing her chin.
“Arey, Jack was born Jahangir Ranjit Pakshi -, but everyone called him ‘Raj’ - sometimes Raj-Sultan - as he was very grand and beautiful and precocious, a little prince.”
“So Jack’s first name is Jahangir?”
Clucking her tongue, Sara shook her head. “It is not the same for us, kya? Our naming system is ancient and much more complex than your Western conventions. Our culture does not require the taking of a father’s name, most especially a foreign father, and our mother was high born - royalty as she told it. Her people came from the north, from the Mughal lands. Ammah - our mother - swore that we could trace direct lineage to Nuruddin Muhammad Jahangir Padshah Ghazi, the great emperor that brought you British to India. The name ‘Jahangir’ indicates the long reach our ancestry. ‘Ranjit’ is the given name, matlab - ah, meaning, sorry-sorry - ‘charmed and victorious’ or ‘one who delights.’ Ammah said Raj-Bhai was born laughing, and so she named him ‘Ranjit’ after his gigglings. And for Ranjit Singh, another northern ruler.”
“And the last bit? Pakish was it?”
“Pakshi. Meaning ‘bird.’ Ammah’s little joke for our father.”
“And he took the name Jack Sparrow-“
“Ah, ji han - because he wanted a typical English name for a typical English sailor.”
“And Sparrow was your father’s surname, correct?”
“Ji. Raj-Bhai was always too-too enamored of Papa.”
Elizabeth set her cup on the small saucer, the tinkling of porcelain on porcelain a pleasant sound. Visions of a young, elfin Jack spirited through her head.
“How lovely. Jack always told me you were a gifted storyteller.”
“Ah, shukriya.” Saraswati made a small nod, touching her fingertips to her lips and gesturing towards Lizzie. “Yes, a tawaif must constantly weave stories - in her dance, in her eyes, in her songs. We call this art ‘ghazal’. Raj-bhai must have told you this, na?”
“He explained a little. In his own way. Of a sort.”
“Yani, meaning not at all, isn’t it?” Sara smiled genuinely, continuing, “I know my brother. He is not - hmmm - he is all talk-talking but never really saying anything, isn’t it?”
“That’s Jack alright. Was he always so circular in his oration?”
“Exactly and approximately. He always told tales, it seems, and Ammah had a gift for big talks as well. She told stories to Raj and I every night - from the Bhagavad Gita, and the Vedas, and even the Shanameh - and sometimes during the days working in our garden. At night, Raj and I took turns remaking and retelling them. Aiyo, very late into the night, it seemed! I don’t remember them so much from Ammah, but Thambi recited them again and again after she died.”
Sara’s eyes clouded with a distant sort of softness, and Elizabeth remembered that Jack had mentioned his sister was only four years old when their mother died. Though he had provided no details, she recognized that brand of pain well enough, the pang of her own mother’s absence still tangible on occasion. Empathy guided her hand to rest atop Sara’s.
“You were very young, weren’t you?”
“Almost five. Jack was just eleven.”
“I was eight when my mother passed. I remember our home felt so cold, so drafty after she passed. My father worked long hours, and the servant girls refused to play with me. I think they thought my sadness was contagious, like a fever. I was rather friendless until we abandoned England for Port Royal. You were lucky to have a brother to look after you, to stave away the loneliness.”
Sara’s eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw a flicker of camaraderie there, the ghost of twin isolation. But lightning quick that look vanished, dissolved into a hardened gaze. Elizabeth drew her hand back and watched as Sara lowered her eyes and upended her teacup with one fluid, swift flick of her fingers. The clink of porcelain rang chime-like in Lizzie’s ears, and she imagined that if sounds were tastes, that clanging would savor of chalk and peppermint and something gritty, something like sand.
Sara turned the cup over again, ran a finger across the chipped rim - old scars from years stored at sea - and spoke in a sibilant whisper. “Did you know that this drink leaves markings in your cup, and if you turn it - if you are wanting to see - your destiny is painted there?”
Elizabeth nodded, though she had not known, and waited for Sara to resume.
“Ah, then Thambi has read for you?”
“No. I’m afraid he hasn’t.”
“Arey, he has forsaken such magics, isn’t it? Nothing Indian for Raj in these days. But before, when we were small and struggling, it was parlor tricks and entertainments that kept our bellies full. Mmm, and did you know that your dearest Raj never told me our ammah died?”
Elizabeth shook her head in the negative.
“Ah yes, he is never wanting to boast about his habit of running, is he? Athe, I suppose he couldn’t tell me, I am thinking, because he could not tell himself. He came home - Ayya, our older brother was dead as well - and he told me that Ammah -” she turned her face to the door and swallowed several times before resuming, her nostrils red and flaring. “He took me outside, to the garden. It was dusk. Very late and I was so sleepy, yes? The sky was this color - so soft- soft looking, ah? Like something warm, like the color of smoke. The color of brinjal, a blue-purple that grew darker and darker, like tins tarnishing. Yani, the sky looked like it was mixed with dirts. You know these colors, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know them very well indeed.”
“Ah, so you know the feeling - to stand there watching the daytime sinking like stones. Raj held my hand tight- tightly - as though I was frightened, but I wasn’t - and he said, ‘It’s just us now, Choti-Kai.’” She wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand in furious, brusque strokes. “He said, ‘Ammah has gone away to the horizons. She’s gone with Papa to sail on the clouds.” And he told me that our father had come that morning to carry Ammah far, far away, into a great house in the sky. She was dancing there, he said. She had a great and important job: to dance the sun into waking every morning and into sleeping every night - just as Lord Vishnu sustains the world with his fluid movements while Lord Shiva dances our destruction. Birth, death, rebirth, kya? Samsara. Our Ammah was a great-great dancer, so I believed him. And he took my arms in his hands and said that the sun setting was Ammah tucking me into bed. He told - aiyo, what is this word?” She rubbed her temples, eyes liquid and brimming, threatening to spill over her lashes. “Ah, yes-yes - he said that when the night came and the koyal birds started their sing-songing, that it was Ammah’s lullaby to me. And in the morning, when the sun entered bright and long into our room, it would be our mother waking us. He said we would never need to miss her; we would never need to worry.”
Elizabeth sat breathless and still, not wanting to shatter the fragile image Sara had painted, the haunting vision of them lingering in the corners of her eyes. Finally exhaling in slow lengths, she shook herself and refocused on her companion, now ruddy-cheeked and openly crying. Sara sat silently, her breathing shallow and her eyes a turbulent, stormy gray. Unable to decipher the exact emotion reflected there, Elizabeth responded cautiously.
“What a lovely, heartbreaking story.”
“It was a lie. A terrible lie that I discovered too late - so late that I could not mourn my own mother, my own flesh vanished without a proper tribute.” Sara leaned back in her chair, shrugged off her long scarf and wiped her eyes. “But I can’t expect a Goreh like you to understand. You all want fairytales, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t mean - ”
“Ah, but you did. My brother made the mistake of becoming like you and your kind - yani, always telling stories and hiding from reality.” She leaned in angrily, so close that Elizabeth could smell the coffee on her breath, acrid and sharp. Snatching the teacup from the table, she turned its lining towards Lizzie and pointed to the thin ring of grounds near the rim. “You see this, kya? You see this hollow in the center, so bright and white and clean? That is the empty hole where my grief lived.” The cup slipped from her hands, rolled on its side but did not break. Sara fixed Elizabeth with hot, pinked eyes, her tone accusatory. “He robbed me. That is what you pirates do, isn’t it? My brother was a common thief, even in those days.”
Slowly, Elizabeth began to boil, angry water collecting behind her eyelids. Her fury rose hazily, like steam from a pot. How dare she treat Jack this way?
As though separated from her body, Elizabeth felt her forehead bead with sweat, felt her chest and arms vibrate with the force of her restraint. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her cutlass. She wanted to tear Sara’s heart from her chest. She could almost smell the copper of her blood, could almost hear the wet thump of her head rolling across the deck.
And then Jack entered, loud and boisterous and smiling like the very devil himself. Both the women turned to greet him with false merriment, their grinning mouths taut, almost snarling.
“Mornin’, Doom. Frightful as always, I see.” He removed his hat theatrically and kissed Elizabeth on her forehead. Turning to his sister, he bowed and nodded with hands tented. “And Gloom - which story did you tell now, hmmm?”
“Nothing you haven’t told yourself, Brother-Ji, countless times it would seem.”
“I do hate to interrupt your undoubtedly epic retelling, Sister-Dear, but unfortunately duty does call. Bess,” he caught Elizabeth’s eyes, and she recognized something grave concealed there. “Need you on deck, luv. Some developments to discuss.”
The last time she’d seen a similar ghost of worry on Jack’s face, they had nearly capsized off the Cape of Good Hope. Willing her anger into recession, she stood and brushed off her clothes.
“I’ll be there in a moment, Jack. Just let me finish freshening up.”
Sara also stood, plucking an orange from the table and brushing past her brother. She laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned to his ear as if to whisper, but she spoke loud enough for Lizzie hear.
“Take care, my brother. Tej will be hungry in any case.”
“Really wish you hadn’t brought that thing aboard, Sara. The bugger’s already raided our stores once - worse than a rat, the bleeding, diseased-.”
“Aiaiyo! He’s only a small mongoose, Raj-Bhai. Good for keeping the snakes away, in any case.” She sashayed from the room in dainty, elegant strides, and Elizabeth found herself wishing - not for the first time - that her scarf would catch on a nail and send her hurtling.
Sister safely out of earshot, she fell to the bed and raised an eyebrow at Jack. “You know, it was you that allowed her to bring that weasel on board in the first place.”
“Aye, you’re right there, but you really never know when a mongoose will come in handy. Excellent resource in the event of a cobra attack.”
“Yes, I’ll have to keep that in mind for the next time snakes start falling from the sky.”
Turning her back to him, she fished a discarded length of ribbon from the tangled bedding and extended it to him in the flat of her palm. His footsteps rang soft and weary behind her, his fingertips a whisper against her hand as he took the proffered tie. She leaned into his touch, and he began braiding her hair in swift tugs, gentle but firm, the pads of his fingers pressing her scalp pleasantly. She sighed with satisfaction. Tilting her head back, she strained to catch his eyes.
“Do we have time?” A plea. Nearly a moan.
“ ‘Fraid not, Bess. Gibbs is holding’ her, but he’s worn, and if my estimation proves correct, we’ll be needing’ his sharp eye by nightfall.” He tied off her braid, patted her shoulder and dropped onto the bed with a groan.
She studied him and, for first time in weeks, saw his age mapped clearly across his face. His lids drooped a bit at the corners; the kohl had creased, had gathered in fine lines and fanned like tributaries from the corners of his eyes. Laying her hand on his, her fingers circling the rings there, she inhaled and continued, “All right, Captain. Let’s talk ships.”