The voices whispered to him in the darkness and the shadows, and sometimes on a sun lit deck. There were occasions when he thought they spoke through the mouth of his constant companion, little Jack, as he sat on his shoulder; other times it seemed that it was through the creaking timbers of the Black Pearl as she breasted the swell or the hiss of ropes as her canvas strained against the wind. At night, when the stars were high and bright against a cloud scudded sky, they seemed to speak with the voice of Calypso, words tinged with laughter and mockery carried in the slap of the water against the hull and the singing of the wind in the rigging.

The further they got from the shore the more raucous the voices became and the harder to ignore. Every decision he made seemed to set them singing louder, and each time his anger burned hotter and his worry grew deeper and harder to escape. He couldn’t quite hear what they were saying but he knew that they spoke of his past and future, the choices he had made, things he had done and things that he hadn’t.

All too often he thought they spoke of Jack Sparrow.

Sometimes he suspected that the crew had heard them. When he caught the sideways glances and their puzzled looks he was almost sure that the voices were whispering into their heads too, telling tales on him, lying about him and planting doubt in their minds. Weaving stories of his failures and betrayals, of mutinies past and future, of treasure, curses and dying, and of blood.

Worst of all were the times when the voices spoke with Tia Delma's voice and he looked down at his hand on the wheel or the chart or the cup and saw only bone; when the sun was suddenly replaced by a full moon and time rolled back to the days before that last confrontation with Sparrow at Isle de Muerta. Back to his death, so unexpected and so full of loss and despair. Then hope and pleasure died and all that remained was emptiness and uncertainty and a desperate and all consuming yearning for something not quite understood, something that he could no longer have. That, and the bitter knowledge that it could have been different, and the fear that worse was still to come.

A feeling that had grown stronger once they had left Mrs Turnerand Shipwreck behind and headed out towards Tortuga.

As Jack Sparrow had seemed to find himself again in that final battle with Jones so Hector Barbossa feared that he had lost himself. Calypso was free, his vow honoured, yet somehow he didn’t feel that she had released him at all. She had warned him of the power of her anger and he had thrown her into the brig for her trouble, and now he was the prisoner, trapped, as she had been trapped, within a self he thought had left behind many years ago. There was no curse to be broken this time, no blood that could be spilled to give him back that which he had lost. There was nothing he could see that would release him, not now, not ever.

He had sought an ending to it in that last great storm of battle, yet despite all the provocations Calypso and her minions had not seen fit to grant it to him. He, like the others, had survived to bear the consequences of those last frantic hours.

Yet his burden seemed disproportionate, for survival had cut loose his mind from it’s mooring, setting him afloat on a sea of uncertainty, confusion and alien thoughts. The memory of his death hung over him when he was awake and filled his dreams with sadness and terror on those rare times that he slept; neither rum nor opium seemed to have the power to deliver him to oblivion. He took the night watches as often as he could without raising comment and spent the times when he should have been sleeping brooding at the window of the great cabin and feeding nuts to little Jack.

He had sniped and carped at Sparrow the whole voyage without ever getting a satisfactory response, seething with rage as he had seen the understanding and calculation growing in those all too clever eyes. Only Sparrow could truly understand his desperate need to escape death, and he was the one man who might make good use of the knowledge. Jack Sparrow had no reason to wish him well, and there was no knowing what vengeance he was planning, for the man was wily enough for a barrel full of foxes however much of a fool he might be otherwise.

But then he was no longer sure that his earlier reading of Captain Sparrow was the right one; maybe he was never a fool, just a man who made very sure that he was hard to predict.

He recalled the ease with which that supposed fool had manipulated the Brethren court against him and it made for unpleasant thinking, because he knew that he would need to move very soon if it wasn’t to happen again. Sparrow would use the understanding of his fears to displace his rival completely if he could just find the best way, and he would find that way if he remained aboard. Would use it eventually anyway. Leaving him behind at Tortuga was just the opening salvo in the new battle between them.

One that Hector Barbossa was no longer sure of winning.

There had been a moment of peace as the Pearl had left Tortuga behind, a feeling of almost unexpected escape as the seas opened up before them and the crew had hurried to do his bidding. For a short while he had felt satisfied that he was master of his fate again, confident that he was ahead of the game and that this time he would not have to rely on a curse to win. Yet even then there were the voices on the wind and the feeling that Sparrow was looking over his shoulder.

When the crew came and demanded to see the charts he wasn’t as surprised as he should have been. Instead of sending them back to their stations with a curse, as once he would have done, he had flourished said charts and stifled the memory of a similar demand to another captain. But it seemed that captain wasn’t done with him yet and he had been strangely resigned when the loss of the map was revealed. If he had been able to recognise his own relief at an excuse to return to Torgua and reclaim Jack Sparrow he might have wondered what the voices were doing to him.

Instead he had concentrated on his anger, turning the Pearl around and retiring to the great cabin to pet little Jack and fume at the perfidy of his namesake. The man he had needed to kill to best, the man who turned even that murderous act to failure somehow, and who had risen like a laughing demon to kill him far more successfully. The man whose ship he had taken, yet whose ship he had never managed to fully possess. A man for who he had only contempt, yet one who seemed to drive his fate. A man who, alone in the shadows of his night time cabin or the night watch helm, he half knew that he feared.

Jack Sparrow, an untrustworthy and devious rapscallion. A capering, drunken, lecherous fool, with no stomach for killing and no taste for a fight; a poor excuse for a pirate. Yet a man that stories collected around, one who had carved himself a legend even without the Pearl and an Aztec curse.

He had heard the stories right enough, and curled his lip in contempt at many of them. The ships stolen from under their owner's nose and without a shot fired, the merchant vessels raided and disabled but not sunk, the crews fought but not slaughtered, the towns robbed but not sacked with the prizes taken by guile rather than force. He had shaken his head and snorted with derision whenever he heard them recounted, for Jack had ever been a man to take the long way round if the short way involved what he saw as unnecessary killing. A man willing to trust the plotting of his crazy head more than the sharpness of his blade or the strength of his arm.

But, though the Black Pearl and her crew had been notorious in the days of the curse, it was Captain Jack Sparrow, Teague’s wayward son, who bestrode the sailor’s stories and the dockside ballads. Some fool had even written them down for the likes of Miss Swann to wonder over! The Pirate Lord whose head bore the highest price, the only one the authorities cared about enough to want proven dead. Hector Barbossa found that more than a little insulting, as if Sparrow was the yardstick by which they had all been judged and found wanting.

Jack Sparrow. A clever man ‘twas true, for all his apparent foolishness. Far too clever for comfort, though it had taken him some time to realise that and it had been a bitter truth. The source, it seemed, of too many of his own past problems, and maybe now the source of future disappointments.

As the ship ploughed her way back towards Tortuga Barbossa closed his eyes against the mockery of the voices, stroked little Jack’s furry head, and swore that this time Sparrow would not survive the encounter.

***

Elanor heard the explosive shattering of wood and the splash of landing debris, then there was silence except for the slapping of the waves against the ship’s hull. She staggered to the rail and leaned over, in the weak light of the growing day she could see the splintered planks bobbing in the swell, and her heart sank.
“Ariadne bring us around, and stop,” she ordered with resignation, “let's see what it is that we hit.”
In the mist she could have collided with anything, all she could do was hope that it was flotsam discarded by some passing ship.

The sight of the forlorn little sail drifting aimlessly in the water robbed her of that comfort.

“Ariadne lights,” she commanded. She was obeyed immediately and in the brighter light that flooded the surrounding swell it was clear that the drifting timber was all that remained of a small craft, and it was unlikely that it had been abandoned this far out. Which meant that its' owner was now lying in the water somewhere.
“Hell!” she spat, she didn't want company but nor could she sail on as if it hadn't happened, leaving the wrecked boat’s occupier, if there was one, to their fate.
“Is there anyone out there?” she asked reluctantly.
When the reply came back as she had feared she set herself to finding the lone figure floating amongst the driftwood.

***

The Black Pearl arrived back at Tortuga just over a day after she had sailed leaving Jack and Gibbs behind.

But Barbossa had no doubts that he would find his quarry easily enough, for it had been Jack’s stated intention to celebrate his return to living, and his survival of Beckett’s machinations, by visiting his favorite whores. No doubt one or other of them would be helping him and Gibbs to drown their sorrows at the Pearl’s premature departure at some waterfront inn or other. What was harder was deciding what to do when he found him.

While the crew had been persuaded, with some effort and many promises, to leave Jack behind Barbossa knew that he had little hope of reconciling them to his killing. A man returned from the locker was enough cause for superstition and awe, one who had created a pirate king, fought Jones and given the Dutchman a new captain was almost untouchable. The man who had apparently bedded the sea goddess herself, and survived it, most certainly was. No they would not risk being party to killing Jack Sparrow, however nervous he might make some of them; at least not yet.

Their faith in himself and his own captaincy seemed a mite lacking at the moment it was true, so stirring them to resentment or fear now would be foolhardy. If he were to arrange for Sparrow to die then it would have to be somewhere away from the ship and the crew; though killing him in a public place would only draw attention he would rather avoid, and might even result in his own premature demise. Pirates were no fonder of a mutineer than any other sailor, certainly not one who left his captain to die. Many would have heard the story of how he acquired his Pirate Lordship too, and even if they hadn't his reputation during the days of the curse was more likely to gain him a knife in the back than any praise, even here. So unless he could manufacture a suitable fracas it was unlikely that he would get away with killing Jack and reclaiming the charts.

He was left with a bitter choice it seemed, run the risk of losing the charts, or bringing Sparrow back to the Pearl knowing that the crew would not easily abandon him again.

But he knew that he needed that chart bad, only the fountain held the hope of silencing the mocking voices and restoring his peace with himself, and for that reason he could manage to allow Jack Sparrow to live for the moment. But he would have to watch his own back very carefully, Sparrow had no taste for secret killing, no taste for killing at all if the truth be known, but there was far more steel in the man that he might once have acknowledged. Avoiding a second death at Jack’s hands might be harder than he would once have thought.

Yet he had to risk it if he was to get that chart back. It seemed that he would have to learn patience; living with Jack Sparrow was, for the moment, a better option than giving up his search for the fountain.

But first he had to find him.

***

He was floating on his back and in the bright of Ariadne's light it was clear that when the Chaser had struck his tiny ship either the hull, or flying debris, had hit him. If he had collided with the hull then it was likely that he was beyond any help, but even so she had to know.

With Ariadne's assistance she brought him aboard and laid him out on the deck, noting in passing that his hair was as long as her own and his clothing somewhat bizarre. More importantly he seemed to be armed, though the weapons were child’s toys, at least at first glance. Heart in her throat she pushed away a mass of soaking, tangled hair to find his throat, unsure whether she was relieved or not when she felt the firm beat of a pulse. Whatever strange events had brought him out here in a small boat it seemed that luck was with him for his neck was in one piece and there was no sign of cracks or breaks in the bones of his skull. Ariadne assured her that, though he would have a heavyweight headache when he woke up, he was in no danger of quitting this life.

Which, callous though the thought might be, left her with a problem. The floating wreckage had demonstrated how completely the Chaser had destroyed his only means of transport, and so delivering him to his destination was the least that she could do. If she was lucky that would involve no more than a few hours extra sailing. But a few hours with him aboard, a man she knew nothing about and who was unlikely to wish her well given the circumstances. A man who might feel that she owed him a boat, and not necessarily be overly concerned about the size of the boat owed.
“Ariadne, defence level 2,” she said with a sigh and headed for the medical supplies.

***

Barbossa had searched the lanes behind the waterfront with its ramshackle drinking dens and bawdy houses until sun down, certain that he would find his quarry drunk as lord and draped around some doxy or other in very establishment he entered. He had been wrong.

Nor was there any sign of Gibbs. He had apparently been seen strolling along the dockside with his arms around the waists of Jack’s ladies but no one seemed very sure where he had gone to after that. Of Sparrow himself there seemed to have been no sign at all.

Eventually Barbossa had found the two women who might help him at one of the quieter inns and in the company of a well fed merchant and his captain. He had approached them politely enough with a smile and an ironic bow; their marks had not sent him on his way when he explained that he sought a missing member of his ship’s company, though he had been careful to avoid any talk of what ship that was. The purchase of several drinks had eased any further suspicion the sailors might have had about his intentions, and loosed the women’s tongues enough to learn that they had left Jack at the waterfront. Gibbs, they had last seen at a small hostelry, roaring drunk and likley to be thrown out within the hour.

He would have pressed them further and harder on Sparrow’s intentions but the presence of potential customers sealed their mouths, and eventually his continuing presence drew the frowning attention of the landlord. A fight here would serve no purpose and so Barbossa had bitten down on the curses that clustered on his tongue and taken his leave with more grace than he would once have done.

As the sun sank below the horizon he strode back to the ship and collected Pintel and Raggetti, then the three of them had plunged deeper into the slums and brothels that backed the port, searching with growing desperation the places where even he would not go alone, pistol or no.

By dawn they were wandering the more respectable parts of town, watched by wary servants and shop keepers as they set about searching gutters and middens, asking questions at lodging houses and of any passer by who would stop to answer. But there was no joy to be had and by the time the sun was climbing the sky again they were back at the dockside staring down the frowns of the frustrated crew.
“Gibbs will know where he is.” Marty said.
“Fine, if we could just find Gibbs.” Barbossa had snapped. “If ye know where he be then please be a’tellin me because there be no sign of him either.”
“He’ll be drunk somewhere,” one of the others piped up.
“We know that,” Pintel growled, “what we don’t know be where!”

Barbossa stalked up the plank and smiled as little Jack came down from his perch in the rat lines and sat on his shoulder, crooning what sounded to be consolation. He took a peanut from his pocket and fed it to the little monkey, then stroked the furry head with a gentle finger,
“We’ll start looking again at sun down, he may have slept his celebrations off by then and will come out in search of some pleasurable company. Ye all know Jack Sparrow, he won’t stay out of sight for long, not when there be rum to be supped. We’ll find him right enough, make sure we are ready to get under way as soon as he’s aboard.”
On those words of false confidence he strode into the great cabin and slammed the doors.

The others just exchanged uneasy looks and went back to their tasks,

***

She got him down to the second cabin and onto the bunk with little trouble. The weapons she set upon the table, carefully out of reach, while she made a more thorough examination of his injury. His limbs were straight and unharmed, his ribs seemed to be intact and the bruising on his chest and back nothing more serious than they had first looked. However a gash several inches long extended along his brow from his temple to just above his ear and bruising was becoming visible on his forehead and cheekbones, it seemed that he was going to have a fairly spectacular black eye.

But then his eyes looked fairly black anyway. She peered more closely, a man alone at sea in a small dinghy would have little time for proper sleep it was true, but the depth of shadowing around his eyes would not have been gained in a day or two. She reached forward and wiped a finger across his eyelid, staring in surprise at her fingertip when it came away blackened. Kohl or something like, unusual these days. But then nothing about him seemed to be usual. With a sigh she settled him more securely on the bunk and began to strip him of his soaking clothes.

Not that that was a lot to remove, it appeared that he was a man who traveled light.

But each of the few items she removed deepened the mystery of him. The sodden coat had been beautiful in its' day, the fabric a wonderful mix of silk and wool that would be both lightweight and protection against the weather. The embroidery around the cuffs and buttonholes was carefully stitched and the seams were strong, but it had taken a lot of punishment and the shoulder joins were breaking, though the fabric itself showed no sign of wear or age. The same was true of the odd waistcoat, yet the sash around his waist was faded and rubbed by the wide leather belts and their very decorative buckles. His shirt told a similarly confused story, the linen was good quality and cut, and the stitch work was hand done and exquisite, but it too spoke of long and heavy wear. Once white it had faded to some indeterminate shade of pale grey, it's cuffs stained and frayed in a manner at odds with the flamboyant care of his overall appearance.

If the coat and shirt were confusing enough his breeches and undergarments were like nothing she'd ever encountered in her life, and she frowned as she stuffed them into the laundry bag. Times were very hard for many people it was true but she couldn't think of any part of the world where the use of the zip or the fastener had yet been lost.

The man himself told a story no less confusing. He was well muscled and apparently fit, the swell of his upper arm and thigh suggesting he was more than accustomed to physical work, yet he carried no spare flesh at all, the bones of his rib cage showing clear as if he had been on reduced rations for a prolonged period of time. The skin of his face, forearms, lower leg and chest were tanned bronze by sun and wind, yet the rest was ivory pale as if it rarely saw the light. Unlikely, then, that he was some errant playboy guest, or even entertainer, from a rich man’s party.

As she covered him with a sheet and stuffed the pillow more comfortably under his head she wondered again who he could be, but his possessions had dispelled her greatest fear, that she had brought a raider’s decoy on board. While she could think of several reasons for one of that company to be adrift in a small boat she was very nearly sure that no self respecting raider would ever be so colourfully dressed. In fact she couldn’t think of anyone who would be, though if it hadn’t been for his location, and the weapons tucked into those belts, she might have thought him on his way to, or from, some yacht based masked ball.

But even that flight of fancy couldn’t explain the pistol and sword.

That he was so obviously armed might mean anything or nothing in the circumstances she reminded herself, and the debris had shown no sign of other, more potent, weapons. She wandered to the table and picked up the pistol, turning it around in her hands, no less amazed by it than she had been the first time. It was clearly an antique, but judging by the scratches on the stock not as carefully handled as its' apparent worth would warrant. Equally surprising was the fact that this very valuable artifact was primed and loaded, though she couldn't begin to imagine what use it would be in a fight with anyone she was expecting to meet. The same could be said of the scabbard and its' contents, a long and well worn blade, the hilt smooth with obvious and frequent use.

She reached out and drew the blade free again, touching a careful finger to the edge and wincing as it sliced the surface of her skin. Sucking on the nick she turned back to the bunk and stared down at him again, wondering who on earth would choose to be alone in these waters only armed with weapons that any museum would pay a high price for? Almost certainly no one who had a better choice. He was on the edge of deep water here, and that was risky for a man alone and in such a small boat. Either he was a very accomplished sailor, more than usually intrepid or a very desperate man. None of them options that made her feel easier about having him on board.

Had he been washed over from one of the other ships, or been forced to evacuate? But if that was the case then why hadn’t Ariadne picked up his beacon? Come to think of it where was his beacon? It hadn’t been amongst the wreckage. Another puzzle, as if she didn’t have enough doubts about him.

She reached out and turned his arm over again. His forearm carried the biggest puzzle of them all in the shape of a brand just above his wrist; a single letter, a capital P more than an inch high and wider than her finger. It was well healed and of some age but it didn't have a look of something anyone would choose for themselves. Which meant it had been done to him, another discomforting thought, that someone had felt strongly enough about him to do that.

No, on balance the story his person told was not one of someone who could be easily discounted, so she would need to treat him with caution. The headache waiting for him would be bad enough and waking in a strange place was not likely to do much for his temper, best to make sure that he didn’t feel unnecessarily threatened. The loaded pistol and the sharpened sword gave testimony to the fact that he was prepared to fight, and probably to kill, to defend himself. While she couldn't take issue with that willingness she could wish that if the Chaser had to collide with anything it hadn't been him and his little boat.

***

As dawn took a grip of the waterfront they set out again to search for Jack or Gibbs. This time luck smiled on them and a chance question to a tired fisherman, seated on a coil of rope and mending nets, brought the information they needed, and the last thing that Barbossa had wanted, or expected, to hear.

It appeared that Sparrow was indeed a hard man to predict, instead of skulking in some flea bitten hostelry swilling rum, or tumbling some equally flea ridden whore in a dingy doss house, as expected, he had taken to the sea almost as soon as he knew the Pearl was gone. Seemed he had taken a small boat, bought or stolen it wasn’t clear, some basic rations and a little water and rum and had set off on some unknown course and unspecified quest. Unknown to the occupants of Tortuga that was.

Barbossa felt a shadow move across the sun as he stared out across the bay towards the horizon. Jack Sparrow was a good sailor, maybe even a great one when sober and suitably motivated, but something told him that events were about to take a turn for the worst for them all. He could remember a little detail from Sao Feng’s chart, not enough to navigate to their goal but enough to recall that the route would pass across some deep and unpredictable waters. Not waters any sane man would want to face in a small and fragile boat with little food or water to hand. If Jack went down then the chart went with him, and with it all chance of finding the fountain or any other of the treasures it had shown. A drowned Sparrow was not worth the loss of the hope that chart had offered and he cursed himself for allowing his dislike of the man to outweigh their best interests.

If Sparrow was lost then he could no longer be sure of his own position as the Pearl’s captain. Already he could see the resentment in Pintel’s eyes, and in his head he could hear the taunts of his cursed crew as he stood atop a pile of useless gold. Abandoning Sparrow had been a mistake then, it had become clear, it seemed that it was no less of a mistake now.

But ‘twas done. All that remained to him was to take measures to recover what was lost as quickly as could be managed.

With a brief nod to the fisherman he strode away leaving Pintel and Raggetti to stumble along in his wake, if they put to sea before dusk they should still have some hope of catching their quarry before he strayed too far into danger.

He would think about what he would do if they didn’t when it happened.

Chapter 3: the weirdness begins