The Captain is Not Dead

The sombre slosh of the sea is soothing. The song of silence embraces her. Soft, her hair dances with the tide, entangled in the icy coolness. Bubbles of air weave between her fingers. The trim of her dress drifts lazily around her ankles, tugging lightly with the current. The surface is just above her, wide and vast as a desert of water. She closes her eyes as she sinks, not wanting to let go of the bliss of the shock, not wanting to remember...

The water twists and convulses. Power surges through the waves that loom over the ragtag crew of the black flag ship. The Sayyida al Hurra is a speck in the infinite waters. The wall of ocean engorges, threatening to unleash it’s violent rage. Bright light streaks across the black and boundless void, the dull stars hiding their glow from the furious god who tantrums and smashes at his own creation. They wonder what they could have done to earn his wrath. The sky mocks them, it’s low growl laughs at their violent fate. Icy bullets of rain pelt down, beating and bruising her skin. Her eyes are wide, fearful for the first time in her life. Her arms are bound. Her ankles too. The thick rope cuts into her skin, red trails down her back and stains her nightdress. She stands tall upon the splintered gangplank, her silent tears disguised by rain. She does not sob, nor beg. She dares not let her reputation die with her, as though she were not a savage pirate Captain of the Carribean. The new Captain scowls, he stands in her place. He wears her tricorn. He commands her crew. His name is mutiny, for that is all he deserves to be known for. Each night on the ship he spat hate among his crewmates, whispered lies through his matted beard. Each night, he muttered false tales, convincing her men that she was not truly worthy of her title. Now, fire dances in his eyes, twisting his lips into a grimy grin, flashing his rotted teeth, “Let it be known that the most damning o’ luck is to ‘ave aboard a woman.” He spits as he speaks, thunder cracks. Her own crew jeers and howls at her as the cabin boy solemnly pulls the other end of the rope into a sturdy knot around the heavy steele anchor. She shivers at the sight, knowing her fate is bound to it with old fishing ropes that frayed and cut deep into her skin. Do they truly believe that this would save them? That her riddance would drown the bad luck and cast away the storm? There are some, few among the scavengers that watch silently. They are the ones that know. And they mourn their captain. But the new captain is brutal, he only knows one way to claim his title. He took it from her, and now he takes her life. On his command they lift the anchor, almost effortlessly, remorseless, they heave it up onto the banister and let it fall into the water. She stumbles back with the tug at her ankle as it plunges into the depths, and her with it. The waves break. They smash against the hull of the ship, dragging her against the barnacles, bloody water washes away into the tide. She grasps for something to save her, anything. All her hand can grip is the very rope that drags her downwards.

The numbing ice of the black ocean stuns her. Shock. She yearns to bathe in bliss and peacefulness of the water. The flashing memory of her crew taunting and condemning her seemed to drift on the waves like a ships ruins at dawn, when the raging storm had passed.

She opens her eyes, letting go of the memory. Letting go of the bliss. Fire in the water. Fire in her lungs. Every breath burns. The water muffles her shrieks. She wriggles her arms free of their bounds, clawing at the blackness, struggling to resurface. White bubbles surround her and dissolve into the void. The ship is far above her now. A distant memory. The anchor drags her further down. Down and down and down into the black. It engulfs her. Her vision grows darker, curious marine onlookers blur and double. Maybe the distant shadow of a lazy shark would save her. Something brushes against her foot and she recoils, trembling as she sinks. Water floods her lungs, her airways tighten and constrict, fighting against the water, desperate for air. A cloud of sand consumes her as the anchor meets with the sea floor with a dull thud. She follows, burying her toes in the soft sea bed. The sunken Captain lays to rest among the coral, the weight of the water pressing her against the sand.

Ahead of her, the water shifts and she is suddenly aware of a warmth, a presence. She reaches out, fighting against the crushing ocean on her back. Her fingers brush against something warm, it welcomes her. She reaches further, desperate for it, until her hand intertwines with another. A warmth fills her. Colour dances around her like fireflies in the night. It swirles and pulsates, casting light on the once blackened depths. She stands in a garden of coral, each a colour so mesmerising, so brilliant. But her attention is entranced by the colour of the eyes before her. Immaculate blue beckons her, speckled emerald sails on the waves that swish and swirl around the iris. A woman. Tiny freckles plastered across her cheeks, evidence of a life in the sun. Her hair, a brilliant shade of ginger, coils lazily around her shoulders. Fire in the water. The Ocean Girl pulls her lips into a welcoming grin and tugs on her hand. The rope breaks away with ease and she guides her down a twisting path, weaving through the dazzling corals. The path leads down, not into darkness but into light. It comes to an end before a ship, half buried in the sand. The rust on the hull reveals glistening gold underneath. Bright light shines from the cracks and holes in the side, grand canons line the gunport like soldiers. The riggings are pulled over the banister, anchored into the sand. The ocean girl lifts the hem of her silver silken gown, exposing her bare ankles, and steps onto the first hold and begins to climb. Curious, she follows, all too familiar with the steps of the riggings. In her life she would climb up to see the sunset and concluded that it was a glimpse of heaven. She smiles at the thought. She becomes suddenly aware that she is dressed in her Captains attire, her tricorn fitted perfectly to her head, her deep crimson waistcoat barely concealed the cutlas that hung from her belt. The girl reaches the top before her, turning and extending her hand. She takes it. The deck is lined silver, diamond trails sweep behind the couples dancing perfectly in sync, they emanate a soft glow that pulsates with the music, perhaps it is the moonlight. A ball. The perfect polish of the ruby mast reflects their true image. The people are skeletons. Twirling, dancing, loving. Their corpses so full of life. She saw herself truly, sickly white and sunken eyes. She smiles, that face isn’t hers anymore. The living could never see her beauty now. The ocean girl grins and curtsies, an invitation. Her fingers still pressed into her palm, she accepts with a deep bow, holding back her sword and pressing the back of the girls hand to her lips. She stepped forward, the Ocean Girl places a hand on the small of the Captain’s back and she traces her jawline, her lips, pulling her closer. Elegant, they begin to sway with the currant of the music. The soft violin carries the songs of her crew on Carribean waves. She lets herself sink into them.

‘...the ocean call upon thy death… the sunlit sea be our every breath…’