The shop was dark.
Shadows clung to the walls as though they had been invited to stay. The air smelled faintly of salt, smoke, and something older, something that did not belong to any port Jack Sparrow had ever visited.
Jack stepped inside anyway.
The door creaked shut behind him, though he was fairly certain he hadn't pushed it that hard. He paused, took a slow sip of rum, and let his eyes adjust.
A single candle burned at the far end of the room.
Its flame did not flicker.
The light it cast was narrow, focused, illuminating one shelf and nothing else. The rest of the shop might as well not have existed.
Jack's boots echoed softly as he walked forward, each step careful now, curiosity outweighing caution but only just. He followed the light until he stood before the shelf.
There was only one object on it.
A compass.
Plain brass casing, worn smooth at the edges as if it had passed through many hands. The glass was clear, uncracked. The needle inside rested still, not spinning.
Jack frowned.
"That's odd," he murmured.
He reached out, hesitated, then picked it up.
The compass was warm.
Not warm from candlelight. Warm like skin.
Jack turned it slowly, examining the face. The needle did not move. It did not point north. It did not point anywhere.
"Well," Jack said quietly, "you're certainly committed to mystery."
A soft sound came from behind him.
A voice.
Low. Smooth. Amused.
"Ya see it now, don't ya?"
Jack turned.
She stood where the shadows were deepest, as though she had been part of them until she decided otherwise.
A black woman, tall and willowy, her presence filling the room without effort. Her hair was wild, bound with beads and bone charms that clicked softly when she moved. Dark tattoos and strange painted designs traced her arms, her neck, her face—symbols that did not resemble any language Jack knew, yet felt unsettlingly familiar.
Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
Jack straightened slowly, hand still holding the compass. "I was beginning to think this place was abandoned."
She smiled.
It was not a friendly smile.
"It is," she said. "To most."
Jack tilted his head. "Then I suppose I should feel honored."
She stepped forward into the candlelight, and the shadows retreated just enough to let Jack see her clearly. Her clothes were layered and loose, stitched together from fabrics that looked like they had come from a dozen different lands. Around her neck hung talismans, small bottles, bits of carved wood.
She inclined her head slightly. "I am Tia Dalma."
Jack tapped the brim of his hat. "Jack Sparrow. Captain of Caribbean Pirates. You must have heard about us. Recently came in news."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the compass in his hand.
"So I see."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "You own this shop?"
Tia Dalma chuckled softly. "If you wish to call it that."
"It's a bit… spooky," Jack said, gesturing vaguely at the darkness. "Probably why no one comes here."
She smiled again, wider this time. "My shop is not for everyone. Only for those who are special."
Jack considered that. "I'm very special."
Tia Dalma gestured toward a small stool near a low table. "Sit."
Jack hesitated only a moment before obeying. He sat, crossing one leg over the other, keeping the compass in his hand like he wasn't entirely sure letting go of it was wise.
"You were lookin' at the compass," Tia Dalma said.
Jack nodded. "It doesn't work."
She laughed softly. "Oh, it works."
Jack glanced down at it. "Then it's broken in a very specific way."
Tia Dalma leaned forward slightly, candlelight dancing across the tattoos on her face. "True enough. This compass does not point north."
Jack looked up. "…Where does it point?"
She met his gaze directly.
"It points to the thing ya want most in this world."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Jack's expression changed.
He looked back down at the compass, turning it slowly in his palm, as if seeing it for the first time. "That's a dangerous sort of object."
Tia Dalma hummed. "Dangerous only to those who lie to themselves."
Jack studied her face now, searching for mockery, trickery, something obvious. He found none. Only amusement. And something deeper beneath it.
"You sell fortunes too?" Jack asked lightly.
"I tell futures," she corrected.
Jack smiled. "I'm not much for astrology."
"Good," Tia Dalma said. "Neither am I."
Jack hesitated, then shrugged and extended his hand. "Humor me."
She did not take it.
"I do not read hands."
Instead, she reached forward suddenly and plucked a strand of hair straight from Jack's head.
"Ow!" Jack yelped, jerking back. "What was that for?!"
Tia Dalma did not answer.
She placed the hair on the table.
The candle flame flared.
Dark designs began to crawl across the wooden surface, spreading outward from the strand like living ink—symbols, circles, lines intersecting and shifting. The air grew heavy, thick with something unseen.
Jack stood up slowly. "Right. I'm fairly certain this wasn't mentioned in the brochure."
Tia Dalma's voice changed.
It turned a bit... ancient.
She murmured words Jack did not understand. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the candle's flame. The compass in Jack's hand grew warmer.
Tia Dalma's eyes widened—just a little.
Then she smiled.
A smile of genuine surprise.
"Well now," she murmured. "That is somethin'."
Jack swallowed. "I'm guessing that's either very good or very bad."
Tia Dalma leaned back, studying him like a puzzle she hadn't expected. "Ya will walk paths that break men," she said softly. "Ya will laugh where others scream. Ya will play a big part in this world's future."
Jack listened.
"And yet," she continued, eyes gleaming, "ya will keep walkin'."
Jack exhaled slowly. "Sounds about right."
She looked at him sharply. "Ya do not fear this?"
Jack shrugged. "Every time I wake up, I get the feeling I'll be very famous. This sounds like the long way around."
Tia Dalma laughed, rich and delighted.
"And what is it ya want, Jack Sparrow?" she asked. "Power? Gold? Glory?"
Jack considered. "To be the strongest swordsman," he said. "The best meat. The finest rum. And the freedom to enjoy all of it. Oh, and also the finest women. Plural if possible."
Tia Dalma nodded slowly. "Ambition without pretense. How refreshin'."
She reached for the compass.
Jack's fingers tightened instinctively, then relaxed as she took it gently from his hand. She turned it once, twice, then placed it back into his palm.
"Take it," she said.
Jack blinked. "Take it?"
"For free."
Jack stared at her suspiciously. "That's my favorite price."
"The compass will guide ya," Tia Dalma said. "But it will not save ya. Never betray it. And never forget—what ya want most may not be what ya need."
Jack tucked the compass carefully into his coat. "I never forget advice I don't fully understand."
He stood, tipped his hat. "Pleasure doing business."
Tia Dalma watched him go, her smile never fading.
Jack stepped back into the port.
He took three steps before stopping.
He turned around.
The shop was gone.
There was no door. No window. No shadowed corner. Only a bare wall between a warehouse and a fishing shop, as if nothing had ever been there at all.
Jack frowned.
"…Right."
He shook his head, took another sip of rum, and continued toward the docks, fingers brushing the compass in his coat.