Chapter 9: Salt and Stories
Days blurred into routine.
Wake at dawn. Work the lines. Learn the ship. Eat whatever the cook produced—usually something between hardtack and mystery. Work more. Sleep. Repeat.
Anamaria made herself my teacher without either of us discussing it.
"Your grip's wrong."
She grabbed my hands and repositioned them on the line. Her fingers were calloused, strong, efficient in everything they did.
"Merchants hold here." She moved my right hand down. "Pirates hold here. Gives you leverage to cut and run if needed."
"Is everything about running?"
"Everything smart is." She released me and watched me haul. "Better. Do it again."
I did it again. And again. Until my palms bled and then calloused over.
She taught me sails—how to read them, adjust them, when to reef and when to let fly. She taught me knots—not just the basic ones I half-remembered, but specialized hitches for different situations. She taught me to read the sea itself—the color of water, the movement of birds, the smell of the wind.
"You learn fast," she admitted one afternoon, watching me repair a torn section of canvas.
"I had good teachers." My first death felt like months ago now, though it had been barely two weeks. The stitching came naturally—something the body remembered even if I didn't.
"The Aurora," she said. "Your old ship. Dutch trader?"
"Merchant vessel out of Saint Martin." The lie came easily now. "Went down in a storm."
"Mmm." She didn't quite believe me, but she didn't push. "Storm survivors usually flinch more. You seem... calm about it."
"I've made peace with water."
She snorted and moved on to critique someone else's work.
Night brought stories.
The crew gathered on deck after sunset, sharing rum and memories. Gibbs held court with tales of legendary captains and cursed ships. Cotton's parrot provided commentary—half comprehensible, half bird noise. Even Jack joined occasionally, adding embellishments that were either genius improvisation or complete fabrication.
"Tell us about Davy Jones," someone requested.
The deck went quiet.
Gibbs took a long drink before answering. "Davy Jones is the master of the sea's dead. He sails the Flying Dutchman—a ship that can go beneath the waves, that appears from mist and fog when least expected. His crew are more fish than men, bound to serve for a hundred years or more."
"How do you end up on his ship?"
"Dying at sea, mostly. Jones appears to drowning men and offers a choice—serve on the Dutchman or face what waits beyond." Gibbs shuddered. "Some say he was human once. Fell in love with the sea goddess herself. It... ended poorly."
I listened carefully, matching what I knew from the films against what Gibbs described. The broad strokes matched. Davy Jones. The Dutchman. The goddess—Calypso, though Gibbs didn't use the name.
"And how do you avoid him?" someone asked.
"Don't die at sea." Gibbs laughed without humor. "Beyond that? Hope you're not interesting enough to attract his attention."
I thought about my resurrection. Rising from salt water, reformed by the sea itself.
Would that count as dying at sea? Would Jones notice?
I pushed the thought away and took another drink.
"What about you, new man?" Marty—the short, fierce sailor who'd proven surprisingly handy with a pistol—pointed at me. "You've been quiet all night. Share something."
Every eye turned toward me.
"Not much to share." I shrugged. "Merchant sailor. Ship went down. Here I am."
"Everyone's got something. Worst storm. Strangest cargo. Best fight." Marty leaned forward. "Give us a story."
I considered my options. Lies were exhausting. Truth was impossible.
Something in between, then.
"I drowned," I said quietly. "Three weeks ago. Went under and everything went dark. I shouldn't be here."
The silence was different now. Heavy with superstition.
"But you're here," Anamaria said.
"Yes." I met her eyes. "I don't know why. The water brought me back. Maybe the sea wasn't done with me."
Gibbs made a sign against evil. Someone muttered a prayer.
"The Caribbean's full of strange things," Jack's voice drifted from the helm. "Men who should be dead but aren't. Curses that bind the living to the deep. Sailors returned from the Locker itself." He didn't look at me, but I felt his attention. "One more mystery among many."
The tension broke. Someone started a song. The rum flowed again.
But Anamaria's eyes stayed on me, measuring.
She found me during middle watch, when most of the crew slept.
"You weren't lying," she said, leaning against the rail beside me. "About drowning."
"No."
"There's more you're not telling."
"Yes."
She considered this. The moon silvered the water, turning the Caribbean into a field of broken mirrors.
"Jack stole my father's boat," she said eventually. "The Jolly Mon. My father left it to me when he died—my only inheritance, my only way to make my own life. And Jack took it."
"Why help him now?"
"Because he promised me a ship. A better ship." Her jaw tightened. "And because standing still means dying slow. Out here, at least, I'm moving."
I understood that. The need to move forward, even without knowing where forward led.
"I have nothing," I admitted. "No past that matters. No future I can see. Just... this. Whatever this is."
"Piracy."
"Is that what this is?"
She almost smiled. "That's what this is. Stealing ships, chasing treasure, dying young." The almost-smile faded. "Most of us don't last long. The smart ones find a way out. The rest of us..."
"Keep sailing."
"Keep sailing."
We stood in comfortable silence. The ship creaked around us, wood and rope and tar, alive in its own way.
"The stars," Anamaria said, pointing up. "That's the North Star. Polaris. Everything else moves, but that one stays fixed."
"Anchor point."
"Exactly." She traced patterns in the sky. "My father taught me to navigate by them. Said a woman who could read the stars would never be truly lost."
I looked up, seeing constellations I half-recognized from another life. Different hemisphere, same sky. Some things stayed constant.
"Can you teach me?"
She glanced at me—measuring, again—then nodded.
"Might as well. You've learned everything else."
We spent the next hour mapping the heavens. Her shoulder pressed against mine as she pointed, naming stars and constellations, explaining how to find your position from their angles. Her voice was softer than during the day—less commanding, more patient.
When she finally left for her hammock, something had shifted between us. Not quite friendship. Not yet trust. But the beginning of something that could become either.
Morning brought Gibbs at the bow, squinting at a smudge on the horizon.
"Two days," he announced. "Maybe less with this wind."
"Two days to what?" I asked.
He turned, and something dark moved behind his eyes.
"Isla de Muerta. The Island of the Dead." He spat over the rail for luck. "Where Barbossa's crew has been waiting for ten years, trapped by a curse they can't break."
My stomach dropped.
The Aztec gold. The undead pirates. Moonlight revealing skeletons.
I knew this story. Knew it was coming. But knowing and facing were different things.
"Why are we going there?"
"Because that's where the gold is. That's where the Pearl is." Gibbs' voice dropped. "And that's where Jack needs to be."
I looked toward the helm, where Jack stood with his compass, eyes fixed on something only he could see.
The pull in my chest pointed at him like an accusation.
I know what's waiting. I know what they are. I know how it ends.
But knowledge and survival were different things. And as Isla de Muerta grew on the horizon like a shadow given form, I wondered if my foreknowledge would save me—or just make me die knowing exactly what was killing me.
The parrot on my shoulder ruffled its feathers.
"Dead men tell no tales," it squawked. "Dead men tell no tales."
I wished it would stop being right.
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