When I finally stepped onto the sandy beach after four days of murderous sailing, I looked even worse than before—though that seemed almost impossible.
I gathered the dull mass of my hair into a tight knot at the back of my neck and pulled off my dark blue coat, soaked with sweat. My white shirt had turned into a yellow rag. My corset had been thrown away long ago when the laces broke, and my skirt now resembled a pile of torn sheets donated to widows and orphans.
Not to mention that everything was stained with blood.
The crew had mutinied.
They demanded we return to port.
Out of thirty-five people, only seven survived. Seven and the petty officer. They eventually managed to sail back somewhere, to some harbor that I could not possibly care less about.
All that mattered was that I had reached my destination.
The Cursed Islands.
The place where I would finally meet Davy Jones.
Apart from a box of alcohol, a sack of tobacco, a pipe, and a deck of cards, I had nothing with me.
Not even a plan.
The sun burned mercilessly overhead. There was no shade anywhere, and the ocean surrounded the tiny island like a wall of death.
The entire beach could not have been more than forty meters across.
"So what now?" I muttered.
Should I start dancing? Perform an exorcism? Offer a virgin sacrifice?
I could always spill innocent blood… if I could find anyone innocent around here.
I walked across the beach back and forth, strangely calm about the belongings scattered on the sand. I shouted until my throat hurt.
"Jones!"
Nothing.
"Davy Jones!"
Still nothing.
The longer I shouted the name of the mythical devil of the sea, the more I began to doubt his existence. After all, I had been sailing the ocean for almost twenty years. Seventeen of those years in the New World.
And yet I had never seen Davy Jones even once.
People loved to tell stories about him. Apparently he appeared whenever someone entered the New World.
All sailor's nonsense...
Seventeen years and I had never seen anything particularly supernatural.
Well… maybe a few things.
But never anyone who introduced himself as Jones.
Eventually I returned to my box, covered it with my coat, and pulled out my pipe. Then I realized something brilliant. I had nothing to light it with.
"Wonderful."
With a groan I sat beside the box and reached for the first bottle.
Four days earlier I had sworn that I would not drink again.
Those vows lasted exactly four seconds.
Two and a half liters of Atlantis rum later, I was numb enough to remember the happiest years of my life without howling like a wolf.
Half a liter after that, I began singing.
Loudly.
The setting sun made a perfect stage.
"Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea! To me way hey, blow the man down! Now please pay attention and listen to me— Give me some time to blow the man down!"
The ocean did not applaud.
Eventually I collapsed onto the sand. I remember that moment quite clearly.
The bottle slipped from my hand and vodka soaked into the hot sand. The sky above me blurred into colorful stains as I stared upward, comparing those clouds with the ones I used to watch from the deck of my ship long ago.
Then I fell asleep.
I woke up because of the heat.
The sunlight burned against my face, my shoulders, and my chest.
My head felt like it was being split open with an axe.
My stomach twisted painfully every time I moved.
For a moment I considered murdering someone.
Slowly I pushed myself up.
First onto my knees.
Then I sat back on my heels and looked around with half-closed eyes.
"First you call me," a hoarse voice said from my left, "then you fall asleep. And now you cannot even wake up properly."
Under normal circumstances that voice would have sent me jumping to my feet, ready to fight.
Unfortunately, my body had other plans.
"I don't know where the hell you came from, comrade," I muttered tiredly, "but I'll tell you one thing. This is a terrible place to rest."
Only then did I notice the fire burning beside me.
It burned directly on the sand.
No wood.
No coal.
Just fire.
I stared at it, hypnotized, trying to explain the phenomenon with a mind still dull from alcohol.
The stranger laughed quietly and nodded his head.
He looked like an old sailor. A broken hat rested on his head, his tattoos were crude and uneven, and his nose resembled a small potato. In short, an unpleasant man who looked as if life had already beaten him several times.
"You called me," he said, flashing blackened teeth.
He did not even try to hide them when he noticed the disgust on my face.
"Did I?" I rubbed my temple. "When?"
"Four hours ago."
He leaned back comfortably beside the fire.
"What can I do for you, Captainess?"
That word made me look at him more carefully.
"How do you know who I am?"
"Oh, I sail these waters sometimes," he replied casually. "Personalities like you attract my attention."
He grinned.
"Almost like your brother."
My heart skipped a beat.
"I had many conversations with him," the man continued. "In my Locker."
The world seemed to grow quieter around us. I stared at him for several seconds.
Then the realization settled slowly in my mind.
"You're…"
The man smiled wider.
"Jones."
Davy Jones.