Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney, Jack belongs to Johnny D.
A/N: I wrote this ages ago. As in, when POTC first came out and I was all in the mood for writing some POTC fanfiction. I wrote this before I knew about but when I did find out about it, I didn't intend for Squirrel's stories to see the light of day. Because she's special. But with some prodding from Tinuviel and Nerwen - my bestest buddies in the world - I would like to introduce my POTC fanfiction to the world. Enjoy, R&R, etc, etc. No stealies.
There's noise everywhere, from every corner of the dim-lit bar. Endless fights, laughter and general drunken behaviour are the norm. Dice is rolled, rum is served, cards are played, women and men alike laugh at jokes that no-one can hear or understand. Squirrel watches the scene unfold below her, her eyes darting from person to person. Some people she recognises, some she doesn't. But she watches them all, just the same.
One man takes the dice up in his hands. Squirrel's hands tighten around the quill and scrap of paper she holds. "Four and three." She mutters. The dice roll and bounce on the table. Four and three. The crowd howls. Squirrel makes a note on her paper.
A card game. The man grins, twisting his beard between his fingers. She studies him for a moment. "Full house." He lays his cards on the table. A full house. The crowd howls. Squirrel makes another note.
A man weaves his way through the bar. He's spent all his money on rum. But he owes many people that money. "He's a dead man." Squirrel looks at the man pityingly. As the man leaves the tavern, seven armed thugs follow closely behind, leaving their women and their drinks. They'll be back soon. Squirrel shuts her eyes as the howl of the drunken man reaches her ears. Reluctantly, she makes a note.
She's done this all her life. Make notes on chance, learn to read people, learn to read the flow of the game. No-one wants anything else from her. She makes the tavern money. She's valuable. Even loaded dice cannot fool her, marked or mixed cards cannot trick her. She knows the games of chance. She can read the thoughts of people simply by seeing their faces. She keeps meticulous notes, and they prove she is barely ever wrong.
The door swings open, and Squirrel's eyes dart over to the newcomer. He's a pirate, like almost everyone else here. He sways and swaggers, obviously just off the ship. His fingers are decorated by rings, his dreadlocks by beads. He wears a three-cornered hat, and underneath it is a red bandana. His eyes are dark, his smile charming and cocky. Squirrel feels her heart skip a beat, but at the same time the blood rushes from her face.
"J-J-Jack?" She whispers, unbelieving. She almost misses the next card play, the next dice roll. She busies herself with her notes, but her mind is racing.
Captain Jack Sparrow. An infamous legend, spoken in awed or resentful tones by the men, and giggling snatches by the women. Their stories were often further from the truth than the ones Squirrel had been told. And she'd been told by Jack himself. Not that he knew…
Squirrel treads across the rafters, her leather-soled boots making no sound. Her cape hides her face and form from any prying or curious eyes, but usually people think their eyes have deceived them. She's fast and slight for a girl of her age. She's lived most of her life in these rafters, and now, more than ever, she had a reason to hide in them.
"I'll have a rum, luv." Jack's voice seems like music to Squirrel's ears, even though her doesn't speak to her. The swagger seems like a dance. Squirrel stares down longingly at the pirate from her high perch. Suddenly Jack stops, as if sensing someone's eyes on him. He looks around, then up. Squirrel slides out of sight quickly, heart thundering in her ears.
"D-don't let him s-s-see m-me," she breathes, a prayer to anyone who would listen. "Don't l-let him s-s-see m-me." Voices welcome Jack, and invite him to a game of cards.
He accepts, in high spirits, but Squirrel can sense the pirate captain's eyes scanning the rafters. She waits until the cards are dealt, and then sprints to a safer angle to watch the game. The players she knows well she can read, but to her surprise, she can barely tell what Jack Sparrow is thinking, what cards he holds in his hands. Sometimes a poker face, sometimes the trademark cocky smile, sometimes a scowl or a sneer. But for once in her life, Squirrel is finding it near to impossible to guess what a man is thinking.
She scolds herself silently, thinking the fault mostly hers. Like every other woman in the room, she's falling head-over-heels for his charm and swagger. But she knows she has no chance. Not like this. Not hiding in the rafters. But she dare not show herself. It would mean her death.
"R-r-royal flush?" She guesses. Captain Sparrow throws down a full house. Squirrel frowns, confused, and makes another note. Another failure. Her uncle will not be pleased.
As the night wears on, Squirrel finds it harder and harder to predict the already near-impossible to guess plays Jack might pull off. He joins dice games, flirts with the women, plays with other cards games with other groups of people. And the fact that he gets progressively drunker makes him even more erratic and unpredictable.
"Closing time, you scabs!" Squirrel's uncle cries from the tavern bar. "Get out or I'll skin yer alive!" The patrons of the tavern weave their gradual way out, Jack Sparrow included. Squirrel feels her heart sink, and scurries across the rafters so she can be closer to him before he leaves. The pirate opens the door, then waves a swaying farewell to everyone left in the tavern.
"G-g-good n-n-night…" Squirrel whispers softly, imagining Jack is speaking to her, looking into her eyes… She quickly ducks out of sight again as Jack looks around, again sensing her eyes on him. With a dip of his hat and a slight twirl, Jack disappears from the tavern.
Squirrel dashes across the rafters to her 'shelf', which is, in reality, a cubby of boards nailed together in one of the corners of the roof of the tavern. There are four of them: one in each corner. Her uncle hangs lights from the base of the shelf, to illuminate the tavern. Squirrel hides here when her uncle is searching for her, belt in hand, or when she might've been spotted by a customer and wants to wait until they lose interest in a vague shadow in the rafters.
In the roof of this shelf is a trapdoor, and Squirrel slides through it, shutting it carefully to make sure no sounds are heard by those still in the tavern. The trapdoor leads to the roof.
Squirrel watches from behind a chimney as Captain Sparrow swaggers down the street, singing to himself in the way any drunk would. But they way he moves, the way he speaks… everything makes Squirrel blush like a schoolgirl. It's because he's a pirate, she scolds herself silently. Or, she thinks suddenly, is it simply because, as Jack always says, he's "Captain Jack Sparrow!"? She sighs, feeling her senses drift again. I've got no chance with him, she thinks wryly to herself, but a girl can always dream, can't she?
Squirrel sighs again, then scuttles along the rooftop to another trapdoor. She slides inside, notes in her cloak pocket. She pats her pocket to make sure they're there. They are. She lands on a padded mass of rags. Her bed. The room she lives in is small, only two by four paces, and with barely enough room to stand upright. But Squirrel's used to it. It's the way she's always lived. This is her home.
Her home, the island of Tortuga. The fights on the streets never end, the women never stop flaunting themselves, the rum never stops flowing. Tortuga, where every and all kind of illegal comings and goings are tolerated and welcomed. Tortuga, the island fight-ring, whorehouse and rum store all in one. Tortuga, the island no army can overrun. Tortuga, where no-one feels unwanted. Everyone, that is, but Squirrel.
There's a sliding panel under her rags. She opens it and slides the notes into the hollow under her bed. She smiles at the neat arrangement of the hundreds of other papers that are already there.
"It's the o-o-only th-th-thing I'm g-good f-for." She smiles to herself, then the smile vanishes. Tears well in her eyes. Curse the stammer she speaks with! Curse her shy nature, curse her mousy brown hair, curse her timid personality which lets her be beaten and starved night after night in this stinking hole of a tavern! Curse her miserable existence. Everything is meaningless…
Except for her dreams of a better life. Dreams of something incredible happening, something that will change her life for the better. Squirrel suddenly thinks of Jack Sparrow, and blushes furiously again.
"N-n-no ch-ch-chance, stu-p-pid." She scolds herself again. She climbs the wall of her room and clambers out of the trapdoor, discarding her cloak as she goes. Time to clean up the tavern.
Four sailors are still there. They're all regulars, and good friends of her uncle, hence they are allowed to stay well after closing time. Squirrel, all but invisible to them, sets to work with quick hands, gathering the plates, cups and cutlery left on the tables and floors, righting the furniture that was upturned by the endless brawling. As she works, she listens to them talk amongst themselves.
"Aye, this is the best tavern to come for drinks and entertainment," one of them says. "But did you know it be haunted?" Squirrel's ears prick up, and she tries not to make it look like she's listening. None of the sailors notice her though.
"Pull the other one, Sharky!" One of them laughs. "Not another of your ghost stories!"
"But tis true!" Sharky's eyes fly open, shocked. "I've seen her myself! The Ghost of the Grey Lady!" His audience humours him by pretending to listen. But Squirrel listens intently as she works.
"It's said," Sharky lowers his voice conspiratorially and theatrically, "That this young lass was betrothed to a man who was fond of his drink. Like every young lass, she thought she could change him as soon as he married her. But she was sadly mistaken.
"Their wedding night was bliss, but the next night, the Grey Lady's husband didn't come home until the wee hours of the morning. He claimed he was working. And working he was… working away all his gold on drink and women. Drink makes you forget a great many things, and this lad forgot he was married… until he came home, that is."
Squirrel continues wiping down the tables and collecting the plates and silverware.
"Night after night, the man continued to live his life as he always did. Drinking and spending his time with pleasurable company. And every morning he would go home and tell his young wife that he was robbed. Well, the Grey Lady eventually got suspicious."
Squirrel takes an armload of plates to the kitchen and misses part of the story.
"She stood behind him," Sharky continues, lowering his voice dramatically. "Every man in the tavern saw her, saw her standing behind her husband, but the lad himself was too drunk to notice. Finally, anger taking her voice, all the Grey Lady could do was tap her husband on the shoulder."
Sharky whirls, drawing his sword. Squirrel leaps back with a yelp as the sword flashes past her face. The men in the tavern laugh.
"I'm so sorry, Miss!" Sharky says, "But as you can see, I had no idea you were behind me, just as the lad had no idea that the Grey Lady was behind him." Squirrel blushes furiously behind a plate as Sharky seats himself and continues the story.
"The Grey Lady was killed instantly, and the lad, sober now that there was blood on his sword, turned and stabbed himself. So wife and unfaithful husband died that very night. And now the Grey Lady haunts this very tavern, watching silently, watching everyone, watching and waiting…"
"Y-y-y-your…" Squirrel interrupts, and the men patiently wait through her stammering, "S-story doesn't m-m-make s-s-sense, S-s-s-sir."
"Really?" Sharky asks the thin girl. "How so?"
Squirrel blushes again under the gaze of everyone remaining in the tavern. "W-why w-w-would the G-g-grey L-lady hau-haunt the t-t-tavern? W-why n-n-not th-th-the L-l-lady's hu-hu-husb-b-b-band?" Without waiting for Sharky to answer, Squirrel dashes out of the main tavern and into the kitchen. The piles of dirty dishes call to her. She rolls her sleeves up and plunges her arms into the soapy water.
For a few hours, Squirrel is uninterrupted in her chores. Then a single voice breaks through Squirrel's thoughts, shattering the peace that she had scraped together.
"Hello, Rodent! How are you?" It is Dawn, Squirrel's cousin. She calls herself Aurora, puts on false airs, and often helps her father beat Squirrel until she bleeds. And what is worse is that Dawn takes every step possible to beat Squirrel mentally as well.
"Oh, look at this mess!" Dawn picks up a plate that Squirrel has just cleaned. Squirrel had scrubbed at the stains until her fingers bled, but now there is not even a speck on it. Dawn smiles at Squirrel in the way that a cat smiles at a mouse, then drops the plate on the ground. It shatters, fragments dancing everywhere. Squirrel bites back a cry of horror. Don't give her anything to attack me with, she reminds herself.
"Look what you did, Rodent! You broke a plate!" Dawn says it much louder than she needs to, and Squirrel's eyes widen. That could only mean that Dawn's father is near.
Ten minutes later, Squirrel crawls back into her room, nursing her wounds. The metal belt buckle had raised welts and bruises, Dawn's claws had cut the skin, and Squirrel's lip is bleeding. Her hands are cut from when she had to pick up the pieces of the shattered plate. And when she staggered out of the kitchen, sobbing, Sharky and his friends had just turned away. They knew about her rough treatment, but they wouldn't do anything about it or they wouldn't be considered valuable customers anymore.
Squirrel curls up on her pile of rags and cries herself to sleep.
Someone stretches his hands out to Squirrel, saying something, but she can't hear him. She can barely even see him. Squirrel's uncle and Dawn loom like giants in the sky, stomping their feet down every time Squirrel comes near. Her uncle chases her as a bulldog, savaging her, and Dawn chases Squirrel as a lioness, teasing, toying, scratching and snarling. Squirrel runs, trying to find someone, anyone, who would help her. But that figure has already disappeared, swallowed up by black clouds and salt water, leaving Squirrel stranded on an island that is rapidly disappearing into the ocean.
Squirrel sits up, panting. She can tell it is morning by the golden light streaming through the boards of her room.
"J-just a d-d-d-dream." She wipes the cold sweat off her brow, but knows in her heart that it is no dream. She is hunted everyday by what's left of her family. And people offer to help, but by the time Squirrel can reach them, it is too late. The people Squirrel wishes she could trust can never keep their promises. So she is always alone.
Squirrel goes down into the tavern to finish her chores. Then she begins to cook her uncle's breakfast. Dawn will probably not be here. She has a lover now, and she sponges off him, eating his food and spending his money.
Squirrel fries some eggs, cooks a sliver of meat left over from last night, puts it on a plate, and delivers it to her uncle's room. He's asleep, another woman by his side. Squirrel leaves the meal just inside the door, then goes downstairs to find something for herself to eat.
She walks down to the beach, her cove hidden out of sight of the city, and sits on the sand, chewing quickly on the cold meat she managed to scavenge. She watches the waves crash gently on the shore, listens to the gulls curse as they fly around the harbour, listens to the sailors and pirates argue or sing. Squirrel hums along with an extremely boisterous group of sailors as they play their flutes and keep time by stomping on the deck of their ship.
It's funny how I don't stutter whenever I hum, Squirrel thinks, or stutter when I think. But it's just as well, or I'd never be able to understand myself.
She licks the remaining meat juices off her fingers, then rifles in her cloak pocket. She smiles sadly, pulling out a handful of nuts. As the sun climbs over the ocean, Squirrel munches away at the handful, thinking wryly that this was the very reason she earned the name 'Squirrel' in the first place.