Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Washed Ashore

Special Dedication:

I dedicate this work to my beloved wife and to all the love and warmth she has given me. She is more than I deserve and the greatest gift I will ever receive.

Washed Ashore:

(1911 A.D., Siren’s Shore, the Far North-Eastern Coasts, the Neverlands, the Realm of Ishrakie)

Small bits of shell roll to and fro as the churning waves of the sea heave starfish, seaweed, and a half-digested man onto the sunlit sand. Captain James Hook digs his bloodied digits and stump into the coarse sediment. Growling, he drags his decimated frame further up the beach before collapsing. His coat, pants, and boots are now gone, lost in the churning gut of the crocodile. His sword is not lost, but left on purpose sticking halfway from the creature’s belly. It had been the key to his escape from the Croc’s putrid stomach. Hook shivers and spasms. Torn white underclothes cling to his burnt and lacerated skin. The once beautiful hair of his head is now eaten by stomach acid. Coughing blood and seawater, he feels sharp pain slicing through him with every breath.

With blurred vision, he scans the stormy sea. His mind fades out, wandering back to the moment of his bitter defeat. Peadar Pan shimmers in his typical arrogant splendor. So cocky, so smug - the little puke. Their blades clang jarringly as they trade blows. He stands firm on the deck as the boy leaps from a barrel onto the railing and swings a loose line to the other side of the ship. Rage burning, Hook charges. His blade leans in for the fatal kiss; Pan spins to the side, landing a glancing cut below Hook’s knee. Stumbling into the railing, Hook meets a geyser of saltwater and beastly teeth. The croc takes his head and shoulders, dragging him over the railing. Hook and the Croc both fall back into the sea as he is swallowed completely.

“Peadar blasted Pan! He was mine!” shouts Hook as savage pain jolts from his cracked ribs and weeping abrasions, pulling him back to the present. His eyes flutter, finally sensing the touch of rain upon his face. Stinging droplets whip in sideways from the gale storm, forming out at sea. He tries to wipe his eyes with his hand, only to find it stiff and unmoving. He rages. A broken man without the strength to move as each receding wave laps life away from him. Iron-willed, he summons up the last of his strength. He shoves with all his might, warring against the searing pain consuming him as he manages to roll onto his back.

He stares up at the scorched sky above. Thunder booms, heralding the eruption of searing light within the clouds. A loud crack shatters the heavens as a white-hot plasmatic bolt of energy tears from the sky, igniting the coastal waters. Hook cries in agony as the radiant flash burns his retinas.

Captain Hook tries to rub away the prismatic phantoms left behind in his eyes, but his arms refuse him. He shakes his head weakly, causing a wave of nausea to wash over him. He re-opens his eyes and his vision clears. Staring bewildered at the sight before him, he heaves heavy confused breaths as the sound of gleeful humming grows ever closer amidst the thunder.

Atop the thrashing waves strolls a figure. At first, the being seems to be a tall flame, orange and twisting through the veil of rain before abruptly sharpening into the form of a man. He appears gaunt with starvation, garbed in a pumpkin-orange suit with black pinstripes. A long row of coal-black buttons punctuates his jacket. A wide black leather belt clasped with a large golden buckle cinches his clothing tight at the waist before allowing the orange cloth to flare out over matching trousers. Black shiny dress shoes flash in unison with the lightning.

The man steps onto the land. He strolls cheerfully over to the beached and battered Hook, crouching beside him. The jaunty man flips back the end of his scarf as it comes loose in the wind. His garment appears to be composed of hundreds of intricately cut and sewn rat pelts, giving it a heavy but dexterous nature. It clings like a lover to the man’s neck.

“Greetings James. I hope I’m not coming at a bad time,” teases the thin man, guffawing.

Hook snarls violently and tries to yell obscenities at the oh-so-clever fruit pie gawking at him, but the croc’s stomach acid has burned its way down his throat and nose. Hook growls, the blazing flame of his rage growing hotter as the pain in his chest turns critical. He whimpers pitifully as the pain peaks.

“Oh my. You seem to be dying and without your sword or your good hand. Tisk Tisk. Look at you! How pathetic. Unarmed and whimpering. That’s no way for a man of adventure like you to die. Crying like a prepubescent boy. Heh, heh, hee. No sir, this won’t do at all. No, a man like you ought to die in a feather bed upon a pile of plunder while being pleasured by a gaggle of young girls and tender boys trained in the art of debauchery,” waxes the skeletal stick-figure of a man.

The stranger strokes Hook’s cheek tenderly, examining his ravaged form with a sadistic smile before locking his eyes with his.

“Where are my manners? I never introduced myself. You probably have not heard of me. My exploits were made famous in, shall we say, a place your ships cannot sail. You may call me the Piper.” The orange-clad man jumps to his feet and gives a mock bow before kneeling back down and leaning in close to Hook.

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“If you are indeed not ready to meet your watery compatriot, Davy Jones, you need only make your mark upon this parchment,” he whispers.

From his sleeve comes a rolled-up document, which the Piper whips open with a flourish. Then he conjures forth a long quill with thin black plumage. The Piper maneuvers the pen into Hook’s bad hand and presents the document close to his face.

“You will be erased from the Book of Death and granted the power to dangle Neverland from the tip of your…” He caresses Hook’s stump. “... Hook.” the Piper places a kiss on Hook’s stump.

“The... terms?” croaks Hook from his acid and sea-salt scorched throat.

“Mistrustful to the end,” responds the Piper, as he chuckles with delight. “That’s good, I don’t need a broken child as my general in the Neverlands. I need you fighting,” as he speaks, the Piper punches Hook in the shoulder gleefully.

“One day I will require your sword for one battle, and when it’s done, we will be square. Is it a deal?” the Piper bends his brow and grins, waiting for an answer.

Hook continues to lie on his back, bloodied, weak, bloated from saltwater absorption, anchored to his frame by the two chunks of blue glacier hatred of his eyes. The Piper holds his gaze. Then with sudden violence, Hook stabs the quill into the end of his stump. He begins to sign Capt, but the Piper lays a hand on the effort.

“Your proper name, if you please,” insists the Piper as Hook nods.

The letters drag themselves out on the blotched and sea-sprayed parchment. James W. Fordon. As the ‘n’ completes, his hand collapses to the sand. Hook’s body smooths into a limp pudding puddle, barely breathing.

“Very good, sir,” continues The Piper excitedly as he straightens up and rolls the parchment, slipping it back into his coat.

“These are for you,” the Piper procures a small, black flake and a thumb-sized clam from one of his coat pockets. Bending down with a shrug and a shake, he presses the clam into Hook’s palm.

“Grasp this, m’ boy. This is no ordinary mollusk,” demands the Piper to no avail as the dying captain fails to respond, slipping in and out of consciousness.

The Piper frowns.

“Oh, now this won’t do. You are too engrossed in death’s requiem to get your orders,“ the Piper smiles as he mashes the black flake into the end of Hook’s bloody stump.

The black flake sinks deep into the pale flesh of Hook’s wrist-nub. Phantom wisps of dark blue and purple bloom from the spot. Thin black tendril-like veins shift and twist, growing out and in. The tendrils burrow into the bone and muscle, crystallising into an ebony lattice that spreads up above his elbow.

Varicose charcoal veins stretch further up Hook’s arm from under the newly formed lattice through his shoulder and into his chest. Hook spasms and yells as the purple and blue surges of colour streak through the veins. His entire body convulses. Chasms of torn flesh knit together. Sagging muscles become piano wire. Dark hair sprouts from his scalp, stubble on his chin, and a thick black meadow of hair down his chest. After several moments, the spasms calm down to mere twitchings.

Hook’s closed eyes toss and turn as though he’s suffering nightmares, and then an unfathomable calm sweeps over him. His breath steadies and his eyes open. The Piper straightens up, gesturing for Hook to climb to his feet. Hook rises with a newfound strength. The Piper unbuttons the top of his coat, reaches an arm into the elbow of his coat, and pulls out an impossibly long item.

“When you face Pan again, you will probably want this,” Captain Hook’s rapier sings its legend to the wind as the Piper drags the shining blade through the air before turning and offering the blade back to its rightful owner.

Its song continues to echo through Hook for a moment, resonating deep inside him.

Hook reaches out, reclaiming the cherished weapon he had thought lost forever. He re-tightens what remains of his belt around his torn underclothes with his stump and his bad hand before securing his sword to it. He looks up at the Piper and shreds out a grimace-grin.

“Bloody good form,” murmurs Hook, being as complimentary as he can be to the Piper.

He looks down at the clam the Piper gave him, tucking it into his belt. The Piper sidles up, holding his hat down against the ferocious gusts of wind.

“Don’t lose that clam, Captain, it will be your guide through the Pale Waters.”

“The Pale Waters? What would Captain James Hook…” Hook pauses with a snarl as he lifts his black lattice-covered stump, sees his good hand is missing and frowns, “Want in those accursed waves?”

“Your throne, of course. Hold the clam to the horizon, and it will show you the way,” explains the Piper.

Hook carefully listens, before nodding.

“The storm was blowing East by Southeast when last Pan and I battled near Marooners’ Rock. We must be on Mistmoon Island or Siren’s Shore,” reckons Hook, scanning from the coastline out to the storm-scorched horizon.

“Very good, Captain. This is indeed Siren’s Shore. I’m afraid to say the storm was pushing your body ahead of it, but now that you are stationary, it will be upon you shortly.”

Lightning streaks overhead, illuminating the rain like diamonds, sketching the silhouettes of clouds and mountains in the distance. Clouds roll in over the white caps, bringing solid darkness ever closer.

“How long do I have before you require my steel?” asks Hook as The Piper strides over and slaps him on the back.

The Piper smiles and puts an arm around Hook’s shoulders, shaking him playfully.

“Plenty of time, m’boy. Enjoy yourself. Take a merboy to bed, drink yourself into a stupor and get into a nice brawl or two,” replies the Piper with an amused chuckle as Hook scowls and spits, casting his icy gaze to the stormy skies.

“Best we head inland,” suggests Hook.

“You go ahead, chum. My business draws me elsewhere. I trust you understand what you need to do, hmm?” presses the Piper.

Hook nods as he turns and begins making his way towards the treeline, leaving The Piper without another word.