Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Into the Vast Unknown

Into the Vast Unknown:

(1911 A.D., The Forbidden Waters, South-Western Province, the Neverlands, the Realm of Ishrakie)

The Stiller Jäger sails free and clear through the following day. On the morning of the second day, the crew is greeted by the towering skeletal remains of a monstrous titan jutting forth out of the water like a towering mountain range stretching the distance of the horizon. Hook’s men look upon it with a frightful grimace, their minds filling with unsettling questions.

“Whadda yu reckon it was Cap’n? It’s massive,” asks Mr. Mason, his voice trembling.

“I guess now we know what killed the dragon of Dragon Spine Island,” chuckles Hook to himself before continuing. “What do you make of it, Mr. Smee?”

“I don’t know sir, but whatever it was, let’s hope it was the last of its kind in these waters,” replies Smee, bewildered.

“Right you are, Mr. Smee. I couldn’t agree more,” continues Hook, smacking Smee playfully on the shoulder.

“Alright, stop your gawking you mangy gits… we’ve no time for senseless dallying. It’s time to push onward,” demands Hook firmly.

They sail four days without a blip of land to be found. On the fifth day, Hook calls Smee into his cabin. Smee strides in and scoots a chair to the corner of Hook’s desk. He crosses a leg and leans casually on an elbow. Hook chooses two cigars from a humidor and glances over his shoulder with a smirk. Smee nods. The Captain slices the ends with his hook and lights them both from a hanging oil lamp; he hands one to his first mate before moving back around to his proper captain’s side of the desk.

Hook casts a playful smirk at Smee, kicking back in his captain’s chair with his feet up on the desk. For a while, the moments fade as both allow the smoke-filled silence to wash over them. Silent smoking gives way to guffawing and hard-drinking before at-last the night fades into slumber and they drift off in each other’s arms.

With the morning comes the sun, its gleaming light radiating against the dark polished wood of the ship, sea birds diving for the morning meals just beyond the treading path of the ship’s wake.

The noon rays of the sun spectrum through the stained-glass window of Hook’s cabin, bathing Hook and his first mate in a purplish-blue aura. Their bodies are intertwined, resting in the soft comfort of each other’s embrace.

“Smee, I’ve been rattling this old coconut of mine these past days of smooth sailing,” mutters Hook as he strokes Smee’s hair.

“About what, Captain?” replies Smee, ghosting his hand over Hook’s chest.

“Well, as you know, I have been able to claim sovereignty of Neverland’s waters for quite a while now. However, I’m constantly foiled by Pan during any of my excursions into the island itself. He would never dare challenge me out of view of his precious playground after all.”

“No one can argue that,” chimes back Smee.

“Why is it that an arrogant, foppish boy who looks at the people around him as playthings can be so connected to the Neverlands that the very weather will change with his moods?”

Smee furrows his brow pensively. “The spirit of Neverland is the idea of never growing up. Pan has given himself completely over to that ideal at the expense of any mature humanity.”

Hook jostles Smee tenderly, a reward for his wisdom.

“Good form. Another fine answer, as always, Mr. Smee, but then tell me this. How can I, Captain James Hook, ever hope to take from him a land that is anchored to him so intimately?”

Smee raises his head off Hook’s chest to lock gazes with him.

“Your pardon, Captain, but isn’t the answer to that question the very thing that we are sailing out here to find?”

“Ahh Smee, you see there’s where we find the difference between myself and the Pan.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“Pan has never known meaningful sacrifice for his power, it just comes to him naturally. However, I know that to gain true power, one must sacrifice. And I’m afraid of what I will have to sacrifice to gain such power. The Pan has no such fear.”

Smee feels a sudden vulnerability as if a warm blade stretched out towards his chest. For Smee, the surprise is a perfect pearl. Unable to speak, he draws forth from a bedside table a glass pipe of Neverlandian Moon-Leaf. Lighting it up and taking a drag, he sighs deeply. His eyes gleam through the smoke with caged energy. Smee hands the smoke off to Hook as he climbs from the bed and proceeds to get ready for the day. Hook takes a long thoughtful drag on the Moon-Leaf before getting up and doing the same.

Hook and Smee make their way out of Hook’s cabin when suddenly Blickstein walks in, followed by Cecco.

“Captain! You’re gonna want to see this.”

The men rush to the deck, spyglass in hand, Hook scans all the way left, then right.

“Blast! Another day, another obstacle it seems, Mr. Smee.”

Jagged spikes and sharp bumps of coral protrude from the water stretching out before the ship. The jutting spikes pierce the surface of the ocean, extending the length of the horizon in both directions with no break large enough to fit a ship such as theirs.

“Lower the sails and drop anchor! Be ready for my command in two hours!” barks Hook, sending his men into a scurry of activity.

Without waiting for the waylays, Hook storms back into his cabin. He slams his hook down hard into the desk, cleaving a three-inch hunk from the edge. In front of him is the book holding down the bag of fairy dust. He decides in an instant. Snatching up the bag, he flings open the doors of his cabin, emerging back onto the deck. The crew had one sail half down, fumbling with unfamiliar rigging.

“Hoist it back up! Full speed, Smee!”

“But Captain…” utters back Smee, confused.

“Do it!” the Captain rushes to the bow.

He pricks the bag of dust with his hook and leaks a trail down the length of the ship until he reaches the helm.

Captain Hook does something he can’t remember having done in a very long time… He pushes himself to think happy thoughts. He thinks about his childhood, the loving eyes of his mother, the soothing protective warmth of her hand, her soothing songs before sleep. The bow rises on a wave and continues to rise after it. The crew sucks in their breath. They clamp to ropes and railings. The ship slams down. Hook grits his teeth and reaches inside again. He recalls the first trip he took to sea by himself; thirteen years old, in a twenty-foot longboat with a single sail. The refreshing sensation of freedom comes rushing back to him. The type of freedom that only comes from gazing out across a vast glistening surface of water stretching out ahead of you as far as the eye can see; your troubles sinking beneath the waves. Once again, he feels that great power of surrender to the unknown that such complete freedom brings.

The ship crests another large wave and continues up. As the last contact with water is left behind, the great ship wavers. Hook growls.

“Alright, you dirty bilge rats! Think happy thoughts or this ship won’t be the only thing broken on the reef!”

“Enemies’ blood on your blade!” yells Smee.

“A full bottle of rum!” cries Mr. Mason.

“A pretty girl in your bed!” shouts Noodler

“Hell, two pretty girls in your bed and a Mince pie for dessert!” bellows Murphy, casting an amused “try harder” look at Noodler. Noodler grunts back with a raunchy grin.

“Dry socks and moist steak!” cheers Cecco.

“A dead ex-wife!” declares Blickstein.

The ship climbs into the air. Each member of the crew puts their happiness in a chokehold. It tethers them to a warm, floating sensation that permeates their damp bodies, their wicked comradery and twisted joy fusing into the wood of the ship, connecting them to each other more than ever.

The keel and rudder scrape against protruding coral. In desperation, Hook adds one more memory, one he had not dared remember for quite some time. It was a memory he thought beyond his courage to face; his first kiss. For a brief moment, he allows the memory to envelop him. The ship lurches clear of the reef. Streams of water flow from exposed barnacles. Every throat bellows with triumph. They look over the side. Threatening fingers of sharp coral reach toward them in futility. They gawk and point. Mr. Mason giggles, slapping Cecco on the back.

Childlike exuberance sweeps through them and into the ship, bringing it ever higher. Murphy puts an enormous arm over Noodler’s shoulders. Hook abandons the memory once more, daring not to face it any longer.

When they clear the last spike of coral, their minds gradually return to average thoughts. Many of them are so unaccustomed to such happiness that they sigh with relief when the ship descends. They realise the flight is over, and the ship plops down into the sea once again.

Hook looks down at the shiny, black carapace that covers the lower half of his forearm and wonders if the stuff is changing more than just his skin. The rest of the day is smooth sailing.

The next day, a squall ambushes them. It isn’t strong, but it lasts most of the day, forcing them Eastward. When it abates, the setting sun outlines a distant archipelago. Hook consults the clam and finds it will take them half a day out of their way.

“How do our provisions look, Mr. Smee?” inquires Hook.

“Rather low, Captain. I expect the last crew had planned to restock at port before our bit of dampering,” replies Smee.

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“Very well, head for that archipelago.”

As they near the archipelago, wisps of fog dance through the rigging as the sun sets. The moon beams down its silver consolation prize. Rather than reduce visibility, the fog seems to catch the light and fling it in all directions as if composed of countless minuscule diamonds cut out of the stars, permeating the night air.

Hook steers his vessel into a small bay where they anchor for the night. He awakens before sunrise with his mind foggy and his body sore. The arm with the chitin feels wonderful, as does the leg on that side. Upon inspection, he finds several thin veins of black unknown matter growing out through his skin extending down that leg. He dresses and shaves. Then he tells Murphy, who had taken the last bow watch, to rouse the rest of the crew. By first light among tired grumblings, the longboat is lowered for a shore expedition.

“This mist floats about here in a mighty peculiar manner Cap’n.” Cecco swats at a wisp of it and instead of dissipating, it bounces off his palm as though the fog was composed of weightless, minuscule pebbles.

As they come ashore, a rabbit scurries from the edge of the treeline into some nearby underbrush. A large bird flaps into the sky and glides away from them.

“Plenty of game to be had, men. We certainly won’t be starving it seems,” declares Hook as Smee hands out three rifles which they found on the ship.

Noodler reaches out for one of the guns, but Smee waves him away.

“Perhaps you should fish, or gather mushrooms,” suggests Smee.

Noodler clenches a backward fist and strides off, muttering. The men fan out on their individual missions. Hook picks at the dark carapace of his arm. Being back on a beach makes it itch. With no real purpose except curiosity, Hook ventures into the forest. He pushes down masses of wide leaves and steps over monstrous ferns as subtle steady puffs of funny vapour rise from beneath his feet with every step. The sweet yet musky fumes fill his lungs as he pushes deeper into the darkness of the forest. The smell reminds him of the herbal concoctions that crazy doctors smear on wounds.

The forest teems with prey animals. Small, fat birds with a quail’s nose feather and a peacock’s plumage bob quickly in his path. Keejos burst from small puddles. Brown-shelled pigs trample down a hill to his right.

He tests his new good hand on different materials. He finds it cuts precise edges into supple leaves. It also cleaves deep ruts into tree trunks. What amazes him most is just how much he can feel it. The dark, jagged hook gives him the same sensation as its flesh counterpart. He lets a Trill Beetle scuttle up and down it, marvelling at the scratchy pull of its tiny legs.

A sudden sound of nearby giggling makes him fling the beetle. His sword shrieks free as he spots a small hand disappearing through the underbrush. Bushes shake as the sound of soft, playful humming echoes all around. Hook shoves through the giant ferns in pursuit. Fog splashes against his chest and face. The smell makes him cough. More gleeful laughter assaults his senses from somewhere nearby. He turns and slashes towards the offending sounds, cutting and dicing at the foliage. A sapling topples.

“Wassa matter, you old codfish? You can’t play a simple game?” jeers an all too familiar voice, drawing forth furious disdain from Hook.

“Pan?” No, it can’t be, thinks Hook. He wouldn’t stray this far from Neverland. Hook creeps forward, peering into shady nooks and darkened crannies. He tries to distinguish between the pale cream of tree trunks and possible sections of Pan’s supple flesh.

“This wouldn’t be one of my men thinking he can survive a prank on his captain, would it?” chides Hook.

An uneasy silence follows, pulling his nerves taut. He scrutinises every bush as they seem to move in slow undulation. For a moment, the world is liquid and his stomach heaves like his first case of seasickness. He puts his good hand to his mouth.

“You think one of your men can be this handsome?”

Pan’s face rushes down from the canopy. There’s a flash of his short blade. Hook parries awkwardly; stumbling back and falling into some ferns.

“Hee hee hee, ha ha! The same old, clumsy idiot! You were better off in the croc’s belly!” jeers the mocking voice.

Hook growls and regains his feet. He stomps forward preparing to cut the entire forest down to find the little pixie-boy, but then like lightning from the ether, it dawns on him… realisation. Everything becomes suddenly so clear.

I need to remember how to play games. Pan is a child who makes decisions based on his own pleasure. I must exploit it. Think like Pan… think like Pan… He’ll torment me. Make me angry. Half his fun is seeing me frazzled. Not this time. I have to find a place where he can’t fly all around me. I think it’s time I had a little fun too.

Hook leaps into the dark dense canopy of the trees. He moves from branch to branch, getting progressively more daring with his swinging and lunging. Soon, Captain Hook is rocketing through the forest canopy, disturbing families of monkeys and forcing countless birds into flight. The voice of Pan gets farther and farther away.

“Having trouble keeping up? Haha! haha ha!”

Hook flips through the air, finding flexibility he cannot remember ever having. When he finally comes to a stop, he finds his face hurts from smiling.

“What is it you say in that game of chase you play? You’re it? Yes, Peadar, you’re it!” shouts Hook.

“Game on, you old skunk,” replies Pan, amusedly from somewhere unseen.

“Yes... only this game will be your last, my dear Pan,” whispers Hook to himself, a wicked grin dancing upon his lips.

A mess of laughing and jeering comes streaming fast towards Hook, growing louder and louder from somewhere in the trees. The tone is now suddenly void of any boyish charm. It’s more than a voice, it’s a spirit, a phantom from the past trailing thick wisps of agonising nostalgia. Hook knows the voice and knows he doesn’t want to play that game. Hook is the child now, growing cold, shivering from fear. He turns and flees, panicked and senseless until at least he regains himself. He finds he has taken refuge at the top of a towering tree.

Branches rustle behind him. Hook turns and squints through layers of branches and leaves. A blur goes past him, just a mixture of dark and light. Hook takes off. He flings himself over huge gaps, landing on thick branches. Then holding his hook overhand like a spider monkey, he makes his way into the denser heart of the jungle where flight is not possible.

“Try to get me in here, you bloody croc lover! Haha!” mutters Hook.

In the thick of the canopy, there is no fog. Hook waits and listens for a while but hears nothing. Only the sound of his own breathing reverberates around him, a little scared, a little excited… a little aroused. Then a sudden shake, like someone landing on a sturdy branch. Hook smears a clammy palm on his trousers. The movement of the trees gets closer. It must be him. Now is my chance. Hook slinks laterally to move behind the approaching Pan for a killing strike.

“Damn it! Where…” Pan snaps a branch. “Blasted spiders!” More thrashing. Hook seizes on Pan’s outburst to zero in on his location. His good hand senses the blood of the boy’s slim, lithe body, still mostly invisible in the gloom.

“Game’s over, Pan!” roars Hook, catching Pan off-guard.

“Wha…”

The captain’s black carapace hook slips deep and easy between the boy’s ribs, ripping through flesh and muscle. Pan tries to jerk away, bleeding profusely from his weeping wound and mouth, but Hook twists his weapon, hooking the inside of Pan’s rib cage, not allowing escape.

“I beat you. How does it feel, boy?” whispers Hook into the boy’s ear.

Hook strokes Pan’s cheek with his other hand for a moment before replacing his gentle touch with a hard smack.

“You think I don’t know how to play?” continues Hook.

“Though I will admit, this was the funniest game I have ever played,” teases Hook.

Pan’s eyes roll back as his body convulses before finally going limp and still. Hook stares at the now lifeless bloodied boy dangling from his hook. He throws the body unceremoniously to the jungle floor below. It strikes the ground with a hard, wet thud.

Hook takes his time returning to the ship. He finds a group of Durian Trees and easily opens the armoured shell with his good hand. Strolling back, he savours the foul-sweet taste of the fruit. When he finds the beach, the sun shows it to be mid-afternoon. Smee, Mr. Mason, and Blickstein stand near the prow of the boat talking. When they see the captain, their eyes widen.

“Captain! You’re back! Have you seen any of the other crew?” asks Smee excitedly.

“Of course, I’m back, Smee. I’ve only been gone a few hours,” replies Hook, taken aback by Smee’s uncalled-for concern.

“It’s been two days, sir. We strayed out of the forest to fish and watch over the boat and no one that has gone into the forest has come out, ‘cept now you, of-course,” replies Smee.

Hook looks back at the treeline. Ferns and wide-leafed bushes sway in the light breeze. Wisps of the fog tumble out between the plants, heading out into the water. All at once, the island seems to become an entity to Captain Hook. It is not a piece of land with many creatures living their lives on it, but instead one hive-minded demon designed to ensnare. Mr. Mason narrates the past two days, but Hook doesn’t listen. He thinks back to his game with Pan, trying to recall details and figure out just how the hell he lost two days.

After a few hours, the sun sets below the horizon, giving way to night. Relief washes over Hook and Smee as Murphy’s huge frame shoves through the veil of the treeline. Strange symbols cover his body. They are drawn with mud and, despite having dried and flaked a bit, they still show an amazing level of intricacy. Over one shoulder, he carries a dead pig, over the other, he carries Cecco. He lays the pig down near the group.

“A gift from Zamallan. He wishes us good travels.”

“Who is Zamallan? And what happened to Cecco?” demands Hook.

“Zamallan is a shaman of the monkey tribe here. I killed a wildcat that was killing his people, and he named me an honorary warrior and presented me with this pig as thanks. I found our brother Cecco on my way back. He seems to have fallen out of the trees.

Murphy turns and strides down the beach, “I must finish the fancy words Zamallan told me to make sure our travels are safe.”

A short distance down the beach he sits cross-legged and stares out to sea. His mouth works slowly, but they can’t tell what he says.

They pack the pork in salt barrels and cook fish on the beach. At midnight, Noodler returns with two large leaves wrapped around berries, mushrooms, and bananas. An hour later, Cookson comes back empty-handed and silent. In the morning they set sail once again, setting their course by the light of the Piper’s clam.

The next two days, they sail with favourable winds through choppy seas. As they haul on ropes and wipe salt spray from their eyes, the crew shares their experiences of the island in tidbits. Sometimes they go away from each other for an hour on separate jobs but continue their conversation as though no time had passed. They are accustomed to such talk.

Murphy rolls a cannon back so Mr. Mason can repair the gun port. “The cat was grey with black spots, big as you he was…”

Smee shouts down for him to come haul up a fishing net. He returns twenty minutes later, just in time to hear Mr. Mason cursing about the ill-fitting patch wood.

“… I saw the thing up in a tree waiting for someone along a path, so I’s throws a spear at it…”

Cookson guts the fish and hands them to Noodler to be salted, “The most fear I ever felt. Trees looked at me with dead faces saying they was gonna wait till I slept and grow their roots into my eyes. It was so dark, dark everywhere, and I couldn’t find my way out of the trees. They moved around and got me all confused…”

Between stories of the island, Blickstein seizes moments to teach everyone the ship’s personality, “She always sails bettah when she’s been scrubbed. Bit of a princess, she is. But if you treat her good, she treats you good.”

The men are used to leaving blood spray and algae about the deck. Captain Hook always cared more about the efficiency of the looting than about the appearance of the ship, but a new fastidiousness seemed to have infused him. Hook enforces Blickstein’s recommendations.

During the day, Hook steers the ship himself, relaying constant commands through Smee. When Bill Jukes spits on the deck while splicing two mooring lines together, Hook screams at him to wipe it up with his shirt. Bill Jukes stares in disbelief from the bow, barely able to discern the captain’s moustache from this distance, let alone tell if he spits. He mops it up quickly. The rest of the day passes normally, each man doing his best to better acquaint themselves with the new vessel and treat her right.

That night, a cold and bitter wind beyond any chill they had ever experienced surrounds the ship as the sounds of painful sobs and blood-curdling wailing echos through the night, filling the hearts of the crew with dread. After a few minutes, the source of the crying and wailing becomes clear as both below the water and above them in the skies they find themselves surrounded by ghostly glistening apparitions, all of them children and all of them mere phantoms of lives long passed.

It is an unearthly sight that causes some of them to cower and hide, but not Hook, never Hook. Not even when the phantom of a young girl with blue frozen lips dressed in torn ragged clothes, holding a small box of ethereal burning matches, comes face to face with him. Hooks does not hide, he does not quiver; he just stares at her, his eyes cold. Mr. Mason feels a tear threaten to escape him as she passes him by, the sorrow in her eyes reverberating with the deep inner pain of his own heart.

“Straighten your upper lips, men there be no room for warm hearts or sentimental foolishness in my crew,” shouts Hook as he makes his way over to the helm of the ship, coming to a halt next to Smee.