The Demon and the Thief

The awaiting crowd was by far bigger than expected. The most unnerving thing was to discover that Jack Sparrow himself had made the trip to the Black Pearl. His belly was flat, and there was no Thyrion in sight. He looked rested and well, but far from happy. Around his feet played two small children. John Sparrow was also there, peering at his son with golden eyes as he appeared before the family council. Everybody fell silent, and the young were sent away. Jack Sparrow got up and walked into their midst. He said: “Step forward, Malachi Sparrow Monterey. About bloody time you gave us an account of the events of the past months. Your father here, John, tells me you’ve enslaved a Turner. What you’ve got to say for yourself?”
I stare at my grandfather in disbelief.
“A Turner?” I ask him, baffled, not believing what I just heard.
“A Turner” Jack Sparrow repeats angrily. He’s a ninth generation Turner, a direct descendant from Will Turner. His father’s in prison, doing life for triple manslaughter. Peter’s mother died when he was four years old, from an overdose. She was a prostitute, and Peter’s father was madly in love with her. The Turners never accepted Peter because of his father’s misfortune, and when he didn’t turn out any better in the care of his mother’s sister, a Mrs Drinkwater, the Turner Family cut him off completely. A stain on their otherwise pristine reputation” Jack concluded. His speech was followed by whispers and mumbling in the crowd of Sparrow brethren, all sons of Captain Jack Sparrow.
“I went to see the Turner family” John said, his voice filled with restrained anger, “and they told me they will have nothing to do with Peter or his father. We’ve looked after his father for many years, but he knew nothing of a son. No one else but us comes to see him in prison” John said, helping himself to some water from a jar.
“Preposterous!” Jordan Sparrow shouted, “Have the Turners lost their minds? Another Turner shoved out into the cold? What are they thinking?”
“Aye, they hold us in higher regard than those in their own kin” his brother Michael commented.
“It’s their wealth. It’s going to their heads. Wealth and power” Jacob said, saluting them all with a glass of rum before pouring it down.
“The Turners today are simply a product of the times we live in. It’s grown into a cold and heartless world, and the Turners are caught in the web of the western economy. The pirate blood in their veins is lost…!” It was Kingston Sparrow who spoke. The winged Sparrows, Daniel, Uriel, Asekias and Israel only nodded contemplatively in agreement, hearing the words of their far younger brother who was a schooled economist.
“A most unfortunate situation indeed. And now you’ve gone and worsened it by taking Peter Turner as your slave. And from the reports given to me by your father, I now understand that he’s with child. Not only have you abused him, raped him repeatedly and maimed him, but somehow he’s also with child. The terror he must be undergoing…!” Jack sighed.
“Their souls have met, they’ve joined” John added, holding his son’s gaze for several seconds. To stand humbled before the two most powerful men in the Sparrow clan, stripped Malachi of all his pride and confidence.
“I… I have no excuse. I didn’t know..!” Malachi spoke meekly, his voice cracking with despair. To think that Peter was a Turner..! Unbelievable. Malachi had shamed himself and the Sparrows beyond repair.
“Your pride blinded you, son. You should have been able to see the Turner in him from the moment you laid eyes on him, and you should have left him alone!” Jack spoke angrily, his brown eyes narrowing. “For centuries, the Sparrows have looked after the Turners, and they’ve looked after us. We’ve never quarrelled, never fought, never harmed each other. Luckily enough, they don’t want to know your Peter, but your abuse of this young man ends now, savvy?” Jack looked him squarely in the eye, Jack who’d almost never paid him any attention at all through the years. Malachi failed to return the stare, and dropped his gaze, feeling extremely unpopular with the rest of the bystanders, all Sparrows in different shapes and colours, winged or without wings. “And he’s with child!” Jack spat, “with bloody child! That John would be able to pull of such a scheme as reproducing himself, I understand. He’s a powerful demon offspring, but you Malachi, you’re a quarter demon, you’re no one! You roam about on the face of the earth dealing out death and torment by chance to those you think may deserve it. Who are you to play God, Malachi? Answer me! Who are you to toy with people’s lives?”
Malachi could not get himself to answer. His mouth kept working, but fear dried his tongue, made him unable to speak. He’d never looked at his life this way. His father had always condoned his actions, never spoken against him, and was at present quiet as well. Malachi looked up to see Jack and John exchange glances. Then John spoke.
“There must be a reason for these two souls to unite. Malachi is strong, but not that strong. I suspect there’s more to Peter than meets the eye. Turners and Sparrows are not to blend. That’s the rule we’ve lived by for three and half century. We’ve stayed away from their women and their men because the cost would have been too high – our own existence here, is at stake. The entire kin of Sparrows can be wiped out because of this. We don’t know the origin of the soul of Malachi’s offspring. It’s either with us or against us. And if it’s against us, then it will be our end. Malachi. I know you love Peter. I have seen it in your eyes, and I have sensed love in his heart as well. But it is the Sparrows’ curse that we be half demons, and thus we’re inclined towards darkness and all that dwells there. Peter’s child represents uncharted waters, and by experience we know that a benevolent and loving childbearer is the first and most important step away from the darkness and our own demise” John said, pouring himself a drink. The seriousness of the situation had sunk in with the crowd, and the atmosphere was reeking with fear and unattended questions. Malachi felt the accusing looks of his uncles upon him. Hearing the truth, knowing he might be responsible for the destruction of the Sparrows, was beyond anything he’d expected to hear. He felt tears wet his cheeks, and he closed his eyes in naked shame.
He was not there when Peter woke next morning. The entire house seemed colder than usual, and the walls were dead, no longer whispering. Peter had tossed and turned all night, getting up, going to the toilet a thousand times it have seemed, for then to find his bed again, turning restlessly, wondering about his future, wondering where his master had gone. It worried him, for he knew he needed that demon, knew he was dependent like a drug addict depended on a daily dose of drugs. It was the small moments of comfort, like the touch of skin against skin, the warmth of another body close to one’s own. The small moments where Peter could pretend they were lovers, that the demon touched him out of love. How he longed to gaze upon those lovely brown eyes!
Peter got up and dressed, rinsed his face in water and combed through his hair with his fingers. It felt silky smooth, and the curls tickled his nose. He brushed them away from his face, and went downstairs, on his guard, taking care not to make a sound. There was no one in the living room. It was cold. The fire was not started. He ventured out into the kitchen, and immediately found the note the demon had written to him. He sat down and read it.
Go north, Daddy! Go north. Hurry!

Without thinking any further, Peter dropped the letter, and stormed upstairs. Coming down five minutes later, he’d packed all is remaining clothes in a bag. He went resolutely to the kitchen and cleared the refrigerator of food, tossing the canned goods, tea and sugar, everything eatable inside. He then found thermoses, and boiled water, anxiously searching the house for anything else which might come in handy. In a drawer underneath the kitchen table, he found a map of Great Britain, and tossed it into the bag. He poured the water over onto the thermoses and remembered to bring the letter as he stormed out of the house and getting into the car.
Go north, Daddy!
The voice of his child resounded with great force in his head. He started the car, then stopped it. Peter closed his eyes, focusing on what lay inside of him. An image came to mind. A small baby in the making glowing golden in the dark red of his insides, and a tidal wave of love crashing upon him. Peter opened his eyes again, feeling terror and joy at the same time. It loved him!
He started the car again, and backed out of the court yard and out into the village road. He was going to be strong for it. He had to. He was the only one left now. The demon had known, had tried to tell him. The bed, the dinner, the shower, those words spoken at dinner which Peter could no longer remember, but which he sensed as important. A head start, the letter had told him. A head start, go north, keep running, don’t let them find you! They’ll kill you both. You’ll have to pay for a crime I committed. Signed with the name ‘Malachi’.
Peter drove through Midsomer Mallows, drove through Causton and then out on the motorway heading north, not looking back. Two hours later, he stopped for fifteen minutes to have breakfast, contemplating his fate. He now knew he was probably not even going to be able to witness the ugly and bloody birth of his child. He’d felt its love though, and that was more than enough. He now had to make sure it stayed alive for as long s possible. He followed the motorways past London, driving half night through before he understood that he needed to get some sleep. It was midwinter. He could not sleep in his car, and resolved to spend the night at a drive by motel. He parked the car outside the door to his room. It was sparse. A bed. A lamp and a small wardrobe. It would do. He had to remember to fill the tank with petrol in the morning. Then Peter fell asleep, completely exhausted, the word ‘Malachi’ on his lips. He awoke to first light a few hours later, and treated himself to a shower just to get his body to wake up. Within thirty minutes, he was in the car again, swinging it into the nearest petrol station for a refill before he headed out again.
Peter crossed the border to Scotland on the evening of the next day. He’d been driving like crazy, and found himself a small hotel where he found lodging for the night. In his sleep, the child kicked inside him. Peter dreamt of a lighthouse sparkling white against the heavy, rain-filled clouds above being parted by the wind, allowing streaks of blue sky and sun to peer through. He sensed loads of water, and a name – Eoropaidh.
It took time to reach Glasgow, Traffic was high, and Peter was getting tired from all the driving. He spent a few days there, in a sinister hotel room, just relaxing and sleeping, and eating as much as he could for as little money as possible. The newfound freedom proved difficult to get used to. So fresh and delicate, like an old piece of priceless porcelain ready to shatter between his fingers. He yearned for that which he knew – the strange safety he’d had as Malachi’s sexslave. At least then he’d known what to expect. Or had he? Had he not spent every day feeling the terror, living from one hour to the next? Peter imagined himself as inferior to the child in his belly. It was the right thing to do, for the child was his lord’s offspring. It helped him relate, and gave him strength.
Peter continued his ride up north, following the motorways straight past Perth, sensing he’d have to get off the main road and start feeling his way further, following his intuition. The child pressed on to get him to travel further north, and Peter chose to blindly follow it. The child seemed to understand that Peter needed rest, and it seemed patient with the body’s constant demand for more sleep. One thing was bothering Peter more and more, and that was the fact that the further north they went, the more wrong it all seemed. All his senses would heighten, and the same eerie feeling which Malachi had given him, would from time to time manifest itself inside him, telling him that evil forces were on to them. One main problem lay thus ahead: Travelling north in Scotland meant that they’d sooner or later run out of roads. And what then? Beyond the Scottish cliffs lay nothing but freezing water and some islands. What was it that the child knew but which Peter couldn’t see? Was there a solution ahead? Some means of transport? Or did the child just want him to drive ahead and then plunge them both into the sea?
In the city of Inverness, Peter stayed a night in a cheap hotel room. Awaking at exactly three am in the morning, Peter sat up in his bed. The room was freezing, and his breath manifested in the air as frost smoke. He peered to the door, seeing the silhouette of feet appear at the crack below the door which allowed light into the room. For a moment, he saw, or rather sensed the presence of a demon standing just outside his door. It froze Peter’s blood in his veins, and he hardly dared to breathe. It was not Malachi Sparrow Monterey, Peter knew for sure. The faint smell of sulphur was differently tainted. He glanced at his watch. Three am. The witching hour. Oh, where was Malachi? Peter watched in terror as the feet moved. They moved away, and were soon out of sight. Peter could not help himself. Almost against his will, he got out of bed, tiptoed over to the door, and opened it carefully, peering outside. It was disturbingly quiet. At the end of the long corridor with doors to hotel rooms, Peter saw a strangely clad man turn to glance at him. Peter gasped as he eyed the demon, staring him squarely into his golden eyes. The demon was dressed as a seventeenth century nobleman, somewhat roughly though, with a triangular shaped black hat which partly covered the black and gold bandana across his forehead. He wore his dark brown hair long and loose, and it was ornamented with golden beads which shimmered in the lamplight. It was not difficult to see who he resembled.
“M—, Master?” Peter whispered, shivering violently from the cold.
But those golden eyes could not belong to Malachi.
“Your ‘master’ is getting what he deserves”, the demon spoke angrily, his voice grave and husky.
“I beg you, good master, don’t harm him! It’s not his fault!” Peter whispered, approaching the demon on bare feet. The ancient demon was breathtaking in his appearance, and his golden gleaming eyes nailed Peter to the spot of carpeted floor he was standing on.
“Please” Peter tried again, “it’s all my fault! Not his! I’m the criminal, I always have been. It’s not his fault I’m with child. I can’t do anything right, you see, my lord. I don’t see why he must be punished, or why I have to run as well, I mean, I’m going to die as I give birth to it anyway, see? There’s no need for this…!” Peter pleaded, folding his hands, “please don’t hurt him, I’ll do anything you want, just leave him alone!”
The demon, who was at least a head and a half taller than Peter, seemed suddenly annoyed at his words, and Peter remembered how he’d been punished for speaking without permission. Peter began to back away slowly, deciding he’d most definitely managed to upset the demon. Making it to his room, Peter slipped inside, and closed the door, turning the lock, then hopping to the other side of his bed, huddling there while he glanced over the edge of the bed, expecting the demon to come after him in rage, ready to deal out penalty. Peter waited and waited with his heart caught in his throat, and he hardly dared to breathe, the scenario of being raped and tortured by this new demon looping over and over in his mind. Perhaps he would be crueller than Malachi. Perhaps downright evil. Perhaps…!
It never happened. Peter spent the morning catching up some sleep. Upon waking, he knew he’d have to follow the A 835 to some place called Ullapool. In his morning dream, he’d seen a coast city and a ferry leaving the docks. He needed to get to that ferry.
“Hurry, Daddy, hurry!” the child kept demanding. Peter got up, showered and got himself some breakfast which he ate in the car. The drive from Inverness to Ullapool took him about an hour. Seeing the ferry from his dream made him shudder. He needed to get on that boat. He queued up for the ferry, and got out to stretch his legs. He yawned, and as his gaze settled on the sea, he stood petrified to see an old looking ship, a galleon by the looks of it, which had anchored up at a good distance from the boat traffic to and from the docks. She was painted black, and her sails were black as well. The wind rustling through Peter’s hair blew all the way over to the ship, filling the flag, carrying it high. There it was. The family weapon of the Sparrow family. What was most disturbing though, was the way the ship didn’t fit in with the overall picture of the modern day harbour of Ullapool. The galleon was indeed old, phantom looking and spooky, sending shivers down his spine. Peter got back into the car. His knees had gone all wobbly, and he could hardly breathe. They knew he was here. They were coming for him.