Nights in the Bayou

When a clever and unscrupulous young man arrives at the bayou of Calypso's exile, she is anxious to sate her long denied passions. But as they explore the veiled expanses of each other through several sporadic encounters, Calypso learns of his connection to Davy Jones and the secret that might at last set her free. Jack/Calypso, takes place over a span of years leading up to COTBP.

I was shocked at the lack of fanfics written about Jack and Calypso, considering their backstory is hinted at throughout the films and is undoubtedly one of the more intriguing questions of Jack's past. I was in the mood for something short and different, but there is an overload of brilliant sparrabeth on the market already, hence, this story. It will probably be between 6 and 8 chapters long, depending. Please do step out of your pairing comforting zone and enjoy!

A boy sat on a dock, his bare feet swinging and a self-pleased smile on his face. With an agile twist of his hand, he loosed a stone and watched it flick and bounce a few times before succumbing to the restless waves. The water made him thirsty, made him ache to dive in, drench himself, lose himself. But the few coins he would get for watching the old man's dinghy were enough to hold him on the slender rotten boards. His stomach growled noisily and he pressed one small brown hand against it; he was always hungry. The coins might buy him a week's worth of bread.

Without quite meaning to, he lowered one foot into the water, which was warm after the summer rains. The sun flecked off the water and made the boy blink a few times, made him squint.

"No need to attack me, mate," he complained to the sun. He scooted back to lean against a rail, opening his book with the tattered cover. Inside there were pictures of Egyptians with painted eyes, legends of their gods, a history of their destruction. And beyond that, a poem in Latin. The boy pursed his lips and wondered what the good was in having something you couldn't even read.

"Ahoy!"

The man was back. The boy stifled a giggle at the shadow the old man's braids made across the walkway, like tentacles. His boots were heeled and noisy.

"That's very interesting," the man said, but the boy could only concentrate on the clinking jangle of coins in his pocket. "I half expected ye to make off with the boat, lad."

The boy looked at the man's face, puzzled. His skin was stretched taught across the bones, a myriad of reds and browns. "What would I want with a boat?" he asked at last, black eyes wide and serious. "All I want is a bit of bread."

A rough-bent mineral smile came to the older man's face, and he knelt down on the creaking boards. "A bit of bread, me fine lad?" The boy was exceptionally thin and wiry, same as a multitude of street children littering the ports of the New World like garbage. Probably the bastard remains of a European and whichever native girl had caught his eye for the night. And yet, the boy just sat looking at him, unafraid, comfortable with his proximity. "Didn't ye know, boy, a ship can bring ye all that and more?"

"Can it?" The boy's eyes flashed quizzically. Intelligent, skeptical, curious. Teague found himself intrigued out of his drunkenness.

"Aye, lad. A ship can take ye anywhere ye want to go, earn ye bread and gold besides… make ye king of yer own fate."

"King of my fate?"

"Aye. That's what a ship is: freedom."

"Freedom," the boy repeated, mimicking the old man's accent. "Freedom." He glanced at the dingy in the harbor, glanced at the pattering waves and the incandescent horizon. And then he laughed. "Freedom's a bit of a tall order for me, sir. I'd be all right with just some bread."

The old man pulled his taught lips into a grimace. "Well, my lad, I won't argue with ye. Come along, let's see if we can't find ye something to fill out those sunken cheeks. Ye look like a mummy."

The boy clutched the book across his chest. "Have ye… been to Egypt, sir?"

"That I have, my lad. Been many places. But if all ye want's bread, I won't bore ye with me tales."

"Wait," the boy tugged on Teague's hand. "Can ye understand this?" He opened the book delicately and pointed to the Latin poem.

The man shifted the book back and forth in front of his eyes until they adjusted to the tiny worn print. "Res ipsa loquitur, tabula in naufragio…" He grinned. "Table in a shipwreck, lad. The thing speaks for itself."

"Aye, but what does it mean?"

"The story?" Teague leaned in conspiratorially. "It's an old sea legend about Calypso."

"Calypso…" The boy had heard his share of fishermen's tales and superstitions, sneaking scraps by the firelight of many a port town. "Do ye believe she exists?"

"Aye," Teague said at once, low. "It's easy to believe something ye've seen with yer own two eyes. But she's an old soul, a part o' the sea, as it were… she's come down with men through the ages, my lad. Kept 'em close to the ocean, pining for black water and freedom."

"I've never met her," the boy said, tilting his head to one side wistfully.

"Ye may one day," Teague said, "One day when ye're stomach's been satisfied and ye yearn for a different kind of food to slake yer hunger."

The boy frowned in confusion, and Teague laughed a thick guttural laugh.

"Don't worry about it, boy. When yer old enough to read Shakespeare, ye'll understand."

They were in front of the ramshackle tavern now. "When will I be old enough to read Shakespeare?"

"It all depends," Teague said slowly, tossing a few coins into the air and catching them with a juggler's skill. The boy watched hungrily. "How about ye come along with me on me ship, and learn the ways o' the sea."

"Is it big enough for two?" the boy asked doubtfully.

"That dinghy ain't me only ship, lad. Just a quiet way to get around, if ye take my meaning. No, no, me real ship's in the harbor around the bay, unloading the cargo."

"If ye promise to read me the rest of the book, I'll come."

Teague stuck out his gnarled hand, thick with rings, and undaunted, the boy shook it. "It's a deal, mate."

Heavy in the bayou and fragranced like lotus she dwelt, curved into the landscape and grown over with lichen and moss, a part of the constant half-darkness, a part of the flickering shadows and pressured humidity. Long had she been there, long had she sunk into the earth. Grudging had been her lesson in patience. Yet learned it she had, with none but Old Man River to whisper babbling wisdom to her through the long solitary nights. She learned the slow sonorous spreading language of the soil, the ticklish patterns of birds, the strange beauty of solid earth beneath her feet. She learned the texture of skin and hair and fur and feather, the voice of the creatures, the devastating harmony of it all. Grudgingly her heart changed, split, unfolded to encompass more than the jealousy of the sea… unable to possess the power that had once defined her, she found herself fitting into the fragile balance of life in the bayou. The understanding was a gift, the last gift of betrayal that saturated the symphonies called eternity. She accepted the gift. She accepted.

I rise and fall with the springs, with the water and the rush and the drag and the drip. I feel them through the way the air lands on my spreading, budding fingers… those fingers that burn with expression; they are full of green and life that can not come out, not yet.

And now the black water of the sea streamed through the swamp in the shape of a hundred souls, skin the color of burnt charcoal, senses sharp with the far-away spirits of Africa. At the meeting of the salt with the fresh water she had discerned their approach, their encroachment into her living prison. Her human heart quickened, her palms grew moist, she licked the lips she longed to shed. A young man. A young man with smooth skin and a ship to his name and a crime that would haunt his idealism forever.

She could not have been more enthralled. How earnestly she watched for him, waited for him, sifted through the quenched crowds that already put down roots in her swamp. It would be their swamp too now… but she didn't mind. They would learn the ways of it, and the swamp would expand, explore, make room for them. They would be safe here. Like a mother she would be to them… a mother to the little kingdom. Calypso knew the map of human desire all too well, but the nest that generally followed was foreign to her. What did it mean, to be a mother? She could not know—she had forgotten that already as she waited for the man. Candles were lit, and the fireflies competed with their esoteric twinkle. The young man came wading through the water, awed by the surroundings, unaware of anything except delight in his discoveries.

Calypso closed her eyes, thawed into the shade of the porch. What a long journey lay before this young man… what a lot of magic already surrounded him. The thread of his life was less a line than a complex web, Calypso thought… a tapestry of over-thrown shuttles, a child's mess, or hanging of a genius who can understand the tangle. It darted here and there before her eyes like Chinese fire, never still.

"Who's there?" He had seen her.

She was surprised by the depth of his voice, the earthiness. Offhanded she stepped into the dimming glow of dusk, leaned over the porch and beckoned him with a slim hand. "De mother of de swamp."

Entirely unafraid, the man climbed the ladder and stood before her with black eyes a mesh of desire like tree roots already inside her. He gestured to his heart, indicating respect in a manner she hadn't seen before.

"Ye are welcome here, young man."

He smiled. Her skin prickled. He was beautiful, his features unique and indefinable, his eyes a shade too dark for human eyes. And his skin was so very smooth—not a mark to be found across its coffee-brown surface. A clever and mischievous person, just on the cusp of manhood, ready to cross at any hour. Calypso deepened her gaze, looked him over with obvious admiration. Rather than blush or start, he waited expectantly. "I've followed some friends here… they seemed to think there were good spirits in the river."

"Aye, Old Man River, him have good music for de ears dat hear," she murmured rhythmically, not taking her eyes from him. "Yer friends be welcome too. It seems dey need hidin' from a cruel world."

"A confused world, rather," the young man said, sage-like understanding crossing his face.

"What be yer name, young man?"

"Jack," he said brightly, proud of the name. She waited a moment for more, but he appeared to be finished.

"Jack… and what be yer father's name?"

"Haven't got the slightest idea. I rather think I never had one at all."

"Sprung from de eart, maybe?"

"Or the sea." He grinned.

"Maybe," she said, circling him. "If ye had no father, who gave ye da name Jack?"

"A pirate. Before him I was just 'boy'. But he named me proper, he did."

She nodded solemnly, almost unable to see him for the pitch that had covered the sky. All the noise of the swamp gathered around them, waiting. "Jack. Maybe we find yer spirit match, yer nahual. Den ye have a full name." She noticed he was dressed after the manner of the Europeans, and the clothes seemed to contradict him. With meaning she placed both hands on his shoulders, sensing the physical strength of his arms and the hedonic nature held inside his body, forceful as a storm and too obvious for comfort. Her hands traveled up his neck, the lagoon of his voice, to his face and mouth. A clever mouth, sardonic and enticing… a face seemingly too genuine to have been raised by a pirate. "Have ye known a woman before, Jack?"

The question didn't seem to surprise him. Calypso was intrigued. He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a shabby book. "I've only just begun to read Shakespeare, it seems."

"Dats a no, den," she widened her smile, softened her grip on his shoulders. Bending her face close to his, she could smell the ocean residue on his clothes, the sweat and unwashed hair and weariness of long travel, all of these smells erotic and almost painful. And yet she didn't want to be the sea now, with him… didn't want to sweep him away by force, drown him in her pleasure. She wanted to learn him as she learned the forest, little by little, inch by inch. Her lesson would be rewarded now, she would be patient with him, she would teach him. He would never again be so yielding to her… he would slip free of her wiles, become immune to her spell as most men never could. And that was what made him so alluring to her. No slavish sycophant was he; he was a free man, he was freedom. Envy mixed with the desire in her gut, envy that he should roam the world as he chose. "Maybe ye come inside, and sit wid me in my exile."

"I will, if ye tell me yer name."

Calypso studied the alternating seriousness and humor lighting his face. "Aint got no name fit for telling," she said softly.

He tilted his head curiously to one side. "May I call ye Calypso, then? Meaning no disrespect, goddess, but mother doesn't quite fit ye."

"Aye, that be true," she whispered, as he leaned forward to hear her better. And she thought she had been playing shrewd, hidden away, disguised. Was her identity so plain on her face that a stranger could read it?

He seemed to guess her thoughts. "Don't worry, yer secret's safe with me. I'm no mystic. It were another what told me about ye."

"Indeed?" her confidence came rushing back. So men still spoke of her, told her stories and sought her favor. A thundering pressure in her heart shot throbbing jolts down her body; how she longed to sweep over them in a biding gale, longed to caress them with paper light foam on a shore.

He placed one foot on par with hers so that he was right against her, and she shivered. He was going to be better at loving than pirating, that was certain. Already he outplayed her. "Maybe an African name for ye, instead? So as yer new subjects can honor ye proper?"

"Aye," she whispered, licking her lips, thirsty with an unquenchable thirst. "Is dat de only reason ye brought dem?"

"One never comes to Calypso without an offering, or so I was told."

Oh, he was good at this. She smiled wider, her eyes slits of voided want. Freeing a cargo of slaves for freedom's sake might have been handsome, but laying the act before her feet, for her favor… oh she could almost taste his coffee-brown skin. "Ye want to know me, aye, Jack of no other name?"

She was gaining back ground as he swallowed, his pulse quickening. "That's why I've come."

She slid lightly down his face with the back of her hand. Like the boon of sanded morrow on a sinking ship she pressed against him, against his moss-and-wood frame, against his malachite steady texture. He was just her height, young, so young. As though preparing to taste a rare wine Calypso drifted her face before his, brushing his nose, his eyelashes, the impish smile still coiled at his mouth. "It be hard to kiss a set smile," she hummed into his ear.

"Well I have had some practice at that bit," he admitted, "and the women who taught me, she said nothin's more enticing than a man who smiles before he kisses ye."

Calypso felt a surge of envy for the woman, some half-crown bar wench, no doubt. "Let me see if she told ye true." She parted her lips and pressed them against his, lightly, teasingly, but at once he opened his mouth and sent her head spinning with the force of his passion. His tongue was already in her mouth as he cupped her face with his palms, and she broke away, laughing. "Der ye have it. Never kiss a stranger with yer palms open, Jack. Use de back of yer hand. Safer for ye, reassuring for her. A man who kisses wid de back of his hand won't strike her wid it, nor cling to her when she needs to fly."

The corners of his mouth curled up, his eyes full of laughter. "Aye, that's a good thought. The goddess grants her wisdom graciously."

With a chuckle she pulled him past the threshold, into the glow of her hut. He looked around with enthusiasm at the obscure hodgepodge of trinkets and oddments littered about, the parrot that fluttered away from his perch in one corner, the haze of incense burning from upstairs.

"Not quite what you imagined for de goddess, eh?"

Jack shook his head in wonder. "Aye, it's different. Good different. Feels right… comfortable."

"Like ye belong here, is dat it?"

"Maybe," he responded with a wink, taking a few steps around, peering into one doorway. The single table looked newly-hewn, the wood pine yellow, and a few candles smoldered on a platter in the middle. Jack ran his fingers through the flames and the light in the room guttered unsteadily.

"How many years have to yer name?" Calypso asked, eyes fixed on his brown fingers.

Jack shrugged, a bemused look on his face. "Don't know. Not quite eighteen, I guess."

Eighteen—less than eighteen years to his name. And yet, he had spent much time with this pirate who had named him, that was certain. And little habits, little clues about him suggested he had worked for the Europeans as well, one of the trading companies perhaps. He had a charm for allaying suspicion, a worldly air that contrasted against his boyish exuberance. She cleared her throat, toying with one of her necklaces, the shells soothing. "Not dat it matter much, Jack. Ye be da right age to come here."

He had picked up a skin-covered drum and began tapping it rhythmically. She nodded her head in time as he began to move faster, seeing the picture of the cadence, his ship tearing through ocean storms, and him laughing in the midst. He slowed and she could see an indolent port town faded by the sun, and a boy on a dock there awaiting life. Abruptly he stopped. "Eavesdroppin' on my memories?"

"Ain't my fault dat ye wear dem on yer sleeve." She stood behind him, lowering her face into his neck. "One day ye'll learn to play things closer to de vest. Safer for ye."

He leaned back and caught her painted mouth in a kiss, tracing the henna marks on her fingers, the smudged kohl around her eyes, exploring her ever-young body like a map. He said with his grin that was already becoming familiar, "Where's the fun in being safe?"

Next chapter will be up soon... reviews much appreciated!