Thoughts Over A Haircut

There is no funeral for a pirate.

There is no ceremonious gathering to commemorate the life of those brave adventurers who fought for freedom and for the justice and ideals that they believed in with every ounce of their strength and courage. If a pirate should die at sea, that's where he remained, washed away into the dark blue void beneath. If a pirate should be taken by the authorities, he was hanged, assuming he'd survived the sickening conditions within the standard refuse bin know as a prison cell. And if a pirate should die elsewhere, such as a tavern brawl or a raid on a small town or village, then his lifeless carcass was treated no different than the rum bottles or broken bits of wood and glass that surrounded it. It was swept up and tossed out just the same. There is no funeral for a pirate... There was no funeral for Pintel.

All rose in the early hours, stowing their hammocks for another day of grueling labor aboard the ship. All but one. As the crew made their ascent above deck, the tall, slender companion of this one stayed behind, frozen just a few feet away from his uncle. He called his name repeatedly, too frightened by the motionlessness of the rotund figure to move any closer. He held his breath as he studied the form lying in the only hammock left suspended in the whole of the sleeping quarters, desperately looking for even the slightest rise of the man's substantial paunch. There wasn't any. For a long time he watched in silence, refusing to believe what every sign from his uncle's still body was pointing to. All the while, his throat was tightening, his stomach was churning, and his vision was becoming nothing but a watery blur, distorting the painful scene in front of him into a wet, stuffy haze.

He hadn't realized it, but somewhere along the line, he'd fallen over. It wasn't until another man came to his aid that he figured out his knees had given in completely. The pungent odor of vomit filled the air. He was sick. His thoughts were a chaotic mass of tangled words and visions, none of which he could decipher from his own mind. His body wasn't fairing much better. It took only the one man to carry his withered, convulsive frame away from the site. It wasn't true… It couldn't be true…

There was no funeral. No words of departure for the aged man. No blessings, no prayers… nothing. A large, brawny crewman effortlessly held the screaming, sobbing nephew of the poor soul back as the only relative, the only friend… the only thing in the world he had left to love was wrapped in the same sheet of burlap he'd laid himself down in the night before, and hoisted overboard by two other mates. The old man never got up from that hammock… and now he'd remain within its folds for as long as the bindings would hold in the heavy bundle's descent to the ocean floor. Ragetti was not prepared.

The finality of the thunderous splash was more than the tender man could bear. His shrill screech resonated throughout the boat, stunning all who were near, especially the man who held him away from the action. This man let him go at that moment, relinquishing his control on the delicate and meager frame, but Ragetti's limp body needed no restraint. It collapsed into an uncontrollable heap of agony, writhing in anguish. There was nothing anyone could do… so they did nothing. They said nothing, save for a few awkward, scattered 'sorry's. They left the man to his grief and carried on about their business, picking up the load of the lost crewmember and his inconsolable nephew. There was no further observance of the matter... There was no funeral.

They made port. Tortuga was a welcome sight to all of the men but one. He was forced ashore by his well-meaning acquaintances, forced to sit with them in the tavern and to have his rum and enjoy it. He did all of these except for the last. There was no enjoyment without Pintel. There was no life. Not one worth living, anyway. So there he sat… alone. With forty-seven others, but alone.

The time came to return to the ship and set sail. Forty-seven men went aboard. One fell behind. Going aboard meant taking up work and Ragetti was in no position to do so. He took his small parcel of coin, his and his uncle's, and looked for his landmarks. The tattered old signposts, those that still stood through the boisterous rampages this pirate port was notorious for, were of no use to him. He couldn't read. So landmarks were his lifeline. There was an inn he knew of where he and Pintel had spent the night between jobs. It was called 'The Silver Lotus,' or something along those lines. He couldn't tell by the lettering, but he knew it as 'the one with the pretty flower.' And there he saw it. The painting of a sparkling lotus flower hung next to the entrance.

This was home. He lay in his cot, eyes fixed on the warped planks that made up the flooring. Sleep hadn't come in the two nights since that day. Tonight was following suit with its cruel, tightfisted denial of slumber. Where were Pintel's off-key murmuring of the soft, soothing melodies that lulled Ragetti to sleep on any restless night such as this? They were in his head, of course. He closed his eyes and played the old man's voice in his mind, gripping his scrawny knees to his chest and rocking himself slowly to the unheard rhythm. A warm pool of tears formed on his pillow, causing it to stick uncomfortably to his cheek and neck, but he remained in his sorrowful trance. Sleep never came, however. A third night had gone by. And he was alone.

The natural tired look in his eyes, the bags and dark circles that surrounded them, were amplified now to the point where he almost appeared diseased. He was pale and his lack of nutrition gave him a slightly greenish hue. He'd eaten nothing for the past three days, drank nothing save for a swig of rum that night before. In a pitiful attempt to take care of himself, he exited his room and settled himself at the counter of the inn, sheepishly waiting on one of the maids to notice him. He sat for a good twenty minutes before one did. He faintly uttered his request and remained slumped over the surface of the counter, waiting for his scanty meal. It was plum pudding. He stuffed a few spoonfuls of his favorite dessert into his mouth, feeling nauseous with every gulp. It was the first time he'd ever had the dish without a gleeful, pudding-covered smile spread across his face. He finished only a few ounces of it before surrendering to his distaste. The maid realized this and asked if she should remove the bowl, to which he replied with a sullen nod. She returned after doing so and informed the man of his charge, including that of the previous night's stay, if he should want to pay it at that moment. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved his small sack of currency taking a few of the coins into his palm and staring at them. He offered them to the maid with a questioning expression and she took them, sliding them about in her hand before demanding the remainder in an irritated tone. Ragetti flinched at the reprimand, quickly scooping up another assortment of coinage. The maid peered down at the pathetic display and sneered, taking up almost double the cost of the bill from the trusting hand of this clearly uneducated man. And with that, she left. Ragetti tied up his pouch and placed it back into his pocket. He got up and made his way back into his room.

The day was wasted as he sat in the tiny room, whittling away at a hunk of wood in a sad effort to fabricate a replacement prosthetic. His eye patch was beginning to make his face itch something terrible. The more he carved, however, the more wooden shavings spiraled to the floor, reducing the size of the piece more and more. He was having trouble getting it to be round. Soon it would be too small and he'd have to start again. As the night came upon him, he decided to give sleep another go. He set down his craft and curled up in his cot, trying desperately to turn off his mind from all of his anxiety. Finally, he won out.

Searing pain welcomed him into the new day. His dehydration was now taking its toll. His head felt as if it were trying to constrict itself over his brain, squeezing it mercilessly. But he knew not what was causing this pain, so he went on without water. He went on without food. Everything had become so unpalatable to him and he gave up on all of it. Once in a while he'd take a cracker or two to momentarily soothe his gut, but a meal was too taxing a chore. He couldn't stomach it.

The money he had dwindled down to nothing twice as fast as it should have, thanks to the maid who'd spread the word among the inn workers about the spindly man who let his waitresses count out their own pay. He found himself slumped against the side of that building, 'the one with the pretty flower,' too weak and fragile to even hobble over as a passing cart splashed him with filth as it rolled over a grimy puddle. Several of his ribs were shattered from a bad run-in with a particularly brutish thug. This was what depleted the last of his savings. Had the fellow asked for it, Ragetti would have surely been instantly intimidated enough to hand it over, but the bestial assailant must have craved a bit of fun along with his loot. The thin man began to lean sideways against the brick wall at his back. His muscles could no longer support him. He hadn't even the energy to weep as he toppled over, his face hitting the dirt and muck of the roadside. He closed his eyes as his head began to pound again. Where was Pintel's voice now, whispering softly to him that everything would be okay and that he'd get through this on his own, living his own life without the help of his uncle and being his own man? It wasn't in his head this time. It wasn't anywhere. All he heard was pounding. It was loud and clear at first, but then it started to sound more and more muffled with every beat. It got softer and gentler and fainter and quieter until… it stopped.

There was no funeral.

Little specks of liquid dripped down into the loose trimmings of blonde that litterred the deck. Blast! It was raining. Pintel had better hurry up with his haircut or they'd be liable to catch cold in the coming downpour. But something here was different. The drops were only hitting the deck in one place. He peered up through his unshorn bangs at his uncle and realized that the wet sprinkling was tears. Pintel's tears!

"…Pint? Wot's the matta'?" Ragetti had never once in his thirty-one years seen his uncle cry so openly. Something devastating surely must have happened.

Pintel gasped loudly as reality came seeping back into his mind. His distressing thoughts had caused him to stop his work on his nephew's flaxen mess. He was gaping at the younger man, trying hard to shake off the eerie feeling his imagination had left him with. Panting heavily, he replied.

"…Nuffin'… Don' worry 'bout it."

He quickly regained his composure, swiftly wiping his face clean of his tears, and took another of Ragetti's locks between his fingers, bringing his switchblade up to it in preparation for another slicing.

"Okay, Pint," Ragetti said, satisfied with this. His stupid grin reemerged and he began humming merrily again, as he often did during his trimming. Suddenly, he heard the familiar sound of a whale releasing air. Delighted, he turned to the side to have a look.

"Gah! Rags! D'ya want ta lose yer other one?" Pintel shouted, his hand recoiling quickly with the blade so as not to cut his nephew's face.

"Sorry, Pint," was the younger man's reply. "… 'S whales. They're sayin' hullo!"

Pintel sighed and took Ragetti's gaunt chin in his hand, whipping his head back into position.

"You need ta grow up, Rags… Wot'll ye do when I ain't 'ere no more? How'll ye take care o' yerself?"

"I don' eva' need to, Pint! You ain't goin' nowhere!" Ragetti answered happily.

Pintel stopped the tears before they reappeared. It would do no good to cry. He simply went on with Ragetti's greasy mop, letting the dirty shavings flutter gracefully to the wooden deck they knelt on.

"…Ye should really learn ta cut yer own hair, Rags."

"Why?"

"…'Cos ye may need ta cut it yerself one day…"

"I can't see me own hair. How 'm I gon' cut it?"

"Just… please. Promise me ye'll at least try ta learn… Fer Uncle Pinters?"

"Uhhh, okay! Fer Uncle Pinters!" Ragetti laughed, amused at Pintel's own use of his least favorite of his nephew's endearing names. "I don' understan' why ye wants me to, though."

"I know ye don', Rags… I know ye don'."