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provincial-charmer · 11 months ago

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As Boundless As The Sea

We'll be posting this in order directly from my AO3, so the first two chapters, then updating as more is added, so...

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean

When This Takes Place: After On Stranger Tides, but in the year 1742, due to the fact I really just couldn't stand how many time skips there were and wanted to just keep At World's End 10 year time-skip. There's another reason, but shh...

Rated: This chapter is E for Everyone, as it mostly sets the scene, but later chapters might not be! No warnings for this chapter, either!

Fic Summary: Marco Montero has, for the most part, lived a quiet life. Raised on a family fortune built by academia, he was sent many years ago to Venice, Italy in order to pursue the career of his dreams. However, these dreams would never come to fruition, as the death of his father would suddenly send him back home to Cádiz, Spain, in order to claim what remained of his family inheritance.

What a pity that inheritance also included a steep debt to the Spanish Royal Navy. Eighteen years later, it seemed to get no smaller, and Marco’s threadbare patience only grew thinner with time. That is, until one fateful day, when the work that nearly killed him brought him a strange map...

Chapter One: The Sun Rises Regardless

In which we are introduced to our protagonist, his daughter, his neighbors, and his schedule on his days off.

30th of November of 1742 Today, I dreamt of a storm. A storm too terrible to be natural, one that tossed rugged waves over the deck of the ship as sailors struggled to keep her afloat. The wind threatened to rip her sails apart. The water threatened to sweep her crew away. The only light that reached us came with the clash of lightning, which danced around us in flashes of blue and white. I know not what I was doing aboard. Was I part of the crew, or an unwitting passenger? Was I a body, there to withstand punishment, or merely a ghost, only there to bear witness? It didn’t matter. Whatever I was, I wasn’t staying there. With another crashing wave, a young man near me was swept off of his feet and over the side of the ship. The lightning showed me his face for only a moment. He wasn’t much older than my daughter. His eyes were full of fear. I briefly imagined the grief of his mother, learning she would never see her little one again, his body lost to the unforgiving sea. To lose a man’s body at sea is to be expected, but to lose a child… I couldn’t bear the thought. I dove after him. It was strange, I thought, that I could see the storm better in the water than on the ship. However, I had neither the time nor the mind to question the reason behind it. My focus was on saving my fellow sailor. Luckily for me, he had not drifted far. His body, so light and so fragile, had been swept below the waves. He lingered there, motionless. It wouldn’t be long before he drowned. Quickly I swam down to him. I did my best to wrestle against the ocean’s conflicting currents, but she was a relentless beast, refusing to give way. However, I was equally stubborn, and so with unending determination, I made my way down. But then, I saw something else. As I took hold of him, as I drew him under my arm, the lightning flashed again. And in the light that flashed through the dark ocean, I saw another face, looking up to me from deeper down. It was the face of a young man. One that was younger than me by many years, with long, dark hair tucked under a bandana, and sweet, sorrowful eyes. Eyes that were open. Eyes that watched me. Eyes that were accompanied by other eyes, belonging to other faces in the deep. I was staring at another crew, at another captain, on another ship. A ship that looked as if it sailed under the sea itself. And then I woke up.

As I laid my pen down, I turned to look out the window. Had the weather been warmer, I would have blamed the sun for my nightmare. I had forgotten to draw the curtains shut before retiring the previous evening, so it would not have been difficult for the radiant sunlight to disturb my slumber. Unfortunately, that was not the case, as the sunlight this morning had been far more welcoming against the cold.

I was certain that whatever had troubled my sleep, I only had myself to blame. I couldn’t cast ill blame on the sun. I usually loved waking up to the sun on my face, whether I was watching it through my window or basking in it on my morning walks.

Of course, that was on the days when I awoke at such hours by choice. This was not one of those days.

But then there came a knock at my door. One that I knew by heart. As soon as I heard it, all ill thoughts fell away from my mind.

“Papá?” That darling little voice called to me, “Papá, are you awake yet? I have breakfast!”

I smiled. “I am now! Come in!”

The door carefully creaked open, and in walked Perlita. Perlita was my daughter. Oh, she was just the sweetest little thing, with her strawberry blonde hair cut in short waves, her dark brown eyes shining, and her little blue dress bouncing with each happy step. She was planted on my doorstep around sixteen years ago by a late friend of mine, with only a note with her birth name - Toireasa - and a plea to care for her. How could I refuse?

“Took you long enough!” She teased. “I was afraid you would sleep through the entire morning!”

“Part of me wishes that I did!” I responded in earnest. Certainly, it would have taken precious time out of my day. But my sleep might have been more peaceful. “But the sun seemed to think that I had slept for long enough. I had a nightmare.”

She paused as she was setting down the tray. “Oh, you did? What was it about?”

“The ship in the storm.”

“… Again?”

“Again.”

Perlita sighed. We were quite used to this. The same subject would repeat for some days, if not weeks, and then stop. Then I would have new, unique dreams until another recurrence happened. She was always very sympathetic. I was just glad that she never had to deal with them, for they sometimes granted me some truly cursed visions.

“That’s the second time you’ve dreamt of that.” She went on to say. “I hope it doesn’t happen again. I can’t imagine what it could mean.”

“I think it means I need to stop drinking cocoa before bed.” I set one hand on her shoulder to reassure her, “I'm certain it won’t happen again.”

She frowned in a way that left me uncertain as to whether I had truly convinced her, but regardless, she dropped the subject, instead focusing on serving breakfast. She had always been like this. Worrying over her old man day and night. I was often endeared by it, in spite of how silly it felt at times. I was supposed to be taking care of her, after all!

But then, some part of me couldn’t help but feel bad. Would she worry over me nearly as much if I could take better care of us? If I didn’t have to worry about paying off the Navy, what kind of life would we have? I thought I knew what hers might have been like – all the time in the world to talk to her friends, to learn medicine, to enjoy herself without judgement for who she was.

So what would my life be like? If my father hadn’t fallen on that expedition, if I hadn’t been saddled with this debt, what would I be doing with my time?

I didn’t know. All I knew was that the more I thought about it, the worse it would make me feel. So I pushed it aside. I had to focus on the life we had. Where we were, there and then.

And I had places to be.

Before I continue, allow me the courtesy of an introduction. I am Marco Montero, the last son of Lazzaro and Diamante Montero. At the time, I had spent eighteen long, loathsome years as a translator for the Spanish Royal Navy, with only occasional commission work for other customers. What free time I had was spent helping Perlita read, translating personal subjects in my study, or sitting at one of the local taverns at the docks to watch the world go by. Outside of that, I had very little else on my schedule.

Now, my usual morning routine went as follows: I would wake up, grab a cup of coffee or cocoa, then head out on an early morning stroll. I would walk all throughout the quiet streets to the port, find my usual spot to rest, and watch the sun rise. I would greet whoever might acknowledge me in passing. Then, once the sun had risen fully from the gentle embrace of the sea, if I had nowhere else to be, I would walk back home and get to work.

I had no such work that day. No one had commissioned me in some time, and the Navy had not bothered me for work for several weeks. So I was left with what I hoped was a significant amount of free time. Once I had gotten dressed, I took my cup of coffee, thanked Perlita for cooking with a kiss on her head, retrieved Orfeo from his cage, and headed down to the docks.

Ah, that’s right!

Orfeo!

I haven’t introduced him yet!

Orfeo was the family pet. A Macaw of proud stature who had been with the family for nearly twelve years at the time. He was a big bird, with feathers the color of sapphire, tall enough to stare down small children and playful enough to pull at their hair. But we taught him how to act and how to talk, so that he would behave himself in such situations. He only pulled on someone’s hair if they upset him, or if we gave him the secret signal to be a little troublemaker. And when he behaved well enough, we would reward him with treats.

He loved plátanos and mangos best.

As I removed him from his enclosure for our morning routine, he greeted me as he always did, with a facsimile of Perlita’s voice. “¡Buenos días papá!”

“Ah, buenos días, Orfeo! How did you sleep?”

“How did you sleep?”

I laughed. He was imitating me now. “No, no, I asked you first! How did you sleep, Orfeo?”

He would do this sometimes, making circles out of conversations. But I was patient. I had to give him the chance to properly respond. He would know what I meant after a few rounds.

Eventually, after some thoughtful bounces on his part, he finally gave me a different answer. “Like a baby! ”

“Good boy!” I responded, holding out a small plátano piece for him. He took it with his beak so carefully, it was as if he was handling glass.

I always tried to tell people he was smarter than he seemed. Sometimes, he would hold entire conversations with himself, in absence of me or my little pearl! I’ve caught him doing it! Sometimes, he would even come up with responses to conversations that I never taught him! Yes, surely he copied them from others, but the fact still remains that he learned to apply it!

And yet our neighbors were insistent that he was nothing more than some “dumb tropical bird.”

Pah!

I took him with me on my morning walk, as I always did when the weather was fair enough for him. And it was off to the docks we went!

The docks were easily one of my favorite parts of Cádiz. Second only to the beaches and bakeries, of course. Ever since I was little, I loved heading out at the earliest hours I could, just so I could watch them come to life. I watched the sails of returning ships billow in the breeze before they were doused, as men on the docks and on the boats prepared for the arrival of the other, voices calling out to one another, like seagulls coming home.

They were always glad to see the land, too. There was never a sailor who came back who didn’t share some look of relief at the sight of the pier, or show a big smile when he undoubtedly saw someone he recognized waiting for him, to be answered with a cry of joy in return. For I watched as loved ones came out bright and early to see their ships return, tying their hair up as nicely as they could with pretty little ribbons of all colors, waving favors and hands to greet their jolly sailors.

Today, a ship of particular pride was brought to port. Yes, new ships were always a sight, but this one in particular was truly a sight to behold. One that caught my eyes as well as the eyes of any dock workers awake at that hour.

The Pride of Venus.

She was a ship of the line, and a fine example of her craft. No other ship present could compare. Elegant and lethal, she was fully rigged with three masts, three decks full of cannons, and three emblems of the Spanish Royal Navy hand-sewn upon her sails, with details of doves and dolphins on display anywhere they could be painted or carved. Her figurehead itself represented Venus in all her glory, rising from the waves with her arms outstretched in invitation. The sunlight warmed her painted skin so much, she looked like she was just as real as I was from a distance.

She was a treasured gift to King Philip V from King Louis XV. Any Spaniard would have been proud to sail under her banner, making their way in the world with such beauty beneath them.

I would have been proud of her too, if only she didn’t serve the Navy. But I could admire her fine craftsmanship without thinking of the blood she was stained with. The art of creating such beautiful vessels was slowly but surely falling out of public practice. Newer ships were being made with more cannons, more masts, and sleeker, simpler shapes, leaving little room for expressions of art such as this.

It was such a shame. It was far easier to identify ships and their captains from afar when their ships were just as unique as they were. If they all started to look alike, I was afraid I wouldn’t enjoy watching them anymore. And one day, The Pride of Venus would fall out of my sight forever, into the endless blue sea.

My only hope was that, perhaps if such creatures as merfolk existed, then they would appreciate such ships as her more than we ever could. That perhaps the fish in the sea would make a good home from her bones.

Still, I could appreciate her while she stood. So I did. I slowly whittled away at my coffee, getting lost in dreamy ideas as to her adventures overseas while the world came to life around her. Dock workers helped tie her and other vessels down, while their crews filed out of their ships in orderly lines. The sailors maintained their professional airs while their captains addressed them, but once they were dismissed, they turned from men into boys once again. Those that had loved ones to reunite with did, running to them with much excitement, to be greeted with excitement in kind by those they left ashore.

Some of them were taken into open arms, while others had their weary faces cradled in the hands of their other halves. A lucky few were painted in kisses from sweethearts that clearly missed them just as much, leaving colorful marks of affection wherever they could.

I did my best to ignore that. Instead, I drank in the warmth of the sun, the songs of the gulls, and the smell of the sea, along with my coffee. Once my cup was empty, I wiped it clean, stowed it, and moved on.

My next stop was the book store. Carrasco’s Book Shop, to be precise. Pearce was an old business associate of mine, having worked with my father long ago. Whenever I needed new paper, or was interested in the newest book release, he was the man I went to.

Orfeo couldn’t come inside. This was due to a no-pets policy on Pearce’s part. An understandable rule, given the destruction any untrained animal could inflict upon those old bookshelves. Even my lovely bird was no exception, with beaks and talons that could make bedding out of any book’s pages. At my command, Orfeo flew up atop the sign for the shop and stayed there, well out of the reach of any would-be thieves. He was a very valuable bird, after all. Very pretty and bright.

The bell above the door announced my arrival, prompting a look from Pearce behind the counter. He was a lean old man, as lithe and lax as an old cat, with just as fine of a face. What few scars he bore at his neck and arms told of his old life at sea, the life he said he had left behind for the comfort of the shore. He seemed to be finishing setting up shop for the morning, as I could see him putting a few things beneath the counter when I arrived. When he saw me, he smiled.

“Good morning, Marco!” He greeted me, with a voice that creaked softly. “Normally you’re here before I’m open! Is it safe to assume that you slept in?”

“Yes, sir,” I responded with a smile of my own, “but certainly not by choice.”

“Is it ever by choice?” Said he. It was a tease, we both knew, so we shared a chuckle at the idea. Once he was finished putting things away, he then told me, “Your order arrived just this morning! If you’ll allow me to fetch it for you…”

“Of course, sir! Take your time!”

And so he disappeared into a room behind the counter, well out of sight. While I waited, I looked around. Hand-painted scenes on the wall depicted all kinds of adventurous moments, from a meeting of politicians to a crew of sailors heading out to sea. A fisherman had caught a mermaid on his line above one shelf, while another showed a procession of fairies walking through the woods, to the amazement of the children looking on from the bushes. Opposite of the sailors, a crew of pirates were burying their treasure, with their captain hiding a pistol behind his back.

They had not been repainted in some time, so all their colors were worn. But in my mind, they were as bright as they were when I first walked into the shop, back when I was just a child. My father would happily chatter with Pearce while I looked through the shelves, only to stare at me in shock at the tower of books I came out with. My appetite for knowledge was insatiable.

It still was. I just didn’t have as much desire to read as I used to. And most of it I had already read through countless times. I didn’t pick up too many books these days.

“Here you are,” Pearce said as he came out, holding a wooden crate of fair size, “all blank pages, as requested! I have the paper for you to sign here…”

I watched as he set the crate on the counter, waiting until he had fully released it before going to inspect it for damages. Sometimes, my shipments from overseas came in less… desirable condition. So it was always good to check.

The crate itself looked to be intact, save for some residual dampness from the rain the night before. Upon prying the lid off, however, I was relieved to find all the paper inside to be completely untouched. Dry as sand, even. Perfect!

He handed me the papers to confirm I had received my package, and I took them, and the quill, quite happily… only to stop.

The name on the shipping order wasn’t mine.

Instead of Marco Montero, it was addressed to Lazzaro Montero.

My father.

This happened sometimes. Mail for our house would come in with my father’s name, even though he had been dead for many years. It had been so long, in fact, that I had made the mistake of assuming these kinds of things would eventually stop.

I was wrong. As usual.

“... Marco?”

I glanced up to Pearce.

“Is everything alright?” He asked me. His oak-brown eyes were alight with concern behind his eyeglasses. “Is anything damaged?”

“Oh, no,” I reassured him, “not at all! In fact, it’s all in remarkably good condition! It’s just… they put my father’s name on it again. See?”

I showed him the paper, taking care to point out where his name was. Upon seeing it, his expression fell only further. “Oh, Marco, I’m so sorry… You would think they would learn to fix that by now!”

“You would think… ”

Regardless, I signed the paper with my name. When I handed the paper and quill back, Pearce reassured me, “I’ll correct them as soon as I’m able. This can not keep happening, it’s incredibly unprofessional…”

He didn’t need to. Not because nothing would change, but because it didn’t bother me as much as it used to. It was just one small thing. An ant hill in a mountain of other, far more worrisome things. That, and I confess, I did still miss him. Sometimes, it was nice to think that perhaps that name wasn’t a mistake, and I would see him again when I went home.

I would. But never in the flesh. I had long since accepted that.

Holding the crate under one arm, I made my way to my next destination: a bakery. It was only a wooden crate full of parcels of paper, so it was no trouble for me to carry on my walk, even with Orfeo having returned to my shoulder. I walked slowly through the streets, letting the smell of firing ovens and baking bread delight my senses. If the coffee didn’t wake me up, this smell always would, without failure.

I was most loyal to one bakery in particular. I could partake of the others whenever I liked, but my most devoted business was reserved for the Belmonte Family Bakery. It belonged to one of my dearest friends, Isabela.

Isabela wasn’t the easiest friend to make, mind you. She was hard to crack open, with a harsh temper. To me, she was like one of those German nutcrackers, with a bite that could break bone and a stiff spine that no man could bend. In spite of it all, I knew that beneath that harsh exterior was a good heart. I wouldn’t hear anyone say otherwise.

She was already dealing with a customer when I came in, so her greeting to me was brief. “Morning, búho!”

“Morning, burra!”

She finished packing up a loaf of bread for a young man she was dealing with, then spotted the crate under my arm and stopped. She tilted her head and frowned, a crooked frown that favored the right side of her face more than her left.

“That’s funny, I don’t recall ordering any books.”

“Ah, that’s because you didn’t. This order is mine. ”

“So what are you doing bringing it into my shop, then?” She asked.

I teased her and replied, “I figured you could use kindling for your oven. I don’t see any devils flying about to keep it alight, so I must assume you’re actually using your firewood, in which case you must be struggling.”

She laughed. It was a loud sound, and a lovely one at that. “Ah, so you’ve noticed! Give it an hour or two, then you’ll see them, don’t you worry!”

Once she had sent her customer on his merry way, she turned fully to me. She leaned against the counter with one arm as she asked, “Now, what do you need?”

“I was wondering what your recommendation would be for us today.” I then told her, smiling. “I’m thinking Perlita and I could try something new!”

Her proud brow-line lifted slowly. “New? You? Ha!” She scoffed loudly at this. “The day you try something new is the day Hell freezes over!”

“Ah, but you were married to the Devil once,” I teased, “so you would know if Hell was cold today, wouldn’t you?”

This got a good, long laugh out of her. This was because her former husband was a terrible, terrible man. One with a hard-earned reputation for putting past wives in the ground. He died several years ago, having apparently choked on his dinner.

She insisted she had nothing to do with it. I pretended to believe her.

When she could eventually speak again, she said to me, “Well, he was always complaining about having me around, so I figured I would give him some space. But the next time I go down to see him, I’ll check on him, just for you~”

She then gestured for me to set my belongings aside with a wave of her hand, so while she perused what she had on display, I set the crate on the part of the counter farthest away from her work space.

As I stood there waiting, I took the time to enjoy the atmosphere of the room. There was some comfort to be found in roasting wheat, in the smell of toasting almonds and slightly burned sugar. Isabela’s cooking always felt comforting. For all how harsh her exterior was, one could taste the truth in her mazapán, delicate and sweet. One could feel her comfort in the warmth of her bread, and find her kindness in the quiet tang of her mantecados.

But it wasn’t mantecados she brought me, or mazapán. Instead, what she brought up was a small woven basket, full of sugar-dusted pastries cut into familiar, fluffy squares. I would recognize them anywhere. My mother baked them every so often for my father when we were small.

Beignets.

My familiarity must have been obvious, for her typical biting commentary came more softly than before. “It’s been a while since you’ve had these, right?” She asked. “The man who ordered these threw me a fit, so he didn’t get them. I don’t know if you still like them or not, but…”

Looking over to her, I only said this: “If ever I were to fall out of love with beignets, then I would no longer be myself. How much do you want?”

“Don’t bother.” She slid the basket over to me. “It’s on the house.”

Now, I hated to leave anyone unpaid for their services, and she knew this. But when I tried to object, as she no doubt knew I would have, she only snapped her fingers at me. “And you’re going to take it, or it’s going on the house, got it?”

“But– you could still sell it to me–”

“I’m not selling anything that isn’t hot and fresh.” She rolled her eyes and huffed. “ Please. At least I know you’ll eat them. Now take them and go, before another customer sees.”

So I looped the basket over one of my arms, took up my shipment, and did just that. If Perlita somehow didn’t appreciate the treat, I knew that I would.

Perlita was already gone by the time I had returned. She was apprenticed to Dr. De la Fuente, and so spent much of her afternoons with him, learning what she could on medicine and the human body. He was the only one willing to teach her, as no one else took her seriously when she told them she wanted to be a doctor.

This was alright with me. I knew she would be safe there. And it gave me plenty of time to myself. I set all of my things aside, set the basket of beignets on the coffee table, then took my shipment of paper upstairs to my office. But not before putting Orfeo away.

Once I was inside, I got to work sorting out my shipment. The parcels were sorted onto my paper shelf one by one, nestled in neat and orderly fashion with the rest of the blank paper I had. It kept them cleaner to leave them in their parcels, rather than removing them. Especially with a pet like Orfeo. As well as he behaved, he still could make a mess if I wasn’t careful!

That, and my office didn’t have that much space. Compared to my bedchambers, it was much smaller, with only enough space for my writing desk, my work table for book binding, and some bookshelves for storage. The window to the room also wasn’t as big. My father’s personal study back at our old home was much larger, with more breathing room, more books, more seating…

This office felt more fitting for a mouse. I could scarcely be satisfied with my sorting, when I didn’t have much room to store the new paper in the first place. This was the other reason they stayed in their parcels.

Not wanting to get lost in my thoughts, I went back downstairs for the beignets. With no commission work currently available, no tasks from the Navy, and Perlita gone from the house, I was hoping to finally be able to relax. So I took a beignet for myself, seated myself in the nicest armchair in the reception room, and was just getting ready to take my first bite… when I heard it.

A knock at the front door.

This knock was also familiar to me. However, unlike Perlita’s knock, this was a knock I never looked forward to answering. Also unlike Perlita’s knock, this was a knock that I couldn’t turn down. With a great sigh, I rose from the chair I had just seated myself in. I took a bite of my beignet to comfort myself, then came to answer the door.

When the door opened, I was greeted with a charming smile. One filled cheek to cheek with wolf’s teeth.

For my own well-being, I chose to be polite. So I answered his smile with one of my own.

“Ah. Good morning, Captain Gutiérrez.”

#my writing #potc #pirates of the caribbean #there's nobody familiar to tag for in this first chapter #and nothing to warn about #it's just a pleasant little mood setter I think #also researching foods and ships for this time period was a LOT more relaxing than researching the salary of a translator in 1742 #the internet is NO HELP THESE DAYS #also i love and hate the formatting differences #this was all nicely spaced and indented in the google doc...#ocs #original characters #much later down the line it'll be oc x canon as a heads up #As Boundless As The Sea #will be the tag for this

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provincial-charmer · 11 months ago

Text

As Boundless As The Sea

SURPRISE! It's Chapter Two! Immediately! Because I already had it posted elsewhere so I figured why not! Also hey, first mention of an actual canon character!

If you want taken back to Chapter One, it's over here!

Rated: E for Everyone, briefly slipping toward PG

Warnings: Mentions of religious persecution, the Spanish Inquisition warrants a warning all it's own, brief implications of watching a burning at the stake, brief mentions of torture that Marco doesn't fully listen to because he briefly DISSOCIATES, which, also, warning for very brief dissociation

Recommended Listening: "Map and Willie" by Dave Grusin, from The Goonies soundtrack

Chapter Two: Enter Captain Gutiérrez

In which we are introduced to our central antagonist, as well as our treasure map. Can't have a treasure hunt without one of those.

Captain Aurelio Guiomar Gutiérrez was a mountain of a man. With a heavy mane of hair in varying shades of grey and white and a large, fur-trimmed coat laid over his already broad shoulders, no light came through the door so long as he stood there. I might have been deceived into thinking there was light in his eyes, but it could have been a dim reflection of the sun, too ashamed to look upon him fully.

It also could have been the firelight of Hell. I couldn’t tell. What I could tell was that he came to me with all the joy of a carnivore in his face. And what brought him joy only ever brought me misery.

He returned my greeting by tipping his hat as his smile grew wider still. “And a good morning to you as well, Marco! I hope you’re enjoying your break!”

I looked down to the beignet in my hand. In response, I told him with false playfulness, “I was enjoying it, before you showed up.”

He laughed. It was a heavy sound that shook the bones of any who heard it. Which wasn’t a compliment. “Oh, don’t worry! I won’t take too much of your time! I just have a new job for you! That’s all!”

“Oh, good. ” I responded, knowing it wouldn’t be good at all.

“Now, now, don’t give me that!” He then said to me in a scolding manner I assumed was intended to be playful, only to clap a hand onto my shoulder with far too much force for my comfort. “I think you’re going to enjoy this one!”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve said that before…”

“And I’ve meant it every time! If I may?”

As he gestured to my house with his free hand, I sighed. Of course he wanted in. As if I could refuse him.

“You may.” I removed his hand from my shoulder so I could step aside. “Right this way, Capitán. ”

His smile grew wider, showing more teeth, before he had the dignity to close his mouth and enter. Now, when he smiled with a closed mouth, that was one of the only times I could have been fooled into thinking his smile was pleasant. That was how I figured many felt about him. He might have been pleasant to listen to for some – somehow – and he might have been pleasant to look at for others – somehow – but as soon as he opened his mouth…

“May I also take one of these?” He then asked me, as he pointed at the basket of beignets in passing.

I wanted to say no. But he was my guest. My higher-ranking, terribly influential guest. “ Sí, sí puedes. But only one! I want there to still be some for Perlita when she gets home, do you understand?”

“ Sí, sí, I understand…”

He said this as he took the biggest beignet out of the basket. Bastardo.

Now Aurelio, he loved dragging his visits out well into the day. I hardly saw him in years past due to the War of the Agreement, so I didn’t have to dread his visits very often. However, seeing now that he had come back to stay, he seemed to want to take as much of my time as possible. Normally, I would tolerate those conversations to a certain point, then say a key word or phrase that would signal to him that it was time to go.

Not here. I wanted this conversation to last no longer than it needed to. So as we approached the coffee table, I got right to the point. “Now, what am I translating this time?” I asked him. “Not another religious text, I hope?”

I took my first bite out of the beignet after asking him this. And I will admit, the sugar certainly helped me to tolerate him. But only a little.

“Not at all!” He started to tell me with a wave of his hand. “This request has nothing to do with the church whatsoever!”

Ah, wonderful, I started thinking to myself, I won’t have to deal with the –

“Instead, this request comes from Her Royal Majesty, Queen Isabel de Farnesio!”

As quickly as my relief came, it went, and with it went my appetite.

For all my work for the Navy, this much could be said: whatever the Navy made me do was almost always within the realm of what I knew, and they were almost always completely transparent with me on who made the request. This was one of the few benefits to being employed by those who knew exactly the limitations of my education. It also helped that I knew exactly who to curse out when I was losing too much sleep.

But for all the translations I had made before, the requests never came from royalty. This… this was unheard of.

“… Queen Isabel?” I asked him, slowly, to which he gave but a single nod. “What in the world would she want me to translate?”

His smile grew, and there were the teeth again. I regretted asking immediately. “See for yourself.”

The Captain then removed a scroll case he had so carefully concealed under his coat. Had I been paying more attention when he had come in, I’m certain I would have noticed it sooner. But I did not. Instead, I stared at this case, struck silent by the mark of the Spanish royal family upon its seal.

Luckily, I always kept a pair of gloves in one of my pockets, should it get too cold to head out bare-handed. So to protect the case from the evidence of my eating, I put them on before handling the case myself. Even though the case was clearly made by the Crown, and so was in no danger of breaking to my touch, I was still as cautious as could be in opening it. But the cap twisted off easily enough, releasing to me the smell of sea salt and stale blood.

All things considered, I was relieved to smell nothing worse.

Slowly, I tipped the case so what was inside would slide into my open hand. What then slipped out nearly stopped my heart. For something of this case size, I expected it to be made out of linen, or perhaps cotton.

Instead, what fell into my hand was papyrus.

For those who may not know, papyrus is made from the pith - or medulla - of the papyrus plant, rather than the cloth that we use. It was most prominently documented as being used by the Egyptians, but was used by other cultures of the Mediterranean Sea, as well as several Asian cultures.

Up to this point, I had never been given the honor of handling papyrus. The last I had seen of it was on display in someone’s home in Venice, back when I had lived there many years ago. There, no one was ever allowed to touch it, given its age. It may very well have fallen apart if anyone so much as bent it the wrong way.

Yet here it was. A piece of history, sitting in my hands.

I was captivated. He could have presented me with the crown of the King himself and I would have regarded it with less respect.

Carefully, so carefully, I moved everything else on the coffee table aside to unroll the scroll fully. I did this as slowly as I could, not just to see what was on it, but to listen to the sound it made. It had a satisfying crackle to it that pleased the ears. I made certain not to fracture or tear it in the process. Not that I needed to, as it appeared an entire section of the scroll was missing when fully unfurled.

What I saw upon it then was… a map. An honest-to-God map.

“… Capitán, ” I slowly started to ask, “How did you…”

Then I stopped myself. I didn’t need to ask how. It was the Spanish Navy. The greatest likelihood is that they stole it. Instead I asked, “Where did you even find this?”

When I looked back up to him, he looked too proud. “We happened to recover it from the hands of a recently acquired prisoner of ours,” He answered, “one Capitán Jack Sparrow. ”

I actively had to hold my breath to prevent myself from sighing again. Captain Jack Sparrow. Of course. It couldn’t have been anyone else, out of all pirates, no no. It just had to be him…

The Captain continued, either ignorant to my recognition of the name or uncaring of it. “At first, he didn’t want to tell us anything about it. He tried giving us every name and excuse he could, if it meant we could have let him and his scruffy friend go. Pájaro terco. ”

He scoffed, before taking another bite of his beignet. He didn’t even wait until he was done chewing before going on. Luckily he got nothing on the map.

“Once we placed him in the hands of the Inquisition, they wasted no time making him sing.”

A chill came over me then. As it always did, whenever the Inquisition was brought up in conversation.

The Spanish Inquisition, or the Tribunal del Santo Oficio de la Inquisición, as was the full title, was a truly wicked organization, loudly professing their loyalty to the Crown of Spain and God above while committing the most heinous crimes in their name. They claimed to know the word of God, yet acted with such wickedness that I felt even the Devil would have crossed himself in their presence.

No part of our history involving them was good. There was not one good thing they did for us, as a people, a community, or a civilization. My own personal history in dealing with them was especially unpleasant. So much so that I neither saw Captain Gutiérrez’s mouth move nor heard anything else of what he said.

All that was in my mind was fire. Fire, and rain, and the curses that my mother spoke above a raging storm, scorned by an auto de fe.

I struggled to force the images out of my mind as I looked back down to the map. I had no immediate recognition of the geography compared to modern charts. And aside from the unfamiliar coastlines drawn out, there were several islands scattered around the paths marked on the map that I couldn’t immediately recall. I couldn’t even make out the end of the trail. That was the section that had been torn off.

How unfortunate.

“… it’s truly a shame they didn’t have to whip him much. Considering what he said to us, I feel he should have lost more skin for it. Ah, well.”

It was then I remembered where I was, and who I had the misfortune of talking to.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

I looked up to see Captain Gutiérrez regarding the map and I with a familiar fondness. One that seemed to seek some kind of approval from me, for reasons I could never figure out. To satisfy this, I agreed with him. “It is. In all my years of working here, I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you know how this came into Capitán Sparrow’s possession?”

He thought well about this. I figured he was looking for the right words, as I had assumed by this point that there were some things the Spanish Royal Navy knew that I, being a common man, was not privy to. So as much as I imagine he didn’t want to be, he had to be careful with what he told me.

During this silence, I briefly imagined the satisfaction one must have found in being in a position that was able to tell him ‘no’ and get away with it. I also fantasized about a quarry in one of his big game hunts overseas devouring him with the same elegant carelessness that he devoured the beignet.

I quite liked the idea of it being a lioness. Or a bear. Or perhaps a particularly humble little family of piranhas that he tripped and fell into the jaws of while trying to cross a river.

I liked that last one especially.

Eventually, he found his answer. “Well, according to Sparrow, he, eh… acquired the map from a rival of his. A piece was torn off in his escape, so that remains with the previous owners. When he finally told us where he believed it led, Queen Isabel was most interested in authenticating his claim, and sent me out to find one who could translate the languages present.”

“I recognized one of them as Ancient Greek, then recalled you mentioning you had studied Greek while you worked abroad. So I went to find you at once.”

On my second look at the map, I noted that yes, Ancient Greek was there… alongside Egyptian hieroglyphs. The latter was used on the names of locations such as land masses, cities, rivers and oceans, and the former was more common as fragments scattered throughout. In my mind, the parts in Greek were likely notes made by whoever purchased the map when it was first made. The hieroglyphs had to be from the map’s creators.

An Ancient Egyptian map with notes from an Ancient Greek expedition… were it any other circumstance on any other day, I would have been beside myself with joy. It just had to be a work-related translation…

“Well, you should consider yourself lucky you managed to catch me when you did.” I then told him. I did my best not to let my disappointment at the situation show. “I’ll have plenty of time to translate it for you, seeing as you caught me before I could even schedule my next hunting trip. ”

I brushed my fingers gently over the surface of the map as I said this. It was a marvel holding such a priceless piece. Alas, I couldn’t ignore who it came from. It was a map valued by a pirate , after all. If Jack Sparrow himself was interested in it…

I had to ask. “Where did he say it leads? I imagine he would have been after something incredibly valuable for the Queen of Spain to be interested…”

Captain Gutiérrez straightened himself up and told me, beaming with well-contained excitement, “ Well, if Sparrow is to be believed… then it may well lead to Atlantis.”

I looked up to him from where I sat.

He looked down at me from where he stood.

The silence weighed heavy like an anchor between us.

Did I hear him correctly?

I might not have. Best to check.

“… Atlantis.” I slowly said.

"Sí,” He repeated. “Atlantis.”

“The ancient city, lost to the Greeks.” I went on. “The city said to have spurned the gods, and to have sunk beneath the waves for it? That city?”

“One and the same!”

As I slowly looked back down to the map, the academic in me wanted to laugh. All through my years I had heard scholars and sailors alike tell stories of their search for it, only to return humbled and empty-handed. And I myself had participated in my own share of debates as to the validity of its existence. I was among the audience believing the theory that Atlantis was invented by Plato to try and warn his own people to be more humble. Nothing else would have made sense to me. There was simply no way an entire city could sink to the bottom of the sea without any outside record or evidence.

It was a cautionary tale to me. Nothing more.

And yet, part of me wanted to believe in it. That part of me that grew up loving the tales of my father’s expeditions – that believed every fantastical story my brother Thorello told me to help me sleep at night – wanted to believe that Atlantis was real, and that it was out there, waiting to be uncovered.

Waiting for someone like me.

That, and there was no denying the age of the map before me, nor whose hands it came from. It would have taken a master to try and recreate a map like this for any kind of forgery. Even if it proved to be yet another dead end, I allowed myself the briefest moment to fantasize…

Realistically, it could have been a ruin, like so many others. A husk of its former self. It might not have even had much to offer in the way of monetary gain. But oh, the possibilities! Mosaics and pottery! Glimpses of ancient artwork and architecture! Undiscovered historical records, memories from the people that lived there, depictions of now-extinct wildlife, or perhaps even the fragments of an incomplete epic… the possibilities were endless!

Oh, if only it had fallen into someone else’s hands! If only it wasn’t the Spanish Royal Navy that had found it! I knew exactly where all that was found in Atlantis would go if they got their hands on it.

Still, the map I held in my hands was real, there was no mistake about that. Whether the destination was real or not had yet to be seen. All I knew was that I had my work cut out for me in translating it.

Which begged the question… “So how much will I be paid to translate it?”

Captain Gutiérrez grinned. “That’s the best part,” He started to say. He proceeded to finish off his beignet with a few final bites before continuing. “ If it happens to lead to Atlantis, and if we are able to claim it in the name of Spain, then I’ve convinced them that it should be a valuable enough find to dismiss what remains of your debt! Rather clever of me, don’t you think?”

There were no words I could recall, in any of the countless languages I had been taught, that could at all describe all the conflicting feelings that arose in that singular moment. But I will still try to explain, in brief, to the best of my ability.

See, my debt to the Navy, at the time, was not the traditional kind of debt. I wasn’t told specific numbers to work toward paying off, nor was I allowed to even ask how much was left. If I tried, all I got were vague answers. Professional speeches that sounded perfect on paper, yet gave no real human comfort.

Not once, in eighteen, almost nineteen years of service, was I ever told, “doing this will absolve you of the rest of your debt.”

It felt too good to be true. Like a dream I had yet to wake up from, before the tiles beneath my feet suddenly collapsed out from beneath me and dropped me into sea.

But that was just it. It was too good to be true. If not for just one word in that entire conversation, I might have jumped for joy. I might have kissed a man, even, if not for that one accursed word.

"… ‘If’?” I asked.

"Sí. ‘If’.” Captain Gutiérrez confirmed. That proud grin on his face fell when he said that, but it fell in a way I couldn’t read clearly. I could never quite tell if his hopes for me were sincere or not. “Sadly, it will not be so easy for me to convince them to pay you as much if it doesn’t lead to Atlantis. So I suppose you’ll need to authenticate it first.”

“After all, there’s no speaking for what has not yet been proven, is there?”

I knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. What little hope had stirred slowly turned to hatred. Hatred that I didn’t allow to show in my voice, knowing just how much power he had over me in this situation.

“… No, there isn’t.”

“As I thought!” He clapped his hands together. “How soon can you have it done?”

Slowly, I breathed in, then out. Re-imagining the piranhas helped, to some extent. “If you’re only asking for authentication,” I told him, “it should take me no more than a day or two, once it’s clean. A full translation of the map will take much longer, depending on if you want me to make a fully translated copy or merely make notes on what the original says.”

“We’ll prioritize authentication, then.” He said this with a honeyed sweetness that, to me, tasted like poison. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

I smiled back at him as he rose, as he passed me by, even as he broke his own word and stole two more beignets out of that little woven basket. I let him think I didn’t notice. Only when I knew his back was to me did I let it fall, scowling as I had wanted to for the entire conversation. As he made ready to leave, I heard him pause at the door. I could feel him staring at my back. How I loathed the sensation.

“Oh! And thank you for the beignets! They’re delicious!”

My hands slowly tightened their grip on the table as he left. It took every good grace within me to resist the urge to throw the remainder of the basket at the back of his head. But that would have wasted perfectly good food. Then Perlita wouldn’t have been able to have any.

Once my door was shut, and I knew with absolute certainty that he was gone, I let myself relax. I was left alone with my thoughts, once so neatly organized, now all disoriented by the weight of the task laid before me.

I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Mierda...”

Whatever beignets were left in the basket, I left for Perlita. I was no longer hungry for them. Instead, I washed my hands properly before taking the map, the case, and my gloves up to my office to begin work. By the time she finally came back about six hours later, that’s precisely where she found me.

Alone, in my office, working the daylight away.

As usual.

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