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Pearl Tales
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Pirates of the Caribbean
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a Challenge:
Sunday
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By Honorat ~ Sunday Skirmish ~ By Cymbeline ~ Sunday Promise ~ Head bowed, Gibbs clenched a piece of paper in his hand. It bore
a few scrawled words from Will. Cursing unintelligibly he turned
to survey the crew who was at “Move faster! We sail for Port Royal at first light!” He shouted, startling Cotton who nearby splicing some line. The parrot raised itself up and flapped its wings, “Water in the rum, water in the rum!” “I know its daft, don’t need the likes of you telling me that,” Gibbs shook the crumpled paper at the bird. “Can’t just sit idly by, he deserves better,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the deck. Anamaria blocked his way, arms crossed. Uncomfortably he looked her in the eye. “What about the code? You remember, the one you stressed so heavily when we left him behind?” Taking in a deep breath he stepped closer to her, “What about it? Bugger the code, written by bloody half wits.” More of the crew had gathered closer to watch this spectacle. It wasn’t often that Gibbs and Anamaria were in the same breathing space, and when it did happen the sparks would fly. He gestured with a finger towards the dock, “Those of you who are with a clean conscience can depart now.” Not a soul moved but he could hear a few whispers. Turning to face them he smiled, “What kind of pirates are we if we don’t go breakin’ the rules now and then. What say you?” The reply was thunderous, “Aye!” save for Anamaria who stood still glaring at him. To Anamaria he said quietly, “If his feet are on this deck by sundown on Sunday will that satisfy?” “Aye,” she replied. By Geek Mama ~ Sunday Dinner ~ By Felaine ~ Sunday
Morning with Elizabeth ~ "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her
price is far above rubies." I despise when the readings at Divine Services seem aimed directly at me, to rub my nose in supposed flaws as if I were an errant puppy. Today it was that wretched passage about virtuous women. I could hear those overfed tabbies behind me in the pews, laughing and sharpening their claws, and the insufferable officers from the Dauntless were just as bad. They're all so bedeviled by the virtue of modesty; what about the virtue of courage? It was all I could do to keep seated. Afterward, Lieutenant Gillette had the audacity to approach me. (I cannot recall the man's first name, except that it begins with a vowel; Egbert, Oswold, Yancy?) "You seemed fascinated by the homily, Miss Swann." "Indeed?" I summonsed my best the-governor's-daughter-is-not-amused tone but he seemed oblivious, a common state for him. "Yes, 'indeed'. Your foot was tapping so rapidly throughout, it sounded like the counterpoint to a minuet." He glanced over my shoulder; his smirk changed to respectful deference and he bowed himself away. "You must not take everything personally, my dear." I turned and was facing Mrs. Demerest, widow of the former vicar, president of the Altar Society, Pillar of Virtue. "I am sorry you were disturbed by us during the Service, but it was truly unintentional." It must have been clear from my look I didn't believe her. She sighed. "I have enjoyed more of the harvest's bounty than was good for me this year, and when I stood for the Readings, my side seam gave way. We all found it mildly amusing but then that naughty Lieutenant Gillette behind us whispered, 'Look, Theo; she's struck her colors!' and I fear both pews succumbed to a most impious fit of giggling. Untoward and childish of us, I admit; but--" and she lifted my chin with her hand to look directly at me, "--it was not about you. You and your most handsome, engaging young man wish to be given
the benefit of the doubt in this town, I understand that. I will
do everything within my influence to see that happens. Perhaps
you could do the same when dealing with us."
By Virgo79 ~ Endures All Things: Sunday Morning ~ Sequel to Endures All Things and Misery In Good Company By Honorat Selonnet ~ Herb of Grace o' Sundays ~ He’s always been a man of the Enlightenment, a proponent of Reason, an admirer of Hobbes and Locke and Voltaire. He’s always smiled condescendingly and tolerated the small superstitions of the men he commands—the feather of a wren killed on New Years Day in the pocket, the sign against the evil eye, the horseshoe on the mast. Even now he doesn’t quite believe his own memories. The blood has been cleaned from his blade and his uniform. The pirates in his cells are human and die as men do die. None of his officers speaks about that night. Perhaps it had been the bad air—the air had been most foul. However, there are shadows in the corners that he has never noticed before. And when he sets foot on the quarterdeck of the Dauntless, the sea, his true home for all these years, is more unfathomable, more mysterious, more perilous than it has been since he was a child. He is a rational man, a man of sense and courage. And yet . . . his hand in the pocket of his coat closes around the small sprig of blessed rue. The End * * * * *
By Diana North
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