Frankincense for the King
Elizabeth awoke to an empty bed and a pain she could only liken to the babe within her attempting to chisel its way out of her belly with a blunted fork. She gritted her teeth, the splayed fingers of her right hand dipping into the cool imprint left by Jack’s body.
Well, he’s gone to the city, then. And why shouldn’t he? You’re as big as a horse, Lizzie-girl, and ten times as ornery.
It’s not that she blamed him for leaving; or rather, she can no more condemn him for fleeing than she can condemn herself for far greater betrayals.
The chill of iron beneath her fingertips loomed closer each day, it seemed.
Jack.
Her fingers curled into the wrinkles his hips had created, the sensation of the cool, cotton ridges rolling between her fingers and sending a tingle zipping up her forearm and into her shoulder-socket. She grasped at the sheets, yawning and imagining him beside her.
Because she couldn’t roll to her stomach and bury herself in his scent, she drew the sheets from the mattress and bundled herself in what remained of him: the ghosts of his slumber contained in those yellowing, threadbare scraps of fabric. Inhaling a mouthful of sheet and air, her lips opened against the blankets in an attempt to conjure something of the taste of him.
You need a bath, Jack Sparrow.
There would had been a time – not so long ago, really – when Jack’s particular tang would have smothered her, and she’d have been calling for Estrella with the bathwater before he’d set a toe into her bed. Now, though – in these strange, lonely days beyond the edges of the map - she welcomed him just as he was, loathe to allow him to wash a finger for fear that some small part of him would wash away with each sud.
She remained swaddled for what felt like hours. The blankets warmed slowly, her breath collecting in the corners of her cocoon until the molten haze of her body-heat scorched her cheeks, rendering breathing difficult.
“I see you’ve steamed yourself again, Dumpling,” Jack’s sly voice whispered behind her eyes.
And it was then that she heard it – that clink-clink of glass on metal, the ping and clank of cutlery rattling into the room.
“Elizabeth?”
She poked her head out of her chrysalis, an eyebrow rising. “Did you just call me ‘Dumpling’, Jack?”
A wry, Cheshire smile uncurled across his face, and he set down a loaded tray on the bedside table with a wink. He did not answer, but instead leaned back, arms spread wide.
Elizabeth felt her eyebrows rocket skyward at the sight of breakfast. In farthest corner of her mind, beyond the rumbling of her belly and the fog of sleep, a niggling little voice piped up, warning her that something was amiss with Jack – something tilted-like and standing on its head.
She ignored that voice, eyeing the food.
“’Dumpling’ – now that’s a name with some descriptive merit. ‘Dumpling’”, he repeated, as though tasting the word. “Nice round sound to it – rolls about quite pleasantly – and metaphorically, hmmm? ‘Dumpling.’ Yes, I think that’ll do just smashingly.”
Elizabeth sat upright after a series of false starts, rocking and shifting not entirely unlike a turtle turned on its back – much to Jack’s amusement. She reached behind her to scrunch several pillows into the groove of her back, ignoring Jack in lieu of surveying the tray beside her.
Somehow, he must have dredged silver from the cellar – and she assumed it had to have been the cellar that had housed the elegant little teapot and service, as she’d never seen it before. The cutlery and tray sparkled as though recently polished; only the legs at the base of the pot seemed purpled ‘round their bends. A lime and a mango had been sliced and fanned in smiling arches on a chipped china plate, and lumps of a stew-like substance - along with something resembling rice - exhaled heavy, panting breaths of steam from a rounded metal container. Elizabeth made a mental note to ask where Jack had found the materials for the spread, but the delicate, unmistakable scent of English tea wafting from the serpentine spout of the teapot disrupted her musings.
She grasped the swan-neck handle of the only bit of finery she did recognize: the blue china cup she’d pilfered from Jack’s then-deserted cabin several months prior. The memory roused something folded and dusty inside her. She smiled, remembering sneaking into his bedroom to rifle through his cabinets. A blush of something edging between guilt and pride pinked her cheeks.
“And what’s all this for?”
“An offering for my fearsome, arresting wife and monarch, of course.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” She recalled their evening in flashes, her pulse quickening at the memory of her hand resting on his chest, his racing heart nearly beating through her palm.
Games, Elizabeth. Games and gifts and nothing more.
“And what has my dutiful, gracious husband brought me this morning.”
Two can play, Jack, and I shall enjoy it.
“Ah, yes. Tea, of course – very sovereignly sort of libation, if by no small measure because of the labor required to pluck it. I did manage to salvage several survivors from the garden – and you really should think of finding someone to trim that jungle, Bess – and then, courtesy of me sister, basmati rice and sambol - and some sort of curry. Mutton, I think.”
“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with –“
“I’ll explain later, alright? Can’t bake bread in that bloody kitchen, and you know it.”
“Oh,” she sighed, no longer listening. The subtle scent of tea luring her towards the pot.
Elizabeth poured the brew with a careless slosh, anxious to inhale the velvet steam, to luxuriate in the familiar brownflower taste. She took a sip, the roof of her mouth delightfully singed.
Jack cleared his throat.
Noisily.
Deliberately.
Exasperated, she looked up, ready to deliver whatever cutting jibe she could muster at whatever bloody time of morning it was.
Elizabeth choked, tea scorching her esophagus.
Jack squinted, scrunching his nose before resuming his former stance.
He looked… wrong. Arms akimbo, he stood, one leg propped on the bed frame, his chin regally raised.
It was his chin that was the problem. He’d trimmed his trademark beard and moustache, and where his braids used to dangle, only a scrap of hair remained. The same slight rasp of a goatee and moustache, in truth, that Will had sported during their last stand against the EITC. In place of his usual faded coat and threadbare tunic, he wore a navy blue shirt and a brown vest that matched new, fitted breeches. His sash and tricorn and all the myriad baubles that dangled from his waist were nowhere to been seen. Only his boots remained, and Elizabeth suppressed a giggle at the thought of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow decked in full stockings and buckle-front shoes.
A plain, blue square of fabric had replaced his bandana, and even his mass of braids and dreadlocks were gathered into something resembling a tidy cue. The only remnants of her Jack that remained – apart from his boots – were the rings on his fingers and a very thin, dim line of kohl about the eyes – as though that particular facet of his persona refused to be scrubbed free.
And Jack was clean – cleaner than she’d ever seen him. Pressed and buttoned and scoured.
He even smelled distinctly different – his usual musk of sweat, patchouli, and sandalwood replaced by something that smelled strikingly similar to the Aqua Admirabilis her father had worn – hints of neroli oil and bergamot, lavender and rosemary grazing her nose. Where he’d found a dressing kit, she’d no idea, though the thought of Jack rifling through the cellar for a nécessaire chest prompted Elizabeth to stifle a giggle, hiccupping instead.
Clearing his throat again, Jack fixed his eyes on Elizabeth, boring into her pointedly.
“Well, what do you think, Lizzie-girl? – ah sorry, I mean ‘Bess’ – or rather, Dumpling? Fancy giving the goods the once-over?”
A waggle of his brows and a crooked leer, his hips rocking forward ever so slightly.
Elizabeth’s cheeks burned.
“I – well, umm,” she fumbled, struck dumb. “Uh – well, first of all, I’m not sure I like you referring to me as ‘Dumpling,’ actually.”
Jack exhaled heavily, waving away her words with an exasperated flick of the wrist. Plopping to the end of the bed, his hand closed around her calf and he gave her a little shake, his eyes rolling.
“The clothes, Elizabeth. What do you think of the bloody clothes? Do I look enough like your eunuch to suit?”
Despite the ridiculousness of their situation, his stare – intent and almost predatory – ignited something bumbling yet hopeful within her. Her skin burned beneath his touch, even through the layers of blanket.
A shudder of breath, her fingers worrying at the sheets she clutched.
She blinked, stilling herself. In point of fact, she wasn’t entirely sure what she felt, actually. He was surprisingly dashing, this groomed, subdued Jack. He remained thrilling even in such ordinary attire.
Still, she found herself longing rather wistfully for his pungent, scruffy, vagabond, incorrigibly delicious Jack-ness.
“You - you did this all for me?” she managed after another breath.
He sprung to his feet, huffing and pacing to the window. “Bloody hell, woman. Has the babe sucked the wits from you? Of course I bloody did it for you. What do you think, hmmm? That I chopped off me ticklers for the sheer joy of it?” He motioned as if to grasp his missing braids.
“Ticklers, Jack?”
“Never mind. That’s beside the point.”
“You didn’t have to do this, Jack.”
“Oh, for the love of God, Lizzie! Does it please you, or not?”
“Oh, Jack.”
“Well?”
She studied the dour profile of his frown as he stared out the window. It took some effort to maneuver herself from the bed, but she managed, only spilling a few drops of tea in the process.
Ambling to his perch, she stopped at his shoulder, her hand lighting on his bicep.
“You look ravishing, Jack Sparrow.”
“I do, don’t I.” And he turned to her then, all gold and twinkle as his palm found its place at the crook of her hip, guiding her across the room to rest in her rocking chair.
Jack instructed her on the finer points of East Indian breakfasts: the rolling of gravy and rice into tidy balls; the adjustment of the dishes’ spice and tartness through the introduction of sambol, lime. Elizabeth made a mess of it – gravy drooling down her wrists, rice peppering her hair – and Jack laughed, saving her from a certain, sticky doom by patting together the little globes balls for her. She marveled at his quickness, at the deftness of his fingers as he worked. Using only the tip of his index finger, middle finger, and thumb, he managed to make quick work of her plate.
When Elizabeth asked where he’d learned this strange, contortionist’s talent, he merely shrugged, mumbling something about the fact that not all boys and girls were raised in England.
And so they ate - in measured swallows, the creak of the rocker against the floorboards a fitting accompaniment for several of Jack’s rather obtusely narrated tales of intrigue on the high seas.
His fingers slippery with mango juice, he’d sprawled on the bed as she rocked, telling her of his adventures in shaving (“Broke that tawdry little washbasin of yours, darlin’.”), his ordeals in the cellar (“Rats so big, Lizzie, I nearly twisted me bloody ankles tripping over the buggers.”), his butchering of the duck (“Who’d have thought those bloody little buggers could be so damned slippery?”), and all the sordid details of his sojourn into the brothels at Shipwreck to scavenge a “sprinkling of something pleasant-smelling.”
By the time the sun rode high enough to signal mid-morning, Jack was dozing noisily in a crooked-legged sprawl across the bed and Elizabeth was coaxing his boots from his feet.
It was quite perfect, really, considering the wealth of arrangements she had to make. She’d crept across the room, cringing with every groan of the boards beneath her girth, and had dressed, the parlor clock striking 11:00. She made her way down the stairs with minimal difficulty, but by the time she’d tidied the mess of feathers and flour in the kitchen - and checked on the stew Jack had set to bubbling - she barely had enough energy to slog out the door, through the tall grass, and down the cliff-face.
Hauling her boat from its repose high up the bank proved almost impossible, and Elizabeth cursed the low tide as she struggled into the water. Sweat collected in irksome beads above her lip. She spat as she dropped to her seat, her oars clattering against the boat-bottom.
Huffing breathlessly for several minutes, she finally found the strength to collect the paddles and begin rowing. The noon air clung to her with plump, wet fingers, and only occasionally did the wind sigh, cutting the dampness. The ocean winked its glassy eye as she rowed, the water grayed and weary beneath a dove-bellied sky.
Her oars stirred the water in silver pockets, the smattering of froth and bubble like tumbling coins in the tempered light of a shrouded noon.
~
It’s not that Elizabeth disliked rowing.
On the contrary, the burn in her arms and the rocking rhythm of her body proved tolerable most days – the pleasant scoop-plunk, scoop-splosh of the oars entering the water enhancing the experience by bounds. She could even live with the cramping in her hands when the water rushed and the air savored of the clean, leafy crispness of land-bred winds.
The fact of the matter was, Elizabeth almost enjoyed rowing, most days.
But, on this particular, stagnant-aired, dead-water, grim-skied day, Elizabeth despised rowing – not to mention the laudable expanse of her middle – more than she could articulate.
It was an issue of mechanics, really. The oars bobbed against her stomach with every swoop, upsetting the babe within. She could hardly situate the poles thanks to her burgeoning girth, and it was practically impossible to seat herself in the bloody boat, let alone find room to stretch her numbing legs without toppling into the water.
Thus - for these reasons and a host of others - Elizabeth plodded into Sara’s shop soaking wet, her jaw clenched and the smile plastered across her face no match for the scowl in her eyes.
Saraswati’s head jerked up when she entered. As always, Jack’s sister appraised Elizabeth – and her belly – with an air lingering between the quiet, content consideration of a woman with a secret and the vaguely disapproving, arguably tolerant, judiciously hopeful stare of a sister with an agenda. But, as soon as that familiar glance had flitted across Sara’s face, it was gone, replaced by a cheek-splitting smile and a clap of her flour-coated hands.
“Ah! Sister – come, come! You must sit, kya? You’re looking very pale and watery.” Wiping her hands on her sari, Sara embraced Elizabeth, grasping her by the shoulders and kissing each cheek with a wet smack.
“Hold, hold,” she raised a finger, silencing Elizabeth’s salutations. “Sit, please. I am having something perfect for your condition. Waiting for me, please?”
“Well – alright…. And hello, Sara. Happy Christmas.” Elizabeth cracked a smile despite herself, thinking of Jack’s restless fidgeting and the similarities between brother and sister.
“Ah, yes, yes. Hello! Happy, happy holy day!” Sara called, disappearing behind the silk curtain that separated the apothecary from the shop, the tail of her sari sweeping past Elizabeth with a swish of wind.
Elizabeth sat, grateful for the rocking chair that had curiously found its way out of Sara’s living chambers and into the shop once news of Elizabeth’s pregnancy had spread. She rocked for several minutes, her mouth slackening as she began to cool, the sweat evaporating from her skin in sighs.
“And where is my brother?” Sara shouted from the back, the sound of something being stirred trailing her voice. “He hasn’t taken to drinking so early, is it?”
“No,” Elizabeth called back, her fingers twitching as her knuckles began to unclamp. “He’s home…. Sleeping.”
Sara poked her head through the curtain, a groomed eyebrow arching skyward. “Do not tell me you came all this long-long way with no help?”
“Actually yes, I did.”
Sara sucked her teeth in admonishment, shaking her head and disappearing behind the curtain again.
“This is not right for a woman in such conditions!” she sing-songed, the words forming a familiar melody of chastisement. “I’m going to tell that brother of mine what’s for when I’m seeing him again.”
Elizabeth grinned, imagining Jack’s younger, slimmer, altogether slighter sister giving him a healthy dose of “what’s for.” She’d witnessed such occurrences in the past, the usually calm, easygoing Sara backing the infamous Captain Sparrow into a corner when the occasion called for it. Hilarious, and altogether unsuspected when she considered the Jack she’d met on the docks of Port Royal.
“To be truthful, Sara, I came here in secret. I wanted to surprise Jack for Christmas.”
“What sort of surprising do you have in mind?”
“I’d like you and Rajeev and Captain Teague to join us for dinner, if you haven’t already made plans, that is.”
Sara slipped through the curtain, a cup of something frothy in her hand. Like her brother, Sara’s walk possessed a certain unnervingly feline quality, an almost-prowl that, in the feminine, was not subdued by drink or artifice. She slinked across the room, plucking a sprig of something from a topiary and garnishing the drink before stooping in front of Elizabeth, the glass of God-knows-what extended by a slim, almond hand. Elizabeth accepted it with a raised eyebrow and a weary smile, eyeing the foam that dribbled down her wrist with something akin to consternation.
“We will, of course, come to visit.” Sara placed her palms on Elizabeth’s belly, cooing to the baby within. “And you, my little nephew – my darling baby-ji. Have you been nice to your mummy-daddy? No?”
She cocked her head, a bird catching a tune and, smiling at the fabric of Lizzie’s dress, continued, “Keeping your mama and baba on toes, hmmm? Well, it is not so much longer now, is it my chickling?” Sara continued speaking for some minutes in a language that Elizabeth recognized as East Indian.
Though Elizabeth couldn’t be certain as to the baby’s patronage herself, she’d never so much as alluded to Sara of the possibility of Jack’s role in the child’s conception. Nonetheless, Elizabeth had learned months ago that there was no point in arguing with Jack’s sister. From the moment she’d discovered the pregnancy – around the time Elizabeth herself had teased it all apart – Sara had been determined to play the part of sister and aunt, doting on Elizabeth like a mother hen. Regardless of her attempts to refute Sara’s claims to aunthood, the woman seemed hell-bent on treating the child as family, crooning to Lizzie’s belly in foreign tongues at every chance.
“What do you think?” Sara’s voice stirred Elizabeth back to the present. “Hamsa is a good name for a baby, yes? Very, very nice. “Hamsa’ meaning ‘swan’ – and you’re Swann too, see?”
“I don’t even think I could pronounce-“
“Pssh,” Sara waived away the notion with a Sparrow-esque flourish. “I think, for a boy, Samudra is best.”
“Sam-what-ra? Sara, we’ve been over this, and I thought you understood that I wanted to carry on a family name.”
Sara pressed a kiss to Lizzie’s belly before standing, arms folded and foot tapping. “Samundra is a family name, belonging to our dignified uncle in Bombay. Good man. Nice house. And a good name, meaning ‘sea’. You can use these other names as the daknam.”
“As the what?”
“Daknam. We have two names. One good name – something strong like Samundra, and one daknam. You hear this when I call Ranjit by the name of Raj, yes? Daknam, meaning –ah, what is the saying,” she snapped her fingers, “- yes-yes: pet name. You know this?”
“Sara, in England we don’t –“
Jack’s sister clucked her tongue. “This is not England,” she gestured to the room. “In any case, I have heard your daknam.”
“But I don’t have one.”
“Yes you do. I’ve heard from my brother. What is it? – Ah, yes. Liz-eee,” she extended the last syllable for several beats.
“Lizzie? Lizzie’s not a – what is it, again?”
“Daknam.”
“Duck-numb,” pronounced Elizabeth with some effort. “In any case, Jack just calls me ‘Lizzie’ as a sort of nickname, and I’m not even sure that I like –“
“Same-same.” Sara waived her away, returning to her perch behind the counter. She ground spices as she spoke, “And why aren’t you drinking, hmmm?”
“Oh, this.” Elizabeth eyed the beverage suspiciously, the milky foam having fizzled to a grayish sort of grit. “What is it?”
“Ashwaganda – and some mints for cooling. Good for stamina increase, better strength, and even gives boost to vigor in the bedroom.”
“Sara, listen, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I assure you that the last thing I need is a more vigorous…bedroom. My bedroom is – well, there’s just nothing of that sort to be had.”
Saraswati stopped her grinding, pestle poised mid-air, and cocked an eyebrow. She grinned, serpentine, from ear-to-ear. “My brother? Now you’re pulling legs.”
“Your brother and I have nothing but friendship between us. We’ve been comrades in battle, and we’ve-“
“You tell me, Liz-eee – why does a man take to living with a woman that has fed him to the fishes, hmmm?”
Cheeks a-fire, Elizabeth studied the swirl of milk and sediment in her cup. “Jack and I,” she shook herself, her whisper strengthening to a dim rasp, “whatever may have been possible once – we’re just…. It’s not the sort of relationship you think, Sara. He helps me out of a lack of anything better to do. That’s all.”
“The heart knows what the hands do not.”
They sat in silence for long moments, the shadows lengthening as the day rushed onward. Elizabeth sipped her drink, the taste surprisingly pleasant if not a touch loamy, and Sara worked quietly, her fingertips red with what look like chili-powder as she poured a mixture of spices from her mortar into a rice-paper envelope.
~
By the time Elizabeth, Teague, Sara and Rajeev had set sail for the brief journey from the Cove to Elizabeth’s island, the sun was already dipping low on the horizon. The cloud-cover of midday had fractured, cracked like an egg to reveal a saffron yoke of sunlight. Turquoise and coral, the clouds now marbled the sky, anything but sullen as they looped in elegant curls across the ripe-peach haze of approaching dusk.
They’d elected to employ the use of a small fishing skiff belonging to one of the market-keepers housed near Sara’s shop for the journey; the prospect of rowing having proven unappealing to all parties concerned. Elizabeth’s little boat swung from its side, bobbing in and out of the waves. Much to the Pirate King’s consternation – and in equal parts to the thrill of Jack’s nephew – Captain Teague insisted on sailing the little shark. All manner of festive treats had been loaded into the boat thanks to Sara’s preparations and Elizabeth’s careful supervision, none the least of which was a small lime tree that Sara had insisted upon bringing.
They made quick work of the narrow channel, all-in-all, and Elizabeth found herself scaling the cliff-face just as the first bands of fire began to billow at the horizon. The first to struggle up the jagged steps, she did not wait for the rest of her party to unload their goods and begin climbing.
It was, after all, dusk on Christmas day.
And besides, Sara would hear nothing of her offers to ferry the tree up the stairs, nor to help with anything else of substance. She wondered whether she’d have time to sweep the house before the party made their way inside.
As she plodded towards the kitchen door, she felt a small pang of guilt for having left Jack without so much as a word regarding her whereabouts, but then he must have come to understand her habit of roaming after their months of cohabitation.
Surely.
She burst inside, greeted by the heady aroma of stewed-duck and a murderous scowl as Jack looked up from the cook-pot,.
“Where the devil have you been?” Jack seethed, stirring the stew vigorously. Without his braided beard and his usual frosting of gold and gilt, his face took on a more serious, less impish cast.
Elizabeth bit her cheek against the urge to giggle. “I had to fetch something from the city.”
“You had to fetch some thing from the city. She had to fetch something from the city, she says,” his voice rose in pitch, reminding her of a mere spit of land sparkling somewhere in the Caribbean. The scent of burning fronds and charred glass seemed to appear mysteriously, a grace note beneath boiled carrots and celery root. “Ah, well that makes perfect sense, then! Of course. You had to fetch something from the city…. Bloody splendid, Lizzie! What did you suppose would have happened if I hadn’t awoken in time to cull this blazing inferno, hmmm? Much as you may enjoy the thought of burning me to a crisp, I’d much prefer not to expire in a blaze of duck-” he flailed, searching for a word, “of duck – oh, sod it – of a bloody, damnable poultry fire!”
Jack, in his flapping-about, had spilled stew down the front of his shirt. His eyes flitted like moths in the firelight, and Elizabeth could not contain the wave of laughter fighting for release when he began to curse and wipe at his tunic.
She held her belly, chuckling despite the mad, murder-glazed cast of his eyes.
“And a happy Christmas to you too, Jack,” she managed once the fit had passed.
“Oh, and I’m so thrilled – positively titillated – that I could fulfill my role as court jester, Your Highness,” he sneered, still fussing with his shirt. Elizabeth plucked a rag from the table and eased her way towards him.
“Oh, Jack,” she smiled, “it’s Christmas.” She brushed his hands away from his collar.
“Let go,” she murmured, dabbing at the swatch.
And then it happened, the tiny slip of her hand that brought her fingers to rest against the exposed skin at the crown of his sternum. He was slick – moist from the steaming stew and the heat of the hearth. She felt that same heat roll over her skin in waves, the linen of her underdress suddenly rasping against her breasts in near-painful sighs.
“Jack.” Pressing the pads of her fingers to the pliant skin, she felt the rag slip to the floor, her fingers sliding north.
To the hollow at the base of his throat.
Over his Adam’s apple, bobbing as he swallowed.
Across the blade of his jaw.
He stood limp-boned, allowing the exploration even as his breathing labored. The shadows in the room seemed to grow and connect, collecting between them, a force urging Elizabeth’s lips to part and swell, blooming in a rush of heat that forced her to bite her lower lip and tilt forward. She ran her fingertips over the whisper of hair at his chin, the cropped bristle igniting a tingle that bolted from fingertip to knuckle to elbow.
Somewhere, distantly, she registered that the pot was boiling over, into the fire – sizzling and sputtering – but then she chanced a look at his eyes and all care for their dinner was lost to her.
He watched her, sloe-eyed and dangerous – char and ember beneath his eyelids.
“Lizzie.” His voice was gravel.
A warning.
A prayer.
A plea, perhaps, but she couldn’t think on it because his mouth was suddenly a whisper from hers. She felt her eyes flutter shut, her lips already remembering the texture of his mouth. He touched her, her heart a skipped stone as he trailed his fingers down her throat, pausing to rest the cool of his rings against her pulse before skittering lower…lower…to the swell of her breasts, to the hem of her neckline.
And her heart roared in her ears, waves of droning, raging heartbeat deafening her. She wondered, distantly, whether he could feel her breaking against him.
She tilted, ready. Closer – just a breath, and then…
Jack jerked away, the door swinging open with a rusted groan, a nearby pot crashing to the floor.
Teague, Sara, and Rajeev stood in the doorway, eyes wide.
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