There was no escape.

The story was everywhere, talked about in every corner of the house, lingering in the meaningful silence when conversations were interrupted at his approach, whispered into the ears of the uninitiated accompanied by gleeful, half-hidden smiles or dutiful, half-hearted pitying glances directed at him.

While the lady’s behaviour in the matter had certainly scandalized people and earned her the disdain of those considered or considering themselves important in Port Royal, his reputation had suffered as well, not through his own fault, but terribly enough; was there a more humiliating thing than being the one over whom a simple smith had been chosen? Oh, true enough, he had managed to emerge from the deplorable affair looking noble and irreproachable enough, and nobody could actually blame him, but being ‘that poor young man’ was hardly better than being a disgrace, and that had been brought to his attention quite clearly in the course of this first great social function he had been obliged to attend after what he had decided to refer to as “The Sparrow and Undead Pirates Affair” to keep himself from thinking of it in terms more appropriate to express what it had done to him.

For he did feel like the ‘poor young man’ his acquaintances named him indeed now, and Governor Swann, the only one here who might have been considered something like a friend, was preoccupied enough being both the host of this party and struggling to create the impression that he was neither ‘poor Governor Swann’, who had been too weak and mellow to establish and maintain some sort of order and dignity in his house, nor ‘irresponsible Governor Swann’, who simply had not cared at all. But at least, Swann was lucky enough to be perceived as one of the actors of this strange tragedy or comedy, one who had done something or failed to do anything, one whose behaviour had had an influence on the judgement passed upon him.

A jilted lover, in turn, was always a somewhat ridiculous figure, not even tragic, merely ‘a poor young man’. But pity was ill medicine to a hurt heart, and so James Norrington, deeming it unwise to flee the party altogether, discreetly withdrew into the nightly garden after some time, hoping that nobody would follow him, gazing up at the starlit sky as he walked towards the little Temple of Love that had been built for a former governor’s wife far enough removed from the house to be a welcome refuge now, but still close enough to it to enable him to return in almost no time.

It struck him as mildly ironic that this silly little pavilion, adorned by the bad copy of some antique Amor, should be his hiding place for a moment or two until he felt composed enough to join the merciless crowd in the governor’s mansion again.

But there was no escape.

He had just taken a seat on one of the faux marble benches in the pavilion, allowing himself to sigh (if only a little) when a voice remarked: “I thought you would come here, and it would appear I was not mistaken.”

Startled, Norrington looked up, only to find that he was not alone in the so-called temple, or had not been alone in the first place. The man who had spoken seemed to have been sitting in the darkest place of the small building, right behind the statue of the pagan god, and rose to walk towards Norrington now, greeting him with what was more of a nod than of a formal bow. There was an oddly shaped bottle in his left hand, but he would have been unusual enough even without this accessory.

Norrington could not see much of him in the dim light that the stars and the candles behind the house’s windows could offer, but he could discern that the frock coat of muted green silk the stranger was wearing was of remarkable quality, even if it looked simple at first glance, as if in proud understatement. He also had to have an excellent wigmaker, that much was certain. Norrington could have named a lot of people who would have paid a fortune to obtain a wig that looked as natural as if it were its wearer’s own hair, elaborately styled and having a peculiar soft silver shimmer that was most alluring…

Norrington wondered if he had been introduced to the man earlier this evening and had simply forgotten about it, for the stranger took a seat next to him now without any hesitation, as if they had been friends for a long time. “A most unfortunate affair”, he said, “I sympathize.”

No, there was no escape.

The cornered commodore was still thinking about the fitting polite and meaningless answer when he found the bottle his new acquaintance had been carrying until then put into his hand with gentle firmness.

”There is nothing better than this to revigorate you before you have to return to standing in this most undeserved sort of pillory”, the stranger said with a faint smile, and, touched a bit by this unexpected frankness and comradery, Norrington took the bottle and drank.

It did not taste unpleasant, but it was clearly no rum, nor anything else that Norrington had ever tried. “What is this?” he enquired.

His newfound companion gave him a jaunty grin. “The last bottle of miruvor I brought from home, if ‘home’ it can be called… You looked as if you might need it.”

The commodore had no idea whatsoever what ‘miruvor’ might be, but, judging by the name, it had probably been invented by the Spanish. In order not to appear too unsophisticated, he only gave a nod, replying: “Most amazing… It is very good.” And it was good indeed; he felt strangely revived and caught himself taking another sip of the beverage. One could get used to this, really…

”You can keep it”, the gentleman in the green frock coat generously said, leaning back against one of the pillars and studying Norrington with glittering, but not unkind eyes.

”I would never dare to rob you of your last bottle of… ‘miruvor’”, Norrington said, remembering his manners, and making a serious attempt at handing the bottle back, even though he would have liked to keep it, given that the effects of this draught seemed to be as miraculous as the element of ’mir-’ in its name seemed to indicate.

The silver-haired stranger shook his head. “No, I insist; you shall need it more than I do. I shall leave tomorrow, anyway, and once I have reached my destination, I shall have ample supplies of this.” He indicated the bottle with a smile. “Here, however, it is hard to come by. Do not reject the measure of solace it can offer! In situations such as yours, one has to find comfort in simple things.”

Norrington did not say a word, unsure how he should handle this measure of familiarity that almost went past what he was ready to condone without offending or even hurting someone who obviously meant to be kind; he merely felt vaguely grateful that the man would not stay in Port Royal for too long a time. He had said he would leave tomorrow, and the Hamadryad was to leave for England the next day; if Norrington was lucky, he would never have to meet the man again, at least not for months and years, until both of them had forgotten this embarrassing meeting… if they were to forget it, for the stranger’s eyes were upon him and seemed to gaze into his very soul.

”My words may seem blunt”, the man in green continued, “but they need to be spoken, and nobody but me will speak them. Do you believe that I do not know how it feels to be left, to have something else chosen over you, and to know that this choice is irreversible? To be in a position too elevated to have many true friends who might support you or to be able to pass unnoticed and escape unwanted pity and meaningful glances, while nobody dares talk to you instead of talking about you? To yearn for the one you love, and love her still, while you may know you are not love back, or at least doubt your feelings are returned? Well, my young friend, rest assured… I know all this, and better than you might think.”

Norrington knew he should have found an excuse to leave, but regardless of what the stranger dared say, his voice was comforting, as pleasant and calming as the sea’s lilt on a quiet day, and the night with its bright stars was beautiful, even lending the ludicrous little Amor some hint of dignity and making all things seem kinder than they were… ”It must be the fault of this strange drink”, he thought, mildly annoyed with himself for the lack of discipline he had displayed in imbibing rather too much of this potent beverage, but feeling inexplicably soothed, as if he were cradled by the night’s soft wings to make all sorrows forgotten, he took yet another sip and continued to listen.

“At first”, the stranger softly said, his gaze travelling up to the myriad of stars above them, “public pity only adds to the pain, for we feel clearly that it means more lost love… Not only is the love of the one we desire lost to us, but also that of the people. They may praise and admire those who are dutiful and honest, they may openly scorn those who acted upon their passions, but ultimately, we sense that, ultimately, the tale will be told as a tale of those most troublesome emotions we try and teach to restrain, and that we will never be its beloved heroes… We shall remain in the shadows, or will even be left behind again when the tale is transformed and passed on.”

Norrington blinked a bit; the man was probably drunk, or some kind of eccentric philosopher. “You…” he started and fell silent again, unsure what to say or to ask, and even more uncertain what his companion had meant to express.

Perhaps the lucky owner of the perfect wig sensed that he had almost lost Norrington, for, with a faintly amused twinkle of his green eyes, he said: “I did not mean to confuse you. I only know what if means to be left, and wished to offer you some support; that is all.”

“You know…” Norrington repeated, feeling quite foolish.

The stranger gave a shrug. ”My wife”, he said, with detached melancholy, as if examining an old scar. ”She ran away quite some years ago. With my son-in-law.”

Norrington stared at him, and not only because this open admission of what must have been a major scandal when it had happened took him aback; he was also quite surprised to hear that his interlocutor had already had a son-in-law ‘quite some years ago’. He simply did not seem old enough to be a father-in-law, perhaps even a grandfather, yet, in his early thirties, at best. Oh well. Perhaps he was about forty years old now, looking younger than he was, had married young himself and had married off his daughter at an early age… “I… I am sorry to hear this.”

His interlocutor shook his head. ”You need not be sorry. I shall see her again in a short time, and decisions once taken shall be forgiven then… or so I hope”, he softly said.

Their eyes met, and for one moment, Norrington suspected that this stranger who knew no better than to intrude upon other people’s privacy, making them drink lesser-known kinds of Spanish brandy and talking about most intimate details, knew, perhaps, more than anybody else about being utterly rejected and yet having to continue to love.

But then, loud laughter drifted over to them from the house, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, a girl shrieked, there was more laughter – and the spell was broken.

Norrington found himself shaking his head in mild disgust, while an aloft smile danced over the other man’s fair features. “Ah, the so-called cultured people and their feasts!” he remarked. ”At times, it is not too bad to be a Moriquende, or the equivalent thereof.”

It definitely had to be this Spanish brandy… Either that, or what the stranger had said had not made any sense indeed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said that a more sequestered lifestyle may seem preferable to us at times”, the man patiently repeated, his strong, but elegant hands playing with a fallen leaf that he had probably picked up from the bench earlier.

Norrington nodded; surely, he had misheard something the first time. “It might seem preferable”, he said, “if there were not duties binding us, other things than our mere selfish desires calling to us…”

“I never thought I would call the sea-longing a good thing one day, but it doubtlessly is in you.” These words were accompanied by a soft chuckle that was not devoid of a hint of bitterness, and Norrington found himself wondering if this man had lost someone to the lure of the sea, a young son he might have preferred to keep around, a favourite nephew or a cherished childhood friend.

Perhaps this was why he had been able to guess so accurately what the commodore had been talking about in allusions. “Yes”, Norrington murmured, drinking from the wondrous bottle again and deciding that feeling a bit light-headed was not altogether bad, “the sea… If it were not for the sea, I should ask myself why…” ’…I am working so very hard for a bunch of gossiping ingrates who will forget that I try and keep them safe from lunatics of Sparrow’s kind and pirates, undead or alive, over the ‘poor young man’ slighted by the governor’s daughter…’ However, even in a mildly drunk state, he would not have said this aloud. “Of course, I could still desert and turn myself into a pirate.” Had he just thought that? Or, even worse, said it aloud?

He obviously had, but his half-friend did not seem overly impressed with this whimsy. ”Of course you could, and you would make a fearsome pirate”, he calmly said as if this prospect were the most natural thing in the world. “I do not presume that you would be especially pleased with yourself, though. And then, those who run away seldom have reason to be pleased with themselves, anyway.”

“I did not seriously contemplate…” Norrington started and fell silent when a hand, lifted up with more natural authority than he could ever have mustered himself, was raised to interrupt him.

”One never plans such things ‘seriously’ – until one does them. Believe it or not, I could tell you a story about a most respected courtier who ran off and became a common travelling singer, merely because a lady had spurned his advances to marry far beneath her station…”

“I hope she had not decided to wed a real travelling musician?” Norrington asked, wondering if he might have been more to Elizabeth’s liking indeed if he had been the sort of man to throw reason and honour aside to engage in piracy. Perhaps the young lady in the stranger’s anecdote had been obsessed with minstrel singers, or blacksmiths-turned-singers, or something like that…

”No.” The leaf was gently placed on the bench again. “The man she had chosen for herself was… well-born, fallen on bad times and a vagabond and a soldier at that point.”

”Ah”, Norrington eloquently said and drowned the acerbic comment already lying in wait on his tongue with another swig of the pleasantly warm liquid. It was precisely that bit of miruvor that was too much; it made the world spin, and yet, he felt light and happy so that it did not bother him too much that he did not quite see the man he had been talking to any more, and even the realization that getting so drunk in front of someone he barely knew was most undignified – not even to mention that it would make him laughing stock even more than he was already – was hardly more than a fleeting thought, as if something greater and better than his petty worries had washed all shame and fear away.

“The one who fled and gave up his former life because of the lady deserved better than that”, a voice from far away said, “and so do you. You are a good man, and they whose words mean so much and yet so little will come to realize that again in time. Virtue can certainly outlast all gossip and scandal. However, on occasion a small moment of defeat is what keeps perseverance alive. So weep now, or sleep, or both… But rest, by all means, lest it might all become too hard to bear. If I ever return – which may or may not happen – I do not wish to meet you again as a pirate.”

If Norrington replied anything to this speech that reached his head as a barely understandable tumble of well-meant words, he could not recall it later. In fact, his memories of everything that had happened were very blurred when he woke with a start, minutes or hours after his last conscious thought, which had been… something he did not remember. He only knew that there had been this gentleman in green silk who had talked about perseverance and a need for indulging in the consumption of mysterious Spanish drinks and… who was gone now.

The only thing that remained was the bottle, empty now, which had remained in Norrington’s hand, the bottle and… its stopper that lay on the bench next to the still drowsy commodore, gleaming in the sunlight… The sunlight! It was morning already!

But shameful as it was to discover that he had unintentionally managed to get drunk enough to fall asleep in Governor Swann’s garden pavilion, Norrington’s attention quickly focussed on the bottle stopper. It was no ordinary stopper, but something very beautiful, very valuable and doubtlessly very ancient. Made of silver, a perfectly symmetrical tree rose out of the cone meant to close the bottle.

It was a good tree, seeming strong and stable, the very image of perseverance – and yet, due to the conical shape of its base, it could not stand alone, but either needed to be firmly planted in something, be it earth or sand, or – if it should continue to serve its purpose – to be placed on top of a bottle, a purveyor of Dionysian excess… Could anything have been more symbolic of the strange philosophy the traveller had tried to teach him last night?

Last night… The man had told him he could keep the bottle, but he simply could not have meant him to have this item as well. One simply did not give a gift of this value to someone one hardly knew, even if one had called him a ’good man’, and even if one had told him strange tales… Last night. That had been then, but if was morning now, and the Hamadryad was certainly about to leave, her passenger with her, and without his exquisite wine stopper that could not have been left behind on purpose, but had to have slipped from his pocket or hand the evening before… He would doubtlessly miss it, and, even worse, he might assume that his silly acquaintance, who had been foolish enough to prattle about becoming a pirate, if not in dire earnest, had taken or kept it on purpose… It was probably a thought that

If there had been any early risers around in the quiet street behind the governor’s gardens, they would have been treated to the rare spectacle of a certain commodore leaving the premises secretively by climbing over the wall and hurrying away, towards the harbour.

The port warden knew better than to raise his eyebrows at an almost flustered commodore bursting into his office and enquiring after a certain ship; instead, he merely provided the information Norrington had asked for.

”The Hamadryad already left with the flood last evening, sir.”

Norrington hardly listened to the explanations of the reasons the Hamadryad’s captain had had to leave a day early. All he needed to know was that the man he had talked to last night had not been on the ship, and had probably known he would not be there. And in truth, he had not said he would leave with the Hamadryad. His words had been ’I shall leave tomorrow’, nothing more. He had not named the ship he was going to take, and Norrington could not fight the suspicion that the man in green had known very well that the Hamadryad, the only vessel that had been scheduled to leave that day, had already been far from Port Royal when their conversation had taken place.

Making his way over to his own office, doing his best to avoid the busiest places he had to pass, the commodore, feeling a bit self-conscious with the bottle that did or did not belong to him in hand, decided to hope that Lieutenant Gillette, who had been present at the governor’s party as well, had found the leisure to study more guests than only that buxom young lady in the pale pink dress he had been ogling all evening, at least, until Norrington had withdrawn into the garden.

His response to Norrington’s question about that tall, slender man in the green silk frock coat proved that, inexplicably, he had found the time.

”Of course I did notice him, sir! He was the one to tell us that you had chosen to leave early because you were feeling unwell, after all.”

A pointed glance – pointed at least for Gillette’s standards – indicating the bottle let Norrington assume that the lieutenant had quite a precise theory about the origins of this sudden illness, a theory that had obviously been confirmed now. The commodore decided not to care.

”He was introduced to me as one Lord Killiburn”, Gillette continued, ”an Irishman, I presume… But he also mentioned he had travelled here from Lorient, if I understood him correctly; his pronunciation was a bit… different. So he must have spent some time in Brittany.“

And, happy to have provided the information the good commodore had so craved, Gillette, quickly dismissed, scampered back to his tasks, leaving Norrington in profound reflexion.

If the commodore had talked to the fishermen of the town later that day, he could have heard the strange yarn of the ghost boat that had left the island with the morning flood, carrying a lone man west, only to vanish into thin air at some point, and upon further inquiry, he might have been told that the ghost in the ship had been clad in green and had sung in a strange tongue, his eery silver hair fluttering in the morning breeze. But even if the story had reached his ears, which it did not, he might not have cared overly much, for he had already made up his mind by then. Angels came in all forms and shapes, and they certainly did not look like the innocent golden-haired children representing them on the altarpiece in Port Royal’s St. Paul’s Church; but when an angel was needed, one would be sent, of that James Norrington was certain now.

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