One Eye Jack

"One Eye Jack"

             The sails of the ship Queen Lady catches the tail end of a northeastern wind as she made port just before the sun sunk beneath the horizon.   With Captain Wampole behind her wheel, he guides her as he had done these many winters.  “One more stop,” Captain Wampole mumbles with his First Mate, Mr. Johnson standing guard at his side.  

             Mr. Johnson begins barking orders as the crew scattered, battening down the hatches and securing the lines, as they had done many seasons.  Rumbles were spreading like wild-fire among the crew—rumors of a map and a treasure of unusual wealth. O’Joe heard them all, and like a weasel, O’ Joe scurries in the shadows unseen, his claw-like fingers snatching the map.

             O’ Joe was no better like all creatures of habit. He soon finds himself clutching a tankard of ale at the Oak Inn, with a nose that smells a prey a hundred yards away-he sets his sights on Jack.

             “Why are ye here,” O’ Joe hisses

                            “Quiet,” Jack mumbles, wiping ale from his chin.

             "Quiet?" O’Joe mocked, "There's ain't anyone  here."

                            “Aye,” Jacks fidgeting, “What do ye want?”

             “I heard rumors,” O’ Joe’s chair presses against Jack’s

                             “What rumors?”

             “That ye be looking for a ship.” O’Joe hissed in Jack's ear as his wiry hands were resting on Jack’s narrow shoulders. He whispers, “Oueen Lady” - placing the map into Jack’s greedy hand, disappearing into the shadows that are cascading from the candles.   Then  Jack heard the sound of a wooden peg scraping across the floor as he saw several seafaring men following the stranger out the door. A hush like a vapor hung in the smoke-filled air, an eeriness that Jack could not explain.

 Breaking the spell was the sound of a guinea rolling across a table, with eagerly looks from the patron's glassy eyes in Jack’s direction. Instantly, the smooth handle of his knife was secure in Jacks's grip. It gleams, reflecting the soft glow of the candle as Jack stumbles to his feet. Hush tones spread among the patrons as Jack’s narrow glare from his cold, dark eye scans the room as he ambles toward the door.

             A soft glow escapes from inside the Oak Inn into the chill of the night. Jack inhales the salt air whiffing across the bay, taunting him like an old forgotten lover.  “Naw,” Jack whispered, cursing under his breath as his tattered boots only went as far as the light from the lantern would allow them to go. A dauntless task for anyone not swaying from the drink. Occasionally his boots became twisted as he stumbles from a loose cobblestone, curse words escaping from his tongue.  A little ditty stirred from somewhere deep within Jack as he whistles –“ There was a gallant English ship- A-sailing on the sea- Blow high, blow low..," As his tongue gets tangled with the rest of the song.

 As the moon overhead was waxing away the hours,  Jack’s lantern squarely rested at hatch cottage on a patch of sandy ground just beyond the town.  A glimmer of candlelight shone through the window. Its warmth was the only welcome that Jack would ever receive from any poor soul that lives within its walls.  With a quick push of the latch, the flame danced from the cold night’s air. In the corner, a faint voice mumble from the shadows.

             “Jackee’, is that you?

                            “Aye, it's Jack,” his words spat out of his mouth.

             “I heard you,” the voice sneered as a slender figure waltz into the light.

                            “If ye heard,” Jack demanded, “Why ye call me Jackee’?

             “I meant no offense,” the young wench said.

                            “ If ye meant no offense, then why did ye call me..,-

             “Jackee’?’

                            “Aye”

             “It’s your given name,” she matter-of-fact answered.

                          “Naw, it’s...-“

             “Jack, I know,” she whispered, “Just go and lie down for a spell.”

                            “Aye, I am a mighty sleepy.”

             Jack's tired body feels the warmth that still lingers from the wrench which had just laid. The smell and taste of the sea are still stirring in Jack’s mind and heart. Ghosts of the past parade in front of his eye like winter thickets rising along the shore. Spirits of fallen seafaring men like sirens enticing him back to the seas.  Twisting and turning in his sleep, mumbling as tiny droplets of sweat streak down the scar on his face.

             The young wench, Janneke, hums a tune, one that she had heard when she was just a wee lass. “Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea-To me weigh hey blow the man down.”

As the fire cracks and pops, the kettle whistles a tune, Janneke’s fingers stretch and tug the dough until the shape of the bread’s form.  The sun's rays brought warmth inside her home and her spirit, with a quick side glance over to Jack’s sleeping body.  She sighs’ as her delicate fingers touch her forehead, left shoulder, then her right, whispering a prayer.  “Yes, a prayer for poor-o-Jack... That’s what he be needing.”

             Janneke’s feet waltzes across the dusty wooden floor as she was softly humming, going about her chores.  The flames lick up the wood as the bread rises in the brick oven like a dragon breath warming her home.  Still, in the shadows, the night’s air clings in the corners as Jack stirs from his sleep. He takes a deep intake of the salt air, his head swarming from the night before, with his hands resting on his knees.

             “Wench,” Jack bellowed

                            “I’m right here,” Janneke said, her hands placed firmly on her hips.

             “Give me a drink of ale.”

                            “There ain’t no drink here,”

             “Wench –“

                            “You know my name,”

             “ Jan’eke,”

                            “Janneke,” she said matter-of-factly.

             His hot breath touches her left ear, “I said to give me some ale.”

                            Their eyes are locked in a formal duel, each assisting the other person's weakness. Jannekes’ womanly lure tugged Jack's desire to pull her closer, though he knew the dangers of stepping across a formidable line.  A line that Jack swore that he would never cross over, even if it meant his defeat.   Jack stumbles back from Janneke, nonchalantly wiping saliva with his sleeve. 

             “What are you doing?

                            “If I can’t have a drink,” he swaggers, “I’ll eat.”- Crumbs begin finding their way into his wiry beard, as Jack’s elbows rested on the table, shifting his weight in the chair.

             “I think that I’ll join you,” a stream from a cup of tea swirls around her golden-red hair, softening her blue eyes.

                          “Janneke, I’ll be heading out today,” Jack mumbles

             “You be leaving?”

                            “Aye,”

             “But-“

                            “But what lass?”

Janneke’s words flounder, like a fish flopping on land desperate for help, yet no help came.  The one thing that Janneke had counted on is having Jack’s presence and his support whenever he was around. Now winter has come, and with it, their time together is ending. A time that soon will become a distant memory that clings like a cobweb in her mind.

             “Here,” Jack whispered, as Janneke opens up her clutch hand, holding a stained cloth filled with coins.

“Jack?” Jenneke stuttered

             “Now, ye never mind,” Jack said, “ keep these safe for me, understand?”

“Yes, I understand,”

             “Good, I’ll be going,” Jannekes cheeks felt soft to Jack’s lips, a taste of honey in his mouth, as he wraps the remainder of rye bread in an old cloth, adding some biscuits.

                            “See you around, Jack,” Janneke softly whispers.

              Jack scurries along the cobblestone as weary-eyed onlookers glance up from the selling of their wares. He succumbs to a few whose watchful hawk eyes keep a keen look in Jack’s direction.  “All in good time,” Jack breathed as the sails wave in the easterly wind blowing across the sea. 

“Aye, there she is,” Jack said, “The Queen lady of the sea.” His heartbeats within his chest, as saliva drip from his mouth, the anticipation of being back to the sea where he belongs. Jack’s heartfelt dream is finally materializing from beyond the shadows of yesterday.

             “Aye, there’s no changing one’s mind,” Jack mused as he ambles up to the ship mixing in with other seafaring old salts. A bag of misfits all wanting the same thing, a chance to sail on “Queen Lady.” The crew aboard her cautiously watches with the eyes of an eagle searching for its prey.  The Queen Lady’s reputation rested on the shoulders of her crew, a fierce and ruthless bunch, all ready to defend the “Lady.”

             Scavengers of the sea, the seagulls, cry out to each other, swirling around the ships waiting for their next meal.  Jack shields his eye, watching them dance high above, secretly wishing that he could join them as they freely sail across the seas.

             “Hey, you,” a man bellowed,

                            “Aye?” Jack quickly said.

             “You, better watch out where you are  going,”

                            “My mistake,” Jacks' words spilled out as the man's chest loom in front of Jack’s face.

             “What’s your  name?”

                            Jack choked, “My name is Jack.”

             “What is your  given name?”

                          “Peterson,” Jack smarty said

             “Make your  mark,” the man demanded

              Jack staggers up the plank and onto the deck, the feel of his knife cradle in his right hand. A few other men follow him up the plank, all with eager faces, teeming with hunger. Jack has witnessed this before as he firmly grips the knives handle. Jack watches a few of the men waiting to see which one would strike first. As a snake is about to strike, the First Mate, Mr. Johnson, barks orders, causing the men to scurry like cockroaches, often stumbling over each other.

             The ones who are seasoned seafaring men tend to their chores, giving way to the rest to scurry about like chickens with their heads cut off. Jack leans against the mainmast, buying his time until the chaos dwindles before he seizes his golden opportunity. Traces of Jack’s breath vaporizes as he attempted to warm his hands. The chill of the sea has already descended onto the ship, groaning as she left the port. Jack finds a spot out of the crew's watchful eyes at the stern bent over with his weight pressing across the railing.

             “Young master Peterson,” the First Mate bellows

                            “Aye, sir,” – Jack’s hands grabbing hold of the railing

             “Young master Peterson,” the First mate utters, “Why aren’t you with the rest of the crew?”

                            “Beg ye pardon, sir,” Jack slowly utters

             “We ain’t got time being a “wet nurse” for you.”

                            “Aye, sir,”

Jack steadies his steps as he ambles back toward the crew as some are steading the sails to catch the wind taking them farther away from land.  O’ Joe gave a wink as he shoved a mop and bucket in Jacks's hands, ordering him to swab the deck. “Aye,” Jack mumbled as the mop gushing with water slides across the planks. “With a heave-ho,” Jacks’ rhythm, joins the rest who had succumbed to swabbing the deck. A mindless task for those considered on the lower end of the crew. The sun rose directly above the ship Queen Lady, making her the fastest time with a strong wind behind her sails. 

             Jack’s shoulders slumped over as he mops the deck, listening to the crew as they whispered among themselves. Words that Jack found both terrifying and integrating as they spoke about the Captain. Yet for all of their talk, Jack hoped of gaining an audience with this Captain. “All in due time,”  Jack mused, keeping his right eye focusing on the deck, with another swoosh of the mop.

             “What ye be doing?” Jack utters, as Mr. Johnson’s right boot on the mop’s head.

                            “Young master Peterson,” Mr. Johnson bellowed, “What’s the meaning of this?

             “I’m swabbing the deck.”

                            “I can see what you are doing,” he continued, “But tell me, why are you swapping the deck?”

             “One of the crew told me to do this.”

                            “The Captain would like a word with you.”

             “Aye,” Jack quickly said, leaving the mop where it landed following closely behind Mr. Johnson.

             Jack felt stares from the crew as he walked past them to the Captain's quarters, hush tones spreading like wildfire among the seafaring crew.   Instinctively Jack’s hand found its way to the handle of his knife, like a snake he’d be ready to strike first. Every once in a while, glancing back to make sure that Jack was following him, as Mr.Johnson remain quiet.   Stopping just outside the Captain’s quarters, being greeted by two arm crew members.

             Mr. Johnson leans close to one of the men, “Young master Peterson here to see the Captain,”

             “Aye,” the tallest and heaviest of the two, stepping aside, letting them through the door and inside the room.  A figure emerges from the shadows as a wooden beg scrapes across the floor. Fear like water drains the color from Jacks’ face, as his knees begin to buckle underneath his weight. Quickly his fingers grab hold of Mr. Johnson’s arm as Jack steadies himself.

             A chuckle escapes the man's lips, “What do we have here?” as the tapping of the wooden’s beg nears the place where Jack’s limp body stood.  The Captain's relentless breath follow by his hissing words, “ So we have a rat, Mr. Johnson?”

             “Aye, sir,” Mr. Johnson's words spat out, “We have a very sick rat, Captain.”

                            “So, Jack,” Captian Wampole,  “Does ye still have the map?”

                                          “Aye,” Jack mumbled

             “Where is it, Jack?” Captain Wampole sneered.

                            “It’s”-

                                          “It’s where?”

             “Yes, where’s is it?” Captain Wampole demanded

                            “It’s here,” Jack’s hand pulls out the map from within his coat pocket.

                                          “Thank you, Jack,” Captain Wampole

             “So, now what, Captain?” Mr. Johnson said

                            “To the crow’s nest,” Captain Wampole hissed.

 Like a dead man walking, Jack’s trudged from the Captain’s quarters and up to the crow's nest. With the eyes like hawks, the crew watches Jack’s every move, as a hush settles like a mist. As the sun fades into the western sky and the slowing of the wind, Queen Lady eases itself into a rhythmic beat.  Jacks’ fingers grip the smooth edge of the wooden basket, with spy-glass peers out on the horizon hoping to find land.

“Quick-sand,” Jack mutters as he looks out from the crows’ nest. His dream of finding the treasure slipped out his fingers and into the hands of the Captain. Captain Wampole wipes the ale from his beard as his good spirits vibrated throughout his ship. With eager fingers, he traces the map to the spot where the mythical treasure lies. Like a cobra reading to strike, Captains Wampole waits for his unwilling prey to go to shore and bring the treasure to his waiting hands. 

“Captain, sir,” Mr. Johnson said

             “Aye,” Captain Wampole sneered

“What is the treasure that we are after?”

             “A treasure us have been searching for a liege,”

“And what will that be, Captain?

             “We won’t speak of it until Mr. Peterson finds it,”

“So, that has always been your plan?”

                          “Aye, now be quick and bring us him,”

             Chest pieces, pawns at the Captain’s expense, and he is the King of the ship. Nothing escapes his hawk eyes or listening ears. And Jack was fairing no better than the rest of the crew. Everything is going exactly as plan. Wampole knew of Jack's obsession with treasure. That was why he left Jack to believe that it was all his for the taken. 

             “Land yo,” Jack cried as he scurries down the ladder to the deck below. With a quickness of a rabbit, he and a few of the crew board the longboat. The sea, she was calm as the sun’s rays danced upon the water with every inch of strength they reached the shore.

“The wind is a-changing,” Jack whispered, as he leads this band of misfits to the treasure. The compass was pointing the way. They trudged through the thick overgrown forest as they cut a path.  A path that took them to a rugged mountain, a dauntless task now waits for them.  To venture inside this beast or to turn aside and leave without the treasure. 

             A sound like a hurricane vibrates through the Forrest. Just then, a dark shadow blocks the sun. The crew scurries like rats, tumbling over each other while Jack froze in the very spot where he stood.  Fear like icy fingers tightens around his crest. “Breath,” Jack said as he cautiously disappears into the cave. A haunting cry echoes within the mountain as a warning to those who dare to venture inside. Jack’s narrow gaze sees an egg smooth and round, the color of Jasper, shimmering under the fading light through a tiny crack in the back of the cave.

             “A dragon egg,” Jack hush voice utters.

Darkness begins to seep into Jack’s soul, as a hunger rage with a burning desire for gold beckons him further into the cave. Deeper and deeper, he went searching for the dragon's lair, “That’s where ye will find gold.” the voice inside his mind told him—a voice taunting Jack as his will weaned away, leaving him powerless to fight.

             Queen Lady awaited her crew's return, but none came back aboard her waiting arms that day. As a shadow of a beast with its board wings, she hovered against the gray sky, blocking out the sun. Captian Wampole ordered the crew to set sail for back home, laying to rest the quest of finding a dragon’s egg. As the ship sailed back to port, some of the crew in hush tones spoke about “One Eye Jack” and his disappearance that day.

             Janneke kept a tankard of ale on her table as the soft glow of a candle casts its shadow, a welcome sign for poor old, “One eye Jack’” return home.  Clutching the pouch of coins he gave her, she crawls into bed, begging for sleep. As tears streak down her fair skin, Janneke said her last farewell before she closes her eyes.