This is Aztec gold … one of 882 identical pieces they delivered in a stone chest to Cortés himself. Blood money paid to stem the slaughter he wreaked upon them with his armies. But the greed of Cortés was insatiable. So the heathen gods placed upon the gold…a terrible curse. Any mortal that removes but a single piece from that stone chest shall be punished for eternity ... Buried on an Island of Dead what cannot be found except for those who know where it is. Find it, we did. There be the chest. Inside be the gold. And we took ‘em all. We spent ‘em and traded ‘em and frittered ‘em away on drink and food and pleasurable company. The more we gave ‘em away, the more we came to realize ... the drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, and all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust. We are cursed men, Miss Turner. Compelled by greed, we were, but now we are consumed by it. There is one way we can end our curse. All the scattered pieces of the Aztec gold must be restored and the blood repaid.
The Goal: Return each one of the 882 plundered pieces of Aztec Gold to the Cave at Isla de Muerta
The Method: Submit as many pieces of Aztec gold you like, in the form of drabbles. Tell the story of your pieces of gold, and how the blood was repaid! Let your friends' list know!
The Deadline: The curse becomes permanent on January 1st, at midday!!! Can we beat it in time and triumph over those pesky Heathen Gods?
The Length/Format: The Code is not so much rules, as guidelines. Aim for 100 words but over or under a bit is absolutely fine. Any format -- poetry, song, prose, whatever -- is welcomed. Just make sure the gold is returned to the chest! If you are posting more than one drabble, please do it in separate posts, so each coin counts.
The Chest: THIS POST. Write your drabble and drop it in the chest, via "post comments"! Come on! Do it for the Gaffer!
**Post drabbles here, no other comments or feedback. If you would like to let the author know you liked their piece (which the Heathen Gods strongly encourage you to do), please let them know in THEIR journal, so as not to confuse the counting process. Or deliver feedback through the Feedback Message Board**
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circe_tigana will drabble the final piece belonging to the Turners.**Questions and comments here
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December 19 2003, 20:44:42 UTC 8 years ago
The monkey perched on the sill is rather dashing. Jean listens to it chitter-chatter as he scratches his lessons out on the parchment, slips it slices of orange from the plate Maman left him.
It dances for him, bright eyes full of laughter. He wonders if it has traveled far, seen the wilds of Africa, the shores of India. If it had lessons, too.
He wonders that even as it bites into his throat.
He watches it slip away with Maman's pearls and a small bag of coins.
He still thinks it's quite dashing.
And then he begins to shake.
December 19 2003, 20:52:13 UTC 8 years ago
"What’s this?"
Rosanna sneers, pinning red hair off the back of her neck; salt lingers in the air of the shabby inn-room. "A young fellow gave me that; just off his first voyage, he said." She is older, skin sagging careworn around crowsfeet at her eyes, her thin dress has seen better days. "Real sweet he was."
"Didn’t think you’d turn out for a gold piece like that, love," her companion says, reaching for the dirk at his belt.
Ragetti stands outside and squints up at the candlelit windowpanes, guilt nagging at his heart. She used to be so pretty.
December 19 2003, 20:53:03 UTC 8 years ago
Every time Barbossa calls ’em all together he tries a headcount. If there’re this many souls on board, equal share o’ the treasure, how many pieces of Aztec gold did that mean for him?
He knows he had a full purse and a tankard or twelve of ale. Stumbled back aboard at dawn, purse considerably lighter.
Jeb can’t recall how many pieces he’s supposed to drop back in the chest. But he reckons that if he asks real nice, maybe someone in Cadiz will help ’im out.
December 19 2003, 20:53:10 UTC 8 years ago
The organ-grinder is dead in the alley, his throat slit by bandits, the tool of his trade battered and broken against the cobblestones near his head. Blood pools around his shoulders in a silent black tide.
It’s the guards from the barracks who find him, cold and stiff the next morning, a ghastly second grin stretched ear to ear. His purse is cut, his pockets turned out, anything of value taken from him by the robbers.
They never find his charge, the dancing monkey who captivated the organ-grinder’s audience with his spirited capering. They fear he was carried clean away.
December 19 2003, 21:01:15 UTC 8 years ago
So she let him tuck the coin into her bodice and smiled as he kissed her.
She saw him again when he burned her home, killed her family, and ransacked her possessions. The watchmen found her sobbing in the ashes, but no one could find the pretty coin she’d kept for herself years ago.
December 19 2003, 21:05:19 UTC 8 years ago
"No!" The little girl stamps her foot, her curls shaking on her tiny head.
"Luv, I'm not asking, I'm telling." He is gentle; she is not crying, and for that he is grateful. And surprised.
She does not feel brave without her brother. She tentatively hands over her cloth doll.
"There's a good girl," his voice slithers. She yelps as he tears off the doll's head. Something shiny falls to the ground.
"Pretty," she whispers.
"'Tis."
His movement is swift. In his hands is a broken neck. Curls lay still on his arms.
December 19 2003, 21:17:52 UTC 8 years ago
So how could his crewmates explain the fact that Master Twig – the great dark warrior of the Black Pearl, the scourge of Bridgetown, the dreadlocked King of Chaos – spent the first hour of their sack of the town knee-deep in fountain water, frantically sifting through handfuls of coins for the one that he wished with?
December 19 2003, 21:32:58 UTC 8 years ago
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a gleam of gold. Sinking to one knee, fingers scrabbling, he clutched for it, half expecting it to vanish before he made contact. Crowing with delight, he held his prize aloft, struggling to his feet.
He never heard the footsteps behind him. Never heard the rasping voice behind him saying “Aye, there ‘tis, mate.” Just felt the sharp, blinding pain at the back of his skull and then, darkness.
December 19 2003, 21:49:50 UTC 8 years ago
Unfamiliar. Dark pockets, deep purses. Dingy corners of caves and caverns. All a far cry from this, this airy occupation of design and decorum.
People looked and pointed and it was beautiful, beautiful. Learned from gentle tones and touches. It was important, special, treasured. Immortal. Deluded.
Beauty begets desire and when the glass smashed the bearded face was rank with it. All was silent as they left, two immortals knowing the true price of life.
Dark caves and caverns now and it is just one more treasure among fortune. Each beautiful, each immortal and each with a tale to tell.
December 19 2003, 21:54:24 UTC 8 years ago
Shiny. He thought it again when he looked upon the blood in the moonlight, running in broad rivulets down the gilded mirror. Shiny.
Shiny. The rain on the street lit up with the light of the moon; but Asher no longer saw it quite the same way. Shiny.
Shiny. The coin glinted in a dirty hand, somersaulted in the air before it slipped into a pocket. The man attached to the dirty hand kicked Asher's foot under the pile of garbage and broken glass. Shiny.
December 19 2003, 22:26:37 UTC 8 years ago
Stumbling in the dark, she reached the edge her bare feet had been feeling for. The sound of the waves below washing over her, she looked at the coin. Her lover’s death was connected to it, as hers would be. Eyes closed, arms spread wide, she leaned forward… and fell.
But dark fingers would close around the coin again.
December 19 2003, 22:49:20 UTC 8 years ago
His brother, voice thick with hatred, said, "I hope you're happy. For the misery you've caused. Our own mother dead with a teacup in her hand. My ship fired. And the damn foreign devils in our harbors, stealing our opium."
Wu-Tak shot a glance over his shoulder at his captor. It was a slim hope, the yearning for freedom after so long. When their eyes met, Wu-Loh shoved the flintlock deeper into Wu-Tak's side.
"Please," said Wu-Tak. "Brother."
"The eighth court of hell is reserved for unfilials," said Wu-Loh, smiling. Wu-Tak saw death in that smile. And the pistol fired.
December 19 2003, 23:02:57 UTC 8 years ago
He chuckled, his breath rustling the papers on his desk. Somehow he doubted old Hancock would care one way or another what a lowly clerk thought of him. Tidying away his work, Jonathan donned his coat and damped the lamps. He wondered briefly whether Mary would like her gift.
When he opened the door, there was no snow – never any snow in the Caribbean. But the Black Pearl was in the harbour, and there was blood on the streets.
December 19 2003, 23:12:35 UTC 8 years ago
If pirates had consciences, which he sincerely doubted.
"Bless me, Father, for I am going to sin."
The young priest looked up, startled. He recognized this man from previous visits, but why...
"My son, I cannot grant absolution for sins you have not committed."
Monk sighed. "Pity."
Dying in a bloody froth upon the church floor, he watched Monk shatter the coffer and snatch up a coin from within.
December 19 2003, 23:19:12 UTC 8 years ago
Winter Solstice
They tracked the demon for months as he collect exotic paraphernalia for his spell; sometimes as niece and guardian, other times, as nephew. She thought once they were being followed--her watcher assured her they weren't.
Shortest night of the year everything was ready, including the blood gold piece prophesied by Arkmaederit.
The demon died quickly. Another apocalypse averted.
She didn't see the ragged hand that snapped her neck, skewered her watcher. She didn't hear his jaunty whistle as he collected his booty, or the tale he told his mates of the strange girl who battled the beast for him.
December 19 2003, 23:22:24 UTC 8 years ago
Six years later he saw the eye again, spattered with his father's blood.
His fingers fumbled as he tried to reload the pistol, but the man just smiled at him and disappeared into the darkness, the gold shining in his hand.
December 19 2003, 23:26:08 UTC 8 years ago
Influenza, she told him, and since he was her son and all, he wouldn’t mention the clap.
She was so happy to see him that he didn’t have the heart to tell her he hadn’t heard; that he was really there because he was a pirate condemned to undying horror and perpetual torment as opposed to a good son.
So, when she slept, he just took the coin from the sugar jar and eased himself quietly out the door.
December 19 2003, 23:26:25 UTC 8 years ago
For that, she did not have many peers, save for men. Their trinkets, hands.
Gold coins. One, particularly.
Glorious death by hands and dagger.
There would be no talk of her afterwards.
December 19 2003, 23:37:40 UTC 8 years ago
The owner will break any man's nose, smiling all the time. But when that one man returns, he finds himself slumped on the floor with a belly slit open, watching him take a single coin from the wall.
December 19 2003, 23:38:13 UTC 8 years ago
His tutor’s words sang in his ears like a lullaby: “Distract them, laddie and never look at the pocket. A steady hand, a sweet smile and the skin off your back if you come back empty handed.”
A sailor. Good targets; too befuddled with rum and sun to notice if you took their shirt from their back. His hand slipped into a pocket and slid out a coin, while he babbled apologies for jostling him.
He made it to an alley before he realised the sailor had a friend with sharp eyes...and the threat of a beating lost its sting.
December 19 2003, 23:51:48 UTC 8 years ago
It’s a damn good thing the coin calls to you, since she’s your only hope of ever enjoying corn again.
Huckler finds it interesting that the coin he spent in south Asia turns up in Barbados. He wonders briefly how long it took to get there, and what adventures it might have had along the way.
But then the Bosun cuffs him on the ear for lollygagging, and Huckler thinks no more on the subject.
December 20 2003, 00:08:11 UTC 8 years ago
But this gold won't shape. Light catches the curve of the skull's eye and it seems to wink at her. In the heat of the forge, Helena shivers.
When a man demands it at pistol-point, she gives it gladly and wishes him luck with it. His mouth twists oddly at the words. He leaves her unharmed.
December 20 2003, 00:53:26 UTC 8 years ago
It’s been a good haul here—twenty-three coins, all told—and enough booty to warrant a trip back to the Cave. The crew’s spirits will be high, and his hold over them will grow that much stronger. Captain Barbossa brings them twenty-three steps closer to freedom.
He just wonders whether any of the scurvy idiots have thought of Bill Turner’s piece.
He has.
December 20 2003, 01:05:03 UTC 8 years ago
Swordplay
It was perfect. Gold, ruby inlay handle. Long, gently curving blade. The right balance for a man of his height. With a wicked smile he paid the small shopkeeper and left with his prize. Glancing at his reflection in the greasy shop widow, he couldn’t help but admire his peacock perfection. Even the Captain would be jealous.The rubies no longer gleamed quite so brightly, and the balance now seemed clumsy, but the blade was still sharp. The blade slid effortlessly into the shopkeeper’s throat. Only took an instant to re-claim the gold coin from the now lifeless fist.
December 20 2003, 01:09:27 UTC 8 years ago
A cook on a pirate's ship, but just a cook. Still, he was part of the crew, and that rated him a share of the treasure.
What good was a cook on a ship where no one could taste? Where he couldn't test seasoning in his own dishes ? Where everything, no matter how exotic, no matter how savoury, tasted like a mouthful of ashes ?
In the beginning, he searched out stronger seasoning, a stronger spice - anything that would allow him to enjoy the food he held so dear.
But now he found himself holding a knife to the bleeding throat of a spice dealer, as he reclaimed his bit of gold.
Cook. Pirate. He was both.
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