All Roads lead to Eoropaidh

“In this house” he began softly, “we politely say good night to each other”. Andrea gave him a playful wink. Or had it been a cruel joke? Andrea suddenly drew Peter closer to him, so close Peter could feel the warmth emanating from his body, and the hardening bulge in Andrea’s trousers. “Good night, Peter Turner”, Andrea whispered smoothly, his voice husky and invitingly as if it was made out of black silk and lace. The bulge of his pants brushed against Peter’s thigh in what in Peter’s mind only could be a threat of terrors to come.
The very next morning, Peter attended, sitting down with the others at seven o’clock to eat breakfast as custom at the Lighthouse Farm dictated it. Mr. Gibbs had stopped by to join them. He had a weathered, ruddy face with strong, bushy sideburns and greying hair on top of his head. He was usually called to Lighthouse Farm in order to escort Peter when they went to Eoropaidh. Peter liked Mr. Gibbs. He was jovial, funny and extremely practical and had a bottomless supply of entertaining stories from ‘the old days’ – as Gibbs said. Peter felt he could allow himself to relax some around Gibbs – for Gibbs never pretended to be anything than what he was, and the casual way he spoke to Peter made Peter want to share things with him as well. Mr. Gibbs was usually the one doing the talking – and though Peter seldom opened his mouth to say something, Mr. Gibbs certainly managed to bring smiles to his lips. Everything he did; The way he behaved, the way he spoke and the tone he used, told Peter that this was not a demon. And that he was as different from the Sparrows as day and night. Yes, Mr. Gibbs managed to make Peter relax, and listening to his fantastic and improbable stories about how Captain Jack Sparrow once crossed the Atlantic, from the United States to the Cornish coast in 1902 by surfing on the back of a whale, always took Peter’s mind off things for a while, giving him a good laugh in the process.
Once they had gathered around the breakfast table, Mr. Gibbs immediately picked up on the current mood.
“Well, ‘tis is the jolliest bunch I’ver laid eyes on” he commented sarcastically. He glanced from Sparrow to Sparrow.
“I suppose then, Gibbs, that you haven’t heard the news. About our cousin Malachi” Jacob said, glancing over at Peter, who’d just gulped down a double sandwich. Peter immediately stopped eating, still gazing at his now empty plate.
“Another sandwich, Peter? I recommend the shrimp salad” Ivory said as if nothing had happened.
“There was a meeting last night” Jacob continued, handing Peter the shrimp salad and toast, “and John has decided to allow Malachi to visit Peter. From what I understood, Jack has also summoned Melchior and Marcus to some kind of meeting which their father isn’t allowed to be part of. It would seem that Jack and John has some kind of plan going in the background.”
“Impending doom, as Jack called it, is upon us in some months now. Three, to be precise. And it’s going to coincide with the birth of Peter’s child.” Jacob told them with gloomy voice. “I was told through the mirror, this morning.” They all held their breaths as Jacob sighed and continued: “And Martin informed me on the phone just hours ago that Jack has boarded the Pearl and is off for the Caribbean to prepare ‘something’. Martin is to care for the children for a few days. Jack had been mumbling something about that Martin might just as well stop studying for his exam for in some months, because everything would collapse. We may take this as an indication that Jack knows something we don’t, and that we need to gather our troops, all one hundred and eighty-eight of them. I suggest we withdra—“
“—hang on, Jacob” Andrea interrupted, “there are no indications of extra activity in the lower planes of Hell. Nothing down there suggests that they’re planning an invasion or are preparing for anything of the magnitude which Jack is implying.”
“Ditto for the Demons of Light” Israel added, glancing at Jacob.
“I still say that we must withdraw as many Sparrows as possible, so that we may stand gathered for whatever is to take place in three months from now.”
“And where would we flee?” Michael wanted to know.
“I say we travel to the Thyrion’s castle and let him deal with this. He’s the one responsible for bringing us here in the first place” Andrea added.
“I think it would be best to wait and see if Jack doesn’t reveal some more clues to us, the whole truth if possible, but at the moment we’re in no position to judge him either way. Jack has always been, and will continue to be vague in describing his plans. That’s just how it is. But give the word though, to every Sparrow in your path, that they are to stand by and react the moment any signal is given. In the meantime, we have our jobs, we have Peter to care for and we have our duties as Jack’s sons.”
They all turned to gaze at Peter expectantly, as if they awaited some final comment from him.
“Do you think” Jacob began, addressing Peter directly, “that you’re up for a meeting with Malachi? Because if you aren’t, then no one will protest. He’s been awful to you, and frankly, I don’t see why John is pushing this now, but I suspect it has something to do with whatever that happens in three months.”
Peter did not reply. They all watched, as the butter knife he held in his right hand, hovered over a slice of toast on his plate. His hand quivered, and the small portion of shrimp salad slid off the knife and down on to the plate, next to the toast in stead of on top of it. Then he did something unexpected. Peter glanced over at Mr. Gibbs, and for the briefest of moments, they looked at each other. Peter then turned his head back and continued to stare at his plate. Gibbs turned to Jacob and said: “The lad doesn’t like the idea of seein’ Malachi at all, but he’ll do wha’ is required of ‘im. He does, however, ask ye all kindly not to leave ‘im alone with Malachi, in case of you-know-wha’ might happen.”
“Right”, Jacob replied, amazed at the apparent attachment between the two.
“But right now, Peter wants to finish his toast and get to Eoropie and do some shoppin’!” Gibbs added, and got up from his seat.

A week passed by without incident. Then, after breakfast one day, there was a rap on the door. Andrea went to open it, and he laughed as he saw who the guests were.
“I know” John said, smiling in return, “I don’t usually knock, but for Peter I’m willing to make an exception!” John continued, gazing over to where Peter was standing. Malachi looked over his father’s shoulder, eagerly looking for Peter, and found him. They exchanged glances for a second, and that was enough for Peter to scramble away from the door opening between the living room and the kitchen. His gaze danced about, as he automatically began to look for cover – places he could run and hide. He watched as Captain Sparrow and his son, Malachi, entered the kitchen. John glanced at Malachi and said grimly: ”Remember what I told you”. He stopped and let Malachi through. Peter watched his master walk into the living room with hesitant steps. Jacob rose from his seat to stand next to Peter. So did Christopher and Ivory. The sudden tension in the air was highly distressing, and all Peter wanted was to disappear into a black hole, to hide away from danger.
“Come now, give the young couple some room” John told them sternly. They grudgingly removed themselves from Peter’s side, and that was also when Peter realized that it wasn’t him they resented. An emotion briefly washed across the room – a wall of protection, a stand taken against his Master, a clear and naked resentment directed towards him. No confusion – no question. They’d risen to stand by Peter’s side. It left the young pregnant male baffled to know he was not alone.

What to say when you stand before someone and you both know who the real criminal is? I found myself gazing at some wretch, a lowlife from the London gutter who had turned into the most beautiful creature. I watch him finger his cotton shirt nervously, smoothing it across his big belly, straightening the folds and wrinkles. It makes me think of all the other times he stood before me this way, nervous, not knowing what to do with himself. There’s no hiding the belly. It has grown big, but not big enough in my eyes, and he doesn’t look anywhere near as healthy as I’d hoped he would be. I begin to see the impact I’ve had on him, what it has done to him, and the magnitude of what is to rectify in so short a while. I take some steps towards him. He makes no move. Another step, and he still holds his ground. I sense nothing. My father’s recurring poisonous attacks on me has blinded me. I cannot tell what Peter needs. Like a cat without its whiskers, my father deliberately maimed me so I wouldn’t be able to read, to influence and rape his mind. I am rendered useless. A sitting duck to other demons. The only protection I could have offered Peter, is gone. I turn my head and glance at my father, the great demon lord, the Gatekeeper of Hell and brother to Lucifer. Our eyes meet, and I shudder as I remember my surprise and shock, once brought on board the Crimson Lotus. He said I was to endure every trial I had put Peter through, so I would know the crimes I was guilty of. And he began teaching me this, by stripping me of my powers, stripping me of everything that made me who I was, like I had stripped Peter of his clothes, his assets and his privileges. Then, my father raped me.
I can still remember the utter disbelief, the trust between father and son which was betrayed, all in that instant. I wasn’t angry at all – but scared. I had never known such terror. Perhaps it was because someone of magnitude like my father, invaded my temple – my body. And to my horror, I discovered that the power of faith in which he’d taught me to trust, didn’t help me. Telling him no, that he was not allowed, did not help. There, in his cabin, he taught me what it was like to be frail. And what it felt like to be at the mercy of someone who held all the power. And he turned me around, my back to him, telling me he didn’t want to see my face, didn’t want to be reminded that he had such a despicable child who could commit such a crime. He, my father, who’d always supported me, let me have my way, had taught me how to use my powers to weed out the scum of mankind. It was like hearing the words of condemnation which I’d fed to Peter over and over so he would believe them. He’d bent me over his desk and stripped me off my trousers before he undid his own. I remember the strange feeling of shame – I, who had been taught to be proud of who and what I was. There was no lust. No ecstasy. And most of all, he was not welcome inside my body. I wanted him out. I remember telling him off, ordering him to stop, imagining he would heed me like he heeded grandpa Jack’s word. Then I pleaded. That didn’t work either. That was when I was overcome with fright, immobilizing me, praying it would soon stop. It seemed to last for an eternity.
I return to the present, to Peter who stands before me. I speak the only words which are left to say, which I know in my heart I should have told him a long time ago. They are words he’s been craving to hear for a whole year – words I’ve denied him. I watch him shift his balance as he grows uncomfortable with the situation. I can only imagine what he’s thinking, since I’m no longer allowed to read his mind. We’re equals now. I have been cast down to the levels of men. Not once does he look at me, but instead he cowers and makes a retreat, seeking shelter behind Michael. His right hand rests protectively on his belly while he peers out from behind Michael’s back. Peter’s face is stark with fear, and it comes to me that my presence alone is enough to cause him great distress. I wish to be invisible, to shrink to nothingness so I don’t have to see the half-crazed, fearful product of my doing.

My father makes me spend the day there, in their company – in Peter’s company. I have to endure sitting there, silent and helplessly watching Peter and every move he makes – for he too is ordered to remain. He is clearly uncomfortable and restless. I watch my father attempt to make contact with him. He offers Peter a glass of orange juice – a most innocent and pristine act. Peter faints from the distress this attempt at communication gives him, and they scurry to get him onto the couch. I resist the impulse to elbow my way through the crowd to get to him. I see him open his eyes, and I instantly read the message ‘we could have had it so good together, you and I’.
Regret eats away at me through the afternoon. We spend the time in separate corners in the living room. He does not return my longing looks at him. The others chat away with John, before some of them breaks off to go and prepare dinner. For a moment, it’s just me, Peter and my father sitting in the living room, listening to the crackle of the flames in the fireplace. Then I see it! Peter’s belly moves. It bulges up and down and from side to side. The child moves, and I am moved with it. The sight brings me to tears, for never before have I seen something so beautiful. Despite myself I get up, and I tread lightly across the room. My father watches every step I take, and as I approach Peter, he gets up from his chair, ready to separate me from Peter at the slightest sign of trouble. Peter scrambles to his feet also, and that ruins the moment. I watch Peter circle us along the walls, making his way out into the kitchen. I feel like I’ve been stabbed. The pain of watching him distrust me and fear me so, is unbearable. I turn to my father and beg him to take me back to the Crimson, all though there is nothing more I want than to be with Peter. I come to realize that being with Peter, makes me more of a burden for him to bear, than not being with him. He is better off without me. My father denies, and I am left to deal with the despair. I see Jacob talking to Peter, glancing at me from time to time. Peter’s clearly given a task. My father pretends not to see him as Peter finally makes his way out of the kitchen, and he trudges over to me, and I feel ecstatic to be the focus of his attention. I meet him with open mind and open face, I do my best to display friendliness – I am ready to embrace him and squeeze him tight of joy and love. But then he stops. I see his face pale, his beautiful but sad eyes darting aimlessly from side to side. He starts to shake, and again he is overcome with fear. He begins to turn away from me, his fingers nimbly touching the wall as to help him find his way. I hear something crack behind me, to my right, and as I turn, I see shards of gold which was once glass, fall from my father’s fist. His eyes are molten red as our gaze meet. His anger is directed towards me, and me alone. At first I do not understand, then it dawns upon me the high hopes my father has for Peter. And he feels I’m ruining it. Peter doesn’t look back. He seeks shelter within the kitchen. I hear my father sigh and breathe, sitting down of the step of the stairs. He’s calming down. He aims to be in control of himself.
At the dinner table, Peter doesn’t want to join us. Jacob speaks to him, and he relates to us that Peter feels he’s not suitable company.
“I want that boy at the table, now” my father snarls, “I can hear his belly growling for food all the way out here!” It was said loudly, with irritation. Peter was meant to hear, and hear he did.
“He’s too distressed and upset, you can’t expect him to—“ Andrea defended Peter.
“—perhaps, then, he should be allowed to dine alone, upstairs?” I suggested. The words came pouring out of me. I immediately regretted them as I felt my father’s icy golden stare. That was how it must have been like for Peter, I reflected, the frustration and fear of always saying something wrong, or speaking at inconvenient moments. I decided to shut up, and again I was reminded how Peter probably had drawn the same conclusion back at the Windy Whistle Farm, deciding it was better to keep quiet than risk getting scolded for his impertinence. If it at all had been an impertinence.
“Don’t think even for a moment, young Malachi, that you have anything of significance which is worth sharing.”
“Like father, like son, some say” Israel said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, glancing at Peter.
“Your insinuations are not appreciated, Israel. I’ve done nothing of the sort to raise my offspring to behave in such a manner. His father and I did nothing but encourage him and to love him.”
“Then his foulness must have come from somewhere else” Israel retorted quickly.
“Guess three times from where” John said, lowering his voice, glancing at Peter. Malachi popped his head in to see where Peter was at, and he quickly slid past his father, entering the kitchen.
“Don’t listen to them bickering” he told Peter as he tried to smile at the young pregnant male, “you must be hungry. Say, perhaps my father would allow the two of us sitting down here at the kitchen table and enjoy our dinner here” Malachi said. The cheerfulness in his voice was mixed with anxiety and uncertainty. His face suddenly became serious, as if he’d suddenly been angered by something. He said: “I am beginning to see the errors of my ways now, Peter. No one has made me feel—“he stopped talking as he watched Peter back away to the farthest kitchen table. He watched as Peter slowly sat down onto the floor and crept beneath the table. Peter looked so immensely tired. Why hadn’t Malachi seen it before? Here he’d been talking away while the pregnant love of his life was tired beyond words. Peter accidentally looked up and their eyes met for an instant. Malachi decided to seize the chance to speak again.
“Peter” he said with desperation in his voice, “Peter”, he repeated pleadingly, “no one has made me feel like you did, and still do! I was a fool to think myself your superior. Please, give me another chance! Let me be here for you and the baby, let me set things right. In time we could—“ Malachi stopped talking as he saw Peter glancing at him again. There was a hint of recognition in Peter’s eyes, as if he’d suddenly seen something. Then, he hid his face in his palm and turned his face away towards the wall. He was breathing heavily and obviously with great discomfort. The child was pressing on his lungs. Malachi didn’t need magic to recognize Peter’s reaction to spot it. In Peter’s mind, Malachi had changed his face into a hideous demonic mask.
He was suddenly grabbed by the collar of his neck and pulled out onto the floor. John hauled him to stand and then dragged Malachi out into the living room.
“Still playing your tricks on him? What does it take, Malachi?! Do I have to lobotomize you in order to leave him alone?”
“I didn’t touch—“
“—silence!” John snarled, making an elegant flowing motion through the air. The world shifted, and father and son were back on the Crimson Lotus, the ship of the dead.
The undead; The vicars, reverends and preachers, the bishops and the monks whose souls Captain John Sparrow had bound to his ship, stood to gawk at the newcomers for a moment. They then flocked to the stairs leading up to the bridge while they howled, begged and reached for their captain. All but one. Reverend Brown remained at his post. He had been scrubbing the port side of the deck upon their arrival. As with the others, his clothes were nothing but rags. His buttocks were naked and raw, and it took him great pains to stand on his knees to gaze at the newly returned members of the Masterrace. Reverend Brown was battered from having spent weeks at sea, unaccustomed as he was to the harsh and constantly wet climate. Likewise was he unaccustomed to have to fight for every crumble of bread and drinkable ounce of water. He was performing the duties he had been given, which mostly consisted of cleaning and scrubbing and serving as the captain’s unwilling cabin boy. He was still in shock. He was living a nightmare - a slave onboard a ship of undead, half rotten, eyeless priests who openly disclaimed God. Most of them were transparent ghosts, and they obviously had their looks restored then. But the ones making Brown sick to his stomach, were the ones living between life and death, on whom the decay had begun to show. They were the most aggressive ones, who would assault him in his sleep and beat him without reason. They accused him of being alive, and therefore he had to be the captain’s new favourite, laying claim to all the pleasures and warmth which were to be had in the captain’s embrace.
The Crimson Lotus sailed the endless sea. Dark blue, almost black water below, and the continuous smoky sky above, sometimes accompanied by fog. No blue skies. No sun. Just a vast nothingness which was enough to drive any sailor from his wits. There was no beginning and no end. No hope.
Reverend Brown straightened his aching back, coming to stand on his knees. He watched the captain holding his son hard by the hand, forcing him inside the cabin. Another rape was about to take place, Brown knew. That boy – it was Peter Drinkwater’s boyfriend. There was a dispute going on between father and son, for the father was cursing at the son, slamming the door so hard a tremor went through the entire ship. The crew, every lost priest clad in rags and priest collar which bore witness to the era in which they’d lived, slowly returned to their posts when it dawned into their maggot-infested brains that there was no intimacy to be had. Reverend Brown could not help but to have pity on them. The slim hope of being the captain’s ‘lover’ for but a few minutes, to have that moment to reminiscence in, to feel alive again and to be loved, however strangely, was all they had left. Without it, without hope, they were truly dead, and ended up fading into ghosts. By each day, the ghosts grew a little more transparent, until they disappeared completely, and only the presence alone could be felt. It was truly a horrible fate to have, for Brown saw the despair in their faces, saw the unspoken pain in their eyes and the tears which had frozen on their cheeks. They were practically ignored into oblivion. Reverend Brown bent down to continue his work, as a scream reached his ears. It was the young man.