The Deadlight Zone
An old barkeep never got to go to sea...
A salty breeze stirred up the candle flames of the ramshackle tavern. Only a few patrons remained in the shanty this late hour, stretching out the passing minutes until morning by wetting their lips on grog or even a nondescript bottle of wine. The barkeep hopped from around the counter, a crutch under one arm and a tray of refills held aloft by his other hand. His sallow face and white stubble projected a grin which matched the eagerness of his movements between the tables.
He hopped his way across the space to a corner and approached an old barrel seated by a dark, thickly-haired man in a gold-trimmed jacket. To his right and left sat his grizzled-looking but chummy mates.
“Here ye go captain, another round on the house, while ye consider my offer,” he announced, leaning on his crutch to distribute the drinks around a barrel, each one landing with a clunk.
The captain in the gold-trimmed jacket grinned at his new mug. He gave a nod of appreciation and took a swig. After wiping his mouth he answered, “Well, Mr. James, why is it you want to join my crew so much? You have a decent position here.”
The old barkeep smiled wider, rubbing his chin and licking his lips. He leaned forward with both arms over his crutch. “Well, I’ve never been to sea ye see? Why, for years I’ve been telling meself I’d go to sea. As it is, I don’t know how much time…well, what do ye say, lads?”
To the captain’s right, the first mate glanced sideways at his crew mates and quietly sipped his drink. The captain, setting down his mug and looking the barkeep up and down with some amusement just smiled and stifled his laughter.
Quickly, the barkeep continued, his right hand held up as if to hold back any answers until he was finished, “Oh but make no mistake, I’m more fit than I look. Why sure, I may be no good for furling the sails, but maybe ye need a cook. And ye can’t beat this: I don’t need any pay—not even a piece of eight—just a hammock to sleep in, see? Now you can’t top a deal like that.”
Now the captain laughed openly. “Sir you do amuse me. I have half a mind to bring you along just to see what the crew’ll make of you. Your desperation is…well, entertaining so to speak.”
“So you’ll think about it then?”
“No, sir, you cannot think I would seriously take you aboard. I’m sorry old man, but your time has passed, if ever there was a period of vitality or viable seamanship in your life.” He stood, and reached into his coat pocked to retrieve a few gold coins. These he dropped onto his plate one at a time. Clink, clink, clink. “For the drinks and your, er, conversation.”
He made for the door and at once, his boatswain and first mate stood and trailed out behind him. When the door at last creaked shut behind them, their hollering laughter rang out and echoed off of both sides of the street beyond. The barkeep slumped down into a chair and put his leg up. His glum frown added just a couple more years to his countenance while he fiddled with the buttons on his shabby waistcoat.
Picture of a man near the end of his voyage. One Mr. David James, age: always too old, occupation: barkeep and occasional flibbertigibbet. Mr. James, who has lost more than just his left leg and his right eye, not from time at sea but from a rough and tumble journey which led to this precise place in the middle of nowhere. Mr. James, a man eroded by the briny waves crashing down on the lackluster sandy shores of his existence, who wishes repeatedly that at some point in his youth he had elected to get his feet wet. In just a few moments, Mr. James will be selected by fate to have his one wish come true. As it turns out, fate takes the shape of an old captain whose ship makes berth…in the Deadlight Zone.
Mr. James maintained his sorrowful state for much of the night hours, passing the time sipping from a bottle from beneath his stores. He sat for so long that one of the lanterns at last burned up the last of its fuel and flickered out all by itself, leaving a slight rising wisp of smoke. At length the barkeep would sigh, rub the wrinkles around his cheeks, and then resume his exercise in diluting his being.
As he took another swig, the door of the tavern swung open once more. A gentleman stepped gently through the doorway. He was tall and wore a teal-green frock coat and matching tricorne hat, rimmed in silver. His long white beard was braided with beads and arranged into long, thin tassels, resembling icicles dangling from a yardarm. The salty, briny smell of the shore intensified as he stepped in, and lingered even after he shut the door behind him.
Mr. James sized up the stranger with bleary, pinkish eyes, before stretching out his hand and saying, “Sorry, mister, we’re closed for the night. You may try Tuttles’ up the street a bit.”
The stranger smiled and doffed his hat. His long, white hair was done up in a pony tail with the same strands of beads as his beard. After looking for almost too-long a time into the puffy eyes of the barkeep, he answered, “Come, Mr. James, won’t you share a drink with an old sea captain? I have traveled far to speak with you.”
David James straightened up in his chair and blinked. He wasn’t sure he had ever been asked for before. With both hands he rubbed the grogginess and grog from his eyes, sniffed, and then forced himself up with his crutch. “Aye sir, well, have ye a seat. I’ll fetch ye a fresh mug.” He ker-plunked across the floor while the gentleman sat down, placing his hat on the barrel beside him.
After Mr. James rejoined him with fresh mugs and another bottle of rum, he raised his glass and thanked the barkeep before taking a swig. At last, the gentleman wiped his mouth and beard and set down his mug.
“Now, to business then. As I said before, I have sailed far to reach you here, Mr. James. I will speak plainly. I offer you my ship, my crew, and position as captain, provided you are willing to set sail tonight.” This spoken, the gentleman leaned back and crossed his arms, as if awaiting a reply.
The barkeep just blinked again. His stomach fluttered, but he suppressed the feeling by shifting in his seat. “Ye what? What is this, a joke is it?”
“No, Mr. James, this is no joke.”
“Yer giving me yer ship, yer crew, and all? And what, I’m supposed to just sail it out of that harbor there?”
“We have an understanding, then?”
It was the barkeep’s turn to laugh, the rum making it warmer and louder. In between his dying chuckles he managed, “No, sir, if there be any man here who doesn’t understand, it be me.”
The gentleman frowned, and then leaned forward, his elbows resting on the barrel. “This is what you want, is it not? To go to sea?”
“Aye, sure I want to go to sea, but you can’t take me for a fool! I’ve nothing but your word there even is a ship and crew out there. And if there was, there’d be no guaranteeing I’d come back would there?”
At these words the barkeep glanced past the gentlemanly captain, and fixated on the distant window of the tavern. His face took on a hint of seriousness.
The captain, stroking the beads on his white beard, interrupted his thoughts, “Yes, that is your true wish, isn’t it. You’ve never told a living soul. You want to go to sea and never come back again.”
At this, David James scrunched up his face, balling up his right hand into a fist. Shaking it, his voice raised, he shouted, “How do ye know that? I say, how do ye know who I am and what I want? Who’s to say who a man is and what he wants asides himself?”
“I know it’s what you want because it’s what I wanted as well,” the stranger calmly replied, still stroking his beard. “But I had my fun. I’m ready to ‘go ashore,’ as they say. The ship and her crew are yours. They’ll be faithful to you, and help sail you anywhere you wish to go.” As he said this, he fixated his emerald gaze into the barkeep’s face. They were soft eyes, sincere eyes.
Mr. James lowered his fist. He felt disarmed and softened his words in return. “Aye? Ye be serious then. There must be some sort of catch, now, mustn’t there? Come on, out with it sir, and give it to me real plain like.”
The stranger did not hesitate. “You must recoup sailing men. Ones who have, er, become lost shall we say. They’ll be your responsibility.”
The shot of realization darted its way from the barkeep’s mind straight out between his lips. “Why, by me lost bones, yer Davy Jones!”
“At your service, Mr. James,” Davy Jones said with a smile.
“I’ve heard of you. So it’s true then, you kidnap men what go missing at sea?”
“You’ve heard wrong. I take in men who are lost. Some are lost at sea. Most are lost without her,” he stopped stroking his beard and leaned forward again, “Men like you, Mr. James. You see, some men are lost in life. They are looking for an escape, the chance to set sail to the elysian shores, in a matter of speaking.”
The barkeep just blinked, scratching his head with one hand and rubbing his wrinkled chin with the other.
Davy Jones continued, “What I’m saying is, we sail the globe and all her oceans for as long as we want. Not age, nor sickness, nor foul weather spoil it for us. And when a man has had his fill, he simply goes ashore, and he passes on. Peacefully.”
Finally, Mr. James leaned forward to meet the emerald eyes of the teal-adorned man. He still smelled of briny breeze, and even a hint of sea grass now that the barkeep reflected on it.
“Captain, that’s a right-sounding bargain if ever I heard one. I reckon then, that if it’s not too much trouble I may get to do it too?”
He glanced down into his mug. “As I said, I’m looking to retire. To go ashore myself. I never thought the time would come, but a few thousand lifetimes at sea and I am tired of her.” Then he lifted his head to look at the barkeep again. “But you, my friend, you have that love of the sunset, the spray in you. Your thirst for the solitude and rocking of a deck, that is the beginning of your journey. And it is why I have selected you, after some deliberation, to take up the torch.”
At this, the captain stood up from the barrel and downed the rest of his rum with a glug. He donned his tricorne hat again, and dusted off the sleeves of his coat before announcing, rather formally, “What do you say, Captain James, are you ready for a thousand lifetimes at sea? Understanding, of course, there will be others like you. Do you accept the charge to tend to them? And when you are ready to go, will you find a replacement of your own to take up the helm?”
Mr. James frantically lifted his arm in salute, knocking over the empty bottle. Grinning widely, he nearly squealed, “Aye, I’ll about do it! Er, I mean, I accept! When can we shove off?” he inquired eagerly.
“As soon as you’re ready, captain. Your ship and crew await.”
The barkeep pushed out his stool and hopped up onto his crutch, still smiling. He couldn’t be sure why, but he felt lighter and easier to manage it than before. Davy Jones took his free arm and they walked out of the tavern together into the night, the rolling waves washing against the shore.
Mr. David James, A.K.A. Davy Jones, age unknown. Presumed deceased during the golden age of sail somewhere off the shores of a forgotten white beach in the Caribbean. A man who was called to dreaming and wishing for a second chance to do what he knew he would love. Tonight, he got it, and only one witness may attest to seeing him, captain, put to sea out into the horizon of…the Deadlight Zone.
This post was a part of Nat 1 Publishing’s Summer Court writing challenge! You can read the final, edited draft in their published anthology and participate in the challenge every year on Discord.