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Frenchie knew he shouldn’t have joined the crew of the Revenge, not when Stede had made him an offer too good to be true. Those things always came with a cost.
The man was too perfectly prim and proper in a way that felt just a little unnatural if you looked too closely. Like those weird dolls that looked a little too real and still fake. And then, Captain Stede had gone and introduced himself to Frenchie as a Gentleman.
Most of the times men have done so – and Frenchie has met many men like Stede – they’ve been posh toffs. All bluster about the oh so noble houses they belong to. But Stede had said it with an inflection, one very easy to miss as part of another posh accent.
Except Frenchie hadn’t missed it.
Hadn’t missed the way his eyes seemed to twinkle like stars either.
(No that wasn’t it. More like dim flames in something deep underground when you really looked beyond the stars.)
Frenchie knows he’s one of the more superstitious and maybe paranoid folk even amongst other pirates. He knows the others scoff at some of his beliefs. But he can’t help the way he’s grown to be. You don’t move around so many crews without picking up a lot of their superstitions and fears and then developing a few healthy ones of your own.
So you say you believe in monsters and ghosts and possessions. You sing a little shanty to the moon, to the seas, to the sky, and about hammering away on the deck every now and then to drown out the mermaids and sirens far away who could sing to enchant you. You believe a ramshackle hut on an abandoned coast with the light on is a witches house and don’t go there. You believe women have crystals in their bodies that brings misfortune on ships. And if a woman is part of your crew you try and harness her misfortune onto those who’d attack you. You carry pouches full of sage, and chillies and lime on string you periodically throw away, and salt, and iron nails. And in certain parts of the sea, you do not recognize the bodies in the water.
You do this whether you personally believe in them or not.
(Later one day on the ship, well before Blackbeard, well before this whole mess, he will hear Stede and Roach arguing with Buttons at separate times to sail well away from a certain patch of sea. He will overhear Wee John shivering below deck talking about bodies in the water while Stede comforts him telling him there’s no such thing. He will have nightmares about it for weeks.)
Not on the seas. Not if you want to stay safe.
Frenchie has only heard Gentlemen spoken with that inflection from a few of the much older sailors he’d worked with in past jobs on other crews in service before his pirating days.
The ones that didn’t think the colour of his skin made him any different from them. Moreover they’d harboured a nasty hatred for the French, but an even deeper rage towards the English despite having joined the Service. They’d huddle up together when they’d get drunk and melancholy and talk about their homeland and share stories. Old Killian would drag him into the huddle too, even though he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sunburnt white skinned wiry muscled men.
Some of the stories would be the usual tales of misspent drunken youth adventures and some the typical ghostly or supernatural fare: of that bloke who knew a bloke who’d spew blasphemies and his head turned around like an owl, of strange creatures that preyed upon humans, of finding strange abandoned houses in the woods or at the end of their lane. But then all those stories would inevitably turn to why they left to join the service and almost all of them used that word with terror in their eyes: Gentlemen.
‘You don’t fuck with the Old Gentlemen of the Hills and Forests.’
(He’d asked old Killian and the others why he cared so much for someone like Frenchie. Why they told him all those stories. Killian would never tell him. Fionn had once, a night after too much drinking when he was helping the old man to the crews quarters. ‘You’re a bard by nature boy. Your kind live on the edges without even knowing it. Your life is too close to the other world. Best you know what to look out for, lest they take you. They like your kind the most.’
In another crew, Mehmood had echoed that sentiment when he told Frenchie about deserts and djinn. ‘Those folk like the story tellers and singers and poets and dancers the most of all, boy. They say those folk live on the edge of madness. You’re one of those. You have to know what to watch out for.’
All of it had terrified Frenchie.)
So when the soon to be Captain Stede Bonnet introduced himself as a Gentleman with that very same inflection Frenchie heard used by all those old sailors, his eyes looking like twinkling stars, like more, making Frenchie an offer too good to be true, his hackles raised.
‘Don’t give them your real name,’ old Killian used to say. Fionn and later Mehmood, and Shankar would echo that sentiment. ‘That’s one of the ways they get to you. Never give them your real name.’
Frenchie does what he’s always done to survive, listen to his instincts and superstitious teachings and say, “My old crews used to call me Frenchie.”
It wasn’t a complete lie either. He’d gone by Frenchie for so long at that point that he often forgot his real name, much to his own embarrassment. It was only in moments like this, he thought it might be a blessing, but Captain Bonnet didn’t have to know that.
Something had flashed in Stede’s eyes at that. But it was gone in a moment, along with the stars. He’d seemed more man then, and he’d nodded and welcomed Frenchie aboard.
He’s never asked again for Frenchie’s real name, even when the rest of the crew sometimes have after one too many drinks. Always walks away if he’s in earshot. It doesn’t allay all of Frenchie’s fears but does soothe some of them. Bonnet respects a name not given to him for any reason, and at least for some reason seems to respect Frenchie enough than to go and try to find out his name by any other means.
Frenchie knew he shouldn’t have joined the crew of the Revenge, not when he suspected what Stede was, but again, Stede had made him an offer too good to be true.
(Maybe what Fionn and Mehmood had said about Frenchie was true too. As much as he was paranoid, he was also too easily taken by it. They said he lived on the edge of madness.)
In hindsight, it’s ironic that Stede or the various horrors Frenchie had heard off, or that one could experience on sea, or even Blackbeard had been the least of his concerns regarding this whole jaunt. It’s the fucking ship he should’ve been worried about from the beginning.
None of anything he’d ever learned about prepared him for this. Everything he knew about strange places were mostly on land.
Not that Blackbeard and fucking Jizzy helped matters.
The early days on the Revenge when it first started its game or whatever the fuck it does weren’t easy.
The ship has always been bigger on the inside. And yet no one realises it even if they all find some reason or another to stay above deck most of the time. Stede’s explanation of hidden passageways may have helped in easing some worries but never explained it all away. One doesn’t even have to be paranoid or superstitious about it. Its there’s out in the open to behold.
Even hidden passageways on a ship would be made of wood, or iron at the most. It never explained why those passageways sometimes trailed into hard packed earth and stone like they were on land. It never explained the eerie sound the sea winds made as they blew through them. It never explained why Frenchie smelled fresh wet earth. It never explained the stairs Frenchie saw lingering at edges of his vision that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
Then came the suspicions of the rat infestation that wasn’t. Hearing the occasional scratch and chitter grow in frequency just faintly out of earshot and behind the walls or under the floors. Sometimes they sounded like a human voice calling to be noticed. Seeing Roach get more worked up as Stede told them to stop chasing the noises. And wasn’t that frightening itself? Especially how Stede had told them to stop.
He’d almost called the Revenge something else. Told them it was better that the crew didn’t spook themselves. And the implication about getting lost in the ship didn’t go unnoticed.
Stede had a look in his eyes too as he’d given that that hidden warning. Another one of his easily missed expressions, but it was still there. One that worried Frenchie the most of all.
Because it meant Stede was scared of his own ship.
And if their maybe non human Captain was worried of what the ship was, if he was scared of a simple set of stairs that sometime appeared… if he was so terrified that he begged it to befriend them that he tried to force all their hands at placating it with songs and stories…
What chance did the crew truly have?
Except it had worked, hadn’t it? The songs and stories.
Whatever the thing is that followed Captain Stede here and become part of the Revenge (and it had followed Stede, Buttons had confirmed it for Frenchie), it’d liked the stories and songs. It’d settled in easily, almost like a lazy sea monster.
While none of them liked sleeping below deck, except maybe Oluwande and Jim in their room, they all stopped having that nagging feeling of dread if they stayed below deck for long.
It’d liked them too, Frenchie knew deep in his bones. He didn’t know how he knew it. But over time the ship stopped being terrifying, seemed playful even. Especially towards Lucius and him. Hidden hallways didn’t end in cold earth.
And the stairs? They seemed to confine themselves to the back of Captain Stede’s closet as if they were only personally invested in him.
The thing is Frenchie forgot about what the Revenge was like.
Funny how things can settle into a routine that you forget why you do the things you do.
That’s how these things always get you in the stories. They wait for your guard to be down.
(‘Best you know what to look out for, lest they take you. They like your kind the most.’ Fionn’s warning echoes in his ears.)
It feels strange to think about it now. To wonder how he could even forget those initial days of hidden dread.
But it’d been settled and calm for so long and other things had taken focus as days and weeks and months went by. It’d felt as soft hearted as its maybe human maybe something else captain it had followed all the way out to sea. Almost like a big old dog some of the big name soldiers used to have in the service, content at finally being reunited with their master and finding new people to spoil them.
They’d all but forgotten about the rats and the whispered mantra to never follow the sound, to avoid any iron stairs that appeared. They’d forgotten why they couldn’t explain their primal fear to never use the hidden passageways. They’d forgotten why most of them liked staying above deck.
Hell, Lucius even spent his own sweet time mapping the passageways without Stede.
(Then again, Lucius was a scribe. Maybe that also counted for living close to the edge of madness of whatever it was the old sailors he’d worked with in all those crews called it.)
Frenchie had found himself forgoing his need to carry those pouches of salt and herbs and chillies and lime on a string and iron nails various other superstitious pirates in other crews he’d worked with had pushed onto him for safety. Found himself forgoing the need for all those practices he’d developed. As long as he had his lute or a tune on his lips, he was okay.
Found himself referring to the ship as a house in his mind.
(Frenchie thinks he’s heard Stede call the Revenge a house a few times. Maybe that’s where he picked it up?)
Found himself feeling safe in this house.
(‘They like your kind the most.’ Fucking Fionn and his warning, why hadn’t Frenchie listened.)
Even when Captain Stede had seemed gone for good the Revenge seemed fine.
(‘They like your kind the most.’
Maybe in hindsight that’s why.)
And then Blackbeard abandoned the crew, threw away all of Captain Bonnet’s things, and stopped all the singing and stories.
And the next thing Frenchie knew, he’d realised he’d been smelling forest for days and they were all hearing rats in the walls.
It crept up slowly. Surely. Like tides do. Escaping notice until you were well beyond swept in it.
Frenchie had other things to focus on after all. Having to learn and adapt to survive on this new Revenge under Blackbeard’s command and under Jizzy the Spewer’s directions. Having to balance that thin line in keeping Jim in control. It was easy to not notice it until he was in thick.
First the Revenge grew cold. That was dismissed easily as the changing season, the shift to cooler areas, the fact they’d thrown out everything and left the bare bones of anything on the ship. He’d barely noticed it because hadn’t stopped sleeping above deck. He’d long gotten used to it, to change the habit.
Then the rats that were never there came back, and that's when he knew.
This house is not for you, the strange thought comes to him unbidden as if whispered by an eerie echo of Captain Bonnet’s voice one early morning amid the gruelling work Izzy enjoys putting them through as Frenchie stares off the edge of the ship. It seems bigger than normal stretching off into space. The tip of the mast seems to touch the horizon in the hazy pre-dawn light.
It is cold on the Revenge. Colder than normal for this time of day for this time of year. And it could easily be sea wind. Except, the wind seems to be blowing from somewhere deep inside the ship.
This house is not for you, that thought is back again, as if said in Captain Bonnet’s voice. It doesn’t seem directed at him. Yet a pit of cold settles into Frenchie’s stomach that has nothing to do with the weather. It’s in this moment of dread that Frenchie knows without a doubt, the ship is angry.
Pilfering salt to make a circle to sleep in is easy. He used to do it before.
Jim only raises an eyebrow when he starts doing it again but Jim is too torn between their rage and worrying about Oluwande to care. To notice that the ship has changed again, has gone back to it’s old ways.
Or did they ever notice it at all?
Ivan and Fang find it strange but they let him do it. Sneak him salt for his little ritual when no one else notices.
Izzy punishes him for it, but Frenchie will take being killed by Izzy over this fucking house.
This house is not for you, his mind echoes. It may not directed at him now. He may even sometimes believe in Fionn and Mehmood’s words about things like this liking his kind. But monsters aren’t known for caring about collateral in their rage.
There’s something else on the ship with them. Besides Blackbeard and his crew, besides the sound of rats that aren't really there, besides the stairs.
Frenchie can feel it, stalking the hallways. Hear its footsteps behind the walls. Hear its claws scratching the walls as it walks by. Hear it murmuring and muttering in what sounds like a deep guttural mockery of Captain Bonnet’s voice: This house is not for you.
Frenchie wants to laugh.
He feels like he’s going mad.
‘They say those folk live on the edge of madness. You’re one of those. You have to know what to watch out for.’
Or maybe Mehmood was right. Maybe he was already close to mad. After all he chose to join the crew of a maybe human thing with stars in his eyes.
He starts singing to the ship under his breath. He may not be able to do it aloud, it may not hear him now in its anger, but it worked before right?
Maybe it could work again?
Maybe it could placate the angry ship and the angrier beast inside it.
Right?
The rats in the walls grow louder in their chittering, sending Izzy into another one of his fits of rage. If Frenchie pays attention to it, under all that chittering it sounds like the ship saying, This house is not for you.
Frenchie doesn’t know if there’s anything more unnerving that watching Jim realise what’s happening.
Jim is terrifying on any day. Perhaps the most terrifying person Frenchie knows, even more terrifying than Blackbeard. As much as Frenchie’s been pulled taut keeping them away from Captain Blackbeard and Izzy, and keeping their rage in check, soothing their worries about Oluwande; there’s also comfort in how Jim automatically defaulted to that stony terrifying rage filled silence. It’s easy to pretend that they’re still back in the good old days.
Frenchie didn’t know how much he relied on Jim being Jim. How much it soothed him, until its gone.
Perhaps it’s because Frenchie’s watching the scariest person he knows slowly realise they’re trapped on something strangely alive and angry. Something that’s bigger than them and could eat them at a moment’s notice, and there’s nothing they can do about it.
And perhaps because Frenchie, for all his superstition and paranoia, has nothing he can do to help Jim with this.
At the most he can offer to make a wider salt circle. Let Jim sleep next to him. Offer to take first watch. Pretend he doesn’t hear Jim’s voice shake when they cross themselves and whisper quiet prayers as the dread and fear settle in while he hums another quiet shanty to hopefully soothe the ship.
But other than that? He’s helpless.
Frenchie thinks that Jim has realised there’s something else on the ship with them.
They cross themselves more often. They carry pouches of salt and nails.
They don’t go below deck often no matter the time of day without Frenchie. If they do they don’t stay there long.
Their hand is always near a throwing knife ever ready.
“What’s wrong with the ship?” Ivan asks him, every now and then, voice low and worried.
“Does the ship feel bigger than it really is?” Fang asks him whenever Izzy out of earshot.
“We’ll be safe right?” Fang and Ivan constantly ask as they join Jim and him in the now wider salt circle to sleep.
“Fucking go down there and get the rats off this ship,” Izzy hisses menacingly with a knife to Frenchie’s throat. But even as he threatens Frenchie, he seems to have an edge of nervousness to him and won’t look anywhere but Frenchie.
“There’s no rats on the ship, are there?” Blackbeard asks well after they’ve saved him from going down those fucking stairs, stinking of earth and having been romping in a fucking forest while they're in the middle of the ocean. Perhaps, he's more marked by the Revenge than all of them are, even Frenchie for all he's supposed to be a person who lives on the edge of madness.
Behind all of them, Frenchie can make out yawning dark hallways and the faint outline of stairs, and something more he swears by everything he will never actually see.
It’s with a sinking feeling of being plunged into ice water, Frenchie realises that the beast has realised Frenchie knows about it.
Sometimes he will feel a gaze on him. Sometimes in the dark, out of a corner of his eye, he will see a flash of a thing that shouldn’t be there.
Sometimes there’ll be a mark or two on the wall that he rushes to buff out, or dirt footprints on the floor that he rushes to clean up. If he cleans away it's traces he can continue pretending it's not there, for all that helps.
Sometimes it feels like the beast is whispering long forgotten secrets to him under all the chittering of the rats that aren’t there. Like in some strange way it's trying to tell him bedtime stories.
But instead of a wooden puppet trying to become a real boy, it tells him of old houses by forests that were bigger on the inside and the wind would whistle through them. It tells him strange bonfires deep in the woods with strange dancing and merriment. It tells him about little boys who’d venture barefoot into and get lost in the forests by a strange old house for days and emerge unscathed. It tells him about what kind of things are buried deep at the end of the stairs that lead down into the centre of the earth by an old woman out of love for her boy.
It feels familiar and that truly terrifies him.
Frenchie refuses to listen.
“What was it Roach used to say? Meat is meat.” Jim says quietly to him one evening after crossing themselves. Ivan and Fang are across the deck listening to Izzy’s barking orders.
There’s an undercurrent of something else going on over there. No one has seen Izzy for the whole day. The first mate can’t say where he’s been either. He’s been getting lost inside the ship more often if he's not with someone else. And sometimes when Frenchie looks at him, it's almost as if he can see tree bark.
Blackbeard is asleep in the Crow’s Nest again instead of the Captain’s Room. He’s been setting up there for the last few days. He’s stopped wearing his kohl. The last thing Frenchie heard him mutter was about stairs in the closet and forests and Stede.
“You think we’re all meat for this ship or that thing now that Captain Bonnet’s gone?”
And that is truly a grim thought.
‘You don’t fuck with the Old Gentlemen of the Hills and Forests.’
Well Blackbeard and his crew had. Sure they didn't know what they were doing, but they'd gone and done it.
And now Frenchie is dealing with the fucking majority of the fallout all because they like people like him.
Maybe they can feed Izzy and Blackbeard to it, to be saved. Captain Bonnet wouldn't like it, but Captain Bonnet's not fucking here is he?
At least not in the way he should be.
Would that even sate it? Or would that make it hungrier?
Frenchie knows if he looks more, he’ll see the beast that stalks this place.
(Too pale white skin that fades into the black of earth under a night sky. Antlers made of tree branches emerging from its head. Eyes as wide as the stars or rather as deep as yawning caverns set on a familiar face.)
Frenchie knows if he truly listens he’ll hear its true voice.
(Familiar but also guttural. Like a voice that should be telling bedtime stories to grown men about a wooden puppet who wants to become a real boy. But it has long gone unused, and the beast has forgotten how to use it.)
And it will say to him, but not directed at him: This house is not for you.
And Frenchie knows without a doubt, the day he truly sees and hears the beast will be the day he crosses the threshold he’s on. He will truly be lost.
(Because he knows what it is, doesn’t he? Suspects. He doesn’t know how it happened. How it’s possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But he knows what it is with a deep rattling in his bones.
His mother always did say he was too clever for his own good.)
He knows, the same way he knows his stories and superstitions and how to survive. So he never looks, never listens.
‘Your kind live on the edges without even knowing it. Your life is too close to the other world.’
‘They say those folk live on the edge of madness. You’re one of those. You have to know what to watch out for.’
Frenchie was warned so many times. Why did he never listen?
Why did he agree to be crew for a Gentleman with twinkling eyes, edge of madness be damned. Why didn’t he leave this fucking ship when he first realised what it was, back when he could?
“Fucking poncey gentlemen and their shitty ships.” Izzy roars one evening with a crazed glint in his eyes, as he emerges from below deck, hitting so close to the truth without even knowing it. By the sound of his voice it’s obvious, he’d gotten lost inside the ship yet again. He stinks of forest and earth like Blackbeard does these days. And he looks deathly cold.
Behind him the entryway to below deck is dark. It stretches on like a long hallway. Like a cavern holding a staircase leading to the depths of the earth for secrets buried long ago that should stay buried. It stinks of foliage and honey.
Frenchie holds in a hysterical laugh. And then in a voice tinged by all the madness he’s feeling, echoes what he’s been hearing all this time. From the ship, from the beast, to one of the people it's directed too:
This house is not for you.