Semi-Original Fic: Terra Incognita
Jul. 21st, 2008 02:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
concertigrossiThis one is way, waaay overdue. Basically, at the end of May, I posted up some meme-age saying that I would tell my faithful readers how things ended up for any character I've written about. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
veronica_rich wanted to hear about what happened to the Portolan Man, seven years later. I said I would and, well, it got a little out of hand.
It's TECHNICALLY a PotC fanfic, but it's wandered so far afield that we're edging into original fic territory.
With fervent thanks, as always, topink_siamese and rexluscus, beta readers extraordinare.
------------
It was rare that the Captain of the Flying Dutchman granted shore leave, but in this particular case, it was unavoidable. A crew of dead men needed very little, and Captain Turner could call forth anything they might require from the substance of the ship itself. Or, at least, almost anything - the trick was that the Captain had to know what it was that was being asked for. After several particularly frustrating go-arounds attempting to call forth a very specific shade of blue, the Captain had thrown up his hands and told his First Mate to set course for London.
And so it was, in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Fifty-Nine, that Geoffrey Sumpter, cartographer to Calypso's ferryman, found himself with a two-day pass and a bag of coins. (They were, naturally, of various countries and centuries, but gold was gold, after all, and nobody stiffed the Dutchman.)
Sumpter breathed in the fumes of the big city. He walked awkwardly through the streets; he'd been seven years on a ship, and was completely unused to ground that stayed put under his feet, but the Docklands was no stranger to men who hadn't gotten their land-legs back yet, and so he attracted no notice.
It was strange to be amongst the living, once more, but, to his surprise, he felt no longing to stay. He was quite happy with his current arrangements. The crew had initially been skeptical, but had come around, over time. It was interesting, after all, to see where they'd been, and watching the new maps take shape added some variety and a sense of progress to their otherwise unvarying routines. (Sumpter, no fool he, was well-acquainted with the ways of sailors, and if the borders of his maps included more well-endowed mermaids than were strictly necessary, it was a small price to pay to guarantee the crew's good will and cooperation.) One of the men had been a ship's carpenter, when he was alive, and was more than happy to provide Sumpter with a table and a special chest of drawers to keep the finished maps in.
The work was interesting; he’d made street-maps of Atlantis and Ys; he had nearly completed Avalon’s coastline; he’d detailed all thirteen ways that mortal men could cross to the land of the dead (and hadn’t the Captain wanted that one kept under lock and key); and he had treasure maps to every good pirate hoard for the last 300 years. He was working on a bestiary of all the mythical creatures they encountered (tracking down the Beast Glatisant was proving troublesome, but he did have eternity, after all.)
Yes, his new life was, in fact, a great deal more interesting and, dare he say, enjoyable than his old one. The only thing that really annoyed him after a while was listening to all the crewmen go on and on endlessly about their regrets.
He’d always thought men would regret the wrongs they’d done when they were alive – and there was some of that, to be sure – but the deepest, bitterest regrets seemed to be for those things not done. Sumpter even had a term for it: the “If-Onlies.” “If only I’d worked harder…” “If only I’d asked her…” “If only I’d stayed home more…”
For a man who had always know what he wanted to do, and had reached out and done it, these litanies of remorse wore on his nerves.
------
He made his way through the maze of streets. The carpenter had recommended an inn; it was, after all, important to stay away from any place where he might be recognized. The more recently deceased amongst the crew had also recommended several houses (and specific girls within them) for their… entertainments; he was of two minds about these. He had never been one for the bawdy-houses, but it had been seven years, and he was not a monk by any stretch of the imagination.
At any rate, his duty came first. He found the inn (more a boarding-house than a tavern), and he knocked on the door. He was shown in by a grimly-dressed woman with defiantly brown hair, who looked him up and down with a practiced eye. "Here about a room?"
"I am… my business has me in London for a few days."
"Well. To let you know my rules, sir, it'll be cash up front for the first night, no drunkenness or brawling, and I'll have no doxies brought here, or you'll be out as quick as boiled asparagus. Understood?"
"Quite, madam." He asked the rates for a single room, and handed over the coin.
"Thank you, sir. My name is Mrs. Paulings, if you need anything. Dinner is at 8:00 pm, promptly. Mrs. Maslin will see you to your room." Mrs. Paulings rang the bell, and another woman came up the hall.
She was in her early forties, he judged, and a bit on the plump side. Her hair was gold, mostly – the silver threads were beginning to show through. There were laugh-lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but her face was otherwise unwrinkled, that he could see. Her brown eyes bespoke a lively intelligence, if he wasn't mistaken. She wore widow's weeds, he noted, but he guessed that her bereavement wasn't overly recent; her demeanor didn't indicate deep mourning.
"Yes, sister?" she asked.
"Show Mr. Sumpter up to the second-floor front. He'll be staying with us for a few days."
"Certainly," she answered, and smiled at him. "This way, if you please."
He followed her up the stairs. She opened a door to a small but clean room; more than adequate for his current needs. "Will this do?"
"Very well," he answered. "Thank you, Mrs… Maslin, was it?"
She nodded. "Yes. Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?"
"Certainly." Did he need to eat? He wasn't sure… it also probably wasn't the best idea to spend too much time in the company of living people, but, when she asked, he'd found it impossible to say no.
"Excellent. I'll let you get settled, then." She smiled again, and went back downstairs.
It was a novelty, to eat food once more. He'd forgotten how enjoyable it could be. The food was more plentiful than it was distinguished, but he'd have eaten bread and water with equal relish. At any rate, his appreciation endeared him to his hostesses, whose guests were generally not given to effusive praise. His fellow boarders were a stolid, respectable lot: small-time, out-of-town merchants or bachelor tradesmen. Most of them had been visiting here for years.
"And what is your profession, Mr. Sumpter?" asked the formidable Mrs. Paulings.
"I'm a cartographer."
"A what?" asked one of the men.
"A cartographer. I draw maps."
This certainly got everyone's attention.
"How interesting!" said Mrs. Maslin. "What brings you to London?"
"I'm here for supplies. I leave again in a few days for the South Seas," he said, repeating the cover story he and the crew had come up with.
"That's simply fascinating!" she exclaimed. "How dearly I should love to travel!"
"I don't hold with foreign parts." Mrs. Paulings squelched.
This thoroughly shut down the conversation for a time, and, when it resumed, those at the table stuck to more prosaic topics.
----
The next morning, he set about his commissions. It was slightly out of order, but he began with the little requests the crewmembers had given him in town. For the carpenter, he checked to see if Mrs. Mooney’s pie shop was still doing well (it was, though the man would be saddened to see that his former wife had not remarried.) Inquiries for one of the able seamen led to a crumbling stone in a churchyard, though, since that young man was in his sixty-seventh year of service, Sumpter wasn’t sure what else was to be expected. He had a brace of errands like these, and, depressing as they were, they took up most of his morning. He returned to the boarding house.
“And how are you faring, Mr. Sumpter? Prepared for your long voyage?” asked Mrs. Maslin cheerfully as he came in.
A smile came, unbidden, to his face. “Not remotely, I’m afraid…” he turned to go up the stairs, and then remembered a question he had. “Mrs. Maslin, can you recommend a good establishment for painting supplies? There is a great deal I must replace…”
Her face lit up. “Yes! There’s a very good one not far from here. If you go left, up the street, then…” she launched into a series of directions.
He held up his hand to stop the torrent. “I’m afraid I’m not in the least familiar with London…” He certainly hadn’t missed the sudden note of enthusiasm in her voice. “Perhaps you would do me the very great favor of showing me the way?”
Her grin became wider, and brought out the dimples in her cheeks. “I’ll get my hat…” she said, and hurried upstairs.
As she came back down, Mrs. Paulings emerged from the kitchen. “Laura, where are you off to, in the middle of the day?” she glowered.
What a frowzy old peahen she was! Sumpter intervened. “Mrs. Maslin was kind enough to agree to assist me with my errands.”
Mrs. Paulings wrinkled her nose, but relented. “Very well. But don’t take too long.” She turned and went back into the dim recesses of the house, grumbling under her breath about map-makers who got lost too easily.
They were out the door before Mrs. Paulings could change her mind.
“My sister has long been used to ruling the roost,” said Mrs. Maslin, by way of explanation.
“So I noticed…” he replied, but said nothing further on that subject.
The paint-shop was, as promised, excellent. Sumpter quickly found everything he needed, and the shopkeeper was most solicitous, once he realized the size of the order. But, to his surprise, his companion did a great deal of the haggling. Mrs. Maslin was intimately familiar with the intricacies of the materials; she could converse quite intelligently on compounds and mordants, and the properties of different hairs for different brushes.
Once they were back out on the street, he asked, “Do you paint, Mrs. Maslin? You seem quite knowledgeable.”
“I dabble,” she replied, blushing a little.
“I should very much like to see your work…”
“You flatter, Mr. Sumpter…” she laughed, but when they got back to the house, she led him up to a garret on the north side of the attic.
“Now you must be kind to my daubings, Mr. Sumpter. You see, I’m out of practice.”
She unveiled several canvases. They were quite standard, for a student – still lifes, rural landscapes and the like but she had evident talent; that much was clear. It might be a little rusty; she was, as she said, out of practice, but her innate understanding of color and composition shone through.
“These are wonderful.”
She grinned shyly. “Do you really think so?” she asked, thrilled at hearing such praise from a professional.
“I do. You must practice, madam, and perfect your art.”
“Well… you’re very kind, but I’m afraid it’s too late. If only I’d kept it up while I was married…”
Those dread words! Here! He grasped her hand. “Madam, I swear to you, it’s never too late. While you live and breathe, it’s never too late.”
“Mr. Sumpter… are you quite well?” she asked, shocked, but she didn’t withdraw her hand.
“You must promise me you will not give up your painting, no matter what. And you must travel! Carpe diem, madam! Trust me when I say that the worst regrets dead men have are for the things they never did!”
Her jaw dropped.
“Forgive me… I have spoken out of turn…” He turned on his heel and hurried back to his room.
----
He didn’t see her again until dinner, when she was seated next to her dragonlady sister. They said nothing to each other during dinner, but, once the meal was over, she stopped him in the hallway.
“You will be leaving us tomorrow, Mr. Sumpter?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Madam, I hope I did not offend…”
“You did not.” She offered him her hand to kiss, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And I promise.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief, and pressed his lips to her hand for a few more seconds than was entirely proper.
-----
He would have thought that was the end of it, but that night, there was a scratching at his door. He opened it, and Mrs. Maslin pressed her way in.
Clad only in a dressing gown.
He stepped back from the door, quite shocked. “Mrs. Maslin! What on earth are you doing here!?” he asked.
“Seizing the day!” she whispered back. She stepped forward on tiptoes, closed the door and kissed him.
For more than a few seconds, he gave himself over to the kiss entirely, both because it had been a really long time and because of, well, the lady who was doing the kissing. But his conscience resurfaced. "Madam! I beg of you! I am quite serious, when I leave here, you shall never see me again! I will not be returning to London, and, while your company these past two days has been most welcome, I respect you entirely too much to compromise your honor!"
She placed her face in her hands, and then looked up at him. "Mr. Sumpter. I live in a respectable boarding house, with my respectable sister, in a respectable widowhood. I spent twenty-five years married to a respectable man. I loved him dearly, but I think now, when I am my own mistress, I'm entitled to a little disreputability. If it's with a congenial kindred spirit who I am unlikely to see ever again, then so much the better. However, if you don’t wish to…”
Oh, but he did wish to, and would he ever regret it if he didn’t. He pulled her close and kissed her back.
---------
Afterwards, she slept in his bed while he was wide awake. He had to be away in the morning, there was no getting around that. It seemed grotesquely unfair, suddenly, to find someone just to have to leave her immediately. But what could a dead man do for her? If she could only have some sort of financial security, she could do as she pleased...
His eyes lit on the stack of supplies, of paints and pencils and paper that they’d just bought, and an idea brought itself to the fore. It was against the rules, against ALL the rules, but, for once, he didn’t care. He began to draw.
----
Laura Maslin, when she awoke, found that he was gone. She’d known that was coming, and, as her moonlight bravery evaporated in the morning sun, was somewhat relieved. The only thing she found was a map, with a trail outlined and an “X” mark at the end.
veronica_rich wanted to hear about what happened to the Portolan Man, seven years later. I said I would and, well, it got a little out of hand.It's TECHNICALLY a PotC fanfic, but it's wandered so far afield that we're edging into original fic territory.
With fervent thanks, as always, to
pink_siamese and rexluscus, beta readers extraordinare.------------
It was rare that the Captain of the Flying Dutchman granted shore leave, but in this particular case, it was unavoidable. A crew of dead men needed very little, and Captain Turner could call forth anything they might require from the substance of the ship itself. Or, at least, almost anything - the trick was that the Captain had to know what it was that was being asked for. After several particularly frustrating go-arounds attempting to call forth a very specific shade of blue, the Captain had thrown up his hands and told his First Mate to set course for London.
And so it was, in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Fifty-Nine, that Geoffrey Sumpter, cartographer to Calypso's ferryman, found himself with a two-day pass and a bag of coins. (They were, naturally, of various countries and centuries, but gold was gold, after all, and nobody stiffed the Dutchman.)
Sumpter breathed in the fumes of the big city. He walked awkwardly through the streets; he'd been seven years on a ship, and was completely unused to ground that stayed put under his feet, but the Docklands was no stranger to men who hadn't gotten their land-legs back yet, and so he attracted no notice.
It was strange to be amongst the living, once more, but, to his surprise, he felt no longing to stay. He was quite happy with his current arrangements. The crew had initially been skeptical, but had come around, over time. It was interesting, after all, to see where they'd been, and watching the new maps take shape added some variety and a sense of progress to their otherwise unvarying routines. (Sumpter, no fool he, was well-acquainted with the ways of sailors, and if the borders of his maps included more well-endowed mermaids than were strictly necessary, it was a small price to pay to guarantee the crew's good will and cooperation.) One of the men had been a ship's carpenter, when he was alive, and was more than happy to provide Sumpter with a table and a special chest of drawers to keep the finished maps in.
The work was interesting; he’d made street-maps of Atlantis and Ys; he had nearly completed Avalon’s coastline; he’d detailed all thirteen ways that mortal men could cross to the land of the dead (and hadn’t the Captain wanted that one kept under lock and key); and he had treasure maps to every good pirate hoard for the last 300 years. He was working on a bestiary of all the mythical creatures they encountered (tracking down the Beast Glatisant was proving troublesome, but he did have eternity, after all.)
Yes, his new life was, in fact, a great deal more interesting and, dare he say, enjoyable than his old one. The only thing that really annoyed him after a while was listening to all the crewmen go on and on endlessly about their regrets.
He’d always thought men would regret the wrongs they’d done when they were alive – and there was some of that, to be sure – but the deepest, bitterest regrets seemed to be for those things not done. Sumpter even had a term for it: the “If-Onlies.” “If only I’d worked harder…” “If only I’d asked her…” “If only I’d stayed home more…”
For a man who had always know what he wanted to do, and had reached out and done it, these litanies of remorse wore on his nerves.
------
He made his way through the maze of streets. The carpenter had recommended an inn; it was, after all, important to stay away from any place where he might be recognized. The more recently deceased amongst the crew had also recommended several houses (and specific girls within them) for their… entertainments; he was of two minds about these. He had never been one for the bawdy-houses, but it had been seven years, and he was not a monk by any stretch of the imagination.
At any rate, his duty came first. He found the inn (more a boarding-house than a tavern), and he knocked on the door. He was shown in by a grimly-dressed woman with defiantly brown hair, who looked him up and down with a practiced eye. "Here about a room?"
"I am… my business has me in London for a few days."
"Well. To let you know my rules, sir, it'll be cash up front for the first night, no drunkenness or brawling, and I'll have no doxies brought here, or you'll be out as quick as boiled asparagus. Understood?"
"Quite, madam." He asked the rates for a single room, and handed over the coin.
"Thank you, sir. My name is Mrs. Paulings, if you need anything. Dinner is at 8:00 pm, promptly. Mrs. Maslin will see you to your room." Mrs. Paulings rang the bell, and another woman came up the hall.
She was in her early forties, he judged, and a bit on the plump side. Her hair was gold, mostly – the silver threads were beginning to show through. There were laugh-lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but her face was otherwise unwrinkled, that he could see. Her brown eyes bespoke a lively intelligence, if he wasn't mistaken. She wore widow's weeds, he noted, but he guessed that her bereavement wasn't overly recent; her demeanor didn't indicate deep mourning.
"Yes, sister?" she asked.
"Show Mr. Sumpter up to the second-floor front. He'll be staying with us for a few days."
"Certainly," she answered, and smiled at him. "This way, if you please."
He followed her up the stairs. She opened a door to a small but clean room; more than adequate for his current needs. "Will this do?"
"Very well," he answered. "Thank you, Mrs… Maslin, was it?"
She nodded. "Yes. Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?"
"Certainly." Did he need to eat? He wasn't sure… it also probably wasn't the best idea to spend too much time in the company of living people, but, when she asked, he'd found it impossible to say no.
"Excellent. I'll let you get settled, then." She smiled again, and went back downstairs.
It was a novelty, to eat food once more. He'd forgotten how enjoyable it could be. The food was more plentiful than it was distinguished, but he'd have eaten bread and water with equal relish. At any rate, his appreciation endeared him to his hostesses, whose guests were generally not given to effusive praise. His fellow boarders were a stolid, respectable lot: small-time, out-of-town merchants or bachelor tradesmen. Most of them had been visiting here for years.
"And what is your profession, Mr. Sumpter?" asked the formidable Mrs. Paulings.
"I'm a cartographer."
"A what?" asked one of the men.
"A cartographer. I draw maps."
This certainly got everyone's attention.
"How interesting!" said Mrs. Maslin. "What brings you to London?"
"I'm here for supplies. I leave again in a few days for the South Seas," he said, repeating the cover story he and the crew had come up with.
"That's simply fascinating!" she exclaimed. "How dearly I should love to travel!"
"I don't hold with foreign parts." Mrs. Paulings squelched.
This thoroughly shut down the conversation for a time, and, when it resumed, those at the table stuck to more prosaic topics.
----
The next morning, he set about his commissions. It was slightly out of order, but he began with the little requests the crewmembers had given him in town. For the carpenter, he checked to see if Mrs. Mooney’s pie shop was still doing well (it was, though the man would be saddened to see that his former wife had not remarried.) Inquiries for one of the able seamen led to a crumbling stone in a churchyard, though, since that young man was in his sixty-seventh year of service, Sumpter wasn’t sure what else was to be expected. He had a brace of errands like these, and, depressing as they were, they took up most of his morning. He returned to the boarding house.
“And how are you faring, Mr. Sumpter? Prepared for your long voyage?” asked Mrs. Maslin cheerfully as he came in.
A smile came, unbidden, to his face. “Not remotely, I’m afraid…” he turned to go up the stairs, and then remembered a question he had. “Mrs. Maslin, can you recommend a good establishment for painting supplies? There is a great deal I must replace…”
Her face lit up. “Yes! There’s a very good one not far from here. If you go left, up the street, then…” she launched into a series of directions.
He held up his hand to stop the torrent. “I’m afraid I’m not in the least familiar with London…” He certainly hadn’t missed the sudden note of enthusiasm in her voice. “Perhaps you would do me the very great favor of showing me the way?”
Her grin became wider, and brought out the dimples in her cheeks. “I’ll get my hat…” she said, and hurried upstairs.
As she came back down, Mrs. Paulings emerged from the kitchen. “Laura, where are you off to, in the middle of the day?” she glowered.
What a frowzy old peahen she was! Sumpter intervened. “Mrs. Maslin was kind enough to agree to assist me with my errands.”
Mrs. Paulings wrinkled her nose, but relented. “Very well. But don’t take too long.” She turned and went back into the dim recesses of the house, grumbling under her breath about map-makers who got lost too easily.
They were out the door before Mrs. Paulings could change her mind.
“My sister has long been used to ruling the roost,” said Mrs. Maslin, by way of explanation.
“So I noticed…” he replied, but said nothing further on that subject.
The paint-shop was, as promised, excellent. Sumpter quickly found everything he needed, and the shopkeeper was most solicitous, once he realized the size of the order. But, to his surprise, his companion did a great deal of the haggling. Mrs. Maslin was intimately familiar with the intricacies of the materials; she could converse quite intelligently on compounds and mordants, and the properties of different hairs for different brushes.
Once they were back out on the street, he asked, “Do you paint, Mrs. Maslin? You seem quite knowledgeable.”
“I dabble,” she replied, blushing a little.
“I should very much like to see your work…”
“You flatter, Mr. Sumpter…” she laughed, but when they got back to the house, she led him up to a garret on the north side of the attic.
“Now you must be kind to my daubings, Mr. Sumpter. You see, I’m out of practice.”
She unveiled several canvases. They were quite standard, for a student – still lifes, rural landscapes and the like but she had evident talent; that much was clear. It might be a little rusty; she was, as she said, out of practice, but her innate understanding of color and composition shone through.
“These are wonderful.”
She grinned shyly. “Do you really think so?” she asked, thrilled at hearing such praise from a professional.
“I do. You must practice, madam, and perfect your art.”
“Well… you’re very kind, but I’m afraid it’s too late. If only I’d kept it up while I was married…”
Those dread words! Here! He grasped her hand. “Madam, I swear to you, it’s never too late. While you live and breathe, it’s never too late.”
“Mr. Sumpter… are you quite well?” she asked, shocked, but she didn’t withdraw her hand.
“You must promise me you will not give up your painting, no matter what. And you must travel! Carpe diem, madam! Trust me when I say that the worst regrets dead men have are for the things they never did!”
Her jaw dropped.
“Forgive me… I have spoken out of turn…” He turned on his heel and hurried back to his room.
----
He didn’t see her again until dinner, when she was seated next to her dragonlady sister. They said nothing to each other during dinner, but, once the meal was over, she stopped him in the hallway.
“You will be leaving us tomorrow, Mr. Sumpter?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Madam, I hope I did not offend…”
“You did not.” She offered him her hand to kiss, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “And I promise.”
He breathed out a sigh of relief, and pressed his lips to her hand for a few more seconds than was entirely proper.
-----
He would have thought that was the end of it, but that night, there was a scratching at his door. He opened it, and Mrs. Maslin pressed her way in.
Clad only in a dressing gown.
He stepped back from the door, quite shocked. “Mrs. Maslin! What on earth are you doing here!?” he asked.
“Seizing the day!” she whispered back. She stepped forward on tiptoes, closed the door and kissed him.
For more than a few seconds, he gave himself over to the kiss entirely, both because it had been a really long time and because of, well, the lady who was doing the kissing. But his conscience resurfaced. "Madam! I beg of you! I am quite serious, when I leave here, you shall never see me again! I will not be returning to London, and, while your company these past two days has been most welcome, I respect you entirely too much to compromise your honor!"
She placed her face in her hands, and then looked up at him. "Mr. Sumpter. I live in a respectable boarding house, with my respectable sister, in a respectable widowhood. I spent twenty-five years married to a respectable man. I loved him dearly, but I think now, when I am my own mistress, I'm entitled to a little disreputability. If it's with a congenial kindred spirit who I am unlikely to see ever again, then so much the better. However, if you don’t wish to…”
Oh, but he did wish to, and would he ever regret it if he didn’t. He pulled her close and kissed her back.
---------
Afterwards, she slept in his bed while he was wide awake. He had to be away in the morning, there was no getting around that. It seemed grotesquely unfair, suddenly, to find someone just to have to leave her immediately. But what could a dead man do for her? If she could only have some sort of financial security, she could do as she pleased...
His eyes lit on the stack of supplies, of paints and pencils and paper that they’d just bought, and an idea brought itself to the fore. It was against the rules, against ALL the rules, but, for once, he didn’t care. He began to draw.
----
Laura Maslin, when she awoke, found that he was gone. She’d known that was coming, and, as her moonlight bravery evaporated in the morning sun, was somewhat relieved. The only thing she found was a map, with a trail outlined and an “X” mark at the end.
