AS HIS MUDDY SHOE TOUCHED THE FLOOR OF THE FLYING DUTCHMAN, Will felt good. Soothed. And yet, he had sailed on one of the most feared ships in the Caribbean – in the whole world! But no time did danger or discomfort seem to overwhelm him. Everything was going very well.

Many of the sea plants had stuck to the inner workings of the ship, giving it the appearance of an abandoned ocean liner – but far from it!

Dozens of sailors appeared, looking menacing and aggressive.

They were, as Tia had mentioned, transfigured into a mixture of human and maritime: some had the heads of sharks, others of shells.

Bewildered and lost, he turned his head to see one of the walls of the building, in which was engraved this: Maccus; Jimmy Legs; Hadras; Bill Bootstrap; Koleniko; Angler; Palifico; Penrod; Morey; Greenbeard; Clanker; Ogilvey; Wyvern; Crash; Ratlin; Quittance; Two Head; Old Haddy; Wheelback; Manrey; Urchin; Jelly; Broondjongen; Finnegan; Piper. Foreign names.

All but one. Bill Turner.

Jack had been right.

He was here.

Will didn't know how to react. Searching all his life for the grail, he had finally found it. What was the meaning of his existence now? Finally, it still remained to locate it organically.

"Hey, you! You're nailed to the ground?" asked Maccus, a member of the Flying Dutchman's crew. It had mutated to take on the appearance of marine fauna. 

His head was shaped like that of a hammerhead shark, and its teeth had become as sharp as those of this species.

His left eye was pushed away from his face to lodge at the end of his growth. His back was hunched, and covered in crustacean legs. Finally, his left hand was covered with a crab shell. Maccus was a cruel individual, who seemed to enjoy seeing suffering.

Will didn't say a word, he needed time to consider his end. His heart seemed to have left his chair, his thoughts melting into a combustion of a thousand stars.

Like an ingot, Will had been dangerously shielded by the magnet that had brought him here. He had not chosen it, the chosen one did not move itself! The friction of the atoms would take him – no matter what – to his final destination.

The sailors were menacing, the smell of salt water from their limbs that seemed freshly caught. It was unusual for the victim not to speak; they were often afraid, while the fiercest lost their temper.

"Are you not afraid, freebooter!" Koleniko asked.

Koleniko was the ship's helmsman. After mutating, he had seen his skin become covered with barnacles and other marine particles. 

His body had taken on the characteristics of a porcupine fish, some areas of his skin became covered with needles, such as his right cheek, left shoulder, and top of his skull. He wore a greenish headband, and a cape. His eyes were gray, and his right eye had a vertical pupil, like the eponymous fish.

"No, why should I be afraid?" Will said.

The sailors smiled sillily.

"What are you doing here?" asked a sailor.

"Jack Sparrow sent me to settle his debt," Will stammered.

"Sorry?"

The crew laughed.

In the distance, Will saw a familiar figure. And in a heartbeat, it all made sense. Subconsciously, he had had this strange feeling that he had been following him since his arrival on the ship.          

A distant memory echoed to him, as he heard the inescapable knell of a belfry ringing in his head.

"Look, Will!" a female voice had said.

William was still only six years old; he was a happy and healthy boy; something rare for a boy of his age and condition. His mother was extremely beautiful, and it was understood why his father had married her. Often at sea, William had hardly ever seen the latter. His mother was tall, with a smile that lit up an entire room. From what little he remembered; William got only emotions. Heat. Comfort. His compassion for her was like a scarlet flame burning to the tarmac.

That day, Will and his mother were at Brighton, a town set on a shallow bay on the Channel coast, around a seasonal river called Wellesbourne by some or Whaleshbone by others. It was dominated to the north by the South Downs.

The sea was a blue-green, the warblers passing with the rhythm of the waves. The shore was rugged, not knowing where to set foot; seashells on sand dunes, cattails, starfish, jellyfish were hanging out everywhere. On the horizon, we could see fishing boats and sailboats going out to sea, covered with waves. There was a smell of seaweed and spilled beer, but the boy was used to it. The sand sticking to Will's wet feet tickled and animated him with intense exultation.

The purity of the blue sky and the warmth of the sun soothed him like a drying balm, dispersing his worries, which were very futile at that time.

The waves thundered, gripping the dry sand with its foaming fingers.

The family had been there frequently, and went near the English sea. A beach, filled with pebbles and sand was there, along the city. The vegetation and the density of the gravel had nothing in comparison with the Caribbean, but that, Will could not yet realize.

Lying against the gravel, Will had closed his small eyelids, listening to the calm sound of the crashing waves, whispering in his ear. The gusts of wind were violent, while the seagulls were crying and fighting. Screams of children, Will's age, echoed along with the voices of people talking and laughing, thin snatches of conversation carried by the wind. Tender caresses against his forehead had then been applied by his mother.

"Where is my daddy?" Will had asked.

The mother had lowered her gaze, like a painful stab between the ribs.

"He works very hard for us, but he will come back William, he will come back."

The mother had assured that with a placid, crooked smile. She hoped that her words were not in vain.

It was then that with an outstretched hand, she had dragged her son near the water, making him play jumping over the shore. The wet sand was malleable. Both had built a castle of sand, which resisted despite the fervor of the wind. She had taken the sand in her hand, and had made sculptures out of it.

"You are so strong, mom!"

"Love makes us stronger, son."

She smiled at him, and waved her hand to vary the shapes. Will, still so young, did not understand everything, although he would have been very mature for his age. His mother's talent intrigued and fascinated him.

"You will see, one day, you will know how to handle the sand as you wish."

"I would become the best sandstone sculptor!"

"You will become the best sandstone sculptor."

At these words, she had coaxed her son's hair, and half carried away, the castle lay in ruins.

"Will! William! My son!" exclaimed a sailor.

He was a rather tall man, blue-eyed, clean-shaven with long black hair. He had mutated just like the rest of the crew. Being a relatively new member, he kept a very human appearance. His rectification consisted of barnacles, shells and other marine organisms that lodged on his skin. A starfish was embedded at his right temple.

Will, though his brain didn't know - didn't remember - this man, he knew he was his father. He had a hard time believing that he had him in front of him, finally. He had never thought of it that way, and would never have expected to find 'Wonderful Fisherman Bill' in possession of said merchandise on his own body. 

His father's anatomy was like a common shelf on which we hung all kinds of specimens. This made him deeply angry. His father was anything but a collector's trophy. Nevertheless, he admitted that the latter had lied to him and his mother in order to be a pirate. Why was lying at the heart of all conflict.

"Is that you, William?" the man asked again, uncertain now.

There was this annoying tendency in the Flying Dutchman: the more time you spent there, the more you were forgetting your identity, your life and your affinities. Maybe Bill was losing his mind, too.

Will clenched his jaw before answering.

"It's me."

The father exclaimed with joy, after all, he dreamed of seeing his son again, but it was a lost cause. It was. He carefully examined all the traits that characterized him. It had nothing to do with the three-year-old Will he had seen before he left. 

He probably didn't remember, oh yeah. But this heavy weight dragged him like a ball chained to his conscience. Despite the joy of finding Will, the father felt guilty, much more than when he had left:

"Rose, it's time for me to leave you. Do not forget me," he had said to his beloved.

Little William had been in what served as his bedroom: the family traveled from land to land, from Scotland to England in the hope of finding settled ground. He had looked at the cracks that ran through the ceiling, sensing the calamity that wore the room. He was shaking his nostrils and rubbing his cheek. It would have been time to sleep, yes. His only concern was to close his eyes.

"Don't leave me Bill! I beseech you!" she shouted, nearly waking her son.

"I, I...I have to go."

The mother had changed her mind, very quickly, swallowing her saliva with difficulty. After all, she should let him go. And yet, she knew she was going to mourn her words and regret her actions.

"Very well. Go away."

"I beg you, Rose, let's not part on these terms."

"You are its initiator."

"Let me hold you one last time."

She had looked at her lover, confused and full of disdain.

"Please," he had stammered.

Out of pity, or out of sheer emotional charity, she had pulled him closer and hugged him tight. Bitter at the departure of her husband, she loved him, and could not remedy it.

Between two intertwined heartbeats, Bill had been able to hear the last words of his beloved:

"Good luck sailor."

Will was still petrified, lost like a compass that wouldn't point north.

"I can't believe we're finally meeting again, son."

"Your son?" Koleniko asked, laughing at the repulsive thought of an offspring that years earlier would have been a miracle to his formidable philanthropic life.

"Do you remember Rose, Kolen'?"

"Don't tell me about it! You talk about her every night, more than the sacred northern star!"

William shivered. Finally having his father in front of him, he no longer knew what to feel. Relief, uncertainty, anger, disgust... When he was still small, he was very sad and finding his parent was a life mantra. Growing up, he understood the dark truth: Bill had left everything for his whims, for piracy, and it would be a lie to say he regretted it. 

His delusions of grandeur were far too great, and he had wanted to fly too high, losing his entire squadron along the way. But when you find yourself alone beyond the skies, how do you see your way? Find yourself? And how not to get lost? Yourself and inside your head?

"How dared you leave us," Will mumbled weakly.

"I never meant to hurt you. I missed you every day, every hour, Will."

"As if," he chuckled.

The waves matched Will's exacerbation, crashing hard against the ship's wet beam.

Will slammed his fist against a plank of the boat, letting anger and frustration run through his veins. He had to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. Incapable, immutable, he was forced to submit. His father could never go back to the past, never erase the mistakes he had made. However, forgiveness was in order. 

Hard as the rubbing between two bowed particles, the latter forced entry into the aorta of Will, who wanted to forget everything and unconsciously, to hold his father tight like the days of yesteryear.

How could he forget? The conscience, the reason, was not moved, although considered as a body. Was it moving? Metaphysical movement, certainly not, but there were changes, evolutions. 

Could Will therefore control his reason or was it fully Automatism? Did movement always designate the same thing? Was the moving robin like water flowing down a cascade? Like the carmine that runs through our veins? There would, in all likelihood, be a difference between a movement made and a movement which is taking place. Everything... is body?

So, William made the choice to be in control, to tame his thoughts and decisions. He was no longer five years old, deuce no, and his adventure reminded him that life was too short to spend it in the violent bitterness of sullen actions.