#talking monkeys

Actually, though, as Killian lay there, blinking and breathing, grainy, wavering outlines began to take shape, flickering movement against oversaturated retinas, and he realized that he really had moved. And his surroundings weren't devoid of all light, merely dim in a contrast too great for his eyes to adjust with any timeliness. Ghost shapes, jagged zig-zag lines, seemed to be burned into his vision, moving with his eyes and obscuring anything he tried to bring into focus. The monkey creatures continued their din with a noticeable increase in volume; Killian could only conclude that their new location boasted many more of the furry marauders. The white flash must have magically transported everyone to the heart of the monkey camp.

Blackbeard still lay beneath Killian, unresponsive. Lucky devil was missing out on all of the fun. In fact, as Killian gingerly shifted his weight, he realized that his own body had taken the brunt of the net’s attack, shielding Blackbeard from the majority of its barbs. A few were likely lodged in the other man's hand where it rested atop Killian's shoulder, but even his exposed face would have been mostly protected by that ridiculous tricorn of his. Killian silently cursed him for getting them both into this mess and, so far, coming out largely unscathed.

A frenzy of motion out of the corner of Killian’s eye reminded him of the urgency of his plight. Though the question of transport had been solved, that did not mean he'd escaped the threat of imminent death. And that possibility seemed to become a likelihood when the glint of metal suggested the presence of a blade of some sort, drawing near with alarming speed.

Heart racing, Killian made one final attempt to tear his arm free of its entanglement.

“I have a daughter!” The last syllable choked off in a sob. “She needs me… I'm all she has… please!”

They did not understand him. They were acting on instinct like the dumb brutes they were; he would get nowhere begging for his life. It was over. He would never see his Alice again, not in this life, anyway. He had failed her, and she would never know what had become of him. Tears falling freely now, Killian squeezed his eyes shut, praying that she would not grow up thinking he had abandoned her. He thought she knew him better than that, and yet…

That train of thought was interrupted by a furry body landing unexpectedly on his right shoulder blade. Whether the little paws were between barbs or directly on top, it hardly made a difference where Killian was concerned, for the additional pressure shot spears of pain deep down within pincushion skin. Something cold and hard touched the rim of his ear, and he hissed a final breath through clenched teeth in expectation of the knife tearing into his brain before the end came to erase the image of his daughter he held desperately in his thoughts.

A stream of cool wetness flooded his ear canal, causing him to flinch in surprise. It couldn't be blood; it wasn't warm enough for that. For an instant, the sudden roar of his heartbeat jumbled with distorted animal sounds within his blocked ear to mimic the final thing a shipwrecked man hears as he disappears forever beneath the waves. But then the scorching pain started and Killian's screams drowned out the rest.

The gently bubbling substance inside his ear now felt like flaming lantern oil oozing its way down to the darkest depths of his brain, right into the center of his skull, followed by the very blade he'd been expecting, chasing the path of the oil and then wriggling around for good measure. The sensations seemed to last a lifetime and grow in intensity with each heartbeat, but he could not turn his head to try and drain the acid and molten brain matter from his now-surely-deaf ear, nor could he lift his hand to make an attempt at clearing it with a finger. He could only lie helpless and wait for this cruel method of execution to take effect.

Killian was still in the throes of pure anguish when the smallest of tugs on his back and shoulders registered in some tiny corner of his mind not occupied with loudly proclaiming his impending death. There surely must have been twinges of raw pain as he was pulled onto his side by the fishhooks in his skin, but they were of no consequence in comparison. What did catch his attention, though, was the rush of vertigo disproportionate to his actual movement; he'd only been manhandled into a quarter-turn, but his bewildered sense of equilibrium kept him spinning as if he were rolling down a long, steep hill. He peeled his eyes open, hoping to restore his balance with the sight of stable ground... and was instantly recoiling as furry paws thrust metallic menace toward his unafflicted ear.

Killian had time for one whimper of protest before the first sparkling droplets squirted into his left ear. In desperation, he gave a violent shake of his head, hoping to dislodge the toxic flood, but the metallic dispenser only burrowed deeper, leaving scratches on his inner ear as it pumped enough liquid to then overflow in rivulets down his neck and cheek. All too soon, the mess and the stinging scratches ceased to matter as his ear exploded into the same blinding agony as the first.

***

The good news: Killian was not dead, and his aching eardrums still worked. Sounds were still muffled by a rumbling fizz, bubble-sparks poking at his inner ears in periodic flashes of pain even though the offending liquid had long since drained away. But he could definitely hear the rambunctious monkeys around him, plotting their next round of tortures in gleeful shrieks.

The bad news: he was starting to hallucinate words in English interspersed among the animal tumult. He heard “Net” a few times, and “Fire” and, oddly enough, “Puzzle.” The words were in high, shrill tones befitting their presumptive origins; Killian could almost believe that stress and pain were causing him to misinterpret normal monkey chatter with perhaps a familiar vowel sound mixed in every so often. But then the words began to extend into phrases.

“How long?”

A moment of chittering, then vehement hoots.

“Conserve the potion.”

Small feet were prancing around Killian's back, belonging to more than one entity by the feel of it. He'd obviously been returned to his original prone position, although Blackbeard no longer acted as a living cushion. Slowly, Killian slipped one eye open, blinked away tears, and struggled to focus on the chaos around him.

The sandy floor appeared to be mostly clear of rock projections, and the warm light and madly dancing shadows suggested illumination by firelight, which the tang and prickle of smoke in his sinuses seemed to support. A distant stone wall boasted charcoal art, and if Killian strained his gaze upward, he could just make out a soot-stained ceiling arching over the clearing. And everywhere he looked, busy little fur balls scampered, leapt, and tussled, weaving in and out of his field of view until he was dizzy with the effort of keeping track of them all. And the perplexing jumble of screech-phrases persisted.

To his right,

"Who keeps the spoils?"

Up ahead,

"...because they're fools, the Torn..."

Behind him, from one of those astride,

"...careful, or Ravel will bite your ear off!"

What the devil; were these animals actually speaking English?

Above his head, just beyond the range of his peripheral vision, came this alarming statement:

“We deserve to begin the feast now.”

At that, many voices chimed in all at once, some in support, others adamantly opposed, and Killian could not make out more than a word or two at a time. Until one solid black monkey, who had been so well-camouflaged that Killian had overlooked it until now, spoke up with calm authority.

“Not until Favor gives the word.”

In the dim light, it was difficult to make out details, yet Killian would have sworn that the mouth and facial movements he could see did not match up with the words he was hearing. Something was translating for him, he guessed. Whatever they’d forced into his ears likely played a big role in that. And then he realized something else: he may not be as doomed as he had first thought. After all, why would they go through the trouble of making sure they could communicate with him if they were just going to eat him?

The shadowy monkey caught Killian's gaze then, and it ambled closer, its tail curled into a graceful arc along its back. Its eyes shone with a mix of confidence and curiosity, absent any appreciable threat. As it neared, Killian determined that it was likely male, and smaller than the others by a good percentage, but size must not have been a factor in their social hierarchy, as all of the creatures nearby seemed to defer.

"Can you understand us now, Laden of the Torn?"

The black monkey had stopped less than a meter from where Killian lay, and there was no question whom he was addressing. Slowly, feeling somewhat ridiculous for buying into whatever lunacy this was, Killian growled a hoarse reply.

"It's Killian, actually."

A clawed hind foot came up to scratch behind one black velvet ear. "Your outer name? What does it mean?"

“My... hold on, can you understand me, as well?”

“The First Clan does not receive many Torn visitors, and those that do come rarely stay for very long.” Though he exhibited few recognizably human mannerisms, the monkey somehow gave off a vibe of dark humor with his last statement. “Still, most of us can understand the language of the Torn without the assistance of ear potions.”

Small, sharp tugs continued to sting a path down Killian's back, and he wished he could see what they were doing to him. But he still couldn't move, not even to seek a more dignified position in which to carry on this unlikely conversation.

“Look, I don't know how much you overheard earlier, but it's all true; I swear it. That other man, Blackbeard... I was as much a captive of his as we now are of yours. It was never my intention to come here, and so I humbly request that you take that fact into consideration when deciding my fate.”

There was no mistaking the amusement in those almost-human eyes. "And what were the intentions of Black Beard of the Torn?"

Killian hesitated at first, reluctant to offend the monkeys or give them cause to see him as an enemy. But this might be his only chance to solidify his image as an innocent victim. "He is under the impression that visitors to your land might be granted their heart's desire in exchange for... human sacrifice."

He flashed a weak smile as he tried to gauge the reaction to his words. The monkey did not appear offended, but neither did he laugh or act as if the concept were preposterous. Killian winced and added,

"I don't know where he heard such a rumor; I'm sure you're all rational beings who--"

A heated scuffle somewhere beyond Killian's field of view interrupted his attempts at diplomacy. Ignoring the ruckus, the black monkey asked,

"Tell me, Laden, what would your wish be in such a situation?"

Killian sighed, hardly registering the continued use of the strange nickname. "My daughter... she's imprisoned, and has been all her life. Above all else, I would wish her freedom." He swallowed the familiar ache and continued, a part of him realizing that the more sympathetic his story, the better his chances of survival. "Failing that, I would ask to be cured of the curse keeping us apart. She has no one else... and the thought of her spending the rest of her life trapped and alone..."

He could say no more. He'd had months to contemplate the idea, and it had not grown the slightest bit easier... and never would. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right and even though he might deserve to suffer in this way, Alice never, ever did.

The blurred face of the monkey stared down, and any chance that he would be suspicious of Killian's story was simply beyond the realm of possibility. The desperate, hopeless tears saw to that. Looking satisfied, the small creature nodded.

"Then we are both fortunate today. We may be able to reach an agreement, after all."

Although the statement boded well overall, Killian suddenly felt drained and unable to face whatever lay in store. His back continued to smolder, casting off sparks wherever gentle paws brushed inflamed skin, and the rest of his injuries weren't any better off. He was fairly certain Blackbeard's needle had been driven deep into his arm during their scuffle. At least the burning in his ears had calmed to a gentle tingle. Even so, the heightened emotions and prolonged pain had left him lightheaded and on the verge of losing consciousness.

"I will report to our leader,” continued the black monkey. “Until my return, remain calm and don't try anything foolish. Or the hungry among us may claim their victory."

With that, he leapt sideways, startling Killian with his agility, and was quickly lost from view. Almost immediately, another monkey took his place: a larger male, gray, white and black, with eyes disconcertingly large proportional to the rest of his face. This one cast his gaze all around them in jerky movements of his head before speaking.

“Some of us regret the rough treatment, myself included. Your kind is so fragile, and should not be subjected to the usual hunting practices. But I don't have any say in the matter.” He momentarily cocked his head to an almost comical angle, one way, then the other. “We may be asking a great deal of you, and I think that deserves some courtesy. My inner name is Mandible. I care for the sick and wounded among us, and fortunately for you, you've been designated our guest for the time being, which gives me the authority to look after you.”

“For the sake of good form, I will say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I won't insult your intelligence by pretending to be entirely genuine." Killian grimaced and continued, "I'm not certain the terms 'inner' and 'outer’ name are translating properly; would you mind elaborating?"

Mandible scooted closer and reached for the net covering Killian's forehead. Expecting the sharp pain of the barb being pulled free, Killian closed his eyes, but it seemed the fishhooks were detachable from the net and the metal remained where it was.

"Maybe you Torn have no comparable tradition, although the name ‘Black Beard’ might suggest at one. The purpose of an outer name is recognition. One's inner name provides true knowledge. Between the two of you, there would be no question which is Black Beard, but the name tells us nothing about his character or role among his people."

Mandible took a step back and focused his attentions on Killian's arm, working to carefully detach the hooks from the strands of netting, but again leaving each one embedded in its original location. “Do you understand?”

“Aye…” Killian answered slowly. “So then, following those guidelines, let me suggest ‘Blaggard’ for that man over there. No chance of misjudging his character then.”

Apparently taking the quip entirely seriously, the primate responded,

“The two of you are quite obviously not friends. Thank you for the suggestion, but the assignment of an inner name should be left to a more impartial being.”

“Fair enough.” Killian gritted his teeth as a fishhook wiggled within the first knuckle of his ring finger. “All right then. Laden. Who decided that I would be easily recognizable by that name?”

“Our scouts have been monitoring your progress since you entered the Stone Forest, and they needed some way to describe you when making their reports.”

Mandible must have pulled too hard then, and a shallow barb was ripped from Killian's hand. After a quick apology in response to Killian's wince, Mandible added,

"And based on your story, I understand that it isn't only a physical weight you carry."

Killian couldn't argue with that. “It'll do, I suppose. Although physically it's no less transient than Hook.”

“Hook,” repeated Mandible. “We heard the word in connection with you but could not find the link.”

“An outer name from a past life.” Killian drew a slow breath, feeling himself beginning to lose patience with all of the picking. “I believe you'll find its inspiration amongst Blackbeard's collection of trinkets.”

Another forceful tug bloomed into raw pain in Killian's flank, followed by the tickle of blood down his side, and Mandible barked a reprimand for his comrades to be more careful. But Killian couldn't say he minded having one fewer barb in his flesh. 

“Listen, mate,” he began, trying not to count the number of swellings he could see down the back of his arm, “I do appreciate your assistance. But you're not exactly doing me a favor by drawing this out. Forget caution; just pull them out and be done with it. I can handle it.”

"Not yet," said the fuzzy tormentor firmly. “My assistants are gathering the needed supplies.”

Killian wasn't so sure he liked the sound of that. “These supplies... they wouldn't happen to include a magical healing spell, would they?”

“That is beyond our capabilities.” There was audible regret in the words, at least according to whatever variety of magic was serving as interpreter.

“But you can magically transport your captives from place to place.”

“A different thing entirely.”

“Naturally.” Killian sighed, resigning himself to a long night. “And you couldn't simply portal the fishhooks out of existence?”

“Not with the kind of precision one would want for such a procedure.”

The unavoidable mental image conjured by that statement intensified the burning in Killian's back, and he grimaced agreement. “Understood. Which causes me to wonder whether I haven't discovered what 'Mandible' says about your character.”

“Take a guess.” The little monkey glanced at his companions as if he were reveling in the shared secret.

“Tell me it's anything but the number of teeth you extract from the flesh of your victims, and I may accuse you of dishonesty.”