Centuries ago, on the rugged coast of Santa Cruz Island in the Canaries, there lived a fisherman named Jacob. His boat was old, his hands were calloused, and his dreams had long since drowned. Yet each day, he cast his nets, whispering to the sea not for riches, but mercy.
His heart beat for only one thing—his son, Andrew. Two years old, bright-eyed, wild-haired, and the last trace of a woman the sea had taken in childbirth. Jacob raised him alone, weaving lullabies from waves and stories from stars.
That day, the ocean looked hungry.
Black clouds rolled over the horizon like an invading army. Thunder grumbled low, like a beast disturbed in sleep. The villagers had stayed ashore, but Jacob's hunger—his son's hunger—forced him out.
"Hold tight, my boy," he whispered, securing Andrew inside the boat's dry nook and tucking his coat around him.
The boat groaned as it fought the rising tides. The child clutched a wooden fish toy and looked up, wide-eyed, as the wind howled louder. Raindrops sliced the air like thrown needles.
Then it came.
A massive silhouette emerged through the fog—a ship unlike any Jacob had ever seen. Black as night, sails torn but standing, and high enough to block the sun. Its flag snapped in the wind: a white skull above two crossing swords. The mark of Spanish pirates.
Jacob's blood ran cold.
"No… no, no—" he tried turning the boat, but the ocean mocked him. A monstrous wave rose, crashing against them like a fist of the gods.
The world vanished into spray and screaming wind.
---
When Jacob woke, the sky was gone. His cheek lay on soaked wood, and every inch of his body ached. Groaning, he sat up—and froze.
He was no longer in his boat.
Wooden decks stretched around him, swaying under his body. Men moved across them—barefoot, muscled, inked in skulls and demons. They carried blades on their hips and ropes in their fists. Their laughter was harsh and hollow.
A pirate ship.
His worst nightmare.
Beside him, Andrew stirred. Wet, shivering, but alive.
"Thank you," Jacob whispered to the sky. Then he turned—and saw him.
A figure approached, part man, part legend.
Tall, broad, his coat flapping like wings of night. One eye covered with a black strip, the other burning gold. His left leg was wood, thudding with each step. A sword hung from his belt like it had drunk too much blood.
Captain Black Mamba.
The name hit Jacob like a harpoon. He scrambled to his knees.
"Please! I didn't mean to cross your path!" he cried, crawling forward. "We were lost in the storm! He's just a boy—don't hurt him!"
Jacob wrapped himself around the pirate's boot. "Kill me if you must, but spare him!"
Around them, the deck fell silent. The crew watched like wolves waiting for the alpha to bite.
Andrew stood up. His tiny feet wobbled on the deck, but he didn't fall. He stared at the captain, unblinking.
Jacob noticed too late.
"No—Andrew, look down—don't stare at him like that—"
But the boy didn't flinch.
Captain Black Mamba stopped in front of the child. The wooden leg thudded once more, then silence.
Andrew tilted his head.
And smiled.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Curiosity. Challenge.
The captain lowered his face to the boy's level. His eye searched Andrew's like he was reading the stars. He said something low in Spanish—rough, unsure.
"¿Qué llevas en los ojos, niño?"
"What do you carry in those eyes, boy?"
Andrew didn't answer. He giggled.
The captain blinked. Just once.
The crew stirred uneasily.
One pirate whispered, "That kid's cursed."
Another said, "He's laughing at the Black Mamba."
A third muttered, "Throw him to the sea. Bad luck, that one."
Captain Mamba raised his hand.
Silence returned.
He stood, his jaw tight. "Put the man below. Chain him."
The first mate hesitated. "And the child?"
A pause.
Then, cold and sharp: "He stays above. Let's see what salt makes of him."
Jacob gasped. "No! Please—keep us together! He's my son!"
A boot slammed into his ribs. Jacob fell, breathless.
Andrew stepped forward, reaching out as his father was dragged below deck. His tiny voice called, "Papa…"
But no one listened.
The sky stayed grey. The sea didn't care. And the ship groaned onward.
Black Mamba turned back one last time.
The boy still smiled.
The captain's mouth curled—not in amusement, but something darker.
He didn't like that smile.
Not at all.