Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales Novelization Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-00172-4

  Designed by Gegham Vardanyan

  disneybooks.com

  disney.com/pirates

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Beginning’s Beginning

  Chapter One: Seven Years Later

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Ending’s End

  About the Author

  Young Henry lay on his bed, hands propped behind his head, eyes open, as he stared at the wall in front of him. Shadows, created by the lone candle flame that flickered in the breeze from the open window, danced across the room. Henry dared not light more than the one candle. He didn’t want his mother coming in, not that night of all nights. That night, he thought, his brow furrowing with renewed determination, was the night. The night when he would change his future—and his father’s.

  Henry got up and walked to the far wall of his room. Every inch of the wood surface was covered with paper. There were pages torn from books written in obscure languages. Charts and maps competed for space, covering one another so that oceans blended into seas and rivers twisted onto dry land. He leaned closer, his long fingers brushing over several drawings of monstrous sea creatures. A large kraken, its tentacles wrapped around a sinking ship, was depicted in one. Another drawing showed a huge whale breaching, its eyes red with rage. Mermaids and mermen swam through blue waters, their lips pulled back to reveal fangs instead of teeth as they chased hapless sailors.

  His fingers came to rest on one of the drawings. That one was unique in that it did not depict a creature but rather a man—or, more accurately, what had once been a man. Human eyes, full of sorrow and pain, stared out from beneath a heavy brow. But where smooth cheeks or even a beard might have been, instead tentacles grew. They seemed to move even in the drawing, undulating around the infamous face of Davy Jones, onetime captain of the Flying Dutchman. Cursed to ferry the dead and Cursed to step on land once every ten years were written across the image in Henry’s twelve-year-old-boy handwriting.

  Henry sighed. Davy Jones was no longer the captain of the Dutchman. Another had taken his place more than a decade earlier. Henry’s father, Will Turner, now stood at the helm of the cursed ship. Henry’s breath hitched in his chest as he heard a noise outside his room. Under the door, he saw his mother’s feet come to a stop, and he heard her softly whisper, “Henry? Are you asleep?” He didn’t respond. He loved his mother, but seeing her then might make him rethink his plan, and he had waited too long for that night to have it ruined or delayed. Finally, apparently satisfied her son was in bed, Elizabeth Swann moved on.

  Only when he heard the sounds of his mother’s bedroom door opening and shutting did Henry let out his breath. Turning his attention back to the wall, Henry took another long look at the two images that haunted his dreams and fueled his desire to learn everything about the sea. One was of a three-pronged Trident. It was being held by the mythical god Poseidon, and even in the simple drawing, the object’s power was clear. The other image was of his father. A simple charcoal drawing, it was faded and torn. He was taller and his shoulders were broader, but the eyes that stared out from the picture were the same as Henry’s; the cheekbones were similar. It was the only image he had of his father.

  Reaching out, Henry grabbed both pictures. Then, bending down, he picked up the small bag that sat at the end of his bed. Throwing it over his shoulder, he blew out the candle and went to the open window. He paused, turning to take one last look at his childhood bedroom. He knew there was a chance he would never see it again. A small pang pierced his heart as he realized that he might also never see his mother again. But then he shook his head. It did him no good to think that way.

  Henry looked again through the open window. In the distance, he could see the shoreline and the waves that glimmered in the moonlight. He put first one foot and then the other through the window. The time for thinking and wishing and hoping was over. It was time to act.

  Henry rowed his small boat through the Caribbean waters. A full moon hung high in the cloudless sky, and warm wind, carrying the soft hint of salt, blew over the water. The sea seemed empty but for a pod of dolphins that jumped and played in the gently rolling waves.

  Henry’s shoulders hunched as he strained to move the boat through the water. His hair hung around his face, damp from the sea air and exertion of rowing. Despite the late hour, his eyes were bright—and full of purpose.

  Suddenly, as though spotting some sort of sign, Henry stopped rowing. He sat for a moment as the waves lapped up against the wooden sides of his boat. Silence descended, and for the first time since he had set out on his mission, the boy felt a small sliver of doubt.

  What am I doing? he thought.

  Then he shook his head. He knew exactly what he was doing. Henry had been planning it for months. Years, really.

  He was going to see his father.

  But first he had to find him. And doing that was going to take a lot more strength and courage than it had taken to steal a boat and row into the middle of the Caribbean Sea—even if that sea was full of pirates, sharks, and unimaginable creatures.

  Standing up, Henry took a deep breath. He had waited long enough. He walked to the front of the boat and stopped in front of a large gunnysack. The thick, rough material did nothing to hide the shape of the rocks that filled the bag. A length of rope was tied to the sack at one end.

  The other end was tied to Henry’s leg.

  Before he could think himself out of what he was about to do, Henry picked up the bag and unceremoniously dumped it over the side of the rowboat. For one moment, the bag seemed to float on the surface, as though not weighted down. But it was a mere illusion. The bag began to sink into the water, and as it did, the rope ran out with furious speed.

  Ten feet was left. Then seven. Then five and a half.

  When there was only a few feet left, the rope disappearing ever faster, Henry stepped up onto the boat’s edge. His eyes calm and his hands steady, he took a deep breath and jumped into the water. Instantly, he disappeared beneath its dark surface.

  All too quickly, the light from the moon faded above Henry. Darkness swallowed him whole. The water grew colder. As he dropped deeper and deeper, his lungs began to protest. His eyes bulged from the lack of oxygen. His hands clenched at his sides. Still, he remained calm. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t try to fight his way back to the surface.

  And then, as quickly as his descent had started, it stopped as his feet hit something hard.

  If Henry had been able to, he would have let out a triumphant shout. As it was, he could only smile as he saw what he had landed on: the wooden deck of a ship—a ship that was now somehow rapidly
rising through the sea, carrying Henry with it.

  A moment later, the ship breached with a powerful surge that lifted it above the water. Then there was a thunderous splash as its hull crashed down on the surface. As it settled on the sea, water flowed down its sides and out of its portholes. In the moonlight, the ship’s scarred wooden sides looked like the bones of a giant beast. Thick algae and overgrown seaweed covered every surface. Ripped and tattered sails flapped until the wind caught them and they grew taught. The bow, carved into the shape of a fierce toothed beast, pointed into the dark night.

  This was the Flying Dutchman.

  Lying on the deck, Henry sucked in air, filling his starved lungs nearly to bursting. He stayed like that for a long moment. Then he shakily got to his knees. He was still on all fours, his head hung low and his breath wheezy, when he heard footsteps coming toward him over the creaky deck. Struggling to his feet, he turned toward the sound and then spoke to the man coming out of the shadows. “Dad?”

  Will Turner, cursed captain of the Flying Dutchman, stopped his slow walk toward Henry. His face stayed hidden in the shadows as he stared down at his son. “Henry,” he finally said, his voice gravelly. “What have you done?”

  “I said I’d find you,” Henry answered simply. He took a step toward his father, desperate to hug the man he had met only once before.

  But Will evaded his embrace, careful to keep his face obscured by the darkness. A mixture of disbelief, anger, and pride welled up inside him. “Stay away from me!” he barked. “I am cursed! Cursed to this ship.” His tone, harsh and cold, seemed to slice through the young boy, and Will instantly felt a wave of doubt. It was not Henry’s fault that Will had ended up captain of a cursed ship and crew. It was not Henry’s fault that Will was not allowed to walk on land but once every ten years. Nor was it Henry’s fault that Will had been apart from Henry’s mother for over a decade. It had been a cruel trick of fate that had landed him on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. Fate and love and a good dose of stubbornness—the same stubbornness he now saw reflected in his son’s eyes.

  Softening his voice, he took a small step forward. “Look at me, Son….”

  The years had taken their toll on Will Turner. His once flawless skin and handsome features were now marred by barnacles that clung to his cheeks and neck. His long hair was matted, and his eyes were lined with the weight of the curse. His shoulders were more hunched than they once had been, and the mouth that had often been lifted in a lighthearted smile was turned down. He was the picture of defeat.

  Henry didn’t flinch. “I don’t care,” he said, once again trying to close the distance between him and his father. “We’re together now. I’ll stay with you—”

  Will shook his head. It broke his heart to hear the hope in his son’s voice. He remembered feeling the same intense passion to be with his father, back when Bootstrap Bill had been a cursed crew member of the Dutchman and Will had been a naive young man who believed in true love, happy endings, and good triumphing over evil. But those days were long gone. Now he looked at his son through the eyes of a man who had been truly and utterly destroyed. And he wanted his son to have nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with that life. He wanted his son to be free. Something he wouldn’t be—not for almost a hundred years.

  “There is no place for you on the Dutchman,” he said at last, trying to make his point clear. “Go home to your mother.”

  “No.” Henry wouldn’t back down. He had waited so long for that moment. He had thought through all the possibilities—good and bad. Staying with his father meant the end of his life as he knew it. But what kind of life did he know? A life without a father? Besides, once he found a way to break the curse, they would return to his mother on land, a family reunited.

  From below the rotting decks suddenly came muffled noises. Henry could just make out low groans and grunts and the sound of shuffling footsteps. Turning toward the back of his ship, Will sighed. “They know you’re here,” he said, speaking of his cursed crew. Grabbing Henry by the collar of his shirt, he moved him toward the ship’s rail. Below, Henry’s small boat bobbed in the water. “Leave before it’s too late.”

  Henry struggled to free himself. “I won’t,” he said stubbornly. “And if you throw me over, I’ll come straight back!”

  “Don’t you see I’m cursed?” Will replied sadly. “Cursed to this ship!”

  “That’s why I’m here!” Henry said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I think I know a way to break your curse—to free you from the Dutchman!”

  Hearing the sadness in his son’s voice, Will felt his cursed heart break still more. “Henry—no.”

  But the boy ignored his father. “I’ve read about a treasure—a treasure that holds all the power of the sea. The Trident of Poseidon can break your curse!” Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out the soaking wet drawing he had taken from his room. Desperation filled his eyes and flooded his face.

  Will forgot himself for just one moment, pulled his son to him, and held him tight for a beat. Pushing his son back, he looked him deep in the eyes. “Henry, the Trident can never be found! It’s not possible…it’s just a tale.”

  “Like the tales of you and Captain Jack Sparrow,” Henry shot back, thinking of the WANTED poster that hung on his bedroom wall. It showed the pirate, his eyes lined with kohl, staring out with a mocking expression on his face. Henry had fallen asleep with that face in his mind for years. He knew the stories of the pirate, knew of his reputation as one of the greatest pirates ever to sail the Caribbean. “He will help me find the Trident!” Henry added stubbornly.

  Will shook his head. “You have to stay away from Jack,” he said, his voice serious. “Leave the sea forever. You have to stop acting like—”

  “A pirate?” Henry finished. He put his hands on his hips. “I won’t stop. You’re my father.”

  Will sighed, the sound loud in the sudden quiet that gripped the cursed ship. Time was running out—for both father and son. The Dutchman would not stay above the water for much longer. “Henry,” Will said, trying to get through to his son, “I’m sorry, but my curse will never be broken. This is my fate.” Gently, he took the amulet that hung around his neck and placed it in Henry’s hand. “You must let go. But I will always be in your heart. I love you, Son.”

  And with those parting words, the Dutchman once again sank beneath the surface, leaving Henry to swim to the safety of his small boat, a single thought burned into his mind: Captain Jack Sparrow. Despite his father’s warning, he knew the pirate was the key to solving his problem. He would find that man, get the Trident, and then, finally, save his father once and for all.

  Seven years had passed since Henry Turner had last seen his father. Seven years had passed since he had vowed to find Jack Sparrow and the Trident of Poseidon. It had been seven years of endless days spent working his way around the Caribbean Sea and endless nights of searching. Seven years of torment and frustration. And still Henry had nothing to show for it. All he had was his obsession—and a job as a greenhorn landsman on the British navy warship the Monarch, which, Henry concluded not for the first time as he looked down at the filth at his feet, was probably worse than any of the other torments he had faced in his nineteen years of life.

  “Faster, you pathetic bilge rats!”

  The sound of Petty Officer Maddox’s voice shot down Henry’s spine. For days he and the other landsmen had been working in the hot, cramped quarters belowdecks, manning the bilge pump. It was a thankless task. Bent over, faint from the heat and the intense smell, the soldiers worked to clear the water from the ship. Black with muck pulled from the wood and the sea itself, the water never ceased flowing. It was brutal labor that seemed without end.

  Still, Henry knew his choices were limited. In the Caribbean, the British navy’s main goal was finding pirates. Henry’s main goal was finding a single pirate—one Captain Jack Sparrow, to be precise. So he had calculated that the best and fastest way of obtaining his goal was workin
g with the navy on their goal. Unfortunately, his calculations had not taken into account that with little experience and no references—after all, mentioning his cursed pirate father would likely not have gotten him very far—he would have to start at the bottom of the naval ladder. That was exactly how he had found himself enlisted as a novice sailor and stuck listening to Maddox and his blustery talk of controlling the seas.

  As Maddox barked his orders, Henry turned and peered out a small window. It let in very little light but it did afford him a view of the outside world. Through it now he could just make out the Monarch’s quarry. A small ship was a few leagues to their starboard. On its mast flew the telltale sign of a pirate ship—the Jolly Roger flag. But from his vantage point, Henry couldn’t quite make out the name of the boat or decipher whose Jolly Roger it was. He glanced quickly back over his shoulder. Maddox was distracted.

  Henry took a small spyglass from a hidden pocket in his pants and pointed it toward the window. With practiced ease, he adjusted the lens until the pirate ship came into view. Then he nodded. He knew that Jolly Roger, along with almost every other pirate flag found in the Caribbean. It belonged to the Ruddy Rose, not Jack Sparrow’s ship.

  “Henry, get back here!” Another of the young soldiers had noticed his distraction. In the bilge, one person’s punishment was everyone’s punishment. Worried Maddox would catch Henry in his act of insubordination, the other landsman nervously added, “You don’t want to be kicked off another ship!”

  Henry ignored him. “It’s a Dutch barque, probably stolen by the pirate Bonnet,” he observed.

  “When are you going to stop looking for Jack Sparrow?” the other soldier asked. Henry’s obsession with the pirate was a running joke among the landsmen. It provided plenty of opportunities for well-timed, and well-intentioned, teasing.

  Henry’s answer died on his lips as through the porthole he noticed that their own ship, the Monarch, had begun to turn. Henry could see nothing as the massive ship made its way through the smoke caused by its own cannon fire. Then the smoke cleared.