((Bug, I really HAVE been putting this off...
And by the way, there is SO MUCH in this chapter (that I actually bother) to cover that this review is divided into two parts. Yaaay.))
You're tired of Sober Jack, you say? Although I can't imagine how you would be, as there's not much better than Sober Jack....
KIDDING.
EXCEPT THIS GUY.
 |
| BECAUSE DERPY JONES IS ALWAYS AWESOME |
..... I lied. It's this guy:
It might just be the way he carries himself and how much of a complex character he is (in my personal opinion), but I've always liked Beckett. Besides him being the mastermind of an attempt at a mass genocide, we seem to have a lot in common. However, now is not the time for that.
I like this man so much that throughout this chapter, I'll be having "interpretation points" to see if either of our written portrayals (for those of you who don't know.... you'll discover it later.) match up. For everything I get right, I earn a point. Everything I get wrong or didn't see coming... I don't get a point.
"The new Director of West African Imports and Exports for the East India Trading Company sweated as he worked..."
BOOM.
"... but the temperature was still so warm that Cutler Beckett had, against his usual custom, removed his elegantly tailored coat. Even so, he was in danger of sweating through his embroidered silk waistcoat, so, before long, he reluctantly removed that, too."
..............
I like this show.
"Faced with the actual labor of opening boxes and unpacking his most treasured books to add them to the built-in shelves in the office, the short, slightly built EITC official silently cursed the wretched climate of his new assignment. Angrily, he yanked off his silk neckcloth, then his powdered wig with its sausage-shaped side curls."
So he still has the wig, even at this time in the past. Hmm. Interesting.
Crispin: 1
Faryl: 0
"Only then, clad in just his fine lawn shirt and elegant knee britches, his short-cropped dark head uncovered..."
Hrm. So he has short hair?
Curse you, fanfiction, and your fanmade fanon.
Crispin: 2
Faryl: 0
So the story continues with Beckett going into the library, where his gaze lands upon a certain book (which, I predict, is essential for plot development). He takes it back into his office, where he looks it over. And suddenly, this gem appears:
"Cutler Beckett had dreamed of becoming a peer since he was a youngster. At first he'd longed for it because he wanted his father to smile at him, to approve of him - a goal he'd never achieved. As he'd matured, he'd come to realize that no matter what he did, his father and his brothers-"
His brothers?
Crispin: 3
Faryl: 0
Always thought he was an only child.
"- were never going to like him, or care about him. Basically, they despised him because he was small, tended to be sickly, and liked to read, rather than pursue 'manly' pastimes such as riding to hounds or frequenting the gambling hells or bawdy houses."
Crispin: 3
Faryl: 1
Then again, that was a given. Sort of.
"Cutler Beckett's gaze sharpened as he gazed down at the book he'd rescued from the library. It was one of his oldest, a gift from his tutor, the long-dead MacFarlin. His mouth curved upward slightly as he remembered his old schoolmaster. The best gift anyone ever gave me..."
And just when I thought I was done with the flashbacks for a while, here it looks like the makings of another o-
wait a minute
WAIT A MINUTE.
NO. SHE WOULDN'T DO THIS TO ME.
NO. NO. NO.
"Schoolmaster Angus MacFarlin finished writing the following day's lesson on the chalkboard...."
NO. STAY STRONG.
"...and then turned back to his three restless, titled students, who were groaning openly at all the pages of Virgil he'd assigned them to read."
KEEP STRAIGHT FACE.
"Only Cutler Beckett, not quite eight years old, and small for his age, didn't complain, but smiled. He'd been enjoying reading the Aeneid."
CAN'T. STOP. SMILING.
"Cutler Beckett left his book open, resting his chin on his hands as if he were reading, but he wasn't. He'd finished the chapter last night. Instead, he let his thoughts roam free, daydreaming about how someday he'd acquire a title."
STOP IT. STOP THIS MADNESS.
"If I could become Sir Cutler Beckett, he thought, my father would be impressed. He'd be so pleased. He'd smile at me, instead of always frowning..."
QUIT MAKING ME FEEL WARM AND FUZZY INSIDE.
"I'll do something notable, Cutler Beckett thought, gazing unseeingly at the Aeneid in the small schoolroom. Perhaps I'll grow tall, and become a soldier. I'll be an officer, a general! Admiral Sir Cutler Beckett..."
ADMIRAL SIR CUTLER BECKETT.
DOCTOR PROFESSOR MISTER LORD ADMIRAL SIR CUTLER BECKETT.
STOP.
"If I could do that, my father would be proud of me. He'd make my brothers stop saying he should have drowned me when I was born, the way you'd drown a runt pup..."
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
THERE. I GOT IT OUT.
CRISPIN: ALL THE POINTS
"Cutler's elder brothers had been in their teens when he was born... a small, sickly baby that no one expected to survive. Young Cutler had surprised them all by living - and by being different. From his earliest years, he'd been fascinated by books and learning. Instead of struggling to master enough mathematics to handle accounting, and enough reading and writing to be able to write confidential business letters in a clear hand, as his older brothers had done, the youngest Beckett soon evidenced significant aptitude as a scholar. Only his sister Jane, five years his senior, shared his love of books, and reading - though, of course, being female, she hadn't been taught the other subjects that fascinated her little brother: history, geography, and studies of the classics written in their original Greek and Latin."
I'm not even going to bother resisting. This is.... Was this book written just for me?
"The boy paused in the doorway. His gaze moved left, then right, while he counted slowly to fifty. The brick-fenced school yard was deserted, Over the top of the fence, he could see the older, mellowed brick of his mother's herb garden wall. All was quiet, serene, peaceful. It was late spring, and the warm sun, after a typical wet and chilly southern English winter, felt wonderful.
Reassured, Cutler Beckett stepped through the doorway and went down the three steps, hugging his books and slate against his thin chest. He wandered down the path, his mind's eye filled with images of waves of Greek warriors attacking the walls of Troy."
This is my forever.
"He never saw them coming."
OH CRAP.
"The first indication that his fellow students had lain in wait for him came when a hard blow smashed into his back, and a voice screamed that hated nickname into his ear. "Cuttlefish! Cuttlefish, where were you? Did you think you were too good to play with us? Come on, cuttlefish! Let's play!"
NO.
"Young Beckett fell forward onto the path, landing hard. He tried to get up, but another assailant - he thought it was Lord Wolsey's son, ten-year-old Richmond - was holding him down All he could see was the boy's buckled shoes and stockings."
NONONO.
"The third boy, also ten years old, was the young Lord Marcus Pangborne, he of the red hair, freckles, and foul mouth. Cutler could hear him, shouting curses and urging the others on.
'Hit him again! He's a bloody cuttlefish! Damn you, you stinking, slimy cuttlefish!'"
DON'T DO THIS TO ME. JUST.... DON'T. NO. DON'T DO THIS TO ME.
"A blow slammed into his left ear, making his head ring. Dazed, Cutler tried to curl up into a defensive ball, but they were all holding him now. A brutal hand grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and a fist smashed against his cheek.
'Teacher's pet! Makes us all look bad!'"
There are no words for what I want to say right now.
"Cutler knew he should fight back, should, at the very least, scream for help. Master MacFarlin might still be within earshot. But something strange seemed to have happened to him. He couldn't make himself move or react. He couldn't even blink. It was as though he'd gone somewhere else, outside himself, somewhere unconnected with his own body, which was now lying bloody and motionless on the path. Somewhere inside young Beckett's mind, he was screaming and terrified, but that part of him seemed distant and unreachable."
After the third or fourth time reading that, I finally noticed that is somewhat of a nod to Beckett's "state of shock" toward the end of At World's End, so kudos to the author for that.
On a related note.....
OH CRAP THEY KILLED HIM.
And this is where you'll have to wait until part two to see what happens.
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