The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  Just walking was an arduous task. Every step threatened a broken ankle or twisted knee. Jagged shards of glass clenched between rough stone slabs jutted out like traps in a guerrilla war. Walking as the crow flies was nigh impossible, long detours were made to avoid the worst of it.

  “What is this place?” the newly named ‘John’ asked.

  “Brighton.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “I took the train.”

  Long ago, the Mariner had read about trains in a book he’d salvaged. They were huge metal transportation devices, like a boat but on land, except they ran on preordained tracks (which struck the Mariner as rather limiting and deeply silly) and could journey without the wind to propel them. He did not see how she could have arrived on this island by train. It was too small to require any land-boats.

  The house was the only structure still standing. Once, a long time ago, it had been a part of a network of other identical dwellings, all connected by their sides. Now it stood alone with the broken remains of its sisters attached like deceased Siamese siblings. Yet despite the surrounding destruction, the house had somehow maintained its great height, an imposing lone tooth sticking out of a cancer-ridden gum.

  Grace had taken to Isabel’s abode instantly, and this helped the Mariner quell any trepidation he might have felt crossing the threshold. The inside was nicely decorated, far nicer than the Mariner was used to. Walls, painted a deep red, were adorned with paintings, and these to the Mariner’s amusement were often of boats. The rooms were carefully lined with carved wooden furniture and strange small items with no purpose other than to decorate. A deep contrast to the desolation outside. The Mariner swayed on his feet, mind struggling to make sense of the shift.

  She led him to the attic. Like the others, it was beautifully arranged, but this time showing more signs of practical use. Various items looted from the island littered the floor; a spade, a large metallic tub, a wooden bat, cooking utensils, a bucket. A space had been made in the centre of the room to act as a fireplace, a facility Isabel immediately put to use.

  It was not long before water was heated and siphoned into the tub. Isabel indicated that the Mariner should undress. At first he was embarrassed, the situation making him question his appearance, an act he rarely had to do out at sea. But the light was dim, and he realised that she was probably just as bereft of social interaction as he. They could be the last humans alive, so why be bashful?

  He slid into the water, enjoying the warmth against his skin, and closed his eyes. He could not remember a time when he’d ever bathed in hot water, but it seemed entirely natural. Steam rose about him, making the candles that illuminated the room flicker. He registered this play of light upon his eyelids and with their opening saw that Isabel had too undressed.

  Her body was as tormented as he’d first assumed, but no less beautiful for it. Both he and her were kindred spirits, beaten and abused by an ever-shifting world.

  “What’s your real name?” she asked as she too slid into the tub.

  He shrugged. “John.”

  They bathed together in silence, and in time they made love.

  Not long after that, Isabel was dead.

  3

  THE SECOND NIGHT OF OUR TALE

  THE WIND WAS PICKING UP. It could not yet be felt on deck, but he could hear it in the sails. They protested as they were battered this way and that. The Mariner was pleased there was more wind in the air, perhaps it’d take him to the Island. And from there: the Oracle.

  His day had been a dreary one. He’d exercised a little, running up and down the length of the boat. A little was all he could manage though, his limbs were weak and without food he would soon perish. Below, the devils seemed to be doing well, their matriarch had found strength from the jerky and was hunting vermin for the rest. Not that they couldn’t hunt themselves, they were resourceful buggers, but even the rats were becoming scarce, and they needed all the guile their devil-mother could muster.

  Addiction was gnawing at him again. It had abated during the day, but now that night was creeping in, so too were the pains and the shivers. They would flow over him, as if on the wind, passing through his body and then vanishing, leaving him exhausted, haunted and perplexed. There was only one bottle of wine left, but it was too soon to give in. He had to delay. He had to

  When Isabel had remarked that he knew little, her words had contained more truth than intended. The Mariner remembered nothing of the world ‘before’ as others he’d met seemed to. Every stranger he encountered, although there had only been a few, seemed to have access to a whole narrative of past experiences as rich as any storybook tale.

  Instead of a history the Mariner had... nothing. Just one day he was sailing his ship. The day before that was a mystery. But such is life; memories have to begin somewhere. He didn’t even know how to sail. Now that was peculiar. He simply willed the boat to travel and, most of the time, it did just that. Occasionally he’d get a funny feeling he should be pulling a rope here, or releasing a sail there, but mostly it worked itself. The Mariner didn’t even realise something was amiss, until he’d witnessed another ship with fully functioning crew. It didn’t look appealing to him. So many people must make for awfully cramped living.

  The sun had set and yet still the stars were only just beginning to appear. This was not a problem. The Mariner did not navigate, he did not read signs in the sky. He simply sailed. Sometimes he looked at maps and willed the Neptune in a certain direction, but maps were more often than not wrong. Besides, it was more like destinations drew him to them. The Mariner owned no compass.

  An intrusive chill settled in and the Mariner pulled his coat about him, grateful that his dark locks, which hung down to his shoulders, covered his ears from the worst. It was funny that he should be thinking about Isabel. Usually his thoughts were drawn to the events directly after, when he’d met Absinth Alcott. He’d had Isabel to thank for that meeting, or perhaps he should curse her for it. Ultimately her actions had led him from there to here, to this landless stretch of a hopeless ocean.

  Perhaps it were the woman he’d seen in the water that had got him thinking of poor dead Isabel.

  And then, as if summoned by his wandering mind, he heard her. The water sprite. The woman who had visited him the previous evening.

  At first he could not see her, her presence only given away by her lustful gasps and giggles that echoed to his ears. He ran to and fro, searching the waters. Finally he realised his error; he’d been looking too far, assuming she’d swim over like before. This time she was already alongside the Neptune, laying upon the surface as if it were a bed.

  Once again he was dumbfounded by her beauty. Entirely naked, she was spread before him, legs splayed and hands skimming across her stomach and thighs, stroking, teasing.

  The Mariner’s lips felt dry. He ran his tongue over them, despite knowing this would lead to chapping in the wind. He didn’t care. Tonight he would plant his sore lips upon this woman of extraordinary beauty.

  “Who are you?” he cried, but no reply came, unless it were from the wind, a force that seemed to gather with every flick of her fingers.

  There was movement to her right. The black haired woman was on her back, the disturbance in the waves behind and out her line of sight. What was it? A shark? Alarmed, the Mariner opened his mouth to warn his would-be lover about the beast, but further events stole his words before they formed.

  A second woman crawled out the water.

  She did not look like the first, though if similarity could be found it would be in her equal perfection. This second sprite was more dainty than the first; smaller breasts, slender hips, darker skin and long brown hair. Yet somehow she wasn’t as real as her counterpart, though of course this thought was preposterous. She was there, as real as his own hand.

  The brunette crawled across the sea towards her companion, hips swaying in the twilight. The Mariner marvelled at how solid the surface appeared under her hands and knees
. A shifting floor, moving with every wave, pliable, yet firm nonetheless.

  If the fresh arrival surprised the sprite, she didn’t show it. In fact, the brunette not only crawled to her, but straddled over the top as if to reach for her feet, and as she did so, the raven-haired goddess placed her hands upon her companion’s hips and pulled them close to meet her mouth.

  The Mariner couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Two beautiful women, just a short jump away, one performing oral sex upon the other. And she was doing so with feverish intensity; her hands were upon the other’s buttocks, pulling them down and apart, giving her as much access as possible to her lover’s sex.

  The Mariner felt like a spy, an interloper, a peeping-tom. Neither women had acknowledged his presence. Were they trying to shut him out? Was that it? Was that his punishment for not joining them?

  The brunette’s jaw dropped down in a silent cry, smiling, though not at him, her gaze was out across the ocean, but it dared him to join them nonetheless.

  It was then he realised why she didn’t appear so real. The brunette was lacking detail. While the first woman was as real as any he’d met in his lifetime (though admittedly none so well proportioned) the brunette was missing the finer characteristics. He squinted, trying to discern some tiny element, such as a solitary hair or freckle. He saw none. It was as if she were a very lifelike manikin whose creator had gotten lazy, knowing no-one would ever take a close up look.

  Still grinning, the brunette lowered her body until it were fully on top of the raven’s, putting her own face between her lover’s legs, mirroring the actions of the other. They pleasured with their tongues, bodies writhing, breasts pushed against each other’s bellies.

  The Mariner wanted them so much he was shaking, tremors running up and down his body. Struggling free from his clothes, the cold wind bit at his flesh, yet his groin was hot. On fire! His cock sprung free, eager and foolhardy.

  A rope ladder was curled up by the railing. He hoisted it over and its bottom rung plummeted into the sea. Keeping his eye firmly on the women below, he skipped over and began his descent, as naked as his temptresses. Knees bashed against the hull as the ship rocked, but he did not care. The pain was far removed from his mind. All he could comprehend were their gasps; the way the brunette’s body moved like a wave grinding against her partner, the sight of the raven’s face, eagerly working between the thighs of the other woman. Soon the three of them would be together. They would see him, touch him, welcome him between them and make love under the stars, mocking the sea for ever daring to defy them.

  He was close to the surface now. If he threw himself away from the boat, they could be close enough to touch. Water, broken by collision with the hull, soaked his flesh, and for a moment he paused, afraid that if he lowered himself any further he could become lost in the depths. To reassure himself he looked over his shoulder to view the women once more and see that the surface of the ocean was strong.

  It held their weight, surely it should hold his?

  The brunette had propped herself up whilst still enjoying the attention performed below. Steadying herself with one arm, she used the other to part her lover’s legs further, drawing her knees up to allow greater access. Up and down, the brunette slid her finger along her lover’s lips, drawing moisture. The Mariner watched in fascination, fingers numb, limbs gone blue. And with a sigh from all parties, she slid her finger down between the cleft of her partner’s buttocks.

  Not being able to see the penetration he imagined, spurred the Mariner on. Regardless of any danger, he had to have them.

  He reached the bottom rung and placed a foot into the ocean. The icy world upon which he travelled but never entered, reared up to claim him, passing above his ankle and scaling his shin. He was not deterred, his feet were already numb from the cold, and discomfort was far from his mind.

  The pain, moments later, penetrated that numbness. It all happened within the space of a second or so. Almost the very instant he placed his feet into the water, the women, just as the previous night, lost all form, and fell into the sea. The splash drenched the Mariner, who felt such frustration he screamed, his hoarse voice carrying across the waves. They were gone, his promised lovers, reclaimed as if they’d never existed at all.

  His scream died as it birthed. A sudden sharp, violent pain that erupted around his submerged foot, cutting off sound, paralysing his voice box, leaving him expelling air from his lungs in a silent hiss. He lifted it from the dark water, afraid and confused.

  He was bleeding, blood issuing from a wound in his lower-calf.

  Something had bitten him.

  Suddenly realising his vulnerability, naked, hanging off the side of a boat in a gathering storm, blood freely flowing into the water inches below, the Mariner began to panic. Just what the fuck was happening?

  Before he could move, however, he saw his attacker, the beast that had tasted his flesh. It rose out of the depths, a huge eel, flesh brown and gnarled. Its head was at least eight inches wide, and its mouth opened revealing lines of sharp, bacteria-laced, yellow teeth. The creature’s sickly flesh reminded the Mariner of a moray eel, but he’d never seen one in open water like this. Nor one so bold in its attack.

  He pulled his legs up, knees reaching his chin. The jaws of the sea serpent snapped at the space below, far louder than the crashing of the waves beneath the hull. Having missed its prey, the eel fell gracefully back into the water, presumably to gather its strength for a second attempt.

  With tearing of muscles and quaking limbs he hauled himself up by the arms; legs useless to his endeavour. He refused to look back, not even when he heard another splash from below.

  With little grace, the Mariner pulled himself onto the decking, hitting his chin upon the boards. There he lay, blood leaking from his wound and from his mouth.

  The leg would need treating, but he had no energy to tackle it. Breaths entered and escaped his lungs in great haggard gasps whilst his body shook from the bitter cold.

  The women had been created by the eel. He had no doubt about that. They’d been given substance to lure him down, and then dropped like a puppet show when it went for the kill. How had he been so stupid? To be lured down by such an obvious fantasy?

  He would have to be on his guard from now on. The eel was fishing for him.

  4

  BEFORE. THE WOLF AND THE WIDOW

  ABSINTH ALCOTT SQUATTED ON THE filthy carpet and rolled himself a cigarette. He had no food, he had no ship – he certainly had no soap, but tobacco was one thing he had a lot of. Buckets and buckets of the stuff; enough glorious tar to fill his lungs and then coat a roof. What he didn’t have (more pressing than the soap situation) was a crew. They had all died in the latest raid - hence why Absinth had so much tobacco all to himself. He rooted through a bag by his side, allowing himself to be picky, choosing only the choicest pinches of the herb. Indulgence in tobacco was a sin he could easily allow, the skins would run out much sooner. After that, a pipe would suffice.

  Despite his age, Absinth squatted with ease. His legs were trim and his back strong. Would he have been in such good shape if the world hadn’t changed? If he hadn’t been forced to fight to survive? He doubted it. Yet while his hair had deserted him, muscles had emerged, growing stronger with every passing year. In the future they would dwindle, a long and inevitable slide into frailty, but for now that day had yet to come. Sometimes he would marvel at his thin and gangly arms (a trait he could never shake off), sticks now bestowed with small yet firm muscles lined with bulging veins. Certainly a lot better than the weak flab of his youth. And a hell of a lot better than the paunch of middle-age.

  He’d been in his room for some time, wondering how long Isabel would be with this new fella, the one she’d found wandering about on the pier. Once she’d led him back to their dilapidated house, keeping him distracted from the old man’s presence, Absinth had taken the liberty of exploring the stranger’s ship. It was old, startlingly so, practically a nautical antique.
But it would do.

  The main problem was not the age, but the sheer size of it! That made Absinth nervous. No way could it be sailed by just one man. Yet where was this fella’s crew?

  The house had been quiet for some time. At first, as he’d crept back inside, he’d heard them. Isabel’s typical moans and cries, underlined by the stranger’s grunts. That had finished ages ago. The poor sap would be dead by now, sent from sleep to death with a smile round his throat. Absinth couldn’t blame him, if Isabel ever offered him her bed he’d take it, despite knowing the lethal consequences. Young pussy was too good an opportunity to pass.

  But Absinth was suspicious by nature, and Isabel, sensing his distrust, hadn’t risked seduction. Instead the black widow tolerated the presence of the wolf; they preyed upon different beasts so could share the same lair. More than once, he’d tried to understand her motives. Absinth was a ‘tax and spend’ kind of guy. For instance, he’d ‘taxed’ those people in Sighisoara tobacco for the right to live, and now he was going to ‘spend’ it. Isabel didn’t dabble in the spending side. She claimed to be saving for some sort of religious pilgrimage, confirming in the old man’s mind that she was completely bonkers. The world had fallen apart, there was no Pope.

  Absinth lit his cigarette in the fire, the flames singeing his hairy knuckles. Black soot had long ago blotted out any design on the wallpaper, though Absinth didn’t mind. This was a place to rest and recuperate. A place to smoke and plot. Nothing more.

  Steps. Down the stairs. Isabel must have finished going through the man’s pockets. Yet why were the footsteps so heavy and slow?

  “Isabel? Hear any sweet nothings?” he shouted above the crackling fire. “Like, where his fucking crew are? I need them.”

  But it was not the Widow who walked into the room, she was limp in her killer’s arms.