The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  “Keep back Hendrick!” the hero warned. “He didn’t start it.”

  “Bullshit! He broke in, stole my booze, and set the place alight!”

  Was that it? Was he to blame? The Mariner couldn’t remember doing any such thing, but then again, he didn’t even remember being there in the first place. He remembered watching ghosts locked in a macabre dance. He remembered shame. And then? Had he broken into a bar? Had he set it alight? Had his alcoholism really made him do that?

  “I’m going to break his fucking neck!”

  “Wait!” The Mariner heard the hero step between him and the angry landlord. There was still plenty of activity around them, alarmed villagers trying to prevent a catastrophe, but by the sound of it they were having little luck. “He didn’t set the fire, I saw someone else do it!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know, I saw them light it from the outside and they ran off. I was looking for this man, he’s a patient of mine. An alcoholic!”

  “So he did break in?” The furious Hendrick sounded unconvinced.

  “Yes, but it’s irrelevant! Someone else has burnt it down and this man’s in treatment and couldn’t possibly do it again.” The Mariner doubted the man could ever be convinced, but did not hear any further protest. The hero spoke with authority and staggering aplomb. “Now get away from this place, before it gets worse!”

  Once again the Mariner felt the hero’s hands under his arms as he was dragged further from the burning building, cold gravel under his back rather than hot floorboards. The owner, Hendrick, shouted some half-hearted objections, but soon his voice faded, lost in the commotion. Eventually the din died away, the hero was taking him far from the blaze and recriminations. Finally the Mariner was dropped in a patch of wet grass. It cooled his back (he thought he even heard it hiss) and his rescuer fell beside him, panting.

  The Mariner croaked, his throat was sore from both drink and smoke. He tried to speak, but could not, and the Mariner’s neck slumped slack upon his shoulders.

  “I lied to that man,” the hero whispered. “Though I am a doctor, that much is true. My surgery is at the top of the hill, you can’t miss it.”

  The doctor’s face swam in and out of focus in amorphous benevolence, but the Mariner managed to grasp his words, tenuous as that grasp may have been.

  “You didn’t start the fire, and I did see someone else set it, a patient of mine. Most unfortunate.” The doctor placed his hands on the Mariner’s shoulders, bringing his face in close so the inebriated sailor could understand. “My friend, you clearly have a problem. I’m not surprised, the sea always brings those in need of salvation to my shore. I can rid you of this addiction. I’ve done it before, many times over. I can set you free.”

  The hero removed his hands from the Mariner and stood up, glancing about nervously, as if concerned some might have overheard his confession of omitting the arsonist’s identity when asked.

  “Like I said, I live at the top of the hill, the highest point in Sighisoara. Come to me if you decide you need help.”

  The Mariner struggled to hear the hero’s final words amongst the din, but to him it sounded something like, “My name is Doctor Tetrazzini, and I would like save you with my life-affirming theory.”

  And then great sadness fell upon Christ for the Shattering came. The world turned on itself, land drifted from land, countries tore themselves asunder. The sin of our world so great, the very ground couldn’t tolerate it.

  As brother turned on brother and mother forgot son, Jesus tried to maintain. He gathered his disciples about him for a final supper, a sharing of food and ideas. But there was one who did not join them. Judas. He had strayed far from Jesus’ teachings of peace and forgiveness. He had found himself his own set of disciples who followed their ungodly master across the land on motorised vehicles. That was Judas’ life now, he and his vehicle were one. Judas and Chariot.

  It was on these dangerous contraptions that Judas found Jesus and his disciples. Feeling terrible rage at his once close mentor, Judas and his men attacked. The disciples fled down the road, trying to make their escape, but the motorised chariots were too fast and each disciple was crushed beneath their wheels. Jesus looked on, helpless. A crow squawked. They were dead.

  This sent Jesus mad. He began prowling the highways seeking revenge against Judas and all those who’d defied God’s will. The Road Messiah they called him, wandering, lost, as the Shattering tore mankind’s world apart

  One day, after many travels, Mad Jesus found where Judas in Chariot lived. It were a vast makeshift citadel deep in the desert. Jesus was one man against many, and Judas stood on top mocking his once great leader.

  “Just walk away,” he boomed. “Walk away.”

  Mad Jesus wasn’t going to be stopped by Judas’ powerful voice, nor his equally powerful flesh. With an almighty bellow Jesus charged the citadel. Seeing his eyes bright with fury, Judas’ minions fled, but their chariot mounted master stood firm, confident he could slay Jesus in combat.

  But Mad Jesus had no intention of falling under Judas’ sword, or have his legs cut to ribbons by the chariot’s scythed wheels. As he ran he pulled out of his pocket a slingshot, primed and ready. With each thud of his feet in the dirt, Jesus swung the sling about his head: once, twice, thrice! On the third he let go, sending a small stone hurtling towards his once close friend.

  The stone struck Judas in the temple, cracking his skull and ending his life right then and there. Mad Jesus stood over his body and offered up a prayer to God, pleading forgiveness for slaying a man once his brother.

  But God did not forgive Jesus. Not this time.

  - The Shattered Testament by The Reverend McConnell

  14

  THE GOOD DOCTOR’S GRACE

  THE MORNING BROUGHT CHILLS AND not just from the morning dew. Waking with pain was familiar to the Mariner, his alcoholism had long ago sent his stomach rotten, but there was a weakness and an ache in his joints that was even more insidious. For a moment he imagined himself on some sort of torture device, ropes tightly wound around his limbs, slowly twisting them in their sockets until any moment they’d snap clean off. No snap came. It was his own abuse that had led him to feel this way, no-one else’s doing.

  Drunkenness a distant and fond memory, he sat up, a hand held against his temple to ward off the throbbing pain. Where he lay there was a central grassy slope, overshadowed by an enormous clock tower made from pale yellow stone. The prominence of the time-device had not given it any sense of importance to the peoples of Sighisoara as they had twisted the clock hands to absurd angles, making nonsense of the time depicted.

  The Mariner got up and brushed himself down. His hands became slimy from the act, the dew thick on his clothes. As he rightened himself his lungs gave a quiver, air momentarily escaping him. He was wretched. Time to find his boat and recover there, perhaps gather some blankets and get some proper sleep. He’d need food too; that matter of great importance had somehow fallen to the side-lines the moment he’d tasted booze.

  The hill offered a good vantage point, and he could clearly see the ocean and the dock. His ship was easily the largest, though there were plenty of contenders for second place. Large fishing vessels of various ages and states of disrepair surround the Neptune like suckling pigs, or perhaps curious children eager for tales of distant lands. The Neptune would give them no child-friendly stories though, hers were all of suffering and darkness. He knew it well, she’d narrated one only last night.

  The Mariner shivered again at the thought of the ghosts he’d seen within her belly. Had he actually witnessed them? Or had the only spirits he’d encountered been vodka and whiskey? Had it all been a dream?

  A stabbing pain in his gut sent the Mariner crashing to the ground. He skidded forward, knees gouging muddy tracks into the grass. Such was the reality of the alcoholic; more must be found, only then would the pain subside.

  And then the face of Doctor Tetrazzini swam into the Mariner’s mind. Did
n’t he say something about a cure? Something about salvation? Something about a theory?

  All about him, Sighisoara dwellers were watching and muttering. Perhaps they were discussing the fire? Perhaps the grave robbery? Either way, both roads led to the Mariner. All accusations ended with him.

  The Mariner got back to his feet. He could see the hill rising up in the centre of town. At the top sat a large shiny building nestled amongst the trees. The sunlight reflected off it; what the Mariner had first thought a lighthouse were in fact enormous glass panels cleaned to perfection.

  He could go there, if just to hide from prying eyes full of anger and suspicion. Too much attention had been ensnared in too short a time. He needed a place to hide.

  The Mariner made his way up the hill, step by step closer to Doctor Tetrazzini’s clinic.

  “Welcome to rehab.” The woman standing before him looked tired, but happy, as if she’d just stepped in from a lengthy afternoon pruning the roses. “Please come in, my name’s Rebecca.”

  The Mariner stepped inside the building. The architecture was an odd mix, some parts stone and others shiny metal and glass. He marvelled at the variety.

  “It used to be a church, but someone must have wanted it to be larger. Only the core is stone, the structure around it modern.”

  “Modern.” The Mariner rolled the word around his mouth, marvelling at how redundant it felt.

  “Frank said you might be joining us. He’ll be pleased, this place was going to get a lot quieter in a few days, so you’ll stop us getting bored.”

  “Quieter? Why?”

  “Beth’s finished her treatment. Cured. She’s leaving in a few days.”

  “Really? Alcoholism gone?”

  “No, that wasn’t her addiction. The doctor treats all sorts. It’s not my place to talk about other cases, but if you ask, Beth will tell. She’s very open about her illness. That’s all part of the treatment, learning to come to terms with the addiction and be open.”

  “Are you open about yours?”

  “Sure.” Rebecca flashed the Mariner a smile. “But not to people who haven’t even introduced themselves.”

  “Oh,” the Mariner stammered. He was always stumped when it came to this part of interaction. “I don’t really have a name.”

  Rebecca nodded, finding understanding where there was none. “When I first checked in, there was a heroin addict who’d abused himself so much he’d forgotten everything other than the needle. But it turns out that’s not a block in the road to recovery; the doctor helped him build a new life. He became the man he wanted to be.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “No, he checked out a while back.”

  The room they were in was bright and comfortably furnished. It was a world away from the dark interior of the Neptune. Chairs, the like of which he’d never seen, were spread out, the spaces between decorated with potted plants. He walked over to one chair and gently ran his hand over it. Leather. Remarkable.

  “I’m going to leave you alone for a minute and get the doctor. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Rebecca left the room with the Mariner’s eyes upon her, and passed through a door that swung silently on its hinges. The Mariner sat on a sofa, relishing its soft support. Filthy nails and torn cuticles stared up from his lap. Bright lights and clean surfaces were an unknown influence, and they highlighted his bedraggled state. Was this really the place for him?

  Surprisingly, despite his exhaustion, he found himself unable to shift the image of Rebecca’s behind from his tired head, the way her hips swayed slightly with every step, the curves of her clothed buttocks. He felt a familiar stirring. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman, not since-

  No, he didn’t want to think about that.

  But perhaps it was time to put that behind him? And Rebecca appeared a fine way to do just that. The right way this time.

  “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

  The Mariner was surprised Doctor Tetrazzini had appeared without notice, a quick glance at the floor explained the stealth; it was carpeted in rich green fuzz. Soft. Everything was soft.

  Tetrazzini confidently strode over and shook the Mariner’s hand. He was the older, hair grey and face lined from age rather than toil. A small beard speckled with gold surrounded his board smile. Even his clothes seemed non-threatening: a purple sweater with a picture of a dog knitted into it.

  “You may not remember, my name is Doctor Tetrazzini. Though if you forgot that, you clearly managed to remember my message. Welcome to rehab.”

  “Rebecca said you treat all addictions?”

  “Oh yes,” Tetrazzini nodded enthusiastically. “Everyone I invite is an addict. All addictions, chemical and psychological, are cured within these walls. Without a shadow of a doubt I can tell you there is a hundred percent success rate.”

  “This place is certainly unique.”

  Tetrazzini looked about the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ve spent so much time up here I forget just how archaic the rest of the world has become.” His kindly face suddenly registered concern. “What’s wrong?”

  The Mariner hesitated. “I have nothing to offer in return. For the treatment I mean.. and saving my life.”

  “No money? No goods?”

  The Mariner shook his head.

  “No matter,” Tetrazzini dismissed the matter of payment with a flick of his hand. “Patients are usually so grateful, they return and pay me weeks, even months later.”

  “You have weeks and months here?”

  “I have an old calender that I keep a careful watch on. It’s only for one year, so obviously needs to be adjusted every time it’s reused, but at least it gives some sense of time passing.” The Mariner didn’t bother asking what year it was; such a concept was meaningless.

  “Come, walk with me while we talk.” Tetrazzini led the Mariner for a brief tour around the grounds.

  Returning to the outside, fresh air, warm sun and gentle cooling breeze took the Mariner by surprise. On his way up he’d been so concerned with the pain wreaking havoc upon his body and mind that the outside world hadn’t factored for much. Now that he was taking the time, he could see it was beautiful. The hill and copse crown offered a panoramic view of Sighisoara, the multicoloured medieval buildings, brilliant in the sunlight, looked like a candy necklace laid around the rising citadel.

  “You’ve got the best place on the whole island.”

  “Maybe, maybe,” Tetrazzini conceded. “The ruins give the impression of importance, but the walls supply no protection. The gates are always open. The days of this being an operating fortress are long gone. The view, however, can’t be beat.”

  The Mariner watched as a large gull swooped overhead, close to the trees and then out over the drop, soaring above the town below.

  “I suppose you’re curious about how this is all going to work? I treat addiction with a simple two-pronged approach. Firstly, counselling. Don’t be intimidated. It’s only a small part of the treatment. Some doctors believe that addiction arises from psychological flaws, from displaced negative emotions and the such, and the way to cure addiction is by treating these root causes. Their theories are not welcome here. It is my theory that addiction is a simple chemical imbalance that can be corrected the same way it was caused: with chemicals. Medication. The therapy is just to ease the transition. Some find that when released from the grip of their disease, they feel empty and lost. Not surprising given how long their affliction dominated their lives.”

  “So the second prong is drugs?”

  Doctor Tetrazzini nodded, studying the grass in front as they strolled around the rehab centre. Down below the sounds of the town floated up, sounding eerily close despite their great height. “Drugs, yes, although they are mild on the system. You won’t find any side effects or withdrawal. My medication is designed to end intoxication, not cause it.”

  It all sounded too good to be true. Could this doctor be serio
us? Could his addiction be cured by just a few pills? For the first time in an eternity the Mariner felt hope. Real hope instead of trudging weariness. One thing worried him though, would he get a chance to have a final drink before the therapy began? Surely, to start this difficult journey feeling so awful would hamper progress?

  “That door over there leads to the guest quarters, though occasionally patients stay in the infirmary on the other side. Sadly, one of my patients is there almost permanently because of wounds acquired in her destructive past. You, on the other hand, will stay in one of these rooms and have access at any time to the garden outside for your recreation and relaxation.”

  Ahead were two figures sat upon a bench, enjoying the shade of a tree. One was a woman in a thin polo-neck, a book upon her lap that she studied intently. Beside her was a young girl, no more than seven, kicking at the ground and looking thoroughly bored.

  “Who are they?”

  “One of my many success stories. Beth Masterson. She’s only with us for a few more days, she’s completely cured.”

  “What was her addiction?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Tetrazzini held up a hand and called to Beth. She looked up, beamed a smile and approached them, leaving the book in her place. The girl picked it up and flicked through the pages. Whether she enjoyed it or not could not be seen, her thick brown hair spilled in front of her face from her tilted head.

  “Beth, I’d like to introduce you to our latest guest!”

  “Welcome,” she said taking his hand in hers. “You’re safe here, the doctor is a genius. Our hero!”

  “Not so, not so,” Tetrazzini pleaded. “It’s you who do the work. I just dish out the pills.”

  “Well, even if that was true, I’m sure I would be dead if I hadn’t found this place.”

  Tetrazzini addressed the Mariner. “Beth was in a very bad state when her boat arrived. Another day out at sea and I doubt the rest of the crew would have bothered feeding her.”