by Ade Grant
Harris barely had a chance to resist as the Mariner forced him below deck. The others followed, herded by the alarm in the Mariner’s voice.
He hastily ushered them down into the cabins. “No-one’s to venture above, no matter what you hear. Not until I say so. Am I clear?”
Confused and in shock, the crew agreed, and the Mariner began to leave.
Grace grabbed his arm, alarmed at his departure. “Where are you going?”
“I need to put up a few defences, make sure the ship is going to take us through without harm. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” He didn’t give her a chance to protest, he slammed the door shut and ran back up the stairs.
Outside, the ocean was still fairly quiet, the only sound the distant roar of the waterfall. After such an explosion of activity, the Mariner felt disorientated by his own thudding heart in the still climate. His eyes searched the waters for some sign that his fears had been true.
For a time he saw none, yet slowly the eels began to show themselves. They didn’t seem to be the same as the last shoal, who had streaked about his boat in frenzy. These seemed sluggish and tired. He found himself wondering if they were the same creatures. Were they starved? During his first encounter, they had seemed desperate.
Transfixed by the slow moving eels, the Mariner trembled with anticipation. He should be below deck, hiding from the sea-monsters, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. What he’d told Grace had been a lie; there were no defences to erect, no preparations to be done, he merely wanted to see what the eels had to show. The very hint of them had summoned something other than fear: lust. There was no resisting.
Perhaps those same beauties he’d seen before would return to copulate? He’d just watch this time, he felt stronger, more in control. No going overboard. This time he would use the eels, rather than them use him. The Mariner felt himself becoming aroused at the thought of the wonders he might see.
Slowly, something began to rise out of the water. An arm, pale and delicate, stretched, gripping the surface for leverage. The Mariner caught his breath at the sight of the feminine creature climbing out to lure him. He leaned forward, one hand steadying himself, the other reaching into his trousers, teasing his member to life.
Forgotten was the roar of the waterfall, only the sound of his pounding heart in his ear. He would watch just a little, and then go below where he’d be safe. Just a little. Just a minute.
A second arm and then a head pulled up from the waves, and the Mariner began to stroke himself, imagining what was about to appear.
But what did froze his heart and froze his wrist.
The fantasy pulling itself up out of the water was Grace. She was dressed as she was now, though less detailed, more like a hasty copy that kept the key details whilst jettisoning those too complex to replicate.
“Grace?” he asked, baffled. Why had the eels pulled her out of his mind?
The Grace-illusion stood upon the waves, shimmering weakly in the light of day, occasionally translucent as through the image was difficult to maintain. Her eyes were closed and face quite blank, as if in sleep.
Frozen to the spot, the Mariner still had a hand wrapped around his engorged penis, but the shock at this unexpected sight had rendered his own gratification forgotten. Or was it? If this had been dragged from his deep guttural desires, hadn’t it been what he’d been praying for? Wasn’t this his true desire?
He watched, unable to move, as her hand slid up from her side, crossing her stomach. The movement was sluggish and dreamlike, definition about the arm blurring. For a brief moment the fingers upon her hand melded together into one solid flipper, only to return to individual digits a second later. They paused as they reached the neck of her dress, a stillness dripping in anticipation.
Understanding what was about the happen, the Mariner tried to look away. A mixture of shame and confusion had paralysed him. Any second his shipmates could return and see his demons made real, his shame in the flesh. They would see his dark fantasies and condemn him, for only a monster could lust for such a thing.
And as he’d dreaded, Grace moved her tiny hand down, pulling the dress with it. It peeled like fruit, falling purposefully apart to reveal pale young flesh. Except it wasn’t as he’d expected, the flesh was bruised and beaten, great red welts and scratches dragged across, tiny nipples surrounded by bite marks instead of the swellings of puberty.
Her face was still, and the Mariner realised that it was not through sleep, but from death. Grace was dead, and yet still her hand descended, down past her belly and between her legs.
The Mariner finally broke from the scene and vomited. In the struggle to remove his hand from his trousers to steady himself, he tangled, sending the bile down his leg instead of the deck.
Was this his nature? Was he no better than Tetrazzini? No, he was worse; his desires were darker, more destructive. The eels did not lie, this was the truth.
Vision began to waver as he staggered away, but still he kept moving. He had to get below deck, he had to blot out this monstrous fantasy displayed for his pleasure. Groaning to disguise the sounds of sexual abuse reaching his ears, the Mariner staggered below, slipping and falling down the steps in his haste.
“Arthur?” a voice called from inside. Panic and shame erupted once more, sending a jolt through his body.
“Stay the fuck in there!” he screamed, staggering to his feet and like a wounded beast flung himself down the hall until he reached a room he knew to be empty. With a heavy slam he closed the door and put his weight against it, breath entering in huge gasps.
Jittery hands were raised to cover his face, but he couldn’t hold them still. Instead he folded them across his chest, brought in tight. Curled in a ball, he rocked.
He hadn’t been maintaining control, that much was clear. Deceived by companionship, he’d forgotten his true nature. Well, not any-more. In the future he would be stricter. He had to be.
The cat ‘o’ nine tails was nowhere to be seen, lost some time ago, and he wasn’t going to go looking for it. There was no time, he needed a distraction now; besides, there was a knife he kept sheaved in his boot. That would do.
Clumsily drawing it out, heart thudding so hard in his chest he thought he might die, the Mariner had little time to prepare. He brought it up in one swift swipe, slashing at his shirt sleeve, slicing through cloth and then the skin beneath. Fresh blood seeped into the already stained garment.
And yet the pain was too light a payment to blot out the vision, too feeble to end the horror. He twisted the blade and it grated against the bone. Was that a scratching he could hear? He imagined the blade carving a groove, a notch into the bone, a promise to himself to banish the demons.
But from the sounds beyond the boat still ringing in his ears, the Mariner’s demons remained. So he dug the knife deeper.
35
THE BEST FISH AND CHIPS (GUARANTEED!)
CLIFFS SO DARK THEY WERE almost obsidian stretched across the horizon, the tops bathed in a deep mist. The mass of land was eerily wide, dominating the ocean as if in mockery of its former majesty. The Mariner had never seen such a vast island, and the rest of the crew were given a bitter reminder of how the world used to be long ago, before the Shattering.
It had been less than a week since passing the waterfall. Fortunately the crew had obeyed the Mariner’s commands and not ventured above until he’d given the all-clear, and he hadn’t dared look himself for two days, finally peeking his head out like a scared rat. He wouldn’t have risen at all had it not been for the devils and their ever present hunger. After a prolonged period of claws scratching on wood he’d finally opened the door to a dozen unimpressed furry faces, each unconcerned with the inner turmoil plaguing their servant; why should they care for a monkey when there were bellies to fill?
Returning to sunlight presented a cold grey ocean. Bitter, joyless, even hopeless in its stubborn blank uniformity, but the waters were free from eels. Safely assured, he allowed the others to ascen
d. No-one mentioned the fresh blood stains upon his shirt, they were used to the mysterious red blots, and knew not to ask.
And now they’d finally arrived, though faced with an impenetrable circle of stone.
“Are these the moors?” McConnell asked, staring at the landscape as if it were a world-wonder.
“I would guess so,” the Mariner said, wondering just how they would get up on top of them. The sheer scale of land made him dizzy, how could something defy the sea so brazenly?
Heidi didn’t seem fazed. “We keep sailing around until we find a place to land. If the Pope gets visitors, then there must be a dock. Perseverance will give him to us.”
The Mariner agreed, and the Neptune began to circle the landmass, following it east, though after two days the cliffs did not abate, and the land showed little sign of ending.
“Incredible,” Harris said at dawn on the following day. “Perhaps we should be settling here? Huge expanse of land and easy to defend. If there’s fresh water up there, think of the possibilities!”
“And be only a couple of days from that waterfall?” McConnell shuddered. “I don’t think so. I want to be as far from that thing as possible.”
The cliff-face never relented, but later that day a groove appeared, running steeply down from the top into a small alcove, and to their surprise in this break in the rocks nestled a small collection of buildings, each tall and imposing, squashed into their small patch of land, yet tall like flowers straining for the sun.
“A village!” Harris laughed. “Well I’ll be damned! How perfect!”
The village was built in an upside down ‘v’ shape, the point running some-way up the slope towards the summit, whilst the widest end straddled a small dock crammed with dainty fishing vessels. Despite the daylight, the town was mostly in shadow, and street-lamps were lit, giving the crevices between homes an inviting glow. After being entombed within the Neptune, the idea of stepping foot on dry land tempted each and every one aboard, even the Mariner who grew evermore restless.
As the ship closed in on the port several figures could be seen unloading fish from a trawler into a cart. Harris pointed them out. “Populated. Perhaps we can trade for some food?”
The Mariner shrugged, never one for trading. “With what?”
“We have plenty of weapons. People always need bullets.”
“I’m not sure I want anyone here to have bullets.”
Harris shook his head in disbelief. “Everyone’s armed, Arthur. This way we might get a proper bed for the night. No offence, but the Neptune isn’t exactly comfortable.”
Harris held the majority opinion, and just beyond the dock where the water was still deep enough, the Neptune halted and they lowered anchor, preparing to disembark. As if in support of their decision, a biting wind began to whip at their backs, urging them on the swifter.
“Shouldn’t we leave someone behind to guard the ship?” Heidi asked as they began boarding the small row-boats to take them to shore. “What about pirates?”
The Mariner chuckled. “The devils will be protection enough, believe me; I think they’d welcome the entertainment.”
The short journey to the dock was choppy, and it took several trips to bring the whole crew to shore, with each person dashing down the promenade into the shelter of the tall buildings as soon as they hit land, some pulling coats up to shield their faces from the hail that peppered the bluster.
“I think that must be an inn!” Harris shouted above the whistling wind and pointed down a dark street towards a large building with an ornate wooden fish hung outside it. A sign proudly displayed ‘The Drinking Carp’, written in large curly letters.
Grace, shivering despite the coat Harris had wrapped around her, spotted another welcoming abode, this time entitled ‘Robin’s Cave’. In fact, as they looked around, they realised the village was made up of nothing but inns, all lit up, some quiet and grim, whilst through the windows of others, large crowds could be seen, drinking to the tune of mercenary bards.
“We’re spoilt for choice!”
“How about that one then?” Grace was pointing down an alley to their left. Other than the main sign reading ‘The Drunken Pigeon’, was a secondary one claiming ‘the Best Fish and Chips – Guaranteed!’ Eager to get out of the cold air, the decision was unanimous, and they dashed as one, soaked to the bone by rain and sea-spray.
The door opened to a wide bar, decorated with soft chairs and the pungent smell of spilt beer. Several travellers were sat in the corners drinking from steins. They looked up, but didn’t seem surprised to see such a large crowd entering and returned to their private conversations, muttered secretly over frothy ale. The focal point of the room was the bar itself, with a plump and tough looking woman standing behind, chewing on a cold chicken leg, the grease about her lips looking like thick lip-gloss in the light from the nearby fireplace. She eyed them with a mixture of contempt and boredom. “Not enough room for you all. Got room for eight. Rest of you try next door, they’ve got spares.”
Harris, pulling rank, ushered most of Mavis’ followers back out the door into the rainy street to try elsewhere, whilst Heidi spoke with the publican, haggling over the price of rooms. The landlady seemed pleased with the boxes of shotgun cartridges offered and opened a draw containing keys.
“Food’s not included. Pay for a second night or be out by daybreak. No smoking or drinking unless in the bar. I’ve got enforcers if there’s trouble,” she added, glaring at the Mariner above the rest.
“We’ll be gone early tomorrow,” he said in similarly hostile tones, though his decision was quietly (yet hotly) dissented by Grace, who tugged at his jacket. “Can we get to the moors from here?”
“Of course you can,” the woman’s eyes narrowed even further, until they were tiny coin slots. “Everyone does.”
“Get lots going up there, huh?” Harris asked as he returned to the bar, the din of rain on stone vanishing the moment the door swung shut.
“A fair number, yeah.” The woman shrugged, non-committed, and though her body did its best to remain nonchalant, her eyes shrank further to tiny dark craters on an enormous fleshy planet. In the corner, her other patrons had stopped their discussion and were listening intently.
“It’s their first time,” Heidi said loudly enough for their eavesdroppers to hear. “I’m taking them up there.”
“Never been myself,” the woman muttered, still appraising them. “Don’t much want to, got all I need right here.” With that she slammed the keys down on the counter and sauntered off, as if to serve some other patrons, though of course all the custom her business could handle were gathered right in front of her.
Heidi suggested that they do their best to dry off, a concept widely agreed upon. Soon a light cloud of steam was rising from their damp bodies as they gathered around the fire, shivering despite the warmth. Not long later, Harris bartered for a round of strong spirits ‘to shake off the rain’, though McConnell snatched Grace’s before she had a chance to try it.
“You’re too young for such things,” he scolded as if the drink were a terrible and destructive sin, though still he held onto the beverage for himself. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, wincing as the heat hit his throat. He looked to the Mariner, who was already eagerly supping at his. Ever since they’d topped up supplies at the Beagle, the Mariner had kept himself in an almost permanent inebriated state. Not so much as to be unable to function, but never totally sober. McConnell didn’t know if that was something to be concerned about or not. Best to worry about other things than the personal habits of such a dubious man. “So tomorrow we head up onto the moors, and then what?”
“We find him.”
And that was that. It seemed no-one wanted to dwell upon the mysteries of what lay ahead, least of all those who seemed to be making the decisions for the rest. So instead, McConnell began to sing in a voice little more than a whisper competing with the fire’s own crackling song. The song was one of melancholy, a mixtur
e of English and Eastern European dialect. The tune was received with bafflement, none recognising the strange mix.
“They used to sing it in Sighisoara. I hadn’t heard it before...” McConnell waved his hands in disdain. “... all this. I lived in Croydon back then. Such different times, before the Shattering.”
“Do you know what I miss?” Harris said, leering over his whiskey. “Ozzy girls. I went travelling to Australia when I was younger and had a few. Up for anything they are! After that, I was always checking out pubs in Acton. That’s the part of London they all used to live. Off to Acton for some action. Sometimes it paid off too.” He sighed and looked back into the fire. “No Australians now. Just fucking Brits.”
“Funny that isn’t it,” Heidi said, though her tone insinuated there was nothing funny about it at all. “Ever since... I’ve only ever found Brits. And nearly all of them English.”
Almost surprised to have some evidence to the contrary, McConnell spoke up. “We had a French couple turn up in Sighisoara.”
“What happened to them?”
“Kept to themselves, no-one could speak French, not properly. Eventually they got stuck in an altercation over booze and got themselves killed. Bit difficult to resolve disputes with no common language. And this was before Tetrazzini showed up, so no-one knew any medicine-” He tensed, knowing he’d mentioned a name he shouldn’t have. Grace stiffened too, her eyes low.
“Who’s Tetrazzini?” Harris asked, curious.
An awkward silence followed, finally broken by Heidi. “So you’re from Croydon? I’m from North London, Hampstead Heath.”
He gave her a solemn smile. “Small world huh? If only our friend here could remember his origins?” He patted the Mariner on the shoulder. “Perhaps he would turn out from a similar neck of the woods? Bromley? Clapham?”
