by Ade Grant
He rushed to and fro about the Neptune, replacing the failing hull with fresh strips, applying them like rolls of wall-paper. And yet as soon as one strip was applied, another would fail, water seeping through, their demise promising death in the cold depths.
Only leaping from the top deck into the sea would save him, he had to get clear of the ship before it sank, otherwise he’d be dragged down below by the vacuum. But he was afraid to show his face above, for there was an awful droning sound reverberating through to his ears. The Wasp had found him.
“I don’t want to drown!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I’m not ready to die!”
“No! No it isn’t! The Wasp is here! It has come for me!”
And yet the Wasp wouldn’t have a chance to take him, because the walls were all soaked and closing in. The room was shrinking, the ceiling fat with moisture and leaking. Already the doorway above was sealed. There was no escape.
The wet paper closed over, his hands crushed by his side, immovable, his mouth blocked by the parchment, stifling all screams. And although the paper had looked wet and cold as it approached, now it was against his mouth it felt dry and soft, less like paper, more like pillow.
He was suffocating, trying to breathe, yet nothing could be forced through the barrier.
This was it, the last few moments of life.
Is that all?
Yes, the Wasp took everything else.
The Mariner awoke, desperately struggling to breathe, though in the waking world no barrier blocked his throat and air flooded inside, hurting his traumatised lungs with their sudden burst. He sat up, coughing and heart racing.
Barnett was watching him with the same mix of disgust and resentment that had painted his face for the past week. The rest of his crew, three others, were asleep around the small makeshift fire.
“Problems sleeping?” he said, making no attempt to disguise the sneer. The Mariner didn’t respond; he merely laid back down and stared into the darkness above. “I’d have problems too if I were you,” Barnett continued regardless. “I don’t think I’d ever sleep again.” There was some truth in that. He had always had trouble sleeping, often waking gasping and choking, but it was getting worse, more frequent. His past was catching up.
Barnett and his three other guards had joined with the Mariner just after he’d finished the long climb to the plateau, leaving the port behind, a tiny twinkling village in an otherwise grey landscape.
Once at the top, the view shocked him to his core. The moor was a vast land of dense scrub extending as far as he could see. It rose and fell in gentle hills, like solid waves. It felt like a horrible mockery of the ocean, one where the water tore at your legs with every step, resisting rather than sliding aside.
Armed and grumbling. Barnett and his men had caught up. The Mariner wasn’t surprised to find they were the ones who’d always seemed closest to Harris rather than Heidi. She wouldn’t spare her finest. Not for the likes of him.
At first they looked about the great expanse, unsure of what direction to take. The land was enormous, dizzyingly so, how could they possibly find a single man out here? But then they noticed other figures ascending to the moors. It seemed as day began to break, the inns were emptying their patrons, and they all had the same goal in mind.
At least a hundred souls began to gather at the top of the path, readying backpacks stocked with supplies; folks of all ages, some gangs, others rough family groups. All keeping to themselves in small packs, yet staying near the main herd like fearful grazers.
And after what seemed like an hour or so, as the sun poked its head above the horizon, the crowd turned as one and began to strike out in a single direction. There was no head of the clan to give commands, and the Mariner knew better than to enquire how they’d come by the knowledge, so instead he and his four watchers kept their heads low and followed.
Of all that long journey, only one thing managed to distract him from the remorse that filled his heart. As the sunlight reached the heather, the dull grey plants that covered the plains suddenly lit up a bright purple. The crowd gazed, open mouthed at the beauty that reached to the horizon. Wonderment died away soon though, as a cold wind reminded them of the reality of their predicament, and although the heather looked soft, in reality it proved a tough and spiteful plant.
Days came and went. The crowd plodded along, stopping during nightfall and huddling around a sporadic scattering of fires. Now it was the seventh morning he’d awoken, lungs painful, stomach screaming for alcohol and limbs shaking. Still, he welcomed the pain. It was less than he deserved.
Barnett, seeing his taunts were having little effect on the Mariner, gave up and settled himself. Soon he was surrounded by light snores, and although he tried to sleep, the dream lingered in his mind. Fear of choking kept him awake as the hours passed.
Eventually, as grey tinted the sky, a call went up from the other side of the camp.
“Gradelding! Gradelding!”
One of the families had been attacked and a child taken. There was no sign of the beast (whatever it was), just a small patch of torn clothing soaked in blood. He didn’t ask the family about the incident, their glares told him to mind his own business.
From that moment on, the packs clung ever closer together, fires were built higher and no-one slept with their backs to the darkness. The Mariner overheard one of his guards asking Barnett how the land could go on so far, but Barnett merely shrugged, silencing him. It was a smart move, they needed to pretend they were one of these people, whoever they were.
“You should turn back, I don’t know how long this is going to continue for,” he told Barnett in the days that followed. The large man looked like he was actually considering it too, his face transforming for a rare moment to hope rather than loathing, until he finally shook his head. “No, we’ve got a job to do. You ain’t going nowhere without us.”
There were no other Gradelding attacks in the forthcoming days, though another predator seemed to be stalking them. Hunger. The five had run out of food. Barnett had supposed he’d beg another gang for supplies, but the Mariner put an end to that. If they appeared anything but prepared, it would look suspicious. Barnett reluctantly agreed, silently cursing the Mariner and promising himself that he would rob the whole gang of crazies once this madness was resolved.
And then, one night, the routine changed. Night fell but still no-one stopped. The herd kept moving, lighting torches to guide them across the marsh and scrub.
“We must be almost there,” the Mariner observed, unable to hide his excitement despite the heavy exhaustion.
They were climbing a hill, rising up into darkness, yet near the summit, the air took on an orange hue. Fires illuminated the sky; there were others, confirmed as chatter rose above the wind, not loud enough to pick out words, but the tone was one of exhilaration, a crowd ready for a show. A drum beat from the shadows, slow as a heart.
“A bit fucking Wickerman-ish isn’t it?”
The Mariner paid no attention to Barnett. He was beyond such frivolities; he would soon have the truth.
The hill rounded off onto a plateau, upon which a large crowd gathered, several hundred strong. It seemed their herd was one of many, all drawn across the moors to this central point. A strange spicy smell was in the air, incense burnt to honour the coming of their holy figure.
“So whatd’ya say? Shoot the fucker as soon as he shows himself?”
The Mariner gave Barnett a punishing look. “We hear what he has to say first. His words are important.”
They waited, anxious for something to happen, yet unwilling to call for it to do so. The Mariner felt his breath growing shallow. It was almost time, he could sense it.
And suddenly the drum began beating louder and the crowd fell into a hushed silence. The Mariner craned his neck, trying to see a cause for the reverence, yet couldn’t spot one, though he could hear a faint squeaking, becoming more prominent as time passed. As the sound increased, the crowd began to p
art, and into the firelight wheeled a cross, eight-feet tall and affixed to a cart. It was pushed by four robed followers, with a fifth leading the way, a great book clasped in his hands.
The Mariner felt his eyes drawn up in shock, for he saw the creature that could give him answers. The Pope.
The Pope was small, merely a dwarf. Its arms were pulled out left and right, tied to the wings of the cross with rope whilst it rested both feet on a small ledge jutting out of the trunk. Naked except for a jewel encrusted mitre, the dwarf looked hideous, its body dark and gnarled, twisted like a sick tree. Face, bloated in parts, showed little signs of life, yet its eyes glinted with malice, two angry stars in endless night.
Every man, woman and child fell to their knees, bowing to the presence as it came to a halt in the centre of the gathering.
“That thing is what you want to talk to?” Barnett whispered just loud enough for the Mariner to hear.
“The Oracle said he has answers. Said he woke the Wasp.”
The robed figure leading the procession raised his hand and the drumming stopped. “The Pope demands your silence!” He spoke loudly and clearly, his voice seeming to drift across the moor with ease, unperturbed by the harsh wind. “We gathered upon this vast land preserved against the destructive sea, to offer our love and obedience to the one true God – the Pope! Each of you have come here to meld your spirits, to give yourselves to his power. You blessed ones are the chosen few!”
The crowd murmured their pleasure, but one voice cried out, calling for attention.
“Who speaks?!” the robed man snapped.
“M-my n-name is Charlotte, your Holiness.”
The Mariner tensed, a sinking feeling in his gut.
“I fear there may be those amongst us who are not of the faith, nor of invitation.”
“Who?”
Sure enough, Charlotte, mother to the child taken by the Gradelding, pointed at the five men. Strangers who despite their best efforts had failed to avoid suspicion.
A space opened up around them, wary glances the only thing willing to bridge the gap. And then all eyes turned to the Pope, waiting for his decision.
The Pope licked his lips, not with greed, but like an old man trying to work a tired throat. “Strip them. Let’s see if they are loyal.”
The robed man raised his hands. “Come forward while you are judged. Leave your weapons where you stand. If you are sincere, you shall not need them.”
The option to shoot and flee crossed the Mariner’s mind, as it must have his companions’, but such a course of action was doomed. They were outnumbered, too few bullets even if the cultists around them were unarmed. Best to stick with the deception and hope it wins through.
Dropping their guns, the five stepped forward, under a scrutiny that promised retribution.
“Just go with it, don’t blink,” the Mariner whispered to Barnett, the big man twitching from nerves.
The robed priest must have seen this and he pointed to Barnett first. “You! Take off your clothes. Stand naked before the Pope and be judged.”
Barnett looked around, hoping for some sort of reprieve, or perhaps laughter as if it were all a prank, but no, they wanted him to strip on this cold hill in the middle of the night. But why? Was it a sign of submission? Were all these worshippers actually demons with hoofed toes?
He slowly removed his clothes, starting with his coat, then shirt, trousers and undergarments. As each dropped to the ground, no doubt becoming quickly soiled in the damp mud, Barnett seemed to shrink, his confidence draining with every revealed limb. The cultists looked on like hungry dogs, dark grins growing wider with each scrap of skin.
Bare before them, Barnett did his best to draw himself up, to stand confidently despite the dwarf’s searching gaze, yet still his legs trembled.
The Mariner watched, praying the bluff would work. Come on, he’s done as you asked.
The Pope smiled, leathery cheeks folding. Barnett let out a relieved sigh.
With a dry voice the Pope made his judgement.
“Insincere.”
Fear overcame Barnett’s final reserves. What had they been looking for? A tattoo? A brand? The man tried to back away, but it was too late, they came for him, men, women, even children surged forwards, hands grasping, fingers extended and gnarled. The proud follower of Mavis, killer of Anomenemies, tried to fight back, but his arms and legs were seized by the mass, struggles failing as if he were punching mud. They lifted and carried his body closer to the Pope, pushing him into the marsh before their idol so the filth flowed into his mouth, filling his airway with its cloying chill. Barnett bucked and twisted, but countless arms held him in place. Finally the struggling ceased, and Barnett was reduced to a piece of meat, food for whatever bugs waited in the scrub.
The executioners backed off, forming an eager audience behind their master, looking to the four men still awaiting judgement.
One bolted, simply turning to flee. It was a foolhardy move, he was shot before he even managed to turn.
“And then there were three,” the robed man announced, pointing to another to be brought forward.
Is this it? Is this how it’s going to end? I’ll be drowned after all, but not in the sea, which almost seems preferable now, but drowned in mud, in filth, on a dark and horrible island. I’m so sorry Grace, I know this is what I deserve, but I’m scared. I don’t want to die.
The soldier was asked to strip, and with barely stifled tears he unbuttoned his clothes. The Mariner chose not to watch. Instead he closed his eyes, intending to conjure an escape plan, but instead what came to mind was an image of him kneeling on a dock with a sad little girl by his side, remembering what it was like to have hope.
When they reopened, his companion was already being seized. He died as Barnett had before, wet darkness filling his lungs.
“I can’t do this!” The Mariner’s last companion was twisting where he stood, desperate to run but too terrified to move. Two wide and pleading eyes turned to the Mariner, but there was no comfort to be had there. The damned judged by the damned. It was inevitable.
“Please, please make them stop!” He spoke not to the Pope, but to the Mariner, as if he had some control over them, the Mariner could only watch as the man was dragged before the Pope. Once more the command to undress was issued, but the terrified accused remained still, too fearful to operate his fingers.
His insincerity was all too clear.
And finally the Mariner was once again alone. Three bodies lay in front, one behind, each as dead as the next, and all about him were the Pope’s loyal followers, eager to see the final interloper slain.
“Step forward and remove your sinful lies!”
This was it, his final moment. If he still held his gun, he would put a bullet through the head of as many as he could before they dragged him to the ground, but the Mauser lay in the mud some distance back. All streams had run dry. This was the end.
He walked forward, standing in the same cursed patch of bramble as the others. The Pope’s decrepit chest rose and fell with anticipation. “All I want is the truth,” he said, loud enough for the Pope and his closest servants to hear, but the Pope was not swayed.
“Disrobe!”
The word echoed out across the slopes like a funeral toll, and although the Mariner’s fingers were numb and shaking, they did as they were commanded. He’d seen what happened if you failed to comply, your end came that bit faster.
Already the crowd were inching closer, eager to put to death the last of their intruders. They didn’t grasp him, unwilling as they were to anger the Pope, yet still they prepared to seize him the moment judgement was passed, as passed it would surely be.
The Mariner removed his shirt and dropped it to the ground.
And the crowd froze.
“Halt!” the robed man commanded and the Mariner stopped, unsure of the delay but grateful for it. “Turn around.”
The Mariner very slowly rotated where he stood, his body scrutinised by
all those near. The Pope himself twisted on his crucifix, trying to see clearer.
It was his self-mutilation that held them captivated. Countless white, red and grey lines crossed his flesh in a myriad of punishments, both recent and old; the Mariner’s sins made real. The evidence of his methods of self-control, exposed for all. The façade of normality lying in the mud.
The Pope’s face crumpled like a deflated football in what was surely a satisfied grin. “Sincere,” he proclaimed, and the crowd relented, resolved to their master’s decision. The head priest however, was still suspicious.
“Why did you travel with non-believers?” he asked, and although the Mariner couldn’t see his face, he could feel the man’s questioning eyes boring through his skull.
“I only met them at the edge of the moors,” he lied. “We decided to travel together encase of Gradelding attacks.”
The robed man turned to the woman who’d first outed them. “Is this true?”
Charlotte, suddenly afraid to be put in such a precarious position, played it safe, though it was clear she didn’t trust the Mariner one bit. “Yes, that’s correct. I saw him haggling with them as we left town.” This was untrue, the woman and her family hadn’t arrived till much later, long after Barnett had caught up, but the lie was safe enough.
“Then it is settled,” he said, and then, throwing his arms into the air, gave a holy command to the congregation. “Let the cleansing begin!”
Drums began beating, first slowly, then wildly, building up tempo. All about him, the crowd began to disrobe, shaking off their coats and blankets that had previously been keeping out the chill. Pale bodies revealed themselves in the dim firelight, but to his surprise each body was like his own, riddled with scars. Some were identical to his, hundreds of tiny cuts clustered around secret places hidden from prying eyes. Others had used fire or boiling water to scorch their flesh, great swaths of skin smooth and without blemish.
