The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  McConnell patted her back, faking comfort he couldn’t genuinely give. “We all missed the signs and she paid the price. So let’s not miss any more.”

  Heidi pulled away, wiping her face. “Like what?”

  “In all your years of killing Anomenemies, has the world gotten any better?”

  “No,” Harris replied, to a faint but impotent protest from Heidi. “Mavis believes there’ll be a tipping point when the old rules of science snap back into place.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I’m in the market for new ideas.”

  “I’ve seen a part of the world come together. I’ve seen an island reappear that had once drifted beyond the horizon. We’ve been living though the Shattering, chunks of the world vanishing, a shrinking land and growing sea.”

  The others nodded, remembering the symptoms if not knowing the cause.

  “But I saw some of it draw together. And I think we have a chance, a remote chance, of bringing it back. We need to return to Sighisoara, and all the other settlements you’ve come across.”

  “Why, reverend?” Heidi asked, perplexed.

  “We’ve forgotten too much, and allowed ourselves to drift for too long. I know how to pull us back from the brink.”

  “Whatever your plan is, we’ll have to run it past Mavis.”

  “Then let’s get back to the Beagle. But promise me something, you’ll send another ship back here to look for Philip. If he’s alive, I want to see him hanged.”

  Harris agreed. “He’ll be dead, but just encase, sure. We will need to return for the men I sent after him anyway. If they haven’t killed him by the time they return, I’ll have him arrested for you.”

  “Not for me,” McConnell said with a cold twinkle in his eye. “For the world we will create.”

  Grace’s body was sewn up in the cloth they’d used to cover her body. The journey back to the fleet (even further to Sighisoara) would be too long to transport her, so they decided to bury her corpse upon the moors. Standing at the top of the cliffs, looking out at the great expanse of land, McConnell found himself hoping the Mariner would survive out there, just long enough so he could watch him die.

  The only ship at their disposal was the Neptune, and as they rowed towards it, the number of their party reduced by six, Harris warned everyone to have their weapons ready.

  “He’s on the moors,” McConnell reminded him, not understanding the concern. “He wouldn’t come back to the ship if he thought answers were ahead. It was all he cared about.”

  “Not him,” Harris shook his head, loading his shotgun. “His monsters.”

  Heidi patted McConnell on the shoulder. “I know she was fond of them, but they have to go.”

  “I understand,” he said, feeling a morsel of sympathy for the beasts. “She is dead, and they were always his.”

  But aboard the Neptune, the devils couldn’t be found. Where once intrusion had been sharply resisted with growls and gnashing teeth, there was now an eerie silence. And with the devils, so went the ease the ship had sailed before. Instead it performed stubbornly, like a spooked mare. It were as if the magic had died along with Grace.

  “Or perhaps its ghosts no longer see the need to haunt,” Heidi suggested. Perhaps there was some truth in this. If there was ever a man who deserved haunting, it was the Mariner.

  “The principle is sound,” Mavis said, her notes scrawled across a mishmash of blank papers ripped from scavenged books. “It’s based upon Schrödinger’s Cat.” Behind her, hidden amongst various crates and bottles of toxins, the distinct sound of choking emerged. It was muffled, as if the voice struggled against a tightly placed cloth and accompanied by a scuffling, legs kicking whilst growing weaker. McConnell tried to ignore it, especially as the old lady’s eyes were locked with his and showed no sign of wavering, much like a small white haired terrier after a rat. “Schrödinger believed in multiple outcomes existing side-by-side, locked with indecisive stasis by lack of observation. A cat, both dead and alive at the same time, both murdered by poison and quite healthy simultaneously. Unobserved death, that’s the key.”

  McConnell shifted his gaze, and Mavis took pity on the weakness. “But I’m getting ahead of myself, you’re not a man of science are you, Christopher? You strike me as a person of rigorous faith, am I right?”

  Not long ago, he’d have leapt at a chance to debate religion, now however the conversation left him edgy, eager to move to safer topics, one that had been on his mind ever since leaving the moors. “I want to build a library.”

  Their haphazard journey to the Beagle had lasted some weeks, the crew doing their best to follow landmarks dotted about the great expanse of water. Sometimes the wind would die and they’d be stuck adrift, an old relic bobbing aimlessly in frustrating stasis. The time hadn’t been wasted though, McConnell used to it plan their course of action. Harris warmed to the ideas instantly, though Heidi wasn’t so enthused. As much as Grace’s death had galvanised McConnell into action, it had knocked all hope from the woman. The Mariner’s actions had broken some intrinsic quality. The sparkle had died.

  But in the end the winds had returned and they found the Beagle, still inactive, anchored near a small archipelago of distinctly hilly islands.

  “A library?” The old lady squinted, more perplexed than disapproving of the suggestion. In the recesses the scuffling ceased.

  “A store of knowledge; so the Darwins and Schrödingers can never be forgotten. A barrier against the slippage of thought”

  Her wrinkles curved into a multitude of smiles. “That seems most... appropriate. But what of the man you travelled with? The captain with the kindly eyes?”

  “We left him behind. He’s a cancer. A monster. He’s gone now, as is the little girl we travelled with.”

  Mavis drew her eyes from his to Harris. “Dead?” He gave a solemn nod and she took McConnell’s hand in her leathery one. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “I don’t think the world can be restored, but I’m sure we can stop it breaking down any further. I’m done being a priest. I don’t want to give answers any-more, all I want is to preserve the ones we already have.”

  “I respect your emphasis on education. It must be through reasserting the laws of science that we bring stability to our world. Where will you build this library?”

  McConnell already knew the answer. Sighisoara. The only place left he could call home. They’d welcome the Beagle, with her supplies and power. Perhaps the combined strength would form the basis for a new society? A future free from the contagious ignorance?

  “I’m so sorry about the child,” Mavis consoled again. “She was a sweet thing, a true innocent in all these terrible times.” She reached up and clasped his head in her hands, drawing the tall man down so she may kiss his cheek. Afterwards, she held him close, turning his head so she may speak in his ear. “We will go to Sighisoara and do as you ask. Here we are, refugees of a world blown apart, setting to rebuild a knowledge cruelly stolen from us. We may the the last chance anyone ever has.”

  “Of that I’m quite sure,” McConnell agreed with grim certainty. A grimness tinged with hope. They had a path, he could see it now. Devised from their own will, not the whispers of a ‘Pope’ or the dreams of a madman. What could they possibly learn from the meeting of a sexual deviant and a demon?

  McConnell was sure they’d made the right choice. The Pope, the Oracle, the moors, the waterfall, the Mariner; all a distraction. All a lie.

  No truths could be found in them.

  No truths at all.

  40

  THE WASP AWAKENS

  “THERE IS NO TRUTH. ONLY the Wasp.” The Pope spoke with mocking certainty that both enraged and terrified the Mariner in equal measure, rooting him amongst the flagellating congregation, unable to move.

  “Where is the Wasp?”

  “First I must return what I took.”

  “I don’t remember you.” The Pope looked at him as if he were mad, stupid or both. “Yo
u know who I am?”

  “Of course. I know a great deal of you.”

  The Mariner grabbed the Pope by his robes, but immediately let go. The man seemed to radiate a strange energy that made the Mariner’s muscles spasm when in close proximity. “Who am I? You have to tell me that. I thought I was Arthur Philip, but that’s not true is it? He’s the good one. I’m Traill. Donald Traill.”

  The Pope laughed and then seized the Mariner’s arm. The twitching and trembling returned and he felt himself becoming lost in those strange eyes.

  “I’ll show you. It’s a simple process, much like a penguin regurgitating a fish. They’re partly digested, but still good to eat. Feast chickling. Feast little monkey. Have your bile back.”

  His heart gathered pace, blood rushing through the Mariner’s body as he was held in place, staring into the Pope’s eyes. He could feel it coursing through his veins like race-cars around a track. His head throbbed as if it were about to burst, and suddenly a host of thoughts and feelings popped into his head. Somewhere outside he could still hear the Pope’s voice, but his concern was the images burning into his consciousness.

  “Feast now....”

  He tumbled. And as he fell, a segment of his life came flooding back.

  Port Jackson, 3rd August 1790

  Governor Arthur Philip was roused from troubled sleep by a panic stricken Wandsworth. Hairs aloft in huge cow-licks, his tired assistant shook Philip’s shoulders and babbled incoherently, panic and exhaustion making nonsense of his alarm.

  “What is it? Damn you! What is it?” Philip snapped, scrambling to put his spectacles on.

  “It’s the Neptune sir, she’s back!”

  The Neptune? He’d sent the ship away a month ago, along with her tragic cargo, and been glad to see her gone! But now she was back? That bastard Traill should be well on the way to England by now, what was he doing here?

  “Have they sent anyone to shore?”

  “No, Sir,” Wandsworth blurted, eyes blinking. “But she is flying distressed colours.”

  “So they’ve come afoul of their own misdeeds and returned to seek our aid, have they? A strange choice, this is the last place I’d seek refuge.” Philip swung out of bed, rubbing the night from his face whilst Wandsworth gathered his clothes. “Let’s go deal with them. I won’t have that man step one foot on land. If his crew are in peril, they can join our ranks and be charged for their abuses, but if Traill is to remain immune, then to hell with him.”

  The two dashed through the small encampment, making their way towards the dock. Wandsworth led a path, holding a lantern before him, drawing a cloud of insects as an escort. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, avoiding the footfalls of the clumsy men.

  Ahead, Philip could make out the outline of the Neptune against the grey moon-lit ocean. The deck was dark, no lights to be seen. For a moment he imagined all the crew dead, killed by plague from the rotting corpses he’d refused to unload, but then dismissed the idea as absurd. There was no way the ship could have returned without a crew. Ships couldn’t sail themselves, could they?

  Upon the dock was a small number of men who were, as instructed by Wandsworth, preparing a row-boat to approach the ship. They stood to attention as the governor arrived.

  “Listen here,” he said, ignoring formalities. “Find out what the nature of their distress is, but impress upon them they do not have permission to dock. If Traill thinks he can blight my horizon without a bloody decent explanation, he’s profoundly mistaken.”

  As the men readied themselves, he continued. “Keep your weapons handy. I don’t like the stench of this. Not one bit.”

  Slowly, the row-boat began the long journey away from the shore, out to the Neptune. Soon the crew were cloaked by the night air and all Philip could make out was the small lantern bobbing with the waves.

  “Should I awaken the camp, Sir?” Wandsworth seemed to have gathered his wits now that someone else was in charge.

  “No, not yet. I don’t want to start a panic. Those that survived their last experience of Traill are apt to go quite mad at the thought he’s returned to finish the job. No, let’s find out what he wants first.”

  So they waited in the dark for the row-boat to return, Wandsworth fidgeting nervously, whilst Philip kept his eyes unwavering upon the alien vessel.

  “Governor Philip I presume?” The voice called to them from the pitch-black surf.

  “Who goes there?” Wandsworth cried, jumping in front of his master with earnest concern. With the reply came the sight of a man, standing waist deep in the ocean, not far from the shore.

  “My name is Donald Traill.”

  “What are you doing here, Traill?” Philip asked cautiously. “I told you not to return. I made that clear to you and your crew.”

  “The crew are dead.”

  And in the dim moonlight, Philip knew the man spoke the truth. It was as he’d feared.

  “Plague?”

  “The corpses did ‘em in, that’s for sure, but not by disease. I watched each one get taken. There’s just me and the ship left now.”

  “And yet my word still stands. You’re not welcome.”

  “I’m not on the shore,” Traill replied with a dark chuckle. “I’m ten feet from it.”

  “Go back to your ship,” Philip commanded, his voice trembling ever so slightly. Traill was mad, he could sense that, but there was something else. Something worse. Some intrinsic evil, deep down in the man’s soul. Some men were good, some were bad. It was in their eyes. It was even in their smell.

  But Traill would not acquiesce. He’d come to say his piece, and say it he would.

  “That ship is cursed, and it is your doing, just as it is mine, Arthur Philip. You sent it out there with a hundred corpses, you allowed those spirits to remain. Well now the Neptune is full of ghosts.. and I am one of them!”

  “What a load of bollocks.”

  [The Mariner] closed the book he’d been reading with a disappointed sigh. The story had ridiculously spiralled into mediocrity, ruining what little promise it had shown. He turned it over in his hands to once again review the blurb. ‘The Neptune’s Curse’, a splatter-punk tale of gore and horror. He had purchased it under the promise that it was based on fact. As it turned out, the facts were thin on the ground, as were the prose. Whatever actual events had inspired the pulp tale, that was their only role: inspiration. And trashy inspiration at that.

  A door opened from a small office beyond the even smaller waiting room. “Would you like to come through?” The doctor smiled warmly, looking expectant. [The Mariner] had been to several therapists and counsellors over the years, and although each had done their best to appear kind and understanding they usually proved to be useless in the end.

  He stood, somewhat awkwardly, and followed, holding the trashy horror novel in his hands. As he closed the door the therapist apologised for the wait. “I’m pleased to meet you, I think I can help.”

  “Thank you doctor,” he replied, absent-mindedly stroking his arm and wincing at the dull throb. “I appreciate you finding an appointment for me so quickly.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s no problem at all. And please, call me Edgar.”

  [The Mariner] sat in a large comfortable armchair and looked out the window. The therapist’s office was high up, almost at the top of the multi-story building split between many private offices, and through the grimy glass he could see the skyline of London, in all its equally grimy glory.

  The therapist had what [The Mariner] assumed to be his file in his lap, and he quickly flicked through making the occasional grunt. Finally he looked up, and smiled.

  “I see you’ve tried medication, CBT, traditional counselling and psychoanalysis.”

  “Yes,” [The Mariner] nodded, his hands folded neatly over the book. The therapist looked down at it.

  “Any good?”

  “The book or the therapies?”

  Edgar grinned. “The book.”

  “It’s ok. Started w
ell, got a bit silly as it went on.”

  “What’s it about?”

  [The Mariner] had seen this approach many times. A new counsellor or therapist tries to engage on a seemingly benign topic to assess the patient’s social skills. All very standard.

  “It’s roughly based upon a ship that transported convicts to Australia in the 18th century. A lot of them died on the way.”

  “A true story then?”

  “Not really. The author has fictionalised a couple of characters, a sadistic captain and a noble governor. There’s a supernatural element that’s pretty juvenile, lets the narrative down. I hate it when authors throw in weird shit for no reason.”

  “So no good then?”

  “Naa.”

  Edgar stared intently. “When you read a story like that, who do you associate with?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Whose shoes do you place yourself in?”

  “In this story? Neither.”

  “Oh?”

  “Traill appears to be evil through and through. I don’t think anyone’s like that. But Philip is just as unbelievable; I’ve read over a hundred pages and he hasn’t done anything other than act selflessly.” He shrugged. “That’s bullshit.”

  “So no-one then?”

  “Sounds strange, but if I had to identify with something from the story, it’d be the ship.”

  “‘The ship’?”

  ““There’s this cursed ship called the Neptune that carries the convicts. Later it is doomed to sail for eternity, haunted by their souls.”

  “Sounds pretty kooky. You think that’s more realistic than goodies and baddies?”

  “Yeah, because the ship hasn’t done anything wrong. It was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But now it’s damned. There’s only one thing left for that ship to do, and that’s sink.”