The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  As he spoke the Mariner hoisted himself up to get a closer swipe at the stubborn creatures, but the sight before him, and dawning realisation, stopped him in his tracks. The moors stopped just twenty foot or so from where he’d awoken. Beyond them was the brilliant sparkle of an endless ocean.

  “How?” he asked, bewildered, looking to the devils, who were appearing increasingly smug.

  They didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. A hundred tiny tears in his clothing told the story. They had dragged him to the coast.

  The exertion of holding himself up, proved too much to bear and the Mariner collapsed to the ground. For however long he’d been unconscious, there had been no food. No drink. It didn’t take a doctor to diagnose the problem with his emaciated form; he was starving.

  “Food,” he pleaded to the heavens, hoping for a miracle. What he got was a half-chewed carrot, dropped onto his chest from the gummy jaws of a devil. He looked at the mangled vegetable, drenched in drool, and after a moment of half-felt hesitation, scoffed the lot.

  The following days saw the devils bring him whatever they could scrounge, sometimes disappearing for hours only to bring back a few scraggly roots. Each he would greedily devour, never complaining, and with every bite regained some strength.

  By night, the devils would close in around him. Sometimes he would hear that great lumbering beast, squelching its way towards him in the dark, but the devils would screech and yowl to such an extent that the Gradelding would slink off, thinking its luck better tried elsewhere.

  Eventually, the day came when the devils would look after him no more, and in no uncertain terms, made it clear the time had come to move on.

  “Which way?” he shrugged, looking up and down the coastline and seeing no end to the cliffs. As one the devils ran in a direction for a few yards, then stopped and looked back expectantly. He shrugged. Their message was clear. “This way it is.”

  The cliff-side trek took days, and just as he’d done when regaining his strength, he spent the night at the mercy of his guardians, trusting their vigilance against the moor’s predators. Each day was the same monotonous staggering, the horizon never changing, until finally one evening the small port town could be seen, its lights twinkling amongst the bleak rocks.

  He sped up, eager to escape the open prison, and only paused when he reached the top of the path that cut down through the cliff to the port below, and only then because the devils had ceased to follow.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, but the devils remained silent and still. “We’ve got to get going! I must speak with the Wasp. It may still turn out all right.”

  “Arf!” spoke one, looking nervous as if trying to break bad news.

  “You’re staying?”

  We’re sorry, their eyes told him. We’ve come to the end.

  “You can’t leave me like this,” he pleaded. “Not after all we’ve been through. Come back to the Neptune. I promise, things will be different from now on.”

  No different. You never change.

  “You have to forgive me for Grace! I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  Yes you did.

  “All right, but I don’t remember it! I can’t be held responsible for being so fucked up. That’s my wife’s fault! That’s my mother’s fault!”

  Isn’t that a bit of a cop-out? To blame your parents?

  “But it’s the truth! The truth of me!”

  There is no truth. Only the Wasp.

  “Don’t leave!”

  But the devils turned and ran, their strong stout legs carrying them easily across the moor. He thought about dashing after them, to beg further, but dismissed the idea. They wanted rid of him. Whatever debt they had held, they’d paid in full. He was alone.

  Rejected by the last few friends he had in the world, the Mariner stumbled down the steep decline into town. Faces peered at him through the windows, curious eyes studying his progress through mesh curtains. They had seen many venture up into the moors, but never had one come back down. A true oddity.

  A pub sign hung nearby, and despite his eagerness to check on the Neptune (which worryingly he hadn’t seen in his glimpses of the dock) he headed straight for it. He hadn’t tasted alcohol in an age, and even though he had nothing to barter with, he entered. Perhaps the landlord would be foolish enough to ask for payment afterwards? Or exchange a drink for the secret of the moors?

  A curious publican greeted him behind a stale and filthy bar.

  “Whiskey.”

  The man didn’t respond. Not being an idiot, he wanted to see something of value first.

  “Perhaps I can get that for you?” a voice from behind asked.

  The Mariner tensed. Good-will did not exist. “That’s not necessary,” he protested, turning around to see the fellow who’d made the offer. He found it was not just one, but three.

  “Sure it is,” the supposed-Samaritan grinned, holding a pistol that pointed right at the Mariner’s heart. “And it’ll be your last. Arthur Philip, by the orders of Christopher McConnell, you’re under arrest.”

  43

  THE LAST LIBRARY

  THE MARINER’S SECOND ARRIVAL ON Sighisoara, a land he’d sworn never to return, heralded a great deal more fanfare than the first. The ship that carried him was not his own (the Neptune having been stolen by Harris and the rest), instead he’d been bundled onto a trawler and kept tied for the duration. To his captors’ cruel credit, the food he’d been given during this time was even less appetising than what’d been offered by the devils. Word of his terrible crime had travelled well.

  “You know wot’s gonna happen once we get to Sighisoara?” his captor had whispered during the first night at sea. “You’re gonna ‘ang. Hang for what you did to that little girl, y’fucking perv!”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Don’t need t’know her t’know what you did was a fuckin’ disgrace!”

  With a kick to the gut, the man left the Mariner alone, seething with hate and shame. Fortunately, violent occurrences such as this were a rarity. For most of the journey he was left alone to reflect on his sins.

  Sighisoara had changed since the Mariner’s last visit. In a sense, it had both grown and shrunk at the same time. In a literal sense, the island was smaller; the waves had crept higher, a good couple of yards by his estimation, claiming more crumbling ruins to their depths. The dock however, had swelled. Where once there had been a single wooden promenade, there were now many enormous piers jutting out into the ocean. It seems a great deal of work had been done to accommodate the Beagle’s satellite ships, the great ferry moored further away where the ocean’s floor could not scrape the hull. The Neptune (what a sight for sore eyes!) was anchored beside the main dock, scores of men he’d never seen before strutting about her decking like gulls upon a carcass.

  That was not the end to the rife construction; all throughout town, the Mariner spied buildings being repaired and erected, roofs tiled, walls reinforced, rooms extended, and one grand construction atop the hill more ambitious than the rest. It was the site of Tetrazzini’s rehab centre and was the focus of all their efforts. Civilisation had returned.

  Upon arrival, the Mariner was unceremoniously dumped onto the dock, but as soon as his captors marched him towards the town, wrists tied with rope and a gun barrel pointed at his back, the villagers began to stop and jeer.

  “Murderer!” one screamed. “Pervert,” another.

  So many strange faces. How did they know him so well? How could that middle-aged woman, face plain and care-worn, understand him enough to summon such hate? How did that boy, who threw pebbles that bounced off the Mariner’s shoulders and stung his face, perceive the evil within? The Mariner didn’t blame them for their fury, but marvelled at their certainty.

  A guard came bounding towards them. The Mariner, to faint amusement, noticed it was the bearded fellow that had welcomed him on his first visit.

  “Send word to Mr. McConnell that we have the prisoner.”

 
; The bearded man nodded enthusiastically, and with a stolen glance at the Mariner (containing all he needed to know of the fellow’s animosity), scampered into town.

  A captured fugitive, he was led through the streets, followed by a gathering crowd. The Mariner didn’t need to look to understand their growing numbers, the chatter of curious voices gained confidence with every step.

  Who is he?

  He killed the doctor.

  And he killed the girl!

  What girl?

  The doctor’s daughter. Killed him, kidnapped her.

  Why would he kidnap the girl?

  Sex reasons. Why else would a man like that take a child?

  Pervert.

  Murderer.

  To each flank he thought he saw familiar faces. Was that Beth, skulking behind an apple-cart? Why did she hate him so? Had she known all along what he’d intended? Was that Cedrick loudly calling for his head, somewhere towards the rear, his voice shrill with condemnation? And where was McConnell? What was his hand in all this?

  He was led, snaking through the town until he passed through the great wall that encapsulated the old quarter. The passageway passed through shadow and beneath the mighty (yet disfigured) clock-tower. It was there that Harris had been waiting since news arrived.

  Mavis’ captain, once plucked from the ocean, had changed somewhat in the passing weeks. Without the Kraken, there had been a fidgety quality to the man, an unease in his standing and place. That didn’t seem to be the case now; he stood proudly, dressed in finery, a score of armed soldiers behind at his command. He greeted the Mariner with a mix of relief and regret, anger and astonishment.

  He beckoned to the Mariner’s captors to lead him inside a nearby doorway, taking him up inside the clock-tower. There, in a stone-walled room, the only window a tiny slit in the bricks, he was dumped, arms still bound.

  “Leave us,” Harris commanded, and it was done.

  The silence after so much shouting and yelling felt like concussion, and for a moment the Mariner actually suspected he’d gone deaf. Harris’ grim voice broke the illusion.

  “Where’s Barnett, Arthur? I sent loyal soldiers with you. Where are they?”

  “Dead,” he managed to rasp. “Where is McConnell? I need to speak with him.”

  “How did they die? Did you kill them?”

  The Mariner shook his head and tried to explain the events, though Harris was less than convinced.

  “You say the Pope had them killed for being spies?” he sneered. “But if that’s true, why weren’t you? What information did you offer to save your skin?”

  “Nothing. He told me what’s happening, what’s gone wrong with our world.”

  “Nonsense. You sold us out, didn’t you? You’ve allied yourself with the Anomenemies. Hell, perhaps you are one? Perhaps you were working for the Pope this whole time?”

  “Listen to me! I know the truth, don’t you understand? I know the truth! You’ve got to release me so I can find the Wasp!”

  “And you know where this insect is?”

  “It doesn’t have a place, I just need to help it see me. I think, if I return to the Waterfall, the first tear in the cocoon, I will be close enough.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Let me speak with Mavis.”

  “Mavis is retired. Decisions run through me now. And McConnell does the steering.”

  “What?” he exclaimed, astonished arrangements could change so quickly. But hadn’t he suspected such a coup d’état possible? “You killed her?”

  Disgust crossed his captor’s face. “We’re not like you! We’re not killers or perverts, thieves or Anomenemies! She retired out of choice, through debate! Rational discourse! The Beagle’s got a new purpose now, a proper course at last, and the last thing we need is a child-killer spreading ridiculous stories about wasps, cocoons and popes, just to save his own filthy hide. You’re going to be hanged, Arthur.”

  The words, coming from someone he’d sailed with, someone he’d saved from the sea, hammered the point home with brutal force. He was going to hang. The concept hadn’t seemed real before, but now, locked in a cell on Sighisoara, it did.

  The Mariner rose to his knees, holding out his bound hands. “I know I deserve to die,” he pleaded. “But not yet. Please not yet.” I’m afraid, he wanted to scream, but knew those words would find little sympathy. “Whatever you’re trying here, it won’t work. Please, it can still turn out right. But only I know how to save us!”

  A familiar voice, one that used to contain warmth but now only offered the firm chill of morning stone, penetrated the cell.

  “You ‘know’? You ‘know’?” McConnell’s cold voice bounded about the room as he entered. “I thought I knew based on silly superstitions I half remembered. Diana thought she knew by some nonsense she made up to control the desperate. Mavis thought she knew by assumptions made about the old world. Lots of people think they know.”

  “What’s going on, McConnell?” the Mariner asked. “Why are these people answering to you?”

  “What’s the problem with our world?” McConnell spoke rhetorically, squatting next to the Mariner, whilst Harris stood guard. “No-one is thinking. No-one is remembering. It’s as if the thoughts are just flying out of our heads like butterflies, delicate and erratic. What we’re doing here is protecting those thoughts, nurturing them, making them strong.”

  “McConnell, our thoughts are leaving because of the Wasp. I know now, I remember.”

  “I don’t want to hear about this fucking Wasp!” McConnell screamed, rising to his feet. The Mariner was taken aback at the sudden display of rage, and fell away, afraid the reverend might strike out. “All we ever got from you was bullshit! Manipulations just so you could get near that poor girl. Well I’ve had enough. You’re going to die for what you’ve done!”

  “Please,” he whispered, trying to calm his old friend. “Please Christopher, don’t kill me. I’m scared. I’m sorry. Don’t do this. I’ll help you in whatever it is you’re doing here, just don’t kill me.”

  A strange smile of amusement struck McConnell’s lips. “What we’re doing is building a library, the last library in existence. It will act as a school for mankind, and in a way, a hospital too. A hospital for thought. If we can restore the knowledge, we can restore the world. That’s what my father did with Sighisoara. That’s what Grace did with her zoo.”

  “No,” the Mariner argued. “That’s not quite it. I brought back the zoo. I’m not sure how, I need time to work it all out, but I did.”

  The reverend’s fist struck the Mariner sending him to the floor, cold stone against his cheek. “Don’t you take that away from her! You took everything else, don’t you take that!”

  The Mariner decided not to argue; instead he stayed prone on the ground.

  “This is the end of us, Arthur Philip,” McConnell spat. “I shall look on you no more. And from tomorrow morning, after the rope has choked existence from your cursed body, no-one will ever again.”

  44

  TRIED AND SENTENCED

  HE SLEPT ON THE FLOOR of his cell, and against all expectations, remained dream-free the whole night. Perhaps this was one last dig at him by his twisted psyche? That the one night he hoped to last forever passed in mere moments, greeting him with brilliant sunlight seemingly as soon as he closed his lids.

  The slit in the stonework betrayed the bright sky beyond, and the Mariner watched it intently, waiting for the inevitable bird to land on the ledge, mocking him with its freedom. The bird never arrived, but he resented it nonetheless, imagined or not.

  He knew he should hang. There was no doubt about that. Even if the Pope had been lying about the cause of the Shattering, what he’d done since was beyond recompense. Terms such as ‘sorry’ were meaningless in the scale of such pain. What use was sorry to Grace? To Isabel? And how many countless others beyond the reach of his memory? Apologies are impotent if the past cannot be changed.

  Everything had been a lie. S
ince the day he’d awoken on the Neptune, he’d been following a degraded ideology, idea’s picked together from fragments. What had been inside his head was a rotten philosophy, putrid in its decay.

  But hadn’t that always been the case? Every glimpse into the man he’d once been had shown a retched, self-obsessed individual, someone who had allowed his paranoia, lust and insecurities to blend together until they quite literally destroyed everything. What redeemable features could be found in a man like that? He’d blamed his wife when he’d spoken with the devils, but that was a lie, and there was no more time left to cling to lies. That fault had been his not hers.

  There was a rattle of keys, and the cell door opened. He hoped it would be McConnell, breaking his word to give the Mariner one last chance to repent, but it was no familiar face. The rope around his wrists were checked, and without a word he began the long walk to the gallows.

  Despite the bright light that had shone into his cell, the Mariner was blinded leaving the clock-tower, out into the grassy courtyard, a space he’d once awoken a long time ago. That morning he’d been responsible for the burning of an inn. This time, so much more.

  But if he’d tried to see the spot where he’d once slept, he would have found it nigh impossible. The courtyard was packed with hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, more than he could ever have imagined existed. Except... no, it was possible, but only if he remembered sitting in the Pope’s office, looking out across the streets of London. Were these all fellow Londoners? Their minds allowed by the Wasp to remain, distrusting their proximity to his?

  “Follow me.”

  Dumbfounded, the Mariner was surprised to see Heidi standing before him. He cried her name in hope of eliciting some warmth from the women he’d briefly connected with, but there was nothing but ice in her stare. She turned and led him through the crowd. Guards formed a close circle, holding back the townspeople who brayed for his blood. Hundreds of voices hurled insults and demands for his head.