by Ade Grant
And yet he had no recollection of how he’d received them. No notion whatsoever. Just a certainty that he had done this to himself, he had done some terrible wrong to light this fire.
Deep in his head there was a fizzing, like pins and needles but within the brain. He raised a hand and rubbed his temple.
Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? he thought, the idea scaring him. Certainly he had never felt such a sensation before.
He sat up and looked about. If he felt surprise at his surroundings, it was the basic surprise of a new-born’s first glance at its mother’s legs, for he had nothing else to compare. The ship was there and he aboard. It was as simple as that.
I’m a mariner, and this is my ship. It seemed to make sense, because somewhere deep inside him was an urge to find something, a place, an island.
“Where all the secrets can be found,” he muttered.
But where had this belief come from? Who was he?
Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? he thought, the idea scaring him. But hadn’t he thought that before? His memory was hazy, difficult even remembering something that had occurred mere seconds ago. That damn fizzing – no, not fizzing, buzzing- was driving him to distraction and he slammed his palm against his temple, trying to dislodge the irritation.
I’m alone. The thought hit him suddenly. He was alone and he was certain it was all his fault. Why else would he be forsaken if not for his own actions? An urge to throw himself into the sea became overpowering, a need to die consuming his mind. What use was finding secrets when the seeker was so wretched? Best to die now and cease to think.
“Arf!”
He turned his head to see a small squat creature blinking at him. She looked like a little dog with the head of a rat, white stripes upon her black fur. Distracted from thoughts of suicide, he reached out a hand. She hesitantly sniffed it, as wary of him as he was of her.
“And who are you?”
The creature shuffled away, startled by his voice.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he said trying calm her, but it was no use. Like an explosion, she released a roar with the bottom of her belly.
“Bllllleeeeuuuuughhh!”
He fell back, momentarily afraid, but as the beast pushed the noise out her throat, the action propelled her backwards, falling comically on her rump.
He laughed as she fell silent, looking bashful.
“Are you and I going to be friends?”
“Arf!”
He smiled, the fizzing gone from his head, memories starting to stick.
“You need a name,” he said, unsure as to how he would come up with anything appropriate. But then, against all logic, a name swam up from his fractured mind. If the Pope had been told, he would never have believed it. Once gone, things cannot return.
“Grace. I’ll call you Grace”
And with the name upon his lips, the Mariner felt a little less alone.
Epilogue
NOT EVERY STORY HAS A HAPPY ENDING
LIKE RAINWATER CASCADING THROUGH A filthy gutter, shame flushed out all other feelings from the boy’s system as he lay prone across the bed. As usual that night he’d snuck into his parents’ bedroom, aware they wanted him to sleep in his own, yet determined to feel that closeness supplied only by theirs. Being a toddler, he had little understanding of an adult’s needs for privacy, nor did he have any concept of right and wrong, other than a rudimentary instinct instilled during the few years he’d been alive.
After complaining and whining he’d eventually won his way into their nest. His father was away, out of town for work, an absence that had weakened his mother’s resolve to keep him out. With a warm feeling of safety he’d climbed into the bed, pulling the thick duvet up over his shoulders.
The boy thought it must have been his breathing that had caused the problem, as no other reason could be deduced in his infant mind. Sometimes his asthma made the air struggle as it escaped his lungs, causing a whistle out and a hiss in. This must have kept his mother awake longer than she could bear, and for that the boy was sorry. His mother meant the world to him. Sometimes he would imagine what he’d do if he saw her fall from a cliff; at the thought tears would come to his eyes (even though it were all a fiction) and he promised himself he would hurl his body after her. Better to be dead than to lose his mother.
And thus, the suggestion that he would deliberately keep her up at night was preposterous, and yet he must have, because clearly she’d become frustrated with his wheezing; a pillow was held tightly over his face, hard enough to block out any possible breath.
He wanted to struggle free. His mind and body were already revolting against the suffocation, auto-survival instincts telling him to thrash about, anything to reunite him with life-giving air. It were as if he were deep beneath the ocean, the water seeping into his throat, the pressure pushing down upon his lungs. But still he couldn’t - no – wouldn’t move.
But suddenly, a feeling… A sense triggered by the thought of the ocean, the feeling of water seeping into his lungs instead of the pillow against his face. He hadn’t the words, but later in life he would recognise the peculiar sensation of repeating a moment, the feeling of déjà vu. He had drowned before.
Not again.
Never again.
This time he’d breathe.
He began to push, squirming until his tiny arms found purchase beneath the pillow. Slowly they strained, quivering, infant elbows shaking in the exertion of competing against an adult’s. He wanted to stop, to give in to his mother’s pressure and in that way please her. But that was wrong. He was just a boy. It didn’t matter if he pushed the blame to her. Such blame was too great for an infant. A boy who deserved to breathe.
And suddenly the pillow was removed from his face, tiny lungs sucking in deep gasps of air, and his mother was pulling him into her arms and crying, saying over and over that she was sorry. It was her fault, not his. The blame was hers.
He hugged her back, because every boy loves his mother, and as she soaked his face with kisses he let himself forget the pillow and the pain. He let them go.
No need to take blame when there’s no blame to hold. No need to dream that you cannot breathe.
Because some don’t get a happy ending, but occasionally, just occasionally, they can get a happier beginning.
And for the first time in two or a billion lives, the Cog shifted.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ade Grant was born in Croydon, England and has never fully recovered.
Raised by wild beasts and nourished by the leavings at squat parties, Ade was finally rescued by Doctor Hayes and smuggled to a rehabilitation facility for ex-Croydonites, in a secret Brighton location. Slowly, over the course of several years, Ade was taught the basics of human interaction.
Ade Grant now writes fiction, poetry and politics, and can be found outside pharmacies in London, rooting through bins.
Follow @ade_grant on Twitter
Visit Ade's website
Buy a glorious hardback edition of The Mariner
Table of Contents
Prologue: Port Jackson, 27th June 1790
PART I: ROTTEN PHILOSOPHY The First Night Of Our Tale
Before, A Day By The Seaside
The Second Night Of Our Tale
Before, The Wolf And The Widow
The Third Night Of Our Tale
Before, Rotten Philosophy
Out Of Night And Into Dawn
The Oracle
Two Men On The Sea
PART II: DOCTOR TETRAZZINI & HIS LIFE-AFFIRMING THEORY Every Story Has A Beginning
Sighisoara
Last Rites
Hazy Promises
The Good Doctor's Grace
Addiction Aplenty
Rehab Begins
Neptune
Confession
Making Progress
Bitter/Sweet Medicine
Not A Wagon In Sight
Discharged
The Devi
l, Grace & God
PART III: GRACE O’HARA’S ZOO & THE MONKS OF DÉJÀ VU The Wasp Whispers
Fresh Shores
The Shift Seekers
Fiddle-de-dee
Getting To Know You
Getting To Know All About You
Exodus
Anomenemies
Darwin's Discovery
All Dressed Up And Nowhere To Go
Five-feet High And Rising
The Best Fish And Chips (Guaranteed!)
The Fellowship's Fucked
His Holiness
PART IV: THE WASP Christopher McConnell Wakes Up
Every Man Has A Home
The Wasp Awakens
The Nature Of Things
The Last Supper
The Last Library
Tried And Sentenced
Christopher McConnell Wises Up
The Wasp
A Sting In The Tail
Before, Before It All
Epilogue: Not Every Story Has A Happy Ending
About The Author
