The Mariner (2 page)

“The Neptune has a contractual right to empty her cargo, sir.”

“I don’t care. Send her away, with Traill and his men, or without them – damn the legal ramifications! We’ll be lucky to live long enough for that. This land is rejecting us, and once the men hear about this, they’ll despair even more.”

He turned and walked towards the encampment, rejecting the sight of the Neptune. “That ship’s not fit for the living, Wandsworth, and I hope no-one in Her Majesty’s Empire ever sets eyes on her again.”

“The greatest good for the greatest number is the measure of right and left.”

Jeremy Benthals

“Philosophy is like trying to open a safe with a combination lock; each little adjustment of the dials seems to achieve nothing, whilst dynamite is more effective.”

Mudwigg Fittenshine

“I sink, therefore I am.”

Denny Daycart

1
THE FIRST NIGHT OF OUR TALE

T
HE
M
ARINER AWOKE WITH THE
screeching of the devils. He vomited onto the deck, the contents of his stomach spread before him, a dark pool, as dark as the wine he’d drunk the previous night. Was it black from the grape alone? Or had his blood contributed to the mix? He watched it flow away, in keeping with the boat’s gentle rocking, and then he watched its inevitable return. It lapped at his face like a polluted shoreline, sour bile matting his beard. The Mariner didn’t move. It was enough that he’d opened his eyes.

He did not get sea-sick. The sea was no problem; sea was life and land was death. Each step upon soil left him worse off. What little attractions the land had to offer - tin cans stuffed with food, battery powered torches, lighter fuel in plastic cartons - each were rendered insignificant next to the awesome drawbacks of human company. Any contact beyond his ship and his devils decimated the isolation in which the Mariner lived. It was a familiar loneliness; it helped focus his mind.

What didn’t focus it was red wine. But that distraction was almost all gone now, filtered through his liver in a constant stream. The stockpile had lasted many weeks, but all good things must come to an end. The Mariner knew this well. A lot of good things had ended. And a lot more would end soon.

The ship was ancient yet sturdy, far too big for its solitary crewman. Enormous sails billowed in the wind, casting the ship onwards, towards the distant yet familiar horizon. They creaked as they adjusted themselves, one of only three sounds he could hear. That, the sound of the waves breaking against the hull, and, of course, the devils.

One was nosing itself above deck. He could see its small snout edging open the door, black nose about a foot from the ground. They must be hungry, normally the devils were content to prowl below, hunting for rats. Quite how the rats sustained themselves, the Mariner did not know, food had become as scarce as the wine.

The devil finally poked its head through the door. The creature looked a lot like the rats it hunted, although body, black fur with a white stripe, was the size of a small dog. It looked at him, nose twitching and big pink ears alert. It was Grace, the mother of the brood. They’d pushed her out their den to harass the human for feeding.

She ran across the deck in a strange skipping, ambling way familiar to all devils. Stopping just shy of where he lay, she waited to be presented with a meal.

“I’m s’ry g’l,” he mumbled. “Th’s no food.”

Unimpressed, and with the tiniest ounce of hope she sniffed the pool of vomit. He thought she might lap it up, but instead she wrinkled her nose and backed away. The Mariner took this as a very bad sign. There must be something dreadfully wrong with his gut; he’d seen her eat from corpses left in the sun for weeks.

Sitting on her haunches, Grace had still not given up hope of rousing the drunk monkey, a fleshy vending machine that often dispensed meat when there were no rats to find. “Arf!” she barked, warning him to get a move on.

He cursed, knowing that he’d be in trouble if he didn’t rise soon. Grace had bitten him many times before. Several fingers on his left hand had almost been lost to the beast, yet still he allowed her pack to stay. A folly, as Grace now licked her chops as she stared at his nose. “I’m going to try to get up. Give me a second.” The devil didn’t respond, but watched with interest as the Mariner’s limbs twitched and tensed.

After a minute or so, the devil lost all patience, and Grace let loose a screech. It was a horrible sound, guttural and vicious, like a terrified animal being slaughtered. Her hot and pungent breath hit his face, and finally, out of a desire to keep his eyes and nose from her small but sharp teeth, he pushed himself onto his feet.

“Arf!” she said again, satisfied things were finally moving in the right direction.

The Mariner swayed giddily, and not from the sea. Clasped in his right hand was one of the bottles from last night. He looked at the faded label. ‘Merlot’. From somewhere called ‘California’. He didn’t recognise either name. Perhaps California was the small island he’d found the bottles upon, all piled up within a derelict house, but he doubted it. That island couldn’t have supported whatever fruit or beast had given such wonderful nectar. Just another dead island. One among many.

Upon the bottle was a picture of a ship. It was clearly not his own, it was smaller, cleaner and not as laboured, but he liked to think that icon depicted in essence his ‘Neptune’.

“Bluuuugghhheeeeeek!” Grace, frustrated with his slothful pace, shrieked and proceeded to savage his foot. Her teeth tore at his thick boots, already peppered with bite marks from previous altercations. Despite her fury, the Mariner felt flattered. If she’d wanted to hurt him she could have bitten into his jeans and taken a chunk out of his thigh. She would have enjoyed the taste too. He knew from experience devils enjoyed human flesh.

Chuckling to himself as she flung her small body about his boot, the Mariner staggered across deck. It was dusk and already stars were beginning to define themselves against the darkening sky. How many days and nights had he been at sea? The Mariner could not say. He remembered nothing else but the endless ocean and the ceaseless searching.

Below deck the air was thick and stale. The Mariner didn’t like to descend beneath the Neptune’s boards. It was the devils’ territory and the close wooden hallways felt oppresive. Given the choice he woke, slept, ate and crapped on the deck above. He found that if he trusted the weather, more times than not it would look after him. Days were hot and the rain was hard, but it never scorched his flesh beyond repair, nor blow him into the surf. The weather served his purpose. Hadn’t it guided him this far?

Each cupboard proved bare. The Mariner could not remember his last meal and his stomach gurgled at the thought. As if to keep him on message, Grace’s stomach growled even louder as she scampered about his ankles.

“Alright girl,” he said, knowing he didn’t have long to please her. In the dark peripheries her children gathered, each hoping for some morsel of food to tide them over. It was an enormous pack, a dozen pairs of eyes trained upon his every move, a dozen mouths watering at the thought of meat. Although small, their teeth were sharp. If they decided to turn against the Mariner, he would not last long. And neither would his remains.

Only a small piece of dried beef jerky remained. Its plastic packet was pushed into the furthest recess, crumpled and forgotten. He picked it up. On the front it claimed all sorts of energising promises, but the Mariner had never felt different after eating one, only full and bloated. On the back it said ‘Best Before’ and then a string of numbers that made no sense. Gibberish. Just like the faded label on the bottle of wine.

The Mariner winced at the memory. Why had he allowed himself to become so dependent upon such a perilous drug? Yet dependent he’d become and with the wine running out he was sure to reap the demons it’d sown. Their roots would knot in his belly, twisting his insides until he wanted to tear out his own guts, then their branches would rise up to tangle about his spine, shaking him till his very mind came loose.

Grace didn’t give a shit. All that concerned her was the beef jerky, still clasped in the Mariner’s hand, and the question of whose mouth it should enter, his or hers?

“Arf!”

He pulled the packet open and savoured the dry savoury smell. Inside, the jerky look ancient, sweaty and far removed from the concept of ‘meat’. It also looked delicious. The Mariner was desperately hungry, a little food might go a long way in delaying the alcohol pains, but he also knew that if the devils were to survive they’d need Grace’s strength to hunt the few elusive rats. So instead of feeding himself, he dropped it to the floor.

Grace snapped the jerky between her jaws, her long whiskers quivering with delight. Without a grunt of thanks she scurried into the shadows, a brief cacophony of scrabbling claws signalled her broods pursuit. The Mariner was left alone, with only the groans of the ship and distant muffled yaps.

He did not linger, but instead chose to return above deck. There was no more food, and very little wine. He should try to resist the alcohol demons as long as possible before opening the last bottle. Perhaps he could buy himself enough time to find land again, and then plunder it for supplies? But hadn’t Absinth warned him about the lack of land out here? Or had it been the Philosopher Woman? With a mind so full of fog it was impossible to remember.

For not the first time, the thought of suicide popped into his head. He had a gun, a whole case-load in fact. Semi-automatics that could pop the top of his head clean off with enough bullets in the magazine to keep his skull flipping in the air like a cowboy’s hat. The devils wouldn’t miss him. This was their ship, not his.

Suicide was a possibility. He was sure he had the guts to put a gun in his mouth, fuck it, he’d tickle the barrel with his tongue as he pulled the trigger. Dying didn’t scare him. But after that? After the dying, then what? What lay beyond? The uncertainty filled him with terror.

No, no suicide. The ocean would decide his fate. The ocean, the air and the Neptune herself.

Back above, the wind was picking up, though not enough to cause concern. The ship rose and fell steadily, with enough rhythm to welcome sleep, though sleep would not come easy. Consciousness had only lasted ten minutes at the most, yet sleep was all he had to turn to. The Island was not in sight and he did not want to be awake when the pains began.

He looked into the sky, eager to spot a bird that he could follow or some other hint at distant land. There were neither. Not even clouds. Just open sky and infinite water. And he a lone sailor, adrift with ravenous demons both inside and out.

But then – something out at sea! A shape moving though the waves, pale silver just as they were, but causing displaced water to appear black, ripples of darkness giving definition to the beast. It moved gracefully and his heart raced at the thought of it being a dolphin or seal or some other helpful creature. He strained against the barrier, desperate to see the first piece of strange life in months.

It was a woman. Her pale skin shone in the brine beneath long raven hair. He could see her arms pulling the water aside as she swam breast stroke, heels alternately breaking the surface with each gentle kick. She was not exhausted nor desperate, hers were the actions of a lady at leisure; someone going for a brief swim before dinner, rather than one lost in the middle of an endless ocean.

The Mariner craned his neck looking from horizon to horizon, trying to see her ship, but there was none. Just the sea. Just her. And just he.

Closer now, she was a woman of youth, flesh healthy and soft, skin without blemish; a stark contrast to his own aged, scarred and sun burnt exterior. To his delight he saw she was naked, and surely she was aware of his presence, yet there was no modesty, either feigned or real. She swam as if it were an absolute delight. A natural joy.

The Mariner tried to speak, but his mouth had dried up. Shamefully, he stiffened in his jeans, but that could be excused. He hadn’t seen another thinking person in months, let alone a beautiful woman! Surely someone so brazen could forgive lustful thoughts? He paced back and forth, eyes fixed on the approaching figure.