The Mariner (39 page)

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.

And once exposed to the elements, the worshippers began inflicting fresh wounds upon themselves. Some used knives, some used whips, some simply held their limbs into the fires that were growing larger by the minute, fuelled by the discarded garments. Those that could not harm themselves, the children and infirm, were assisted with perverse care by their elders, who caused wounds with a care usually reserved for binding them.

The Pope watched the flagellation with a mixture of pride and ecstasy on his ancient features. So wrapped up in the scene a long trail of drool hung from his lips. His robed servants began once more to push the crucifix about through the carnage, incense creating a thick fog through which he looked as a god.

Already eyes, still suspicious from before, were beginning to look in the Mariner’s direction. Charlotte, who’d seemed just another nervous mother before, but now pushing pins through the flesh of her thigh, kept glancing in his direction, waiting for him to join them in their peculiar worship.

He had no qualms about self-harm, he had done it countless times before, sometimes quite savagely, but this was different. These people weren’t using self-harm to control their demons, but to
unleash
them. What would happen to him if he did the same?

The robed man, the Pope’s mouthpiece, was strolling through the crowd, going from tortured soul to tortured soul. As he did he would watch their agony for a few moments, then take their chin and angle their face to look inside his hood. This would only last a few seconds, but in that time the cultist would relax, as if some internal blissful release had occurred, and then the robed man would move onto the next.

Panic. The robed man was heading the Mariner’s way, ready to study him as he had the others. He thought about fleeing to another section of the midnight mass, but caught Charlotte’s eye. In that single glance he knew any suspicious activity would raise alarm.

With little choice he turned to the nearest fire. Stretching out his left arm he began to inch towards it, slowly growing hotter with every step. The flames danced invitingly, seemingly excited by the offer of flesh to grill.

A nervous glance told him the painful truth, Charlotte was watching and wouldn’t stop till she saw him burn. Already the skin on his hand was begin to boil, sweat breaking out in huge beads to lessen the painful heat. He had to continue. He must! Just a bit further…

“Is there a problem, my son?”

The Mariner turned to look into the face of the robed man. Beneath the hood was a rather normal looking gentleman, later in years, with a round spectacled face. There was something comforting about his eyes, soft yet piercing, and he wondered why a man would hide such a friendly visage beneath a cloak.

“No problem,” the Mariner said, though he used the opportunity to withdraw his hand. “No problem at all.”

The robed man’s eyes searched the Mariner’s face, and gentle confusion seeped in, as if the Mariner was a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. “Is this your first visit to the Pope? You seem... familiar somehow.”

“I do?” the Mariner was lost in the robed man’s eyes, and rubbed his sore left hand absent-mindedly. “I need to speak to the Pope. It’s important.”

“The Pope doesn’t speak directly to his flock. You should know this.”

“And yet I must. I need answers.”

“Answers?” the robed man chuckled, but the act seemed like an illusion, there was concern in those calming orbs. “And you think the Pope has the answers you require?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you think this? You’re not one of us, I can see that. You don’t believe in him as the others do. So why do you think he can bring you peace?”

Drawn ever on by the robed man’s warmth, the Mariner confessed his purpose. “Since the earliest I can remember I’ve been searching, looking for the truth. And I’ve always known the truth would be found on an island, ringed with almost impenetrable defences, somewhere in the endless ocean. The Pope can help me find that island. He can help me find the truth.”

“The truth...” The robed man’s eyes suddenly shifted, shock seeping in. “It’s you! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and you’ve changed so much I didn’t recognise.... No wonder there’s no name in there! No wonder I couldn’t see it!” He chuckled, shaking his head as if it were all a joke. “This isn’t the island you’re looking for, and the Pope can’t point you to it.”