The Mariner

[THE MARINER] WAS BACK ABOARD the Neptune, except the ship was no longer made of wood and metal, but neatly folded paper. Great strips of the stuff with enormous printed writing, as if a giant had gotten bored of his book and did some origami. Yet it was still his ship and he had a duty to man it. Except the paper hadn’t been treated! The pages needed a coat of wax to glide through the water, and without it they were becoming soaked and limp, losing definition. The Neptune was sinking.

He rushed to and fro about the Neptune, replacing the failing hull with fresh strips, applying them like rolls of wall-paper. And yet as soon as one strip was applied, another would fail, water seeping through, their demise promising death in the cold depths.

Only leaping from the top deck into the sea would save him, he had to get clear of the ship before it sank, otherwise he’d be dragged down below by the vacuum. But he was afraid to show his face above, for there was an awful droning sound reverberating through to his ears. The Wasp had found him.

“I don’t want to drown!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I’m not ready to die!”

“No! No it isn’t! The Wasp is here! It has come for me!”

And yet the Wasp wouldn’t have a chance to take him, because the walls were all soaked and closing in. The room was shrinking, the ceiling fat with moisture and leaking. Already the doorway above was sealed. There was no escape.

The wet paper closed over, his hands crushed by his side, immovable, his mouth blocked by the parchment, stifling all screams. And although the paper had looked wet and cold as it approached, now it was against his mouth it felt dry and soft, less like paper, more like pillow.

He was suffocating, trying to breathe, yet nothing could be forced through the barrier.

This was it, the last few moments of life.

Is that all?

Yes, the Wasp took everything else.

The Mariner awoke, desperately struggling to breathe, though in the waking world no barrier blocked his throat and air flooded inside, hurting his traumatised lungs with their sudden burst. He sat up, coughing and heart racing.

Barnett was watching him with the same mix of disgust and resentment that had painted his face for the past week. The rest of his crew, three others, were asleep around the small makeshift fire.

“Problems sleeping?” he said, making no attempt to disguise the sneer. The Mariner didn’t respond; he merely laid back down and stared into the darkness above. “I’d have problems too if I were you,” Barnett continued regardless. “I don’t think I’d ever sleep again.” There was some truth in that. He had always had trouble sleeping, often waking gasping and choking, but it was getting worse, more frequent. His past was catching up.

Barnett and his three other guards had joined with the Mariner just after he’d finished the long climb to the plateau, leaving the port behind, a tiny twinkling village in an otherwise grey landscape.

Once at the top, the view shocked him to his core. The moor was a vast land of dense scrub extending as far as he could see. It rose and fell in gentle hills, like solid waves. It felt like a horrible mockery of the ocean, one where the water tore at your legs with every step, resisting rather than sliding aside.

Armed and grumbling. Barnett and his men had caught up. The Mariner wasn’t surprised to find they were the ones who’d always seemed closest to Harris rather than Heidi. She wouldn’t spare her finest. Not for the likes of him.

At first they looked about the great expanse, unsure of what direction to take. The land was enormous, dizzyingly so, how could they possibly find a single man out here? But then they noticed other figures ascending to the moors. It seemed as day began to break, the inns were emptying their patrons, and they all had the same goal in mind.

At least a hundred souls began to gather at the top of the path, readying backpacks stocked with supplies; folks of all ages, some gangs, others rough family groups. All keeping to themselves in small packs, yet staying near the main herd like fearful grazers.

And after what seemed like an hour or so, as the sun poked its head above the horizon, the crowd turned as one and began to strike out in a single direction. There was no head of the clan to give commands, and the Mariner knew better than to enquire how they’d come by the knowledge, so instead he and his four watchers kept their heads low and followed.

Of all that long journey, only one thing managed to distract him from the remorse that filled his heart. As the sunlight reached the heather, the dull grey plants that covered the plains suddenly lit up a bright purple. The crowd gazed, open mouthed at the beauty that reached to the horizon. Wonderment died away soon though, as a cold wind reminded them of the reality of their predicament, and although the heather looked soft, in reality it proved a tough and spiteful plant.