The Mariner

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.