The Mariner

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.