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The Mariner

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.”

“How could you know this?”

“Because I am the Pope! That gnome up there is my prop, my mask, my wizard before the curtain. And I can assure you, I know the truth. If you have questions, you should ask them of me.”

Almost overcome with relief and excitement, the Mariner babbled like a lunatic. “What’s happened to the world? Is a demon devouring it? Has God punished it? Are Anomenemies dissolving it? Where is the island I’m looking for? Why is it lodged in my head, when nothing else remains?” He gasped for breath, shaking from the promise of answers after so long a search. “Please, you have to tell me the truth!”

The Pope looked deep into the Mariner’s eyes, and suddenly the Mariner realised that what kindness he’d seen had been purely an act, just as a cat might pretend to be playing with the mouse just before it bites down. A cruel amusement and a predatory smile.

The Pope spoke with words that echoed deep into the Mariner’s grotesque psyche, and brought his fragile world crashing down with a simple few words.

“There is no truth,” he said. “Only the Wasp.”