The Mariner

“Yes. You are skin and bone and guttural instinct. All those disgustingly fleshy things. The Wasp exists beyond that. You are genes, the Wasp is memes. Every thought, memory and word dancing about in that dome of yours, is part of the Wasp. Each one connected, like single cells, unaware of their significance in the larger creature. A larger creature that slept as it grew.

“For the Wasp, you humans were a host, organisms chosen by its mother to nurse her infant. She laid her eggs inside you and they’ve grown. Language, inventions, science, all these a part of the Wasp’s being, gestating inside you for so long, you believe it natural, ignoring its true parasitic nature.

“You see, without the Wasp in your head you quickly revert to your natural state, a mindless creature, hateful in its desperation to regain the thoughts once believed its own, memories that have since burst forth.”

The Mariner struggled to understand. “But the Mindless are infected with something. Aren’t they?”

The Pope laughed. “Quite the reverse, it is you who are infected, not them. You still carry some of that parasite, they do not. You call them ‘Mindless’, I would simply call them, ‘human’.

He continued, smirking at the Mariner’s discomfort. “Any fledgling Wasp needs a birthing-ground, a stable environment for the hosts to nurture their parasitic child. So a reality is spun, one based on rules and laws of cause and effect. In each nest the precise nature of things is different, but it’s this stability that helps it grow, and as it grows the world it has created hardens. But it’s all an illusion, your world a fabrication, a merely temporary cocoon.

“Now the Wasp is awake and the cocoon degrades; there is no more use for it, it’s a broken shell, and through the ruins others now scavenge .

“I see you still don’t understand, let me explain. There are more creatures beyond the cocoon than just the Wasp. The Gradelding is one. It has been waiting for an age to get inside and feast upon you monkeys, but the cocoon has protected the Wasp and by extension, you. Now the cocoon is weak, and the Gradelding hungry.

“I, on the other hand, have lived inside with you, just as I have done in many other cocoons during my life. I am a parasite.” The Pope gave a small flourishing bow. “One parasite feeding off another. Ironic isn’t it? I drink from the Wasp; so tiny and insignificant to such a vast and stupid creature, that I remain undetected. Unfortunately every time I feed, there is the slightest chance the Wasp will wake. The mosquito can feed off the man safely in the dead of night countless times, but occasionally, one in a hundred-thousand, the man will feel an itch.

“In your case, the Wasp itched.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not responsible, you are. Hateful, ugly thoughts are the most tasty, it is why I draw these deranged monkeys to me even now. I’d drunk from many before I found you, and I’ve drunk from many since, but on that blasted day I tried to drink the ugliness from your head and the Wasp awoke, sensing the tiny wound, its full attention focused upon the minuscule puncture.

“The Wasp looked at you.” The Pope pointed an accusatory finger. “Its first waking thought in its weighty mind was to comprehend yours, to see what you see, feel what you feel. The stupid creature was spooked. It looked at its own deformed body, saw the filth in your head, a part of its own form, and was horrified.

“A Wasp is supposed to wake in its maturity and leave the host. Such was this baby’s panic, that it tore itself asunder rather than remain connected to you. It split itself in two, taking as much away as it dared, and leaving ugly chunks behind. Since then it has been slowly taking more, little by little, with the precision of a food phobic. Yet still the world remains, in all its degrading glory. And the Wasp is still scared. You still disgust it.”

“I’m not Donald Traill?” he asked from the mud below.

The Pope laughed, long and cruelly. “Of course not! That was just a story stuck in your head as it happened! This fantasy of yours about finding an island: some psycho-babble I used to prep your mind for my feeding! Nothing more.” The Pope laughed at the absurdity. “I can’t believe you’ve been actually looking for a metaphorical island! All this time!”

“But,” he stammered, “I’ve been sailing on the Neptune. That’s my ship. It has a memory, a past, sins of its own!”