The Mariner

“You got the ship eh?” he giggled, suddenly curious as a collector might be at the mention of a rare butterfly. “Well isn’t that interesting. In the moment of the tearing, when the Wasp fled from the brains of humanity, the cocoon was blasted apart and weakened. Suddenly things that were no longer remembered, thoughts taken away with the Wasp, began to vanish. Without the memes there can be no representation, the cocoon cannot be sustained. Memes are the seeds of the tree. But it seems what your mind was so concerned about at the moment of its waking, became real. What you believed, the Wasp believed, suddenly crafting the cocoon to suit the new perspective. It made the water. The islands. And. So it seems, your ship.”

“So when the stars vanished?”

“Most of the memories of stars were gone, and the cocoon could no longer support them. I must say, watching the world slowly crumble is terribly… fascinating.”

The Mariner, still unable to rise, grasped at the Pope’s feet. “Please, you have to tell me how to make it right! How can I undo this?”

The Pope looked down at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. “Have some dignity! Don’t be a caterpillar, lamenting the birth of its parasite larvae! The Wasp has woken and will not be tempted back into slumber. What’s departed has gone for good.”

The Pope glanced about, his demeanour changing as if something had just crossed his mind. Where once there had been a smug superiority, there now lingered an uneasy suspicion. “You should leave. Like a dying patient, the Wasp is obsessed with the source of its infection: you. I wouldn’t want its gaze upon me, not while the cocoon is collapsing.”

“Where can I find the Wasp?”

“You can’t. It’s not a thing of flesh. Memes not genes, remember?”

“It must be watching somehow. There must be a way to reach it?”

The Pope eyed him carefully. “The world shrinks as lands are forgotten, yet because of that waterfall you created, this damn ocean rises every day. That place is a rupture, the site of the Wasp’s waking. I would go there if you want the Wasp to see you again. That’s the clearest break to the Soup beyond. But it doesn’t want to see you, my poor misguided monkey, its enormous stupid mind may be obsessed with you, but it loathes you even more.”

Straightening and glancing stealthily about, the Pope assessed his surroundings as if he’d been secretly conspiring with an enemy. The Mariner was surprised to be reminded of the cult about him, the screams of pain and ecstasy, the whippings cuttings and burnings. Hunger returned to the parasite’s eyes.

“I’ve got to return to my guests. The Wasp left scraps in their heads that it was too scared to take. Stupid thing! Those are the juicy bits!” He leaned down and patted the Mariner like a scared dog. “If I were you, monkey, I would get out of here. Once I’m done, there won’t be much left of the Wasp in their brains. You should flee, you’re infected and not well received by those who are returned to health.”

The Pope began to leave, but the Mariner cried out, provoking him to look back at him a final time.

“But what about Grace? Please, tell me that? What was special about Grace?”

The parasitic Pope paused, his grin faltering for a moment. “Who’s that?”

“A girl. We brought the zoo back together. But… she died.”

Irritation crossed the Pope’s face, a moment of uncertainty and frustration alive in a flash, but soon after the creases smoothed and eyes once more softened with supreme confidence. “There’s nothing special about this ‘Grace’,” he dismissed, shaking his head. “And nothing can ever come back.”

42. THE LAST SUPPER

THERE IS NO TRUTH. ONLY the Wasp.

There is no truth. Only the Wasp.

He ran into the night, unaware of the direction, just certain he had to get as far as possible from the Pope and his terrible encampment. Behind, in a small illuminated circle, the Pope was at work, sucking the last remains of the Wasp from the cultists’ heads. Soon they would be Mindless, parasite-free beasts, mankind in its natural form, and then they’d come for him.

There is no truth.

Without torch, weapon or coat, he sprinted across the moors. Somewhere in the shadows, a predator stalked, something bestial and heavy, its tread squelching underfoot. A few guttural growls penetrated the darkness, but the Mariner did not slow, he did not turn, he was running from something far more terrible, something far more horrifying than any creature from the Soup beyond.

There is no truth. Only the Wasp.