The Mariner

Everything had been a lie. Since the day he’d awoken on the Neptune, he’d been following a degraded ideology, idea’s picked together from fragments. What had been inside his head was a rotten philosophy, putrid in its decay.

But hadn’t that always been the case? Every glimpse into the man he’d once been had shown a retched, self-obsessed individual, someone who had allowed his paranoia, lust and insecurities to blend together until they quite literally destroyed everything. What redeemable features could be found in a man like that? He’d blamed his wife when he’d spoken with the devils, but that was a lie, and there was no more time left to cling to lies. That fault had been his not hers.

There was a rattle of keys, and the cell door opened. He hoped it would be McConnell, breaking his word to give the Mariner one last chance to repent, but it was no familiar face. The rope around his wrists were checked, and without a word he began the long walk to the gallows.

Despite the bright light that had shone into his cell, the Mariner was blinded leaving the clock-tower, out into the grassy courtyard, a space he’d once awoken a long time ago. That morning he’d been responsible for the burning of an inn. This time, so much more.

But if he’d tried to see the spot where he’d once slept, he would have found it nigh impossible. The courtyard was packed with hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, more than he could ever have imagined existed. Except… no, it was possible, but only if he remembered sitting in the Pope’s office, looking out across the streets of London. Were these all fellow Londoners? Their minds allowed by the Wasp to remain, distrusting their proximity to his?

“Follow me.”

Dumbfounded, the Mariner was surprised to see Heidi standing before him. He cried her name in hope of eliciting some warmth from the women he’d briefly connected with, but there was nothing but ice in her stare. She turned and led him through the crowd. Guards formed a close circle, holding back the townspeople who brayed for his blood. Hundreds of voices hurled insults and demands for his head.

“Heidi,” he called to her. “Why do they hate me? They can’t all hate me.”

“They’ve heard of you,” Her voice was low as if afraid to be seen conversing with him. “They know what you’ve done.”

“But even so? What are my crimes to them?”

“Justice hasn’t been done in a long time.” She stopped and looked him in the eye, and in that moment he wanted to scream and flee, such was the cold certainty of his fate. “To move forward, someone must pay what’s due.” As she moved away he saw the gallows, constructed just for him. They stood, stark against the blue sky above, perfect and bold like the crafting of a child.

“I can’t die,” he cried, and Heidi’s demeanour slipped for a single moment, though still the words were like frost.

“Yes, Arthur, you can. You’ll find it’s all too easy.”

The door to his church protested and whined under force, but McConnell slowly inched it open. Since returning to Sighisoara, such a short time ago, through a span that now felt epic, he hadn’t stepped foot in his old place of worship. He hadn’t been able to. The whole place seemed like a lie. Not a deliberate one, but a lie nonetheless.

In all his years on Sighisoara, had he really done any good? Had the people gained any spiritual nourishment from his preaching? His Shattered Testament? Probably not. He could see that now. He’d been too distraught with his father’s death, too eager to find meaning in what was a meaningless situation, that he’d embraced his old man’s closest-held beliefs. Had he thought he could bring him back? Make sense of a meaningless death? Perhaps. The motivations were hazy now.

Those early days in Sighisoara were a dream to him, a time in which parts of his old life seemed to evaporate and a new one form. His confusion had led him to despair and despair to opium. That numbing had allowed the evacuation and muddle to continue unheeded. Of that he was sure. New ideas meshed together from old ones. How much was real, and how much was bullshit? His faith, he feared, was the latter.

McConnell strolled through his long abandoned church, feeling like an intruder in that which he’d built with his own hands. He stopped by the picture-show of Jesus Haych Christ, the one the Mariner had inspected so closely. Briefly he reached for the viewing piece, but the trembling in his hands forced them back to his side.

The deed would soon be done.