The Mariner

He wasn’t a monster, just a man who’d had all his goodness stolen and all the evil left behind. He’d been lost, and now, in a strange way, with thoughts of the love who’d been robbed from him, the love he’d been seeking without knowing, he had what he’d needed far more than truth. Because in life there is no truth. Only context.

He was home.

The anchor continued to descend, deeper into the chill black sea, and as the pressure crushed his skull and popped his heart, the Mariner died.

The Pope hurried across the moors. In the distance he could see Mindless idly wandering, members of his flock sucked dry, any trace of the Wasp removed. They ignored him. Monkeys sought infected monkeys like the jealous beasts they were. Parasites like him were free to go as they pleased.

He looked out over the cliffs perceiving the Waterfall. It was all coming to an end. The Pope had witnessed the growth and decay of many cocoons and many wasps, and although this one was particularly protracted, it wasn’t unusual.

Stupid monkey. He had thought all the blame lay with him, and the Pope wasn’t going to dissuade him from that. Wasps awoke, it’s what they eventually did. Just because this one had woken too soon, didn’t mean it was that monkey’s fault. It was like the brain blaming the kidney for its cancer.

True, some of the blame could fall upon the Pope himself. His children had condemned him. Oracle had been particularly harsh with her words, ungrateful wretch that she was. He’d been glad when he’d felt her die. Stupid child. How dare she, who’d only ever known one cocoon, criticise he, who’d out-lived many? How dare she condemn the way he fed? True he’d fed often, carelessly some could say, but that was how he’d amassed such a grand brood.

It had been a splendid cocoon to feed within, even as it crumbled, and a juicy Wasp too. Sad it was now time to leave, but best to get out. The Wasp, sickly to begin with, was now dangerously ill. If it died, it might take him down with it.

Another glance at the Waterfall told him the distresses being played out. Good Monkey. If the eye of the Wasp was distracted, he should be able to slip out of the cocoon and into the Soup. It wouldn’t be long until another species was impregnated with Wasp larvae, and then another world, another feeding ground, would grow.

He giggled and rubbed his hands together with glee. Time to start afresh.

A growl stopped him in his tracks.

He turned and looked into twelve separate pairs of eyes.

The giggle died in his throat.

“You found me,” he said, a sinking feeling in his many guts. “I thought that Monkey meant trouble.”

Yes, they said. We’ve been searching for you.

“Following the infection eh? Clever. Hundreds of Wasps and I’ve never been caught. How did you know he’d find me?”

These are unprecedented events.

“I guess, I guess,” he mused, already resolved to his fate. He was old, after all. “I’m powerful you know. I could destroy you.”

The immune system, the white blood cells of the Wasp, didn’t budge. They knew a bluff.

A gurgle in his seventh stomach, the most sensitive of all, suddenly drew his attention back to the Waterfall. Something he didn’t quite understand, something as never before, was taking place.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, but the Wasp’s defence system could not be budged.

It is not our business. You are.

He sighed, resigned and forlorn. “At least let me observe what happens? I’d like to know. Consider it a last request?”

No.

“So this is it?”

Yes, the Tasmanian devils said as they surrounded the parasite. This is it.

47. A STING IN THE TAIL

CHRISTOPHER MCCONNELL AWOKE FROM HIS dream with a faint smell of dog shit wafting up his nose. He sat up, suddenly afraid he was laying in the offending mess, hastily checking his shirt and trousers. There were no faeces, just mild grass stains. Teach me to fall asleep in the park, he chided himself, distinctly relieved.

About him, London hummed, albeit at a lighter pace than usual. He tried to remember what day it was, but found himself failing. Must be a weekend, that combined with the sunshine would have emptied London’s streets. Not that these were empty of course, hundreds were still milling about, popping into cafés, browsing shops, yet it was quieter than usual.

And just what was he doing sleeping in a small park in the middle of town? McConnell rubbed his face trying to work it out. He didn’t think he’d been drinking, there was not a trace of a hangover in his system, though he did feel exhausted.

Lingering in his mind were the faint remains of his dream, already dissolving into nothing. Typical of dreams, it had told a story in which he’d been a player, yet not the protagonist. In the last fleeting moments he’d been given understanding, as if all characters had been allowed to share notes after the final curtain.