The Mariner

“I know it seems strange, but…” I know you. And it has something to do with that dead Mariner and a wasp and some devils and a waterfall and I want you to agree because otherwise I think I might be going mad. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he finished, “you seemed so sad, I thought I would make sure you were okay.”

She gave him a thin smile. “I lost my daughter some years ago, when she was merely a toddler. She died. But it feels as if it only just happened. As if I only just remembered.”

He glanced at the floor, not knowing what to say.

“That’s grief I guess. Having it hit you afresh every day. Wondering what she would have been like if she’d lived. If only for a little bit longer.”

McConnell raised his head and looked Heidi in the eyes. “I think she would have loved Gone With The Wind.” And as she hastily looked away, he saw that flicker again, so brief he could have made it up, a tiny hint of recognition.

I’ve gone mad, he thought to himself. I’m feeling strange bonds with complete strangers. First the corpse, then the widow and now this poor grieving mother, a victim whom I’m tormenting with the idea that somehow I knew her child.

Except I did know her. I did.

Feeling absurd and with an awkward deep breath he held out his hand. She looked at it, perplexed and slightly afraid.

“How about we go get a drink? You can tell me about your daughter.”

Heidi shook her head, reluctant. “I don’t think so, I don’t know you…”

“Please, let me—”

The words ended abruptly as an insect flew between them, and lazily landed upon his hand. A wasp. He could feel its light yet confident weight as it slowly crawled across his skin.

Wasps were shits. He’d known this for years, ever since his little compassionate experiment in which one had betrayed his trust. Ever since then, he’d killed every wasp he’d seen without mercy.

But now, looking at this small bug, he couldn’t help but feel enthralled by its alien gait. Hadn’t he dreamed something about a wasp?

The creature stopped its slow crawl and looked up at him. In his heart he knew that the wasp had no concept of minds, or human beings, it couldn’t look you in the eye and convey an emotion. Yet he could have sworn that was exactly what this wasp was doing.

It was staring him right in the face. A challenge to a worthy adversary.

“Go ahead punk,” he growled.

And it did.

The wasp plunged its stinger down into his hand, throwing its whole body behind the strike, eager to exert authority over the stupid monkey who’d dared to taunt it.

Nothing happened.

Two black eyes looked up at him, and despite their insectoid nature, he could have sworn he saw an emotion. Confusion.

Shocked, the wasp hopped an inch or so forward and tried again, being even firmer with its barbed behind.

Still, nothing happened.

Furious, the wasp rolled around, trying to sting any surface it could find, until, unsuccessful, it lost its grip, slid from his hand and dropped to the ground with an angry buzz.

Wasps won’t sting…

And suddenly he remembered.

He looked around, back at the widow who grieved for a man who’d woken the world and then put it back to sleep. Around her, the crowd had retreated to a respectful distance. Some had offered their jackets to lay across the body, others merely waited, keen to offer any assistance she might need.

They love her, just as I do.

And as he watched, it seemed the very land around them bent towards her, straining to be close, and a sudden certainty filled his heart: this woman would never grow ill, suffer crime, or feel deep pain. This was the last suffering she would ever endure, there would be no other. The world would not allow it.

“I hope she gets the support she’ll need,” Heidi said, looking fondly at the Mariner’s true Grace.

“She will,” McConnell replied, certain to his core. “I know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the world looked through his eyes.”

“What did it see?”

“Her.”

And suddenly he was laughing, legs buckling as he slumped to the floor, vision waving as if about to faint. He laughed because he remembered thinking that poor wretch had been akin to Jesus Christ, someone who could sew the world together. He’d been wrong. But he’d also been right.

Perhaps saints didn’t exist? Perhaps the most angelic of men are those who are willing to acknowledge their demons? Perhaps the best of men are those who believe they’re the worst?

On the pavement, the wasp looked up at the crazy monkey, now dangerously close, and deciding to cut its losses (and reassess a life without a sting) flew off into the London sky.