The Mariner

Heidi got to her feet, embarrassed at the sudden reaction of the strange, yet charming man. “Sir? Sir are you ok?”

But he couldn’t stop laughing, because the absurd memories still filled his head and although they were beginning to fade, the brief truth they told was too much to bear.

“People are looking! You can’t laugh when someone’s died!”

Tears streamed down his face as he looked about his home city, wondering just what else the Mariner might have changed.

“Christopher? Can you hear me? Christopher?”

But there was no stopping him. He laughed at the absurdity of belief. He laughed at the fragility of thought. And he laughed because although depression strips a man of his all, love will remain, even if he does not know it.

And after a while, Christopher McConnell stopped. He’d completely forgotten what he was laughing about.

48. BEFORE, BEFORE IT ALL

HE OPENED HIS EYES TO the harsh glare of the sun. It cooked his skin, sea water evaporating, leaving large chunks of itchy salt, and yet he welcomed the rays. Deep down in his muscles there was a chill, a cold ache that needed banishment, and this sunlight was just the medicine. He closed his lids, relishing the notion for a moment longer, distancing himself from the impending pain.

Agony was coming. He knew it. That ache was just the vanguard, sooner or later the main force would be upon him, a multitude of cuts and wounds, breaks and sprains. They would band together to overthrow their cruel master, the fiend who had unleashed them.

And yet he had no recollection of how he’d received them. No notion whatsoever. Just a certainty that he had done this to himself, he had done some terrible wrong to light this fire.

Deep in his head there was a fizzing, like pins and needles but within the brain. He raised a hand and rubbed his temple.

Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? he thought, the idea scaring him. Certainly he had never felt such a sensation before.

He sat up and looked about. If he felt surprise at his surroundings, it was the basic surprise of a new-born’s first glance at its mother’s legs, for he had nothing else to compare. The ship was there and he aboard. It was as simple as that.

I’m a mariner, and this is my ship. It seemed to make sense, because somewhere deep inside him was an urge to find something, a place, an island.

“Where all the secrets can be found,” he muttered.

But where had this belief come from? Who was he?

Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? he thought, the idea scaring him. But hadn’t he thought that before? His memory was hazy, difficult even remembering something that had occurred mere seconds ago. That damn fizzing — no, not fizzing, buzzing- was driving him to distraction and he slammed his palm against his temple, trying to dislodge the irritation.

I’m alone. The thought hit him suddenly. He was alone and he was certain it was all his fault. Why else would he be forsaken if not for his own actions? An urge to throw himself into the sea became overpowering, a need to die consuming his mind. What use was finding secrets when the seeker was so wretched? Best to die now and cease to think.

“Arf!”

He turned his head to see a small squat creature blinking at him. She looked like a little dog with the head of a rat, white stripes upon her black fur. Distracted from thoughts of suicide, he reached out a hand. She hesitantly sniffed it, as wary of him as he was of her.

“And who are you?”

The creature shuffled away, startled by his voice.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he said trying calm her, but it was no use. Like an explosion, she released a roar with the bottom of her belly.

“Bllllleeeeuuuuughhh!”

He fell back, momentarily afraid, but as the beast pushed the noise out her throat, the action propelled her backwards, falling comically on her rump.

He laughed as she fell silent, looking bashful.

“Are you and I going to be friends?”

“Arf!”

He smiled, the fizzing gone from his head, memories starting to stick.

“You need a name,” he said, unsure as to how he would come up with anything appropriate. But then, against all logic, a name swam up from his fractured mind. If the Pope had been told, he would never have believed it. Once gone, things cannot return.

“Grace. I’ll call you Grace”

And with the name upon his lips, the Mariner felt a little less alone.

Epilogue NOT EVERY STORY HAS A HAPPY ENDING

LIKE RAINWATER CASCADING THROUGH A filthy gutter, shame flushed out all other feelings from the boy’s system as he lay prone across the bed. As usual that night he’d snuck into his parents’ bedroom, aware they wanted him to sleep in his own, yet determined to feel that closeness supplied only by theirs. Being a toddler, he had little understanding of an adult’s needs for privacy, nor did he have any concept of right and wrong, other than a rudimentary instinct instilled during the few years he’d been alive.