The Mariner

“I’m sorry Gloria.” He had passed her now. Neptune had sensed the interlude was over and was picking up speed.

“Please?”

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Think about your philosophy!” he shouted back. “It will sustain you.” Lies of course. He was hoping he could trigger her fit once more. It would be easy to sail away from the snarling hateful creature she’d momentarily become. Far harder, as he did now, to leave an old lady alone, no thoughts in her head but that of a rotten philosophy, crying in the mist.

7. OUT OF NIGHT AND INTO DAWN

BALLS SWOLLEN AND LEG INFECTED, the Mariner remained alive. After mutilating his arousal, the temptations had continued, but with little potency. Bloody testicles make it difficult to notice anything. Sometime between the nut-cracking and dawn the eels had left, returning hungry and disappointed to wherever it is that eels rest.

As if sharing in their disappointment, the storm too had abated, gone elsewhere to find some other poor wretch to torment. All was quiet, except Grace who scampered about him as if nothing had happened. She’d emerged from below, bleary eyed and yawning.

“How the fuck did you sleep through that?”

You brought this on yourself, her eyes seemed to reply. Pssh! Men!

“Aye, I know. Stupid. Stupid.” Movement was difficult but he managed to pull himself to his feet. She barked in encouragement and hopped from paw to paw; a tiny personal trainer showing tough love.

“Remind me to yell at you next time you’ve just given birth to another batch of bastards.”

“Arf!”

“Arf, yourself.”

And then he heard the sound that had roused the Tasmanian devil. It spoke to his heart as it had to her stomach. The cries of a seagull. Land!

Taking care not to graze his swollen testicles, he shuffled starboard for a closer inspection. Before them was a large island, tall cliffs rose out the water, sheer and commanding, dark stone casting its shadow across the water. Only one point seemed to offer access, a thin gorge packed with dense trees. Circling above were countless birds, more than a normal sky-scape worth; something must have disturbed them.

Yet the Mariner’s focus wasn’t drawn to the birds in the sky, nor the cliffs on the shore, but to the shallow waters before it. Another boat bobbed silently in the waves. It was smaller than his, anchored closer to the island than the Neptune could ever hope to get. Small, yet its sleek white exterior looked capable of great speed. Once again, the Mariner was reminded that he sailed a crumbling geriatric.

Other people had found his island.

The Mariner retrieved a gun, loaded and ready for use. A Mauser; an odd looking boxy weapon with a long thin snout like an echidna’s. He had a crate of them, lined up and protected with straw.

Grace herself had hopped upon a barrel and was sniffing at the air excitedly, great globs of drool hanging from her jaw at the prospect of land.

“How about we leave the young’uns here and go for a looksie?” Grace didn’t object.

He lowered a row-boat. Grace clutched to his shoulder in an ungainly manner whilst he climbed down the rope-ladder, wincing with every step. Each moment of friction between his legs caused pain to rupture out to all four corners of his body. Not a good day to be going up against pirates. Still, no use moaning, there was no-one to listen.

The white ship seemed quiet, its crew already disembarked and searching for his prize. He rowed past it, keeping a wary eye for gunners, although he couldn’t spot a single cannon.

Near the shore were six yellow barrels bobbing in the water. As the waves hit them they didn’t shift position, rather they were anchored to the spot, trapped in perpetual surf.

Elsewhere all was calm, the birds circling the gorge were settling somewhat, their cries a distant warning of intrusion. He rowed as fast as he could, eager to catch up to the interlopers and see they not squander the answers promised to him alone.

Promised by whom? He shook his head, dismissing the unwanted query.

The first of the yellow barrels drew near. He was correct, it was secured in place, anchored to the seabed below, a chain disappearing into the murky depths. The barrel itself was rather nondescript. Its casing was made of thick plastic, with no markings to be seen. The Mariner warily nudged it with his oar. Nothing.

He rowed on, eager to reach the shoreline. Grace was equally excited, she dashed up and down the short boat, barking at the birds in the sky.

Suddenly there was a splintering crack, and the boat lurched to a halt. Thrown forward, the Mariner’s legs were pushed together upon his swollen testicles, the dull throb once again promoted to an agonizing wail. He screamed through gritted teeth.