The Mariner

The boy thought it must have been his breathing that had caused the problem, as no other reason could be deduced in his infant mind. Sometimes his asthma made the air struggle as it escaped his lungs, causing a whistle out and a hiss in. This must have kept his mother awake longer than she could bear, and for that the boy was sorry. His mother meant the world to him. Sometimes he would imagine what he’d do if he saw her fall from a cliff; at the thought tears would come to his eyes (even though it were all a fiction) and he promised himself he would hurl his body after her. Better to be dead than to lose his mother.

And thus, the suggestion that he would deliberately keep her up at night was preposterous, and yet he must have, because clearly she’d become frustrated with his wheezing; a pillow was held tightly over his face, hard enough to block out any possible breath.

He wanted to struggle free. His mind and body were already revolting against the suffocation, auto-survival instincts telling him to thrash about, anything to reunite him with life-giving air. He didn’t though, for beyond the sound of his pounding heart he could hear his mother crying. Perhaps if he stayed completely still it would show that he was sorry? Perhaps she would forgive him and remove the pillow, then they could go back to sleep?

And then it seemed his wish came true. The pillow was removed and his mother rolled back into the darkness, her sobs concealed by a black void. The Boy couldn’t bring himself to move. He hated himself for making her upset. His chest felt hollow and twisted; his heart beat wildly within the vacuum. It was no wonder his mother was disappointed with him.

He would always be a failure.

But suddenly he was dragged away, lifted from the bed by the soaring freedom that only comes from a dream’s release. The Mariner awoke, crying and scratching at his face, thin rolls of torn skin beneath his nails and red lines down each cheek. He lay in his bunk as the ship around him groaned, and after what seemed like an age, he slept once more.

And as it so often did, the dream returned.

11. SIGHISOARA (Zig-ish-wa-rah)

SIGHISOARA LOOMED OUT THE OCEAN like a turd on a mat. A single dock jutted out of a land bristling with buildings, hundreds of ancient homes huddled together for mutual safety. Some on the outer circumference were dilapidated, ocean facing walls having fallen into the sea, the ground beneath eaten by erosion. Their insides now lay open for all to see. Weather-beaten kitchens and bedrooms homes to seagulls and rats, their human occupants long gone.

In the centre of the town rose a mighty hill that wore a great stone wall like a crown. Behind the wall were further buildings, even older in style and organised around a central courtyard. Within this enclosure the hill continued, and upon its lofty summit dwelt the only piece of ground supporting wild trees, the copse looking like a collection of besieged soldiers, forced back into the final ramparts. And finally, amongst the trees shone a bright light; a beam from a lighthouse, placed there to warn ships in the dead of night.

The Mariner eyed the settlement, jubilant at the potential. He hadn’t come across land in an age and all food had run out. More and more often he was forced into the bowels of the ship, into passageways he hadn’t previously dared to tread, in search of basic sustenance. Occasionally he’d find rats. Sometimes strange mushrooms that made his head ache. Always just enough to survive, but not enough to keep the hunger-madness at bay. It gnawed at him, erasing thought of all else, even alcohol, which usually was his one true love.

A rumbling stomach made him look down. It wasn’t his own; a Tasmanian devil stood nearby, its nose stretched out, sniffing the air, getting a better picture of the land ahead than the Mariner’s tired eyes could ever ascertain.

“What do you think? Somewhere to rest?”

The devil turned and hissed. He scowled in return, prompting the threat to escalate.

“Blurrrrrghgghghh!” The animal’s mouth opened wide revealing small white teeth and bright pink gums. Spittle flew onto the deck between them as the beast continued its warning, stamping its paws in pairs; first the right, then the left.

The Mariner backed off. Relations between him and the devils were not good. Several times the mutual animosity had broken out into open hostility, both parties lashing out: the Mariner with his fists, the devils with their teeth. The Mariner always came out worse. He understood well the union’s deterioration; they were starving. The bites and hisses were their way of warning him. Find food. Or we’ll eat you.

The devil by his feet scampered off, back below deck where they ruled. The Mariner was relieved. The Neptune was an enormous ship. One could go weeks without having to run into any of the devils; they had many passages to explore, and the ship had a way of making you forget its entrails. Obfuscation was in its very essence.