The Mariner

THE MARINER AWOKE WITH THE screeching of the devils. He vomited onto the deck, the contents of his stomach spread before him, a dark pool, as dark as the wine he’d drunk the previous night. Was it black from the grape alone? Or had his blood contributed to the mix? He watched it flow away, in keeping with the boat’s gentle rocking, and then he watched its inevitable return. It lapped at his face like a polluted shoreline, sour bile matting his beard. The Mariner didn’t move. It was enough that he’d opened his eyes.

He did not get sea-sick. The sea was no problem; sea was life and land was death. Each step upon soil left him worse off. What little attractions the land had to offer — tin cans stuffed with food, battery powered torches, lighter fuel in plastic cartons — each were rendered insignificant next to the awesome drawbacks of human company. Any contact beyond his ship and his devils decimated the isolation in which the Mariner lived. It was a familiar loneliness; it helped focus his mind.

What didn’t focus it was red wine. But that distraction was almost all gone now, filtered through his liver in a constant stream. The stockpile had lasted many weeks, but all good things must come to an end. The Mariner knew this well. A lot of good things had ended. And a lot more would end soon.

The ship was ancient yet sturdy, far too big for its solitary crewman. Enormous sails billowed in the wind, casting the ship onwards, towards the distant yet familiar horizon. They creaked as they adjusted themselves, one of only three sounds he could hear. That, the sound of the waves breaking against the hull, and, of course, the devils.

One was nosing itself above deck. He could see its small snout edging open the door, black nose about a foot from the ground. They must be hungry, normally the devils were content to prowl below, hunting for rats. Quite how the rats sustained themselves, the Mariner did not know, food had become as scarce as the wine.

The devil finally poked its head through the door. The creature looked a lot like the rats it hunted, although body, black fur with a white stripe, was the size of a small dog. It looked at him, nose twitching and big pink ears alert. It was Grace, the mother of the brood. They’d pushed her out their den to harass the human for feeding.

She ran across the deck in a strange skipping, ambling way familiar to all devils. Stopping just shy of where he lay, she waited to be presented with a meal.

“I’m s’ry g’l,” he mumbled. “Th’s no food.”

Unimpressed, and with the tiniest ounce of hope she sniffed the pool of vomit. He thought she might lap it up, but instead she wrinkled her nose and backed away. The Mariner took this as a very bad sign. There must be something dreadfully wrong with his gut; he’d seen her eat from corpses left in the sun for weeks.

Sitting on her haunches, Grace had still not given up hope of rousing the drunk monkey, a fleshy vending machine that often dispensed meat when there were no rats to find. “Arf!” she barked, warning him to get a move on.

He cursed, knowing that he’d be in trouble if he didn’t rise soon. Grace had bitten him many times before. Several fingers on his left hand had almost been lost to the beast, yet still he allowed her pack to stay. A folly, as Grace now licked her chops as she stared at his nose. “I’m going to try to get up. Give me a second.” The devil didn’t respond, but watched with interest as the Mariner’s limbs twitched and tensed.

After a minute or so, the devil lost all patience, and Grace let loose a screech. It was a horrible sound, guttural and vicious, like a terrified animal being slaughtered. Her hot and pungent breath hit his face, and finally, out of a desire to keep his eyes and nose from her small but sharp teeth, he pushed himself onto his feet.

“Arf!” she said again, satisfied things were finally moving in the right direction.

The Mariner swayed giddily, and not from the sea. Clasped in his right hand was one of the bottles from last night. He looked at the faded label. ‘Merlot’. From somewhere called ‘California’. He didn’t recognise either name. Perhaps California was the small island he’d found the bottles upon, all piled up within a derelict house, but he doubted it. That island couldn’t have supported whatever fruit or beast had given such wonderful nectar. Just another dead island. One among many.

Upon the bottle was a picture of a ship. It was clearly not his own, it was smaller, cleaner and not as laboured, but he liked to think that icon depicted in essence his ‘Neptune’.

“Bluuuugghhheeeeeek!” Grace, frustrated with his slothful pace, shrieked and proceeded to savage his foot. Her teeth tore at his thick boots, already peppered with bite marks from previous altercations. Despite her fury, the Mariner felt flattered. If she’d wanted to hurt him she could have bitten into his jeans and taken a chunk out of his thigh. She would have enjoyed the taste too. He knew from experience devils enjoyed human flesh.