The Mariner

The fire had progressed beyond anything controllable. Every object seemed a possible fuel for the furnace; the entire décor was wood, with a healthy amount of spirits stored in barrels stacked in the corner, promising Armageddon when lit.

He tried to wail, to get some words out, a cry for help, anything, but the best he could manage was a grunt. Drunkenness made the whole scenario eerily surreal. Vision was paper thin, heat upon his arms a fever, the smoke in his nostrils a delusion. Only a deep rooted last-minute sense of self-preservation manned the internal alarms. If only his body could respond to the urgent screams inside his head!

Sick once again rose in his throat and a crippling agony flared in his gut. Perhaps he should just burn and get death over with? Better that than slowly rotting away at the bottom of a bottle. Better to cook quick than slowly stew from the inside-out.

And then, shouting. Frantic calling. A man was grabbing the Mariner by his shoulders and was dragging him towards the door, bits of flaming ceiling falling about them.

Bellowing against the fire’s roar, the hero promised rescue as he heaved the Mariner’s body the last few yards. The floor scratched at his back and a piece of burnt wood jabbed into his side, briefly catching the Mariner’s soiled coat alight. “Almost there!”

The voice meant little to the Mariner. Despite the burning death before him, and despite the inner auto-pilot that had awoken him in the first place, he wanted to be left in the bar. The spirits could still be drunk, combustion had not erased them yet.

Cool air wafted over him as they fell through the front door and into the night. About them, people were dashing to and fro with buckets, throwing upon the conflagration liquid that boiled instantly. Chaos. It hurt his sore head to be amongst such noise and kept his eyes firmly shut, afraid the stinging would hurt too much if he opened them again.

“He’s the one! Bring that prick to me!” someone, certainly not the hero, shouted above the din. Loud gravelly footsteps thudded towards him.

“Keep back Hendrick!” the hero warned. “He didn’t start it.”

“Bullshit! He broke in, stole my booze, and set the place alight!”

Was that it? Was he to blame? The Mariner couldn’t remember doing any such thing, but then again, he didn’t even remember being there in the first place. He remembered watching ghosts locked in a macabre dance. He remembered shame. And then? Had he broken into a bar? Had he set it alight? Had his alcoholism really made him do that?

“I’m going to break his fucking neck!”

“Wait!” The Mariner heard the hero step between him and the angry landlord. There was still plenty of activity around them, alarmed villagers trying to prevent a catastrophe, but by the sound of it they were having little luck. “He didn’t set the fire, I saw someone else do it!”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, I saw them light it from the outside and they ran off. I was looking for this man, he’s a patient of mine. An alcoholic!”

“So he did break in?” The furious Hendrick sounded unconvinced.

“Yes, but it’s irrelevant! Someone else has burnt it down and this man’s in treatment and couldn’t possibly do it again.” The Mariner doubted the man could ever be convinced, but did not hear any further protest. The hero spoke with authority and staggering aplomb. “Now get away from this place, before it gets worse!”

Once again the Mariner felt the hero’s hands under his arms as he was dragged further from the burning building, cold gravel under his back rather than hot floorboards. The owner, Hendrick, shouted some half-hearted objections, but soon his voice faded, lost in the commotion. Eventually the din died away, the hero was taking him far from the blaze and recriminations. Finally the Mariner was dropped in a patch of wet grass. It cooled his back (he thought he even heard it hiss) and his rescuer fell beside him, panting.

The Mariner croaked, his throat was sore from both drink and smoke. He tried to speak, but could not, and the Mariner’s neck slumped slack upon his shoulders.

“I lied to that man,” the hero whispered. “Though I am a doctor, that much is true. My surgery is at the top of the hill, you can’t miss it.”

The doctor’s face swam in and out of focus in amorphous benevolence, but the Mariner managed to grasp his words, tenuous as that grasp may have been.

“You didn’t start the fire, and I did see someone else set it, a patient of mine. Most unfortunate.” The doctor placed his hands on the Mariner’s shoulders, bringing his face in close so the inebriated sailor could understand. “My friend, you clearly have a problem. I’m not surprised, the sea always brings those in need of salvation to my shore. I can rid you of this addiction. I’ve done it before, many times over. I can set you free.”

The hero removed his hands from the Mariner and stood up, glancing about nervously, as if concerned some might have overheard his confession of omitting the arsonist’s identity when asked.