Chuckling to himself as she flung her small body about his boot, the Mariner staggered across deck. It was dusk and already stars were beginning to define themselves against the darkening sky. How many days and nights had he been at sea? The Mariner could not say. He remembered nothing else but the endless ocean and the ceaseless searching.
Below deck the air was thick and stale. The Mariner didn’t like to descend beneath the Neptune’s boards. It was the devils’ territory and the close wooden hallways felt oppresive. Given the choice he woke, slept, ate and crapped on the deck above. He found that if he trusted the weather, more times than not it would look after him. Days were hot and the rain was hard, but it never scorched his flesh beyond repair, nor blow him into the surf. The weather served his purpose. Hadn’t it guided him this far?
Each cupboard proved bare. The Mariner could not remember his last meal and his stomach gurgled at the thought. As if to keep him on message, Grace’s stomach growled even louder as she scampered about his ankles.
“Alright girl,” he said, knowing he didn’t have long to please her. In the dark peripheries her children gathered, each hoping for some morsel of food to tide them over. It was an enormous pack, a dozen pairs of eyes trained upon his every move, a dozen mouths watering at the thought of meat. Although small, their teeth were sharp. If they decided to turn against the Mariner, he would not last long. And neither would his remains.
Only a small piece of dried beef jerky remained. Its plastic packet was pushed into the furthest recess, crumpled and forgotten. He picked it up. On the front it claimed all sorts of energising promises, but the Mariner had never felt different after eating one, only full and bloated. On the back it said ‘Best Before’ and then a string of numbers that made no sense. Gibberish. Just like the faded label on the bottle of wine.
The Mariner winced at the memory. Why had he allowed himself to become so dependent upon such a perilous drug? Yet dependent he’d become and with the wine running out he was sure to reap the demons it’d sown. Their roots would knot in his belly, twisting his insides until he wanted to tear out his own guts, then their branches would rise up to tangle about his spine, shaking him till his very mind came loose.
Grace didn’t give a shit. All that concerned her was the beef jerky, still clasped in the Mariner’s hand, and the question of whose mouth it should enter, his or hers?
“Arf!”
He pulled the packet open and savoured the dry savoury smell. Inside, the jerky look ancient, sweaty and far removed from the concept of ‘meat’. It also looked delicious. The Mariner was desperately hungry, a little food might go a long way in delaying the alcohol pains, but he also knew that if the devils were to survive they’d need Grace’s strength to hunt the few elusive rats. So instead of feeding himself, he dropped it to the floor.
Grace snapped the jerky between her jaws, her long whiskers quivering with delight. Without a grunt of thanks she scurried into the shadows, a brief cacophony of scrabbling claws signalled her broods pursuit. The Mariner was left alone, with only the groans of the ship and distant muffled yaps.
He did not linger, but instead chose to return above deck. There was no more food, and very little wine. He should try to resist the alcohol demons as long as possible before opening the last bottle. Perhaps he could buy himself enough time to find land again, and then plunder it for supplies? But hadn’t Absinth warned him about the lack of land out here? Or had it been the Philosopher Woman? With a mind so full of fog it was impossible to remember.
For not the first time, the thought of suicide popped into his head. He had a gun, a whole case-load in fact. Semi-automatics that could pop the top of his head clean off with enough bullets in the magazine to keep his skull flipping in the air like a cowboy’s hat. The devils wouldn’t miss him. This was their ship, not his.
Suicide was a possibility. He was sure he had the guts to put a gun in his mouth, fuck it, he’d tickle the barrel with his tongue as he pulled the trigger. Dying didn’t scare him. But after that? After the dying, then what? What lay beyond? The uncertainty filled him with terror.
No, no suicide. The ocean would decide his fate. The ocean, the air and the Neptune herself.
Back above, the wind was picking up, though not enough to cause concern. The ship rose and fell steadily, with enough rhythm to welcome sleep, though sleep would not come easy. Consciousness had only lasted ten minutes at the most, yet sleep was all he had to turn to. The Island was not in sight and he did not want to be awake when the pains began.
He looked into the sky, eager to spot a bird that he could follow or some other hint at distant land. There were neither. Not even clouds. Just open sky and infinite water. And he a lone sailor, adrift with ravenous demons both inside and out.