The Mariner

“Wasps are awful creatures,” he began. “Not like bees. Oh no. Bees are lovely. Bees make honey and pollinate plants. All manner of pastures and plains rely upon bees. Nature’s honourable little suicide-bombers.”

Absinth chuckled to himself and made a faint buzzing sound with his lips as he grinned. Then, like a change in the wind, his face grew stern and cold. “Wasps on the other hand, are total shits.”

The Mariner inched forward and sat before Absinth, becoming to him the pupil he’d once refused the Oracle.

“There is one type of wasp I wish to speak of, one above all the others. This particular wasp lived in the Americas—”

The name sounded familiar, yet strange. He found himself thinking of California, that name written upon the bottles of wine he’d devoured an aeon ago. He asked Absinth where this strange place was, though his query was met with frustration.

“Be quiet Claude! I’m trying to explain something! Every beast wishes to protect its young, and this wasp is no different. However, instead of making a nest or laying eggs, the wasp finds a caterpillar and pierces it with a stinger. The caterpillar survives and believes itself to have narrowly escaped death, yet it has not. Inside its plump body the Wasp’s young grow, its babies; the caterpillar having become impregnated during the attack.”

As Absinth spoke, the Mariner found himself fidgeting uncomfortably, a growing uneasiness building in his gut.

“They feed from their host, always careful not to feast upon vital organs, always wary that to kill the caterpillar would end their living nursery.”

Itch upon itch broke out across the Mariner’s skin, and as each were scratched, several more began in its place. The Mariner became like a child riddled with lice, squirming where he sat.

“Soon the caterpillar, having grown fat, comes to believe that it is thriving. Little does it know that deep within its swollen body there are dozens of squirming larvae, for it is they who have grown fat, not it.”

The itching had become unbearable and the Mariner lost all semblance of a pupil; now he rolled about on the ground, clawing at his skin.

“And then finally the hatching day arrives. The wasp larvae begin to eat their way free. Munch munch munch, through flesh they go. Munch munch much through organs. The caterpillar is so confused it cannot fight; in fact all it wants is the larvae back, back inside so it can feel fat once more. Can you imagine the confusion? The distress? To see your own innards tear themselves free?”

With the final word spoken, the torment stopped. All that was left was the heat of lingering pain upon his flesh. The Mariner stood, still under the gaze of the man who’d once been his friend and foe.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Absinth seemed to think for a moment, though when he spoke it was clear he’d paused simply to play with the Mariner’s unease. “I’ve brought something for you.”

“What is it?”

“A box.”

And there was a box before him, one he hadn’t noticed until now. It was large and made of cardboard. The Mariner had seen many boxes of this type before, usually they were sealed up with tape and could contain anything from dried food to children’s toys. This one seemed battered and well used, the top joins torn and mottled by damp.

“A cardboard box?”

“See what’s written upon it?”

The Mariner looked again and saw that there was indeed writing across its side. Large letters penned in black ink: THE MARINER.

“It contains everything that is you, everything that makes up your consciousness. All that is in your head and heart lies in that box.”

“Can I look?”

“Be my guest.”

With trepidation the Mariner crawled forwards. Absinth watched, nodding encouragement with each hesitant shuffle.

The Mariner looked inside.

Empty.

“There’s nothing there.”

Absinth shook his head. “Look again.”

The Mariner did as he was asked. At first nothing, but then it caught his eye: a small tissue bunched up in the corner. He reached inside and picked it up, the thin paper feeling brittle between his fingers. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed the sweet smell of dried semen.

“Is this it?” he asked. “Just a soiled tissue? Is that all?”

Absinth nodded with deep regret. “Yes. The Wasp took everything else.”

Wakefulness brought with it sorrow and shame. These were the emotions that dominated the Mariner’s life and they rushed to meet him like excited puppies, yapping and howling for attention. And like any loving guardian he couldn’t help but nurture their demands.

He opened his eyes to his cabin, faintly illuminated by dim candlelight. He was lucky to wake when he did, the wick was down to its last nub and when finally snuffed out the room would be plunged into darkness. He groaned and rolled towards it, lifting the small block of wax to another, doubling the light and creating a synthetic sunrise.

Beneath him the ship refused to stir, a faint echo of a creak the only sound from her slumbering form. No waves. No wind. All was quiet.