The Mariner

The Mariner stood and undressed, doing his best to ignore the lusts and horrors that jostled for attention within his head. There had been a time when he’d have been easily overwhelmed by them, but not now. No longer a novice, he’d learned how to keep his demons in check.

With ritualistic determination, the Mariner stripped naked and stood in the candlelight, hollow eyes staring into darkness. As a soldier would stand to attention, his posture was rigid. For twenty breaths he remained just so, the only movement his chest as it dragged in air and pushed it out again with an age-old weariness.

Then, once the count was done, he swung a cat ‘o’ nine tails up over his shoulder. With a snap it struck his back sending searing white pain in response. The shock made his legs buckle, but the moment passed and he gathered himself upright again. Teeth gritted, he took another swipe. And another.

Only once a trickle of blood ran freely from several wounds, congregating in the cleft between his buttocks, did the Mariner stop. Breath ragged and legs weak, his work was done. There were no more awful thoughts. All were dwarfed by the pain.

He dressed, wincing as the fabric stuck, not only to the fresh wounds upon his back, but also to the many small incisions incurred on Sighisoara. Such was the price of control: a bloody back and a tiger-arm.

Holding a candle before him, the Mariner made his way out of the small cabin, along a corridor and up a set of stairs that led to the top deck. The insides had been charred and singed, but the Neptune had survived the arsonists’ attack. He coughed, recoiling at the strong smell of smoke that lingered.

Just as there had been a time when he’d had little self-control, there’d been a time when he’d slept in the open air every night. True, he still felt more comfortable under the moon and stars, but since travelling with Grace and McConnell, things seemed… different. Calmer. As if their presence had lulled the ship into sleep.

“Or the wind,” he murmured, shaking his head. As soon as they’d left Sighisoara the wind had died, leaving them stranded somewhere between one island and another, a place Grace called the zoo.

Being dead in the water was excruciating, especially because the three hadn’t packed any additional supplies. The Mariner had been in a rush to depart and McConnell hadn’t even planned on boarding until he’d stumbled across the gang-way, awe-struck by the return of the zoo to the horizon. Grace alone had anticipated the journey, but her childish mind had only contemplated enough snacks to get her through a day or so. Now they were gone, and everyone was growing hungry.

Of the three, Grace coped with the stillness the easiest. The devils were quite taken with her, and she played with them constantly. Mostly fetch, sometimes tug-of-war. The Mariner didn’t like to watch these games, he’d seen the devils behave in a similar way, but rather than pulling at a piece of old rope, they’d been yanking the intestines from a belly. Still, he had to hand it to her, Grace had these things as docile as pups.

McConnell, on the other hand, was a terrible headache. He questioned the Mariner incessantly, about his travels, his memories, his time in Sighisoara, all to which the Mariner gave as little information as he could get away with. He was done with others scrutinising his life. If Sighisoara had taught him anything it was that letting people into his world caused trouble.

Why had he even let them aboard? The Mariner struggled to remember his precise thinking, he’d been too caught up in emotion, and now the logic was hazy.

The sooner they got to the zoo the better, then McConnell could stay with Grace and he could be on his way; back to the endless sea, searching for the ‘island’ and the answers contained within.

Stepping out into the night air, the Mariner was struck by how dark it was despite being on the top deck. His candle illuminated the area in front and further along he could make out the shapes of Grace and McConnell, hunched over a small flickering lantern. But that was all. Beyond them was pitch black, a thick blanket that conjured a thousand monsters born of paranoia.

“Good job there’s no wind,” he said as he approached the pair. McConnell turned his head and held a finger to his lips. Grace slept beside him, wrapped in a thick blanket with a tazzy-devil in her lap. Like McConnell, the beast wasn’t asleep and gave the Mariner a warning glance of its own, but held back from growling. Neither man nor beast wanted to wake the young girl.

“Why do you say that?” whispered McConnell. “I thought still air spelled disaster? That’s what you’ve been saying.”

The Mariner nodded. “I was and that’s right, but not tonight. With cloud cover this thick we could sail right into a cliff-side and never see it coming. Best we wait here until it rains. After the rain we’ll get some light and some wind, you’ll see.”