The Mariner

The Mariner swung round, scrutinising every shadow until he saw her; a thin silhouette warily edging along the pier, keeping close to the side of the store. Her face and build were still concealed, but the light bounced off her tangled copper hair, nestled about her shoulders.

“Who was Winston Churchill?” she asked him, maintaining her distance.

The Mariner found the situation absurd. She was wary of him, just as he was of her, and for the same reason, they feared each other were of the Mindless. But the fact that they were not attacking one another immediately proved otherwise. Surely?

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He’d never heard the name before.

This seemed to throw her. She recoiled as if ready to run, her body braced and tense, but stood her ground.

“Name a country within Europe!”

He thought for a moment, eager to please his questioner and put her at ease. “It’s a trick question. There are no countries within Europe. It doesn’t exist,” he guessed.

“Ha! Ain’t that the truth.”

The Mariner looked down at the bottle in his hand, concerned that his flesh were about to cook, but feeling no heat and sensing no smouldering. “How do you know about this ‘trapping of the sun’?” he asked her.

“My father told me,” she replied, still tense and prepared for flight.

“Why don’t you come out from there? I’m no Mindless.”

After a pause she hesitantly emerged from her hiding place and into the light.

He could not guess her age. Hard times would forever mask the natural entropy of her flesh. Yet despite her bruises and scars, her eyes were deep and face noble. She had the toned physique of someone forced to survive on their own merit. The Mariner knew this well. He survived by his own hand too.

“Who is ‘Winston Churchill’?” he asked her as she drew near. “Is he some sort of pirate?”

She laughed at this, amusement tinged with fear. “He was a British Prime Minister. You should know that.”

The Mariner thought hard about it, but could not understand why she would think so. He didn’t recognise any of those words. He knew ‘Prime’ meant ‘first’. But the others?

With a snort and a gurgling howl, Grace came bounding out of the store. Her mouth was partially full of rat so all attempts to terrify her would-be adversary were blocked by a pathetic spluttering. Far from being sent fleeing into the distance, the woman seemed delighted.

“A tazzy-devil!”

The Mariner was taken a-back — she recognised the strange rat-dog! “You’ve seen these creatures before?”

“Certainly,” she gave him another puzzled glance tinged with fear. “She’s a Tasmanian devil.” And then, as if explaining to a complete idiot, “From Tasmania.”

Just like the strange pirate she’d mentioned earlier, the Mariner did not recognise the name. But ‘devil’ did seem an accurate description for the mean spirited beast.

“She’s due soon.”

The Mariner was broken from his musings. “I’m sorry?”

“The devil, she’s due soon. Pregnant.”

“Is she?” The Mariner was genuinely surprised. “I just thought she was fat. No wonder she’s in such a foul mood.”

“Oh no, they’re all like that. It’s just their nature.”

Grace, having realised that the woman was no threat and that the half eaten rat was infinitely more interesting than the two monkeys, stopped her assault and laid down, gnawing at the rodent’s remains.

“Where are you from?”

“The boat,” he replied, pointing to the obvious ship anchored behind.

“No, I mean before.”

“Before what?”

She sighed, becoming impatient. “You don’t know much do you?”

“No. I guess not.” Clutching at straws, and sensing it was the right thing to do, he asked her the same question.

“London. Originally. My names Isabel.” She held out a small but firm hand. He shook it.

“I don’t have a name.”

She smiled at him. “Why am I not surprised? I shall call you John.”

He smiled back, glad for the company. “John it is.”

Isabel lived in a crumbling house not far from the pier. The island, if it could be called that, seemed to simply consist of an oblong stretch of land, with a pier straddled across a stony beach on one side and a sudden drop back into the ocean on the other. The land itself was littered with great slabs of broken concrete and twisted metal. A wasteland, in all respects. No life. No vegetation.

Just walking was an arduous task. Every step threatened a broken ankle or twisted knee. Jagged shards of glass clenched between rough stone slabs jutted out like traps in a guerrilla war. Walking as the crow flies was nigh impossible, long detours were made to avoid the worst of it.

“What is this place?” the newly named ‘John’ asked.

“Brighton.”

“How did you end up here?”

“I took the train.”

Long ago, the Mariner had read about trains in a book he’d salvaged. They were huge metal transportation devices, like a boat but on land, except they ran on preordained tracks (which struck the Mariner as rather limiting and deeply silly) and could journey without the wind to propel them. He did not see how she could have arrived on this island by train. It was too small to require any land-boats.