The Mariner

“I don’t know what to believe.” In this the Mariner spoke with complete honesty, and once again his thoughts returned to his dream and the warning of the Wasp. “My head, as ever, is empty.”

27. FIDDLE-DE-DEE

AFTER BEING SHOWN THEIR LODGINGS, each were assigned a set of chores; McConnell instructed to patrol fruit trees, a bounty demanding constant supervision to keep pilfering monkeys at bay, whilst Grace and the Mariner were put to work watering several large vegetables plots. The scale of production was impressive given the limited space and local primates.

Before they’d settled into their daily tasks, the Mariner had returned to the Neptune with the four devils and a selection of dried meats. Grace had complained at her pets’ removal from the zoo, but the Mariner was adamant that they needed them to remain on the ship to keep it secure. This was mostly true, though his main concern was the damage they could wreak upon the zoo if left unchecked. The devils didn’t seem to mind much. Their disappointment at being separated from Grace was eclipsed by their greed, loyalty forgotten as meat was dropped before their snouts.

“If anyone else comes aboard,” the Mariner said as they munched furiously and clamoured about the deck, “eat the bastards.”

Returning to the zoo, he found Grace already at work, using a watering-can to sprinkle rows of cabbages.

“Heya,” she said, turning to look at him and shielding her eyes from the sun. “Are they happy?”

For a moment he was perplexed by the question, the notion of the animals’ happiness being alien to his way of thinking. “Oh, sure. You bet.”

“Good. I hope we can find them a nice home here. They’d like to chase the monkeys.”

And kill them, thought the Mariner, though he kept this charming addition to himself.

“How’s the work going?”

“Alright,” she said. “A bit boring. Water this, water that. Are we going to have to do this for long?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Isn’t this better than Sighisoara?”

“Oh yes, there weren’t any monkeys in Sighisoara.”

“What do you think of Diane?”

“She’s nice. A little kooky, but nice.”

“A little… kooky,” he repeated, contemplating the analysis. “Grace, do you like it here?”

She thought about it for a second, before nodding, her hair bouncing with enthusiasm. To his surprise, this pleased the Mariner immensely; bringing comfort to the girl relaxed him somehow. A peculiar sensation, being concerned for the well-being of another.

They worked together in silence, walking through the crops, sprinkling water as they went and taking regular breaks to refill at the well. Despite the monotony of the work, the Mariner found it strangely compelling; he was encouraging life, what was better than that? The afternoon passed swiftly, and when Grace spoke again, the Mariner was surprised to find the sun low in the sky.

“I don’t like what he calls me.”

“Who?”

“The reverend. He calls me Miss. Tetrazzini. But that’s not my name.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not my name! It’s the one he gave me, but it wasn’t my real one.” She spat the reference to her former guardian with venom, though melancholy rushed up behind. “I don’t know what my real name is.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You really don’t have a name?”

“Really.”

Grace forced a slight smile, though her head still hung low.

“I’ll tell you what,” the Mariner said, desperate to please the child, though for the life of him didn’t know why he should care. “We’ll come up with names for each other. You’ll take on one and so will I. How’s that?”

The suggestion didn’t go down as well as he’d hoped. “You can’t just make up a name! Your name is whatever your daddy gives you… your real dad at least.”

“Well I don’t know about that, but if I call you by your new name, and you call me by mine, who’s to say different? Let’s give it a go. You can keep Grace, that’s a lovely name, but how about we change it to something more suitable? Grace Devil-Tamer?”

“That’s stupid.”

“Oh.” The put-down made him feel oddly dejected; this was going to be tougher than first anticipated. “Ok, let’s start with me instead; what do you think a man like me should be called?”

Grace studied the Mariner’s face: stubble cheeks patch-worked by scars, grey eyes made even paler by the dark rings that surrounded them, long dark hair knotted and unkempt. No nice name sprung to mind.

She giggled, scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “I don’t know, I can’t think of any.”

“Keep trying. You named all those devils, I should be easy.”

“Ummm.”

He patiently waited while the girl screwed her face into different bizarre masks as she struggled for inspiration.

“Well, you’re a sailor…”

“A Mariner. I prefer the term, ‘Mariner’,” said the Sailor.

“So, as you go about in a boat a lot, you need an appropriately seafaring name… Ahab?”

“A- Hab?”

“Yeah, er… you not heard of him?”

The Mariner shook his head, baffled. “Does it sound like me?”

“Not really…”

“Oh.”