The Mariner

Frowning, Grace tried to pick the Mariner’s sparse mind. “Close your eyes and concentrate. What name feels right to you?”

The Mariner thought hard. What had at first been a distracting game, now seemed something he should see through. One name floated out of the mists.

“Donald. Donald Traill.”

Grace shivered. “I don’t like that one.”

“No,” the Mariner slowly agreed, wondering just how that name had arrived in his consciousness. There indeed was something grim about it, though why a name should carry anything other than syllables was beyond him. “I don’t either.”

And then a second name arrived, less filthy than the one before.

“Arthur Philip?”

“Arthur. Arthur. Art.” Grace grinned. “Yeah!”

Art Philip, seafarer, bold adventurer! Still a bit baffled by his own inspiration, the Mariner now turned the attention back to Grace. “Your turn.”

“Oww I don’t know…”

She began to complain, but the Mariner interjected. “If I can do it, so can you.”

“Well, I read this book and there was a character inside that I really liked.”

“Oh yes?”

“Yeah, she was called Scarlett O’Hara. I would like that name.”

“The whole thing?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you should hang onto ‘Grace’ though, it’s very nice.”

“Hmm.” She thought about it, mulling over the pros and cons. “Ok, I’ll hang onto ‘Grace’. Grace O’Hara! Hey! Perhaps my middle name could be Scarlett? Oh fiddle-de-dee!”

Beaming with joy, Grace returned to her duties, humming and happily muttering gibberish. “Tomorrow is another day! Oh fiddle-de-dee!”

The Mariner watched her for a moment, enjoying himself for the first time in his memorable life. His chest felt lighter, the ache in his arms less oppressive. Eventually he got back to watering the plants, and found he rather enjoyed that too.

Later, as the sun fell below the tree-line, dropping the zoo into a hastily fading twilight, the Mariner made his way back to the small hut promised to function as his new home. It wasn’t much, a roof over an old salvaged mattress, a small makeshift table and several candles. He’d only looked at it briefly, and at the time had found it Spartan to say the least. Now, however, it had a new addition: McConnell, sitting at the desk waiting for his return.

“How did the monkey-guarding go?” he asked as he collapsed on the bed. It squealed harshly under his weight and a loose spring jabbed him vengefully in the lower-back, but it was a bed nonetheless.

“With difficulty,” McConnell grumbled mournfully. “They showed a surprising degree of cooperation. One would distract me whilst another grabbed as much as it could lay its dirty paws on. I can only presume there’s a chief monkey somewhere on this island masterminding the whole operation.”

“Possibly, possibly.” The Mariner closed his eyes and stretched his weary legs.

“You must have impressed them somehow — you’ve got a desk. I didn’t get a desk. A mattress and a door, that’s it.”

“Is that why you’re here? If you want your own desk you can take the damn thing.”

His sarcasm was followed by silence and it made the Mariner reopen his eyes. McConnell watched him intently, candlelight illuminating his serious features.

Unnerved, the Mariner tried to keep the conversation on safe grounds. “I was speaking with Grace today, we’ve chosen new names for ourselves. The doctor wasn’t her father, she’d been abducted when very small, so her real name is unknown. She’s chosen O’Hara. It’s from some book she likes. It took some working out, but we got there, Would you like to know my new name?”

“I know your name.”

The Mariner tensed. Something within him sickened. “I don’t have a name.”

Traill, the sickness whispered.

“How could you possibly know something that doesn’t exist?”

“I’ve known it for days.”

“Rubbish.” Don’t say it, the Mariner thought, desperation beginning to show. Don’t say ‘Donald Traill’!

“Deep down, both you and I know it.”

I’m Arthur Phillip! Art Phillip! I’m not Donald Traill!

McConnell’s eyes were as piercing as the revelation he was about to make, though when he finally delivered his declaration, it had not the toll of doom the Mariner had expected.

“You’re Jesus Haych Christ. Our Saviour.”

If the previous silences between them had been uncomfortable, this one was nigh unbearable.

“What?”

“You are the son of God, who was cast out into the eternal waves to pay for our sins. He who built a ship upon which to gather the saved.”

“I built a ship?”

“Yes, that ship!” McConnell pointed in the direction of the moored Neptune, though in the tight confines of the room the gesture merely managed to knock over a candle. He grasped for it whilst he spoke. “The vessel that is one with you! The ship that will find all those worthy of being saved!”

“The Neptune?”

“Yes!”

“I didn’t build the Neptune. I just… woke up on it.”

“The Devil has deceived you,” McConnell said as a matter-of-fact. “He’s made you forget, just as he’s convinced you of all these terrible things you believe of yourself. They are lies, all of them, lies!”