The Mariner

The house was the only structure still standing. Once, a long time ago, it had been a part of a network of other identical dwellings, all connected by their sides. Now it stood alone with the broken remains of its sisters attached like deceased Siamese siblings. Yet despite the surrounding destruction, the house had somehow maintained its great height, an imposing lone tooth sticking out of a cancer-ridden gum.

Grace had taken to Isabel’s abode instantly, and this helped the Mariner quell any trepidation he might have felt crossing the threshold. The inside was nicely decorated, far nicer than the Mariner was used to. Walls, painted a deep red, were adorned with paintings, and these to the Mariner’s amusement were often of boats. The rooms were carefully lined with carved wooden furniture and strange small items with no purpose other than to decorate. A deep contrast to the desolation outside. The Mariner swayed on his feet, mind struggling to make sense of the shift.

She led him to the attic. Like the others, it was beautifully arranged, but this time showing more signs of practical use. Various items looted from the island littered the floor; a spade, a large metallic tub, a wooden bat, cooking utensils, a bucket. A space had been made in the centre of the room to act as a fireplace, a facility Isabel immediately put to use.

It was not long before water was heated and siphoned into the tub. Isabel indicated that the Mariner should undress. At first he was embarrassed, the situation making him question his appearance, an act he rarely had to do out at sea. But the light was dim, and he realised that she was probably just as bereft of social interaction as he. They could be the last humans alive, so why be bashful?

He slid into the water, enjoying the warmth against his skin, and closed his eyes. He could not remember a time when he’d ever bathed in hot water, but it seemed entirely natural. Steam rose about him, making the candles that illuminated the room flicker. He registered this play of light upon his eyelids and with their opening saw that Isabel had too undressed.

Her body was as tormented as he’d first assumed, but no less beautiful for it. Both he and her were kindred spirits, beaten and abused by an ever-shifting world.

“What’s your real name?” she asked as she too slid into the tub.

He shrugged. “John.”

They bathed together in silence, and in time they made love.

Not long after that, Isabel was dead.

3. THE SECOND NIGHT OF OUR TALE

THE WIND WAS PICKING UP. It could not yet be felt on deck, but he could hear it in the sails. They protested as they were battered this way and that. The Mariner was pleased there was more wind in the air, perhaps it’d take him to the Island. And from there: the Oracle.

His day had been a dreary one. He’d exercised a little, running up and down the length of the boat. A little was all he could manage though, his limbs were weak and without food he would soon perish. Below, the devils seemed to be doing well, their matriarch had found strength from the jerky and was hunting vermin for the rest. Not that they couldn’t hunt themselves, they were resourceful buggers, but even the rats were becoming scarce, and they needed all the guile their devil-mother could muster.

Addiction was gnawing at him again. It had abated during the day, but now that night was creeping in, so too were the pains and the shivers. They would flow over him, as if on the wind, passing through his body and then vanishing, leaving him exhausted, haunted and perplexed. There was only one bottle of wine left, but it was too soon to give in. He had to delay. He had to

When Isabel had remarked that he knew little, her words had contained more truth than intended. The Mariner remembered nothing of the world ‘before’ as others he’d met seemed to. Every stranger he encountered, although there had only been a few, seemed to have access to a whole narrative of past experiences as rich as any storybook tale.

Instead of a history the Mariner had… nothing. Just one day he was sailing his ship. The day before that was a mystery. But such is life; memories have to begin somewhere. He didn’t even know how to sail. Now that was peculiar. He simply willed the boat to travel and, most of the time, it did just that. Occasionally he’d get a funny feeling he should be pulling a rope here, or releasing a sail there, but mostly it worked itself. The Mariner didn’t even realise something was amiss, until he’d witnessed another ship with fully functioning crew. It didn’t look appealing to him. So many people must make for awfully cramped living.