The Mariner

“Oh yes, but dead. Long dead. Most of the time suicide, but sometimes I’m just not sure. I can’t imagine someone mutilating themselves to such extremes just to end their own life.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“Rivalries in the sect? Internal struggles? It’s impossible to tell without understanding how his cult operates. What we suspect is that he’s an Anomenemy, perhaps the greatest Anomenemy, the one with influence enough that it’ll make all the difference once he’s removed.”

“So this Moor the Oracle mentioned, do you think that’s where the Mass is held?”

“It’s the only clue we’ve ever had.”

McConnell was surprised that the Mariner only asked questions. “Arthur, you’ve travelled more than the rest of us, surely you’ve heard of the Pope?”

He could only shake his head in response, he’d never heard the name before. Something about it rang a bell, but his shroud of ignorance proved too thick. “Perhaps I haven’t been asking the right questions.”

“What about this Wasp of yours then? What’s that all about?”

“I don’t know. Just a name.” The Mariner clenched his hands in frustration. “It’s somewhere, lodged inside. I just can’t get at it.” He looked up at McConnell, his eyes tired. “Does it mean anything to you?”

McConnell thought for a moment, massaging his temples. “I remember sitting in Lloyd’s Park, back in Croydon. It was one of those rare days in summer when you can actually sit in the sun and feel warm for a change. Not that false warmth that we sometimes kid ourselves into believing we’re experiencing, but genuine heat. I was relaxing, sitting back in the grass, when this wasp came and landed upon my hand. Instinct told me to kill it, or try to shake it off, but a logical part of me said, that’s how you get stung! Let it be. These creatures don’t want to sting you, they’re just insects reacting to their environment. Let it be and it’ll fly away in its own time.

So I held my hand still and watched the wasp as it trotted across my hand, as leisurely as you please. And you know what? It looked at me.”

“Insects don’t look at you!” Grace giggled.

“It did! It looked right at me, into my eyes with its beady black ones. And do you know what happened next?”

“What?”

“The bastard stung me! It looked me right in the eye and jabbed me with its fat behind!” The audience began to laugh, but the reverend wasn’t done. “Any normal beast would have reacted to this, but not I! I am a free-thinking rational human being. I wasn’t going to react to a bit of pain. So I tensed, but did not move. No wasp was going to force me into retaliation. I was going to do the rational thing and let it fly off, none-the-wiser to the offence it had caused.”

The audience, enjoying the light hearted distraction leaned in close for the inevitable climax.

“But did it fly off? Did it bollocks! The damned thing walked across my hand and then — I swear I’m not making this up — it looked me in the eye, just as before, did a little jig, and stung me again!”

Giggling, Grace teased the reverend. “That’s cos you’re dumb.” He laughed and jabbed her in the side, making her squeal.

“It was then that I learned,” he concluded, “that wasps are the only creatures outside of primates that act like man. They’re vicious, spiteful little monsters. Just like us.” McConnell’s eyes glazed over for a moment as he recalled something from long ago. “‘Cancer won’t catch and wasps won’t sting, man would owe no God a thing.’”

“What’s that?” the Mariner asked, curious at the little chant.

“Something I used to tease my father with. It wound him up. ‘In a perfect world… yadda yadda yadda.’ It meant that most of the world’s problems — the old world — stemmed from religion. All that fucked up shit in the Middle-East, Northern Ireland, Africa, everywhere. All down to religion.” He sighed and looked into the fire, his face suddenly drawn. “I was wrong though. Or right, depending on how you look at it. Turns out we do owe God something, and this ain’t a perfect world.”

After a long period of silence, McConnell spoke again. “Perhaps you have been asking the wrong questions? Perhaps there’s nothing to seek out at all?”

The Mariner gave McConnell a warning glance, urging him not to begin on his Jesus Haych Christ theory again, but the reverend continued regardless, addressing Heidi with his ideas.

“Things are falling apart. They disappear, they are forgotten, they are lost to us.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s the influence of the Anomenemies, undermining the natural laws.”

“Well, I call it the Shattering, and in all my years I’ve never seen anything come back. Have you?”

“No, never. Though it would be difficult to know when something forgotten returns. You might not notice.”

“True, but some things are unmissable. Such as whole islands.”