The Mariner (10 page)

10
EVERY STORY HAS A BEGINNING

L
IKE RAINWATER CASCADING THROUGH A
filthy gutter, shame flushed out all other feelings from the boy’s system as he lay prone across the bed. As usual that night he’d snuck into his parents’ bedroom, aware they wanted him to sleep in his own, yet determined to feel that closeness supplied only by theirs. Being a toddler, he had little understanding of an adult’s needs for privacy, nor did he have any concept of right and wrong, other than a rudimentary instinct instilled during the few years he’d been alive.

After complaining and whining he’d eventually won his way into their nest. His father was away, out of town for work, an absence that had weakened his mother’s resolve to keep him out. With a warm feeling of safety he’d climbed into the bed, pulling the thick duvet up over his shoulders.

The boy thought it must have been his breathing that had caused the problem, as no other reason could be deduced in his infant mind. Sometimes his asthma made the air struggle as it escaped his lungs, causing a whistle out and a hiss in. This must have kept his mother awake longer than she could bear, and for that the boy was sorry. His mother meant the world to him. Sometimes he would imagine what he’d do if he saw her fall from a cliff; at the thought tears would come to his eyes (even though it were all a fiction) and he promised himself he would hurl his body after her. Better to be dead than to lose his mother.

And thus, the suggestion that he would deliberately keep her up at night was preposterous, and yet he must have, because clearly she’d become frustrated with his wheezing; a pillow was held tightly over his face, hard enough to block out any possible breath.

He wanted to struggle free. His mind and body were already revolting against the suffocation, auto-survival instincts telling him to thrash about, anything to reunite him with life-giving air. He didn’t though, for beyond the sound of his pounding heart he could hear his mother crying. Perhaps if he stayed completely still it would show that he was sorry? Perhaps she would forgive him and remove the pillow, then they could go back to sleep?

And then it seemed his wish came true. The pillow was removed and his mother rolled back into the darkness, her sobs concealed by a black void. The Boy couldn’t bring himself to move. He hated himself for making her upset. His chest felt hollow and twisted; his heart beat wildly within the vacuum. It was no wonder his mother was disappointed with him.

He would always be a failure.

But suddenly he was dragged away, lifted from the bed by the soaring freedom that only comes from a dream’s release. The Mariner awoke, crying and scratching at his face, thin rolls of torn skin beneath his nails and red lines down each cheek. He lay in his bunk as the ship around him groaned, and after what seemed like an age, he slept once more.

And as it so often did, the dream returned.

11
SIGHISOARA
(Zig-ish-wa-rah)

S
IGHISOARA LOOMED OUT THE OCEAN
like a turd on a mat. A single dock jutted out of a land bristling with buildings, hundreds of ancient homes huddled together for mutual safety. Some on the outer circumference were dilapidated, ocean facing walls having fallen into the sea, the ground beneath eaten by erosion. Their insides now lay open for all to see. Weather-beaten kitchens and bedrooms homes to seagulls and rats, their human occupants long gone.

In the centre of the town rose a mighty hill that wore a great stone wall like a crown. Behind the wall were further buildings, even older in style and organised around a central courtyard. Within this enclosure the hill continued, and upon its lofty summit dwelt the only piece of ground supporting wild trees, the copse looking like a collection of besieged soldiers, forced back into the final ramparts. And finally, amongst the trees shone a bright light; a beam from a lighthouse, placed there to warn ships in the dead of night.

The Mariner eyed the settlement, jubilant at the potential. He hadn’t come across land in an age and all food had run out. More and more often he was forced into the bowels of the ship, into passageways he hadn’t previously dared to tread, in search of basic sustenance. Occasionally he’d find rats. Sometimes strange mushrooms that made his head ache. Always just enough to survive, but not enough to keep the hunger-madness at bay. It gnawed at him, erasing thought of all else, even alcohol, which usually was his one true love.

A rumbling stomach made him look down. It wasn’t his own; a Tasmanian devil stood nearby, its nose stretched out, sniffing the air, getting a better picture of the land ahead than the Mariner’s tired eyes could ever ascertain.

“What do you think? Somewhere to rest?”

The devil turned and hissed. He scowled in return, prompting the threat to escalate.

“Blurrrrrghgghghh!” The animal’s mouth opened wide revealing small white teeth and bright pink gums. Spittle flew onto the deck between them as the beast continued its warning, stamping its paws in pairs; first the right, then the left.

The Mariner backed off. Relations between him and the devils were not good. Several times the mutual animosity had broken out into open hostility, both parties lashing out: the Mariner with his fists, the devils with their teeth. The Mariner always came out worse. He understood well the union’s deterioration; they were starving. The bites and hisses were their way of warning him. Find food. Or we’ll eat you.

The devil by his feet scampered off, back below deck where they ruled. The Mariner was relieved. The Neptune was an enormous ship. One could go weeks without having to run into any of the devils; they had many passages to explore, and the ship had a way of making you forget its entrails. Obfuscation was in its very essence.

The floating town appeared to be well populated. Often upon arriving at a settlement, the Mariner would find abandoned hovels and owner-less carts, empty clothes and plundered cupboards. But this time he could already make out citizens going about their business, mending roofs, carrying goods, selling food and mooring boats.

Civilisation.

The Mariner needed no other crew. Bizarre considering the Neptune was such a large vessel, but he never had any trouble controlling it. The ship docked easily, sliding in alongside the long wooden platform that served as the island’s only port. There were other ships, but the Neptune dwarfed them all. Other sailors turned to stare, immediately cowed by the sheer size of their new rival. No doubt each and every one was wondering how he could steal her for his own. The Mariner wasn’t worried. The devils wouldn’t tolerate anyone else aboard. They had their slave, and not until he was worn to the bone-marrow would they seek another.

After lowering the anchor and gangway, the Mariner gathered up a set of tools and stepped off the boat and onto land for the first time in months. A smartly dressed man, with an unruly beard that betrayed the care he’d taken in his attire, stepped out to greet him. Behind him, in sharp contrast to his jolly visage, gathered a small posse of men, whose sole purpose, it appeared, was to look stern.

“Greetings Sir,” he began, reaching out an open hand. The Mariner stared at it. He wasn’t accustomed to civil receptions, he was more used to bullets and screams. “I’d like to be the first to welcome you to Sighisoara. You won’t find a better trading port for a thousand leagues, I can guarantee that!”

The Mariner squinted at the man as he spoke, trying to shield his eyes from the brightness of the sun reflected off the water’s surface. In the crystal shallows below, large numbers of fish darted between rocks, colourful bodies distracting.

If the bearded man was offended by his palm left lonely and outstretched, he didn’t show it. “Just over there you’ll find Hawkins’ Inn, where you’ll find bed ‘n’ bread. If you’re in need of the spiritual, Reverend McConnell’s church is on the northern side, you can’t miss it. If it’s spirits of another kind you’re after, then Hendrick runs a very good brewery. Just turn left when you hit the road and look for a sign with a serpent on. The
hisser-pisser
we like to call it.”

At the mention of alcohol his stomach twisted and all of a sudden the Mariner’s mouth was dry as parchment. Perhaps food could wait, just for a little bit?

“There is no fixed price for docking at Sighisoara, we merely ask that you donate ten percent of all your trade to the island’s upkeep.”

The Mariner shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid I’m not here to do much trading, just enough to get stocked up and move on.”

Beardy looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s fine.” He glanced up at the enormous ship that he’d pinned hopes of great riches upon. “If you change your mind, we could always drop it to five percent? You must have plenty of cargo to off-load.”

“No, no cargo. I’m not a trader.”

“Whatever.” The man scowled, his garrulous façade stolen. “Come find me if you change your mind. Let’s get the inspection over.”

“
Inspection?
”

“Yes of course!” The dock-master rolled his eyes with feigned nonchalance, though the pupils shot back to the Mariner like ferrets. “It won’t take long, we just need to make sure you’re not importing any banned goods.”

“Banned goods?”

The bearded man, demeanour transformed, barged past, followed by his gang of ‘inspectors’. They immediately began stomping up and down the deck, searching for any signs of goods ready to off-load.

“I told you I’m not here to trade-”

“What’s this?” declared Beardy as he waved above his head an empty bottle he’d found. “Wine eh? Something you’re not telling us? Any goods undeclared are confiscated, ain’t that right boys?”

“Right,” nodded the nearest one.

“It’s all gone,” muttered the Mariner, with more than a hint of sadness.

“Is that so? Then you won’t mind us searching, will you?”

It was then that a devil chose to venture above to see what the commotion was about. Its snout scanned left to right as if reading a book and almost immediately it began to growl. The guttural warning froze the intruders mid-plunder.

“What the fuck is that?” Beardy yelled, backing away from the terrier sized beast.

“They live here.”

“There’s more of ‘em? How many?” The whole gang backed away, seemingly unsure of how to deal with a creature they’d never laid eyes on before.

“I don’t know,” the Mariner shrugged. “I don’t go below deck very much.”

“You can’t dock here,” Beardy angrily remonstrated as he shuffled towards the gang-way. “What if they infest the town? Pests, I say, pests!”

“They won’t, they like to stay on ship.”

“Ha!” Beardy was clearly unimpressed, but keen to get away from the ugly beast. “If a single one is spotted on land, you’ll be arrested and your ship confiscated!” He waved a bony finger at the Mariner, using the threat as a final attempt to exert some authority.

The Mariner wearily nodded. “Sure. Now please leave.”

The welcome party disembarked, bodies bumping into each other in haste. They gathered together in a safe clump back on the dock, eyeing the Mariner suspiciously and muttering in dark tones.

The first thing that struck the Mariner, as he passed the rickety wooden platform and ventured between the first of the houses, was how distinct each building was. In the few settlements he’d stumbled upon each shack had been a copy of the last, defining elements established by entropy rather than design. These structures twisted and turned in different directions, stone façades painted a variety of pastel colours. Each different. Each unique. He found himself wondering that if these were works of men, perhaps the identical replications he’d seen previously were the work of a lazy copy-and-paste god?

The high population was instantly confirmed. Figures stood in adjacent doorways, peering from windows. Small, tanned and scrunched up faces, squinting expectantly. But they were not looking at him. They were waiting for something else.

And then he heard it. Music. Brass instruments and drums, their sombre timbre striking up in the residential mess. The sound grew louder so he dodged into the shade of a porch, looking along the cobbled street, waiting for the march to grow near. Others were doing the same and it felt odd to stand in a crowd, to be amongst human beings. It was stuffy and uncomfortable, but the Mariner didn’t flee. His curiosity had been piqued.

An elderly gentleman took off his hat and smoothed down a lock of wispy white hair as a mark of respect. It was then the Mariner realised the nature of the sombre sound; it were a funeral march. Someone had died, and the town had turned out to mourn.

I am here to tell you about Jesus Haych Christ. God’s fella sent to Earth.

I can see you are sinners, a fearful flock, in need of a rock in these dark times. And there is a boulder in this ocean for you. That stable island you seek is not that upon which we stand, it is not your ship nor your home, it is not the drink that Hendrick pours down your throats in exchange for your mother’s necklaces and wedding bands, it is not the gun you keep under your bed, it is not the doctor who preaches his science from a’top the hill, and it is certainly not a tradesman’s galley fresh from faraway waves. No my faithful congregation, it is none of these things. It is a man who is dead, yet still alive. It is a man who passed beyond our world, yet remains in our hearts. Jesus Haych Christ. God on earth.