Ade Grant - The Mariner

McConnell shifted his gaze, and Mavis took pity on the weakness. “But I’m getting ahead of myself, you’re not a man of science are you, Christopher? You strike me as a person of rigorous faith, am I right?”

Not long ago, he’d have leapt at a chance to debate religion, now however the conversation left him edgy, eager to move to safer topics, one that had been on his mind ever since leaving the moors. “I want to build a library.”

Their haphazard journey to the Beagle had lasted some weeks, the crew doing their best to follow landmarks dotted about the great expanse of water. Sometimes the wind would die and they’d be stuck adrift, an old relic bobbing aimlessly in frustrating stasis. The time hadn’t been wasted though, McConnell used to it plan their course of action. Harris warmed to the ideas instantly, though Heidi wasn’t so enthused. As much as Grace’s death had galvanised McConnell into action, it had knocked all hope from the woman. The Mariner’s actions had broken some intrinsic quality. The sparkle had died.

But in the end the winds had returned and they found the Beagle, still inactive, anchored near a small archipelago of distinctly hilly islands.

“A library?” The old lady squinted, more perplexed than disapproving of the suggestion. In the recesses the scuffling ceased.

“A store of knowledge; so the Darwins and Schrödingers can never be forgotten. A barrier against the slippage of thought”

Her wrinkles curved into a multitude of smiles. “That seems most… appropriate. But what of the man you travelled with? The captain with the kindly eyes?”

“We left him behind. He’s a cancer. A monster. He’s gone now, as is the little girl we travelled with.”

Mavis drew her eyes from his to Harris. “Dead?” He gave a solemn nod and she took McConnell’s hand in her leathery one. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“I don’t think the world can be restored, but I’m sure we can stop it breaking down any further. I’m done being a priest. I don’t want to give answers any-more, all I want is to preserve the ones we already have.”

“I respect your emphasis on education. It must be through reasserting the laws of science that we bring stability to our world. Where will you build this library?”

McConnell already knew the answer. Sighisoara. The only place left he could call home. They’d welcome the Beagle, with her supplies and power. Perhaps the combined strength would form the basis for a new society? A future free from the contagious ignorance?

“I’m so sorry about the child,” Mavis consoled again. “She was a sweet thing, a true innocent in all these terrible times.” She reached up and clasped his head in her hands, drawing the tall man down so she may kiss his cheek. Afterwards, she held him close, turning his head so she may speak in his ear. “We will go to Sighisoara and do as you ask. Here we are, refugees of a world blown apart, setting to rebuild a knowledge cruelly stolen from us. We may the the last chance anyone ever has.”

“Of that I’m quite sure,” McConnell agreed with grim certainty. A grimness tinged with hope. They had a path, he could see it now. Devised from their own will, not the whispers of a ‘Pope’ or the dreams of a madman. What could they possibly learn from the meeting of a sexual deviant and a demon?

McConnell was sure they’d made the right choice. The Pope, the Oracle, the moors, the waterfall, the Mariner; all a distraction. All a lie.

No truths could be found in them.

No truths at all.

“THERE IS NO TRUTH. ONLY the Wasp.” The Pope spoke with mocking certainty that both enraged and terrified the Mariner in equal measure, rooting him amongst the flagellating congregation, unable to move.

“Where is the Wasp?”

“First I must return what I took.”

“I don’t remember you.” The Pope looked at him as if he were mad, stupid or both. “You know who I am?”

“Of course. I know a great deal of you.”

The Mariner grabbed the Pope by his robes, but immediately let go. The man seemed to radiate a strange energy that made the Mariner’s muscles spasm when in close proximity. “Who am I? You have to tell me that. I thought I was Arthur Philip, but that’s not true is it? He’s the good one. I’m Traill. Donald Traill.”

The Pope laughed and then seized the Mariner’s arm. The twitching and trembling returned and he felt himself becoming lost in those strange eyes.

“I’ll show you. It’s a simple process, much like a penguin regurgitating a fish. They’re partly digested, but still good to eat. Feast chickling. Feast little monkey. Have your bile back.”

His heart gathered pace, blood rushing through the Mariner’s body as he was held in place, staring into the Pope’s eyes. He could feel it coursing through his veins like race-cars around a track. His head throbbed as if it were about to burst, and suddenly a host of thoughts and feelings popped into his head. Somewhere outside he could still hear the Pope’s voice, but his concern was the images burning into his consciousness.

“Feast now….”

He tumbled. And as he fell, a segment of his life came flooding back.

Governor Arthur Philip was roused from troubled sleep by a panic stricken Wandsworth. Hairs aloft in huge cow-licks, his tired assistant shook Philip’s shoulders and babbled incoherently, panic and exhaustion making nonsense of his alarm.

“What is it? Damn you! What is it?” Philip snapped, scrambling to put his spectacles on.

“It’s the Neptune sir, she’s back!”

The Neptune? He’d sent the ship away a month ago, along with her tragic cargo, and been glad to see her gone! But now she was back? That bastard Traill should be well on the way to England by now, what was he doing here?

“Have they sent anyone to shore?”

“No, Sir,” Wandsworth blurted, eyes blinking. “But she is flying distressed colours.”

“So they’ve come afoul of their own misdeeds and returned to seek our aid, have they? A strange choice, this is the last place I’d seek refuge.” Philip swung out of bed, rubbing the night from his face whilst Wandsworth gathered his clothes. “Let’s go deal with them. I won’t have that man step one foot on land. If his crew are in peril, they can join our ranks and be charged for their abuses, but if Traill is to remain immune, then to hell with him.”

The two dashed through the small encampment, making their way towards the dock. Wandsworth led a path, holding a lantern before him, drawing a cloud of insects as an escort. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, avoiding the footfalls of the clumsy men.

Ahead, Philip could make out the outline of the Neptune against the grey moon-lit ocean. The deck was dark, no lights to be seen. For a moment he imagined all the crew dead, killed by plague from the rotting corpses he’d refused to unload, but then dismissed the idea as absurd. There was no way the ship could have returned without a crew. Ships couldn’t sail themselves, could they?

Upon the dock was a small number of men who were, as instructed by Wandsworth, preparing a row-boat to approach the ship. They stood to attention as the governor arrived.

“Listen here,” he said, ignoring formalities. “Find out what the nature of their distress is, but impress upon them they do not have permission to dock. If Traill thinks he can blight my horizon without a bloody decent explanation, he’s profoundly mistaken.”

As the men readied themselves, he continued. “Keep your weapons handy. I don’t like the stench of this. Not one bit.”