Ade Grant - The Mariner

He continued, smirking at the Mariner’s discomfort. “Any fledgling Wasp needs a birthing-ground, a stable environment for the hosts to nurture their parasitic child. So a reality is spun, one based on rules and laws of cause and effect. In each nest the precise nature of things is different, but it’s this stability that helps it grow, and as it grows the world it has created hardens. But it’s all an illusion, your world a fabrication, a merely temporary cocoon.

“Now the Wasp is awake and the cocoon degrades; there is no more use for it, it’s a broken shell, and through the ruins others now scavenge .

“I see you still don’t understand, let me explain. There are more creatures beyond the cocoon than just the Wasp. The Gradelding is one. It has been waiting for an age to get inside and feast upon you monkeys, but the cocoon has protected the Wasp and by extension, you. Now the cocoon is weak, and the Gradelding hungry.

“I, on the other hand, have lived inside with you, just as I have done in many other cocoons during my life. I am a parasite.” The Pope gave a small flourishing bow. “One parasite feeding off another. Ironic isn’t it? I drink from the Wasp; so tiny and insignificant to such a vast and stupid creature, that I remain undetected. Unfortunately every time I feed, there is the slightest chance the Wasp will wake. The mosquito can feed off the man safely in the dead of night countless times, but occasionally, one in a hundred-thousand, the man will feel an itch .

“In your case, the Wasp itched.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not responsible, you are. Hateful, ugly thoughts are the most tasty, it is why I draw these deranged monkeys to me even now. I’d drunk from many before I found you, and I’ve drunk from many since, but on that blasted day I tried to drink the ugliness from your head and the Wasp awoke, sensing the tiny wound, its full attention focused upon the minuscule puncture.

“The Wasp looked at you .” The Pope pointed an accusatory finger. “Its first waking thought in its weighty mind was to comprehend yours , to see what you see, feel what you feel. The stupid creature was spooked. It looked at its own deformed body, saw the filth in your head, a part of its own form, and was horrified.

“A Wasp is supposed to wake in its maturity and leave the host. Such was this baby’s panic, that it tore itself asunder rather than remain connected to you. It split itself in two, taking as much away as it dared, and leaving ugly chunks behind. Since then it has been slowly taking more, little by little, with the precision of a food phobic. Yet still the world remains, in all its degrading glory. And the Wasp is still scared. You still disgust it.”

“I’m not Donald Traill?” he asked from the mud below.

The Pope laughed, long and cruelly. “Of course not! That was just a story stuck in your head as it happened! This fantasy of yours about finding an island: some psycho-babble I used to prep your mind for my feeding! Nothing more.” The Pope laughed at the absurdity. “I can’t believe you’ve been actually looking for a metaphorical island! All this time!”

“But,” he stammered, “I’ve been sailing on the Neptune. That’s my ship. It has a memory, a past, sins of its own!”

“You got the ship eh?” he giggled, suddenly curious as a collector might be at the mention of a rare butterfly. “Well isn’t that interesting. In the moment of the tearing, when the Wasp fled from the brains of humanity, the cocoon was blasted apart and weakened. Suddenly things that were no longer remembered, thoughts taken away with the Wasp, began to vanish. Without the memes there can be no representation, the cocoon cannot be sustained. Memes are the seeds of the tree. But it seems what your mind was so concerned about at the moment of its waking, became real. What you believed, the Wasp believed, suddenly crafting the cocoon to suit the new perspective. It made the water. The islands. And. So it seems, your ship.”

“So when the stars vanished?”

“Most of the memories of stars were gone, and the cocoon could no longer support them. I must say, watching the world slowly crumble is terribly… fascinating.”

The Mariner, still unable to rise, grasped at the Pope’s feet. “Please, you have to tell me how to make it right! How can I undo this?”

The Pope looked down at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. “Have some dignity! Don’t be a caterpillar, lamenting the birth of its parasite larvae! The Wasp has woken and will not be tempted back into slumber. What’s departed has gone for good.”

The Pope glanced about, his demeanour changing as if something had just crossed his mind. Where once there had been a smug superiority, there now lingered an uneasy suspicion. “You should leave. Like a dying patient, the Wasp is obsessed with the source of its infection: you . I wouldn’t want its gaze upon me, not while the cocoon is collapsing.”

“Where can I find the Wasp?”

“You can’t. It’s not a thing of flesh. Memes not genes, remember?”

“It must be watching somehow. There must be a way to reach it?”

The Pope eyed him carefully. “The world shrinks as lands are forgotten, yet because of that waterfall you created, this damn ocean rises every day. That place is a rupture, the site of the Wasp’s waking. I would go there if you want the Wasp to see you again. That’s the clearest break to the Soup beyond. But it doesn’t want to see you, my poor misguided monkey, its enormous stupid mind may be obsessed with you, but it loathes you even more.”

Straightening and glancing stealthily about, the Pope assessed his surroundings as if he’d been secretly conspiring with an enemy. The Mariner was surprised to be reminded of the cult about him, the screams of pain and ecstasy, the whippings cuttings and burnings. Hunger returned to the parasite’s eyes.

“I’ve got to return to my guests. The Wasp left scraps in their heads that it was too scared to take. Stupid thing! Those are the juicy bits!” He leaned down and patted the Mariner like a scared dog. “If I were you, monkey , I would get out of here. Once I’m done, there won’t be much left of the Wasp in their brains. You should flee, you’re infected and not well received by those who are returned to health.”

The Pope began to leave, but the Mariner cried out, provoking him to look back at him a final time.

“But what about Grace? Please, tell me that? What was special about Grace?”

The parasitic Pope paused, his grin faltering for a moment. “Who’s that?”

“A girl. We brought the zoo back together. But… she died.”

Irritation crossed the Pope’s face, a moment of uncertainty and frustration alive in a flash, but soon after the creases smoothed and eyes once more softened with supreme confidence. “There’s nothing special about this ‘Grace’,” he dismissed, shaking his head. “And nothing can ever come back.”

THERE IS NO TRUTH. ONLY the Wasp.

There is no truth. Only the Wasp.

He ran into the night, unaware of the direction, just certain he had to get as far as possible from the Pope and his terrible encampment. Behind, in a small illuminated circle, the Pope was at work, sucking the last remains of the Wasp from the cultists’ heads. Soon they would be Mindless, parasite-free beasts, mankind in its natural form, and then they’d come for him.

There is no truth.

Without torch, weapon or coat, he sprinted across the moors. Somewhere in the shadows, a predator stalked, something bestial and heavy, its tread squelching underfoot. A few guttural growls penetrated the darkness, but the Mariner did not slow, he did not turn, he was running from something far more terrible, something far more horrifying than any creature from the Soup beyond.