Ade Grant - The Mariner

Rejected by the last few friends he had in the world, the Mariner stumbled down the steep decline into town. Faces peered at him through the windows, curious eyes studying his progress through mesh curtains. They had seen many venture up into the moors, but never had one come back down. A true oddity.

A pub sign hung nearby, and despite his eagerness to check on the Neptune (which worryingly he hadn’t seen in his glimpses of the dock) he headed straight for it. He hadn’t tasted alcohol in an age, and even though he had nothing to barter with, he entered. Perhaps the landlord would be foolish enough to ask for payment afterwards? Or exchange a drink for the secret of the moors?

A curious publican greeted him behind a stale and filthy bar.

“Whiskey.”

The man didn’t respond. Not being an idiot, he wanted to see something of value first.

“Perhaps I can get that for you?” a voice from behind asked.

The Mariner tensed. Good-will did not exist. “That’s not necessary,” he protested, turning around to see the fellow who’d made the offer. He found it was not just one, but three.

“Sure it is,” the supposed-Samaritan grinned, holding a pistol that pointed right at the Mariner’s heart. “And it’ll be your last. Arthur Philip, by the orders of Christopher McConnell, you’re under arrest.”

THE MARINER’S SECOND ARRIVAL ON Sighisoara, a land he’d sworn never to return, heralded a great deal more fanfare than the first. The ship that carried him was not his own (the Neptune having been stolen by Harris and the rest), instead he’d been bundled onto a trawler and kept tied for the duration. To his captors’ cruel credit, the food he’d been given during this time was even less appetising than what’d been offered by the devils. Word of his terrible crime had travelled well.

“You know wot’s gonna happen once we get to Sighisoara?” his captor had whispered during the first night at sea. “You’re gonna ‘ang. Hang for what you did to that little girl, y’fucking perv!”

“Did you know her?”

“Don’t need t’know her t’know what you did was a fuckin’ disgrace!”

With a kick to the gut, the man left the Mariner alone, seething with hate and shame. Fortunately, violent occurrences such as this were a rarity. For most of the journey he was left alone to reflect on his sins.

Sighisoara had changed since the Mariner’s last visit. In a sense, it had both grown and shrunk at the same time. In a literal sense, the island was smaller; the waves had crept higher, a good couple of yards by his estimation, claiming more crumbling ruins to their depths. The dock however, had swelled. Where once there had been a single wooden promenade, there were now many enormous piers jutting out into the ocean. It seems a great deal of work had been done to accommodate the Beagle’s satellite ships, the great ferry moored further away where the ocean’s floor could not scrape the hull. The Neptune (what a sight for sore eyes!) was anchored beside the main dock, scores of men he’d never seen before strutting about her decking like gulls upon a carcass.

That was not the end to the rife construction; all throughout town, the Mariner spied buildings being repaired and erected, roofs tiled, walls reinforced, rooms extended, and one grand construction atop the hill more ambitious than the rest. It was the site of Tetrazzini’s rehab centre and was the focus of all their efforts. Civilisation had returned.

Upon arrival, the Mariner was unceremoniously dumped onto the dock, but as soon as his captors marched him towards the town, wrists tied with rope and a gun barrel pointed at his back, the villagers began to stop and jeer.

“Murderer!” one screamed. “Pervert,” another.

So many strange faces. How did they know him so well? How could that middle-aged woman, face plain and care-worn, understand him enough to summon such hate? How did that boy, who threw pebbles that bounced off the Mariner’s shoulders and stung his face, perceive the evil within? The Mariner didn’t blame them for their fury, but marvelled at their certainty.

A guard came bounding towards them. The Mariner, to faint amusement, noticed it was the bearded fellow that had welcomed him on his first visit.

“Send word to Mr. McConnell that we have the prisoner.”

The bearded man nodded enthusiastically, and with a stolen glance at the Mariner (containing all he needed to know of the fellow’s animosity), scampered into town.

A captured fugitive, he was led through the streets, followed by a gathering crowd. The Mariner didn’t need to look to understand their growing numbers, the chatter of curious voices gained confidence with every step.

Who is he?

He killed the doctor.

And he killed the girl!

What girl?

The doctor’s daughter. Killed him, kidnapped her.

Why would he kidnap the girl?

Sex reasons. Why else would a man like that take a child?

Pervert.

Murderer.

To each flank he thought he saw familiar faces. Was that Beth, skulking behind an apple-cart? Why did she hate him so? Had she known all along what he’d intended? Was that Cedrick loudly calling for his head, somewhere towards the rear, his voice shrill with condemnation? And where was McConnell? What was his hand in all this?

He was led, snaking through the town until he passed through the great wall that encapsulated the old quarter. The passageway passed through shadow and beneath the mighty (yet disfigured) clock-tower. It was there that Harris had been waiting since news arrived.

Mavis’ captain, once plucked from the ocean, had changed somewhat in the passing weeks. Without the Kraken, there had been a fidgety quality to the man, an unease in his standing and place. That didn’t seem to be the case now; he stood proudly, dressed in finery, a score of armed soldiers behind at his command. He greeted the Mariner with a mix of relief and regret, anger and astonishment.

He beckoned to the Mariner’s captors to lead him inside a nearby doorway, taking him up inside the clock-tower. There, in a stone-walled room, the only window a tiny slit in the bricks, he was dumped, arms still bound.

“Leave us,” Harris commanded, and it was done.

The silence after so much shouting and yelling felt like concussion, and for a moment the Mariner actually suspected he’d gone deaf. Harris’ grim voice broke the illusion.

“Where’s Barnett, Arthur? I sent loyal soldiers with you. Where are they?”

“Dead,” he managed to rasp. “Where is McConnell? I need to speak with him.”

“How did they die? Did you kill them?”

The Mariner shook his head and tried to explain the events, though Harris was less than convinced.

“You say the Pope had them killed for being spies?” he sneered. “But if that’s true, why weren’t you? What information did you offer to save your skin?”

“Nothing. He told me what’s happening, what’s gone wrong with our world.”

“Nonsense. You sold us out, didn’t you? You’ve allied yourself with the Anomenemies. Hell, perhaps you are one? Perhaps you were working for the Pope this whole time?”

“Listen to me! I know the truth, don’t you understand? I know the truth! You’ve got to release me so I can find the Wasp!”

“And you know where this insect is?”

“It doesn’t have a place, I just need to help it see me. I think, if I return to the Waterfall, the first tear in the cocoon, I will be close enough.”

“Bullshit!”

“Let me speak with Mavis.”