Ade Grant - The Mariner

As McConnell and Harris reached the street, they saw two such people; a father and his daughter, the child presumably too young to attend an execution. He was carrying her on his back whilst he ran, desperately clutching onto her arms draped about his neck. Daughter, unable to confront the horrors behind, buried her head in his shoulder, closing her eyes tight.

McConnell watched as the pair were dragged to the ground by the pursuing horde, forms instantly hidden by the mass of bodies that clustered over them, punching and kicking and clawing.

“To the dock!” Harris grabbed McConnell by the arm. “I jumped in the sea last time. I’ll do it again if need be.”

The unlucky child and her father weren’t halting the crowd. Already their heads had been smashed open and brains shredded; creatures devoid of thought desperately seeking what had abandoned them. When the Wasp failed to return to their bosom, the humans moved on, traces of Wasp scented ahead encouraging their hunt.

McConnell and Harris fled further down the street, away from the brutality taking place. Turning a corner, they got their first view of the dock.

“Look!” Harris said, carelessly loud in his frustration.

McConnell followed his gesture. In the distance he could see the Neptune slowly gliding away from the dock, wind in her sails taking her from the cursed island.

“Arthur?” And sure enough it were the Mariner. Escaping. “That fuck!” McConnell grabbed Harris’ shoulder. “He mustn’t get away. He mustn’t!”

“Then keep running!”

The pair sprinted to the dock, making no attempt to hide, just a final desperate dash. The two designers of Sighisoara’s new beginning, abandoning her to ignorance. Others could be heard behind, feet slapping against the cobblestones, hoarse voices screeching.

With a final push they reached the dock. Stone turned to wood, and with relief found themselves skirting along the promenade, looking for something to sail.

“Just get in any!” McConnell pleaded, glancing towards the mainland. Already Mindless had advanced to the edge of the dock. He could feel the wooden beams below his feet judder at their approach.

“We need something we can sail ourselves, we have no crew!” Making his mind up as fast as possible, Harris pointed to the trawler that had delivered the Mariner just a day before. “That one. Get in!”

Harris dived on and started to fire up the motor, leaving McConnell to untie the mooring ropes. They gave his numb fingers trouble, but first one, then the rest submitted, and the reverend threw himself aboard, only realising once the ship was pulling away that he hadn’t allowed himself a breath since they’d first picked the boat.

Huge fearful gasps made his vision waiver, and McConnell slumped, unable to take his eyes from the Mindless as they gathered about the end of the promenade, screaming in fury at being thwarted. Some leaped into the water and swam in pursuit, but the motor was many times faster. McConnell wondered how long they would swim, and if they’d ever work out how to get back.

“Can you follow him?” he called to Harris. “He can’t get away. Not now. Not after this.”

“I can see the Neptune in the distance and I know where he’s headed.”

Still unable to take his eyes off the Mindless creatures on the dock, McConnell tensed. Amongst their number he could see Heidi, just one amongst many, her noble form now distorted into that of a dumb gargoyle covered in scratches where she’d clawed at her own head. She was lost. As were they all.

He was pleased Harris sounded as resolved as he. The Mariner must die. With the loss of everything, what else was there to do? “Where’s he headed?”

“He told me in the clock-tower. The Waterfall, reverend. Back to that bloody Waterfall!”

Somehow, despite his lack of a crew, the Mariner was able to keep leagues ahead. As Sighisoara disappeared behind, McConnell refused to consider any other action. He didn’t know what they would do once they killed Arthur Philip, but returning to Sighisoara was not an option. Perhaps he didn’t need one? Perhaps seeing the Mariner with a bullet through his brain would be enough? Perhaps that would bring him peace?

Harris governed the small ship onwards, giving relentless pursuit to the larger vessel. They never stopped. By night, McConnell would maintain hold of the steerage, just enough to keep the boat on target. By day, Harris would take over and allow the reverend to rest.

“Who takes over for him?” Harris screamed frustration one morning, looking at the Neptune on the horizon.

“He doesn’t need to sail,” McConnell replied, grim to his core. “She sails for him. She decides the way.”

And so they continued their chase. Two after one. Day after day.

Until eventually the Waterfall was within sight.

It seemed squatter than before, the building had once reached high into the sky, at least eight stories up, but now it had been reduced to a mere three.

“No, it hasn’t been reduced,” McConnell muttered to himself. “We’ve been raised. The world is filling up.”

Indeed, it appeared as if the quantity of water falling from the top floor of the office block had increased, so much frothing out the windows that no sign of the building beneath could be ascertained through the brine. Even the top, the glassless hole through which the water fell was masked in mist. From a distance, it looked like a strange sparkling column.

Harris slept, it was early morning and McConnell had been awake through the night, manning the boat as it blindly sailed onwards. Now he shuddered with trepidation. They were here! The Mariner had nowhere else to run!

He turned to wake Harris, intending the shake the man from his slumber. But as he reached out his hand, a figure beyond caught his attention.

She stood upon the waves, a tiny figure in an infinite expanse. Her frame was delicate and small, yet seemed to radiate a strength from within, a familiar, yet tragic face.

McConnell easily recognised the child.

“Grace?” he asked, his mind in turmoil. “Am I dreaming? Grace is that you?”

He staggered away from the wheel, allowing it to turn gently with the currents. Walking to the bow of the ship, he leaned out, unable to shift his eyes.

Was she an angel? A ghost? Had the Mariner led them to the gates of heaven?

Grace smiled, though her eyes were closed. McConnell found himself smiling too, she had found peace. Whatever horrors she had lived through, in death she had peace. Perhaps there was a God after all?

But then her hand was travelling down between her legs, crumpling in the skirt she wore.

“What are you doing?” he cried, alarmed at the behaviour, but his words were ignored and the girl continued to hike up her garment. She wasn’t within reach, some twenty feet from the boat, but he could see her clearly enough as she exposed herself. Bruises and blood caked her legs. Semen stains fresh from the rape.

McConnell waved his hands in front of his eyes to ward off the vision. “Please no more! I failed, I let that monster near you, I know this! So why have you returned? Why?” He looked once more at her face and saw it now bloody and bruised, though still her arms moved in a glacial dance of seduction. Tiny fingers danced around her blouse and, as if peeling a banana, curled it open.

He looked away, not wanting to witness one he’d cared for debasing herself so. Weeping, he averted his eyes, and saw a flash of silver and brown. Some sort of eel zipped through the waters, following their boat like a dolphin.

And he remembered the Mariner’s story.

Was this horrible illusion supposed to tempt him in some way? Lure him to the seas below? How could it possibly do that? Unless the aim was to drive him to suicide with sorrow?