The Mariner (11 page)

We have committed the greatest sin we are capable of: forgetting him, forgetting his wisdom. No doubt some of you have never heard his name, but do not fear, there is still time to save your souls from this sinking world. Listen close, for I will tell.

Jesus was a carpenter, taught by his father who in turn was taught by his. He lived in a time before the floods, when our world was a single piece and islands stretched for miles. The Roamings ruled back then. A vast and powerful nation, but cruel too, always expanding, conquering, destroying. Jesus was not a Roaming, but a subject of them, his people bound to do their bidding. It was that or die.

One day, Jesus was summoned to stand before a Roaming called Pontoon Pilot, the local governor charged with upholding a brutal law.

“I hear you are the finest carpenter in the land,” he said. “I have a task for you. Twelve have sinned and twelve must die. Examples shall be made of each and every one. I want you to craft a dozen crosses large enough for a man to be affixed to.”

“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” the carpenter asked. “How will these men be affixed? How strong does the wood need to be?”

The Roaming eyed Jesus suspiciously, but soon cast away his doubts, confident he would not be betrayed. “Each man will be nailed to his cross and then each cross will be planted in the Tear of the Gods.”

At hearing this Jesus wept, for he understood the punishment fully. The Tear of the Gods was a valley that flooded every month, on the full moon when the river swelled.

The men would be drowned for their crimes.

But Jesus had no choice but construct the crosses as ordered and a week later the flood and the punishments were due. Each convict was put upon a cross and the local townsfolk stood atop a hill to watch.

The waters rose and the sinners screamed in fear, but not one person felt sympathy for them. No-one, that is, except for Jesus. Just as the waters reached their necks, Jesus walked from the crowd and into the rising tide.

Silence descended upon the watchers, for the lowly carpenter did not sink, but walked upon the water as if it were the thickest of ice. He reached the condemned twelve and released them one by one, pulling the nails out of their hands and kissing each wound in turn, healing the broken flesh.

Pontoon Pilot was furious and ordered his men into the water to arrest Jesus Haych Christ, but the currents were strong and each Roaming was dragged beneath the surging torrent.

Jesus turned to the crowd and spoke. “I have forgiven these men, their crimes are clear in the eyes of God. For God is within us all, and so is the power of absolution. When we reach out to one another, we pull ourselves closer to God. I ask you all to do the same.”

That was the first preaching of Jesus Haych Christ, the son of God, and those twelve men became his Disciples.

His message is as true now as it was then.

Forgive.

Say it with me people. Forgive.

Reach out with your hearts and your souls, and look out across the waves and perhaps one day we will see Jesus Haych Christ walk out across the endless ocean, returned from his torment with Disciples in tow.

Say it with me. Forgive.

Forgive.

- The Shattered Testament by The Reverend McConnell

12
LAST RITES

T
HE
M
ARINER WATCHED THE FUNERAL
from his vantage point, high upon the rising slope. He stood in the shade of the mighty inner wall, allowing the cool stone to sooth his sun-scorched back. After following the procession for a while, he’d returned to the Neptune and gathered his tools, finally returning to a quiet point where he could watch the events unfold. Like a vulture he scrutinised, unnoticed from on high.

Around a hundred people had turned out for the girl’s burial; they had meandered through town, a band playing the march to match the people’s tears. Women had wailed and men cursed. The local holy-man, Reverend McConnell, led the procession, his scriptures clasped in his hands, muttering prayers and pleadings for the deaths to stop. The Mariner did not know how the girl had died, but was sure this was not the first death of this sort. The procession had an air of the rehearsed about it.

Finally they arrived at the town’s small graveyard, an embarrassingly tiny plot of land for what was such a large community. But this was a first generation town, peoples thrown together, forced to eke out an existence on an island barely capable of sustaining a third of their number, a fact painfully clear as they stood around the hole in the ground, so many baring witness that most were forced to watch from upon graves filled just weeks before. An uncomfortable position, made plain by their anxious glances to the loose soil at their feet.

A man stood removed from the crowd in a position of honour. The dead girl’s father. The onerous grief could be seen from the grey in his face to the dead of his eyes. All held him in high regard. His sorrow gave him importance, at least for today.

The Mariner toyed with his bag, a leather satchel containing the tools he would need: a pick, shovel, candle, matches, rope . It was a shame to watch them pour earth into the very same hole he would have to empty later, but there was nothing he could do about that. Patience. That was the key.

But patience was hard to come by. He was starving, and not just for food. The Mariner was an alcoholic, a slave to devils and the demon drink, and both would be loath to forgive such delay. But the Mariner understood well that once be began drinking, there would be no end. He had to acquire a meal for the devils before that grim process began. They’d tolerate nothing less.

The service lasted until sundown and the Mariner waited in the shadows until the final mourners slouched away. Perhaps some in the crowd saw him, but it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t stay in Sighisoara long. After gathering food and booze the Mariner would be off, continuing his search. There wouldn’t be time to incur their wrath.

Once alone, the Mariner set to work. The earth was soft and grave shallow, his spade easily removing the blanket of soil that was supposed to keep the girl eternally warm. He glanced at the wooden cross placed at the head of the pit. ‘Theresa’. It held no surname, nor did it hold dates. In this world there were no dates, there was no time beyond the day before and the day after. Anything outside of those were anyone’s guess.

As he dug he didn’t feel villainous; more a trifle rude, as if he were pulling the duvet off a shift-worker, just gone to bed. The dirt looked oddly comfortable.

A luxury beyond our times, luv
, he thought.
Can’t let good meat spoil
.

Theresa hadn’t been buried in a coffin, a waste of scarce wood. Instead, an old cloth had been stitched about her. It hung closely, the tailor keen to use the minimum material possible. It pulled about her like a mask, stained and bug-ridden. The Mariner brushed off as much dirt as he could. Stitches proved weak as he ran a knife along the seam and like a pod, the death-shroud popped open, revealing the peas within.

The girl couldn’t have been dead for longer than a day. She was a pretty young thing, no more than seventeen at the most. Her hair, protected from the earth by the shroud, was a rich golden colour that shimmered in the moonlight. It brought a little light to her pale face, milky skin that descended into darkness as it reached her throat, for the throat was coated with dried blood from the long slit that reached from ear to ear.

No guilt. The girl was dead; if there was anything left of her, it wasn’t here. This was just flesh. It would either be eaten by worms, or by his devils, it mattered not to her.

The Mariner swung the dead body over his shoulder and without bothering to fill in the grave, headed for his boat. First the Neptune’s devils, then his own. This was the deal the Mariner promised himself as he carried young Theresa’s corpse, her flesh stiff under his grasp.

The dock was quiet. In the distance the Mariner could hear the sound of a wake, merriment and sorrow breaking out in equal measure as each tried to cope with reality as best they could. How would they react, he wondered, if they saw their beloved being feasted upon by the dozen or so monsters? Her body laid out like a delicious feast?

Once upon the Neptune the Mariner sighed with relief, realising just how nervous being away from his vessel made him. There was a safety in his floating tomb.

He dumped the body and waited. Small dark bodies scurried out of the shadows, their flanks trembling with anticipation. Without a grunt of thanks they began to feast, noisily scoffing mouthfuls of torn flesh. The Mariner didn’t flinch, he’d witnessed them eat from people before and this time he had the luxury of darkness.

“Enter.”

The voice, a man’s, made the Mariner jump. He looked around in surprise, scanning the familiar silhouettes. Everything seemed as it was, all in its proper place. No intruders except in his own imagination.

But then he heard the sound of a door opening and closing. A familiar creek. Someone had entered the captain’s cabin!

The Mariner pulled his clunky pistol out its holster, the metal grip cold in his hand and the muzzle looking like ice in the dim light. There was an intruder on board, one that the devils had missed. And no wonder, they were as hungry as he was thirsty!

He crept forward, sliding below deck as silent as a gentle breeze. Ahead he could hear a muffled murmuring. There were two distinct voices: two intruders. He couldn’t make out any words, the wood was too thick for that, even when he pressed his ear against the seam.

The captain’s cabin wasn’t far beneath the top deck, and occasionally the Mariner slept within, but only when the weather was too bad to sleep under the night sky. There was something sour about the Neptune’s innards. Something rotten.

The Mariner pushed the door open an inch, relying upon the darkness to conceal his movement.

Dim candlelight illuminated within, lighting the two figures whilst plunging their backs into black. One was sat at the table, a familiar desk the Mariner had eaten meagre meals at many times before. Only it seemed this man had brought all sorts of personal effects along with him; alien cutlery, plates, glasses, a compass, quill - all manner of items the Mariner hadn’t seen before were laid out with care. The man at the desk was dressed in smart but practical garb and he scowled at the other who stood before him.

“So what are we to do?” he sneered. He looked like a bland painting whose canvas had warped. “I can’t have you making so much noise, my crew need to sleep. How can we shut you up? Hmm?”

The quaking figure under judgement was that of a woman. Unlike him she wore no finery, but a collection of filth-stained rags. Her hands were clasped in chains, the arms above them emaciated and covered in sores. She didn’t respond to him but instead kept her eyes locked on the floor, respectful and afraid.

“We still have many weeks before Port Jackson, and I can’t be having these complaints. Do you understand? Do you?”

The woman nodded. Tears drawing lines down dirty cheeks. Her eyes looked like two tiny heads on pink spikes.

“Kneel,” he commanded. The woman sank to her knees, chains rattling.

“Closer.”

She inched closer to him, wincing in pain.

“I said closer!” The captain slapped her hard around the face and clasped her hair in his hand. She lost her balance as he yanked her forward, keeping her aloft in his grip. She screamed, her voice hoarse and tired. A scream more familiar to the throat.

“There you go again!” He laughed a little. “Making unnecessary noise!” The captain’s other hand pulled at the belt in his lap, fingers making quick work in the shadows. His penis rose like the head of a surfacing shark.

The woman tried to murmur something, but the captain had no interest in entertaining protest. He pulled her forward, punching her as a jokey would spur a horse. Blood leaked from her mouth as she went limp and gave in to his advances. Falling forward, her small mouth opened and took him inside. The captain leaned back and with a dark smile roughly clenched her hair to force a rhythm of his choosing.

The Mariner watched, horrified by the rape. He knew he should put a bullet in this man’s face and put out that horrible smirk, but he was glued to the spot, hiding in the darkness like a peeping tom. And like said tom, there was a certain dark thrill about watching. The sight was horrible, truly horrible, and yet there was a stirring within. A dark and terrible urge the Mariner knew well.

The captain continued to force the woman’s head up and down. A clump of hair tore loose; he threw the lock to the side and took hold of another. His victim gave a pitiful groan, but this only brought further delight to her torturer and further firmness to their voyeur.

Finally, the captain grunted and pulled her head firmly into his lap, emptying himself inside. He let go and she fell onto the floor, coughing and spluttering, her lungs taking in gasps of air between harrowed sobs.

However the beast wasn’t to be so easily placated. He tucked himself back into his trousers and stood, face blank and rigid. All sinister myrth gone. The Mariner’s breath quickened as he watched him kick the victim, first in the stomach, then the breasts before finally her face. Over and over he’d kick and stamp, her initial cries turning to wheezes, ending with a final listless whimper. Soon the only sound she made was a mushy squelch, though that was more attributable to his boot.