The Mariner (23 page)

“Doctor, doctor, I think I’m suffering from Déjà vu.”
“It’s a brain tumour.”

Hilarious Joke

24
THE WASP WHISPERS

W
HEN AT SEA, THE
M
ARINER
dreamed. There was naught else to do, the ship tended to sail itself, and the endless horizon brought little comfort. Sometimes he dreamed of his mother holding a pillow tight across his face, other times he dreamed the sins of his ship, the Neptune. Tonight he dreamed of a man named Absinth Alcott, a pirate who’d once roamed the ocean and now only existed as tiny fragments lodged deep in a Tasmanian devil’s colon.

In life, Absinth had worn grubby t-shirts looted from cargo ships and countless victims. In death he wore beautiful elegant robes that flowed in the wind. Skin, once old, scarred and dry, now glowed with hidden energy encased beneath jewels and ribbons. In death he’d become a picture of health.

This was because Absinth Alcott was dressed as the Oracle, a woman who’d deemed to steal his mind.

And now the Mariner was once again within her tent, arranged just as it had been before, candles and pillows surrounding a central platform from which the Oracle could hold court. There was no Oracle here though, nor any disciples; just Absinth, who watched the Mariner approach with keen interest and a wry smile upon his lips.

He spoke, and although his voice remained the same, all pauses, inflections and mannerisms identical to before, it still seemed as if something else had seized control of his reigns. Whomever the master, they operated his vocal chords like the strings of a puppet, enacting their own play with expert precision.

“Wasps are awful creatures,” he began. “Not like bees. Oh no. Bees are lovely. Bees make honey and pollinate plants. All manner of pastures and plains rely upon bees. Nature’s honourable little suicide-bombers.”

Absinth chuckled to himself and made a faint buzzing sound with his lips as he grinned. Then, like a change in the wind, his face grew stern and cold. “Wasps on the other hand, are total shits.”

The Mariner inched forward and sat before Absinth, becoming to him the pupil he’d once refused the Oracle.

“There is one type of wasp I wish to speak of, one above all the others. This particular wasp lived in the Americas-”

The name sounded familiar, yet strange. He found himself thinking of California, that name written upon the bottles of wine he’d devoured an aeon ago. He asked Absinth where this strange place was, though his query was met with frustration.

“Be quiet Claude! I’m trying to explain something! Every beast wishes to protect its young, and this wasp is no different. However, instead of making a nest or laying eggs, the wasp finds a caterpillar and pierces it with a stinger. The caterpillar survives and believes itself to have narrowly escaped death, yet it has not. Inside its plump body the Wasp’s young grow, its babies; the caterpillar having become impregnated during the attack.”

As Absinth spoke, the Mariner found himself fidgeting uncomfortably, a growing uneasiness building in his gut.

“They feed from their host, always careful not to feast upon vital organs, always wary that to kill the caterpillar would end their living nursery.”

Itch upon itch broke out across the Mariner’s skin, and as each were scratched, several more began in its place. The Mariner became like a child riddled with lice, squirming where he sat.

“Soon the caterpillar, having grown fat, comes to believe that it is thriving. Little does it know that deep within its swollen body there are dozens of squirming larvae, for it is they who have grown fat, not it.”

The itching had become unbearable and the Mariner lost all semblance of a pupil; now he rolled about on the ground, clawing at his skin.

“And then finally the hatching day arrives. The wasp larvae begin to eat their way free. Munch munch munch, through flesh they go. Munch munch much through organs. The caterpillar is so confused it cannot fight; in fact all it wants is the larvae back, back inside so it can feel fat once more. Can you imagine the confusion? The distress? To see your own innards tear themselves free?”

With the final word spoken, the torment stopped. All that was left was the heat of lingering pain upon his flesh. The Mariner stood, still under the gaze of the man who’d once been his friend and foe.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Absinth seemed to think for a moment, though when he spoke it was clear he’d paused simply to play with the Mariner’s unease. “I’ve brought something for you.”

“What is it?”

“A box.”

And there was a box before him, one he hadn’t noticed until now. It was large and made of cardboard. The Mariner had seen many boxes of this type before, usually they were sealed up with tape and could contain anything from dried food to children’s toys. This one seemed battered and well used, the top joins torn and mottled by damp.

“A cardboard box?”

“See what’s written upon it?”

The Mariner looked again and saw that there was indeed writing across its side. Large letters penned in black ink: THE MARINER.

“It contains everything that is you, everything that makes up your consciousness. All that is in your head and heart lies in that box.”

“Can I look?”

“Be my guest.”

With trepidation the Mariner crawled forwards. Absinth watched, nodding encouragement with each hesitant shuffle.

The Mariner looked inside.

Empty.

“There’s nothing there.”

Absinth shook his head. “Look again.”

The Mariner did as he was asked. At first nothing, but then it caught his eye: a small tissue bunched up in the corner. He reached inside and picked it up, the thin paper feeling brittle between his fingers. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed the sweet smell of dried semen.

“Is this it?” he asked. “Just a soiled tissue? Is that all?”

Absinth nodded with deep regret. “Yes. The Wasp took everything else.”

Wakefulness brought with it sorrow and shame. These were the emotions that dominated the Mariner’s life and they rushed to meet him like excited puppies, yapping and howling for attention. And like any loving guardian he couldn’t help but nurture their demands.

He opened his eyes to his cabin, faintly illuminated by dim candlelight. He was lucky to wake when he did, the wick was down to its last nub and when finally snuffed out the room would be plunged into darkness. He groaned and rolled towards it, lifting the small block of wax to another, doubling the light and creating a synthetic sunrise.

Beneath him the ship refused to stir, a faint echo of a creak the only sound from her slumbering form. No waves. No wind. All was quiet.

The Mariner stood and undressed, doing his best to ignore the lusts and horrors that jostled for attention within his head. There had been a time when he’d have been easily overwhelmed by them, but not now. No longer a novice, he’d learned how to keep his demons in check.

With ritualistic determination, the Mariner stripped naked and stood in the candlelight, hollow eyes staring into darkness. As a soldier would stand to attention, his posture was rigid. For twenty breaths he remained just so, the only movement his chest as it dragged in air and pushed it out again with an age-old weariness.

Then, once the count was done, he swung a cat ‘o’ nine tails up over his shoulder. With a snap it struck his back sending searing white pain in response. The shock made his legs buckle, but the moment passed and he gathered himself upright again. Teeth gritted, he took another swipe. And another.

Only once a trickle of blood ran freely from several wounds, congregating in the cleft between his buttocks, did the Mariner stop. Breath ragged and legs weak, his work was done. There were no more awful thoughts. All were dwarfed by the pain.

He dressed, wincing as the fabric stuck, not only to the fresh wounds upon his back, but also to the many small incisions incurred on Sighisoara. Such was the price of control: a bloody back and a tiger-arm.

Holding a candle before him, the Mariner made his way out of the small cabin, along a corridor and up a set of stairs that led to the top deck. The insides had been charred and singed, but the Neptune had survived the arsonists’ attack. He coughed, recoiling at the strong smell of smoke that lingered.

Just as there had been a time when he’d had little self-control, there’d been a time when he’d slept in the open air every night. True, he still felt more comfortable under the moon and stars, but since travelling with Grace and McConnell, things seemed... different. Calmer. As if their presence had lulled the ship into sleep.

“Or the wind,” he murmured, shaking his head. As soon as they’d left Sighisoara the wind had died, leaving them stranded somewhere between one island and another, a place Grace called the zoo.

Being dead in the water was excruciating, especially because the three hadn’t packed any additional supplies. The Mariner had been in a rush to depart and McConnell hadn’t even planned on boarding until he’d stumbled across the gang-way, awe-struck by the return of the zoo to the horizon. Grace alone had anticipated the journey, but her childish mind had only contemplated enough snacks to get her through a day or so. Now they were gone, and everyone was growing hungry.

Of the three, Grace coped with the stillness the easiest. The devils were quite taken with her, and she played with them constantly. Mostly fetch, sometimes tug-of-war. The Mariner didn’t like to watch these games, he’d seen the devils behave in a similar way, but rather than pulling at a piece of old rope, they’d been yanking the intestines from a belly. Still, he had to hand it to her, Grace had these things as docile as pups.

McConnell, on the other hand, was a terrible headache. He questioned the Mariner incessantly, about his travels, his memories, his time in Sighisoara, all to which the Mariner gave as little information as he could get away with. He was done with others scrutinising his life. If Sighisoara had taught him anything it was that letting people into his world caused trouble.

Why had he even let them aboard? The Mariner struggled to remember his precise thinking, he’d been too caught up in emotion, and now the logic was hazy.

The sooner they got to the zoo the better, then McConnell could stay with Grace and he could be on his way; back to the endless sea, searching for the ‘island’ and the answers contained within.

Stepping out into the night air, the Mariner was struck by how dark it was despite being on the top deck. His candle illuminated the area in front and further along he could make out the shapes of Grace and McConnell, hunched over a small flickering lantern. But that was all. Beyond them was pitch black, a thick blanket that conjured a thousand monsters born of paranoia.

“Good job there’s no wind,” he said as he approached the pair. McConnell turned his head and held a finger to his lips. Grace slept beside him, wrapped in a thick blanket with a tazzy-devil in her lap. Like McConnell, the beast wasn’t asleep and gave the Mariner a warning glance of its own, but held back from growling. Neither man nor beast wanted to wake the young girl.

“Why do you say that?” whispered McConnell. “I thought still air spelled disaster? That’s what you’ve been saying.”

The Mariner nodded. “I was and that’s right, but not tonight. With cloud cover this thick we could sail right into a cliff-side and never see it coming. Best we wait here until it rains. After the rain we’ll get some light and some wind, you’ll see.”

But damn, it was dark. The Mariner stared at the sky, trying to get some glimpse of the moon poking through. Not a hint. It was as if they were within a cave, deep underground, rather than out at sea.

McConnell shrugged, dismissing the concern. “If you say so, you’re the sailor.”

“And you’re not? Spent your whole life on Sighisoara?”

“Oh no, I drove there. It was just after the Shattering, when it was still possible to do such a thing.”

“You remember the Shattering?”

McConnell shook his head. “No. Just the drive. A long drive across Europe. I was trying to get as far as I could from home, only after a point I could no longer tell which direction home was, or even if it still existed. To be honest, I don’t even know what I was running from. Sighisoara wasn’t an island when I arrived, and then – one day – it was.”