The Mariner (7 page)

“Thank you,” said the newly named Edward.

“You are most welcome.”

“What is ‘Philosophy’?”

“Good question! Probably the first that I ask my students, and often they are still pondering it when they finish the course! It is the study of knowledge, of how to think, how to live. It’s the oldest of all teachings.” She saw that he looked blank so pressed on. “For instance, we look at Plato, and his belief in Forms. He believed in perfect metaphysical entities from which we share properties; for instance a painting can be beautiful, but it is not the definition of beauty. So beauty must be something else - a
metaphysical Form
.”

The two were getting close now, only eight feet or so between them. Upon closer inspection the Mariner could see just how frail and thin the old woman was, and her clothes, whilst bright, were tattered.

She continued her lecture. “Let me see, who else do we cover? There’s John Stuart Mills. Nietzsche. We also look at Rene Descartes –
wazza drunkenfart
– and his views on mind-body dualism.”

The interruption was so quick it could easily have been missed. The words flew out the side of her mouth like a tick or spasm, the eager syllables jostling her head to the side as they escaped. Afterwards she continued as if nothing had happened, but the Mariner had noticed, and now he was staring at the scratches that ran up the side of her neck. And the blood caked about her ears.

“Classical philosophy is, in my view, the best part of the syllabus. We look at the three greats, Plato, Eric Idle, and Aristotle -
aristotle wazza bugga forthe
-”

The last word seemed to get jammed in her throat. Her eyes rolled into her head as she choked, her body jerking. Hands, tense and claw-like, reached up and began scratching at her head. The Mariner’s bowels froze as the woman let out a strange growling somewhere deep in her throat. Like an abused dog her face contorted, lips pulled back over ancient brown teeth.

Suddenly her eyes flicked down from inside her skull and focused on the Mariner. She screamed, and flung forward, hands outstretched and clasping, spitting and shrieking. The chains held her in place, pulling back like a leash. His heart sank as he recognized what she was: one of the Mindless. The state was all too common; he’d slain several of her kind. None quite like this though, usually a person either had a mind or they didn’t, not a strange in-between. He was thankful for the chains. The Mindless wanted nothing but to kill those who still had thoughts, and claw open their heads to get at them.

Suddenly the murderous fury drained out of her, and she was sweet old Gloria once more.

“Bottle!” she cried, as if she’d answered a riddle. “How silly of me, it’s Philosophy one-oh-one! Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle! Monty Python said that before he was put to death for teaching philosophy in ancient Greece.” She smiled at him, seeming not to notice his revulsion. “You see, being a lover of knowledge is dangerous business. You have to contend with religion for one thing. The clever ones worked it into their writings, included God whenever they could. That way they would be free from
unwarranted
persecution.”

She stopped, all calm and chattiness falling from her, revealing a sad and hungry wretch. A lonely woman, starving and afraid. “Are you going to save me?”

The Mariner wanted to take another drink from the bottle, but thought that cruel. Instead he let it sit loosely in his lap, but it called to him, using his guilt as a megaphone. “No,” he said.

“Why not? I’ll die out here.”

“If I rescue you, I’d kill you.”

Once again her body shuddered, but not from a fit like before. This time it was from tears.

“I’m scared. I don’t know why the world is like this! I can’t remember
anything
. It’s all just... blank. All I can remember is the philosophy. Not the classes, not the school, not how I came to be here. I don’t remember any of it!”

And at that, the Mariner felt a cold pang deep in his heart. Like him, she didn’t remember things. Had whatever happened to her, happened to him?

“I don’t know how I got here either.”

“Then let me aboard!” she wailed. “We can work it out together, you and I. Edward? Please?”

There wasn’t a chance. She was Mindless, albeit a part-time one. The question was, what was he?

“I’m sorry Gloria.” He had passed her now. Neptune had sensed the interlude was over and was picking up speed.

“Please?”

“Everything’s gonna be alright. Think about your philosophy!” he shouted back. “It will sustain you.” Lies of course. He was hoping he could trigger her fit once more. It would be easy to sail away from the snarling hateful creature she’d momentarily become. Far harder, as he did now, to leave an old lady alone, no thoughts in her head but that of a rotten philosophy, crying in the mist.

7
OUT OF NIGHT AND INTO DAWN

B
ALLS SWOLLEN AND LEG INFECTED,
the Mariner remained alive. After mutilating his arousal, the temptations had continued, but with little potency. Bloody testicles make it difficult to notice anything. Sometime between the nut-cracking and dawn the eels had left, returning hungry and disappointed to wherever it is that eels rest.

As if sharing in their disappointment, the storm too had abated, gone elsewhere to find some other poor wretch to torment. All was quiet, except Grace who scampered about him as if nothing had happened. She’d emerged from below, bleary eyed and yawning.

“How the fuck did you sleep through that?”

You brought this on yourself
, her eyes seemed to reply.
Pssh! Men!

“Aye, I know. Stupid. Stupid.” Movement was difficult but he managed to pull himself to his feet. She barked in encouragement and hopped from paw to paw; a tiny personal trainer showing tough love.

“Remind me to yell at you next time you’ve just given birth to another batch of bastards.”

“Arf!”

“Arf, yourself.”

And then he heard the sound that had roused the Tasmanian devil. It spoke to his heart as it had to her stomach. The cries of a seagull. Land!

Taking care not to graze his swollen testicles, he shuffled starboard for a closer inspection. Before them was a large island, tall cliffs rose out the water, sheer and commanding, dark stone casting its shadow across the water. Only one point seemed to offer access, a thin gorge packed with dense trees. Circling above were countless birds, more than a normal sky-scape worth; something must have disturbed them.

Yet the Mariner’s focus wasn’t drawn to the birds in the sky, nor the cliffs on the shore, but to the shallow waters before it. Another boat bobbed silently in the waves. It was smaller than his, anchored closer to the island than the Neptune could ever hope to get. Small, yet its sleek white exterior looked capable of great speed. Once again, the Mariner was reminded that he sailed a crumbling geriatric.

Other people had found his island.

The Mariner retrieved a gun, loaded and ready for use. A Mauser; an odd looking boxy weapon with a long thin snout like an echidna’s. He had a crate of them, lined up and protected with straw.

Grace herself had hopped upon a barrel and was sniffing at the air excitedly, great globs of drool hanging from her jaw at the prospect of land.

“How about we leave the young’uns here and go for a looksie?” Grace didn’t object.

He lowered a row-boat. Grace clutched to his shoulder in an ungainly manner whilst he climbed down the rope-ladder, wincing with every step. Each moment of friction between his legs caused pain to rupture out to all four corners of his body. Not a good day to be going up against pirates. Still, no use moaning, there was no-one to listen.

The white ship seemed quiet, its crew already disembarked and searching for his prize. He rowed past it, keeping a wary eye for gunners, although he couldn’t spot a single cannon.

Near the shore were six yellow barrels bobbing in the water. As the waves hit them they didn’t shift position, rather they were anchored to the spot, trapped in perpetual surf.

Elsewhere all was calm, the birds circling the gorge were settling somewhat, their cries a distant warning of intrusion. He rowed as fast as he could, eager to catch up to the interlopers and see they not squander the answers promised to him alone.

Promised by whom?
He shook his head, dismissing the unwanted query.

The first of the yellow barrels drew near. He was correct, it was secured in place, anchored to the seabed below, a chain disappearing into the murky depths. The barrel itself was rather nondescript. Its casing was made of thick plastic, with no markings to be seen. The Mariner warily nudged it with his oar. Nothing.

He rowed on, eager to reach the shoreline. Grace was equally excited, she dashed up and down the short boat, barking at the birds in the sky.

Suddenly there was a splintering crack, and the boat lurched to a halt. Thrown forward, the Mariner’s legs were pushed together upon his swollen testicles, the dull throb once again promoted to an agonizing wail. He screamed through gritted teeth.

The front of the boat was coming apart, water pouring in through the gaps as the wood contorted, behaving more like brittle dry twigs than sturdy oak. The Mariner swore and tried to steady the vessel, but it was no use. Something had the boat in its grip and wasn’t letting go. Grace backed away as far as she could, but the water was swiftly flowing over her paws.

The shoreline was still at a fair distance. Fuck it. They would have to swim. No other choice. Hopefully, whatever creature was attacking them, it would be too preoccupied with chewing the boat.

Picking up the trembling devil, he told her not to worry. “Just a quick swim, nothing to be concerned about.” He hoped he managed to keep his voice calm and that the small animal would garner some small solace from his tone, but by her trembling he feared the words had been wasted.

He jumped, plummeting into the waters, head submerged in an instant. Cold seawater rushed into his nose

And he opened his eyes.

It was not a beast attacking his boat. The rapidly shrinking remains were being torn to pieces by a great wall of coral, its rough and spiky form shifting as it moved to consume the wooden frame. How did it move? He couldn’t see, great clouds of sand bloomed about each movement, creating an impenetrable shroud, obscuring detail.

The still parts of the coral reef told the full story. It were made of sunken ships and drowned sailors. Masts jutted from between sea urchins, sponges grew on ancient rudders. All torn to pieces and held in place whilst the organism expanded through them, using their strength to fuel its own. If coral reefs were made up of the dead of the sea, then this reef was
undead
, a moving defence. Ruthless. Pitiless.

Human bones shone in the peculiar underwater twilight, a sign of how many had perished along this slip of coast. His eyes passed over these details quickly, focusing upon another.

Amongst the coral were
fresh
corpses. Held in place were men whose last breaths couldn’t have been long before, their eyes wide and unfocused, mouths hung ajar as if still hoping for that last life giving gasp. Fish swarmed about them, nibbling at the gashes in their flesh, skin torn open by sharp shells.

Suppressing his own scream, the Mariner resurfaced. Could they swim back to the Neptune? Too little strength. Besides, there was a growing cloud of blood around his leg and crotch.

Sharks!

He couldn’t see fins yet. Perhaps even they were afraid of the monstrous coral?

Grace was equally distraught, her front paws paddled frantically in the water, trying to stay afloat. She seemed to have sensed their danger and cleverly stuck by the Mariner, refusing to make a reckless (and no doubt fatal) dash for the land.

Then he realized what the barrels were for. They were markers, put in place by the pirates before him to signify a safe route through the island’s defence. The Mariner began a painfully slow swim towards the second of the yellow buoys, this one far to his right. Every few strokes he would have a quick look below the surface to make sure there was no coral nearby. There was, but not so close it could reach out for him. Grace followed in his wake, her eyes fixed on his back and unwavering.

They reached the second barrel, then the third and the fourth. Each one carved their route, zigzagging towards the shore. At every barrel they would stop, the Mariner putting one hand on the buoy and the other outstretched to support Grace. Together they’d rest, gathering strength for another swim. The path-makers must have employed a lot of ‘trial and error’ in finding this secret route, a lot of corpses were littered along the way. A lot of death to find the Oracle.

Such was the price of truth.

Gasping and exhausted, the pair reached the sandy shore, both with a similar expression despite the species divide. The Mariner staggered a few yards from the surf and sat with a thud, hands pulling open his trousers so he could inspect the state of his genitals. They were squashed, swollen and red, but the breaks in the skin weren’t as ruptured as they felt.