The Mariner

by Ade Grant

  And once exposed to the elements, the worshippers began inflicting fresh wounds upon themselves. Some used knives, some used whips, some simply held their limbs into the fires that were growing larger by the minute, fuelled by the discarded garments. Those that could not harm themselves, the children and infirm, were assisted with perverse care by their elders, who caused wounds with a care usually reserved for binding them.

  The Pope watched the flagellation with a mixture of pride and ecstasy on his ancient features. So wrapped up in the scene a long trail of drool hung from his lips. His robed servants began once more to push the crucifix about through the carnage, incense creating a thick fog through which he looked as a god.

  Already eyes, still suspicious from before, were beginning to look in the Mariner’s direction. Charlotte, who’d seemed just another nervous mother before, but now pushing pins through the flesh of her thigh, kept glancing in his direction, waiting for him to join them in their peculiar worship.

  He had no qualms about self-harm, he had done it countless times before, sometimes quite savagely, but this was different. These people weren’t using self-harm to control their demons, but to unleash them. What would happen to him if he did the same?

  The robed man, the Pope’s mouthpiece, was strolling through the crowd, going from tortured soul to tortured soul. As he did he would watch their agony for a few moments, then take their chin and angle their face to look inside his hood. This would only last a few seconds, but in that time the cultist would relax, as if some internal blissful release had occurred, and then the robed man would move onto the next.

  Panic. The robed man was heading the Mariner’s way, ready to study him as he had the others. He thought about fleeing to another section of the midnight mass, but caught Charlotte’s eye. In that single glance he knew any suspicious activity would raise alarm.

  With little choice he turned to the nearest fire. Stretching out his left arm he began to inch towards it, slowly growing hotter with every step. The flames danced invitingly, seemingly excited by the offer of flesh to grill.

  A nervous glance told him the painful truth, Charlotte was watching and wouldn’t stop till she saw him burn. Already the skin on his hand was begin to boil, sweat breaking out in huge beads to lessen the painful heat. He had to continue. He must! Just a bit further…

  “Is there a problem, my son?”

  The Mariner turned to look into the face of the robed man. Beneath the hood was a rather normal looking gentleman, later in years, with a round spectacled face. There was something comforting about his eyes, soft yet piercing, and he wondered why a man would hide such a friendly visage beneath a cloak.

  “No problem,” the Mariner said, though he used the opportunity to withdraw his hand. “No problem at all.”

  The robed man’s eyes searched the Mariner’s face, and gentle confusion seeped in, as if the Mariner was a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. “Is this your first visit to the Pope? You seem... familiar somehow.”

  “I do?” the Mariner was lost in the robed man’s eyes, and rubbed his sore left hand absent-mindedly. “I need to speak to the Pope. It’s important.”

  “The Pope doesn’t speak directly to his flock. You should know this.”

  “And yet I must. I need answers.”

  “Answers?” the robed man chuckled, but the act seemed like an illusion, there was concern in those calming orbs. “And you think the Pope has the answers you require?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think this? You’re not one of us, I can see that. You don’t believe in him as the others do. So why do you think he can bring you peace?”

  Drawn ever on by the robed man’s warmth, the Mariner confessed his purpose. “Since the earliest I can remember I’ve been searching, looking for the truth. And I’ve always known the truth would be found on an island, ringed with almost impenetrable defences, somewhere in the endless ocean. The Pope can help me find that island. He can help me find the truth.”

  “The truth...” The robed man’s eyes suddenly shifted, shock seeping in. “It’s you! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and you’ve changed so much I didn’t recognise.... No wonder there’s no name in there! No wonder I couldn’t see it!” He chuckled, shaking his head as if it were all a joke. “This isn’t the island you’re looking for, and the Pope can’t point you to it.”

  “How could you know this?”

  “Because I am the Pope! That gnome up there is my prop, my mask, my wizard before the curtain. And I can assure you, I know the truth. If you have questions, you should ask them of me.”

  Almost overcome with relief and excitement, the Mariner babbled like a lunatic. “What’s happened to the world? Is a demon devouring it? Has God punished it? Are Anomenemies dissolving it? Where is the island I’m looking for? Why is it lodged in my head, when nothing else remains?” He gasped for breath, shaking from the promise of answers after so long a search. “Please, you have to tell me the truth!”

  The Pope looked deep into the Mariner’s eyes, and suddenly the Mariner realised that what kindness he’d seen had been purely an act, just as a cat might pretend to be playing with the mouse just before it bites down. A cruel amusement and a predatory smile.

  The Pope spoke with words that echoed deep into the Mariner’s grotesque psyche, and brought his fragile world crashing down with a simple few words.

  “There is no truth,” he said. “Only the Wasp.”

  PART IV

  THE WASP

  There is no truth. Only the Wasp.

  38

  CHRISTOPHER McCONNELL WAKES UP

  ______ ___ __ _____ ___ _____ __ __ _____ __ ______ ___ ______ _____ ____ ___ __ _ ____ ___ ___ ____ ___ ___________ __ _ __ __ _ ___ ____ ___ ___________ __ _ __ __ __ ______ ___ ______ _____ ____ ___ __ _ ____ ___ ___ ____ ___

  ___ _______ _____ __ _______ ____________ _________ __ ____ _________ __ ____ ___ _____ ______ ________ ______ ___ _ yet still the blood wouldn’t clear.

  Vzzzzzzzz.

  What? Why wouldn’t the blood clear? And clear what? The thought had been with him, but where was it now?

  Christopher McConnell blinked as the hot substance dripped from his forehead and continued to seep into his eyes. Where was he? What was going on?

  As abrupt as his consciousness, his seat lurched as if in the grip of an earthquake. An object in his hand slithered like a muscular snake. Terrified, he recoiled from it, screaming, desperate to get a grip on the situation, and forced his eyes open. The world was blurry, yet through the red mess clogging his lids he could make out a landscape hurtling closer.

  He was driving! He was in his old second-hand ford, why hadn’t he known that before? The object in his hands was the wheel, turning uncontrollably as he careered off the road. No time to try to make sense of the situation, first he had to avoid the ___ _____ __ ______ __ ___ __ __ _ _

  __ ___ ___ ____ ____ _ ______ ___ __ ___ __ ____ _ ___ ______ _____ __ ____ ____ ______ _____ ___ ____

  ___ ___ __ _____ ___ _____ ___ _ __ __ __ ____ ___ __ _ ___ _ ____ _

  __ ____ _____ ___ ____ but all that echoed back was the sound of his own voice, terrified and childlike in its shrill terror.

  The car was still. What just happened? Had he crashed? The front of the car was embedded in a small wall and the engine had stalled, but the bonnet didn’t look too badly damaged. The seatbelt bit into his chest, but apart from his head wound he felt fine.

  His head! That’s what he’d been thinking about before. He had done something to get the blood out of his eyes. McConnell looked down and saw a dark red smear along his sleeve. He’d come-round mid-thought, as if awaking from a dream, and the thought had been about clearing his eyes. So it couldn’t have been a dream? Amnesia then? Or a brain aneurysm? He suddenly wished he’d watched more medical dramas on TV, or even better studied medicine! Perhaps then he might have a clue as to what was going on, and how he’d got here.

  ‘Here’ was a sparse wood
divided by a long straight road. To each side was a small stone wall, age weakened enough to crumble at first contact with his car, offering nothing but a stalled engine as comeuppance.

  The landscape seemed familiar in make-up, but not from any direct memory. The trees were evergreen... he supposed. McConnell had never been good at identifying flora and fauna, let alone determining his locale by them. In fact, McConnell had never been much good at anything, other than operating video cameras. For three years he’d practised this single skill in gainful employment for the BBC recording ‘Old To Gold’, a direct copy of a thousand other shows searching through peoples junk to find items that might fetch twenty quid at auction. The show lasted three long years before getting shut down for appalling ratings (and in a daytime slot, ratings could be pretty dreadful before being considered a liability). Suddenly his career as a cameraman came to a crushing halt. Dreams of working alongside great directors such as Raimi or Spate were thrown in the trash, right alongside with his Clapham flat and decadent lifestyle. Not that he’d been paid much for the antiques show, but everyone was in debt these days. Or at least they had been, until the damn credit crunch wotsit, when all of a sudden stores no longer offered you credit cards and his credit cards no longer worked in stores.

  McConnell would have ended up on the scrap-heap, if not for a producer he’d worked with in year one of Old To Gold, since left for greener pastures. He was starting up a new show, a sort of funky documentary series called ‘Gibberish’ and it needed a researcher. Pretty low pay, but it was something. Actually, it turned out to be a lot of fun. It mocked groups and businesses that took advantage of the ignorant – alternative medicines, psychics, that sort of thing. Although the biggest targets were the organised religions, anything ranging from Islam to Scientology. The approach led to some pretty harsh reviews, but great ratings.

  His father, a life-long Catholic, hadn’t been impressed. All his fears about his son joining the liberal media had been proven right, and when McConnell tried to move back into the family home (empty other than his father these past five years since Mum passed away) the old man had refused. Home or the job. McConnell chose the job, and moved into a bedsit.

  He’d been on the way to collect some things, temporarily still under the old bastard’s roof when... what? Suddenly he was here, in this strange forest behind the wheels of his car. A car he’d been hoping to sell, though the crash may have put an end to that dream.

  “Fuck,” he cursed, wincing at the pain in his face as he did. Perhaps he’d been attacked and drugged? Perhaps he’d had a flashback? He didn’t think he’d taken enough acid in his youth to worry about such things, but who could tell? There wasn’t enough research on the subject to be sure. Perhaps his brain had been fried and he’d zoned out for weeks?

  A sign ahead caught his eye. He squinted, not making it out, so he rubbed his eyes.

  Deggendorf 10

  “What the fuck?” He shook his head. The name sounded German, but he’d never been to Germany before. If he’d been spiked, or drunk, or hallucinating, how did he cross the channel?

  McConnell rubbed his head. The strange fizzing sensation was passing, his brain recovering from whatever blow had broken his skin.

  A groan from the back seat made him shriek, jumping where he sat and smacking his head against the side window, leaving a circular print of sticky blood upon impact.

  His father was in the backseat. Gregory McConnell, looking many years beyond his sixty-seven, was slumped in the rear-opposite side, belted in and semi-conscious.

  “Dad?” McConnell asked, not believing his own eyes. “Dad, what’s going on?”

  And then the ground began to shake.

  It began as a low trembling, something felt in fillings that could be dismissed, but as it built up, the trees on either side began to quiver.

  “Dad!” he yelled again, turning the key in the ignition to breathe life into the old ford, but with no avail.

  Water seeped across the road. Not much, only an inch deep, but it flowed through the trees to his right in one wide wave. His panic stricken mind screamed tsunami, but could a tsunami hit Germany? How much of Germany was coast? Was he even in fucking Deutschland? With a moment’s reflection he figured it must be a flood from nearby river, burst from its banks, but this did nothing to allay his fears. He tried the ignition again and reluctantly the car rumbled into life.

  The sound of the engine must have roused his father, who now leaned forward, staring over McConnell’s shoulder. “Sighisoara. Take me home. Please, take me home.”

  “What?” McConnell put the car into reverse and de-tangled it from the fragmented wall. The car bounced over scattered stones as it rolled to realign itself withthe road. “Your home is Croydon. Where’s this other place?”

  “Sighisoara.”

  “Dad, you’re confused, just be quiet for a second... How did we get here? Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Take me home. Sighisoara.”

  “I don’t know where the fuck that is!”

  “Transylvania.”

  Shaking his head, McConnell began to drive towards Deggendorf for no other reason than because the water was running from the opposite direction. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw his father had fallen into a semi-conscious state. It was probably for the best, the old man was speaking gibberish.

  As he drove, a thick mist rolled in as if brought by an ocean breeze, settling on the windscreen and forcing McConnell to switch on the wipers despite the absence of rain. He was eager to make haste, water still flowed around his tires with a hunger that made him nervous, but the low-visibility was an even greater threat. It would be hard to see head-on traffic in this mist. Perhaps it was an oncoming vehicle that made him lose control in the first place?

  Suddenly, realising his mistake, he veered into the right hand lane. He’d been driving on the left! If this was Germany, surely he should be on the right? How long had he been breaking the law?

  “Fuckfuckfuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, heart beating with heavy ominous thuds, two thuds to every swipe of the windscreen.

  Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

  “Where are you taking me?” his father asked, his voice thin and exhausted.

  “Dad, it’s okay,” McConnell said, trying to pacify his father. “I’m going to find a way back to Croydon.”

  Thud-thud. Swish. Thud-thud. Swish.

  “Croydon?”

  “Yes. Somehow we’ve ended up in Germany. We’re not in England any-more.”

  “I don’t want to go to England!” the old man yelled as stubborn as a toddler. “Take me home!”

  “England is home you senile old fool!” McConnell found himself shouting at his father, frustrated, stressed and scared out of his wits. “Shut up, and let me drive!”

  “England? My home? Don’t be silly, that’s where Pappa’s from, but I don’t want to go there. And you shouldn’t address a stranger so.”

  “A stranger? What are you talking about? I’m your son, you silly git! Christopher! Remember? Christopher!”

  The old man fell silent and immediately McConnell felt guilty. Whatever had happened to bring him here had also happened to his father, the shock clearly having a devastating impact. He was probably suffering amnesia or a stroke or some other awful thing.

  “Listen, Dad.. I’m sorry, it’s just-”

  Suddenly he felt fingers at his head, scratching and clawing. One got a hold of an ear and pulled, a strange deep tearing sound followed by pain as blood poured from the broken lobe. He pulled away, leaning forward, trying not to swerve off the road, whilst getting away from the sudden onslaught. Behind him his father was screaming, not words, just mindless babble, hollering as if he were a dog after the postman. Insanely, McConnell’s disturbed mind assumed it was over-the-top retribution for his brisk tone and crude language (something his father had always condemned); he even tried to yell an apology, but when he turned his head to face his attacker he saw how
futile an apology was.

  Gregory was tangled in his seatbelt, held back by the strap as he strained against it with all his will. His face, usually one of condescending calm and judgement, was now distorted into a wide snarl, spittle peppering his chin, cheeks an angry red, as if he’d consumed a lifetime of alcohol in just five minutes. Loud screams were cut short as the belt constricted his neck, choking breath. Once more he appeared like a dog, though this time straining against its leash and gasping, not intelligent enough to let the lead go slack.

  “Dad, stop it!” He glanced between the road and the passenger as quickly as he could. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong!”

  The creature’s eyes had rolled up into its skull like tiny white dots of pus on an enormous purple boil. As McConnell screamed, Gregory turned a bloodshot eye in his direction. It almost made him open the door and throw himself onto the tarmac outside; the hate he felt was potent.

  “I’m your son, Dad! Don’t you remember?” Tears of anguish flooded down his face. “What about Mum? Remember her?”

  But Gregory wasn’t interested in reminiscing. He thrashed like a trapped beast, throwing his body forward until the strap cut into his skin, drawing blood.

  Unable to look at his disturbed father anymore, McConnell turned to the road. What could he do? Find a doctor? In Germany? It didn’t seem likely. Perhaps he could find a hospital or police station and throw himself at their mercy? Did they need passports? Wasn’t there some sort of EU medical card you need in situations like this?

  If only this fucking mist would pass!

  The TV Researcher from Croydon let out a loud desperate sob. He was leaning so far forward he could feel the steering wheel digging into his chest, and yet still couldn’t see a damn thing outside. And all the while his father was snarling and shrieking.

  “I’ll do what you want, just please come back,” he whimpered. “I’ll take you to Ziggy-wara if you like. Would you like that? To visit Ziggy-wara?”