Transfixed by the slow moving eels, the Mariner trembled with anticipation. He should be below deck, hiding from the sea-monsters, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. What he’d told Grace had been a lie; there were no defences to erect, no preparations to be done, he merely wanted to see what the eels had to show. The very hint of them had summoned something other than fear: lust. There was no resisting.
Perhaps those same beauties he’d seen before would return to copulate? He’d just watch this time, he felt stronger, more in control. No going overboard. This time he would use the eels, rather than them use him. The Mariner felt himself becoming aroused at the thought of the wonders he might see.
Slowly, something began to rise out of the water. An arm, pale and delicate, stretched, gripping the surface for leverage. The Mariner caught his breath at the sight of the feminine creature climbing out to lure him. He leaned forward, one hand steadying himself, the other reaching into his trousers, teasing his member to life.
Forgotten was the roar of the waterfall, only the sound of his pounding heart in his ear. He would watch just a little, and then go below where he’d be safe. Just a little. Just a minute.
A second arm and then a head pulled up from the waves, and the Mariner began to stroke himself, imagining what was about to appear.
But what did froze his heart and froze his wrist.
The fantasy pulling itself up out of the water was Grace. She was dressed as she was now, though less detailed, more like a hasty copy that kept the key details whilst jettisoning those too complex to replicate.
“Grace?” he asked, baffled. Why had the eels pulled her out of his mind?
The Grace-illusion stood upon the waves, shimmering weakly in the light of day, occasionally translucent as through the image was difficult to maintain. Her eyes were closed and face quite blank, as if in sleep.
Frozen to the spot, the Mariner still had a hand wrapped around his engorged penis, but the shock at this unexpected sight had rendered his own gratification forgotten. Or was it? If this had been dragged from his deep guttural desires, hadn’t it been what he’d been praying for? Wasn’t this his true desire?
He watched, unable to move, as her hand slid up from her side, crossing her stomach. The movement was sluggish and dreamlike, definition about the arm blurring. For a brief moment the fingers upon her hand melded together into one solid flipper, only to return to individual digits a second later. They paused as they reached the neck of her dress, a stillness dripping in anticipation.
Understanding what was about the happen, the Mariner tried to look away. A mixture of shame and confusion had paralysed him. Any second his shipmates could return and see his demons made real, his shame in the flesh. They would see his dark fantasies and condemn him, for only a monster could lust for such a thing.
And as he’d dreaded, Grace moved her tiny hand down, pulling the dress with it. It peeled like fruit, falling purposefully apart to reveal pale young flesh. Except it wasn’t as he’d expected, the flesh was bruised and beaten, great red welts and scratches dragged across, tiny nipples surrounded by bite marks instead of the swellings of puberty.
Her face was still, and the Mariner realised that it was not through sleep, but from death. Grace was dead, and yet still her hand descended, down past her belly and between her legs.
The Mariner finally broke from the scene and vomited. In the struggle to remove his hand from his trousers to steady himself, he tangled, sending the bile down his leg instead of the deck.
Was this his nature? Was he no better than Tetrazzini? No, he was worse; his desires were darker, more destructive. The eels did not lie, this was the truth.
Vision began to waver as he staggered away, but still he kept moving. He had to get below deck, he had to blot out this monstrous fantasy displayed for his pleasure. Groaning to disguise the sounds of sexual abuse reaching his ears, the Mariner staggered below, slipping and falling down the steps in his haste.
“Arthur?” a voice called from inside. Panic and shame erupted once more, sending a jolt through his body.
“Stay the fuck in there!” he screamed, staggering to his feet and like a wounded beast flung himself down the hall until he reached a room he knew to be empty. With a heavy slam he closed the door and put his weight against it, breath entering in huge gasps.
Jittery hands were raised to cover his face, but he couldn’t hold them still. Instead he folded them across his chest, brought in tight. Curled in a ball, he rocked.
He hadn’t been maintaining control, that much was clear. Deceived by companionship, he’d forgotten his true nature. Well, not any-more. In the future he would be stricter. He had to be.
The cat ‘o’ nine tails was nowhere to be seen, lost some time ago, and he wasn’t going to go looking for it. There was no time, he needed a distraction now; besides, there was a knife he kept sheaved in his boot. That would do.
Clumsily drawing it out, heart thudding so hard in his chest he thought he might die, the Mariner had little time to prepare. He brought it up in one swift swipe, slashing at his shirt sleeve, slicing through cloth and then the skin beneath. Fresh blood seeped into the already stained garment.
And yet the pain was too light a payment to blot out the vision, too feeble to end the horror. He twisted the blade and it grated against the bone. Was that a scratching he could hear? He imagined the blade carving a groove, a notch into the bone, a promise to himself to banish the demons.
But from the sounds beyond the boat still ringing in his ears, the Mariner’s demons remained. So he dug the knife deeper.
35. THE BEST FISH AND CHIPS (GUARANTEED!)
CLIFFS SO DARK THEY WERE almost obsidian stretched across the horizon, the tops bathed in a deep mist. The mass of land was eerily wide, dominating the ocean as if in mockery of its former majesty. The Mariner had never seen such a vast island, and the rest of the crew were given a bitter reminder of how the world used to be long ago, before the Shattering.
It had been less than a week since passing the waterfall. Fortunately the crew had obeyed the Mariner’s commands and not ventured above until he’d given the all-clear, and he hadn’t dared look himself for two days, finally peeking his head out like a scared rat. He wouldn’t have risen at all had it not been for the devils and their ever present hunger. After a prolonged period of claws scratching on wood he’d finally opened the door to a dozen unimpressed furry faces, each unconcerned with the inner turmoil plaguing their servant; why should they care for a monkey when there were bellies to fill?
Returning to sunlight presented a cold grey ocean. Bitter, joyless, even hopeless in its stubborn blank uniformity, but the waters were free from eels. Safely assured, he allowed the others to ascend. No-one mentioned the fresh blood stains upon his shirt, they were used to the mysterious red blots, and knew not to ask.
And now they’d finally arrived, though faced with an impenetrable circle of stone.
“Are these the moors?” McConnell asked, staring at the landscape as if it were a world-wonder.
“I would guess so,” the Mariner said, wondering just how they would get up on top of them. The sheer scale of land made him dizzy, how could something defy the sea so brazenly?
Heidi didn’t seem fazed. “We keep sailing around until we find a place to land. If the Pope gets visitors, then there must be a dock. Perseverance will give him to us.”
The Mariner agreed, and the Neptune began to circle the landmass, following it east, though after two days the cliffs did not abate, and the land showed little sign of ending.