Each cupboard proved bare. The Mariner could not remember his last meal and his stomach gurgled at the thought. As if to keep him on message, Grace’s stomach growled even louder as she scampered about his ankles.
“Alright girl,” he said, knowing he didn’t have long to please her. In the dark peripheries her children gathered, each hoping for some morsel of food to tide them over. It was an enormous pack, a dozen pairs of eyes trained upon his every move, a dozen mouths watering at the thought of meat. Although small, their teeth were sharp. If they decided to turn against the Mariner, he would not last long. And neither would his remains.
Only a small piece of dried beef jerky remained. Its plastic packet was pushed into the furthest recess, crumpled and forgotten. He picked it up. On the front it claimed all sorts of energising promises, but the Mariner had never felt different after eating one, only full and bloated. On the back it said ‘Best Before’ and then a string of numbers that made no sense. Gibberish. Just like the faded label on the bottle of wine.
The Mariner winced at the memory. Why had he allowed himself to become so dependent upon such a perilous drug? Yet dependent he’d become and with the wine running out he was sure to reap the demons it’d sown. Their roots would knot in his belly, twisting his insides until he wanted to tear out his own guts, then their branches would rise up to tangle about his spine, shaking him till his very mind came loose.
Grace didn’t give a shit. All that concerned her was the beef jerky, still clasped in the Mariner’s hand, and the question of whose mouth it should enter, his or hers?
“Arf!”
He pulled the packet open and savoured the dry savoury smell. Inside, the jerky look ancient, sweaty and far removed from the concept of ‘meat’. It also looked delicious. The Mariner was desperately hungry, a little food might go a long way in delaying the alcohol pains, but he also knew that if the devils were to survive they’d need Grace’s strength to hunt the few elusive rats. So instead of feeding himself, he dropped it to the floor.
Grace snapped the jerky between her jaws, her long whiskers quivering with delight. Without a grunt of thanks she scurried into the shadows, a brief cacophony of scrabbling claws signalled her broods pursuit. The Mariner was left alone, with only the groans of the ship and distant muffled yaps.
He did not linger, but instead chose to return above deck. There was no more food, and very little wine. He should try to resist the alcohol demons as long as possible before opening the last bottle. Perhaps he could buy himself enough time to find land again, and then plunder it for supplies? But hadn’t Absinth warned him about the lack of land out here? Or had it been the Philosopher Woman? With a mind so full of fog it was impossible to remember.
For not the first time, the thought of suicide popped into his head. He had a gun, a whole case-load in fact. Semi-automatics that could pop the top of his head clean off with enough bullets in the magazine to keep his skull flipping in the air like a cowboy’s hat. The devils wouldn’t miss him. This was their ship, not his.
Suicide was a possibility. He was sure he had the guts to put a gun in his mouth, fuck it, he’d tickle the barrel with his tongue as he pulled the trigger. Dying didn’t scare him. But after that? After the dying, then what? What lay beyond? The uncertainty filled him with terror.
No, no suicide. The ocean would decide his fate. The ocean, the air and the Neptune herself.
Back above, the wind was picking up, though not enough to cause concern. The ship rose and fell steadily, with enough rhythm to welcome sleep, though sleep would not come easy. Consciousness had only lasted ten minutes at the most, yet sleep was all he had to turn to. The Island was not in sight and he did not want to be awake when the pains began.
He looked into the sky, eager to spot a bird that he could follow or some other hint at distant land. There were neither. Not even clouds. Just open sky and infinite water. And he a lone sailor, adrift with ravenous demons both inside and out.
But then — something out at sea! A shape moving though the waves, pale silver just as they were, but causing displaced water to appear black, ripples of darkness giving definition to the beast. It moved gracefully and his heart raced at the thought of it being a dolphin or seal or some other helpful creature. He strained against the barrier, desperate to see the first piece of strange life in months.
It was a woman. Her pale skin shone in the brine beneath long raven hair. He could see her arms pulling the water aside as she swam breast stroke, heels alternately breaking the surface with each gentle kick. She was not exhausted nor desperate, hers were the actions of a lady at leisure; someone going for a brief swim before dinner, rather than one lost in the middle of an endless ocean.
The Mariner craned his neck looking from horizon to horizon, trying to see her ship, but there was none. Just the sea. Just her. And just he.
Closer now, she was a woman of youth, flesh healthy and soft, skin without blemish; a stark contrast to his own aged, scarred and sun burnt exterior. To his delight he saw she was naked, and surely she was aware of his presence, yet there was no modesty, either feigned or real. She swam as if it were an absolute delight. A natural joy.
The Mariner tried to speak, but his mouth had dried up. Shamefully, he stiffened in his jeans, but that could be excused. He hadn’t seen another thinking person in months, let alone a beautiful woman! Surely someone so brazen could forgive lustful thoughts? He paced back and forth, eyes fixed on the approaching figure.
He decided he would cast her a rope, pull her on board, then ravish her right there on the deck. Stars above, flesh below. It would be sweet, perfect, just like his dreams. He gathered a length in his arms, preparing for the opportune moment.
Below, the devils began to howl, though the Mariner was beyond noticing. All that existed to him was she; just her perfect round buttocks as they poked above the surface and her thighs opening and closing with each thrust.
The woman stopped swimming just beyond throwing distance. Her legs fell from behind and sank into the depths as she straightened to tread water. No sign of struggle could be seen; she floated buoyantly, shoulders clear above the surface, breasts firm and full. The Mariner’s lustful eyes did not remain on them for long, they were drawn to the maiden’s face. It was the archetype of heavenly, the embodiment of fantasy. The Philosopher Woman had spoken of Plato’s Form of Beauty and now it swam before him. Her large eyes called to his soul and her lips called to his loins, though she did not look at him.
“Come closer!” he called, clutching the rope in one hand and waving with the other. “I’ll pull you out, just swim a little further!”
She smiled. Not at him, her head was turned to the side as if looking at an imaginary lover, someone sharing the eternal waves, and the Mariner felt briefly like a spectator, a customer across from her in a bordello. That was nonsense of course. He was here and she was there, down in the cold night’s waters.
He felt giddy. Perhaps the water wasn’t as chill as he thought? Perhaps he should dive on in?
In one smooth motion, the woman lifted her arms out of the sea and placed her hands upon the surface. Instead of sinking, her hands found purchase, arms tensed, and she lifted herself up. The Mariner watched in amazement as her whole body climbed clear out. First her breasts, then her stomach, and finally her legs, giving a fleeting glimpse of her sex. Against all logic, she sat upon the surface as if it were a raft, rising and falling with the waves, each one only breaking a little as it clashed upon her thighs.
The Mariner wanted to take in the whole sight, to drink the image of her body, but he found it difficult to look away from her face. That sly smile beneath tragic eyes.