The following days saw the devils bring him whatever they could scrounge, sometimes disappearing for hours only to bring back a few scraggly roots. Each he would greedily devour, never complaining, and with every bite regained some strength.
By night, the devils would close in around him. Sometimes he would hear that great lumbering beast, squelching its way towards him in the dark, but the devils would screech and yowl to such an extent that the Gradelding would slink off, thinking its luck better tried elsewhere.
Eventually, the day came when the devils would look after him no more, and in no uncertain terms, made it clear the time had come to move on.
“Which way?” he shrugged, looking up and down the coastline and seeing no end to the cliffs. As one the devils ran in a direction for a few yards, then stopped and looked back expectantly. He shrugged. Their message was clear. “This way it is.”
The cliff-side trek took days, and just as he’d done when regaining his strength, he spent the night at the mercy of his guardians, trusting their vigilance against the moor’s predators. Each day was the same monotonous staggering, the horizon never changing, until finally one evening the small port town could be seen, its lights twinkling amongst the bleak rocks.
He sped up, eager to escape the open prison, and only paused when he reached the top of the path that cut down through the cliff to the port below, and only then because the devils had ceased to follow.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, but the devils remained silent and still. “We’ve got to get going! I must speak with the Wasp. It may still turn out all right.”
“Arf!” spoke one, looking nervous as if trying to break bad news.
“You’re staying?”
We’re sorry, their eyes told him. We’ve come to the end.
“You can’t leave me like this,” he pleaded. “Not after all we’ve been through. Come back to the Neptune. I promise, things will be different from now on.”
No different. You never change.
“You have to forgive me for Grace! I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Yes you did.
“All right, but I don’t remember it! I can’t be held responsible for being so fucked up. That’s my wife’s fault! That’s my mother’s fault!”
Isn’t that a bit of a cop-out? To blame your parents?
“But it’s the truth! The truth of me!”
There is no truth. Only the Wasp.
“Don’t leave!”
But the devils turned and ran, their strong stout legs carrying them easily across the moor. He thought about dashing after them, to beg further, but dismissed the idea. They wanted rid of him. Whatever debt they had held, they’d paid in full. He was alone.
Rejected by the last few friends he had in the world, the Mariner stumbled down the steep decline into town. Faces peered at him through the windows, curious eyes studying his progress through mesh curtains. They had seen many venture up into the moors, but never had one come back down. A true oddity.
A pub sign hung nearby, and despite his eagerness to check on the Neptune (which worryingly he hadn’t seen in his glimpses of the dock) he headed straight for it. He hadn’t tasted alcohol in an age, and even though he had nothing to barter with, he entered. Perhaps the landlord would be foolish enough to ask for payment afterwards? Or exchange a drink for the secret of the moors?
A curious publican greeted him behind a stale and filthy bar.
“Whiskey.”
The man didn’t respond. Not being an idiot, he wanted to see something of value first.
“Perhaps I can get that for you?” a voice from behind asked.
The Mariner tensed. Good-will did not exist. “That’s not necessary,” he protested, turning around to see the fellow who’d made the offer. He found it was not just one, but three.
“Sure it is,” the supposed-Samaritan grinned, holding a pistol that pointed right at the Mariner’s heart. “And it’ll be your last. Arthur Philip, by the orders of Christopher McConnell, you’re under arrest.”
43. THE LAST LIBRARY
THE MARINER’S SECOND ARRIVAL ON Sighisoara, a land he’d sworn never to return, heralded a great deal more fanfare than the first. The ship that carried him was not his own (the Neptune having been stolen by Harris and the rest), instead he’d been bundled onto a trawler and kept tied for the duration. To his captors’ cruel credit, the food he’d been given during this time was even less appetising than what’d been offered by the devils. Word of his terrible crime had travelled well.
“You know wot’s gonna happen once we get to Sighisoara?” his captor had whispered during the first night at sea. “You’re gonna ‘ang. Hang for what you did to that little girl, y’fucking perv!”
“Did you know her?”
“Don’t need t’know her t’know what you did was a fuckin’ disgrace!”
With a kick to the gut, the man left the Mariner alone, seething with hate and shame. Fortunately, violent occurrences such as this were a rarity. For most of the journey he was left alone to reflect on his sins.
Sighisoara had changed since the Mariner’s last visit. In a sense, it had both grown and shrunk at the same time. In a literal sense, the island was smaller; the waves had crept higher, a good couple of yards by his estimation, claiming more crumbling ruins to their depths. The dock however, had swelled. Where once there had been a single wooden promenade, there were now many enormous piers jutting out into the ocean. It seems a great deal of work had been done to accommodate the Beagle’s satellite ships, the great ferry moored further away where the ocean’s floor could not scrape the hull. The Neptune (what a sight for sore eyes!) was anchored beside the main dock, scores of men he’d never seen before strutting about her decking like gulls upon a carcass.
That was not the end to the rife construction; all throughout town, the Mariner spied buildings being repaired and erected, roofs tiled, walls reinforced, rooms extended, and one grand construction atop the hill more ambitious than the rest. It was the site of Tetrazzini’s rehab centre and was the focus of all their efforts. Civilisation had returned.
Upon arrival, the Mariner was unceremoniously dumped onto the dock, but as soon as his captors marched him towards the town, wrists tied with rope and a gun barrel pointed at his back, the villagers began to stop and jeer.
“Murderer!” one screamed. “Pervert,” another.
So many strange faces. How did they know him so well? How could that middle-aged woman, face plain and care-worn, understand him enough to summon such hate? How did that boy, who threw pebbles that bounced off the Mariner’s shoulders and stung his face, perceive the evil within? The Mariner didn’t blame them for their fury, but marvelled at their certainty.
A guard came bounding towards them. The Mariner, to faint amusement, noticed it was the bearded fellow that had welcomed him on his first visit.
“Send word to Mr. McConnell that we have the prisoner.”
The bearded man nodded enthusiastically, and with a stolen glance at the Mariner (containing all he needed to know of the fellow’s animosity), scampered into town.
A captured fugitive, he was led through the streets, followed by a gathering crowd. The Mariner didn’t need to look to understand their growing numbers, the chatter of curious voices gained confidence with every step.
Who is he?
He killed the doctor.
And he killed the girl!
What girl?
The doctor’s daughter. Killed him, kidnapped her.
Why would he kidnap the girl?