"Perhaps the reason we cry at funerals and rejoice at births is because we are not them."

- Mark Twain

The Mariner
A new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part IV

The mariner fished around the canvas bag hanging near the ship wheel and pulled from it a telescope. He put it to his eye and saw the island’s wide beach bobbing at the other end, the sand the color of dark rum. Directly behind the beach was a thick patch of trees and underbrush where no light penetrated. A settlement could easily hide in those shadows, in which case he had already been spotted—he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. There was no time for precaution.

He unwrapped his shoulder when the sun was still high, dark lines spiraling outward from the wound like jeweled spider webs. It felt like rusted metal, the painful throb growing with every breath. It had become so sharp he wished he could give up breathing altogether. That wish, unfortunately, he knew would come true. All too soon.

He drank brackish water from the skin and cursed his luck, steering the ship towards the limestone cliff that jutted above the island’s tree line. With foliage hanging off the top and peaking around the sides of the cliff face, it looked like he was sailing closer to the open jaws of a massive sea dragon.

When the boat came close enough, the mariner weighed anchor and stepped off into the shallow water. He fell to his knees, still weak, having not eaten all day, then got up and stumbled over the beach towards the foliage. The sand was hot under his bare toes but he couldn’t move any faster. He squinted in the bright glare of the sun, the jungle vibrating like a mirage behind the heat coming off the sand. In a moment, he was in the shaded area, where he sat on a rock and rested.

Water. There was the sound of water. Not like surf crashing on the sand—more like water slapping on rocks. Fresh water. He lifted his head and looked through the jungle towards the interior of the island but could see no waterfalls, no flowing water. That was definitely where the sound was coming from, though.

He got up and made his way, step by step, deeper into the island. Vines hung between thin branches, some so low they touched the ground. Sunlight drifted across his face like panther camouflage. Silhouettes moved in higher branches, miniature monkeys in packs of four or six, swinging branch to branch, stopping to peer, imitating him loping across the landscape. Their hides were gray with tan breast patches and fleshy noses, long, loopy tails like fifth limbs, moving gracefully between saplings, eating, picking at insects, blending into the landscape. The land sloped downwards into a dry riverbed of smooth, pearly stones. His bare feet moved across them like a ghost’s.

The rock face stretched along the east side of the jungle, then cut across his path. It appeared he could go no further without scaling it—an effort he deemed too difficult in his state. He listened but could no longer hear the sound of the water. Could it have been a trick? He scanned the jungle but there was no sign of movement. His senses told him nothing. Wait… no, nothing. A bird called out and its native exclamation echoed off the jagged cliff before seeking the deeper reaches of the jungle. The man wished he could understand that language. Perhaps it would tell him something he needed to know. Do you know how to cure this poison, bird of paradise? A breeze blew, moving the humid air like a heavy blanket across his chest. The man turned around, confused about where to go. Tired. I’m so tired. I’m going to sit down and just cut off this arm and be done with it. At least then I’ll bleed to death. Maybe that would be better. Quicker. Though he was far too weak to carry out such a course of action, he pulled the dagger from the hip sheath… when the water sound appeared again.

The mariner tracked back to the dry riverbed of pearly stones. A cloud moved and they shone like diamonds across the jungle floor, illuminating a path he had not noticed before. He followed them to the foot of the cliff, where they cut a thin artery through the rock. When he could put it off no longer, he started his climb.

Panting heavily, the man grasped at a jagged boulder and pulled his body to the top of the slope with his left arm. Though it was not a difficult hike, he was extremely weak, and on reaching the apex, even closer to death’s door. It’s just a matter of time now. I’ll just wait right here and die. There’s no more I can do…but what’s this? Looking down on the other side of the ridge, he at first thought he was hallucinating. A small pool of water stretched out in a perfect oval before him, totally cut off from the sea by a wall of rock.

The pool was an iridescent sapphire, blinding in its luminescence, and fed by a waterfall streaming from high above. Patches of wildflowers sprang from ivory pebbles in sporadic bunches around the water’s edge. The grotto seemed to pulse with a psychic power. The sight completely entranced him, and in spite of his condition, the man smiled at the natural bounty.

In a few moments, he summoned the energy to stand up and walk down to the pool. With mild ecstasy, he dropped to his knees and plunged his head into the virgin waters. They tasted sweet and clean, like crystal honey. He drank deeply and the fresh water filled him. Snapping his neck back, the mariner knelt upright, feeling immeasurably better.

The pool was surrounded by a tall ring of hexagonal cylinders of stone so geometrically perfect they looked unnatural. Side by side, the cylinders abutted one another as if placed by someone to form a fence—yet they were obviously natural, probably fashioned by some singular seismic event eons before. No man possessed the power to shape stones to that degree… at least no man that he knew of. The only section of the wall that was low enough to be scaled was where he had entered. The mariner marveled at the place, kneeling in the water. He realized that if he did not arrive on that exact beach, if his ship approached the isle from any other direction, he probably would have never heard the waterfall, nor detected this spring. What peculiar luck.

The mariner stripped off his dirty clothes and waded deeper. The water welcomed him, seeping under his bandages and easing the pain in his shoulder. Just floating in it felt sublime. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, his worries quickly becoming dim flames in the face of a spectacular star filled sky…

Swimming back to the shore, the man washed his clothes as best he could, and spread them on the rocks to dry. Then he lay down on a large boulder and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm his naked skin.

*

When he woke, the western sun cast long shadows across the pool. The mariner felt hungry, but was surprised to find the pulsing pain had faded. Without opening his eyes, he let his left palm examine his right shoulder, passing over the wound like a cloud on a quiet battlefield. His fingers sought the edges of the damp bandages, sneaking beneath the creases to get at the skin.

Could it be?

He slowly opened his eyes. With shallow breath, he pulled the clotted bandages back and saw the new skin. What brand of trickery is this?

“It’s no trickery, young man,” said the voice.

The mariner turned onto his hands and knees, his eyes searching. A talking waterfall?

“No, son, it can’t talk.”

“Who’s there?” said the mariner, looking about.

“No one who hasn’t been here for a long, long time,” said the voice.

The mariner looked for his clothes. Ten meters away, his trousers lay on the rocks where the sun once was, his dagger underneath.

“You won’t be needing that, my boy,” said the voice, but the mariner was frightened. He made a quick move towards his dagger, but just as he reached it, it skittered farther away, as if blown by the wind.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” said the voice. “I know you better than you think. You already swam in my waters, after all.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the spirit of the waterfall, of course. I protect her. Oh, very well.”

An old man emerged from behind the stream of falling water wearing all white. From his chin sprang a white beard that ran down to his navel. On his head was a tall, round, white hat.

“I’ve taken on this form to make you feel more comfortable,” he said. “I don’t really look like this, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I suspect my natural form would frighten you, so I’m appearing to you like this. Does it please you?”

Then the spirit smiled and laughed lightly. “Oh, I see. Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

As the words came from his lips, the spirit’s form liquefied, the light of the fading sun glimmering through the translucent shape before it solidified again as a shapely young woman.

“Hmm, I can see this form does please you…”

The mariner grimaced and ran to put his pants on. “What is your name?”

“I’ve had many names over the years,” the spirit said, already changed back into the old man, “but you can call me Murzium.”

“Murzium…”

“And you are Jacob…” The old man suddenly covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, but you do not favor that name any longer.”

“No... I mean, yes, correct,” said the mariner. He swallowed and tried to control his breathing. The spirit seemed gentle and lithe, but there was something unsettling about him. Perhaps it was his pupils… Blind men always made him feel uncomfortable.

“You… you can…”
“Read you thoughts? Why, of course. It is commonplace where I come from. And please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I’m sorry if my eyes make you uncomfortable. It is… one aspect I cannot control… But, here we are. You have come to my waters and I have healed you. You would have died, you know, had I not brought you here.”

“Brought me here?”

The spirit smiled and floated across surface of the water, tending to a patch of bright pink wildflowers on the opposite shore of the pool. “There is little I can not do, at least when it comes to creatures as simple as yourself. Please, do not take offense.”

The mariner shook his head, confused. He looked around the enclosure, feeling his healed shoulder absently with his left hand. “This place is enchanted, then.”

“I supposed you could call it that.”

Murzium weeded the flowers, his back turned to the mariner. In the silence, a nameless dread grew in the pit of his stomach. The mariner felt an intense urge to escape, and quickly—but at the same time, he felt he owed the spirit something.

“Thank you,” the mariner said at a loss, then started to say something else but stopped himself. “Thank you very much,” he said again, this time narrowing his brow, “for helping me, I mean.”

He tried to think of some way to repay the spirit, but what could he possibly offer such a being? How does one repay a man for saving your life?

“Well, the simple answer is—you can’t,” Murzium said peering at him across the pool with a handful of weeds, “which is why you can never leave this place. Ever.”