The Mariner
Chapter 6

The mariner walked back towards the waterfall, the call of tropical birds echoing in his ears. The sun-dappled jungle floor was alive with insects and tiny creatures. Such a beautiful place to be, he thought, but not against my will… Why does Murzium keep me here? Could he really be that lonely?

It was a mystery to him. Loneliness was foreign to the mariner. After his father walked out on the family when he was very young, he taught himself not to get attached to the company of others. Since then, he could only remember being lonely once in his life, and the woman who made him feel that way was in a grave not 48 hours later.

Suddenly, a sound. An animal calling so strange and beautiful, it took his breath away. It was a rhythmic, almost melodic warbling—a tone too low to be made by a bird. There, on the lower branches of a willow tree, sat a squirrel. It had a lush coat of reddish gold, like that of a fox. The hair on its head stuck up like ruddy flames in a V-shape. It made the warbling sound again, cocking his head to one side. The creature didn’t have the nervous twitch most squirrels possessed. It called out once more, then leapt across the branches and up the adjacent hill.

The mariner diverged from his path, following the enchanting creature away from the waterfall. He climbed over a rocky ridge and spied a beach he had never seen before. Unlike the one where his boat was docked, this beach was small and pebbly. Nearby were some young coconut trees, which he shimmied up and trimmed. He split the coconut the way the islanders at Yamdena taught him, then slurped the sweet, clear juice inside. When it was done, he scooped out the slippery meat. It tasted good. It had been a long time since he had a coconut.

When lunch was done, he lay in the grass beyond the beach and stared up at the sky, blue as his own two eyes. A cloud passed over that looked like a flying fish. It reminded the mariner of a time when he lived with the sea gypsies at Yamdena and they told him their legend concerning that creature.

* * *

Long ago, before Man appeared on the face of the Earth, there was a very beautiful and very proud bird called the Pulau. The Pulau was dignified and gracious and had a plume of feathers on his head that every other animal envied. But the Pulau knew his position in the hierarchy of things, only too well. He bragged relentlessly to all the other species about how he alone could fly the fastest; he alone could soar the highest; he alone possessed a coat that every other animal would kill for. And they hated him, because they knew he was right.

But there was no other family the Pulau was crueler to than the Fish. He would mock them mercilessly, flying low over the surface of the Sea everyday, displaying his stalk of feathers and calling out to the fish, “Don’t you wish you soar the skies and touch the Sun? Don’t you wish you could move as quick as the Wind and quiet as the Dawn? Don’t you wish you could feel the air rushing through a set of feathers so beautiful, so rare, even the Leopard burns in jealousy? Don’t you, hmm? Well, don’t you?”

Every living thing in the sea hated him for it. And so one day, when the Pulau was gliding low over the sea and mocking, Phlaxis, the god of the Sea, reached his arm into the air and grabbed the Pulau and pulled him deep, deep underwater and held him captive there.

When Perse, the god of the Sky, found out about the Pulau’s imprisonment, she was secretly happy the loudmouth had finally gotten his due, but at the same time she couldn’t allow for such an injustice. As was her duty, she went to meet Phalxis and plead a case for the bird.

She said, “Dear brother, you know as well as I, a bird belongs to the sky. No matter how vain he be, he cannot be kept in the sea. The Pulau must fly again—such was Creation’s intent.”

And in the fashion of many gods of that early age, Phalxis agreed… on his own terms. In accordance with his sister’s wish, he turned the Pulau into the Flying Fish, so that although he would fly again, he would never soar, and he would never glide. He would merely float a breath above the surface of the water—just enough to remember how agile he once was, and how far from grace he had fallen.

* * *

The cloud floated on, and the low, warbling sound roused the mariner from his daydream. He turned and saw the squirrel sitting on a large boulder at the edge of the jungle.

“You again?”

The squirrel voiced a reply in its squirrel language and the mariner smiled. He walked towards the boulder, and the creature disappeared into the brush. Near where the squirrel was sitting, the mariner found a very peculiar looking plant. It had long, thin leaves and red flowers with white streaks shooting from their center like lightning. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, the plant very curious, as if it had an energy all its own... After caressing it, he smelled his fingers. Cloves.

There was an overgrown path nearby that ascended steeply into the thickest part of the jungle and stretched towards the island’s single peak. He followed it for a while, the heat of the afternoon making the concave space between his breasts moist. He pushed on, making his way hand over hand through a forest of trees with fruit that tasted like pomegranates. After hiking the arduous trail for an hour, the trees thinned out and he came to a promontory that overlooked a huge expanse of sea. To the east, there was another island that seemed smaller than the one he was on. Other than that, it was water—as far as the eye could see. He took off his damp shirt, and while hanging it from the waistband of his pants, he saw it.

Beside the side of the path, where the rainwater had turned the dirt into a thick mud, there were animal tracks. They were small at first—a four-legged creature with claws—but in a matter of paces, they grew grotesquely, becoming almost human size before disappearing into the rocks. The mariner’s blood ran cold.

“Hello, stranger,” said a voice.

The mariner jumped. Looking up, he saw a sprightly young man sitting on a thin ledge several meters above the clearing. His reddish golden hair flew strait up like horns in a V-shape, and he had strange, grey eyes. He wore dark overalls and had hairy feet ending in menacing claws.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” it said. Then it smiled, revealing a brilliant set of fangs. “Have lunch yet?”

photo by photo landscape

The Mariner
An adventure series

Chapter 5

The mariner stood looking at the old man delicately weeding flowers on the far side of the pool. He said nothing. He had heard about spirits of the woods and waters before and their mischievous ways, how they would trap humans and keep them as slaves, but he had never run into one himself. The cool air of dusk chilled his bare skin and raised goose bumps on his flat abdomen.

“Why me?”

Murzium seemed to find it funny. “There’s no use arguing over it. If you weren’t here right now, you would be dead. You would have died right where I left you, in the middle of the ocean. If by some remote chance you made it to these shores, you would have died in the jungle. It’s that simple.”

The mariner gathered the rest of his belongings and put them on. While strapping on his belt, the haft of his dagger brushed against the skin of his hip. He paused for less than a second, then continued securing the buckle.

“You’ll get used the idea, overtime, son. The violent thoughts will cease.”

“How do you know?”

He smirked. “I know. You think you are the first?”

The mariner stood and thought about that. The next moment, he was looking at the cove from a distance and the light was different. A shirtless boy with brown hair in long, tangled curls scampered over the ridge holding a fish, still alive. He yelled to the old man and the old man emerged from behind the waterfall with a wide smile. He looked exactly the same—beard, clothes, everything. The boy cleaned the fish to the side while the man built a small fire. The flames grew and the pair chatted and laughed. Then they cooked the fish and the boy ate it.

“He was shipwrecked. Same as you, and when I first found him, much worse off. He could hardly get over the hill. But he lived here for many years. We were both very happy.”

“How do you know?”

“You think I can’t tell when a boy is happy? Children are like glass figurines—you can see right through them. They no reason to hide anything and they don’t even try. You can tell immediately when something is wrong.”

“And he never tried to leave?”

“No, he didn’t want to.”

“He never wanted to go back home?”

Murzium put his hand on his waist. “Well, of course he did. It wasn’t always easy for him. There were nights when it was all I could do to keep him from crying himself to sleep. But I was honest with him. There was no way out. It was a physical impossibility.”

“It’s not impossible.”

“It is!” The old man threw the weeds on the rocks. “For a boy like him, at least, it is. He had no boat. He arrived here on a piece of burnt timber from the ship he last crewed, the ship to which his parents sold him. He was a powder monkey, blasted out of the water by pirates two leagues from here… He lived like a slave, the poor thing. I gave him a life he could at least enjoy.”

"And then?”

“And then, what?” The old man glided to the top of a tall rock and sat there, a tired look on his face. “He… expired, several years ago. He lived a good life. We were so happy. But humans…” He shook his head. “So frail…”

The mariner bit his lower lip. He took his hands out of his pockets and walked to the highest rocks in the cove, from where he could see the ocean beyond the rock wall. The sky was heavy with clouds and all dark but for a paper-thin strip of orange melting into the sea. He stood there and watched the orange turn to grey then disappear completely, and the sea turned black.

* * *

The next morning the man woke and the sun was already up. He went to the water’s edge and drank. He splashed water on his face and neck, then ran his fingers through his dark hair. His reflection in the water looked good. He needed a shave, but other than that, he looked OK. Murzium was gone.

Walking through the jungle, the man stopped occasionally to inspect plants, eating berries as he went. The birds were quiet that morning, but it was sunny and clear.

Eventually, he came to the edge of the beach, where he could see his sloop floating in the shallows. He walked over the sand, which was not too hot yet, and stood in the water with his right hand on the boat. It bobbed up and down in the gentle surf. I could just get in this boat and push of right now, leave this cursed island and its delusional spirits. Right here, right now. It’s that easy. All I would need is a little fresh water...

He turned around and the old man was standing in the shadow of the trees on the edge of the jungle, squinting at him. He couldn’t read his expression. The mariner just stood there, defiant. All of a sudden, the wind picked up and the waves started coming in harder. The sky seemed to darken, and the boat quaked, jumping and ducking more and more violently. He put his left hand on the bow to try to steady it, then a big wave came and wrenched it from his grip, knocking him to his knees. He stayed on all fours for a minute, letting the sea wash over him, taking his time getting up. When he was standing, he looked up the beach and saw the old man turn his back and fade into the blackness of the jungle, and the surf was gentle again.