The Mariner by Ade Grant Page A

land on motorised vehicles. That was Judas’ life now, he and his vehicle were one. Judas and Chariot.
    It was on these dangerous contraptions that Judas found Jesus and his disciples. Feeling terrible rage at his once close mentor, Judas and his men attacked. The disciples fled down the road, trying to make their escape, but the motorised chariots were too fast and each disciple was crushed beneath their wheels. Jesus looked on, helpless. A crow squawked. They were dead.
    This sent Jesus mad. He began prowling the highways seeking revenge against Judas and all those who’d defied God’s will. The Road Messiah they called him, wandering, lost, as the Shattering tore mankind’s world apart
    One day, after many travels, Mad Jesus found where Judas in Chariot lived. It were a vast makeshift citadel deep in the desert. Jesus was one man against many, and Judas stood on top mocking his once great leader.
    “Just walk away,” he boomed. “Walk away.”
    Mad Jesus wasn’t going to be stopped by Judas’ powerful voice, nor his equally powerful flesh. With an almighty bellow Jesus charged the citadel. Seeing his eyes bright with fury, Judas’ minions fled, but their chariot mounted master stood firm, confident he could slay Jesus in combat.
    But Mad Jesus had no intention of falling under Judas’ sword, or have his legs cut to ribbons by the chariot’s scythed wheels. As he ran he pulled out of his pocket a slingshot, primed and ready. With each thud of his feet in the dirt, Jesus swung the sling about his head: once, twice, thrice! On the third he let go, sending a small stone hurtling towards his once close friend.
    The stone struck Judas in the temple, cracking his skull and ending his life right then and there. Mad Jesus stood over his body and offered up a prayer to God, pleading forgiveness for slaying a man once his brother.
    But God did not forgive Jesus. Not this time.
    - The Shattered Testament by The Reverend McConnell

    14
THE GOOD DOCTOR’S GRACE
     
    T HE MORNING BROUGHT CHILLS AND not just from the morning dew. Waking with pain was familiar to the Mariner, his alcoholism had long ago sent his stomach rotten, but there was a weakness and an ache in his joints that was even more insidious. For a moment he imagined himself on some sort of torture device, ropes tightly wound around his limbs, slowly twisting them in their sockets until any moment they’d snap clean off. No snap came. It was his own abuse that had led him to feel this way, no-one else’s doing.
    Drunkenness a distant and fond memory, he sat up, a hand held against his temple to ward off the throbbing pain. Where he lay there was a central grassy slope, overshadowed by an enormous clock tower made from pale yellow stone. The prominence of the time-device had not given it any sense of importance to the peoples of Sighisoara as they had twisted the clock hands to absurd angles, making nonsense of the time depicted.
    The Mariner got up and brushed himself down. His hands became slimy from the act, the dew thick on his clothes. As he rightened himself his lungs gave a quiver, air momentarily escaping him. He was wretched. Time to find his boat and recover there, perhaps gather some blankets and get some proper sleep. He’d need food too; that matter of great importance had somehow fallen to the side-lines the moment he’d tasted booze.
    The hill offered a good vantage point, and he could clearly see the ocean and the dock. His ship was easily the largest, though there were plenty of contenders for second place. Large fishing vessels of various ages and states of disrepair surround the Neptune like suckling pigs, or perhaps curious children eager for tales of distant lands. The Neptune would give them no child-friendly stories though, hers were all of suffering and darkness. He knew it well, she’d narrated one only last night.
    The Mariner shivered again at the thought of the ghosts he’d seen within her belly. Had he actually witnessed them? Or