The Shipwrecked Mariner

There was a fire on the other side of the island again. Old Costas could see the smoke rising against the almost-black sky from where he sat outside his house. Most of the villagers assumed there was someone living down there, some tramp or transient. He (or she) had never been spotted, but a huge black dog, presumably belonging to the tramp, had been terrorizing the marketplace over the past week. It had stolen an empty wineskin, a bag of apples, and most recently, a couple of fish from tight-fisted Spiro the fishmonger, sending him into a paroxysm of rage. Dimitri Pappas, who considered himself a poet, claimed that the dog had stolen the notebook in which he recorded deep thoughts, but as he was notoriously absent-minded, nobody believed him. Inevitably after its thefts, the dog would run off into the woods outside the village and disappear.

Nobody lived on that side of the island, where the fire was. There was a tiny beach surrounded by high cliffs, inaccessible even by boat, as the rocks and currents in the deep water offshore were too treacherous. The tramp might have arrived on the island on the mail boat, but nobody had seen him disembark, and there was no way for him to get down to that beach. Nobody had seen the dog arrive, either, and if it belonged to the tramp, how was it getting up and down the cliff? It was a mystery, to be sure.

He watched the smoke for a while, gray against the sunset. What would drive a man to live there alone? Some desperate plight, or some pressing need for solitude that overtook whatever bonds to the rest of humanity he might have had. He couldn't imagine that kind of isolation. He wondered if the hermit was happy there, alone with the white sand and blue sea. He hoped so.

* * *

The fish was cooking nicely and smelled mouthwatering. He supposed he could've eaten it raw, but he wanted a real meal - a human meal. He hadn't had a decent meal since. . . well, he didn't want to think about how long it had been. He gnawed an apple - sweet as honey, the most delicious thing he had ever tasted - as he watched the fish's skin char and bubble. When it was done, he couldn't even wait for it to cool, and burned his lips and tongue as he fell on it like a starving animal. It was amazing - the flesh tender, the skin delightfully crispy. He knew he'd taken a risk by stealing from the locals, but it was worth it. A steady diet of small rodents hadn't done much for his figure, or what was left of it.

After damping down the fire and swigging from the wineskin, which he had filled at a stream in the woods, he lay on his back on the sand, still warm from the day's sun, and looked up at the stars. The sky was clear and undimmed by city lights, and he could see the Milky Way stretching from horizon to horizon. The backbone of night, he had heard it called. At the top of the sky's vault, he recognized his namesake, the brightest star in the sky and the brightest he had ever seen it. His good luck star.

His fellow fugitive squatted further up the beach, preening its feathers with its enormous hooked beak. He made it stay hidden during the day for the most part, but at night it was free to roam about, an arrangement which suited both of them. He had given it the other fish, but it was probably still hungry. They would go hunting tomorrow.

He would sleep soundly here, without rocks digging into him from every angle in that wretched cave they had discovered when they first arrived here. His belly was full of food, the night was warm, the breeze from the clifftops smelled of grass and growing things. He would have no nightmares: James Potter's face would not haunt him tonight, and the dementors would find other sleepers to torment. At least, he hoped so. He didn't care anymore if the local Muggles saw him. He had the right to a little comfort. He rolled over on his side, the sand soft against the side of his face. He closed his eyes and imagined he could feel the earth turning under him. He slept without dreaming.

When he woke, he was cold and stiff, sprawled on his face. Where was he? He could hear seagulls. . . and he remembered: he was in prison, lying on the hard verminous mattress that served him as a bed, and the gulls were crying outside the window of his cell. Soon one of the human guards would come with a wooden bowl of cold porridge for breakfast, which he would eat with his fingers, and then he would watch the sun's passage across the stone floor for another day, another day. . .

But the sound of the ocean was strangely loud, and those seagulls couldn't be more than a few feet away. And the smell, that stench of unwashed bodies, rot, and despair, no longer permeated his nostrils. He stirred, lifted his head, and came back to himself. No - no, goddammit, he wasn't there anymore. He was here, a thousand miles away from Azkaban, and he was never going back. He would die before he went back.

He sat up, shaking sand out of his hair, and rubbed his eyes. It was early, and the sun was over on the other side of the island, leaving him in shadow. No wonder he was cold. God, what he wouldn't do for some tea, he thought as he yawned and tried to work the kinks out of his back. Strong hot British tea with milk and sugar, and scones with cream, and sandwiches, and. . . oh, stop thinking about it. He had plenty of apples left, and that was good enough for now. The gulls were hungry, too - they were circling low overhead, hoping for the remains of last night's dinner, and he tossed them the fish carcass, which immediately became lost under a blanket of beating gray wings.

Buckbeak had gone back to the cave, so he was alone on the beach. He felt horribly exposed sitting here in the open, though he knew in his rational mind that nobody could see him. He crossed his legs under his gray, ill-fitting prison-issue robe (he no longer noticed how itchy it was) and chewed on an apple thoughtfully. The tide had come in during the night, and the waves were now only a couple of yards from where he sat by the extinguished fire. The water here was an almost surreal shade of translucent turquoise, nothing like the gray waves around Azkaban (a visceral, non-verbal memory: his shaggy fur heavy with freezing brine). That water was made to drown you; this water was made for swimming.

A swim. That sounded like a fabulous idea. He'd wallowed in the shallows as a dog, but he wanted a proper swim in his proper form, without being in fear for his life. He finished his apple, got up and pulled off his robe, shivering a little and looking down at his protruding ribs and grotesquely knobby legs with a grimace of distaste. His punishment for the sin of vanity. Along with all his other sins. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent - blue veins marked out a roadmap on his arms - and he knew that as soon as the sun came up over the cliffs, which it would very soon, he would burn like paper in fire. He would have to be quick about this.

The salt water stung in his half-healed injuries. He didn't care, though. The water felt as lovely as it looked - cool but not cold. When he dove underwater, he found himself surrounded by tiny silver fish that seemed to take a keen interest in eating the dirt under his toenails. He kicked them away but they kept coming back with comical determination, and he had to struggle not to laugh. He shook out his long hair, which floated around him like a black cloud, and surfaced, gasping, amid the spray and white foam from the waves dashing on the rocks. He was suddenly gloriously, deliriously happy. It felt wrong to be happy, but there it was. He was free, and he was alive, and it was wonderful.

* * *

Costas was sitting out in the marketplace, feeling the sun warm his tired bones. He had come here to see the doctor for his rheumatism - the doctor had prescribed some drug which was only available on the mainland, and it would have to be ordered. Now, after buying some bread and cheese for his lunch, he was resting on a bench and waiting for his son to come in his ancient truck and take him home.

There was a ripple of whispers and murmurs amidst the shoppers and sellers, and he looked up, wondering what was going on. The tramp - for it could be no-one else - was tall, thin as a stick, with matted black hair that hung halfway down his back and a face that had seen the devil. He wore a ragged, filthy robe or caftan and nothing else, his bony feet bare in the dust. He was bargaining in pantomime with a farmer's wife who was selling potatoes and onions, but she was having none of it. She turned her back on him and he slumped away, looking dejected. Costas wondered if he was mute or mad.

Now he was headed this way, and in a sudden rush of sympathy and pity, Costas beckoned to him. The tramp stopped, with a "Who, me?" sort of expression, and Costas beckoned again. He shuffled over, holding his rags around him. Costas looked up at him without fear. His sunken eyes were pale gray, a sharp contrast with his dark hair. Despite his emaciation, he looked young, and the bones of his face were fine: he had once been a handsome man, though he probably would never be again.

"Would you like to share my lunch with me?" Costas brought his paper-wrapped bundle of food out of his bag, and the tramp's eyes grew wide. "Sit," Costas said, indicating the bench next to him. He broke the loaf of bread in half, and handed it to the tramp, who stared at it for a moment looking incredulous and delighted, as if nobody had ever given him anything before. Then he tried to give it back. "No, no," Costas laughed, "it's for you." He couldn't really afford to be giving away food like this, but if the good St. Martin could give half his cloak to a beggar, he could make a small sacrifice for this forsaken man. He handed over a piece of cheese as well, and the tramp, after a moment of consideration, began cramming the food in his mouth as fast as he could.

"Do you speak Greek?" he asked. The tramp, with his mouth full, shook his head. "My name is Costas." The old man pointed to himself, repeating his name, and then pointed questioningly to the tramp, who shrugged. Costas got the impression that the tramp knew perfectly well what his own name was, but would not reveal it. "Suit yourself, then. You remind me of Odysseus shipwrecked on the island of the Phaeacians, so I shall call you that. Odysseus." He pointed at the tramp again.

The tramp chewed and swallowed, and then suddenly broke out in a sunny smile which made him look almost human. He spoke in a voice hoarse from disuse. The old man, who had once studied abroad in his youth, understood what he had said: "Thank you."

* * *

Such mean provisions for the last scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Hard sour bread baked in a wood stove, cheese made from some filthy farm goat's milk. His mother would've been horrified. And accepting charity from a Muggle - surely he would never live down the shame. How have the mighty fallen. He smirked and licked the last crumbs from the corners of his mouth. He could've eaten ten of those loaves of bread, easily. The cheese wasn't bad, either.

Sunlight filtered down through the branches as he rested underneath a willow tree. There was a bird singing somewhere above him, a robin or a thrush. It reminded him that he needed to find another bird that could send messages for him, now that the little owl was gone. He hoped it wasn't the last one in these woods. A seagull might do in a pinch, although they weren't particularly bright. All they seemed to care about was where their next meal was coming from. A crow or a raven would be better. He'd have a look around - or a smell around, rather.

It took him only a moment to make the painful transformation into his dog form. In a clearing nearby, Buckbeak was tearing the body of a rabbit to shreds, and the smell of fresh blood in his dog-nose made his stomach rumble, despite the human food he had eaten earlier. Without thinking about it, he dashed through the undergrowth and pounced on a squirrel. Its belly burst between his teeth and he ripped out its entrails with relish, noting as always the irony of eagerly consuming something that would make him puke if he had been human.

Licking the blood off his face and paws, he stretched and yawned and, as always, blessed the dog body that had saved his life over and over again. Everything was so much simpler as a dog. He had no name and no face and no enemies. He didn't have to worry about how he looked or what he ate, and he could piss wherever he wanted, and he didn't have to worry about being polite or saying the wrong things, and personal hygiene was right out the window.

It was easy to forget himself in this form. The world, which was black-and-white and blurry to his eyes, was illuminated with smells and sounds that he could have never perceived as a human, and it was extremely distracting. There was something over there that smelled rotten - some animal corpse - and it filled him with the nearly insatiable urge to roll around in it. The birds sang in a whole new spectrum of sound. Maple trees smelled different from willow trees. Even stones had their individual smells.

He went galloping and sniffing along through the woods, chasing after butterflies, digging up a mouse in its hole (deliciously crunchy), lifting his leg against a tree or two, and, yes, rolling around in the rotten stuff. Brilliant. In fact, fun. Like when he used to roam about with. . . ah, don't think about it. Poor Prongs. . . He whimpered, crouching down on the ground with his front paws over his muzzle. The smell of fresh water drew him out of himself: he was quite thirsty after all that running about. He stopped to lap at the forest stream - the taste was so much more complex now - and then just sat for a while in the sun with his tongue lolling out.

He remembered he was looking for something, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. He thought about it, thumping his tail against the ground. Ah, yes, a bird. A bird to talk to his godson, the boy with the scar. He jumped up and leaped over the stream, eager to start the search. He liked looking for things. He liked having a purpose. Wagging his tail, he trotted on among the trees, his senses alert.

* * *

"Right, then, hold still. . ." The bird nearly wriggled out of his grasp again, and he managed to grab it just in time. He didn't know what species it was - it was vividly colored and had a long tail and a long sharp beak. It had started dive-bombing him when he got too close to its nest in his dog form, so he figured it had some spirit. Once he thought it had gotten the directions straight, he gave it the folded piece of paper and let it go. It rocketed straight up, then veered around and headed north, soon becoming invisible against the bright sky.

Well, then. With luck he hadn't given himself away. He'd written confidently when he first arrived that they'd never find him here, but he still had his doubts. He imagined that kind old man dragged into the Ministry of Magic and interrogated. He pictured a full-out assault on his little beach, by boat and broom, Severus Snape leading the charge with his wand ablaze. No, it wouldn't happen. He had to keep telling himself that.

He lay back on the sand and watched a few clouds drift across the vivid blue sky. There was something else he needed to do. . . what was it? Ah, yes. . . He scrambled to his feet and walked across the beach to their cave, where he kept his tiny stash of food and possessions. Buckbeak, who was asleep, stirred as he rummaged about among the rocks. His knife. Still sharp after all this time, after slashing up the portrait and the curtains, inadvertently terrorizing the children at Hogwarts - that poor red-headed boy, Pettigrew's "owner"; he would never forget the look on the boy's face as he held up this knife. It was serving better purposes these days. Helping to start the fire, for one thing. He'd read about using steel and flint but he had no idea it would actually work.

Seating himself on the sand again, he grabbed a handful of his filthy hair and began to saw at it with the knife. It took longer than he expected to cut through it. He tossed it aside and hacked off another handful, and another. Eventually he managed to trim it to a more-or-less even length all the way around, just down to the tops of his ears. The heap of black tangles on the sand was alarming. Had he really been carrying all of that around on his head?

When he was done, he went down to the water's edge to look at his reflection. Looking back up at him was. . . a stranger. Not the cocky young man he had once been, but not the maddened fugitive he had become accustomed to being, either. He wasn't sure who this new person was, with his ragged hair and a face just beginning to look healthy and alive again from the effects of wholesome food and sunlight. Just himself, maybe. He could deal with that.

* * *

Costas sat once again in front of his house, leafing through his ancient university copy of The Odyssey. The pages were so brittle that several of them crumbled to bits as he turned them. The day was fading, and he watched the horizon, expecting to see smoke from Odysseus' fire as he had the previous few nights. There was nothing, though. Was the man gone? Had Nausicaa taken him to the home of her parents? The thought made him chuckle.

There was something rustling and moving around in the glade, some large animal. He had seen big feral cats around here before - his son had shot one once. But this was no cat, but a creature far larger - a great black dog nearly the size of a man. The dog that had been stealing from the shopkeepers in the village, clearly. It stood at the edge of the glade, watching him. He thought he ought to be afraid, but the animal clearly meant no harm. It walked towards him wagging its tail, and it sniffed his proffered hand and let him stroke its soft black ears. Then it sat, in the abrupt comical manner of its kind, and looked up at him with its head cocked to one side. Its eyes were strange. They were pale, not the icy blue of a husky's eyes but gray as the sky of a northern winter. He had seen those eyes before.

It couldn't be, of course. Magic didn't exist outside of books like the one he held in his lap. But the thought appealed to him, that the gaunt stranger he had seen in the marketplace actually had the mysterious power to transform himself at will. "Are you Odysseus?" he asked the dog, not sure if he was joking or not. It opened its mouth wide in a doggy grin and thumped its tail against the ground. It got up, barked once, and then ran off, galloping down the road that led to the village.