Joan Groves - The Last Island

What truth are you trying to reveal and impart to me?

Then I continued aloud, “What the—”

He laughed out loud in an uncontrollable manner.

“The first time I saw you on the island, I told Manta what I was going to do to you. I wanted to see if you had a spine or a bag of jelly for a backbone. I knew you from the first. I gave Manta the thumbs up and then Manta gave you the LION.”

“What the—”

Then he began, again. “It is beginning not to matter at all, however. The storm season is going to come early and will probably be here in days, not weeks. The reason for this over-population and higher density of jellyfish is the same reason the tides and water overran Apocalypse Reef and are causing rogue waves here: the bottom is falling apart.”

“The sea tide is going to claim this island," I said. "The deep tide is going to claim that U-Boat. When it, the Deep, opens up I wish that I could drop that cursed thing into its gaping mouth.”

“Is that you, Deacon?” It was the voice of John Henry.

Why was she asking if I was the Deacon?

Then she called out again, “Is that you, Deacon?”

I did not answer. I just walked toward her voice and Manta’s imposing darkness.

For a short time there was quiet.

Then Manta called out. “Hey, Deacon. Something up? Is there a problem?”

So now Manta just had to start playing the game. Well, I was not going to play it. So, in silence I proceeded toward John Henry and Manta.

There were a few more shout-outs but I remained silent. They must be in cheerful spirits to be playing such a mindless game. I proceeded in silence.

John Henry caught on. “It is not the Deacon.” The surprise showed on her face as she articulated the truth of her vision. “Vaughnie, it’s you,” she said. “You looked like the Deacon. Why didn’t you say something?”

I thought, but did not say.

I did not make the mistake.

“Yes, you did have a bit of the Deacon in your stride,” Manta said. “And, now in your demeanor, there is the influence of the Deacon. He must have poured a great deal of water into your glass.”

Were they just having fun at my expense? It did not matter. There was a bit of satisfaction in being associated with the Deacon but I thought better of telling my thought to them.

“Look, he is smiling,” John Henry said. “Isn’t that the sweetest little smile, Manta?”

“The sweetest,” Manta said.

They were proud of themselves and began to laugh.

“He walks like the Deacon. He is trying to stand like the Deacon. And now look, he is trying to be silent like the Deacon.” She spoke with a teasing laugh. “That’s so cute. But, I want my Vaughnie back. Vaughnie, Vaughnie, where are you?” Then she put her hands on either side of my face and, while squeezing, asked me her question. “Vaughnie, Vaughnie, are you still in there?”

In a very playful, serious tone Manta picked up the Mutt and Jeff act.

“He’s gone, John Henry.”

“Gone,” she said.

“Yes, gone,” he said.

“Oh, no. Not gone,” she said before covering her eyes as if crying. “How, when, why? I don’t understand.”

They were so proud of their little act.

“It is just one of those things. It happens now and again here in the South Pacific. Vaughnies come and Vaughnies go. That is all there is to it. National Geographic did a show on it once,” he said.

She pretended to cry but it came out as laughter.

Then Manta began again, “You see, what we have here is not a Vaughnie nor a Deacon, but a creature half of each, a hybrid beast. It is more advanced than a Vaughnie but less so than a Deacon. It is classified as Deconas Wannabeis but most people just know it as a disciple. What we have here is a brand new-born disciple.”

They thought they were as funny as three monkeys eating two over-ripe bananas on one swing. They fell out laughing. It was funny, however, and kind of quick-witted, also. As a matter of fact I enjoyed it. Who knew there was such dramatic talent between these orphaned sea dogs?

“Manta, Manta, Manta,” I said.

“Yes, new disciple.”

“You are an expert diver.”

“Yes, I am,” Manta said proudly.

“You are a natural man.”

“Again, true, and I must confess to it.”

“And, Manta, you are a genius.”

“That is also true. Oh, so very true.”

“But, Manta, I had doubted your abilities as a prophet until this very moment.”

There was no answer. There was just a perplexing and curious expression on that great big beautiful earthman face. John Henry turned and looked at him. She was perplexed and curious.

I turned on my heel and slowly ambled away. I knew the question was coming but I did not know from which one the question was going to come. I am no prophet for simultaneously the question was shouted, not asked, by both.

“Prophet!”

I paused but did not turn to face them.“Prophet,” I said. Then I walked a bit.

“Prophet,” they said.

A third time. Good. That was what I wanted for now they were surely upon my hook and all I had to do was reel them in and land them.

Then I began, “Manta is a prophet.”

Manta was scared to ask the how’s and the what’s of his prophesy but John Henry was never bashful about such inquiries.

She began in a most effective way since a good offense is the best defense.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “You just have to get the last word. That is it.”

“Oh, no. Not me, for surely I am not the type. I have no ego,” I replied to her.

There were smirks all around.

“Explain then, if you can, the prophetic powers of Manta,” she queried.

I began in a most contrite way with my head bowed. “Well, when I first came to this place of wonder, I had a name and it did not end in a vowel duplet of ie that diminutized me. Do you remember?”

She thought for a nano-second. “Oh, yes, I was Madam Frankenstein. I, in a moment, gave life to a Vaughnie.”

“Yes, you did. Yes, you did. I became an ie ,” I replied.

“It was so cute. It was just so right. It fit you so very well.” There was a big grin on her face and she had this expression of pride.

“Then I met the Deacon or rather he walked over me. Then I met Manta and he put the fear of fear into me. Do you remember, Manta?”

A second passed.

He figured out the answer.

“Oh my God, oh my God! You are right; I am a prophet. Oh, my God.”

There was a detonation of noise that was sheer joy from him and austere silence from John Henry. It had passed her and she had no understanding.

Finally to ease her suffering, I told her the answer. “I told Manta as soon as you tagged me with the ie label how I hated it and he said that it was not much of a name and that one day I would have a new and better name. Now I do. I have a new and better name.”

There was a crease in her forehead but Manta just grinned that giant big grin. He was basking in the pleasurable fulfillment of his prophesy.

I explained to her, “I am the Disciple.”

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

All she could do was shriek over and over again.

All I could do was walk away as the Disciple. Vaughnie was left there, somewhere—forever.

On the boat solo, I, by means of evil, had put myself alone upon the Deep’s surface. By other means of evil, I had manipulated machines and means so that I would be the only person upon the surface of the Deep.

The Aurelia aurita , Moon jellyfish, reminded me of the blizzard that had chased me from Cleveland, Ohio. It was the same but different. In that blizzard, the snow had fallen gracefully by the ton from the sky. Here, the Moon jellyfish in their diurnal dance were arising from the bottom. Cleveland, Ohio, was a frozen wasteland of excessively straight lines that never reached a horizon. Here and now, there was no cold and there were no straight lines and the horizon was a depthless three hundred and sixty degrees. But, just as 55th Street on that blizzard-enveloped evening was overprovided with the crystal whiteness of snowflakes, here and now the film of the deep was overprovided with the jelly bodies of shimmering Moon jellyfish.