Joan Groves - The Last Island

It is simple enough—H 2O—water. Water, a single drop hanging from the sink waiting to be the last drop waiting to fall into a full glass of water. Water, the fresh flow of a winter spring into a freshly unthawed lake. Water, the bubbly foam from the shallows filtering through the soft sands of the shore. All of this is water. Water is the incompressible portion of the realm. Drop upon drop it crushes until only truth is left miles down in the deep where light is forced to darkness and there is no more except for water.

Water is where life is defined by fang and fin that swim about in sight. Life is size becoming invisible in the light in the water. Death is the size of fear floating face down, a mass in the water.

The ocean is four simple atoms over and over and over—the largest of exponential numbers possible—and even then it, the ocean, is beyond understanding. Hydrogen bound to oxygen and sodium bound to chlorine is all there is to the volume of the cubic miles of ocean. I had seen all the natural history programs on the oceans and had completed the required classwork of the oceans at the university long after my first experience with the ocean off the New Jersey coast at eight years of age. The plasma that suspended my red blood cells was seawater after seeing the Deep.

The incompressible nature of the water compresses the entire void from my vanity. The weight of water frees me in dimensionless delight. The simplicity and immensity of endless water destroys all the algebra and geometry that is in my understanding. And, from here, the ocean is without character and without face. The lands of my home in Pennsylvania are there in their ancient nature. The streets of Cleveland, Ohio, are there in their straight line design. The ocean, flat and deep, is only a smooth curved plane from this height. A chaotic chop at the surface, and just dense light where the air is no more.

Water on the moon—there is no sea tide, there is no breaking surf, there is no traveling wave, there is no endless deep. Nor be there fin nor fang. Nor be there spine, nor scale, on the moon. It, water, is nowhere in the sky in the darkest night or the brightest day for water is not there. The ocean sea is the plasma. It is the blood and carries the life that I cannot see, but which is in me.

Neither the moon, nor Mars, nor any star will ever live for there is no water, shallow or deep, in their non-existing seas.

But, and this is the most peculiar of all, the sea, water and salt, are not the vitality in the sea. For life can only come from life and life is undying in the dead depths of the deep black sea where devilry neither lives nor dies.

She was admiring her beauty. She knew that she was beautiful and for years she had had no shame or embarrassment in displaying her beauty. It was her pride and she would offer her beauty to others as a gift.

She was standing before nine polished metal mirrors that encircled her, reflecting her beauty in endless radiance. There were named handmaidens, numbered eunuchs, and a crush of slaves to anticipate her will and to do her will.

As one of her maids placed the nine-strand necklace round her throat and another placed on her head the crown that contained thirteen gems, she remarked how they pressed heavily upon her head and shoulders. There were ten finger rings and ten toe rings. There was only silence. The only voice was her voice. It was not that they did not wish to reply; it was that she had had all their tongues cut. Another maid made straight the necklace—for her obligation was to be beautiful and their obligation was to make perfect her perfect beauty. Her hands had touched only one object since she had become queen. She had touched only it .

The planning had been long. The journey had been long. But the wait to see the king had not been as long a wait as she had expected. “That was a good omen,” she spoke to herself, and the maids, eunuchs, and slaves would have said so, too, if they could have talked.

She had brought precious metals, precious stones, precious fabrics. She had brought animals, slaves, wealth. She had brought books, incantations, spells, and magic. But all the king desired was it . And there before her was it which she had also brought.

Nine months, nine days, and now it was the ninth hour—and the time had arrived for the meeting. Her will was anticipated and it , bundled in an ornamental sacramental shroud, was carried before her. He, the king, would see it before he saw her but he would not know what he was looking at while he was looking at it. She would be able to determine where his fascination lay, and then she would know the truth of the manner of man he was in his fiber. The simple cunning of the plan amused her as she thought about how in moments, one way or the other, she would have the measure of the man and, having his measure, she would have him .

She gave an order to the captain of the guard that those maids, eunuchs, and slaves that exited with her were to be put to death once she reached the king’s palace. She smiled as she viewed her final image—she was beautiful.

The king’s high priest gave her directions before the great doors were opened. The doors were massive ornate wood doors with huge metal fixtures. The priest and she understood the formality of the act, each realizing that there was no need for this act, but protocol required the act to be performed and in a respectful fashion.

“The Lady of Cush, the daughter of Joktan; Joktan, the son of Ham; Ham, the son of Noah; Noah, from the line of Cain; the Queen of Sheba stands outside your door and requests to be before your face—my lord, my king, my sovereign. What say you, most high—what say you, most wise—what say you, chosen one? Shall she be granted an audience before you in your holiness?”

There was silence except for the rustle of sound that was coming from the maids who were making perfect her hair, the ribbons of her hair, her eyes, her lips, her ear rings, her nose ring, her bracelets, her belts and shoulder covering, her dress, her anklets, her toe rings, and her sandals. Scent was wafted into the air, and she then walked through the fragrance.

The slaves and the eunuchs were not present. She looked at the captain of the guard, and the maids were politely escorted from her presence.

The priest was given a silent signal and the great doors opened silently.

She was escorted in.

How can such doors open so silently and so smoothly? She pondered.

At a silent signal, the palace guards also removed themselves and followed the queen’s guards.

The room was filled to overflowing with a brilliant radiance that came from no source but was ever in space for not a spot of the great hall had darkness and yet there were no windows. A filtered smoke hung about and created a most wonderful aroma.

The priest, answering to a silent signal, directed her to approach the king. But how could she approach the king? The throne was set in the middle of a pool of water.

How can I approach you and keep my dignity, my lord? she questioned in her mind.

The king and the priests were silent.

She knew her measure was being taken by the king. She could refuse to approach and be put to death for duplicity but she knew that she could not give it to any person except the king. Giving it , the king’s gift, to another would be the capital offense of disloyalty. She even knew that. Once commanded, she could not pause for a heartbeat, for that would be treachery. She knew the rules of the royal court.