“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.
30
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.
At first the daily vertical migration of the Aurelia had kindled the burning of my imagination. Box jellyfish have eyes and are sensitive to light. Box jellyfish, like all sight predators modern or ancient, are active in light and indolent in the dark. While the Box jellyfish were lethargic, I would fool their ten-neuron brain and simply dive past them. I would find the densest mass of harmless Moon jellyfish and, while using them as a jelly coat of armor, go into the Deep.
I thought to myself, Genius.
My dad used to say, “If I have one more dollar than I need, I am rich.” After all, I had at least one more neuron than a jellyfish.
This was going to be a technical dive and all technical dives are baptisms of intellect.
The algorithms of the partial pressure gas laws had been calculated and the gas mixtures combined and supplied to the tanks. The gases of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide had all been calibrated and mixed to very precise volumes. I would in the first portion of the dive depend on my comprehension but the back half of the dive would all be muscle memory. Such things as nitrogen narcosis, oxygen poisoning, or carbon dioxide elevations were not good ways to dive but they were sure ways to die.
I knew that positive bio-feedback and the thrill of being face down in the water would power my first kicks. I also knew that the governor of negative bio-feedback had better not be overcome by the thrill for surely it would be the negative bio-feedback that would save my life —if my life could be saved at all.
The extra salvation tanks were resting on the bottom, bow, and, stern. Suspended in four atmospheres at the last link of the steel chain were the tanks that I would use for my first safety stop and above those, suspended in one atmosphere, were the second and last of the tanks that I would utilize as another safety stop.
I knew that these were the last tanks I would ever use, but, I did not say so out loud. My mother had taught me to never say never.
If I rechecked the equipment any more, it would show wear. The last tugs, the last pulls, the last shifts, slaps, and stamps were performed. The final recheck of air was drawn in and the last glance taken at the numbers on the submersible wrist dive computer. The final shift of the mask and pull upon the strap were completed.
There was inside of me a hope of a component failure. There was the hope that something would break, fail, or ill-perform—something that would allow me to discontinue and halt this dive. Something that would allow me to fail, but at the same time allow me to keep my manhood. So often, on so many other dives, there had been something. There were times in a few feet at the pool, there were times in the shallow waters of Looe Key, and there were the times over the coral-heads that one thing or another happened. But when your life is in the balance the gods just grab some popcorn and a soda and watch the drama unfold. It must be some Greek mythological thing.
At this moment, I knew it was not harmless Greek gods or precision-engineered dive gear or perfectly calculated formulas that held the balance of my life. My life rested simply in my actions. Turn around and go home. Just float here. Start the dive but do not complete the dive. Start the dive and complete the dive. At the end of each option was the same outcome: death. But, life and death was not it at all.
It was it. The Deep, Box jellyfish, sunken ships, uncaring, and everything else from dead Nazis to savage slavers and ancient prophets; they were all trying to define me. All were trying to limit me. From those back in Cleveland, Ohio, to now, all were trying. And now it—it—was not trying to limit. It was tempting me.