With a direct and deliberate stride, the Deacon went to the article he wanted, took it from the display, and simply exited. He did not pay for it; John Henry said and did nothing. As he exited, the sounds of the dive shop returned.
I thought about the transaction.
John Henry acted as if she did not see the Deacon.
I was no cop and less of a hero but I decided to follow the Deacon.
“I’ll be back.” I spoke hurriedly for I did not want to let the Deacon out of my sight.
She waved me a good-bye.
I learned that the Deacon made good and then some on his debts—he was no old man Vargas.
The Deacon moved through the air and upon the ground as if he were not material. Footsteps did not appear where he walked and the sea breeze proceeded through, rather than going around, him. He was flesh and blood, but seemingly not atomic flesh and blood—he was simply the essence of flesh and blood.
I followed very silently and from a distance but I knew that he had sensed my flesh and blood, the Deacon was too keen not to be sense-sensitive. He stopped in a half-step and focused on the ocean, not the whole ocean for aesthetic reasons of humanity, but on a single point far away and deep down like a top predator on the hunt.
“If this were the last moment of your existence, would you be involved in someone else’s existence?”
It was Manta. He had been behind me for some time, but he had escaped my notice.
“What the—you scared the devil out of me.”
I turned and faced the mellow giant.
“Does everybody on this island walk in silence?” I questioned.
Manta’s full set of teeth smiled, and then his mouth gave a most resounding sound, “Yes.” It was that Manta had one setting for life—maximum.
The Deacon was gone—into the sea or into the air, I did not know.
Manta continued, “That man, the Deacon, is less than human but more than human. His outsides are human, but that man’s soul spirit ain’t human. He hates the ocean, but makes love to it like a faithful lover. He ain’t from this island, but is more native to this island than the first ancient one.”
Manta was now fully serious.
I imagined that I understood the Deacon.
“Out there is the Deacon’s 55th Street.” I whispered the words to myself.
“55th Street?” The giant repeated my words to me.
“Yeah, and ain’t no blue Chevrolet gonna drive him off this island,” I said to Manta.
“Man, have you been smoking some of that jungle weed?”
Manta’s saucer-sized eyes were looking down on me.
I reached up, trying to touch Manta’s shoulders.
“I was homeless at home, but here I am home. The world is too small for the Deacon. The inside world and the outside world are too small for him. Out there in the deep is his place. What or where—out there is his place, Manta.”I tried to explain.
As I was walking back up the road away from the ocean, I knew the definition for the term ‘dead man walking.’ There was not a defined sound or sight—the sights were muted, and the sounds were muted. Fortunately, it is impossible to get lost on an island with a single road.
7
“No, thank you.” I spoke to the service person serving snacks and drinks on the airplane. The lady next to me refused them also.
“Please, continue.” My neighbor spoke with a touch of angst.
I continued my truthful tale.
After my attempt to follow the Deacon and a lengthy conversation with Manta I found myself back at the door of John Henry’s dive shop. She was in the space farthest from me, going about the business of sorting. After closing the space, I began to talk. It wasn’t long before John Henry stopped me in mid-sentence. She then told me the history of the Deacon as she knew it, in an effort to help me understand.
“You present the Deacon as a Captain Ahab,” she began. “No, he’s not a trophy hunter and the Great White Whale he chases is no massive Moby Dick. What he chases is without substance, I think.
“The Deacon arrived on the island with a dive buddy—just two wave bums who were out for sun, sea, and sand. At the time, he was a green-fin diver. He was someone from another place who had found paradise. Life was beer, burgers, beans, and 3200 psi. He is now a black-fin diver of the abysmal deep. The food stuff of his life is some unspoken motivation. 3200 psi of air has become his personal formula of mixed-gas brew.
“He and his buddy had found a sunken Nazi U-Boat. They did research and found that the U-Boat had been sunk by the U.S. destroyer Vengeance, exactly as the atomic bomb was exploded over Hiroshima. It was the last Nazi casualty of World War II. It had been reported to the U.S. Navy’s SEPAC, their Southeast Pacific force, but the information had just been filed. The war was over, an atomic bomb had been exploded, and so of what importance could one last U-Boat and a couple score of dead Nazis be to celebrating drunken men? The question of what a Nazi U-Boat was doing so far out of the theater was never asked.
“The Deacon and his buddy did a massive amount of research and even went back to the States and to several countries in Europe, Russia, and even Japan. They were obsessed—no, they were past obsessed; they became addicted. They were on intellectual heroin. His buddy reveled in the secret. It was as if he had seen the Madonna and had to confess his joy although he knew the sin of his confession.
“What they learned from their travels and research was pieced together from the discarded annals of forgotten and overlooked history. Even today many historians would laugh because it seems so outrageous and implausible.
“Near the end of the war, even under siege from all directions, the Reich developed and perfected long-range U-Boats. But the war was lost at sea, in the air, and on land. Still, the minds of the Reich-masters were always working. They perfected and launched three long-range U-Boats from Norway. The U-Boats would be the womb for the next generation of Nazis, for they contained the greatest of the Reich’s secrets.
“One U-Boat was supposedly carrying technology capable of generating enriched uranium. Another U-Boat carried good Nazis, a substrate for a new generation. The third U-Boat—the last one—was carrying the secret of secrets.
“The first U-Boat, carrying their version of nuclear technology, was recorded destroyed by B-24 Liberator bombers off the coast of Norway. The U-Boat carrying the next generation of good Nazis foundered in a storm between Brazil and Africa and rests on the mid-Atlantic ridge. The third U-Boat made a lay-over in Ireland of less than half an hour, evaded the Allied fleet, and went into the Deep with its secret of secrets. That U-Boat is out there and haunts the Deacon. As fate has deemed proper and good, the U-Boat rests directly upon the decayed remains of an old wooden slaver. There is some bad mojo out there.
“But it’s not the U-Boat, the slaver, or the bad mojo that plagues the Deacon.” She paused. Behind her on the wall hung a map of the island and, by chance, I was looking at the name of the bay.
She questioned me. “Do you know what the name of this bay is?”
I read the name. “Itua’faga.”
“Do you know what that name means?” she asked.
“No,” I replied.
“The Bay of Ghosts…”
I did not reply.
“Beyond that bay is where he remains,” she said.
“He is—sorry—is haunted by his buddy’s death?” I asked.
“None of those. I did not say his buddy’s remains are in the Deep. I said his buddy remains in the Deep. His buddy is alive out there in the Deep.”
What the— I thought.
I was about to say something, but she interjected. “Do not question me.”