The Last Island
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The Last Island
Joan J.K. Groves
Elliott Vaughn Groves
In the closing days of World War II, a German submarine slips quietly into the South Pacific before sinking mysteriously. The strange nature of its secret cargo—an ancient and powerful relic—is lost beneath the waves along with its Nazi handlers. Seventy years later the truth begins to surface…
When Vaughn leaves his dead-end job as a school teacher in Cleveland, he has no idea what the future might bring. Trading snowy streets for sandy beaches, he spends his last dollar on a ticket to a remote Pacific island—a speck on the map where the locals spin tales of shipwrecks and dangerous waters. Before long he discovers that some of these stories are more than just legends. Looking only for work and a life in the sun, he instead finds himself drawn into a centuries-old international conflict: the search for the artifact that now lies submerged just offshore.
The Last Island is the first novel in a new trilogy by Joan and Elliot Groves. As experienced divers and onetime residents of the South Pacific, the Groves have striven to bestow a striking realism upon their protagonist's world. Fans of thrillers, conspiracies, and historical mysteries will enjoy following Vaughn and his allies through their adventure.
Joan J.K. Groves
Elliott Vaughn Groves
THE LAST ISLAND
This book is dedicated to
our beloved son, Joel,
our loving family,
and our kind friends,
in Faith.
— Joan and Elliott
Introduction
It is simple enough—H2O—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.
1
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.
He was wise. She would have to humble and humiliate herself before him in front of witnesses. There was no other course of action and she hardened herself and fortified her will. She would have to raise her skirt in front of them all with one hand, thus exposing her feet and thus forever having her modesty violated in public by her free will.
She placed it in her left hand. With her right hand she pulled up her dress and exposed her feet so that she could navigate the pool which she hoped would be shallow. She cried aloud inside but made no sound. The king and none of the witnesses made a sound as she placed her foot into the pool.
How is this possible? How can I walk in water and not get wet? How can I walk upon water? What magic, what wisdom does this king possess?
She thought a moment.
If there is such magic power in his house, what power must his temple possess?
She pondered and quaked at the thought. She had to harden her will and muscles so that she would not fall in weakness.
As she neared him, he gave a silent signal for her to pause. He came down and walked upon the water. With that act she realized it was not water. A king would not expose himself. A king would not demonstrate disrespect to his royal vestments. As he came before her, she prostrated herself before him. It was some sort of clear and reflective crystal. She noticed that it was cold and hard but she noticed that it, the crystal, reflected light. She viewed her beauty in the amazing crystal and desired that the king not request her to arise for she now saw the beauty of her face that her lovers had often seen and she desired to simply lay with herself even if it was in public before witnesses.
From her position on the floor she was able to view the entire room of the king in reflection. There was only one other object in the room. There was a metal bowl. The bowl was crafted like the sea and rested upon four legs. One leg was the north point of a compass. One leg was the west point of a compass. One point was the south point of a compass. The last was the east point of a compass.
In the hand of the king was a metallic scroll; was that scroll the source of his wisdom? She could not see the words inscribed but she did notice the icon in the corner. It was not the icon found in the temple. She pondered. Then she admired her reflective beauty for she had never seen such beauty so clearly and so intimately before in her life.
It was not uncomfortable for her to be on the floor upon herself. At that moment the high priest signaled for her to arise. On doing so he, the high priest, backed out of the presence of the king. In the room there was the throne and the Bowl of the Sea.
Each leg of the bowl was constructed of three oxen. The brim was ornate with lilies. The borders were engravings of lions, oxen, and cherubim in relief. The cup was actually not a cup at all, but rather a bath that rested on massive wheels and its axles were cedars from Lebanon.
The king gave a silent signal for her to begin to speak. But what was she to say? The last moments had taken her tongue away and her own beauty had bedazzled her. Then she remembered it in her hand. She had not dropped it. She had performed as a queen should, in a perfect royal fashion and had at all times been graceful. He, the king, had not gotten the measure of her, after all.
With the formalities completed and her forebearance revealed she finally spoke, “Dear King, it, has been with us from the first, as a gift and not payment or tribute. When the first of the ancient ones of your people crossed the desert into the valley of the Nile from the east and requested seed so that they may live, the ancient ones of my people did give seed. A fair and honest agreement was established. The ancient ones died in their time and the agreement also died in its appointed time.
“Now you, my Lord, request that it be returned to the people east of the Nile who are no longer wanderers in the desert but who are now a great people. I request, Great King, to make fair this bargain that I carry back a seed also—the seed of your people. I request to carry into the valley of the Nile, a son. A gift for a gift, a seed for a seed. Is this not a fair agreement to replace the old agreement, your majesty?
“When he is of age, I will send him to the throne of his father and the final seal for all time will be that you give it to him as his inheritance.”
She put it before him, and he accepted it.
In time, nine months and nine days, a son was born to the queen. Menyelek was a most beautiful baby; the queen saw her beauty in the face of the newborn. The king saw his wisdom in the eyes of the newborn. In the valley of the Nile, Menyelek grew up in beauty and in wisdom. The queen never allowed her son’s beauty to ever be away from her face. In beauty, Menyelek lived and died. Menyelek was thirteen years of age.
The sands came and the desert eroded, then buried, what once was beautiful. In wisdom and power the king lived and died before the destruction of the royal palace by the armies from the east after a nine-month siege. It was hidden, then lost, then forgotten.
— – —
The date on the calendar of the Bishop was Saturday, October 14, 1307. It was the day after Friday, October 13, and the Bishop awaited the results of Friday the Thirteenth’s prosecution of the decree. Only his most trusted knight was allowed in the innermost room of his sanctuary and space of his mind, but he knew it was safer not to trust anyone, including his most trusted knight of the realm, this day. At this moment, even with all his authority, he was powerless and had to wait nervously in anticipation and hope that the expected results of Friday the Thirteenth had no uncontrollable or unforeseen consequences. Hearing the knight’s footsteps in the hallway, he, the Bishop, sprinted to the massive oak door, tripping on and over his vestments.
“Well, Sir Knight!” the Bishop demanded.
“The blade pruned eight but the ninth was not in the orchard,” the knight replied.
“And, it?”
“Sir, it was not to be found,” the knight replied dutifully.
The Bishop, letting his guard down, commented in regret and disappointment.
“A failure. It was a failure. We can cut down and burn all the trees in all the orchards, Sir John, but unless that single fruit is in hand all is for naught.”
The Bishop excused the knight and went behind the massive oak doors and in the slow motion of the dying proceeded to close the doors. It had been there on Thursday, October twelfth, but now he had failed to capture it. The failure was certain, but it was not his blunder. There were spies everywhere and besides, to organize and orchestrate such a raid would have needed divine intervention. But, nonetheless, eight of the secret nine were dead and the surviving ninth could never appear in the realm again with or without the prize.
The Bishop would write three letters. The first would be to Philip to declare success. The second would be to the Inquisition to accuse Sir John of witchcraft and idolatry. And, the third would be a letter to confess his sin.
He called in two horsemen—making sure neither was schooled in reading and writing. One he sent to Phillip the Fair, the letter de
claring the nine masters dead and that it had been destroyed—with the caveat that the horseman be immediately put to death. The second he sent to the Chief Inquisitor, accusing Sir John of unfaithful acts against the realm with the article that the horseman be sold into slavery and the profits given to the church. The third letter confessing his sins was placed in the base of a baptismal font.
At the same time the Bishop was kneeling in front of the baptismal font, a fugitive with one sole possession was making straight for the extreme outer region hoping to pass into the land of the unmapped.
The fugitive never spoke, but requested and received aid by the use of silent signals from others who had knowledge. In time, he reached the last structure, a dark, cramped cottage, and put it into a secret place.
The place, then unmapped, is now mapped. The lowly cottage had become a majestic cathedral. It was still hidden.
— – —
The date on the calendar was Friday, October 13, 1933. Herr Schliemann was polishing his newly acquired fourteenth century baptismal font in the large isolated preparation room when an unseen fissure weakened, and it broke.
An aged sealed letter fell before him; the date was Sunday, October 15, 1307. Herr Schliemann began to read, and then he read and re-read the manuscript. The manuscript was a diary, a confession, a map—an account of the demise of the eight masters, the escape of the ninth master, and the failure to capture it.
He knew what the Bishop did not know. In 1307, it was only half the prize, and he knew what no other person knew even now in 1933. Herr Schliemann was a good archeologist, a good German, and a good Nazi. He was Meister des Glaubens neunten grad but he could be Meister der Welt, he thought to himself ecstatically. After all, bishops come and go and Nazism was the political activity of the present, but it was forever.
Herr Schliemann would not be like the Bishop. There would be no letter of confession. It would be much easier in today’s world, he thought. He would not even have to accuse the other eight masters of wrong-doing. He would simply have them invited to dinner and have the special state vehicle be the means and mode of transportation. They would be thrilled to ride in the ornate carriage. The eight would be joyful and unsuspecting and, during the time of the drive to his house, each would become a bloody dead mass. The eight would be gassed to death by a valve that would re-circulate exhaust gas into the passenger portion upon command.