When Celeste, a Cat Island dive master in training, asked Tomlinson if he’d ever experienced feelings of love underwater, she was puzzled by his answer, which was, “Do you mean with a partner?”
“Say what?”
He repeated the question.
“Are you talkin about . . . ?”
He nodded.
The girl was still confused. “What other way can it be, unless you’re one of them that prefers . . .” She paused and dismissed the notion as absurd—the man was too obviously, yet charmingly, a lover of women.
“As in, with another person,” he explained. “When you’ve logged as much bottom time as me, decompression stops can get freaky. Occasionally, you have to, you know, let your mind soar and take matters into your own hands.”
“There’s something I haven’t tried.” She smiled. “But I’m willing to . . . Whatever it is you’re talking about . . . Don’t that sun feel hot on your shoulders? Man, I can feel it down my spine.”
She stretched, yawned, and listened to the boney American hipster reply, “For sure, like sticking one’s fun receptors into a light socket. Back when I was a boy, I pissed on an electric fence. Changed my whole outlook on life. Yeah, you should definitely give it a try.”
“Say what? Where I’m gonna find a fence ’round here that’s—”
“No, getting off while you’re decompressing.”
“Does that mean . . . ?”
“Hope so. It’s all about maintaining sanity during periods of solitude. See, I’ve got this pal who’s constantly going off, leaving me in the lurch. Underwater, on land, I can’t tell you how many countries. Like now.” He had to look around to get his bearings. They were anchored inside a reef south of Andros, close enough to glimpse Cat Island if he were to climb the mast of the 42-foot sailboat he’d chartered out of Fernandez Bay near the airport. “He’s somewhere up the rim looking for the guy I told you about—after ordering me back to the States like I’m some flunky.”
“Your friend that’s looking for the treasure hunting thief?” she said.
“Straightest dude you can imagine, most of his life.”
“Your friend?”
“The thief. An office drone—until he disappeared. But let’s not get into that. As far as my friend’s concerned, I could be slobbering drunk in some godforsaken South Beach bar.”
“But you’re not.”
“Drunk? Nope, only a couple of beers. That reminds me—” A tiny leather bag appeared from beneath his tank top.
The woman scolded him, whispering, “We ain’t smokin’ no kef before a dive, crazy man. We’re not alone. And I’ve got to take this serious. But later, maybe?”
Celeste gave the last part a saucy inflection. Standing on the forward deck, lean legs honey brown in a crimson thong, and a white T-shirt, its Jack Bay Dive Shop logo elevated by the angle of her breast. Pretty face, smile, and eyes that pierced the heart.
The smile vanished when her instructor, Tamara Constance, came up the gangway carrying a clipboard and an extra regulator. “Why y’all talking instead of finishing the checklist?” she asked, frowning. Then removed some papers from the clipboard and found a pen. “You need to sign these. This is my dive spot, Celeste. Exclusive, which means once you get your ticket—if you graduate—you still have to call for permission. And no talking about what you saw down there. Understand?”
“Yes, Ms. Constance.”
“It’s Captain Constance in public,” the woman said, softening a bit. “Just Tamara will do out here.”
She didn’t speak as gently when she got Tomlinson off by himself. “Marion was right about you. Don’t be messing with that young girl’s heart.”
“You’re jealous.” He smiled.
“The hell I am. Being professional, is what it’s called. Something you wouldn’t know about.”
“View it as part of the curriculum,” Tomlinson suggested. “Come on. Like I’m the only client who’s gonna hit on her? Celeste needs to learn there are boundaries in life. Some people, it’s years before they understand we weren’t sent to this planet to have fun.” He chuckled to signal he was only semi-serious and bumped her with his shoulder. “This isn’t as exciting as being holed up in a Nassau hotel room, is it?”
Tamara said, “Shut your mouth.” She refused to be embarrassed by what had happened between them after a few drinks at the bar on Queen’s Staircase. Then happened again at the Victoria, a hotel that catered to the posh and others worthy of around-the-clock security. “That’s something else you can’t talk about,” she added. “Or did you blab to him already?”
“Doc?” Tomlinson said. “Ask him yourself. He’s supposed to pick me up around five.” This was a good excuse to look at his watch and suggest, “If we’re gonna get a third dive in, we’d better suit up. Or not. I’d bet I’m right about the elephant tusk and the rest, especially the bracelet you lost.”
It was a slave ship, he had theorized. Copper bracelets—manillas, as they were known—were still used in West Africa as currency.
“But it’s your call, skipper,” he conceded.
The old preacher waved from the ground and was on the landing strip ready to help secure the blue-on-white amphib when they exited, Ford carrying a heavy bag, Tomlinson just his dive gear.
“Best keep your plane out of sight,” Josiah said, referring to an open, tin-roofed hangar. “These here is dangerous times, gentlemen, and will continue to be so until they find that sonuvabitch who kidnapped our grandson. Can you believe they still ain’t found his boat?”
Tomlinson was perceptive enough to realize that his Masonic brother had spent the last few days dealing in confidence with his pal the biologist. It was in the wink-wink subtext of their exchange, Doc saying, “It’s not the first boat to disappear in these waters,” to which Josiah responded, “Lord knows, and not the last. Not the biggest either. This here’s a boat-losing island, gentlemen. Up at the church we got proof you’ve never seen, if you’re interested.”
Ford, finished with the subject, adjusted the bag on his shoulder. “We don’t have a lot of time, so why don’t you two stay here and catch up? I’ll be on the footbridge getting ready.”
It had been nearly a week since exchanging the secret handshake. When Tomlinson offered his hand, the old man pulled him close and spoke mouth-to-ear, a fraternal rite that communicated urgency and also demanded a promise. For a full minute they stood that way.
“So mote it be,” Tomlinson responded, serious about the exchange, and a little teary, too. “Can I see him?”
“Need you to understand something first. I was hoping to show Dr. Ford as well, but . . . is he real bad jumbied about something?”
Worried, seemed to be his meaning. Tomlinson looked in the general direction of the bridge, where oceanic white tips gathered daily to feed. “Hell yes, preacher. I’m a tad jumbied myself . . . Oh, wait. Do you mean upset? Hmm . . . Could be the clerk at Arthur’s Town screwed the pooch by giving Doc his mail. Yeah . . . makes sense. He seemed cheery on the flight over, but with the linear types you never know.”
“Linn-eer-what?” Josiah’s rheumy grape-blue eyes showed puzzlement. “Brother, when Genesis says Let the earth bring forth herbs and grass, the Good Lord had cattle in mind, not a man I’m trying to talk sense to. The question I have is about trust.”
“Who? Me or Doc?”
“Both,” Josiah said. “I’ll show you.”
The church smelled of moss and springwater. Inside, windows reshaped sunlight into a series of arches that followed thirteen pews to an altar. Artifacts from a shipwreck formed a triangular shrine: ballast rock, a bell, a dusty Bible, a trunk that held swords and scraps of dehydrated leather.
The front pew opened on invisible hinges. Josiah reached in, saying, “Way back we held lodge meetings here, but this is something no foreigner, brother or not, has been allowed to see. I was hoping to grant the same privilege to your scientist friend.”
A parchment logbook, wood endplates bound with straps, was placed on a table. The elaborate script on the cover was illegible. Except for the date: 1784.
Josiah opened it just enough to see a page crammed with flourishes, stemmed vowels, errors dotted with ink spots. Words and syntax were archaic: Your Breast from the borde if that ye be wyse / Lest ye take hurte a’ter dawgwatch . . .
Meaningless words, out of context. At the bottom of the page the author had signed in a bold hand: Entarred this day of Our Lorde, Capt. J. Marley Bodden.
“Marley Bodden,” Tomlinson said, smiling. “As in, Marl Landing. And you’re a direct-descended. Very cool, Rev.”
Josiah closed the book. “He was captain of a ship out of Glasgow, the Cailleach. In those years, they burned or cast out witches, which is contrary to God’s Word. Also goes against the convictions of our craft, as you know.”
“Your grandfather how many times removed?” Tomlinson asked. Then decided, “It doesn’t matter. The craft—he was a Freemason.”
“His officers were members of Kilmory Lodge as well—there’s a chapel there with Knights Templar graves. I’d like to see it before I die, but . . .” The man patted the book and continued, “Capt. Bodden was a brother of the craft, but he sure weren’t no saint. Off the Abacos, a papist ship had lost its sails. Was foundering. The Cailleach was bound for Cuba, but they captured the ship instead—killed every able man aboard, which is the gravest of sins. Then decided—”
“A Spanish galleon,” Tomlinson said, thinking about Fitzpatrick’s story—the El Cazador’s sister ship, which had fled toward Cuba.
“Yes, a galleon out of Vera Cruz. They towed it south, where a storm put them both on a reef—” Josiah nodded to the island’s windward side. “That reef. Capt. Bodden, two of his officers, fifteen crew, and thirty-one women survived out of a manifest of seventy-five souls. There was a Taino village here. The Indios were so sick with cholera, they welcomed anyone, even witches, if they had a knowledge of medicine.”
“Castaways.” Tomlinson was picturing it in his head. “They had to assimilate, live off the land, but didn’t want to be rescued. Why? Because of the men they killed? Or what that galleon was carrying?”
Josiah shrugged, returned the book to its hiding place but left the pew open. “Three hundred years have weakened the pages, brother, but not the truth. This book contains what foreigners might use against us—and the source of our survival. Wealth, some would say. That secret has to be protected.”
“The Marl people’s private stash.” Tomlinson nodded. “Enough to tell the greed mongers and cops—modern times, too—to kiss your ass. Brother, I’m envious. What they brought ashore has financed—”
“Nope. They too smart to salvage the valuables all at once,” the old man said. “With all the robbers in them days? These days, too. They burnt the vessels to the waterline and let the wind and coral hide what they decided should be taken as needed. Over the years, hiding boats and such is something we good at.”
Tomlinson loved the agrarian wisdom of harvesting silver as if picking beans. “Brilliant. Really. Just wade out to wherever the galleon is scattered and—” He paused, mindful of Ford’s Shark Zapper. “Hold on . . . Every generation your people have to wade out a little farther. By now, to make a withdrawal, they’re risking water that’s deep enough to—”
“The deacons,” Josiah agreed. “They our protectors, so we honor them with tithes, as it states in the Book. And your friend Dr. Ford, smart as he is, ain’t one to promise something unless he understands. That’s what I hope you’ll pass along.”
The logbook rested in a Tupperware container to keep it dry. Other items were hidden there: silver plates, a gold chalice, a sack of something heavy—oxidized Spanish coins, perhaps. A more ancient object demanded attention. It was a wooden scythe, doubled-edged with sharks’ teeth and lashed to a bamboo handle.
“Whew, that bad boy belongs in a museum,” Tomlinson said.
Josiah seldom sounded stern, but he did when he replied, “No, brothah. That there’s a blessed Taino axe. I keep it handy in case foreigners start poking around where they shouldn’t.” A smile defused the implied threat.
Tomlinson took a step back anyway. “You set me up, Rev. Brought a box of fish ashore to clean, knowing it would lure me close enough—like a trap.”
The smile broadened. “As a precaution, Be sober, be ever vigilant, in the words of the great fisherman. Must admit, I was relieved to find you’re a master of the craft—and quoting from the Good Book didn’t hurt you none either. Purely was a joy to find a brothah I’d never met.”
The old man closed the pew. “Now that you know,” he said, “come see what’s worth protecting.”
They didn’t walk far. A rocky incline provided a view of the windward shore—the least attractive side to settle because of rocks and salt spray. Also the least accessible by sea. Waves pounded an outside reef and pushed streamers of foam toward land. Palm trees shaded a curvature where the island bowed.
“Wind ain’t good for anything but privacy and growing coconuts,” the old preacher said. “Come on.”
They zigzagged downhill toward the sea. In an arid area of cactus, wild green plumes sprouted from a crater. A ragged man was there with a cart. “Fine, fine,” he said in greeting. Josiah replied, “Fine, fine,” then explained, “That there’s what’s called a banana hole. You hungry?”
Tomlinson was peeling his third when they stopped again. Through the palms, close enough to smell wood smoke, was a house. Old wattle-and-daub, whitewashed with lime. Its heavy thatched roof needed repair, judging from the ladder and a woman sitting with her back to them weaving palm fronds. A tiny woman, short mousy hair that had been braided into spikes island style. Nearby was a pile of lumber, screens, and other items needed to make the hut livable.
Josiah postponed questions by touching a finger to his lips.
By the time a short, bald man appeared . . . then a boy, who took the man’s hand as if convalescing, Tomlinson didn’t need to ask.
Among the lumber was a heavy black panel that had been painted, but not enough. Still legible was the name: ISLAND TIME.