Saponification

He wore the calm seawater like a thin and delicate veil. The briny film clung to his face with dreadful malice. Despite the gentleness of the water on his face - fine as a doily - the weight was intense. In this moment as he desperately fought to breach the water, he could not even remember his own name. The primal urge to survive had pressed itself against the walls of his skull and displaced any other thought. He was lying flat on his back in some forgotten tidepool formed off the coast. He could hear the break of the waves somewhere behind him, resonating in the sand and water. The pool itself was just deep enough to cover his face by no more than a centimeter or two. A presence seemed to keep him from surfacing. How did he get here? Who held him down? His eyes, bloodshot from the salt and strain, fought to make out the shape of a figure above him. Somehow his tears seemed to blur the image above the silty pool, but it was undeniable – someone was there, kneeling down in the tidepool, straddling him. Two large hands gripped his shoulders with only enough force to keep him down. The pressure seemed deliberate so as to give him hope that he might break free, but he knew he could not. The heave he felt in his chest began to squeeze around his heart; the air he held in reserve now betrayed him. He could feel his throat tighten and fire erupt in his esophagus.

Panic was all that surfaced.

He commanded his limbs to engage his foe, that his feet would kick and his hands would claw and punch – but they did not comply. His arms and legs were heavy as lead, and his head became light. Panic, just as fast as it set in, turned to resolution. Slowly he considered that his situation was probably futile. It was at that moment he saw his assailant. More than saw – recognized. “No, it can’t be!” he screamed silently in his mind. “IT CAN’T BE!” The words poured from his mouth in thousands of bubbles as he threw all his strength towards the figure, towards the heavens, towards the seemingly infinite layer of water above him. The water rushed in his mouth and down his throat and into his lungs, stifling what little life was left…

Jonah Viarco gasped hard enough in one violent inhale to immediately raze his throat. He wrenched his body up from the bed and gripped the base of his neck, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. He tore the CPAP machine from his face, wincing as the mouthpiece took more than a hair or two from his moustache. “Damn machine” he panted to himself. “Waste of money”.

In the kitchen, Jonah poured himself a cup of coffee. The cheap chicory blend stung all the way down his fevered throat where the screams had clawed their way out. He hardly noticed. He ate his normal light breakfast – a piece of toast and an orange - typical for a weekday morning. He never ate more than this before a dive. Anything more gave him heartburn at lower depths and he hated the suppressed burps cycling through his respirator.

Almost as much as he hated diving.

He had just thrown on his threadbare silk robe when a knock came at the door. Pulling on a pair of terry cloth shorts under the robe to preserve some modesty, Jonah answered the door.

Detective Withers never asked a civilian to assist in a case. Not like this. He hated that he had to do it. Not because of some deep-rooted hubris or wounded ego, but just the plain and simple nature of the situation: he didn’t have the resources. The little community was far from equipped to handle a situation like this, and he certainly didn’t have the skill set to venture to that place that no one dare go. He had no choice but to ask Jonah Viarco. He didn’t know Jonah very well, but he knew his father. They had moved to this little island when Jonah was just a pup. Of course, little Jonah wasn’t called Jonah in those days. He was called David, like his father. The moment little David was old enough to raise his right hand and take an oath, he did. And just like that, he was gone - shipped away to faraway and foreign places. In those foreign places little David would remain until he received news that the senior David had passed away.

Cirrhosis.

Little David returned to this little island after twelve years abroad. He was no longer little, and he was no longer David. He was called Jonah now, and he was lean and tall. He favored the colorful silks and floral patterns that come from faraway places. The service taught him many things while he was gone, and diving was one of them. It was not the least violent of the things they taught him. He never did say much about those things. But these days Jonah was diving for his community. He cleaned boat hulls mostly, and he was good at it. He would wake early and disappear into the water, with his tools intentionally dropped to the shallow bottom, or suspended by a custom buoy if the tide was high or if the boat was further offshore. Occasionally he was asked to scavenge remains of a capsized vessel after a storm, retrieving whatever goods that were still salvageable. He was always compensated fairly, and he kept to himself. Withers took off his hat as the door opened to the Viarco home.

It wouldn’t be the remains of a vessel he would ask Jonah to retrieve.

Jonah looked Detective Withers over as he considered the plea for help. It was certainly a plea rather than a casual offer, and he could feel the pit forming in his stomach. A tourist from the mainland had gone missing. It would seem that they had taken a detour during a routine diving expedition to look at corals and sea life, and had possibly found themselves in an underwater cave system. The only certainty is that they drowned; the man had disappeared over a year ago.

“Why now, after all this time? I think it is safe to assume there is nothing left of him, if he’s actually down there.” Jonah remarked. Withers shook his head. “You’re probably right, and I know it feels damn foolish. But there is an issue regarding the poor fella’s estate.” Withers let out a nervous chuckle. “It would seem that his family is having a harder time dealing with their gain than their loss. We just need some proof that he didn’t make it. A watch, a ring… hell, just a scrap of his gear.” Jonah sighed. Detective Withers had always been good to him. When Jonah was young and Detective Withers was Officer Withers, he would let little David sit in his cruiser and play with the lights while Withers went inside to talk down David Senior. Little David always looked away from the rearview mirror so as to not see the bruising on his face.

“Alright,” Jonah smiled weakly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The underwater cave system that ran beneath the little island community wasn’t always underwater. The high-water line had risen due to volcanic activity and erosion over many generations, and the tunnels and caverns had become the focus of local folklore and mystery. Everyone knew they were down there, but none were so foolish to enter them; the entrances were tight and once inside it was total darkness. One could reach the entrance with a snorkel and fins and a weighted dive belt, but that is as far as any human could go on one breath. No one had ever been more than a few feet inside. The resident oceanographer on the island, Ken Henricksen, believed the system to be far deeper than anyone ever thought, complete with dead-ends and one-way tunnels. It was a labyrinth with no end – and one you’d have to navigate blind. To lose your bearings was to lose your life. Guaranteed.

These were the thoughts that Jonah marinated on as he sat on the bow of the police vessel. They were almost to their destination, just a quarter-mile out past the coast and at the base of the ancient and silent volcanic mountain whose foundation met the sea and surpassed it. The mountain gave the island life and took it; the creator and destroyer of the open ocean. Jonah calmed himself as the boat slowed and Withers dropped anchor. The splash and crinkle of chains brought him back, just for a moment, to those foreign places.

It reminded him of how he received his nickname, Jonah.

He had been a Frogman for the US Navy, specializing in underwater demolition and explosive ordinance disposal. In those exotic places where he loved the sun and floral shirts and let the tropical world embrace him - he brought death with him. He seemed to be an unassuming tourist during the day, but by night he lurked in the waters outside enemy territory. He waited for his prey. He waited for the call.

Then one night, the call came.

He strapped on his gear, gathered his bearings, and he slipped silently into the water. Unnoticed he entered enemy waters. For three long and unnerving nights he did this, slowly approaching enemy watercraft and placing plastic explosives on the hulls of their craft. Every boat was manned, and every boat had a lookout. Even one misplaced breath through the respirator could give away his position by the surfacing of damning bubbles. He could not afford to surface, so he stretched out the life of his oxygen mixture by breathing as little as possible. He could hold his breath easily for over three minutes sitting completely still, and over two while swimming slowly. For three nights he lived in the belly of the sea, but the people of Nineveh would not be spared this day. From the adjacent bank he watched as his comrades confirmed the call and detonated the ordinance he had placed. As he watched the night sky illuminate in delicious destruction, his Lieutenant grabbed him by his shoulders and said, “You have announced the Lord’s judgement on these wicked people! From now on, you’re Jonah!”

Jonah.

Well, he had never liked being called David.

Detective Withers could see that Jonah had lost himself in thought. He hated to disturb him. “Are you ready son?” Jonah shivered at being called ‘son’. He turned around and put his back to the water, facing the crew of the boat. The handful of police and Detective Withers looked back at him. Jonah took in the faces, the names, and thought about how close and yet so distant he felt from this community. How they could feel like family and strangers? With only a weak smile and a half-committed wave, Jonah leaned backwards and fell into the water.

The light from the surface glittered through the crystal-clear water, and Jonah was happy for the brightness. He knew that it would soon diminish. He descended slowly, carefully navigating his way to the entrance of the cave. He carried a tether with him that was bound to a buoy on the surface to mark his location as well as track his ascent later on. On any other day he would have expected to see the schools of colorful fish or the casual passing of a nurse shark.

Today there was nothing.

His knees made contact with the bottom and for a moment he paused in the twilight of the afternoon sea, prostrated as if in prayer before the mouth of the cave. He imagined the words Abandon all hope ye who enter here above the entrance. There was no such sign. He surveyed the opening, measuring its diameter carefully with the breadth of his shoulders. Too narrow. Dread began to fill him as he realized his next move. He would have to remove his tank and respirator, push them through the hole, enter face down, and don them again once inside. He closed his eyes and took a large breath. The oxygen mixture was dry and coarse on his throat and his chest felt squeezed by the added pressure against the deep. He removed his tank first, taking care to check the gauge and regulator, and carefully pushed it into the cave. Darkness swallowed it immediately. Next, he removed his respirator and flashlight and pushed them in. He followed without hesitating. He had to keep his arms out in front of him to squeeze through the hole, and once the lip of the cave met his ribs, he had to release a gulp of air to fit. Then, just as it was when he was born, he breached. His hands searched the floor for his tank and respirator, and he found them without issue. There was just enough room for Jonah to flip onto his back and shimmy the tank back onto his shoulders. He could tell he was in a nook. It reminded him of a dovecote, like the ones from his grandfathers’ house in Italy.

He also knew they were called columbarium.

He felt now for his flashlight, patting his hands alongside him until he felt it. Angling it upwards, he pressed the rubber coated power button.

And regret immediately filled him.

           All in the space of just a moment he realized why he hated diving. He didn’t hate the water; in fact, he loved how weightless he felt as he swam. He envied the creatures who lived in such beautiful oceans and flew gracefully above the coral bottoms. He became just a fluid as the water around him, and he was free when he swam. But when he was diving, it wasn’t drowning that scared him. It wasn’t the close spaces like these that incited dread. It wasn’t the unknown lurking in the depths that frightened him.

It was the fear of retribution.

Retribution from the dead.

And now, lying on his back in a cave in just thirty feet of water, Jonah stared at retribution. When his flashlight clicked on it illuminated the cave. A small reddish-green parlor cut out by unseen hands at the bottom of a mountain. But it was the figure above him that captured his attention. The body of the tourist floated just above him as if it were about to speak, no more than a foot from his face. The body was a sick bile color, bloated and imperfectly preserved. At this depth and temperature, the body had turned to soap and become buoyant and untouched by sea life. Only the face had been disturbed. The eyes were gone and the mouth had been peeled back and the tongue had swollen between the teeth, parting the mouth. Small fishes wove in and out of the gaping hole, navigating their own hellish cave. Jonah screamed into his respirator and involuntarily pushed back from the creature. He could see the air bubbles rising, almost caressing the dead face of the fool above him. The air pocket that formed above shimmered like liquid glass on the ceiling. The body floated dumbly to the entrance of the cave as Jonah wrestled his nerves. He settled himself and tried to turn back onto his stomach to exit the cave. He could not. When he had pushed back, the regulator on his tank became wedged between two rocks and was now leaking air dangerously. He drew a long breath from the respirator and removed his tank. He used his flippered feet to push the cadaver through the hole, sloughing off bits of tourist as he did so. He drew one more breath from the respirator and went feet first through the exit. Almost through, he caught his weight belt on the rock. With his arms extended in front of him, he couldn’t reach it. He had to pull himself back into the cave to unbuckle it. He tried to take a final pull from the respirator, but the tank had already depleted. The upper pockets of the cave were now filled with unreachable and shimmering mirages of life. He forced his way backward out of the cave and reached his tether. The pressure in his chest had turned to pain, his calmness had long turned to fright. Upwards he climbed the tether, but with no weight belt and the threat of shallow water black out, he was ascending too quickly. He thought he could feel the grip of his Lieutenant on his shoulders, holding him down. He imagined that he saw more bodies exit the cave behind him, faces of the dead pursuing him up the tether. He could hear the crashing of the wake above him, but thought it was explosives. In the middle of the afternoon, just fifteen feet from the surface, Jonah Viarco believed it to be night once again.

Panic was all that surfaced.