Deep Creek

~Deep Creek~

When World War II broke out, the powers that be in Deep Creek, Virginia, asked the question, “Why should we get involved?”

           But then a German U-Boat was spotted in the Chesapeake Bay near the mouth of the James River. Forty-three gifted Creekers were called and turned, and the Callan Clan of Deep Creek went to war. Their worth was immediately recognized by the military. They were sent to all manner of special units: Paratroopers, OSS, Special Forces, and Army Rangers. Hybrid Creekers joined the Allies on the front lines all over the world. Forty-eight Callans were credited with an unprecedented 23,412 kills. After the war, only three Creekers made it home alive: Cap’n Dick, his father Beauregard, and their friend Cap’n Willie. Willie and Borey had been almost inseparable ever since.

           Cap’n Dick’s massive presence and his best friend Wishy, waited patiently for Borey. They were leaning against an old building in the back of Deep Creek Marina, the hub of the fishing industry on the James River. Deep Creek had gone through many changes over multiple generations. Across the inlet was Spencer’s Marina, much smaller than Deep Creek, which catered mostly to recreational boaters. In the back corner, what was once marshes was now the Kinkaid Yacht Club. Built after the yuppie invasion of Newport News in the 1980s. Deep Creek was the main dock and market for the scores of watermen that worked the river and bay and had been rebuilt and added to many times. Recently opened was a seafood restaurant that looked out over the boats and water. But the building that Cap’n Dick and Wishy were leaning on was the same as when it was built almost two hundred years ago. It had cinder block walls from back when cinder block was new technology and the original clay tile roof, with a few patched spots. There was one entrance, an oversized door made of oak secured by the original cast iron lock that opened with a skeleton key. The two Callan veterans could smell the smoke coming from the rusted vent in the roof.

           “Eva’s working em already,” said Cap’n Dick.

           Wishy put a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth before answering. “Yeah. That Miss Eva. You’re lucky I didn’t meet her when I was younger.”

           Cap’n Dick laughed. “You did, Boy. She’s the one called you back when them Greys showed up wantin our kids.”

           “Oh man, Cap’n. We had a time killing those gangly motherfuckers they brought with em.”

           Cap’n Dick thought back. “What were they called?”

           “Ebines or Ebones or something.”

           “You were a short crop that year, Wishy. Probably cuz we lost so many in WW2. There was … you, Oni, and Randy Roe. And Odell and Russell.”

           “I still miss ole Russel,” Wishy said, feeling a little melancholy. He gave Cap’n Dick a peculiar look. “That was Miss Eva?”

           “Yep.”

           A young boy walked up, no more than a teenager. He nodded and said respectfully, “Cap’n Dick, Mr. Wishy.”

           “Go on in, Boy.”

           “What’s…a”

           “Just go on in,” repeated Cap’n Dick.

           “Thanks, sir.” Wishy shut the door behind him.

           Wishy said, “Seems like a good kid. I think that’s Bernard White’s boy. He can’t be more than seventeen.”

           Cap’n Dick said, “You were sixteen.”

           “Yeah, I was, wasn’t I? Have you been counting em?”

           “No, but there’s right many. Haven’t you been counting?” Cap’n Dick started going over the arrivals in his mind but gave up quickly. “How many do you reckon?”

           “A few,” said Wishy, pawing his foot on the ground like a horse’s hoof. They both laughed hard. It was an old Deep Creek joke about a talking horse. Even though he’d just said the punchline, Wishy had to tell the whole thing. “A man came to town claimin’ he had a horse who could count. People gathered around wantin’ proof. The man held up four apples and asked the horse how many apples he had. The horse pawed the ground four times and said, ‘A fewwww.’” They laughed again, harder this time.

           Crunching gravel heralded the arrival of Cap’n Willie and Beauregard. They drove up in a 1972 red Plymouth Roadrunner with a black vinyl top. It was pulling what was once a long U-Haul trailer. The words U-Haul had been crossed out with an X of brown paint, and now it was Willie’s trailer. Except for a tear in the vinyl, the car still looked pretty good. And with a modified 383 high performance engine, it was still one of the fastest cars on the peninsula.

           Borey shook hands with Wishy and hugged his son. “So. Jimmy and Debbie, huh?” Cap’n Dick just nodded. “And most of the Skulls gone?”

           “All but the one and the Sanctum, and Debbie has those with her. I can’t believe we never heard about any of this.”

           “Me either.” Borey looked at his buddies. “Well, let’s get to it, Boys.” They filed inside.

           Cap’n Willie and Borey nodded a greeting to Odell, Randy, and Oni. There they stood. The only seven living Callans. Borey approvingly scanned the room full of Deep Creek males. The walls of the building were bare, and the floor was dirt. Next to the door was a half cord of firewood, some kindling, a bag of charcoal, and a steamer trunk. Eva, Cap’n Dick’s wife, and her apprentice, Risa Hogge, were kneeling with their backs to the Callans. A four by four-foot fire pit was blazing. About five feet above the pit, a round restaurant-type hood hung over it, venting the smoke through the roof. Eva was murmuring low while her and Risa’s bodies swayed gently from side to side. The men didn’t know what she was saying and didn’t want to know. The women did the calling. The men did the turning. That’s just how it was and had always been. There were four branding irons with heads shaped like anchors heating in the fire. They were already starting to glow red and would soon be ready.

           Twenty-one Deep Creek males milled about anxiously on the other side of the pit. They ranged in age from seventeen to the oldest at thirty-one. Cap’n Dick had hoped for a larger turnout. Still, twenty-one Deep Creek Hybrids was no small thing. Risa stood up and moved off to the side while Eva approached Borey and said, “That’s all of em, Borey.” Then she went to stand by her husband.

           There was little favor between the tall, lanky Borey and his stout, broad son, Cap’n Dick. Borey stepped forward and got everyone’s attention. He spoke forcefully and with authority to the apprehensive and confused group of young men. “You all felt compelled to come here without knowing why. You all recognize me. I’m Beauregard Archer. And these men, Willie Soren, Dick Archer, Wishy Melner, Odell White, Oni, and Randy Roe. You know them too.” There was a buzz of recognition throughout the group. They all had reputation and a history in Deep Creek. Borey rolled up his left sleeve, exposing a burn scar in the shape of an anchor on his inside forearm. Cap’n Dick and the others followed suit. They held the symbols high, and their eyes all turned yellow. Borey waited through the oohs, aahs, and gasps. Everyone in Deep Creek knew there were some Creekers who were different. More than other men. Every boy had heard the stories and the legends. But few actually believed them. “You are the gifted. You have all been called as we were before you. I’m going to tell you the history of Deep Creek, of our ancestors. Listen with your hearts and you will know and understand. Hundreds of years ago a small community of people called Guineamen in Scotland lived outside a village named Bogsland. Socially, the Guineamen were shunned by the local inhabitants, partly because they kept to themselves, intermarried, and spoke a different and hard to understand dialect. But mostly because of the children. Guinea children could turn, as they called it. Become rebellious, violent, quick to anger, and extremely strong. Their eyes would change color to yellow. The Guinea mothers always sensed who were the afflicted children and would keep them away from the general populace, tranquil and isolated. But occasionally a child would turn and escape to the village, lose his temper, and wreak havoc. The people of Bogsland called it The Curse and only put up with the Guineamen because of their considerable skills as watermen. In late 1602, when the Black Plague was ravaging Europe, it hit Bogsland hard. Dozens of locals died within weeks. The residents, fraught with fear and grief, blamed the Guineamen and their cursed children. The prejudice became unbearable. Then one day, the Bogsland Milita appeared demanding the Guineamen give up all their children to be tried for witchcraft. The cursed children attacked the Milita and wiped them out in minutes. Surely such a massacre would bring the King’s army down upon them. With no choice and nowhere to go, the Guinea families fled their homes, leaving their lives behind. Six families went north together. The Archers, the Roes, the Jenkins, the Perrins, the Moores, and the Hogges. They went to London seeking passage to the New World with Captain John Smith. Their fishing prowess was known even in London. John Smith accepted them into the company on that basis. The six families sailed across the Atlantic Ocean on the Susan Constant, Captain Smith’s flagship. They traveled up what Smith dubbed the James River in honor of King James. The Guineamen had a keen eye for coastland waterways and spotted a channel leading into what they thought might be a promising inlet. On their advice, the captain went in to investigate. The families thought it was the perfect size and shape, and they liked the condition of the shoreline. But John Smith disagreed. True, the channel and the creek were deep enough for big ships, but he didn’t like so much marsh and thought it would be hard to defend. ‘Fine. Go.’ said Guinea wife Elta Archer. ‘But let our families stay.’ Smith refused. The contract was clear. The debt owed for the trip across the ocean must be paid with labor. There were negotiations, arguments, and finally, a standoff.”

           “The Archers flatly refused to leave. Smith was fed up and declared, ‘That’s mutiny, and the penalty for mutiny is death.’ He ordered his four soldiers to arrest the defiant family. Elta Archer had always known that her son, sixteen-year-old Callan, possessed the curse. She pleaded with him to turn and save the family. Callan understood what she wanted but didn’t know how. Still, Callan stepped forward to protect her brandishing a razor-sharp filet knife. Captain Smith pulled his flintlock pistol and fired. Merely a reflex, Callan put his hand up in front of his face. The lead musket ball hit the inside of his left forearm and blood gushed from an artery that came straight from his heart. He fell to the deck floundering in pain. But then his cries turned to growls. The startled soldiers stepped back in fear. His body relaxed and he raised his head, revealing yellow eyes. Callan had turned. He easily killed the soldiers and was inches from slitting John Smith’s throat when his mother called him off and saved Smith’s life.

           “Elta scolded the captain. ‘All we wanted was to leave this ship.’”

           “‘Too! Too!’ came the calls from the other Guinea families.”

           “Smith called Callan a heathen and a devil. He demanded the cursed Guineas leave the ship and ordered their very existence stricken from the logbooks. The six families gathered their belongings and went to shore while the three ships of Captain John Smith sailed farther down the river and settled what became known as Jamestown. The Guinea families called their new home Deep Creek. From then on, The Curse was called The Gift. And the gifted who turned were called Callans. Over time some families went their separate ways. The Kellums and the Hogges crossed the York River and started a new settlement they called Guinea. Later the name was changed to Gloucester when the Duke of Gloucester built a fort nearby to protect the bay. The Jenkins and Perrins moved over land to Back River. They found an island surrounded by water and swamp and decided to stay. They named it Poquoson, the Indian word for Great Marsh. The Archers and Roes stayed in Deep Creek where they live to this day working the river. And The Gift? It lives on in each generation. The few who inherit The Gift seldom learn its power. Most never turn and live out normal lives. But The Gift’s seed lives deep within them like a smoldering ember, binding their souls to the waters of Deep Creek. And if they’re ever called, they must turn and rise up to protect their kin.” Borey looked at the room full of glazed eyes and continued. “Two of our own face certain death. The world as we know it could end. This is why you were called. Any who wish to leave, hang your head, betray your gift, and go. But for the brave, for the honorable, now is the time to rise and turn.” The group mumbled amongst themselves. They felt driven but also nervous and uncertain. Borey took a glowing branding iron from the fire. Bernard White’s son, the youngest, came up first, alone. “Say your name, Son,” said Borey.

           “Jeb,” he said, scared to death.

           Borey grabbed his wrist and pushed the molten head of the brand into his left forearm. The called Creekers gasped and moved back. Jeb’s skin sizzled. He cried out and fell to the floor. The sudden trauma stimulated his flight or fight response, flooding his body with powerful hormones: adrenaline, epinephrine, cortisol, testosterone, T4, T3, and oxygen. Like striking a match, the chemicals activated his Reptilian DNA. In thirty seconds, Jeb was back on his feet. He felt impossible strength coursing through his body. He could hear the others’ whispers as if they were shouting. He could distinctly smell everyone in the room and his eyes turned a piercing yellow. Cap’n Dick hugged him. “You’re Callan now. You’re one of us, Boy.” Another came up to turn and then another. On they came, being branded and turning. Soon they were waiting eagerly to be next. Borey no longer branded them. They pushed themselves into the iron. When an iron began to cool, Borey would swap it out for another hot one from the fire. So it went until twenty-one Deep Creek Callans had answered. Odell and Wishy opened the steamer trunk and began handing each new recruit an eighteen-inch survival knife and a Smith and Wesson 9mm pistol with a holster, belt, and two extra magazines.

           Borey spoke as they all listened. “You’ve been given sidearms. But make no mistake. This battle will be won or lost with steel, not lead. Outside in his trailer, Cap’n Willie has all manner of edged weapons. Choose what you will. If you’re hungry, eat now. Knock on the back door of the restaurant and Dinky will feed you. If you wish to say goodbye to loved ones, make it quick. We leave very soon.” Looking around the room at twenty-one sets of fierce yellow eyes, Borey held his anchor brand up high and roared, “I will fight for my kin!”

           Anchors went up around the room and the Callans shouted, “TOO!” The newborn Hybrids hurried outside filled with life changing anticipation of their new power. The old timers watched them with deep pride and a little sadness. Some, maybe all of them, wouldn’t come back.

           “Borey’s really good at this,” Cap’n Dick said to Eva as they spread the embers out to kill the fire. “Someday he’ll be gone. Who’s going to do it then?”

           Eva smiled and slapped his ass. “Yeah. I wonder who?”