by Ryu Mitsuse
Then he noticed something else and stretched up to stand on the highest point of the rock that he might get a better view.
Far off to his left across the plains, the same spires he always saw deep in the mist were standing, almost floating over the ground like a mirage, and the giant peaks were heading right toward that phantasmal forest.
For a long time he sat there, gazing out at that strangely solid illusion. The moments stretched into long, long hours, during which he asked the sky and the sea more than once what it was that he beheld.
And another question he asked of himself: What is this place?
He could feel something that had been locked up within his heart begin to unfurl, sending a tingling sensation through his body.
A storm loomed over the water. For several days and nights he sat in the driving rain. The sea roared in his ears relentlessly, and the waves that beat upon the rock broke over him like a drumming waterfall, wetting his body. Purple discharges of electricity lit the wave crests bluish white; the rumbling thunder sent its own trembling waves across the breadth of the sea.
He lay flat upon the rocky shelf, ceaselessly rocked by the waves.
The crustaceans that had once swarmed around the reef and the fish that had leapt over the waves, their scales flashing silver, were nowhere to be seen. Even the forest of kelp that covered the seafloor nearby had been drained of its color—he saw it flitting in pale strips or ripped from its roots to spin amongst the restless waves. For a long while he saw it drift in translucent sheets on the surface until gradually the currents pulled it out to sea.
A howling blast of wind brought him suddenly back into the moment. The ringing, discordant whine in his ears tickled his auditory nerves, stimulating him, awakening a large part of his brain that had until now been dead to the world. He lifted his body and stared with blank eyes across the vast ocean for a long time. Then, his entire body shivering, he tossed himself forward into the waves. It took some time before he was again aware of his surroundings and again wanted to see those strange, massive shapes upon the plains.
Time and time again, he rose up to the crest of a wave, stretching out his neck, only to find that he could no longer see anything on the land. The hazy, brown flats were once again as featureless as they always had been.
Far to the left, he saw the strange forest of tall spires, dim in the distance.
That was all.
Had it been a dream?
He shook his head.
Unease still smoldered in the recesses of his memory.
He swam straight through the channel between the reefs, flitting quickly over the dark chasm. He saw not a single fish, not a bit of kelp—only the reefs, lined thick with old shells, and the naked white sand. The clear water was as silent as death.
What had happened to all the kelp that once grew along the seafloor?
And what of the lively creatures that spread their gills like flowers from their muddy holes?
And all the crustaceans and the bold cartilaginous fish?
The only sounds drifting along the dark sea bottom were the low, distant crash of the waves upon the shore, and the high-pitched friction of the current against the reefs.
The roar of all those creatures of the sea was gone.
He wanted to find out why. And yet, he sensed, this was a dangerous question to investigate now. He beat with all his strength back toward his lair, plunging through the opening headfirst.
Fatigue such as he had never known assaulted him. The movement of his gills slowed abruptly and his head sank down as he fell into a deep sleep.
A minute later, the sphincter-entrance to his lair shrank, then quietly closed. The faint sound of a compressor grinding into motion drifted up from somewhere below. From the walls, manipulation arms of various shapes and sizes extended, sticking silvery needles deep into his dark blue skin. The tubes attached to those needles began to swell as liquid passed through them. More needle-tubes extended. A hemispherical cap was placed over his round head, and the bundled cables extending from it filled the inside of the pod like a spider’s web. Then, two pairs of thick tubes thrust out from the layer of shells outside the pod. One pair began sucking in seawater with a loud gurgling noise, while the other, a moment later, began blowing out thousands of tiny air bubbles. Like a chain of silver the bubbles rose toward the surface, their wavering shapes bringing motion to the lifeless, barren seafloor.
Unaware, he slept.
As from dust ye came, so to dust ye do return.
It was another hot day in Sais, parching winds whirling across the white cobblestones of the street. Red pitch oozed from a structure of thick pine logs that had been set to shore up a broken arch, its scent mingling with the smell of baking salt.
A small donkey laden with a mountain of woven baskets plodded over the stones, panting and shaking its head. A horsefly with huge blue eyes perched on the beast’s sweaty neck like a dangling jewel. Unguided, the ass turned at the corner and passed through another arch into an alleyway.
Now the donkey’s master appeared from behind it and gave the reins in his hand a sharp crack.
It was hot. Unbearably hot. Plato clutched at the robes he wore—white ankle-length robes, in the style of the Arabs—and hiked them up to let in a breeze. “Is that priest’s house far, Gladius?”
His follower, an Arab, answered through brown whiskers. “It is off to the side of the courtyard you will find at the other end of this lane, Master. Just a bit farther.” Plato had hired the Arab as a servant upon his visit to the island of Rhodes four or five years earlier. He had been invited there to help the local nobility set up a pre-academia and had been so impressed with the breadth of the fellow’s knowledge—quite uncommon for a member of the lower classes—that the man had swiftly become Plato’s most trusted personal assistant.
Plato squinted in the blazing sun. “It’d best be close,” he grumbled. “And this venerable priest best have the collection they say he does.”
“The magistrate in Rhodes, Telypolius, said he’d seen a stack of the scrolls himself.”
Plato wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve.
They passed through the cool shade of the arch, entering a narrow courtyard where an unusually large tamarisk grew, lending shade to the uneven cobbles beneath. The sunlight passing through the leaves made countless spots on the road, tiny versions of the round orb hanging above them in the sky.
“It will be over this way. There, see the mark of the priest upon the wall.”
Beside a low doorway of white stone, a piece of wood in the shape of the sun god hung slightly askew. The baskets stacked in the entranceway were open, and one contained a mostly empty bag from which a couple grains of wheat had spilled.
“I will see if he is home,” the Arab said, setting down his pack and leaving Plato by the tree. His leather sandals slapped across the cobbles toward the house. “Is the venerable Plikton within? My master, Plato of Athens, is here to see him.” Gladius’s voice echoed in the courtyard. Windows opened in the modest stone homes surrounding the courtyard, and people looked out to see who was speaking. Some pointed and shrieked with alarm when they saw the Arab. Standing there in his grave-colored hempen tunic, sheepskin shoes, and skirt studded with copper rivets, a silver band across his forehead, he looked far more regal than Plato, who idled in the courtyard behind him, the picture of a servant with abandoned baggage at his feet.
The curtain of plaited reeds that hung in the priest’s shadowed doorway was pushed aside, and an old man stuck his head out and exchanged a few words with the Arab. Gladius turned and beckoned for Plato to follow.
The interior of the dwelling was so simple it might well have been mistaken for a storehouse or stable. The two visitors passed through the stone entrance, only wide enough for one of them at a time, into stifling darkness. It took some time for their eyes, accustomed to the blazing sun outside, to adjust. And it was frighteningly hot. Plato staggered under the assault of the scalding air an
d the reeking scent it carried. The Arab took his master by the hand and led him forward a few halting steps.
“Here, please sit.”
Having no other choice, Plato did as he was instructed, finding a spot upon a small round stool woven from tamarisk branches. Belatedly, he realized the low muttering voice he could hear was being directed at him.
“. . . distant relative to Solon the wise . . . distinguished family of Athens . . . son of Ariston . . . Master Plato . . . the scrolls I have . . .”
The words came to him in fragments. He nodded in the direction of the voice two or three times, then gave up trying to listen and instead peered around the dim room. As his eyes gradually adjusted, the details of the small residence became clear. In the middle of the stone-tiled floor a square hearth had been cut; a weak flame flickered upon it. Something bubbled thickly in a kettle above the flame, and it was from this source that the horrible stench and hot vapor came. Along the edges of the floor stood a haphazard assortment of jars and pots. In one corner, wooden boxes and baskets stained black with soot had been piled precariously atop slanted shelves.
Plato noticed that the muttering had ceased. He turned his attention back to the crouching figure that had addressed him.
“You are Plikton the Venerable, he who possesses the scrolls of Atlantis?”
The wizened man muttered something again, too low for Plato to hear.
“Gladius,” Plato spoke, “our gift.” He held up one finger. “No, wait.” Plato held up two fingers and shook them a few times for emphasis.
“Yes, Master.” The Arab produced two sacks of gold dust from his bag and offered them to Plato, bowing his head as he did so.
“Venerable one, please accept this trifling gift.” Plato set the two small yet bulging sacks upon the floor before the old man’s knees.
“A gift! This is most unexpected,” the man said, his voice rising clearly for once. Reaching forward, he undid the strings on one of the sacks and pinched the gold dust between his fingers with obvious satisfaction.
“Venerable one, let me explain the reason for my intrusion upon your honorable solitude—” Plato began. Then his lips curled into a frown and he withdrew his hand into his tunic, reaching around to his back. Something living had crawled in there, and he could feel it unsettlingly heavy upon his skin. He plucked it off with his fingers, threw it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his heel.
“I know well the reason why you have come,” the priest said.
Plato contemplated the venerable Plikton. Among priests there were officiants who played a role in governance and celebrants who served only at the temples. In the past, many celebrants had gone on to become ministers or generals, but the king had strongly discouraged this in recent years. With their prospects for advancement curtailed, both sorts of priest now tended to direct their efforts chiefly toward the accumulation of wealth. In particular, it was an open secret that regional legates often purchased a priest’s august opinion to help smooth over their own mistakes, lining the pockets of the clergy in the process.
The old man crouching before him did not seem to be this kind of priest.
Perhaps he left the temple due to poor health?
The old priest rose slowly to his feet and disappeared into a room in the back.
“Curse this heat,” Plato muttered. “I won’t be able to read in here either.”
He pushed away the round mat and sat his naked posterior directly on the cool stones.
A moment later the old man reappeared, dragging a small bundle of slender, woven tamarisk branches behind him. Peering closely, Plato saw that the bundle contained dust-covered scrolls of parchment inside narrow tubes.
“Master Plato, the records of the Kingdom of Atlantis.”
The philosopher’s eyes shone. Pushing back his sleeves, he drew out one of the scrolls and spread it open on the floor, heedless of the cloud of dust and grit that rose around him. But it was too dark to see. Rising to his feet again, he snatched up the parchment and hurried nearer to the small hearth in the middle of the room. Along the way, he knocked over something with one foot, making a terrible noise and splashing liquid across the floor. But he paid it no mind. Thrusting the parchment toward the flickering light of the fire pit, he could see lines of writing in the language of Etruria.
From Atlas came many lineages of famous houses. They possessed wealth uncountable, such as no kings or nobles before them ever held and none will likely hold again. So vast was their empire that many of their possessions came from far beyond the borders of their own land. And yet to the good fortune of the people, everything that was truly necessary could be procured from their own great island.
Plato read on, forgetting to wipe the sweat from his brow, ignoring the line of insects that had begun to march along his calf.
The orichalcum mined within the kingdom’s borders adorned the edifices of the city of Atlantis, making their walls more beautiful than gold and stronger than bronze—
“Orichalcum!”
Plato pulled his eyes away from the letters upon the parchment and stared at the weak, sputtering tongue of flame in the pit. The name of that legendary metal was mentioned in the few stories of Atlantis, that great continent to the west he had heard about upon his visit to Fayum the year before.
Those had been nothing more than muttered rumors, but this document in his hands right now spoke of that lost city with supreme confidence.
Countless bridges spanned the canals that ringed the metropolis in concentric circles. Spurs connected each canal to its neighbor, so that the king and queen were able to use the network to travel anywhere within the city. The canals led withal to the open seas, and even those most central were deep enough for three-decked sailing ships to navigate. The sides of the canals rose high, allowing tall masts to pass beneath the arching bridges without hindrance. Where it was not possible to build the walls so high, the bridges were devised to open that the ships might pass. The island in the center, where the palace was built, was a near-perfect circle, defended by tall towers set with mighty gates. The stones used to build these towers were taken from surrounding islands or from the subterranean recesses of the inner and outer rings of the city. One of the towers was white, another red, and yet another black. The quarry pits beneath the city were made into safehouses, armories, and wine cellars. These cavernous holds had roofs lined with stone and double walls all around. Some buildings were made a single color, while others were speckled and mottled with different hues. The walls of the outermost ring of the city where it faced the waves were made of stone with copper reinforcement, and the inside face was covered with silver and tin, while the acropolis was constructed of flamelike orichalcum.
Plato repeated the strange metal’s still-unfamiliar name to himself. It stuck in his mind; the more he thought about it, the deeper seemed the mystery.
After a long moment’s thought the philosopher rolled up the parchment and tied it with a leather string. He gave a deep sigh.
“Perhaps we could bring these scrolls back to our lodgings for tonight,” Gladius whispered from behind him. “. . . Master?”
Plato looked up for the first time. “Yes,” he said softly, as though waking from a dream. “A good idea. Gladius, send word to the legate’s villa.”
He stood. “Venerable sir, I would impose upon your favor and borrow these Atlantean documents. I will be staying several days at the legate’s villa, and I promise they will be guarded most carefully.”
The ancient priest muttered something too quietly for Plato to hear and bowed his head low.
Rising and gathering up the scrolls, the philosopher walked out through the curtain into the courtyard without so much as a glance behind. The midday light stabbed at his eyes so painfully he felt as though he were emerging from a cave.
Plato wobbled into the shade of the tamarisk like a man intoxicated. His mind was filled only with thoughts of meeting the Atlanteans who were said to be still living in villages along the wes
tern coast of Mauretania, that land facing the Isles of Hesperides. He had heard of these villages from both Phoenician and Tyrrheanian sailors. The hints of the priest he had visited the year before in Fayum returned to him now, burning like a torch within his breast.
He had first heard the word Atlantis from his grandfather Critias. Critias had told him, in that way the elderly have of over-explaining themselves, that he had learned about Atlantis when he was still young from Solon himself—one of the legendary Seven Sages.
Critias’s description of Atlantis had taken on an incredible weight within the young Plato, sinking deep inside him. He had thought, even as a youth, that one day he must see the lost city with his own eyes and hold its artifacts in his own hands. The young Plato had been no prodigy. He had been more interested in learning how to sail a boat and experiencing the products and customs of other lands than in his formal academic studies. One day, he had decided, he must venture to the Sea of Marmara, beyond the Straits of Hellespont and to the Argo Sea beyond that, then past the Pillars of Heracles to the end of the world where the great ocean falls like a waterfall.
And the stories of the great kingdom of Atlantis that once existed far across the western sea—the realm that had sunk to the ocean floor in the space of a single day—were enough to stir excitement in his soul.
It was at the age of twenty-eight, when his name was becoming known in the larger cities such as Athens, Mycenae, and Terinth, that Plato first set foot in the town of Sais. There he learned that the stories that Solon the Wise had told were common knowledge. It was then that the name Atlantis had quite suddenly taken on a new degree of verisimilitude. He wrote of his excitement at that time to his friend Tethys of Terinth. Then, three years later, the philosopher-adventurer once again made his way to Sais. This was when he first heard the rumor that a venerable priest of that town possessed a trove of parchments in which much about Atlantis was written. Unfortunately, his official research duties interfered, and he was obliged to return to Athens empty-handed.