10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights

by Ryu Mitsuse

“This man is the leader of your tribe?” Plato narrowed his eyes and stood, taking a step toward the figure in the light. It was quickly becoming unbearable to him that he could not make out the suzerain’s features, though something did give him the impression that this man was slightly more advanced in years than himself.

  “Master Plato of Athens, I welcome you. I have always had a great admiration for the depth and breadth of your theories. It does the people of Elcasia much honor to receive you.”

  Plato could not have cared less about pleasantries. One question weighed upon him—why, if the Elcasians were so truly honored to receive their guest from afar, did the suzerain choose to speak with him through a window? The philosopher turned to Seim and whispered. “Elder, why does the suzerain not leave his chamber? Will he not come out and sit across the table from me that we might talk? I do not call him impolite. If this is his custom, so be it. I would merely know his reason.”

  Seim the Elder did not respond, instead drawing back, away from Plato and the suzerain, as though in deference to them both.

  “Master Plato,” came the suzerain’s low but resonant voice. “I know you have a deep interest in the kingdom of Atlantis. I am sure that your present journey is, at least in part, to ascertain the truth of that which you have read in the ancient records maintained by a certain priest of Sais.”

  “You are well informed.”

  “Master Plato. For five thousand years we have protected a past glory and a great legacy that would otherwise have been lost. We have protected it because it is worth our protection, and it teaches us the truth that mankind must never forgot. Yet we find our own words too poor to relate the meaning of that memory, and our attempts at comprehension fall short. Nor are we even sure that men today would listen were we to relate that truth to them. That is why, Master Plato, we have chosen you to carry out part of our great and difficult work. We have placed much faith in your wisdom—the wisdom of the Greeks.”

  Wariness spread across Plato’s face as he listened. “Faith? What do you expect of me?”

  “Master Plato. You must go west. You must go to the lands where the tribes lay in hiding, the remnants who protect the fading light of Atlantis’s glory. You must observe carefully the reasons for Atlantis’s demise and the particulars of what followed. Then, you must tell the world what you have seen.”

  Plato leaned forward. “Indeed, my calling upon the venerable priest of Sais was but my first stop upon a longer journey that led me here, to Elcasia—and will lead me further beyond, past the Atlas Mountains, to the seacoast that looks out upon the Isles of Hesperides.”

  “And you do this without even our asking.”

  Seim slipped quietly from his chair and made his way to a corner of the room. He busied himself there for a moment, then returned to the table bearing two large goblets of silver atop a tray. The goblets let off a brilliant light. A serving youth who had entered the room a few moments earlier stood waiting behind the elder, the jug of wine in his hands.

  “Master Plato, please drink.”

  Plato’s and Gladius’s goblets were filled to brimming with crimson wine. A rich, fruity aroma suffused the room.

  Fig, perhaps? Plato flared his nostrils.

  Seim tilted the jug, pouring some of the wine into his palm. He sipped it carefully. Then he bowed and returned to his seat. The youth holding the wine jug quietly left the room.

  Goblet in hand, Plato stared at the dark silhouette of the suzerain.

  “Well then, Suzerain. There are two or three things I would like to ask you.”

  “What would you know?”

  “I have heard that in antiquity, when the gods divided up all lands to give to their children, the sea god Poseidon desired a great island floating upon the ocean, which he bequeathed to the descendants of his human wife. Poseidon’s eldest child Atlanta, with his tribe, ruled this island that had been left to him by his father, and many dozens of islands around it besides. His realm expanded until he considered all lands from Libya to Egypt to the warmer seas, and the mountains and oceans of Tyrrenia, Syria, and Hellespont, to be his domain. Furthermore, he counted another great continent, one as yet uninhabited by man, that lay far across the western waters, to be part of his territory. Suzerain, I have long harbored a great interest in the tales of this kingdom of people with divine wills, who never warred, who loved beauty and music—their courage, their nobility, their honesty, and their hearts that shirked no labor.”

  Plato stared at the dark silhouette of the suzerain, who stood unmoving, as though affixed to the green light behind him. He continued. “I have heard furthermore that the kings who divided this country amongst themselves never took up arms or rose against one another, but instead followed the teachings of their forebears, and did only good for their people, while the house of Atlas, King of Kings who stood above them, worked only to realize the divine will on behalf of those kings and their people. Is this not true, Suzerain?”

  “It is.”

  “And I understand that the edicts of Poseidon were, for the people of his kingdom, like the edicts of Heaven which none might disobey. For the rule of Heaven was the rule of the people, and the hearts of the people were the hearts of their kings, and the heart of the King of Kings as well. So closely entwined were the people and their God that to observe the sacred rites was, in fact, to practice government. Is this not true, Suzerain?”

  “Indeed, it is so.” The suzerain nodded deeply.

  “Then let me ask you this question: if these people of Atlantis followed always the will of Heaven and received within them only that which was good and beautiful, and carried always Truth in their hearts as a guide, why then did they perish? If the laws were created to bear forth the divine will, and the people never hesitated to do their utmost in the pursuit of Goodness, what brought them to ruin? How could it not please the gods to watch over them for eternity?”

  Plato stared at the suzerain floating in his window of green light with unblinking intensity. “So it should have been . . .” the philosopher continued after a moment, his voice filled with pain. “Yet it was not to be! I have heard that iron fire erupted from the earth, scorching the land, and a great stinking cloud of sulfur engulfed the sacred land entirely, dragging it down beneath the waves. They say that hardly any escaped the destruction. Why? How did such people warrant the wrath of the divine? What possible reason could the gods have for burying their own children?”

  The suzerain’s form was like a black shadow, unmoving. Behind him, the brilliant waves of green light had begun to swirl violently. At last he spoke, his deep voice even and low. “You have every reason to wonder at the justice of these things; yet if you would have the answers you seek, you must find them with your own eyes. Then you must tell your world what you have seen. You must tell all of your people—that is your duty. Understand that it was a destiny that brought you to this place. And as you love your world, I would have you accept my request and treat it as your obligation. Do you understand? According to your own words, a great philosopher must at the same time be the best of all politicians. It is you who must lift the shadow of misfortune that lies across your world.”

  “Wait. What is this shadow of misfortune of which you speak?”

  “To tell you that would require explaining from the very beginning the reason why the Kingdom of Atlantis disappeared from the face of the gods’ waters; why it had to disappear. Know that the manner of this world’s creation, the manner of its maintenance, is connected to the laws and permissions we have received in the name of the gods. An end such as that great kingdom’s end is not part of this process; it is no mere worldly change.”

  “Then you mean to say that no reason whatsoever exists for Atlantis’s destruction that can be explained in terms of the apparent world?”

  “It is better perhaps to say that such a reason cannot have existed.”

  “Wait!” Plato shouted, standing. “So the reason for Atlantis’s destruction lies outside of this world?�
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  The suzerain did not speak. Instead, his black silhouette quietly dissolved into the waves of rippling green light.

  “Master Plato. The audience has ended.” Seim the Elder’s head hung low. Plato blinked, suddenly aware that the green light had faded. The suzerain’s voice still echoed in his ears, an oddly metallic sound that seemed to ring from within his own head.

  Dazed, the philosopher reached out for the goblet he had unconsciously set down. Holding it in his hand, he let his eyes lose their focus as he reflected on his strange audience from its beginning.

  Who was the suzerain? Why had he not revealed himself entirely? And how had he anticipated Plato’s arrival? The questions left an unsettled feeling in his breast. The one thing that was clear to him was that the suzerain expected him to act. Plato had planned this trip to satisfy his own personal curiosity; now he was astonished to find that it might hold a far greater significance altogether.

  “What is the meaning of this, Elder? What your suzerain said troubles me deeply—in truth I am quite confused. For it seems that your suzerain has placed upon me a very weighty mission the likes of which I never before imagined.”

  Seim the Elder shook his head in deference. “Master Plato. You must do only as your will bids you. If you wish, you may forget all our suzerain has said. It can be as though you never heard him speak—”

  A thin smile came to the corner of Plato’s mouth. “Indeed,” he muttered, staring at his own reflection in the orichalcum wall. But there was no laughter in the philosopher’s eyes—his smile seemed to throw his face out of balance. “Forget it all? Pretend I heard nothing?”

  Those who did not like Plato—especially those who had met him in debate—privately resented his peculiar smile. He was quite aware of this, yet it was not something he chose to care about.

  Plato tilted his goblet, returning it empty to his host. The wine left a bitter residue on his tongue.

  “Gladius. We go west. Prepare for our departure.”

  Gladius lowered his head in silence. Plato rose to depart without a glance at the window behind him.

  “Elder. I do not remember the words of your suzerain—in fact I did not hear them. My journey from here to the west of the Atlas Mountains was already decided upon my departure from Athens. I continue on to my original destination.”

  The old man lowered his head, his face expressionless. “Very well, Master Plato. Yet I insist that you spend tonight here with us. From the look of the sky, there will be a sandstorm coming. Tomorrow I will send a youth with you who knows the road west of here well. However, he is currently in a village to the south, with the merchants.”

  “Of course. One more night will make little difference on a long journey such as this. Then, Elder, we will presume upon your hospitality. You agree, Gladius?”

  “Aye, Master,” Gladius replied, his relief evident. The suzerain’s words had filled even the stalwart Arab with a deep unease. He had not been eager to embark on a nighttime desert crossing, and it showed in his face.

  “Come this way, please.”

  Plato and Gladius followed Seim from the building. Outside, twilight had already begun to spread across the vast desert beyond the village walls. Far across a sea of burnt yellow sand, the fading sun had set halfway, sending its rays upward to paint the high clouds blood red. Crimson spread out across the darkening sky even as night seeped from the eastern horizon toward the vault of heaven, reddish gray melding with crimson-blue. The wind was completely still, and the twilight pooled like heavy oil upon the sand. There was not a sound. Plato wondered what the people who lived inside the stone houses of the village must be doing for such silence to reign—not a single spoken word, no faint echo of evening song. All was filled with the barren quiet of the sand sea and the silence that comes with the death of something long forgotten, unchanged for thousands of years.

  Gladius hunched his shoulders. “The sunset here chills the heart, does it not, Master?”

  Plato did not answer. He turned his broad brow to the evening light in silence. He felt as though something momentous were about to begin . . . Yes, something was beginning. The light held a strange tension and unease—a chilling sensation the philosopher had never felt before: the sense that something unknown, something that could not be known or truly seen—something unspeakable—was quietly creeping closer.

  “This way.” Seim the Elder stood across the central courtyard, beckoning for Plato to follow.

  “Let us go, Gladius.” Plato began to walk across the sand.

  “You may sleep in here tonight,” the old man said, indicating a small stone house flanked on either side by two of the largest houses in the village. “I’m afraid I cannot offer much in the way of comforts, but please, if there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.”

  Inside, the house had but a single room. In the wall facing the courtyard was a panel made out of the rigid, translucent material Seim the Elder had called glaes. A square fire pit had been cut in the center of the floor, atop which had been set a metal washbasin, also square. The fire beneath it was unlit.

  Seim lingered while Plato and Gladius settled in, and after a few moments several women entered with food for the visitors. The women were not young, but they wore long skirts down to their ankles fastened at the waist with belts of linked metal that shone with a golden luster. On their heads they wore the same shallow hoods as the Elcasian men. The women moved like shadows, setting up a table and laying out various dishes. Finally, one of them set down a large water jug that she had carried on her shoulder; then all vanished as silently as they had come.

  “It is not much, but please eat.” Seim the Elder bowed low at the waist and departed, but no sooner had he walked out than he reappeared in the doorway. “Should you require anything, press the button you see there upon the wall. I will come immediately.” The door closed without a sound.

  The meal consisted primarily of mutton and vegetables, and despite their host’s modesty, it seemed quite a feast to Plato. Though neither of the travelers had been particularly hungry, they found the food to be the most delicious they had ever eaten, and they partook with relish. Surely, thought Plato, these people possess wondrous talent in the culinary arts. Many strong spices had been used with skill; clearly the cuisine of this village was both rich and refined. It might even surpass the food eaten by the wealthiest nobles of Egypt and lesser Asia.

  As the philosopher continued to eat, a doubt grew in his mind. “Gladius. It cannot have been a simple matter to prepare such a delicious variety of victuals out here in the middle of this barren, sandy waste. Even assuming that they prepared this especially for us as their guests.”

  Gladius lifted a piece of food from his dish between two fingers and showed it to Plato. “Look, Master. This mutton was fried in the fat of some other animal, then wrapped in a barley mash that was dissolved in water and kneaded before being baked again. Master, the fat they used to fry this mutton is something I have never eaten before. Nor was it made by any process with which I am familiar. The taste is very unusual. Usually such a thing would taste much more sour. And they used something most unusual to heat this food. I would very much like to see their oven. Look—this morsel has clearly been cooked through, yet nowhere has the surface been burnt.”

  Gladius was well traveled, and his knowledge of foreign cuisines was startlingly rich and, Plato had found, largely accurate.

  “Master,” the Arab continued, “do you not find their cooking style and this refined flavor to be different from anything else you have ever tasted? It is practically not of our world!” Gladius frowned even as he stuffed his mouth with food.

  Plato contemplated Gladius’s words. It seemed to him that the astonishment his servant felt toward this food was no less impressive than that which he himself felt toward the suzerain’s window. Clearly, Gladius sensed the strangeness of the feast better than Plato, if he wanted to see the oven. Together, they ate every last bit of the meal without further conv
ersation.

  “Allow us to clear the table,” a female voice said. The women who had served them before had reappeared as quietly as shadows. In a matter of moments they had taken away the empty plates and vanished once again.

  The room was now so dark that Plato could no longer see Gladius’s face. “Would that we had a candle,” he said, peering at his friend.

  That instant, his eyes filled with a brilliant light as the chamber brightened like a courtyard lit up by the noonday sun. Reflexively, he lifted his hands to cover his face. In that flood of blazing illumination, he saw Gladius draw the short sword at his waist.

  “Master!” the Arab shouted, moving quickly to stand before Plato, shielding him from any danger.

  But all that happened was that the room remained bright. Nothing else.

  “What in Zeus’s name is that?”

  An impossibly bright sphere of light had appeared in the middle of the ceiling. Its light fell upon them like a shining curtain, casting wavering shadows on the wall at their backs.

  “Master, outside!”

  Squinting against the light, they began to move toward the doorway. Still, nothing happened. Plato paused, keeping one eye on the room around him while he focused his attention on that bright sphere of light.

  It did not seem dangerous. In fact, it seemed to be nothing more than what it appeared: a light source. The fear left his face.

  “Gladius, I believe that sphere is intended to light this room.”

  “Like . . . a torch?” Gladius hesitated, short sword gripped at the ready, and glared fiercely at the sphere on the ceiling. Plato walked over until he was directly beneath it. He had noticed the circular porcelain umbrella that hung overhead when he first entered the room, but he had not been aware of the small light-producing sphere within it. Now as he stared up at it, it seemed to him that the light was somehow trapped within a container made of glaes. Looking closer, he could see threads of light suspended inside the container. That was where the illumination came from.

  “Look, Gladius! It is like a reservoir for storing light. Though by what means it captures the luminescence I cannot say.” Until that time, the only indoor lights he had seen were saucers of fish oil and the rock water that burned in Syria. Compared to those things, this was sorcery. “It is like a tiny sun.” Plato pointed at his own shadow cast upon the wall and heaved a sigh. “It is becoming increasingly clear with each new marvel that Atlantis possessed a culture of the highest order.”