Then, with a final surge, the water swelled and covered them.
“It is finished!” cried William Stuart, and was gone. The water had consumed him.
The face of the water was void and nothing broke its surface save the ships. The rain dried up and the clouds departed; the winds fled and the waves ceased their beating. But there was nothing left, even in the sunlight. Far below, the last remnants of the island could be seen as they fled into the deep. The canopy still waved, though it was water, not wind, that threw it to confusion. The forest sank away like seaweed and the plain like siren’s reef; it passed away before their eyes into the nameless, faceless deep. It passed away like the departing dead, but it was Atilta that had died. Then – with a final, gasping breath – Atilta exhaled and forever sunk beneath the sea.
“So it is,” Willard turned to his silent comrades, “There will never again be a King of Atilta.” He turned his face to the north, his armor ablaze in the newfound sun, and pointed to the sky. “Set course for England. We have won its freedoms, even if we have lost our own. There is nowhere else left for us now.”
Vahan’s voice came from behind, “My lord, England and Hibernia are left without rulers, for theirs were taken or killed in the battle. By the power of the King of France, I hereby proclaim it ceded to Atilta, and thus to you,” and he raised several papers to show the signed treaty.
Silence came, then Patrick stepped forward and bowed reverently before Willard.
“Hail, Willard Plantagenet,” he said, “The King of England.”
THE END
About the Author
Dear Reader,
A book is a secret passageway that one finds in the attic, concealed behind an old bookshelf and leading into the hidden reaches of the author’s mind – the store room in which he keeps his eccentric thoughts in neatly wrapped bundles, arranged according to his own pedantic patterns. His imagination is his own personal retreat, his private library in his private castle on his private estate. A book, however, opens the door to this retreat and says, “Come in; but first take off your shoes.” It is the key which fits the lock, and its words the leather-bound chairs which skirt the room. But when you are in a secret chamber, you may happen to wonder what it is like from the outside, what it appears to be from afar. So it is customary for the gatekeeper to tell about himself in a short piece, that those who vacation on his estate can know what he would be like if they met him in the street.
I, myself, am an old, worn shoe: the man who walks the road with his shaman stick, captivated by the beauties around him. I am a student, a discoverer, soon to be enrolled at a certain Hillsdale College in Michigan, USA. I write for a living, and at the current rate will be dead tomorrow morning. I do not meddle with romance, for I am too much of a Romantic to be content with reality, and too much of a Realist to believe love could ever be romantic. Yet were I inclined that way I would meet with little success, for I am neither beautiful nor interesting. My only occupation is thinking, my only wage an observant smile in the face of conversation; for I shun idol speech, and am considered an idiot because of it. Yet, in all, I am a man like other men, and equally vain. If I was not, I don’t believe I would have written this.
Jonathan Dunn,
The Secret Room, July 2004
FB2 document info
Document ID: aaddcdc0-59b0-4c28-a590-3dbfa78403a5
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 7.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.8, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jonathan Dunn
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The Forgotten King Page 55