He scanned the plain for signs of movement, but there was nothing suspicious. No birds flew, and no deer moved out on the grass. As dawn lightened the sky, Shannow and Batik rode from the rocks, veering east along the mountain’s foothills. After an hour they came to a curling pass cutting through the peaks, and Shannow urged the gelding up over the scree and into the narrow channel. Batik swung in the saddle to study the back trail. His eyes widened—just short of the far horizon twelve riders were galloping their horses.
“Shannow!”
“I know,” said the Jerusalem Man. “Take the horses into the pass. I’ll join you later.”
“What are you going to do?”
Without answering, Shannow slid from the saddle and clambered into the rocks high above the pass.
Batik rode on, leading Shannow’s horse. The trail widened into a bowl-shaped valley edged with forests of spruce and pine. Batik led the horses to a stream and dismounted; Shannow joined him almost an hour later.
“Let’s move,” he said, and the two men rode across the valley, scattering a herd of heavy-horned buffalo and crossing several small streams before Shannow called a halt. He glanced at the sun, then turned his horse to face the west. Batik joined him, saying nothing. It was obvious that Shannow was listening and concentrating. For some time nothing happened, then a gunshot split the silence. Two more followed. Shannow waited, his hand raised, three fingers extended. Another shot. Shannow seemed tense. A fifth shot.
“That’s it,” said Shannow.
“What did you do?”
“I set up trip wires and wedged five Hellborn pistols into rocks overlooking the trail.”
Batik smiled. “They’ll rue the day they started hunting you, Shannow.”
“No, they’ll just get more careful. They underestimated me. Now let’s hope they overestimate my talents. It will give us more time.”
“I wonder if we hit any of them,” said Batik.
“Probably one. The other shots might have hit horses. But they’ll proceed now with caution. We will ride through every narrow channel we can, whether it be between rocks or trees or bushes. They will have to stop and check every one for a possible ambush, and they won’t catch us for days.”
“Aren’t you overlooking something?”
“Like what?”
“Like we are heading west, back into Hellborn country. They’ll have patrols ahead of us.”
“You are learning, Batik. Keep at it.”
Toward dusk Batik spotted some buildings to the north, and they swung their horses and cantered down a gentle slope toward them. They were of white stone and spread over three acres. Some were more than single-story, with outside staircases winding up to crenellated marble towers. Shannow eased his gun into his hand as they closed on the town, but there was no sign of life. The streets were cobbled, and the iron horseshoes clattered on the stones.
The moon came out from behind dark clouds, bathing the scene in silver light, and suddenly the town took on a ghostly look. As the two men rode into a central square, Shannow drew rein alongside a statue of an armored warrior wearing a plumed helmet; his left arm was missing, but in his right he held a short broad-bladed sword.
On the other side of the square was a broad avenue lined with statues of young women in flowing robes; it led to a low palace with a high oval doorway.
“There is no wood anywhere,” said Batik, riding up to the doorway and running his hands over the stone.
Both men dismounted and tethered their horses, and Shannow stepped inside the palace. Statues ringed the central hall, and moving to each in turn, he studied them. Some were regal women, and others were young men of lofty bearing. Still more were older men, heavy-bearded and wise. On the far wall, past a raised dais, was a mosaic in bright-colored stones showing a king in a golden chariot followed by an army of plumed warriors bearing long spears and bows.
“I have never seen clothes like these,” said Batik. “The warriors appear to have worn skirts of wood or leather studded with bronze.”
“They could be Israelites,” said Shannow. “This might be one of the old cities. But why no wood?”
Batik wandered to another wall, then called Shannow to him. In an alcove, piled against a corner, were crushed goblets and plates of solid gold. Flowing script had been engraved on the goblets, but Shannow could not read it. Near a doorway he found a golden hilt, but with no dagger attached. He pressed his finger inside the hilt and withdrew it; the faintest red stained his skin.
“Rust,” said Shannow. “No wood, no metal. Only stone.”
“I wonder why no one lives here,” said Batik. “It wouldn’t take much to restore this place.”
“Would you live here?” asked Shannow.
“Well … no. It is a little sinister.”
Shannow nodded. The bright moonlight shone through an upper window in a shaft of silver, illuminating a broad staircase. Climbing it, Shannow found himself in a round room open to the sky. The stars were bright, and at the center of the room, an equal distance apart, were four golden eagles, each flat on one side. Shannow lifted one, and a golden screw fell from a small hole in a wing.
“I think it was a bed ornament,” said Shannow.
“The king’s bedchamber,” said Batik. “A little chilly.”
They returned to the main hall, and Shannow noticed that Batik was sweating heavily. “Are you all right?”
“No. My vision keeps blurring, and I feel dizzy.”
“Sit down for a moment,” said Shannow. “I’ll get some water.”
Leaving Batik, he started to walk toward the horses but missed a step and staggered, his vision misting. Reaching out, he took the arm of a statue and held himself upright. When he looked up into the blank stone eyes, Shannow heard a roaring in his ears. Taking a deep breath, he staggered to the doorway, nausea rising to choke him.
He fell heavily on the outer step. Bright sunlight bathed him, and he looked up. People were moving in the square, the men clad in bronze armor and leather kilts, the women in flowing robes of silk or cotton.
Flower sellers thronged the streets, and here and there children gathered to play on the shiny stones. Suddenly the sky darkened, clouds racing across the heavens. The sun flashed away toward the east, and in the distance a colossal black wall moved toward the city. Shannow screamed, but no one heard him. The wall advanced, blotting out the sky to thunder across the city. Water filled Shannow’s lungs, and he clung to the doorposts, choking and dying …
His eyes opened to the moon and the silent city. Shaking, he rolled to his knees, took the canteen of water from his horse, and returned to Batik.
“Did you see it?” asked Batik, his face gray, his eyes haunted.
“The tidal wave?”
“Yes, this whole city was under the sea. That’s why there was no wood or metal. And your giant fish—you were right; it was dumped here.”
“Yes.”
“What the hell is this place, Shannow?”
“I don’t know. Karitas said the world was destroyed by the sea. But as you said, where did the sea go? This city must have been under water for centuries for all the wood and metal to disappear.”
“There is another thought, Shannow,” said Batik, sitting up. “If all the world was destroyed by the sea and yet this city is above the ocean, perhaps there have been two Armageddons.”
“I do not understand you.”
“The Fall of the World, Shannow. Perhaps it happened twice.”
“That could not be.”
“You told me yourself that Karitas talked about an Ark of Noah; you told me about a great flood that covered the earth. That was before Armageddon.”
Shannow turned away. “ ‘The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no new thing under the sun.’ ”
“What is that?”
“The words of Solomon. And very soon after that he writes, ‘There is no remembrance of former things, n
either shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after.’ ”
Batik chuckled and then laughed aloud, the sound echoing in the dead palace.
“What is amusing you?”
“If I am right, Shannow, it means we are now sitting on what was once the floor of the ocean.”
“I still do not see what is amusing.”
“It is you. If what was sea is now land, what was land is now sea. So, Shannow, you will need gills to find Jerusalem!”
“Only if you are right, Batik.”
“True. I wonder what this city was. I mean, look at the statues; they must have been great men. And now no one will ever know of their greatness.”
Shannow studied the closest statue in the moonlight. It was of an old man with a tightly curled white beard and a high domed forehead. His right hand was held across his chest, and it carried a scroll. In the left he had what looked like a tablet of stone.
“I don’t think,” said Shannow at last, “that he would have minded about immortality. He has a look of contentment, of wisdom.”
“I wonder who he was.”
“A lawmaker. A prophet. A king.” Shannow shrugged. “Whatever, he must have been a great man—his statue stands higher than all the others.”
“He was Paciades,” said a voice. Shannow rolled to his right, and his pistol leveled at a tall figure standing in a doorway to the left. The man advanced into the hall, holding his hands out from his body. He was some six feet tall, and his skin was as black as ebony.
“I am sorry to startle you,” he said. “I saw your horses.”
“What in heaven’s name are you?” asked Shannow, rising to his feet and keeping the gun trained on the man.
“I am a man.”
“But you are black. Are you of the Devil?”
“It is strange,” the man said without rancor, “how the same prejudices can cling to the minds of men no matter what the circumstances. No, Mr. Shannow, I am not of the Devil.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Ruth contacted me and asked me to look out for you.”
“Are you armed?”
“No, not as you would understand it.”
“If you have come peacefully, I apologize,” said Shannow, “but we are being hunted and I will take no risks. Batik, search him.”
The Hellborn approached the man cautiously and ran his hands over the gray tunic and black leggings. “No weapons,” he reported, and Shannow sheathed his pistol.
“I’ll check outside,” said Batik.
“If it’s clear, gather some kindling for a fire,” asked Shannow, beckoning the stranger to sit.
The black man stretched himself out and smiled. “You are a careful man, Mr. Shannow. I like to see that; it shows intelligence, and that appears to be a rare commodity in this new world of ours.”
“Why would Ruth contact you?” Shannow asked, ignoring the statement.
“We have known each other for some years. We may disagree on points of theology, but in the main we seek the same ends.”
“Which are?”
“The reestablishment of a just society—a civilization, Mr. Shannow, where men and women can live together in harmony and love without fear of brigands or Hellborn.”
“Is such a thing possible?”
“Of course not, but we must strive for it.”
“What is your name?”
“Samuel Archer.”
Batik returned with an armful of dried wood, complaining that he had had to ride from the city to find it. As the fire crackled to life, Shannow asked the black man about the statue.
“I have studied this city for about eighteen years,” said Archer. “There are some remarkable writings inscribed on gold foil; it took four years of effort to translate. It appears that old man was Paciades, the uncle of one of the kings. He was an astronomer—a student of the stars—and through his work people knew exactly when to plant for the best harvests. He also discovered the instability of the earth, though he didn’t understand the awesome significance for his world.”
“Did he live to see the end?”
“I have no idea. His death is not recorded anywhere that I have found.”
“When was the city destroyed?” asked Batik.
“About eight thousand years ago.”
“Then for some seven and a half thousand years this was ocean?”
“True, Batik. The world is much changed.”
“What was this city?”
“My research shows it was called Balacris. It is one of supposedly thirty cities that made up the nation of Atlantis.”
Batik fell asleep long before midnight, and Shannow and Archer walked together along the statue-lined avenues of Balacris.
“I often come here,” said Archer. “There is a tremendous sense of peace to be found in a dead city. And often the ghosts of previous times join me on my walks.” He glanced at Shannow and grinned. “Do you think me mad?”
Shannow shrugged. “I have never seen a ghost, Mr. Archer, but I have no reason to doubt their existence. Do you speak with them?”
“I tried when I first saw them, but they do not see me. I do not believe they are spirits at all; they are images, much like the one you and Batik saw this afternoon. This is a magic land, Mr. Shannow. Come, I will show you.”
Archer led the way up a winding hill and down into a bowl-shaped hollow where great stones had been raised in a circle around a flat altar. The stones were black and towered over twenty feet high. Each was six feet square and polished like ebony.
“The sea smoothed them for thousands of years. Occasionally you can still see the hairline traces of carved inscriptions,” Archer told him, moving into the circle and stopping by the altar. “Watch this,” he said, removing a Daniel Stone the size of a thumbnail from his pocket. Immediately, all around them, Shannow saw swirling figures, translucent and shining; women in silken shifts twirled and danced, while men in tunics of many colors crowded between the stones to watch them. “And this,” said Archer, covering the stone. The dancers vanished. He moved the stone a fraction of an inch and removed his hand; three children appeared, sitting by the altar and playing with knucklebones. They were oblivious to the visitors. Shannow knelt beside them and reached out, but his hand passed through them and they disappeared.
Archer returned the stone to his pocket. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Fascinating,” said Shannow. “Do you have an explanation?”
“A theory. I have now transcribed some two hundred thousand words of the Rolynd language, that is to say, Atlantean. They called themselves Rolynd—‘the People of Heaven’ would be a loose translation. I myself prefer ‘the People of Fable.’ ” Archer sat down on the altar. “Are you hungry, Mr. Shannow?”
“A little.”
“If you could choose an impossible food, what would it be?”
“A rich honey cake. Why do you ask?”
“I ask because I am a showman.” Archer stood and moved out onto the grass by the altar, stooping to lift a fist-sized rock. He took the Daniel Stone from his pocket and touched it to the rock. Then he handed a honey cake to Shannow.
“Is it real?”
“Taste it.”
“There is trickery, though, yes?”
“Taste it, Mr. Shannow.” Shannow bit into the cake, and it was soft and honey-filled.
“How? Tell me how?”
Archer returned to the altar. “The People of Fable—they had a power source unlike any other. I don’t know how they came upon it or whether they created it, but the stones were the secret of Atlantean culture, and with them they could create anything the mind could conceive. When you were a child, Mr. Shannow, did your mother tell you stories of magical swords, winged horses, sorcerers?”
“No, but I’ve heard them since.”
“Well, Atlantis is where all fables begin. I found an inventory at the palace that listed presents to the king on his one hundred eighty-fifth bi
rthday. Each of the gifts mentioned Sipstrassi—stones. Swords had Sipstrassi set in the handle, a crown with a central stone for wisdom, armor with a stone above the heart for invincibility. Their entire society was founded on magic, on stones that healed, fed, and strengthened. One hundred eighty-five and he still wore armor! Think of it, Shannow.”
“But they did not survive despite all their magic.”
“I am not sure about that, either. But that’s a story for another day. Let’s get some sleep.”
“I am not tired. You go on. I need to think.”
“Of Jerusalem, Mr. Shannow?”
“I see Ruth has indeed spoken of me.”
“Did you doubt me?”
“I still do, Mr. Archer. But I am not a man of hasty judgment.”
“Because I am black?”
“I will admit that it makes me uneasy.”
“It is merely a pigment in the skin that separates us, Mr. Shannow. But may I refer you to your own Bible and the Song of Solomon. ‘I am black but comely, o ye daughters of Jerusalem.’ He was writing of the queen of Sheba, which was a country in Africa where my ancestors were undoubtedly born.”
“I’ll walk back with you,” said Shannow.
At the top of the hill he turned and stared back at the ring of black stones, remembering the words of Karitas. Blood and death fed them. The altar stood stark at the center of the circle like the pupil of a dark eye.
“Ruth spoke well of you,” said Archer, and Shannow swung his gaze from the altar.
“She is a remarkable woman. She showed me my life, though I did not recognize it.”
“How so?”
“She conjured a library all around me and gave me but a single hour to find the truth. It was impossible, just as my life is impossible. The truth is all around me, but I don’t know where to look and there is so little time to seek it.”
“Surely that is a discovery in itself,” said Archer. “Tell me, why did you first decide to seek Jerusalem?”
“It is an act of faith, Mr. Archer—no more, no less. No highblown philosophical reasons. I live by the Bible, and to do that a man must believe, implicitly believe. Seeking Jerusalem is my way of dealing with doubt.”
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