When Tom reached the desert on the far side of the oasis, the road came to an end in a large circular courtyard. A dilapidated statue stood in the courtyard, its back to the desert. Tom reached for Yatagarasu, at first thinking the statue was alive, and then realized Yata was not in its sheath. With relief he saw that the statue was lifeless and fixed. It reminded Tom of the one he’d seen on the mountain where the Alchemist had been. The statue’s head and the lower half of one of its arms were missing, probably lying in the little hills of rock all around its base. In fact the statue was of a god he recognized, Thiyl—a patron of warriors. White as the road beneath it, the god stood tall and proud, holding a sleek spear in one hand. The missing hand once held tightly to reins attached to two giant, leafy sea dragons, each the size of a horse. One of them lunged forward majestically while the other lay on its side on the ground, broken away from the rest of the statue. Above the fallen sea dragon’s head, where Thiyl’s body ended in a serpentine coil of fins, something was chiseled in the language of merfolk.
“Through Death’s Door we enter, and only through it do we depart,” Tom read aloud. As he wandered around the courtyard pondering a number of questions, including what the words meant and why there was a statue standing in a desert square in the middle of the afterlife, Yata came swooping down for a landing next to him, bobbing its head and chattering softly.
“Well,” said Tom, looking down at Yata, who stared back, eyes wide, “Were you going to say something?”
Yata clicked its beak and turned to walk to the end of the road, behind the statue of Thiyl, where the desert began again and stretched on forever. The bird stopped and quietly stared off into the distance after giving a great haughty squawk.
“I’m not certain that’s the way to go,” said Tom, feeling stupid for talking to a bird. “The thread doesn’t point that way. Doesn’t point anywhere, actually. I can’t see it anymore. I’m never going to get out of here, am …” Stopping short and rubbing his eyes, he twisted his neck and leaned forward to look past Yata and into the distance. Where there had been nothing but desert before, a fantastic city of white limestone had risen from the sands and now tore at the clouds. Tom shut his eyes hard and wrinkled up his nose, squinting and telling himself he wasn’t seeing what he thought he saw. Towers of irregularly shaped white rock bent and twisted and mingled high into the sky. None of the magnificent structures belonged in a desert, but there they stood as if they had been pulled up from the depths of some ocean and dropped into the shifting sands. From somewhere in the sky, columns of shimmering water fell all around the city and into it. Looking up, Tom looked for the source and saw that an ocean rested in the sky above the city. It did not cover the sky, but hung high up above the clouds, sparkling and gigantic. The streams of water that fell from it met the desert sand surrounding the city, forming rivers and lakes that all drained toward the towers, somewhere inside the city walls. A faint flash of light revealed that Tom’s soul thread was again visible, and it pointed toward the limestone city. “Did you do this?” Tom asked, looking at Yata. “How did you do this? What is this?”
Yata clicked and chattered, clapping Tom’s fingers in its beak.
“Quit that, bird!” he shouted, drawing back his hand as Yata changed shape. Morphing back into the form of a blade, it jumped back into the sheath on Tom’s belt. “Yes, I think that’s for the best. You stay put, now. Let’s see if we can find the old Octopus.”
Hot sand poured into Tom’s boots as he lifted his knees high and trudged through the desert toward the strange city. Irritably he shook his feet like a cat who’d stepped in a puddle, scowling and mumbling to himself. He’d much rather the sand had acted like the rest of the elements in the afterlife, not pestering him, sticking to his legs or blowing into his mouth and eyes when the wind cut across the hills. By the time he reached the outskirts of the ruined towers, bleached aquatic gardens and disintegrating palaces, Tom had a stitch in his side. To his dismay, his earthly weaknesses had returned to him, and because he hadn’t been tapping into his werewolf strengths, he was now out of breath and sweating under the powerful sun. Dipping his hands into one of the streams running down the dunes, he splashed his face and was relieved that the water was not only tangible now, but also cool.
A continuous wall surrounded the city and kept him from entering straight away. However, along the wall a few openings peeked up from the sand. They were doorways, meant to be the entrances to the wall that also served as a tunnel connecting the bases of the grand limestone structures to one another. Not a single stairway existed on the outside of the bone-dry spires. Only inside the white rock could one move about the city. This is the fashion in which the merfolk built their civilizations. Of course Tom did not know this, because for all of history never once had a land dweller set foot in an underwater city. It is impossible to reach them hundreds or thousands of metres beneath the sea without the ability to transform like the merfolk. Not even drawings or paintings of these alien worlds had ever been seen by werewolves, vampires, mankind or anyone else. Ocean dwellers preferred this, because for all time it had kept outsiders, mankind especially, from ruining their proud civilizations.
Thomas was utterly lost the moment he set foot within the tunnels outside the city. Without his soul’s thread drawing a line for him to follow, the many flying stairways, warped covered bridges and clustered spherical chambers where tunnels met and departed would have surely trapped Tom in its labyrinth. As though the city were not large and mysterious enough, single palaces were puzzles within puzzles to try to navigate. Waterfalls ran down the faces of white limestone, covering windows like sheets of glass, filling and overflowing the pools, then trickling or sometimes crashing into old coral gardens. Great monuments to an oceanic pantheon rose to great heights in the halls of royal houses and fortresses, and as Tom strolled along their outer walkways and courtyards, he asked himself questions to which he found no answer. Sculptures of Luyi, goddess of the tide, and Maova, the creator god, soared up the walls and across ceilings, carrying the waters of the oceans in their arms. Familiar depictions of the warrior Thiyl, and of To’ri, the goddess of justice, decorated the entryways and crossing-places of tunnels and roads. Relics of a people long lost littered the floors of empty tunnels. Artifacts of both war and peace lay in piles in corners and windows. Tom carefully stepped over painted pots and jars, picking up shards to inspect. Down he looked into several reflective shell-and-volcanic-glass basins that sat on pedestals, most likely meant to hold magic, luminous oils. His face looked back up at him from within, warped humorously by the basins’ rippled surfaces. One particular palace had cracked in two, the lower levels having fallen down a sandy slope where they leaned into a neighboring structure like a tired mermaid lain across the rocks of a shallow cove.
Consumed in wonder and curiosity, Tom followed his soul’s thread, high into the intricate upper workings of the limestone metropolis. The height of the spires’ topmost stairways and bridges made him dizzy, so much so that he averted his eyes from the windows. Looking down only once, he’d seen that hours of following the thread had brought him to the meeting place of two towers that leaned into one another and continued on as a single, grand bridge that led to a central spire larger than any other in the city. Sticking his head out a window, Tom could not see the desert more than a mile below for the clouds that swam between him and the ground. Turning to look at the central spire, he saw a fantastic sight. An untold number of threads, each like the one affixed to his own soul, surrounded the central spire. Like rays of light breaking through clouds, threads burst from the windows of the bulbous roof of the grand tower. All the threads converged in that place, expanding beyond view high into the sky and off toward the horizons, making the tower look like a spiny cactus. Tom was certain he would find answers in that place. Hurrying along the highest bridge in the city, he approached the grand doors, behind which he knew the Octopus was waiting.
*
Tom stood on the threshol
d that led into the heart of the city, the topmost atrium of the tallest spire, around and below which the rest of the city had been built. There were no doors, but from outside, the atrium looked black and empty. As soon as Tom stepped inside, his eyelids relaxed and took relief in the shade. The atrium opened, and its walls rose in an elegant curve all around him. The sculptures of mythical oceanic creatures, heroes and deities swam, sprang and swooped from every inch of the walls, telling the sacred history of the people who had once lived in the city. Presiding over much of the floor of the atrium, a large pool glowed faintly of white light, throwing bright stripes against the walls, which bounced and scattered. The light that splashed the frozen figures on the wall created the sense that Tom was underwater, in the depths of the ocean where the last fragments of the sun could reach. Above the pool, hanging in the air, millions of souls’ threads converged on a dark mass, which began to move. Tom felt as though a great truth had been laid out before him, but still nothing about the place made any sense. He kept his distance from the mass hanging over the pool and made himself ready for anything.
“Water,” said the loud rasp of an old man, “is where we begin our journey. It is where the body and spirit are first coupled…”
Tom grabbed hold of Yatagarasu but did not draw the blade just yet. He kept his eyes fixed on the dark mass as it changed shape. Like a melting cloud, the bottom stretched out and split into many black arms, which lazily wafted on the air in all directions like the tails of kites. From these arms grew black hands that curled their fingers and scratched at the air. The top of the mass broadened, and from within it came a face. The head behind it was bald on top but surrounded on all sides by long waves of hair that fell in curtains from what was partially bare skull. The neck that carried all this was merely a knobby spine. Only the face of the Octopus was fleshed out, and still it lacked a lower jaw. Its face, carrying the tired and stern eyes and nose of an old man, ended in an abrupt and sparse arrangement of little teeth—the few that had not fallen out.
“From the water,” the old voice continued, “we are born, straightening our legs and seeing the light of day for the first time. From the moment we take our first steps, we walk the land for all our lives. There we meet with fire, the passions and pains of mortality. It is fire that both drives us on and boils the youth out of us. When that proverbial bonfire is spent, when we are arid and frail, the spirit takes to the air, and the body returns to the earth, only to meet once again in that dark water of origin. So goes the dance of the elements.”
“Strange words of greeting,” replied Tom, relaxing his stance.
“No appreciation for the poetic, I see,” the Octopus retorted, his disposition hard to read.
“My apologies,” said Tom, taking a few steps forward. “Perhaps I would be in a sunnier mood if life weren’t so … finished.” He tilted his chin down and scowled, looking up at Death from under his eyebrows.
“Life is never truly finished, Thomas. There is no such thing as an ending. Only change.” As it spoke, the Octopus’s head tilted to one side, and his long curtains of hair twitched at the slightest movements.
“I’m glad you mentioned that. I’ve come here to change things. I was not ready to die, and I must return to life as quickly as possible. I left much behind that I cannot bear to be without.”
“Of course!” The Octopus quickly agreed, raising many of its arms in a shrug. “We are never ready for death when it arrives, but we must go no matter how prepared—or unprepared—we are. That is the nature of death, Thomas. You should be grateful. You managed to cheat me more times than I would have thought possible. How many chances you must have had to change your life! How many opportunities to savor the things you did not at first appreciate! How many times you surely did love and laugh!”
“On the contrary,” argued Tom, now irritable. “Never once could I change my fate, no matter what I tried. When I died, I had only Molly. No family, and few friends I could trust. Once I became a monster, I remained a monster, punished more and more with each step I took.”
“What a bitter destiny,” the Octopus said quietly.
“Speaking of bitter destinies, what is this place? Am I in heaven or hell? What did my deeds amount to, exactly? Pardon me if I am thick-headed, but I can’t quite tell which is which anymore.” Crossing his arms, Tom waited impatiently for a response.
“This place is neither of which you believe it is,” was the Octopus’s answer. “The city you see before you is Atlantis.”
Tom’s scowl faded into a frown, and he raised an eyebrow in confusion. Blinking stupidly, he cocked his head to one side and stared at the Octopus, convinced he had heard wrong. He thought it over once, then twice, and after three times of wringing it through his brain, he remained certain the specter had said what Tom thought it had said. Again he looked up at the Octopus’s solemn visage. Planting both hands on his hips, Tom allowed a smirk to appear on his face. Shaking one finger at the specter he chuckled, slowly raising his voice in laughter.
“Death has a sense of humor! That is brilliant!” burst Tom, jabbing a finger at the Octopus, who watched Tom without a change in mood or another word. As Tom giggled to himself, the specter waited silently, its arms swimming around it busily. “Honestly now,” said Tom, catching his breath and holding out one hand, “Where am I? I do need most badly to leave.”
“You stand in what remains of the once-great city of Atlantis.” The Octopus repeated itself in the exact same tone as before. “Do you doubt me?”
“Doubting doesn’t even come close,” said Tom. “You think I am foolish enough to mistake the afterlife for the lost sunken city of the merfolk? Do you?” He felt entirely insulted. “I am dead! I have seen the souls of others flying about like birds. I crossed waters that I could not feel, breathed air I couldn’t smell and fell from heights that should have injured me. I met a man who remembered dying before coming to this place, and I saw my own memories appear before my eyes. This place is made of impossibility! It must be the next life, and I want out!” Tom raised his voice and stomped his foot like a spoiled child.
“Oh, but you are mistaken, Thomas.” The Octopus leaned its head forward, looking like a turtle wrapped in a black fur coat made for a giant. “You are quite dead, but this is not the afterlife. No, it is not any sort of thing. The Beyond is much farther from this place. Much farther …”
“I do not understand,” said Tom, pacing about and squeezing his head between his hands. “If I am dead but have not passed on, where could I possibly be? Am I a ghost? Am I to forever haunt this empty desert outside this city you claim is Atlantis? Answer me!”
“This place to which I have brought you is the Divide. It is the place between lives—my eternal place of dwelling, imposed upon me because of the things I have done.” As it spoke the Octopus narrowed its old eyes and thrust its bald head forward, then slowly drew back and lowered its voice at the end of its declaration.
“What do you mean?” Tom pressed, folding his arms and listening closely.
“To understand, you must first know what happened long ago. There was a time when no living person died. All were immortal. During this time, before the great civilizations of mortals, the ocean-dwellers built a magnificent city, where all were happy and prosperous. In that time, no wars were fought. No diseases fouled the bodies of the living, either on the land or in the seas. No man killed his fellows. For you to understand where you are, I must first tell you what happened to that great city.”
Tom rested a hand on Yatagarasu, walking to one side of the atrium and sitting down on the base of a great monument to Maova. Leaning back against the wall, he propped one foot up casually, crossed his arms in feigned mild interest and gave the specter his full attention. This is the story Death told Thomas Crowe.
In the earliest days of recorded time, before the rise of Rome, China or Egypt, when mankind was only beginning to learn the mountains, plains and forests of the world above, the first and greatest civilization on
Earth was built beneath the ocean. Atlantis was the shining city of the first merfolk, people who left the land and used magic to don the powerful bodies of the creatures who lived in the sea. In the depths of the Atlantic, away from the land dwellers, the Atlanteans flourished. They were the only people in the world who knew how to use magic, and the first people to ever use it. But, the Atlanteans did not always have this magic. It was something they had stolen, and its use was strictly forbidden. Before Atlantis was built under the sea, the merfolk lived on the land, just like the rest of mankind. They were always a people of the sea, living close to the ocean, fishing and honoring the gods that controlled the tides and filled the water with a wealth of food and treasures. How they longed to be closer to the ocean! How badly they wished to build their great city beneath its waves and be the masters of its depths!
During these days, the world was a different place. No one died, and all were born immortal. Families grew and grew, became large and happy. Lovers never worried about losing one another to old age or disease. Quickly the land dwellers spread to all continents in the world above, but the Atlanteans, who did not want to live on land, were unhappy. They wished to live in the world below, but could not because their bodies were not meant to leave the dry earth. The Atlanteans’ king struggled with the problem his people faced. Unable to devise a way to move his kingdom into the sea, he turned to his priests. These Atlantean priests, called octilli because their minds were sharp like the octopus’s, gathered and discussed the problem, but they could not find an answer for their king. It was then that one of the priests, called Des Octilli, approached the king alone. He had thought about the matter for many nights. Des Octilli had made a great discovery. A powerful force, which he called ma’ji, or magic, existed just beyond the reach of mankind. Des Octilli told the king that he had a dream in which shadowy figures showed him the way to a secret doorway behind which an entire world of magic existed. The shadows showed him where the doorway was and how to open it. With magic, Des Octilli told the king, many things were possible. The people could use magic to transform their bodies and become like the fish that lived in the sea. With magic, they could build Atlantis!
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