Christopher Columbus and the Lost City of Atlantis

by E. J. Robinson

  Monday and Tuesday had moved toward the water and were using their spears to finish off the wounded creatures that remained behind. Columbus didn’t see Elara until she touched him on the shoulder, seemingly grateful he was alive. He’d seen her during battle, firing her sonstave with a fury devoid of fear. If she was an example of what women could do in battle, then he’d been wrong about them all along.

  King Atlas ordered the wounded and dead to be gathered while the remaining Gadeir stood poised for a second attack. Columbus wasn’t surprised to see Dion among the living nor the shroud of enemy blood that covered him. When he caught Columbus’s eye, the mariner expected to see him smirk or jeer, but to his surprise, the giant nodded instead.

  The king sat to gather his breath, taking water from a skin offered him. When the twins approached with the final tally, the king nodded grimly. Thirty-one dead. Twelve wounded. Eleven still alive. The numbers were horrific, though not a single Atlantean dropped their head or cried.

  “May Poseidon honor their sacrifice and greet them at the gates of Elysium,” King Atlas said, standing over the body of his dead bodyguard. “Fine Gadeir, all.”

  The remaining warriors shouted in unison. It chilled Columbus, and for a moment, he regretted not joining in.

  “Over here,” Elara said.

  She’d found a stone path that led through the rocks. King Atlas and Dion trailed after her, followed by Columbus and his crew. They arrived at a wall made of stone, ancient writing barely discernible on its surface. Still, something was missing.

  “This is the place the old books spoke of,” Elara said. “But it appears little more than a tomb.”

  “A tomb with no doors,” Columbus added.

  “There are always doors,” King Atlas said. “Some just need the proper key.” He walked up to the writing, shining his sonstave light over the words. “Can you read the language of the slaves, seafarer?”

  “I have some knowledge of Koine, Your Highness.”

  “To think of all the useless languages I learned instead of the slaves’. English for one. There’s a tongue that will never catch on.”

  “What do you make of it?” Elara asked.

  The truth was Columbus couldn’t read Athenian or Mycenaean but noted some similarities with Proto-Greek.

  “These symbols here,” Columbus said. “This is man. Or, more likely, Atlantean. And these, subjugated, in chains? I would presume they are the Athenian slaves themselves. These are obviously eldocks.”

  “And these?” Sareen asked.

  Columbus looked closely at the image and saw a creature with breasts and wings.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, but something else had captured his attention. He thought he saw a glimmer of something underneath the dust. He wiped it away, revealing a golden image of a snake eating its tail. It was the same image from his dreams.

  “There you are,” he whispered.

  As he ran his fingers over it, Elara shouted out a warning. Columbus turned his head, but too late. The gilded image glowed brightly a second before the stones beneath his feet gave way and he tumbled into the darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nyx was eight years old when a stranger moved into the island’s abandoned monastery. According to her mother, no one from the village had gone within a thousand feet of it since its previous occupants—a religious cult of some nominal order—were found dead from a mass suicide after their bacchanal love fest went bad. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Reportedly, the group’s primary tenets were hallucinogenics and abstinence.

  For seventy years, the derelict structure had sat vacant high atop the sheer cliffs of the eastern side of the island, far removed from the motley crew that populated the opposite end. And then one night, out of the blue, someone noticed a flicker glow in the northernmost window and a shadow moving within.

  The villagers were understandably upset. They performed a headcount. No one was missing. Nyx sat atop the old psaltery at the back of the room, watching with guilty amusement as the gathered debated the situation.

  “It’s a ghost,” said Esmerelda, the voluptuous tavern owner. “No one can stomach living up there alone. Remember old Jahar? He went for a walk up there one day and never returned.”

  “I thought Jahar was stung to death by wasps,” someone said.

  “These were no mere stings,” Esmerelda scoffed. “He was covered in bleeding ulcers, like something unholy was inside him trying to get out.”

  The villagers murmured grimly. Nyx was entranced.

  Giuseppe, a short, balding Italian who was rumored to have escaped a hundred prisons stood up from the bar. “I volunteer to look. All I need are provisions for me and eight wenches. It shouldn’t take more than a week.”

  Half the villagers laughed while the other half jeered.

  “A week with any of these harlots and you’ll be dead,” someone said.

  “Aye, but what a glorious death it will be.”

  More laughter. Esmerelda pounded a serving tankard on the table until the tavern went quiet.

  “This is nothing to make light of!” she hissed. “We need to act before this apparition gathers strength and comes for us. Now, who’s seen the priest?”

  Everyone looked around until they saw a man of the cloth passed out over a rear table.

  “I see him,” someone said. “Pickled like pigs’ feet.”

  “And as a reformed Christian, I, for one, vote we follow in his Godly example,” a slender drunkard said.

  Arguments commenced and didn’t stop until the front door opened and Nyx’s mother walked through. One look from her and the entire room went silent.

  “What’s going on here?” Horacia asked. She scanned the faces and found her daughter. “Nyx? Why aren’t you outside doing your chores?”

  “A village meeting was called, Mother,” Nyx answered. “Since you were at the docks, I thought I would attend in your stead.”

  “How thoughtful of you. Why was I not summoned?”

  Although the island had no official leader, Nyx’s mother kept the island running and was the person most of them went to when there was trouble. Now, it seemed they might have found it on their own.

  “This meeting was too important to shuck off,” Esmerelda said. “Not with that thing hovering above our heads.”

  Nyx’s mother wasn’t sure what she meant by thing.

  Nyx clarified it for her. “They think a ghost has moved into the monastery.”

  “A ghost?” Nyx’s mother asked. “Really?”

  “How else do you explain someone slipping past our scouts?” Esmerelda plied. “Jacque and his lot can spot a sail at twenty leagues. And with no wreckage washed ashore and no footprints leading up there, a specter of devilish intent is the only reasonable answer.”

  “There is no ghost,” Nyx’s mother said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because this island has seen more death than the Hundred Years’ War. Throughout history, it has served as garrisons for the Phoenicians, the Romans, and the Moors. During the black death, the Genoese built a colony here to house their dying. Religious orders have fled persecution here. Pirates have operated from its shores. And in all that time, no one has ever mentioned ghosts. Plus, whoever’s up there cooks his meals over a fire each morning. You’ve all seen the smoke.”

  They had. The energy in the room dissipated. Nyx noted her mother had a way of doing that. It was why the island had functioned as long as it had.

  “Well, he’s still a trespasser,” Esmerelda said. “Shouldn’t we at least go up there and see what he’s about?”

  “Why? He’s no threat to us. He had an opportunity to strike us unaware and chose not to. This has always been an island of orphans—a refuge for those who have no other home. If this man wishes to join our ranks, even if it’s a solitary place among the clouds, who are we to deny him?”

  “So, we do nothing?” Giuseppe asked.

  “Go about your lives. Leave the
man in peace. If he comes down, he comes down. If he doesn’t, it’s no skin off our backs. Agreed?”

  A few murmurs ran through the room. Nyx’s mother asked again. This time everyone agreed. Even Nyx spoke the word when she saw her mother looking right at her, though it was much harder than the eight-year-old expected.

  That promise lasted three days. Each morning as Nyx rose to do her chores and schooling, she saw the cone of smoke stemming from the temple above. And each night before she went to bed, she was mesmerized by the haunting glow of candlelight filling the window in the clouds.

  On the fourth day, her resolution broke. Just after lunch, she found herself wandering near the path that ascended the mountain. She told herself she was just hunting berries, but before she knew it, she was moving through the trees that bordered the monastery, looking for a glimpse of anything inside.

  A collapsed wall afforded her a view of the courtyard where a small fire crackled. On a spit over the coals was a bird. By the smell, Nyx thought it might be a quail. She looked around, but no one was visible. She did see a thin bedroll splayed out by the fire. Next to the fire was a pack with a weapon protruding from the flap. One person, she thought. And, he—or she—is unarmed. If she could get a good look at that weapon, Palo the Deserter might be able to tell them where the stranger haled from.

  Nyx found a narrow inlet covered by ivy nearby. She slipped through as quietly as she could, wincing every time a twig or needles snapped under her feet. She looked right and left as she tiptoed toward the pack. As she drew near, she saw the weapon was a short staff made of black, dappled wood with gold rings a third of the way down the handle. She was reaching for it when a deep, accented voice spoke behind her.

  “Careful, thief. The coals are hot. I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself.”

  Nyx spun to see a tall African man in dirty, colorful robes standing behind her. His face was stern, though he didn’t appear angry.

  “I-I’m not a thief,” Nyx said. She couldn’t believe this man had snuck up behind her. Where had he come from? She needed to extricate herself quickly and glanced to the doorway behind the man. “I was walking the hills when I smelled food.”

  “Then you’ve come to steal my meal and not my possessions? I should feel comforted.”

  He took a step toward her, and she stepped back.

  “I have friends nearby. They’ll hear if I scream.”

  The man smiled softly. “You are as bad at lying as you are at sneaking around, Nyx. That is something we shall have to rectify.”

  Nyx froze as the man strode to the fire and stoked it with a long stick, ignoring the girl as if she didn’t matter.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Mansa. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “What did you say?” Nyx gaped.

  The Seer parted her door wider.

  “I said, I’ve been expecting you. Now, are you going to stand there gaping, or are you going to come in? There’s a draft in the hall.”

  Nyx entered, passing by the Seer, still confused over how she’d found her way to this place. For the lesser part of an hour, she’d wandered the city, debating what to do about what she’d discovered. She never expected to run into anyone, much less the Seer, and much less arrive at her door. And to hear her speak the same words Mansa had spoken at their first meeting all those years before? It unnerved her.

  “How did you know I would be here? I didn’t even know I would be here.”

  The Seer chuckled. “One of the great secrets of the universe is that we are all made up of stardust. It flows in us and around us, everywhere. People are a force all unto themselves, bumbling into things, causing confusion and chaos. But sometimes a mind can be so consumed with a thought that it sends energy out into the world, directly into the path of what it wants to connect with most. And, when I am that thought, I hear it like a small voice in my head.”

  “What does it sound like?” Nyx asked.

  “Like a worm rooting around in my brain. But I wanted to frame it nice for you because of what’s to come.”

  Nyx shuddered. “What is to come?”

  “Why, your visit to the Fates, of course. It will be different for you than it was your friend.”

  “He’s my captain.”

  “We both know he is more than that. But first. Let us have a proper look at you.”

  Surprisingly, the blind old woman walked straight up to Nyx and grasped her by the shoulders. Those milky white eyes looked her over as if they could see past skin, muscle, bone, and blood. To her very heart. To her very soul. Nyx fought hard not to flinch.

  “Not the prettiest thing, am I?” the Seer said.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  At this, the old woman cackled. “And you shall again. Many times, before you die. You have a powerful aura. One I have not felt in a very long time. Pity you are so young.”

  “Does that mean you won’t help me?”

  “No. But you should know, all help comes at a cost. Life has more forks and branches than any can see. If just one of these paths is revealed to you, you might choose another out of fear or spite and then everything is thrown out of whack. You could suffer greatly for it. Or those you care about. You must be certain.”

  Considering the present circumstances, Nyx had to know. She nodded, but the Seer neither looked surprised nor happy.

  “I must warn you. The Fates can be cruel and cunning. You must ask your questions wisely.”

  Nyx opened her mouth, but nothing came out. It was like her voice was trapped between two stones. The Seer shuffled slowly toward a small ledge in front of the window and waited. Nyx found her feet rooted to the floor. Is this what Columbus went through? She had seen his face when he returned. Gone was the sly smile, the easy quip. Whatever he’d been shown had shaken him to his core. Would he have warned her not to do this? Most likely he wouldn’t have cared. But desperate times called for desperate measures, as Mansa used to say. And no wisdom was gained without personal risk.

  She walked forward as the Seer rolled what looked like an old rug across the floor. Nyx’s first thought was she didn’t want to get her clothes dirty.

  “Step on the mat as Zeus once did and let the Threads of Fate reveal your destiny.”

  Nyx stepped tentatively on the fabric. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until her chest started to burn.

  “Three questions. Ask any more and you will suffer.”

  Nyx felt a terrible sense of foreboding as if something tragic was about to happen. And yet Princess Elara had spoken of her experience as if it was a blessing. The trick she understood was to ask the right question. And yet, she had a million questions, including the one most important to her. Where was her mother? Could she ask that, knowing she would be putting her desire above all else? Could she be that selfish? The Seer had spoken about paths. Nyx had a sense the questions she asked here could set her on the correct one or send her to oblivion.

  “Of the past, what good and evil has the trident wrought?”

  The Seer had lost her vision two centuries before, but that didn’t mean she was blind. Her vision delved beyond the mortal senses, deep into the human psyche, allowing her to see all the strengths and fears of those who stood before her. She felt the child grow tense as she passed into the spirit world. She heard the Fates laugh as they danced in the mist. The child started to tremble, and her belly grew tight. Still, she stood her ground.

  A question asked. A question answered. The girl flinched as if lashed, a single tear wetting her cheek. And yet she remained and asked another.

  “For the future,” Nyx said, her voice tremulous, “how can I retrieve the trident?”

  This time the child’s body bucked, and she held her breath. Awe. She was witnessing awe. The Seer felt something for the girl then. Compassion. Empathy. She remembered what it was like to be innocent and to have that innocence ripped away. Could she stop it? The Seer had no control over the Fates, the experience was far beyond her ken. To
her surprise, she found herself wishing that was not the case. And for the first time since the Seer was a young woman herself, she offered a silent prayer to the Gods in the hopes they would leave some measure of the girl intact. This one’s fire should not be dimmed, she prayed. It should be stoked. For in her I see a spark that could one day light the world.

  Nyx unclenched her fists, though she never opened her eyes. She now understood the task in front of her, and as impossible as it seemed, she was willing to try.

  But the third question loomed.

  The present.

  We were all hurtling toward it, but Nyx understood she was being given a chance to change hers with a single question. Was she strong enough to ask the right one? To do that, she had to believe in something larger than herself. She had to believe she was being guided by a purpose. But what was it? To find her mother? She wanted more than anything to believe that was true. And yet her heart told her it was something else.

  “For the present…” she said, licking her lips—they’d become so dry—her voice hoarse, barely a whisper now. “Tell me, what does Columbus loves most?”

  The Seer closed her eyes, hoping the answer didn’t break the child. Then she heard her gasp and knew her prayers had failed.

  Pain. It was the one thing that let you know you were alive.

  The thought didn’t comfort Columbus because right now his was off the charts. First, he had hit his head when the trap door fell closed behind him. A short slide on a stone slab had also left his flesh bleeding and raw. Afterward, he fell. He wasn’t sure how long. When he finally landed, the impact filled his vision with a wave of black stars.

  His hand instinctively reached out for his sonstave. He couldn’t find it.

  The dark receded anyway. A gold halo lit by what few pyre worms hadn’t been crushed by his fall. Thank heavens for grubs, he thought.