“Our alien cargo was thrilled by the distant vessel. ‘Hail, beloved of God!’ they cried, kneeling upon our decks and extending solemn hands to the speeding craft. They told us that we would not overtake it, and they spoke the truth. It disappeared as miraculously as it had appeared.”
He ceased speaking. Salustra bent her gaze upon the floor. A half-amused smile was upon her lips. “It seems,” she said softly, “that there is a God!” She again fixed her gaze upon Siton. “In what direction are we sailing?”
“We are sailing east, as these disciples of God have suggested.”
The Empress rose abruptly. As she swayed with weakness, Siton put his arms around her. “Take me to Signar,” she commanded.
The iron determination of Lazar, and the energizing jewel that she clasped once more about her throat, now came to her assistance. With Siton’s aid, she mounted the stairs to an upper deck. Rugs had been thrown over the flooring and on these rugs and deep cushions lay a hundred men, women and children. Had this been a pleasure ship, bound for some flower-decked shore, the people could not have been more carefree and happy. It seemed almost incredible that this was a ship bearing the remnants of a destroyed people to an unknown port.
For a long moment Salustra looked upon this handful of all who remained of her country, and tears welled in her eyes. She advanced with faltering step, and at her appearance a murmur broke from those on the deck, and with one accord they rose and made profound obeisance. They crowded about her, the women in scanty garments, the children wide-eyed, the men half naked. These people had lost everything and quietly mourned the loss of many loved ones. But their eyes shone with a bright courage and resolution. They had turned already from the dark past, as they listened to the bearded strangers, and were looking toward the radiant yet still uncertain future. Salustra could not help but marvel at the bottomless spring of human hope.
Then, as though at a signal, she raised her head and looked beyond them. Some distance away, Signar, pale, gaunt, still weak, sat in a great chair, his knees covered with scarlet robes. He was watching her with a faint smile. As she glanced at him he slowly extended his hand.
With a faltering step she approached him. As she reached his side she sank to her knees beside him, her head resting upon the arm of his chair. He put his hand under her chin, turned her strained face to the light, and gazed down into her eyes with mingled humor and sadness.
“The gods must love us, Salustra,” he said softly. “Of all Althrustri and Atlantis, they have spared only us and a faithful handful.”
His hand fell upon his knee again and he looked beyond her.
The warm air blew about them, the sun gleamed from every wave. The great ship’s course reversed the path of the sun. But the thoughts of Signar and Salustra were too melancholy for speech. They sat in brooding silence for a while, acutely aware of one another even as they listened to the murmur of the women and children nearby.
Signar finally rested his hand on Salustra’s head. “These few, Salustra,” he said sadly, “are our empire.”
“Nay, lord,” she replied in a trembling voice. “They are thy empire. I long only for peace, to know more of this God the strangers talk about.”
She shuddered at the vision of a bloodthirsty people. “Thy people treated thee ill, Salustra,” said Signar gently, following her thoughts.
“Had they torn me limb from limb, I would still mourn them, for I loved them as my children.”
“All that thou hast loved are dead, Salustra—Tyrhia, Erato, Creto, Mahius, yes, even poor, misbegotten Brittulia.”
He gently touched her cheek with his finger. “I asked thee a question once,” he whispered. “Why didst thou spare me that night?”
She turned her face slowly to him. There was no longer any reason for dissembling. “Because I love thee, Sire,” she answered softly.
That night, Signar and Salustra lay clasped in each other’s arms, their first untroubled sleep since their meeting. The light glimmered upon them, twinkled on their sleeping faces, picked sparks from the crimson and golden cushions upon which they lay, and gilded the robes that covered them. Signar’s head lay upon Salustra’s breast; her arms were about him, her lips pressed to his head, her tawny hair streaming over them both.
It was a new dawn that greeted them. Salustra awoke sweetly, gently, and at her movement Signar stirred. Their eyes met and then their lips. No words passed between them, but Salustra crept into her lover’s arms as though they were the only shelter she needed.
Later they went upon the deck. They were filled with calm. Two doves brought on ship by the strangers had been released and were now overdue. The passengers scanned the sky hopefully. The sun stood directly overhead, bathing the ocean in a golden light as a loud cry burst from a sailor on the watch. “Land,” he cried ecstatically, “land ahead!”
Immediately the vessel resounded with a confusion of shouts and prayers. The entire company crowded to the rail and saw on the horizon a long, gray stretch of land. Men, women and children, Atlanteans and Althrustrians together, fell upon their knees, sobbing with joy. Over the water came that indescribably pungent smell of earth. Mountains, like blue-and-white mist, began to be penciled in light against the shining sky; the rippling fronds of great forests rose like a green wall from the shore. The odor of millions of exotic flowers drifted over the ocean to eager nostrils. A great calm, a great and virgin silence, a mighty peace lay over this new world.
Men and women embraced each other. Some continued to kneel, offering thanks to their one God. These were the black-bearded prophets of doom, and their prayers were said in an alien tongue to their jealous Jehovah.
Signar and Salustra stood side by side, their arms about each other, their faces full of mingled emotions. “A new empire, beloved,” said Signar at last.
Salustra turned her eyes upon him. “Nay, a new world, my lord,” she said, “in which to live again and dispel old lies, abandon old sorrows and ways and start a brave new generation of man.” Her eyes shone like the sun. “For this we have been brought from the other side of the flood.”
Postscript—1974
My friend, Jess Stearn, has written several outstanding books on psychic matters and reincarnation, notably the famous The Sleeping Prophet and his latest, A Prophet in His Own Country. I believe that Jess was just about the first to introduce to the public books concerning these matters. So, to amuse him, I sent him a very old manuscript on Atlantis, the mythical land, which I had written as a young child, before I had even reached puberty.
I cannot remember, at this late date, just when the idea of writing a book on Atlantis occurred to me, but after long reflection I do remember being “haunted” by it for all the short years of my life before I got down to typing it out. It seems to me, now, that I “knew” about Atlantis from infancy, and took it for granted, though I did not recall this until just recently.
I knew, months ago, that Jess was going to do something about my childhood novel on Atlantis, but I forgot it completely in the stress of my existence and my constant despair. So I have no explanation of suddenly “experiencing” my life on Atlantis after all these years, when I dreamed that I was the Empress Salustra in this book. This dream happened a few weeks ago, and then in the weeks following I had two other “experiences” as the Empress Salustra of Atlantis. They were not “repeats” of what is in this book, but were entirely new and vivid and appallingly fresh, as if they had happened only this week.
In the first dream, I saw the white colonnade of the palace in which I had “lived,” but it was not as a remembrance but as an event which had just occurred. I walked through the gardens, seeing the caged birds behind their golden bars, the peacocks stalking the grass, the pit in which squirmed captured reptiles of a breed unknown to this present world, and animals also unknown to us moderns. I saw the liquid golden sea below the palace; I saw the tumbling and rising forest of white stone of my capital city which lay below and above my palace, climbing the great volcan
ic mountains which surrounded this area. I could even smell the scent of strange flowers and see huge trees with amethyst and blue blossoms the size of our present sunflowers. They were as familiar to me as my present house and its gardens. There were fountains of gilded marble, singing, and red gravel paths winding through beds of shrubs I do not know, all blooming and scented, and endless statues.
I was conscious of a profound emotional distress as I left the colonnade to walk in the garden, hoping for a little surcease. I did not wonder at it. I knew what it was: the suffering of “dis-prized love,” as Hamlet had mentioned. I knew I was secretly in love with the Emperor Signar of Althrustri, the cold nation to the north of Atlantis, but he was my enemy and he was preparing to seize my beloved country. I did not know which was causing me the more anguish—the love I felt for a man I knew I should hate and have quietly murdered, or my love for Atlantis, my nation, my empire. I knew I must have him killed—yet his nation was now far more powerful than mine. I finally concluded that it would be best for me to die, rather than Signar, for then I would never know what fate had come to Atlantis. I knew, in my dream, that he had accepted my young sister as his bride, and that, too, agonized me, though it was I who had suggested it. So, to escape all this suffering, I had decided that death was my only refuge. This episode, or dream, is not in the book, or at least not exactly.
I awoke, feeling the turbulent sorrow and yearning for Signar, and the emotion was so intense that I began to weep and I could not get oriented to the present for at least ten minutes or so. I felt that somewhere Atlantis still existed, and so did Signar, and I had the most terrible urge to lock for them both, and to tell Signar that I loved him—though I was convinced that he detested me. When I finally realized that it hid been only a dream I was both relieved and desolated. I know now who Signar “was,” but that is my own secret. But it was only a dream…
However, I could not free myself from the “reality” of the dream, its intense and imminent vividness, its immediacy. I could hear echoes of Signar’s voice in every room of my house. I tried to work, but it was impossible. (Incidentally, my young sister, in the book, appeared to be a lady I know and who is my present friend.)
Then a week or so later, I had another dream of Atlantis and myself and Signar, which also does not appear in the book. I dreamed I had given a feast for Signar and my sister on an immense gilded raft moored in the harbor, and the floor was paved with rugs of intense hues and there were gemmed tubs of exotic small trees set about, and tables covered with cloth of silver, and musicians, and above the harbor was my palace glittering white in the sun, and the vast forest of climbing white stone of my capital city. The raft was thronged with men I knew well, and a few intimately, gaily dressed and with garlands on their heads, and the water was sprinkled with blossoms and had a curious odor which vaguely disturbed me, for it was unusual. It was sulfuric. The volcanic mountain immediately above my city wore a pennant of fluttering scarlet smoke, and it made me dimly anxious. But above all was my torment over Signar, who was sitting on a divan with my sister and boldly caressing her, and I could not endure it. My imperial pennants swayed and snapped in an unseasonably hot breeze, and I could actually feel the perspiration on my forehead, and a sense of foreboding.
Then Signar rose and approached me, smiling in the mocking manner to which I had lately become accustomed, and he sal me facetiously, and I wanted both to murder him and to embrace him. I hurriedly said to him, “I feel that I shall never again see this aspect of my beloved city.”
He looked over his shoulder at the city and the mountains and the sky and the palace and said. “That is absurd.” His face became even more mocking and he pretended concern. “Or are you sick?”
I replied, “Yes, I am sick of an old sickness and I fear I will die of it.” Again, my anguish almost overwhelmed me, and I awoke gasping with it, and again I was haunted by it for several days.
The third dream occurred very recently. But I was no longer in Atlantis. I knew Atlantis had gone forever, and with it my few intimates and my sister and all its millions of people, whom I had loved in spite of their corruption and treachery. For it had been my own, and I had been its empress.
The dream was of a strange land, hot, tropical, with lavender mountains and enormous fronded forests which stretched into infinity, and I knew it was a new land and had no inhabitants except for the few of us who had survived the demolition of Atlantis. The sea was a strange sea I had never seen before, and there was a vast silence everywhere except for the raucous shrieking of birds alien to my experience, great colored birds with huge, hooked beaks, and very small monkeys, and catlike animals of a large size, and cattle—if they were cattle—with twisted horns and shaggy coats. The odors of this land were overpoweringly unique to me, some aromatic, some unpleasant, some strenuously sweet with a hot sweetness, and insects filled the green and shining air, insects for which I had no name.
But though I sorrowed and wept for Atlantis I also experienced a joy almost too intense for bearing, for Signar was with me, and I knew he loved me as I loved him. Our attendants had built us huts of gray curling bark, and I was no empress any longer, nor was Signor an emperor. We had labored with our people to establish ourselves in this green, hot land with the curiously hued mountains, and our clothing was primitive and our hands as calloused and worn as those of our people. But we were joyful and at peace. I dreamed I was pounding some nameless grain in a wooden bowl, kneeling, and Signar came to me, touched me gently on my head and said, “This is our empire,” and he bent to kiss me and I knew such delight that I closed my eyes—and woke up.
This, too, does not appear in this book.
I cannot imagine from where these strange dreams emerged, or what their significance is—if there is any significance at all. The only thing I know with certainty is that the dreams were more vivid than my present reality, more poignant, more agonizing and more joyful. They haunt me, coloring my whole existence, and I feel deprived and filled with an ancient longing.
Is this evidence of reincarnation? I know no more about it than the reader. Nor do I know why I wrote of Atlantis when I was only twelve years old, and knew it intimately.
Perhaps Hamlet was right: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
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