by C. E. Murphy
“I have no idea. I don’t make them.” With delicate precision, Ragar lifted a tome from the black stone box. The outside covers were a warm dark wood, thin sheets of paper held in place by long leather thongs. The cover was carved with the circle that symbolized the Houses of Atlantis, thirteen studs rising from the depressed wood. Within was the elegant pouring jug of water that represented Aquarius. Excluding the covers, the book was nearly five inches thick, by far the largest volume of any sort Methos had ever seen. “Gods of heaven and earth,” he murmured, reaching a tentative hand towards the book. “It’s beautiful.”
Ragar set it on the table, holding it in place by way of his fingertips, barely touching the wooden cover. “If you damage it,” he said levelly, and Methos looked up.
“I won’t,” he said swiftly, before Ragar had time to complete the thtreat. “I would sooner die.” While the statement was wildly untrue, it soothed Ragar, who lifted his hands to nudge the volume towards Methos.
“I would suggest you read and absorb quickly. In time, you may be accepted into the circle of protectorates, but until then, this will be your sole opportunity to study it.”
Methos was already pulling a chair towards himself, a long leg stretched out to hook the nearest and drag it across the floor. Judging it close enough without looking, he sat down on the very edge, nearly sliding off. Impatiently, he hitched it forward, and carefully drew the book across the table to open it.
Neat handwriting lettered across the page, ancestor to the texts he had already studied. For a moment Methos simply studied the scripting, then looked at Ragar. “Atlantis developed a written language like this orignally? Not a pictography script first?”
Ragar settled down in another chair, pulling out a bundle of papers from a bag he’d carried down with him. “Our gods gave us our written language. It’s evolved since then, but that’s the oldest example we have. When they gave us the Book, they gave us writing. It’s over a thousand years old.”
Methos looked down at the book, hardly breathing. “More than a thousand years?” he asked wonderingly, all too aware that the wonder would be interpreted as awe of being in the presence of something of such great age. It was partly true, but the hope that the Immortals might be explained in the thin pages struck a deeper chord in the ancient man.
“It tells its own history,” Ragar said. “Read.”
They tell us we are gods, the text began, and it is somehow easier to not argue.
They tell us we are gods. We are not; we are only men and women. Our godhood lies in an Immortality we didn’t ask for, and in the knowledge gained over years of study.
My name is Lonan. I no longer remember how long I have been alive. The thirteenth generation of Atlantis is growing up around me now, and my family and I have been on this island thousands of years. We came here to avoid the war that is the way of life beyond Atlantis. Our kind, we Immortals, fight a deadly Game, surviving one day to the next by killing our brothers. We ‘gods’, my brothers and sisters and I, turned our back on that Game a long time ago, to use our Immortality to better ends. We came to Atlantis, and we have studied here for uncounted centuries.
A thousand years ago, we began to feel weary. It may be that without the Game we pall; it makes little difference. We formed a plan, to build a civilization here of a people whose lives were dictated by scholarship, not war. We were never completely alone on the island; dozens of small fishing villages litter the coast. We went among them and chose the wisest, the brightest, the most intuitive of them, and brought them to this valley in the mountains.
We taught them as best we could. After so long apart from mortals, it came as a shock to us, their brief lifespans. Still, they were eager to learn, and we taught them. With them we built the city of Atlantis, and we built the Houses in the hills, and named them for the constellations in the sky. The symbol of Atlantis became a circle, never-ending, with thirteen points to represent the Houses. Each House took its sky-sign and rendered it within the circle, and those thirteen signed Houses made the government of the city and the island.
None of this happened quickly. In each new generation, more people came to the city, and in each generation some of those newcomers joined Houses, to keep fresh blood and fresh ideas circulating. The building, the studying, the creation of a new way of life took hundreds of years, and through it all we guided them.
I suppose it’s no wonder they call us gods. We didn’t age and we didn’t change, mentors to every generation. When they read this book we’ll be gone, and I do not know if they will still call us gods. I cannot explain where we came from, any more than they can, and I wonder if it is not easier to simply call us gods, and forget the rest.
Some four hundred years ago there seemed a stabilization, a sudden cohesiveness that had not been there before. Atlantis had reached adulthood, and no longer needed our supervision so much.
Most of our time since then has been spent writing this book, and creating gifts for the Houses. This book, the greatest of the gifts, will go to Aquarius, the first House. In it are notes on everything we have learned in our centuries of study. We have chosen to not write out our learnings in detail for the Houses; mortal man is a violent and vicious creature, and I fear what might happen if we were to offer them our studies wholesale. Instead there are pointers, enough detail to set them on the right path. They will learn, over the years, how to create the things we have left outlines of.
When they reach the point of being able to understand what we offer, the other gifts will be useful as examples. The treth, the horned horses, have a universal solvent in the horn; it’s a compound that can be rediscovered with the right knowledge. The cup is of the same material, though it takes specific liquids to trigger the solvent. Half a dozen of the gifts — all of them that are meant to be worn, including the crystal — prevent cellular decay and afford a degree of physical protection. The larger the item, the more effective it is in the second half of this; it was a side-effect, not our primary goal. When Atlantis has reached the level of technology to be able to replicate the gifts, they should be able to use the ones we left as guidelines.
My brothers and sisters and I are tired of our long lives. We left the world behind so long ago that I wonder if there are even any more like us still beyond Atlantis. Since we have had no Immortal visitors in many centuries, we think it is likely we are the last.
If that’s so, it is time for the Gathering, and that, perhaps, explains our weariness. The book is finished, and we’ve decided who will be the last of us, the one to gain the Prize. I will not be that one, and I think in the end I am grateful for that. I’ve journied in this world long enough, and have helped to create a legacy in Atlantis that should stand through time. It is enough.
Methos stared at the last paragraph a long time, rarely blinking. “But there was no Gathering,” he whispered. “We’re still here.”
“Eh?” Ragar looked up from his papers. “What?”
Methos lifted his head slowly. “You’ve read the introduction? Written by Lonan, about how they were not gods at all?”
Ragar smiled. “What else would you call them? They lived thousands of years.”
Methos shook his head a little. “What happened?” he asked. “When the gods decided it was time to leave you, what happened?”
“There was a lightning storm,” Ragar replied. “Legend tells us that it fell from the sky for hours, and when it finally ceased, the gods were gone and the city was bleached white.” He gestured at the book. “The book actually tells us where the white stone was mined to build the city, centuries ago, but Methuselah swore to the truth of the lightning storm. He was a child then, maybe the last of us to speak with the gods.”
Methos closed his eyes. “Did he keep any records? Any written stories of what he saw then?”
Ragar frowned thoughtfully. “Not that I’ve ever seen, but I’ve never looked for them. There aren’t any in the library, certainly. You could ask someone at Scorpio. That was his House
. If there are any papers, they might have them stored away somewhere. Why?”
Methos looked back down at the brief history. “Do you believe they lived as long as they did?”
“All of our histories, all of the old tales, agree they did. I know Methuselah lived hundreds of years himself, with the crystal they gave him. I think it’s not impossible. What,” Ragar smiled, “you want to live forever?”
Methos glanced up again. “Don’t we all?”
The other scholar smiled again. “Methuselah said he was tired of living, when he gave his stone to Noah. He said mortal man was not meant to live nine hundred years.”
Mortal men, perhaps. Voice soft, Methos said, “I can’t imagine tiring of living.”
Ragar laughed. “You’re young, Methos. Thirty years, perhaps? I’ve seen more than fifty, a good long life, and there are days when I think I’m ready to lay down this life and join the gods on their mountaintops.”
Methos lowered his eyes to hide a smile, and turned the next page of the book. The Immortal who’d written the introduction had meant what he said: the notes on the fine paper were cryptic, sketches and brief explanations enough to give a hint of the destination, but not enough to see the path clearly. The stories he hoped for were not there. Instead, there were pages detailing the building of ships, of pyramids; the arts of smithery and warfare, medical practices and plumbing.
A little less than half of the way into the book the formulas and notes became indecipherable. Accompanying notes were legible, but incomprehensible: “Cellular decay reversable by injection of select hormones; see diagram. Crossreference cloak schematics.” “Genetic structure unstable at this stage; do not experiment with solvent.” Methos’ shoulders dropped and he looked up at Ragar, clearing his throat to speak for the first time in hours.
“How much of this can you understand?”
Ragar glanced at where Methos had the book open to, and shook his head. “Turn back about thirty pages. The first third or so we’ve been able to follow. It’s concrete material, building and surgery, things we can figure out. There’s a jump, after the section on surgery, though. It goes into topics we can’t even begin to understand, things that seem to have to do with the human body, but we’re not sure what.” He shook his head again. “Eventually we’ll get there. The gods didn’t want us to have the knowledge until we were ready to figure it out on our own, with only a few hints. I’m not sure how much of the information is theoretical and how much is actually tested.”
Methos sighed, carefully closing the book. “It’s a little humbling, isn’t it? Being presented with so much information we can’t fathom.”
Ragar nodded, smiling wryly, and tucked his papers away before lifting the Book and replacing it in its black stone box. Sliding it back home into the wall, he asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Methos shook his head. “No. I should have expected as much, I suppose. I only ended up with more questions.”
“That’s the way of things,” Ragar agreed philosophically. “Come. It’s a long walk back, and you have a story to tell me.”
Chapter 15
Methos left Ragar at the foot of the mountains, the mortal scholar making his way back into the city to digest the tale Methos had told. Methos watched him go, then, a little weary, made his way up the hillside to the Aries house.
He’d had no intention of telling Ragar the truth, until he read the story written by Lonan. They weren’t gods, he’d said, and neither am I. They just had an extraordinary number of years to study in. Almost anyone could discover impossible secrets, given thousands of years of undisturbed study.
But what had happened to them? Was the last still alive somewhere? Methos sighed, pushing open the main door to the house. I’ll have to see if House Scorpio has any of Methuselah’s records.
Minyah appeared in another doorway, an amused glint in her eyes. “Ghean has been looking for you,” she warned. “Two days until the wedding, and her betrothed nowhere to be found. She has gone down to the city to find you.”
Methos groaned softly, running his hand back through his hair, loosening the tie that bound it at the nape of his neck. “I haven’t missed anything of importance, have I?” he asked nervously. “No unexpected rituals that the ceremony can’t be completed without?”
“No,” Minyah said, “but she will want a magnificent apology. You may wish to begin thinking about it.”
Methos glanced over his shoulder, back down the hill he’d just climbed, and sighed dramatically. “Have you had the evening meal?” he asked. “Maybe we could share dinner and look for her together.”
Minyah smiled. “I would enjoy that,” she agreed, “but if you think my presence will curb Ghean’s tongue, I believe you will be disappointed.”
Methos grinned, offering his arm gallantly. “I can only hope. Meanwhile, I’ll practice my apology on you.”
Minyah laughed. “A moment.” She retreated into the room she’d come from, re-emerging a few seconds later with a woven satchel slung over her shoulder. A glance inside showed Methos a bundle of paper, bound neatly, settled at the top of the bag.
“You’re anticipating my company to be so dull that you bring papers along with you to study?” he teased, as she slipped her arm through his.
“No.” Minyah smiled. “I will listen to your practiced apologies, and write down the parts you should keep. Did you find the Book?”
Methos’ eyebrows lifted. “Am I that transparent? Does Ghean know I went looking for it?”
“Ghean,” Minyah said placidly, “is not as much a study of human nature as I. At worst she thinks you are, mmm. Engaging in activities only a bachelor might be permitted to do, one last time. At best, and knowin Ghean, this is probably her thought, she thinks you are out searching for the perfect gift for the ceremony.”
“Oh dear,” Methos murmured. “And what might the perfect gift be? I only have two days to find it.”
“Something symbolic of the House, perhaps. Ghean is very proud to be the last daughter of Aries.”
Methos looked down at Minyah, curiousity drawing his eyebrows together. “Is Ghean your daughter by birth?”
Minyah’s own eyebrows rose in elegant arches. “What an impertinent question,” she said. “No, she is not. I found her in the hills behind our house, only hours old. Whyever do you ask?”
“Our kind seem to be born without family.” Methos shrugged. “At least, a number of Immortals I’ve talked to have been foundlings. I haven’t asked everyone I’ve met.”
“And you? Were you born without family?”
Methos shook his head. “I don’t remember,” he said distantly. “It seems probable.”
“You find it distressing,” Minyah ascertained. “Your inability to remember.”
“Not distressing. Vaguely irritating, perhaps. I remember an extraordinary amount. It makes me wonder what it is I’ve forgotten.”
“Perhaps you should be glad of the advent of writing, before you had lived a thousand years and forgotten it all.”
Methos quirked a smile. “That’s the thing,” he said. “I might have.”
The conversation died away as they entered the busy town market. Methos peered over heads in search of Ghean, finally chuckling at himself. “She’s so small there could be a single person between us and I wouldn’t be able to see her.”
“I would suggest we try the Bull’s Tavern, then,’ Minyah said, turning down a side alley. “It is her favorite place to eat. She and Aroz often used to go there.”
“You couldn’t have said that in the first place?” Methos demanded, half dancing around the crowd to regain Minyah’s side.
She smiled up at him, nearly a grin. “I could have,” she admitted, “but I would have missed seeing you bobbing around the people like a tall seabird. I deemed the spectacle worthy of a small delay.”
Methos couldn’t stop the laugh that spilled out. “I see where Ghean developed her sense of humour,” he accused. Minyah inclined
her head with a modest smile, then, ithout warning, abruptly disappeared into a suddenly coalescing group of passers-by. Methos blinked down at the sea of dark hair, recognizing Minyah several seconds later by her satchel. Weaving through the throng to catch up with her a second time, he said, “That’s twice you’ve abandoned me. Am I to take this as — ”
Nausea swept over him, a quick rush that left him chilled. Methos straightened, momentarily blessing the height that allowed him to scan the mass of people with an easy glance. Karem, light among the darkness, moved off towards a table, without looking to see what Immortal approached. Methos looked ahead, following Karem’s path to its end, and touched Minyah’s shoulder. “I’ve found Ghean. This way.”
They circled towards Ghean’s table. Minyah swatted someone out of the way with her satchel, looking wide-eyed with indignation when he frowned at her. Methos laughed as the man looked startled, then with an apologetic and sheepish grin, stepped out of the way. Minyah’s eyes danced as she grinned back at Methos. “The trick,” she explained, “is making them think it was somehow their fault.”
“I think women have been doing that since the dawn of time.” Methos grinned, guiding Minyah to a halt at Ghean’s table. Hidden in an corner of the open tavern, Ghean sat across from Aroz and Karem both, the latter just settling down with three mugs of the sweet ale that Atlanteans drank in almost as much quanitity as they did coffee. “I see you’re able to entertain yourself in my absence,” Methos teased, and Ghean looked up with a startled glance.
“Methos!” She shoved her bench backwards to launch herself towards him for an exuberant hug. “Where have you been? Have you met Karem?” Ghean released the hug and stepped back a little. Over the top of her head, Methos watched Aroz scowl at the table, expression black.
Belatedly, Ghean noticed her mother. Minyah stood to the side, vivid amusement at Ghean having eyes only for Methos. “Mother!” Ghean went on. “We’ve been talking about history. You’ll be a great help. Methos, Karem is as interested in the House artifacts as you are. Perhaps you should pool your resources and try to find the Book together.”
