THE SINKING OF THE ISLAND.
The two watchers were interested not only in the island, but also in the
galleys speeding eastward. Erelong, the galleys that had turned back
thought better of their resolution; and changed course again in order to
rejoin their fellows But one continued toward Atlantis, that containing
Celesa’s relatives; and soon this disappeared, thus leaving Deucalion
and Sensel sole spectators of the sequel of this frenzy of the elements.
Through the night, the island seemed as if afire from the continual
thunderbolts and the volcano’s stream. The fiery river of the latter had
coursed down mountain and hill to the sea, and was leaping the cliffs a
tremendous fall of flame; whilst the released gases, in their
detonation, outrivaled the thunder. And waterspout was succeeding
waterspout, each discharging its angry contents; the rain, meanwhile,
falling as do the avalanches. It was indeed a deluge.
Toward dawn, Sensel inquired, “Would it not be well to get farther away?
Should the island sink we are too near.”
“There is yet time. Ah, the island rocketh again! Sensel, my heart
faileth me.”
“The poor islanders! They merit it not.”
“The gods know.” Yet Deucalion’s face was drawn in agony. As for Sensel,
his pallor was extreme. For many minutes, neither spoke; and their eyes
were turned from the dreadful sight. Then Sensel said, “Let us beseech
that they come out of this.” And he fell to plead silently, Deucalion
emulating him. In the bounding boat, the two found it hard to keep on
their knees as they implored heaven’s mercy, and hoped it would come.
But mercy was not for the island. They gave up hope when another volcano
shot up, and poured its torrent broadcast to the left of the first. Then
said Deucalion, “Let us press on until the island looketh to be on the
line where sky and water meet.”
When thus well away, they stood in the tossing boat, and gazed long, in
mute anguish, for the island though ceasing to rock, had sunk far down
in the water—was still sinking. Then their exhausted frames insisted
upon support. So they broke their fast, refreshing themselves with the
bread, dried meat, pulse, fruit, and wine. “Soon shall we need our
strength,” said Deucalion. “For the end is near.”
By judicious use of the oil, the tempestuous waves were kept in
abeyance. Thus they watched until the early morning, amidst the din of
the rumblings underneath, explosions of gases, burstings of waterspouts,
and crashings of thunderbolts. The island was scarcely visible for the
great white waves leaping high upon it. The heavens were lurid with the
volcano’s flames; and two broad torrents of molten, fiery matter were
springing from the island to the sea, that answered in tornadoes of
spray. Whilst the dense vapors rolling toward them threatened to shut
off the spectacle entirely.
Through all, the doomed mass was slowly, determinedly sinking
down—down—into the mad waters, the consolidating thunderbolts seeming to
press upon it to hasten its descent. The vapors, in their thickening,
obliged Deucalion to move the boat from point to point in order to
retain the view of what was now but the elevated portions of the island.
A few times had this been done when there came a shaking so excessive in
its length and severity that the two shrieked and closed their eyes.
When they looked, the island was disappearing even to the peaks. In an
instant more it vanished! And the waters lashed over it in a vortex
threatening all things—a vortex flame, steam, and smoke mounted!
“Now will we fly,” shouted Deucalion, “or we shall follow the island.
Scarce will the oil be of use!”
Though Sensel continued to drop, as Deucalion began his management. The
boat bounded over the water, hardly touching it. It seemed to fly. As
Sensel watched, he became awed, so bird-like, so sentient were the
movements of the slender frame! The water frothing madly about them
might be the verge of the vortex! Would its terrific suction seize them,
bear them down to share the fate of the vanished island? As they
labored, they scarce breathed of their dread.
But the boat continued to respond to the promptings—bounding, skimming,
flying over the turbid, grasping waters. A half hour’s intensity of
labor brought them relief. The sea was certainly less violent. At times,
the boat could even rest. With hope, they began to regard each other as
they relaxed a little in their efforts. Though hardly could they dare to
accept it, when there was no longer any impetuosity of movement, but
merely the rocking and rolling of rough contact. Shortly, there was not
even rocking or rolling, but rather a gliding. Then fell they on their
knees.
And that night, slept peacefully, in turn,—as the boat made good time,
in the morning coming upon a region of sunshine.
Past island after island they speeded, keeping ever to the east by means
of Deucalion’s knowledge of the heavens, as well as by a kind of rude
compass known even in those days. This was a magnetized needle floating
in water crosswise upon a reed.[23] For well were the properties of the
loadstone understood, and utilized.
On the morning of the second day, they sighted the vessels, that, with
some escaped vessels of Chimo, lay moored in a cove of the island
indicated by Deucalion. And then upon the two came a mighty dread. How
were they to tell these Atlanteans, these Atlanteans already signaling
to them gladly. Thus, in telltale manner, did they slacken their
oncoming, to the quick appreciation of the impatient islanders. The
waiting vessels showed only despairing faces, as the boat more and more
reluctantly approached. Then, when within earshot, a few would-be
hopeful ones began to cry out welcomings and inquiries.
Standing mute, downcast, Deucalion and Sensel moved in among them.
Though this was not enough; for there came the cries, “The island—is it
well?” “Tell us the good word!” And so on.
Yet still continued Deucalion and Sensel mute.
Then demanded a voice, “Tell us the worst!”
“That can I tell you,” answered Deucalion.
“What is it?”
“The island is no more. It hath sunk.”
Wails, shouts of incredulity responded.
Deucalion repeated his words, and convincingly. There were no more
incredulous tones, but instead despairing cries, wails, groans, fierce
imprecations. The wildest sounds of woe prevailed. At length, the same
voice that had asked for the worst rang loud, imperative, this time
demanding silence. It proved to be that of the captain of the queen’s
galley. He agonized, but firm, was standing out on the prow of Hellen’s
galley; and continued:
“Sir Priest, in truth, is Atlantis no more? Have a care—there left we
our dear ones.” His voice broke, but he stood straight and strong.
“Captain of the galley of the queen—thy wife, thy little ones—are above.
Look not for them—or the island—on earth.” Deucalion’s tones were
faltering, but he also stood firm.
“We have but thy word. How can we believe? I cannot. I would see with
mine own eyes.”
“And I!” “And I!” rang many voices.
“Sir Captain, thy doubts are in reason. I should feel as thou. It is but
a short sail. Further, the queen should hear of it from Atlanteans.”
There were cries of approbation.
“Sir Captain, I ask that thou wilt lead a few galleys back, bearing the
nobles and elders who are with us Their word the queen will believe.”
Loud rang the cries of approbation.
“It is well. But what of the galley that went on to Cleit?”
“We saw it no more.”
“It was lost?”
“Without doubt.”
“We may come upon some who live?”
“It cannot be.”
“We will go back.” Sorely overcome, the captain held out a hand to one
of the sailors, with this aid, tottered from the prow to the deck, and
then hid himself.
After further deliberation, it was decided that the few vessels should
return at once, and all the others await them here. Hard did Deucalion
struggle with his impatience to be off!
Shortly, the two captains had again exchanged galleys. When the captain
of the queen’s galley was once more on board his own, and had been
supplied with food from the plenteous stores of the Chimoan vessels, he
moved off; and was followed by two of the Chimoan vessels bearing such
of the nobles as would return. To dire sounds, the three hastened away.
When they were well off, Deucalion and Sensel went on to Hellen’s
galley, which lay quite to itself beyond the others—the queen’s
condition demanding this. Dimmer and dimmer grew Sensel’s eyes, and more
and more fluttering his heart. Was it well with Æole? When departing,
her unconsciousness had been his comfort; but, had such continued? Or,
had she come out of it to keenest suffering—not only for her father, but
also for himself? (This last thought, he held in humility, so little did
his selfhood prevail.)
Continually was he imploring that she might still be sleeping. But when
beside the galley, his emotion became most evident.
“Sensel, what aileth thee?”
“Æole—thinkest thou she still sleepeth?”
“Her sleep will not end until we are with her.”
“Unless Hellen hath waked her.”
He then became as in a dream until Hellen’s voice was heard in greeting,
when he looked up to perceive himself and Electra leaning over the
galley’s side. Notwithstanding the woe about them, the two were finding
it hard to restrain their joy. Near them were a few nobles, and their
attendants; farther back, stood the captain and sailors;—and all statues
of grief.
Deucalion ascended; and was clasped in Hellen’s arms. Sensel went up,
still as in a dream; as in a vision beholding Æole in repose upon the
couch where he had left her. But he was recalled by the grasp of
Electra’s hand, her words of welcome.
“Electra, the sight of thee doth gladden. Almost can I forget the
horrors we have passed through.”
“Sensel, we thought never to see thyself or Sir Deucalion more on earth.
Drear was our way over the waters. And we reached this to learn there
had been a dire rocking of the land for days.”
“I wonder that an island is left. But tell me, Electra, how is it with
Æole?”
“She sleepeth as doth the babe in the arms of its mother.”
The color flashed over his face, the light into his eyes. He was so
transfigured that Electra stared at him. “Sensel, art thou not wearied
after thy watching?”
“Wearied! I feel as though I had come out of a long, sweet sleep.”
And now, Hellen was seizing his hand. The two embraced as Deucalion and
Electra spoke together.
“Electra, Æole doth still sleep?”
“She doth.”
“And the queen?”
“She aroused but to faint again; and hath lain in a stupor through the
night.”
“We will hasten to her,” spoke Deucalion hurriedly. “But first, Æole.”
Æole lay as marble on a couch near that of the queen. Indeed, her
immobility would have alarmed one not acquainted with the idiosyncrasies
of her case. But, in her cheeks, was a reassuring, faintest tinge of
pink, and her lips retained their color and dewiness. It was as though a
rare statue was becoming replete with life; and these beholding,
continued to gaze in admiring wonder tinctured with awe.
Sensel’s face was a study in its love and thanksgiving. He could not
raise his eyes from this enthrallment.
After one keen look, Deucalion bowed his head as if satisfied, and
whispered: “I will first look to the queen.”
He found Atlana’s set face like that of death, and instantly was
applying restoratives. Then leaving Rica and Elna to chafe her hands, he
returned beside Æole.
Sensel seized his hand. “Ah, Deucalion, what a power is thine!”
“Yea, Father. But, how camest thou by it? Never hath the like been known
in Atlantis. Else those priests would not have been mastered.”
“Long hath it been mine, Hellen. Though I know not what it is. It must
be a hidden force of nature that few hold. Often through it have I
soothed thy mother. And, when Æole was a child, I used it upon her when
she was hurt, and in pain. With her, there came a state like sleep.
Again I used this force when she was called into the inner holy place;
and to my amaze. But, it is a dread power. Such evil could come of it.”
“I can well see that,” said Sensel.
“Hush, hush,” here whispered Electra.
“Yea, hush ye all. Æole doth waken.” And Deucalion leaned over her, the
while signing for them to withdraw.
The color was deepening, the eyelids fluttering, the lips parting.
Scarcely were they outside, than she opened her eyes. A joyous smile
lighted her face at sight of this dear father; and she held out her
arms.
When they had embraced, he raised her to a sitting posture, and
supported her. She said, in glad tone, “Father, thou didst not go. It
was good of thee to hearken unto us.”
“But, I did go. And have but now come back.”
“Thou art pleased to jest. Is jesting a habit of the Pelasgians? I
thought them a people sober of mind.”
He laughed. “Æole, thy chiding is fitting. But, I say again that I have
but just come back. I caused thee to sleep.”
“As thou didst in the temple?”
“Yea.”
“I did not feel it come upon me. Why is that?”
“I know not. I know this—thou yieldest well.”
“Father, thou art an able one. It is well thou couldst do it, for my
pain would have been sore. Yet, Hellen and Electra, how bore they it?”
“Well, as I knew. Each had the other.”
“But—Sensel?”
“Sensel went with me.”
“Father!”—There was a fine condensation of amazement, horror, reproach.
“It was not of my will. He and Hellen were strong in saying they would
go, when Electra screamed because thou hadst fallen into this sleep.
Thou shouldst have seen Hellen. Forgetting me, he darted to her. Here
was the chance for Sensel. He leaped down beside me, and loosed the
boat. I could but yield.”
“It was wrong of thee, of him. There are other things than that island.
Thou shouldst have turned back rather than have risked a life so young
and noble as that of Sensel. And, for thee—thou wouldst have bereft a
waiting, sorrowing wife and fond children. Should not wife, children,
Sensel, have had more weight than the fate of fifty islands? Father, I
thought better of thee!”
He rubbed his hands hard in his satisfaction. “That is right, Æole. I
merit thy chiding. Yet I could not but go. It is worth the going to
hearken to thy scolding.” His eyes were twinkling.
“A fine thing will it be to tell mother.” Then her voice lowered in
dread. “If she be but well? If she hath not sunk beneath her woe? The
doubt doth torture.”
Deucalion shivered. He also was doubting; though she must not know. Thus
he insisted:
“Æole, the gods can but bring joy to thy mother. Never hath she
murmured, never hath her trust lessened. But come. Let us go out into
the air.” (Though he turned for the moment aside.)
The queen was stirring; her eyes were opening. Before passing out,
Deucalion whispered to her ladies, “She is better. When she rouseth, say
not aught of what hath happened.”
They went out to come upon Sensel who was standing near the door. At
sight of Æole, he hastened to draw a couch more under the awning, with
the words,
“Æole, thou wilt find ease on this.”
Much wondering at the sudden exhilaration possessing her, she sat down.
“Æole, thou art well?”
“In truth am I.”
“She is well, and even strong enough to hear of the past night,” said
Deucalion, roguishly.
“Father!”
“Æole!”
“I asked thee not of the island. How could I forget!”
“Thou hadst much to do in chiding. Now will Sensel tell thee. I go to
Hellen and Electra.” And off he moved toward the other couple, who, at
sound of his footsteps, faced him; and both exclaimed, “There is Æole!”
“Yea, she is well wakened.”
The two laughed gaily, then, blushing, looked off on the water. Though
soon spoke Electra.
“Sir Deucalion, we would hear of the past night.”
“For that I have come.”
In a few words, he described the sinking of the island. When he had
finished, Hellen reproached him.
“Father, thou didst dare too much. What pain hath it caused Electra and
myself.”
“I knew ye would cheer each other. Further, there was the thought for
the queen.”
“In truth, it was dire thought for her, for thee, and for Sensel, day
and night,” spoke Electra. “It was not right of thee!”
“Now is thy time, Electra, to chide, to scold. Already hath Æole done
her part. I will hearken well, for I merit all.”
“If she can scold who hath lain in her sleep, free of dread, what might
I say who have been waking through it all. Sir Deucalion, I will seal my
lips. I should say too much.”
“Right, Electra, say no more,” interposed Hellen. “Or, I, too, will join
thee. But, father, instead, will I speak of Electra. Without her, I
could not have borne it. Though she was torn with grief, she waited upon
the queen, helped the ladies, cheered poor Azu who hath been stricken
over the queen; and at times, walked with me talking in bright
manner—and to the helping of the captain and sailors—for the captain
told me they watched her white robe as it were a beacon.”
“But I knew she would do thus, Hellen.”
“Ye will spoil me. I have done but what I should.”
Deucalion was suddenly falling into revery. Hellen was about to address
him, when Electra checked him. Then the two began to pace about the
deck, ever regarding him anxiously. After a little, Electra whispered:
“Thy mother?”
“Yea, he is lost upon her. The fear is great, at times, that she may
have passed beyond.”
“The gods are kind, Hellen. Ye will see her.”
Meanwhile, Sensel was giving his account to Æole.
“Æole, we staid to see the island beset by high pillars of water,
pressed upon by bolts of flame, and as if on fire from the burning
mountain. The seething waves were leaping higher and higher upon it: and
it was plain it was sinking. Later, another mountain began to send forth
fire. Imagine, if thou canst, those fiery streams rising high above the
island to fall in rivers of flame, that rushed in fury onward to the
cliffs—from there to leap to the mad waters that answered in tempests of
boiling, hissing spray! And through all was the noise deafening. Ever
were the pent airs[24] bursting from the mountain with noise as of
thunder, the pillars of water breaking, the bolts of flame
crashing—whilst the rain fell in sheets, the ashes in showers!”
“Did the rain and ashes fall upon you?”
“They touched us not to our wonder.”
Æole sighed, relieved; then shivered.
“It is too much for thee, Æole.”
“Say on, Sensel. I would hearken to all.”
“The island was sinking fast, whilst toward us speeded dense vapors that
we feared would hide the end. Thus we moved from point to point that we
might still behold. Though not for long: as, in the early morning came
the end. There was a long and severe trembling—as if heaven and earth
were rending apart! We closed our eyes knowing the worst had come. We
opened them to behold the island vanishing!
“Yea, in a moment more, we saw it not—saw naught but the meeting waters,
the whirl of their drawing—with flame and smoke rising high above! Then
cried thy father, ‘Now will we fly!’—And amazing became his guiding of
the boat. We bounded, leaped, flew, scarce touching the hungry waves
that we feared would draw us down. Long we thought we should not get
beyond. But the boat is charmed. And so is thy father. We bounded,
leaped, flew on—on—to less raging waters; thence to smooth ones; later
sighting these vessels to be stricken with further dread. For, how were
we to tell these Atlanteans that their island was no more?”
“Ah—how?”
“Though thy father did it, Æole.”
“The poor Atlanteans!”
“Æole, through it all, thou wert of more thought than the island. Ever
was I fearing thou wouldst come out of thy sleep. As I helped thy
father, I was dwelling upon thy grief shouldst thou waken ere we reached
thee. Less worked I for life than for thy peace of mind. Though life is
without price whilst thou art of it. Now, it is past belief that I am
with thee, that peace and joy are our own, that I hold thy hand, that I
kiss it thus!”
Æole had never seen anything so beautiful as his smile. She looked down
at her hand, then at his; and upon her came the desire to kiss this hand
so enfolding hers. But, her look was more than many kisses, as she said:
“Sensel, our lives will prove our thanks.”
“Our life, Æole.”
Now upon his ears smote sore interruption. The voices of Hellen and
Electra were very near. Thus he murmured, “There can be but one life for
us, Æole.”
Then in came the two under the awning. They sat down unmindful of the
agitation of Sensel and Æole, being all occupied with their own sweet
emotions. But, they began to speak of the events of the night; and
Sensel, in greatest patience, replied to their questions. Glad was he
when Deucalion appeared. Then he excused himself. And, when outside,
fell to pacing the deck absorbed; at times, pausing to gaze in
somnambulistic fashion upon the water.
Under this awning, the evening meal was partaken of. This consisted of
bread, pulse, dried meats, honey, melons, pomegranates, wine, and a
sherbet made of almonds and honey—so well were the fleeing Chimoan
vessels victualed, so generous was the fifth island in its offerings of
fruit.
Moreover, Azu served them. He was quite himself now that Deucalion had
assured him the queen would recover, that he would again bear her train.
Though, in this serving, his lurches threatened the gravity of the
eaters full as much as the downfalling of the things he bore. Indeed,
not a few of the latter came to grief, thus conducing to the lightening
of spirit of those being served. Azu was Azu.
The night was soft and bright, to the comfort of Deucalion, Sensel, and
Hellen, who reposed on couches under the awning, using the rugs as
coverings. The oarsmen spread themselves about the deck. As to the
ladies, they were well housed in the withdrawing room.
Every night was as this in temperature. Never a cloud obscured the
heavens. Thus were they favored.
But a few more days, and the sails of the three returning vessels were
sighted. Then, as had been agreed, all the waiting vessels save the one
containing the queen, went noiselessly out to meet them. Laggard was the
approach of these three: and this told the story. At last they met, far
out on the water.
The queen’s galley was ahead of the other two; and, at its prow, stood
the bowed form of the captain. Now was the worst verified!
They called on him to speak.
Slow were his words in coming: though, they burst forth with frantic
vehemence.
“Atlanteans, we hearkened unto the truth! Our island hath vanished—all
save the highest peaks[25] far to the northeast! Scarce could we push to
where it hath lain for the mud and ashes that thicken the water!—And
dead men fill the sea even as the fishes!”