PYRRHA.
Soft continued the nights and bright the days as they sailed by the
islands, and along the Afrite Coast. Quick were they in sighting the
green gay Atlas Mountains, and then Cape Spartel. Upon viewing the
latter, intense became Deucalion’s emotion. With eyes eager and face
flushing, he cried in husky tones: “Ah Æole, Hellen, now is your mother
near! With what a heart I passed yon point to go onward to Atlantis!
Sensel, can we ever forget?”
Sensel could reply only by pressing the hands held out to him. Then,
with moistening eyes, both watched, as did the three beside them.
On they pressed into a strait; and toward a point on the African Coast,
the ancient Abyla and the Ape’s Hill of the moderns. Nine miles across
lay the great rock, afterward named Alube by the Phœnicians, and Calpe
by the Greeks. It is the Gibraltar of to-day.
These two points, the Rock of Gibraltar and Ape’s Hill, constituted the
ancient Pillars of Hercules. Not that the Greek hero had any part in
their naming. Rather they were named for the Tyrian deity whose worship
the Phœnicians introduced into all their settlements. Long after the
sinking of Atlantis, in a forgetting, perhaps unbelieving age of
maritime sloth, these Pillars, the guards of the Mediterranean, came to
be considered the ends of the earth. Thus sank the glories of the island
into fable!
When well off Abyla, the vessels steered northward toward the famous
Rock, the rock that was raising its mammoth proportions high—that rock
that has since been called “a mountain of histories”—the rock that was
overshadowing the waiting ones!
Eyes hopeful yet fearing, eyes sad to desperation, were fixed upon
it—every heart throbbed wild—as the vessels crossed the waters of the
strait to the green and gray coast from which the Great Rock jutted
invitingly in its virgin stillness, even then exerting its strange
fascination: a fascination that would impel to itself the Saracen Tarik,
thousands of years later; a fascination that would cause Moor and
Christian to engage in warfare, as the years went on; a fascination that
would bring contention between Christian Spain and Christian England in
the Middle Ages; a fascination that would draw upon itself, in modern
times, that memorable, terrible siege of four years when French and
Spanish exhausted their resources but to prove its latent magnetism—in
that it continued to hold, against all odds, the English garrison that
had so long nestled in its rugged bosom!
On their right, spread the beauteous Mediterranean; on the left, was a
small bay toward which lay the Rock’s only sloping side. Erelong, all
eyes began to ask of Deucalion which course should they take, this
Deucalion who was standing so motionless with rapt face. Before them was
the south end of the Great Rock, steep, precipitous, inaccessible; and
upon its grim height they began to look in fear. Should they go to its
left or its right?
But, when the moment came, Deucalion was ready to give the order.
“Behold, the point on the right. That will we round. There left we the
vessels. Æole, Hellen, then shall we sight them!”
So extreme was his agitation, that they forgot their fears in desiring
to calm him. Bravely Æole spoke:
“Yea, Father, mother is there—as thou didst say.”
“Yea, mother is there,” echoed Hellen.
“As I did say,” murmured Deucalion vaguely. Then he closed his eyes, for
they were drawing very near. Already the Great Rock seemed looming over
them.
“Round that point, Hellen, with speed,” he aroused to command. “Then
shall we behold them!”
Hellen’s galley rounded the point, but not speedily; rather slowly,
timidly. Would the vessels of Pyrrha and her friends be there moored?
Would Pyrrha appear in answer to their shouts?
In the moment of rounding, none of these interested ones dared raise
their eyes. But blessed sounds broke from the Atlantean sailors. In this
moment of rounding, they burst into cheers, for all their saddened
hearts. Then the fearing ones took courage. They lifted their eyes; they
looked; they beheld the Pelasgian vessels lying as if enchanted on the
bright, smooth waters of the beautiful haven.
The cheerings strengthened as the other vessels also rounded. These
mighty tones quickly brought life to the enchanted vessels. Their decks
filled with patient, faithful, loving ones whose joyous welcomings
answered these newcomers—these returning Pelasgians, these sad-eyed
Atlanteans.
But Deucalion, Æole and Hellen stood faint—waiting for the one form to
appear. The moments seemed ages.
Though surely the hurrying of a few officers below on Pyrrha’s vessel
boded good. The three strained their eyes for the view of that dear form
when it should hasten to respond. Holding each other tight, they reeled,
when an officer returned, leading, rather supporting a white-robed lady.
That was she. That was the wife! That was the mother! Deucalion and his
children staggered to the edge of the prow, to wave and kiss their
hands. And it was “Pyrrha, wife!” “Mother!” “Mother!”
Pyrrha raised her head, and looked; and ran, weeping her thanks, to lean
far over the vessel’s side, and hold out her arms.
On went the galleys toward her. When Hellen’s was alongside, the rope
thrown, and the plank laid, such a speeding across as there was by
Deucalion and Hellen, with Æole between.
Pyrrha awaited at the end of the plank. The spectators, as one, burst
into cheers, when the four met and entwined. Though their fears were for
the mother. Would she faint, perhaps sink under her happiness?
And indeed dizziness did overcome Pyrrha for the moment. But Deucalion
held her; and whispered reviving words. Besides, these were her children
kissing her hands, her face, her hair, her robe, and calling in heavenly
fashion, “Mother!” “Mother!”
So she strengthened to weep of her joy; to look from Hellen to Æole,
from Æole to Hellen in wonderment, so striking was their beauty, aye,
better still, their nobility, their purity of expression.
And these children, in transport, were gazing upon their mother. They
had borne into captivity an enduring remembrance of her grace, nobility
and beauty; but the remembrance was as naught to this reality. They
could not take their eyes from her; and, at last, Hellen exclaimed:
“Mother, how fair, how grand art thou. Sorrow hath not marred, but
glorified thee!”
“She is a bright spirit,” added Deucalion. “Nay, Pyrrha, thou art a
goddess.”
“Hail to the goddess Pyrrha!” cried Hellen.
At this, the officers and crew of Pyrrha’s vessel shouted as one, “Yea,
yea, hail to the good goddess, Pyrrha!”
“They know thee, dear Wife,” whispered Deucalion, “the _good_ fitteth
well.”
But Pyrrha knew she was not good—that none are good save the Divine. She
could not _be_ good, but she could _do_ good through the Divine influx.
Yet these exaggerated expressions were dear, coming as they did of love.
For ever is love precious. So she received them, blushing even as a
girl. No fear was there now of her fainting. Strong she stood with an
arm about each child as the friends from the neighboring vessels came
aboard to greet her husband. Sensel came also to clasp her hand, and
glide away.
Very soon Hellen went to bring Electra. When this beauteous maiden bent
before her, Pyrrha gazed surprised, admiring; and next held out her hand
and drew her to her to kiss her well. Still retaining the hand, she
asked of Deucalion, “Are all the Atlanteans like this?”
“Would that they were. The spirit of Electra is as fair as is her body
of flesh. With them the outer body was fair, but the inner one had
become evil of shape. Moreover Electra hath in her veins the best blood
of Atlantis and Khemi.”
“Hath she parents?”
“Her parents are above. There were Alto the king and his two brothers.
Alto was the father of the last king, Atlano. The wife of King Atlano
was Atlana, the daughter of the second brother by a princess of Khemi.
The mother of Electra was the daughter of the third brother and wife of
a prince of Khemi; and her brother was Oltis, the last high priest. Yet,
though Electra was a princess and his niece, Oltis placed her in the
temple as handmaid. From there, we freed her.”
“Why did Oltis thus?”
“He hated her father Cairais because Cairais well knew his evil spirit.
And he longed for the riches, that would come to Electra. Further, he
wished to trouble Queen Atlana who loved Electra well, after her
mother.”
“Father, sudden was the passing away of Cairais. Could it be that Oltis
poisoned him?”
“Ask me not, Hellen.”
“If Atlano had died, would Queen Atlana have reigned?”
“I feel sure that she would, though she is not all Atlantean. Hitherto,
the kings and queens have been of pure race. But the Atlanteans were so
fond of Queen Atlana that they would have made light of her Khemian
blood; and the more so that they hated Oltis.”
Pyrrha had continued to hold Electra’s hand; and the latter had been
regarding her brightly in her lack of comprehension of Deucalion’s and
Hellen’s words. Thus Pyrrha’s heart warmed the more.
“Would that she knew our tongue, Deucalion.”
“It will come to her soon. In six months Sensel and myself mastered
Atlantean.”
Pyrrha looked again at Electra. It was strange how this young girl
attracted her. With growing delight, Hellen watched his mother’s
interest. As to Deucalion, he was exultant—that is, within. Things were
going as he wished.
For the next half hour, Deucalion was busy recounting to Pyrrha and
their tried friends the main events as they had occurred since he parted
from them. They listened to exclaim continually. When he had finished,
for this time, he spoke in touching manner of his gratitude to these
dear Pelasgians, exalting their constancy to Pyrrha and himself.
In turn, Illyr and wife, Ephes and wife, Pelop and wife, with their
children, declared the stay with Pyrrha had been a bright holiday, and
that theirs was the pleasure of gratitude. Stoutly they insisted that
the obligation was on their side. This sweet wrangling was to the keen
enjoyment of Hellen, who, with Æole and Electra, still stood beside
Pyrrha.
But, where was Sensel? After kissing Pyrrha’s hand, he had vanished, not
to return. Repeatedly had Æole looked about the vessel for him; and had
as often wondered if he were within the small cabin, or had gone below
to the sleeping apartments. At last, as she was gazing wistfully at the
stairway leading to the latter, she perceived a head rising into view.
But this was a head on which was a cap of white linen with crown
encircled by a fillet of scarlet cloth that tied in a bow behind and
with ends depending!
Moreover, this figure, as it further arose into view, displayed a most
elegant garb. There was a broad cape of purple wool fitted to the
shoulder, and reaching to the waist; and adorned with yellow lace.
Beneath, was a coat of scarlet cloth fitting close to the body, opening
in front, and reaching to the knees. Still beneath was an inner garment
of yellow linen that fell in graceful fullness to the ankles. About the
waist was a golden girdle; and shoes of red leather ornamented the feet.
It took but a few moments to view all this. And ah, but it was a rare
figure and garb; and bewildering—for the height was Sensel’s!—Further,
were not these brilliant eyes meeting hers, Sensel’s, also? Was not this
his smile?
Her head swam as this noble, elegant, lissome shape approached to bow
gracefully, grandly to her and all. Next, she began to wonder why
everyone, even to her father, should bend with utmost deference, in
return.
But Deucalion, who was much enjoying her perplexity, hastened to
explain.
“Æole, Sensel hath left us. In his place is Prince Pelasgus, the son of
our king.”
She closed her eyes, stunned. But the prince was taking her hand.
Thereupon, recovering somewhat, she opened her eyes, looked at him
calmly; and withdrawing her hand, made a low obeisance. He was the
prince. He was not Sensel!—Though most unhappy thoughts were crowding
upon the shock of this revealment, she managed to speak with sweet
dignity.
“Prince Pelasgus, this cometh upon me without warning. Little dreamed I
that Sensel was other than he seemed.”
Deucalion’s satisfaction was something to behold; and this the keen-eyed
Pelop laughed over to himself. For, the former was thinking, “Æole is
like her mother. She will rise above the pressing weight ever.” Then
aloud, he added, in Atlantean, that Electra might be benefited.
“Yea, Æole, this is the young prince who shared with me the perils of
war, and who was firm in his wish to aid in freeing thyself and Hellen.
And, who, after short trial, so ably took upon himself the shape of
Sensel.”
“Ever have I known the noble spirit of Sensel,” she returned.
“So ever have I,” interposed Electra. “Scarce did I open mine eyes when
I heard he was the prince.”
“Thou—didst know—he was the prince?”
“Hellen told me but this morn.”
“Why was not I told?”
“It was for the reason that the prince wished thou shouldst believe him
but Sensel until we reached here.”
“_But Sensel_”—Æole checking herself, turned to the prince. “Why was
this, Prince Pelasgus?”
“I knew that thou didst look upon Sensel with good will; but I knew not
how thou wouldst look upon the prince.”
A great load seemed lifted. She said naively, charmingly, “Thou wert
right to think I should like the old beyond the new. There have been
many princes, but never another Sensel. Prince Pelasgus, ever shall I
joy to think of thee as Sensel. No higher thought could I have for
thee.”
Over Sensel’s—Prince Pelasgus’ face passed a beautiful glow, and his
eyes shone with a loving light that all might see. Pyrrha,
comprehending, glanced at Deucalion, to find him watching the two in
delight. As to the friends of their exile, they were receptive also.
For one, the keen-eyed Pelop whispered to his wife:
“I see it. Those two are fond.”
She was as interested. “They are a noble pair. And most fair to look
upon. May it be so. Well I like it that his eyes are so dark, and hers
so blue. As thine and mine.”
Pelop laughed to himself. Well he knew his Peloppa’s taste for romance.
Then he looked about with a view to further discovery.
“Look at Hellen. How he bendeth over that fair Atlantean.”
“It is another pair, that I see. Ah, Pelop, but our voyage over the
Middle Sea will not drag!”
Again Pelop laughed, and hugged himself; and said with feeling, “We were
young once, Wife.”
“And not so old now. Thou wilt speak for thyself; and I for myself. Ah,
but our own joy maketh me kind to all who wish to pair. May I live to
aid our children along the same bright path!” And she looked at her
gamboling ones with the air of a prophetess.
“If one were old enough now, Peloppa. But matters will soon mend. And
our Zoe will be another like thyself.”
“How?”
“She is bright of mind.”
“She is.”
“She hath a quick tongue.”
“Pelop!”
“And—a most tender heart.”
“It is well thou didst add that.”
“And—she is one to hold most dear.” Here his tone was such that Peloppa,
in spite of the eyes about her, could but put her hand within the one he
so eagerly held out.
Then they forbore further talking in order to listen to Deucalion, who,
at inquiry of Epha, was again started upon the subject of Atlantis;
whilst Prince Pelasgus talked with Pyrrha and translated much to
Electra, who stood with an arm about Æole.
After a little, Pyrrha inquired of her husband, “When can I see the
queen?”
“On the morrow, I hope. She is better, though she seemeth to see no one
about her, not even her ladies. If she could but arouse. It may be that
thou wilt do it, that thou wilt bring her back to peace. She is lost in
grief.”
“The poor queen—without kin, without a land!”
“Poor people!” said Prince Pelasgus.
“We will make it bright for them in Pelasgia,” spoke Hellen.
“We will,” declared Deucalion.
“We will,” echoed all.
“We know what it is to be strangers in a far land,” added Hellen.
“Yet—we had our land to look to,” said Æole.
“Ho for Pelasgia!” cried these Pelasgians. And then looked sadly over at
the Atlantean vessels. As with one impulse, they moved to the vessel’s
side to watch the Atlanteans long and affectionately; and thus adopted
them into their hearts.
The Atlanteans appeared to understand, for they returned the looking
with smiles, sad though they were to desperation. Not one of them but
was mourning the loss of near or dear ones. Indeed, many were envying
Celesa’s relatives, that they had returned. But their grief must be in
silence, for they yet had their queen.
On the morn of the morrow, Pyrrha left her vessel elated. At last she
was to behold this woman who had so tenderly cared for her children; and
entered the withdrawing room confident that she could help.
As she passed on to the queen, Deucalion beckoned for the ladies in
waiting to come out. These, after listening to his explanations, sat
down under the awning, and regarded each other in wonder. Was this
Pyrrha—this fair, grand, most lovable looking woman but one of a type?
If so, what a race was the Pelasgian, after Deucalion and his children!
Pyrrha stood beside the queen reverently, adoringly. Indeed her love so
went out from her as to affect the pale, passive recipient. For Pyrrha
had gazed but a little while, when Atlana turned and looked full at her,
and this though she had come without noise.
Of her amaze, the queen strengthened to raise somewhat, and stare at the
angelic face bending over her; and finally whispered:
“Who art thou? Comest thou of the gods?”
Though the tongue was unknown, Pyrrha comprehended.
“Gracious Queen, I am of earth. I am one who holdeth thee deep in her
heart, whose prayers will ever call down blessings upon thee, whose days
and nights will be favored in thanking thee.”
“Thou sayest thou art of earth?” asked Atlana in Pelasgian, and so
correctly that Pyrrha answered not for wonder.—“Thou sayest thou art of
earth?” she repeated, after waiting.
“Dear Queen, I am of earth,—and until these last weeks—one of its most
sorrowing daughters.”
“Most sorrowing. Then know I how thou hast felt. But—why wert thou
sorrowing?”
“Dear Queen, I was a mother bereft of her children. Not that the gods
had taken them to make Heaven more dear. But, through war—through
fierce, cruel man—had they been torn from me!”
Atlana was rising higher, was looking at her piercingly.
“Dear Queen, it cometh to thee. Why should I hold thee so dear, why
should I bow down to thee—I, a mother bereft of her children. Few such
mothers are there in this happy world!”
“Thou—art—not—?”
“But I am—I am! I am that mother who mourned for her children, Hellen
and Æole!”
Atlana, who had raised until she was sitting erect, burst into tears,
weeping as if she could never cease. Pyrrha, as she supported her,
looked around for Deucalion; and beheld him standing near the door,
smiling. He signed that it was well. So she began to dry the queen’s
tears, pausing at times to embrace her, upon perceiving that such
pleased her.
Still the life-giving tears ran on, sobs coming heart-rendingly, so that
Deucalion looked upward to murmur:
“Thanks, ye Powers! And let the stream run long and fast. Let it be the
beginning of life to the desert place. May that parched field, her mind,
be so well watered that new flowers of hope may bloom again, and shed
their fragrance upon her sad Atlanteans. Ah, poor queen, poor people!”
Long was it before the tears were spent. Then Atlana put out her hand
for Pyrrha’s. “I would kiss thee,” she murmured.
Pyrrha leaned over. When Atlana had kissed her cheek, she pleaded, “Thou
wilt not leave me?”
“Dear Queen, from now, am I thy sister, nurse.”
“Ever wilt thou be my sister. But not for long my nurse. Already, I feel
new life. And thou hast caused it—thou—sweet spirit—thou—”
“Pyrrha, call me Pyrrha.”
“Thou—sweet Pyrrha—thou mother of Æole and Hellen.” So lovingly lingered
she over these names that Pyrrha kissed her again and again, while
Atlana sighed, content. Afterward, she asked as a child might, “Am I to
know rest again? Long is it since I have felt such ease?. I could sleep.
Should I, dear Pyrrha, thou wilt not loose my hand?”
“Nay, dear Queen. I will but hold it closer.”
With the confidence of a child, Atlana pressed the hand to her heart,
and lay back passive, drowsy, shortly to slumber so serenely that Pyrrha
marveled.
Soon Deucalion drew near. “All will be well,” he whispered, “but how
knew she our tongue? Never was I so wondering!”
“Nor I, though I knew she had studied it, so well did she speak. Only
this morning Æole told me that, when herself and Hellen had learned
somewhat of Atlantean, the queen began to study Pelasgian. Thus, it came
to pass that, on the one day, they would talk in Atlantean; and, on the
next, in Pelasgian.”
“As thou sayest, she speaketh it well.”
“She looketh wise; and, of a truth, is sweet and fond.”
“Ah, Pyrrha, such a heart is hers. But it was wasted on her husband. How
hath she missed the good thing in life. Atlano could care but for
himself.”
At this dread name, Pyrrha shivered. Deucalion put his arm about her,
and bade her lean upon him. Then she whispered, “Ah poor queen, life
hath not been life to her! To be so fond, and have naught but a stone!”
“Say, rather, life is not life to the one who is not fond. Life was not
life to Atlano. Life is not life to the wife or husband who knoweth not
tender feeling. Such pluck but dead fruit.”
“Ah but thou speakest truth. With each moment of our wedded life how
glad have I been that thou wert so dear. All bitter hath had its sweet.
Though grief hath held me, yet have I had thee to think upon, to look
for, to hearken unto.”
“Yea, and to joy in, for of me art thou sure. To think I have come into
heaven again! And from hell. Ah, that island, Pyrrha, that fair
Atlantis! The thought of it cometh upon me strong at times, so that I
find it hard to bear up. That fair, grand, most favored spot—a heaven
but for man!”
Thus, on they talked—of past horrors, of the present brightness, of the
happiness fore-gleaming from their children’s hopes—until the queen
began to stir. Her restlessness increased. Erelong, she was turning
toward them. After an intent look, she extended her hand to Deucalion.
“I wronged thee,” she murmured. “Forgive.”
“Gracious Queen, I have naught to forgive. We will be but the dearer
friends. It is all in knowing the right. Thou hast thought it over
since.”
“Well and long have I thought it over. And I know the worst. Think not I
have been deaf whilst lying here. My body hath been as a stone, but the
mind hath been quick. My poor Atlanteans! Oh, to be of help to them! We
are bereft, bereft!”
“Then—thou knowest?”
“Yea, whilst lying here, I have heard that within and without to make me
know our island is no more.”
“Some of thy people are left thee.”
“Call them not people. Call them Atlanteans. It is the dearer name. We
are of Atlantis—though it is no more.”
“Dear Queen Atlana, thy thought for these thy Atlanteans will make it
well for thee. Thy wish to cheer them will bring thee cheer. Cheer
cometh in giving cheer. And, here is Pyrrha for thy sister. Erelong we
hope to see thee thine old self.”
“Never, Sir Deucalion, can I be mine old self. Mine old self was full of
hope, of joy, of sweet, warm feeling. Mine own self! Ah, I am
dead—dead!”
She leaned back, and closed her eyes. Deucalion pressed her wasted hand
and spoke in softest tone, with intent to bring her out of her sad
thought.
“Dear Queen, I should have said a little like thine old self. That will
be much. And now I would warn thee when next thou seest me, I will be
more of my old self—in garb. I shall be no priest of Poseidon. I shall
be in Pelasgian dress, fairer of skin, and shorn of this beard. I would
not change until thou couldst be told.”
“In any dress, thou art Deucalion, the kind, the noble. Pyrrha, how
blest art thou! But go, Sir Deucalion, that I may soon behold thee as
Pelasgian. Whilst thou art gone, I will look at Pyrrha.”
“Not this day, dear Queen. But on the morrow. Though now will I leave
thee that thou mayst look upon Pyrrha.”