by Mike Adamson
Sharp-edged sea-wind, herald of the monsoonal gales, blew across the archipelago of Greater Lemuria, the Thousand Islands. Majestic ranks of clouds despoiled the afternoon sun, their moods as ephemeral as the waters below. Great-fronded palms nodded, shaking their rattling green fretfully.
The king’s galley had landed at the island of Maroosh that morning and the priests of the Great Orders had made ready with rites and observations marking the season and its conjunctions. Now the royal guard lined the route with burnished bronze and mail, black turbans and drawn swords, as a rich palanquin was carried forth by eight brawny retainers. A train of attendants and courtiers followed, resplendent in their robes of state, showing every colour of this lush, tropical world. The king’s physician walked close by, and his bodyguard of the Black Panthers, four superb warrior women handpicked for their martial skill, flanked the ornate sedan.
Dignitaries from a score of islands followed the king, their numbers growing to hundreds as they and their guards left the temple precincts by the harbour and filed solemnly along the long trail of lime-sand. The procession wound slowly up the beaten path from rich palm groves to the table of the island, a crumbling crag of grey rock where the sacred fires burned. On that windy height, two men, who could not have been more dissimilar in appearance or temperament, eyed each other with a dark familiarity.
The first, face wind-burned, with a high, ridged nose and eyes as dark and piercing as any blade, glanced at the sky and back at a wheel calendar graven in the rock of the crag, around which a series of marker stones were moved. Those markers had lined up on today’s date, and the perturbations of air and water seemed to feel the tug of eldritch powers.
“The time is nigh,” was his curt grunt, as he adjusted his robe of brilliant sea-hues. “Come, Craeto, we have auguries to perform.”
“And hope His Majesty finds them to his taste.” The rejoinder, from a lined, broader face whose expression somehow found a median between complacency and hope, was almost humorous, and the other sent a hard glance his way. “Believe ye not in destiny, Valkorth? I was fated to become High Priest of the whale, and ye of the shark. And in the myriad doings of the cosmos, what will be, will be. It is for infirm monarchs to seek the future in our skills, and do their all to change it if it be not to their liking.”
“We could educate them of futility if they had but ears to listen,” Valkorth murmured as he stood with folded arms, watching the procession. Acolytes walked ahead of the royal progress, bearing the standards of the orders, having prepared the way with daily pilgrimage from the chapterhouse on the anchorage.
The wind plucked at the priests and a dark cloud passed before the sun, making them glance upward. Craeto shook his head with a frown. “We must begin, whether His Majesty is here or not, the moment will not wait and will not come again for many years.” He gestured to the acolytes on a switchback of the trail below and they broke into a run. Valkorth caught his eye and they shared a hard nod.
The tools of the rite were prepared on an altar table, and the acolytes were sent on by the priests to place the standards in prepared niches where fires burned in the shadows beyond and below the crag. Here the island’s table-like summit fell into a yawning grotto of calcareous stone, plunging to sea level in a ring of barrier cliffs a hundred feet high. The sun struck down into the hole, known as the Blue Eye of Lemuria, whose calm waters, protected from the roll and crash of the ocean swells, were limpid and clear, and faded to abyssal depth beyond the reach of any swimmer. The rise of the tide told clearly of deep channels into the hidden place within the arc and plateau of cliffs, and it was those channels which made the great rite possible.
A stairway was cut into the inner face of the cliffs, winding down the rough descent to a platform, and here were the twin altars of the whale and the shark. None may enter that place but members of the order, and the royal party remained on the cliffs above. The palanquin was set down at the very edge and the side lifted back to allow the silver-bearded King Assuri to be eased to a more comfortable position where he could look down into the grotto. All about him his retainers, guards and attendants settled down upon the bare ground and became silent, awed by this most holy of places. The dignitaries, acolytes and guests from afar spread out around the wide arc of the Blue Eye, took their places at a balustrade to look down in safety, and servants lofted ornate parasols over their richly-robed masters as a profound hush fell upon all.
Gradually, some became aware of a change in the world around them. The day was less brilliant, the wind seemed to carry a greater edge, and a reverence for a nature they did not fully understand awoke in the breast of each man and woman. Many hands made signs to the sea gods, many hearts fluttered as pupils expanded and the ocean sky seemed to grow a dense, luminous blue. Before the king’s party a seneschal brought forward a timber panel, in which was made a narrow aperture, and placed it at an angle so the sun struck through it. Many gasped as they saw the onset, the “bite from the fruit” as the sun began to change shape in the bright spot limned upon the dusty rock.
Only the wind sighed over the crags, no other sound disturbed the moment, so when Valkorth and Craeto began their sonorous intonation, their voices boomed around the grotto and shocked the listeners. Now the day was darkening fast, clouds had become as milky fluff against a narvik arch and none would look upon the sun for fear of blindness. The sungod forbade it, and those who heeded this wisdom kept their sight.
The Blue Eye became ever deeper and more mysterious as the fading light glowed in its depths, and the invocations of the priests from their altars rose in timbre. Feelings deep and powerful swept through the onlookers as the priests raised their arms to the darkening sky, and flung handfuls of fire and earth into the abyss, pairing with the waters of the sea and air of the sky to complete the cycle of the elements. The sun was more than half hidden now, the unseen moon bringing unnatural night to a restless ocean.
Now the intonation of the priests was matched and counterpointed as acolytes began a deep, insistent drumming which rolled around the grotto like thunder. Massive drums of timber, skinned with the hides of great beasts from across the seas, were plied with hammers of carven bone, and horns made from the curving tusks of the snow giants of the northern wastes added a drone which grew gradually from a trickle of sound like a distant storm to a braying roar. The grotto was filled with vibration that set the waters shimmering and the sacred fires licked brightly from their kraters of bronze as stars appeared coldly among the clouds.
Little more than a rind of sunlight remained, cast upon the cooling rock before the onlookers, when the call to the gods reached its climax, a tumult of sound in which each priest, exhausted, called out with the last dregs of his will and strength, and the horns and drums blended into a wall of sound which lay over all like a shroud. Then. with a suddenness that struck all to silence, the waters of the grotto seemed to open of their own volition in a fountain of white spray, rising blue in the night of the eclipse to the height of the cliffs, and amongst it they beheld a long, oblate form of dark, steely hide. The giant emerged from the frothing waves by his whole body length, mighty flukes brushing the churning waters beneath him, seeming to hang suspended for long moments before he turned in mid-air and plummeted back into his realm.
Many on the cliff were on their knees, eyes closed and lips moving in prayer, afraid to look upon P’ontos, the God of the Light. A sperm whale of exceptional size, the scars on his massive brow told of his many battles in the forbidden worlds below, and of his age, and his age spoke of wisdom, and his wisdom of permanence. But the enchantment was not over, as a dark mass moved in the waters and a gasp ran through the watchers as a fin taller than a man rose up from a bluish back, a great head broke the surface to peer upward with eyes like obsidian saucers, and a maw gaped like hell’s door. Sh’olketh, God of the Dark, was a shark fully as massive as the whale, and the two circled the grotto as far from each other as they could be. Natural enemies, they came together in uneasy balance as the eclipse reached totality and the ring of fire appeared among the stars.
In the silence, all craned forward in breathless anticipation, and first Valkorth spoke.
“Hail Sh’olketh! God of the Dark, whose path is ever the left hand! Devourer of all that is or was or ever may be, eater of body and soul. Thy realm is the blackness, thy hunger terrible! We make obeisance to thee and thank thee for coming among us in this holy time! Grant us thy augury for the tomorrows to come, and all they hold for the empire which dwells upon the face of thy immeasurable universe!”
Next Craeto flung wide his arms and roared, “Hail P’ontos! God of the Light, whose path is ever the right hand! Guide of the lost, protector of the weak, father of the oceans. Thy realm is the glittering upper waters, thy heart magnanimous. We make obeisance to thee and thank thee for coming among us in this holy time! Grant us thy augury for the tomorrows to come, and all they hold for the empire which dwells upon the face of thy immeasurable universe!”
The motion of the giant whale and shark was unchanged for breathless moments, then it seemed they began to synchronize their swimming... They became as one, diametrically opposed, their languid circuit mesmeric, hypnotic, turning endlessly about the heart of the grotto as a wheel on its shaft or the stars in the sky, which even now glowed fiercely. Ghostly eclipse-light shone full down upon them and it seemed they were two fish swimming head to tail, a symbol of balance since time immemorial.
The spray of the whale’s exhalation formed a humid mist in the grotto through which the ethereal light glowed, and as all concentrated on that nebulosity, a great, deep feeling washed through the onlookers lining the cliffs, for images began to form in the sepulchral cloud. Faces and figures, blurred and indistinct, then one by one people gasped as images flashed out at them in clarity. Different people saw different things, whatever was important to them in this moment, but the king was chief among querents, Valkorth and Craeto knew his wishes and escried in the cascading waters all that concerned him.
Figurations seemed to boil like vapour, then solidified uneasily into the spectre of future moments... Warriors marched below streaming banners and ships plied the ocean, armies clashed on distant soil and Lemurians trod the cold lands at the edge of the world; but of the empire itself there seemed no mention until at last the outline of the islands and their lush cities appeared in the vision, seen against brooding skies out of which roared wind and fire.
Now the empire was besieged by nature, and its great seawalls stood like the bastions of the world as mighty waves broke over them, and all ran pell-mell for the forested heights, or for ships at berth as the ocean seemed to convulse and rise around the islands in a devouring frenzy. Cold ran the blood of all as they sensed the triumph of Sh’olketh, his vast maw ever-famished, ever ready to undo all that human skill had made. Could this be the end? All seemed grief, but out of the darkness of the storm there sailed at last a fleet, as if every craft in Lemuria had put forth as one, from humble fishing boats to the gilded galleys of the island princes. Ships great and ships small, vessels fast and slow, all were shepherded across the surrounding sea by the proud warships of the king, and by the spouts of escorting whales.
Now the priests could sigh as they felt their premonitions of doom tempered with hope, and in the same moment the moon moved past totality. The sun broke from behind it in a gathering radiance which struck down into the grotto and paled away the visions, leaving shark and whale as shadowy giants moving in a blue-green aura. A collective sigh went through the multitudes, each with his or her vision, his or her divinatory reward, and as the stars began to fade, the ring of fire failing at last, the priests raised their voices as one.
“O Lords of the Deep, we thank thee for thy blessings this day, for thy grace before mortal need, and for showing each of us what we need to face the new day. Pass in peace from this place, and may we be worthy of the grandness of thy world.” A sonorous tone from the horns and a deep, throbbing of the drums, different from the invocation, now filled the grotto, a farewell, a thanking, and the circling whale and monster shark broke from their hypnotic pattern. Great flukes were lifted to the returning daylight, and, in an eruption of foam, the giants settled into the glowing depths, to fade like ghosts at daybreak.
After a captive, ecstatic pause, the entire assemblage released pent breath, and as the afternoon began its long, slow brightening once more, the parties took a few moments to collect themselves, process their perceptions, and at last turn for the long journey back to the anchorage. The king’s guard made a perimeter and the priests came up from the platform to be received within the rank of swords as the palanquin of the king was lifted back from the edge.
Rich mats were placed on the bare rock and seneschals brought forward a deep draft of the juice of rare fruits in gold chalices for those who had walked the eldritch way. The priests were drained by the power of their invocations and the king allowed them their recoveries. He sat propped against tasselled cushions, clad in a flowing gown of sea green and a turban of white silk, his snow white beard reaching to his waist, and his seamed face set in an expression of benevolent concern. Hands trembled faintly when he moved them from their carefully folded position in his lap. Those who knew him recognized the twitches through his robes and saw how one side of his face no longer moved as it used to.
At length he sensed the priests were ready to speak, and at a gesture the retainers of the royal house drew away beyond the line of the guard, who turned to face outward, providing privacy. King Assuri sat forward with some difficulty and spoke softly, his voice roughened with the passing of years.
“I know what I saw in the vapours, Lord Priests. But I shall not assume the liberty of interpreting those things. You commune directly with the Ocean Lords, so it is for you to fulfil my royal commission. Tell me...” He leaned a little closer to the men who sat cross-legged upon the mats before him. “Wither shall Lemuria fair in the years ahead? What shall become of the Empire of the Waters?” He saw the priests share a glance and made an open-handed gesture. “Speak. Whether good tidings or the deepest evils, I must know.”
First Craeto spoke for them. “It is between the extremes, Lord King. In the divination granted us, the future was glimpsed by all in accord with their needs, but we alone concentrated on your needs, and the seaways for the empire are a troubled journey.”
“No riddles,” the king whispered with a soft smile. “They are for marketplace soothsayers who must earn their dinner.”
Again the priests glanced at each other and in that moment of silent communication knew they must speak plainly. Valkorth took up the narrative as he lay aside his chalice. “There are great journeys to be undertaken by the stoutest adventurers this empire may boast. And battles to be fought on distant soils.”
“Victoriously?” the king asked softly.
“Unknown,” was the truthful reply. “But probably so, because the greatest journey of all awaits Lemuria.” The priest’s hawkish face was set in lines like a sea cliff, hard, weather-beaten. “Other nations, other peoples, Lemuria knows how to deal with, whether by diplomacy or the sword. For a thousand years it has been so. But against the very ocean that is mother and life to us all, we are as babes before the wild.”
The king’s chin sank on his breast as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “Then you saw the same catastrophe as I.”
“The oceans grow angry,” the Priest of the Shark said softly. “When they no longer are content to lap our white shores with gentle waves, when they rise up in tumult and destruction, and bring the storm to our very gates, our hearths, we are reminded that for all our apparent mastery of the blue expanses, we are, as ordained by nature herself, dwellers upon the land. We can no more survive when the ocean’s embrace grows too tight than can a fish in the air.”
In the following silence they heard the soft murmuration of the waters below, and the wind in the palms. After a few moments, Craeto took up the narrative. “But P’ontos also intercedes to soften the grim reality of Sh’olketh.” He smiled with a frankness which ameliorated the still raw vision in their hearts. “For though our homelands, this great network of islands that has stood united for generations immemorial, may be swallowed by the very seas upon which they rest, the craft of Lemuria shall go forth and bear its peoples to worlds beyond reach of the sea’s fury. This also we saw.”
The king nodded deeply and lay trembling hands in his lap. “So the march of the years has changed nothing in this grim prophecy.” The priests glanced sharply at each other and the king caught their expression. “Yes. In my father’s time, the great prophet Adjebar foretold the tread of doom, that Lemuria would be ground back into the primal waters from which she came. The prophecy was kept a close secret known only to the royal lineage and to our most immediate advisors. But it was heeded, and my father gave me an Imperial Commandment, to continue his work. Many have asked over the years, why I have been so aggressive in my building of ships, my forging of ties with other peoples, and my establishment of outposts of trade in so many lands. To most, certainly ordinary folk, this is pure empire-building, they believe I seek to be remembered as the mightiest King with the most insatiable of appetites.” He smiled and shook his head sadly. “I have no such greed, my friends. I drive my people because if I allow them to rest idly upon the accomplishments of the past, they will be overwhelmed and lost when the great foe eventually comes.”
“Then...?” Valkorth wondered. “Then measures have been taken...?”
“To prepare for the day we abandon the empire?” The white turban inclined in a slow nod. “May it yet be long in coming.” He made a gesture of devotion to the sea gods. “If the gods smile, I shall not see it.” He looked into their eyes and spoke more softly than ever. “Valkorth, Craeto... I am dying. I was smitten with a strange illness some dozen moons ago, and its effects have not left me. I cannot lie to myself, and must make provision that when I am gone the great work will go on, and my father’s legacy shall be the survival of our people.” He raised a trembling finger. “And upon that point I now swear both of you to the most profound secrecy, on pain of your very lives. For there are far too many men of petty ambition whose dreams are too trivial to comprehend the catastrophe before us, and whose prides and vanities would undo generations of effort should they ever imagine the truth, in some perverse scramble for riches amid denial.” He smiled thinly. “It will not be allowed.”
Without a word, Craeto put out a hand to the king, who drew his ceremonial dagger and placed it in the priest’s grasp. Craeto nicked his arm and let his blood drip upon the gritty rock at his side. “I swear on my blood that this dire knowledge shall be safe in my keeping.” He passed the knife to Valkorth, who repeated the oath. Then they chorused, “may Sh’olketh devour us, flesh and soul, should we betray this trust.”
The king wiped and sheathed his blade. “Well spoken, Lord Priests.” He looked around at the wall of guards who stood just out of earshot. The afternoon had returned to its full brightness and the sun reflected harshly from the cliffs. Now his air was sombre. “You must also keep this trust when others learn the truth, as they shall. There are other scriers and shamans, and men of more material science, who shall find their way to the same conclusions in time, and they must be managed carefully, for panic and terror serve none.” He shook his head sadly. “I had hoped and prayed the passing of a lifetime would have seen the skeins of fate change their ways, and that the doom which has lain at the back on my mind since childhood would have become as mere seafroth on the gale. But it is not to be.” He sank back tiredly against his cushions and his voice was faint now. “So, there is work to do and I must use what time remains to me to ensure, though the world of Lemuria may perish, its spirit, its learning and memory shall endure.” With these words it seemed his strength was depleted, and he rang a small silver bell at his side. At once the seneschals stepped through the guard line and resumed their positions, the bearers ready to take up the palanquin.
The priests drew back and hid the marks of their oath in the sleeves of their robes, scuffing grit over the crimson droplets at their feet. They bowed together, and paused as the king was made comfortable for the journey.
“I shall return to the capital at once,” the old man said with all the dignity his strength allowed him. “You have done well, Lord Priests, be assured of the royal favour upon the Orders.” The procession formed up, the guards went ahead and the Black Panthers flanked the sedan as the physician quickly checked his charge. Then the drapes were lowered and the palanquin taken up, and soon the priests were alone on the bright, windy crag. The fires in the sacred kraters were dying as palm oil exhausted, and in the snuffing of the flames they each felt a grim finality.
They looked out over the placid blue arch of the ocean, dotted, as far as the eye may see, with the many islands of the Land of Lemurs.
“I know,” Valkorth said for them both. “How can this world be impermanent? It is beyond our understanding, but we have seen proof with our own eyes. To ignore or disbelieve would be to offer insult to the gods whose grace has served us this warning while time remains to act.”
Craeto stooped and lay a hand flat to the rock of the crag, grounding with the flesh and bones of his world. “From this moment forth, our beloved home is on borrowed time. The waves that roll ashore are the tolling of the executioner’s drum.” He meditated for a few moments, then rose and took a deep breath, to meet his counterpart, stare for stare. “It is a dolorous burden we inherit.”
“If not us, then whom?” Valkorth smiled as he glanced around in suggestion at the empty spaces. “What is clear is simply that if we are to survive in the face if this prophecy, we must do so elsewhere. The empire is nearing its end, and an unknown world, a doubtful future, awaits. My only prayer is that we are equal to the tasks ahead, for Lemuria is in our hands.”
The Blue Eye was devoid of the life it had known so recently, the fires were extinguished and only the banners still snapped and tossed in the wind. With grim hearts, the priests cast a last glance into the mysterious, shifting depths of the grotto, and followed their people down from the mystic heights.