CHAPTER XVII.
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.”
“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!”