Fast were they nearing the dear Pelasgian coast. And jubilant became those returning. Hardly seemed it reality when they began to thread the islands off-lying their land. But the exuberance of feeling was hidden because of the sad-eyed Atlanteans, whose vessels followed dispiritedly. Thus, the Pelasgians hugged their joy to themselves. Never had the sky been a blue so deep, never the water so calm and tender, never the islands so enchanting, never the breezes so odorous. For home was near.
But the morning before entering harbor, this happened.
Deucalion called Pyrrha to their small sleeping room, and when none could hear, said: “Pyrrha, thou knowest that, since a little before the sinking of Atlantis, my strange sight hath failed me. Thus, I thought it had gone from me. But, a few minutes since, whilst sitting here thinking upon our present happy state, again I saw clearly.” He paused, overcome.
“Deucalion, what is it?”
“Pyrrha, I saw our harbor lying waste, as though many waters had rushed upon it. Naught was left. Houses, vessels, landings—all were gone. In a flash it passed before me. But, ah how plain! Pyrrha, our harbor is a ruin. The floods have swept it!”
She was stricken with fear. “Deucalion, never hath that strange inner sight failed thee. What thou didst behold in that moment, is!”
“Pyrrha, I was not thinking of home. I was dwelling upon our life on this vessel—when it came upon me.”
“It is a strange, a dread power. Thinkest thou it cometh of some fine, airy force of the spirit?”
“It may. But what is that force?”
She mused a little to brighten and say confidently, “Could it be that—that—for the moment—thy spirit leaveth its shell—and, as in a flash—traveleth far—and back? That, in this, is thine inner sight?”
He was surprised. “Pyrrha, thou mayest have it. I have wondered much if the sight of my body dulled before the sight of the spirit. It is in my mind that the cares of the body hamper the spirit; but, if such cares become as naught, the spirit hath full power, and then are the inner sight and hearing opened. Again, I have questioned whether this strange sight cometh not of some hidden force of matter. Ah, it doth confound me!—For, all things are as air before it. They stand not in the way, however far the seeing.
“Yea—yea—either the spirit flasheth out and back, or the sight of the body giveth way to this second sight, this seeing of the spirit. When at war, how often did I see thee. When our children were in Atlantis, how often were they before me. And, when I was in Atlantis, how often I saw thee, until a little ere I left. Then did this inner sight fail me. Thus became I worried over thee—to fall into doubt. Why could I not see thee then? Nor afterward?”
“Thy spirit was so torn with the evils about thee, the dangers besetting the children, the risk in setting them free, that it could not become calm enough to see.”
“That is it. Though, through all was I sure that I would master. Yet, the dread.”
“Thou art but man. Therefore must hope join hands with dread, at times. But tell me, why, if the children were so much before thee when in Atlantis, didst thou not know of the Pelasgian speech of the queen?” She smiled through her tears, hoping to tease him a little.
But he was ready. “Smile, if thou wilt, Pyrrha. Then will I. It was not every day that I could see them; but only on those days when Atlantean was spoken. Thou wilt call to mind that thou didst tell me the talk of one day was in Atlantean, the next in Pelasgian.”
“Ah, but thou hast the last! As I might have known. Never art thou at a loss!”
“Not whilst thou art of earth, Pyrrha. All is gain, cheer, with thee beside me. And now wilt thou do thy best. For my heart faileth.”
“Yet here am I jesting, smiling.”
“It is well. But, ah, the vision! How plain was it. Thus are we warned. But woe to Prince Pelasgus!”
“What is it?”
“His father is not of earth. He is with his wife above.”
“Deucalion!”
“Yea, yea, I feel it. Call to mind that I felt the ruin that was to come upon Atlantis: and, that with all, I should save our children. Call to mind that I felt their state in Atlantis even before my inner sight showed such. Think how often I saw them afterward when under the care of the queen. Did not I picture the queen? Did not I tell thee of their daily life?”
“Thou didst—thou didst!”
“And—I felt—even before I saw.”
“I call it to mind.”
“So now I feel this about the king and queen.”
“Wilt thou tell the prince?”
“Ah, Pyrrha—he is so happy.”
“Wouldst thou have me tell him?”
“We will wait, and think upon it.”
The two, dejected, sat down to ponder. After a little, Deucalion concluded, “Pyrrha, this night will I speak with him. Let him spend one more day of joy. Before he seeketh his couch will I warn him.”
“I know thou wilt cheer him. Ah, what misery is ever ready to swoop upon us of earth! Here are these poor Atlanteans with grief sorely checking their pulses, beginning to rouse a little. Their sluggish hearts are quickening. And to what? To further misery, further death of hope. Ah, our own misery will be as naught beside theirs!”
“True—true. It doth confound me.”
Too soon came the night. When all had parted for rest, the unhappy Deucalion led the prince aside that he might relate the vision. The latter, though greatly shaken, could not bring himself to accept it, but again and again insisted:
“Deucalion, thou art wrong. For once, mayst thou be wrong. I cannot believe. Our dear harbor, the vessels that have done such service, the homes, the lives!”
Deucalion was agonized; and his pallor was extreme.
“Deucalion, be not thus wrought. Let mine be the sorrow. Enough hast thou borne.”
“It may be that I should not have told thee.”
“Thou hast my thanks. Should the worst come, I am ready. Shouldst thou be wrong, should our harbor welcome us in its pride, there is the more cause for joy.”
Deucalion looked upon him piteously; then taking his hand kissed it. “Dear Prince,” he wept, “Dear Prince!”
“Thou hast more to tell, Deucalion? My father, my mother—is it well with them?”
“Dear Prince, it is well with them—too well.”
“Too well?”
“I fear it.”
“Thou hast seen?”
“Nay, I have but felt.”
“Ah—I know what that meaneth!”
The words came in gasps. He turned aside, forlorn. But Deucalion, seizing his hands, besought. “May I be wrong—may I be wrong!”
The prince shook his head. A deathly paleness was upon him, and he began to totter. Deucalion, as he sustained him, implored him not to be overcome; and led him to a couch. Here he remained as if in stupor; but, erelong, stood up, himself, calm and resolute.
“Deucalion, I will look for the worst. But will beseech thou mayst be wrong.”
Then, under the stars, the two walked and whispered through the dreary night.
Early the next morning, they drew nigh the harbor. Almost was the moment at hand when the dear port in its tranquillity and beauty would gladden their eyes. Eagerly did the strangers, as well as the returning ones, await the first glimpse of this lauded haven.
And it came.
They looked to see—the peaceful bay, the busy landings, the speeding or quiescent vessels, the houses, the hurrying figures of the port, the glory of the distant hills?—
Alas, they saw them not!
What was this? In mistake had they entered some unknown bay that had been scourged by the furious elements? Yon hills were blasted. This was not their tranquil harbor, their happy port! Where were the vessels, the houses, the active figures, the smiling hills? This place was a nightmare!
Almost frenzied, strangers and returning ones looked about them—all save Deucalion and Prince Pelasgus who stood frozen.
But—on went the vessels—the fact growing upon the horrified beholders that some mighty rush of waters must have swept the place—this harbor they had hoped to enter, some in resignation, some in exultation. For, trunks of trees, pieces of houses, portions of vessels, everywhere began to impede their progress. Soon were descried the floating remains of animals—and later, here and there a gruesome remnant of humanity. At sight of the first of the latter, the women fled shrieking below. The men could but remain to gaze mute, despairing, heartsick. And some, in derision, thought, “Is this the haven of peace promised the stricken Atlanteans?”—It was a mockery.
But on they went, their eyes fastened on the wrecked haven, the ruined hills, until Deucalion ordered,
“We will turn yonder point.”
It was done. They rounded this to perceive, in a sheltered cove, a few vessels and some apparently hastily constructed cots on the shore. They shouted. And figures appeared on the vessels to answer lustily. Then spoke Prince Pelasgus:
“Deucalion, come with me into the boat that we may question them. Let the vessels rest.”
At the order, the vessels paused. Then Deucalion and the prince moved off in the fantastic boat. Upon reaching the nearest vessel, Deucalion, at behest of the prince, called, “We would speak with the captain.”
The captain proclaimed himself. Deucalion asked, “Sir Captain, when came the flood?”
“Sir, the flood came the full of the moon four moons since.”
“It was then Atlantis sank,” whispered the prince.
Deucalion continued, “Sir Captain, tell us of it.”
“Sir, these vessels here lying have since come into harbor from their voyages. This they found. Now we wait for others, when we will build again the port. Some of yonder vessels look Pelasgian; and thou art of us. Tell me, when sailed thy vessels? And greeting to them, and thee. So much will every vessel and every man help to bring the port to itself.”
The prince now spoke. “Thou wilt find us but too glad to help. But, Sir Captain, I would question thee. Do any of the port live?”
“Not one liveth.”
“Doth the king know?”
“The king! Ah, the king lieth low!”
“What sayest thou?”
“The king, with some of his mighty men, was tenting in a vale to the north of this place. There the sudden torrents came upon them, there broke upon them the spouts of water from the hills, there were they swept to death!”
“How knowest thou?”
“Two of the mighty men who were on the mountains above the vale hunting, and who had gone within a cave to rest, are the sole living ones. They are ill in yon cot. They beheld the waters rush upon the fleeing ones.”
“The queen?”
“The queen had been one week dead. They had but come from her burial in the country above.”
“They are together, then,” moaned the prince. “It is well. Ah, my father! I see thee—running—followed fast by the cruel waters!”
“Thy father! Thou art not the prince?”
The prince threw aside his mantle. “Sir Captain Pelio of Magnesia, thou canst but know me.”
The captain sank upon his knees, as did his officers and sailors. Of their quickness, the observing ones on the neighboring vessels did likewise. Indeed, others of the captains were familiar with the looks of the prince.
When the prince had bidden them arise, Captain Pelio spoke out loud, and in reverence:
“Thou art our king! We had begun to fear thou wouldst not come back. Long mayst thou live—and in our hearts—as did thy father!”
“Ah, king it is. If it could but be ‘Sir Prince’!—But, Sir Captain, tell me of my father.”
“King Pelasgus, I would tell thee this. Think not that thy father ran from the waters. Ah, no. From the heights, the two mighty men beheld him meet the waters as if in glad greeting. He tried not to fly as did the others.”
“It is no wonder, with my mother gone.”
He was so weak and trembling, and hoarse of voice, that Deucalion put his arm about him, and asked for him, “Sir Captain, where lieth the body of the king?”
“It lieth beside that of the queen.”
Deucalion was trembling sorely, but the bowed figure of the prince forced him to continue. “Sir Captain, as thou seest, the prince, our king, is weak of his grief. If I am faint, what is his state. It is best we go back to our vessels for this day; but, on the morrow, we will see thee and all, again. And now, for the prince, I thank thee.”
The captain bowed low. Of his pity, he could not speak.
Gently did Deucalion seat the pliant prince. Then, after waving farewell, he speeded off. Hard, hard was it to watch the suffering in this face so dear, harder to note the dryness of the eyes, the rocking of the body. And no reply could he get upon speaking. In anguish rowed Deucalion on.
He reached the vessel to find Æole bending over its side, pale, resolved; and surely she comprehended, from her eyes.
“Father,” she said in lowest tone, “Father, I will come down, after thou hast come up.”
“It is well.”
He ascended, and assisted her. When almost at the bottom of the ladder, she spoke:
“Help me, Sensel.”
This dear voice aroused him. He stood, and held out his arms. Into these she crept, knowing well how to comfort him. Then she coaxed him to sit down beside her that they might talk. With her hand in his, and no thought for the eyes upon them, she whispered, “What is it, Sensel?”
Little by little, he related the sad story. At the end, she was weeping. Distressed, he begged her not to be overcome. But the tears were as much for himself as for the evil news, so changed was he from the happy, ardent, brilliant Sensel who had so fondly dwelt upon his hopes only the night before.
He begged her to grow calm, whereupon she cried the more giving this as reason, “How can I not weep when I behold thee in such grief?”
Then started the tears in his own eyes; and they wept together, to their comforting. Thus does nature afford compensation.
But shortly they were drawn from this by calls from Queen Atlana’s galley, and looked to find Deucalion was beckoning to them. So Prince Pelasgus began to row to him, when near enough receiving this as explanation:
“I have but just brought hither, Pyrrha. And the queen would speak with thee, dear Prince.”
When aboard, the prince with Æole, hastened beneath the awning where sat the queen and Pyrrha. Then talked lovingly, consolingly, these two women who had known so much of sorrow. Long, with Æole’s hand in his, sat the prince—to watch the gruesome hills, the floating timbers. And finally he said:
“Deucalion, on the morrow, will we go where my father and mother are laid. Then for my duty to Pelasgia.”
After King Pelasgus had knelt beside the tomb of his parents, he repaired with Deucalion to Thessaly, which had been undisturbed by the flood. In his beloved Larissa, Deucalion was joyously welcomed; and the king was hailed with loving fealty. Though, only for a little, could King Pelasgus tarry with Æole, as for a brief season, he must return to the port, which was already rebuilding.
Deucalion’s Thessalian compatriots would have accorded him godlike honors upon learning of his adventures, his successes; and hard he found it to convince them he was but mortal. As to Pyrrha, they had always adored her. She was their goddess, indeed.
Here, in Thessaly, the ardent Hellen speedily married Electra. Here, in Thessaly, King Pelasgus won his bride. Here continued Queen Atlana and Pyrrha in sisterly devotion, death parting them but a brief spell when advanced in years, Atlana going first. Here, the polished Atlanteans introduced their language, arts, and ancient purity of religion—a few generations later finding the two races merged in the cultured Hellenes, and speaking a tongue, the Æolic, very different from either Atlantean or Pelasgian. Indeed, this Æolic may be said to bear the same relation to the Pelasgian that English does to the Anglo-Saxon; and it, in turn, has colored the various dialects of Greece since existing.
Here, in Thessaly, Deucalion continued chief among his countrymen; and finally became their king at behest of King Pelasgus. Here to himself and Pyrrha was born another son, the hero Amphictyon and the originator of the famous Amphictyonic Council that so long held the Greek tribes together in a bond surviving even their independence. Here, Hellen succeeded his father; and from him sprang that great race of the Hellenes that gave Greece its ancient name of Hellas.
Here were born Hellen’s sons, Æolus, Doris, and Xuthus; and Xuthus’ sons, Ion and Achæus. Here, Æolus was king after Hellen; and from here spread his descendants over Central Greece as far as the Isthmus of Corinth, even occupying the western coast of the Peloponnesus. From this central region branched the great divisions of the Hellenic race, the Dorians, the Æolians, the Ionians, and the Achæans.
King Pelasgus missed not the portion of his kingdom given over to Deucalion—for his also, was the mighty spiritual kingdom of love; and Æole was its queen as well as queen of the natural kingdom. The mighty kingdom was theirs for eternity. Over the natural, they reigned long and well, ever furthering the progress of the Atlantean industries.
Thus, the arts flourished especially in Thessaly; and the Atlantean industries in the New Pelasgia. Whilst commerce became supreme.
And, from the union of these primeval Pelasgians and the more cultivated Hellenes, generations afterward, sprang a people that were the fathers of the great intellectual Grecian race of antiquity.