The Deacon was alive! Josiah Broome was alive! Jon Shannow was alive! It was all coming to nothing; all the years of careful planning unravelling before his eyes.
I've always been cursed, he thought, remembering his childhood in Chicago, the taunts he had taken from his fellow schoolchildren over his lack of size and his weasel features, the mockery from girls who would not be seen dead with a 'runt like you'. And always in his work there were others who would succeed, moving past him on the promotional ladder, men and women with far less talent. Always it was Saul Wilkins who was overlooked. Little Saul.
It wasn't as if he didn't play the game. He sucked up to those above him, laughed at their jokes, supported their endeavours and worked hard to be as good as anyone. Yet never did he gain the recognition he craved.
Now it was happening again, this time to the tall, handsome, golden-haired Apostle Saul. Overlooked by the Deacon he had, for the first time in his life, planned for the great gamble. And he was failing.
As he had always failed. .
No, not always, he thought. There was the golden time at the Tabernacle, when he had first found God.
Laid off from his job in the north, Saul had moved to Florida. One Thursday afternoon late in February, he had been driving along 1–4 West and had pulled in for a coffee at a fast-food outlet. There was a trailer parked there, and several young people were handing out leaflets. A girl offered one to Saul. It was an invitation to a Bible picnic being held near Kissimmee the following Sunday. The girl's smile had been radiant, and she called him 'brother'.
That Sunday Saul had attended the picnic with some three hundred other people. He had enjoyed himself, and the sermon from the fat preacher had touched a chord in him, with its emphasis on the meek and the lowly. God's love was very special for them.
Short of friends, his lay-off money holding out, Saul had joined the small church. It was the happiest time of his life — especially after the Deacon arrived and appointed him as full-time church treasurer. Jason had been set for the role, had coveted it — and he was tall and handsome. Saul was convinced that yet again he would be overlooked. But no. The Deacon had called him in and calmly offered him the post. Jason, bitter and vengeful, had quit the church.
Good days. Great days, Saul realised.
Then came the fateful flight and the end of the world he knew. Even then there were joys ahead, the gifts of the Sipstrassi, a handsome body, endless women.
I had it all, thought Saul. But the Sipstrassi was running out, the Deacon was getting older, and soon it would all end. Without the Sipstrassi I would be little Saul Wilkins again, bald and bent, peering at the world through watery eyes. Who would take me seriously? What would I do?
The answer was simple. Become rich in this new world. Take control like the hard, ruthless men of the old world. Control land and resources, oil, silver, gold. And all the while search for Sipstrassi.
The Deacon had found his hoard soon after arriving. He had ridden off into the wild lands and returned with a bag of Stones.
Oh God, thought Saul, there must have been thirty of them! He had asked him where he found them.
'On my travels,' the Deacon answered, with a smile.
Then last year a man came to Unity who claimed to know the Deacon. He had been ushered into Saul's office. He was an old prospector, who said he had met the Deacon during his wanderings in the land beyond the Wall. 'Whereabouts?' Saul had asked.
'Near Pilgrim's Valley — you know,' said the man, 'where the Lord guided your flying-machine to land.'
Somewhere near here the Deacon had discovered the Stones of power.
There must be more! Please God let there be more!
With enough Sipstrassi he could still gain power. Just five Stones! Three. Dear God, help me to find them!
He was close enough now to see the towering columns of stone that marked the southern gate of the Atlantean city. One was taller than the other, reaching almost sixty feet. Once there had been a lintel stone between them, but it had fallen to the paved area below, shattering into fragments.
For several moments Saul forgot his mission, as he gazed over the miles and miles of what had once been a magnificent city. There were statues in marble, mostly toppled and broken, but some remaining still on their plinths, stone eyes staring at this latest intruder to observe their silent grief. Many of the buildings were still standing, seemingly untouched by the thousands of years on the ocean floor. Saul rode on, his horse's hooves clattering on the paved streets, the sound echoing eerily.
The Deacon had told him that there was an ancient King of Atlantis, named Pendarric. It was he who had brought about the doom of his people, the earth toppling, drowning the empire under a tidal wave of colossal proportion.
Saul rode his tired mount up a long hill, towards a multi-turreted palace. The horse was breathing heavily now, its flanks white with foaming sweat. At the top he dismounted, and tethered the poor creature in the sunshine. The horse stood with head hung low. Ignoring the beast's discomfort, Saul strode into the palace. The floor was covered in thick dry dust that had once been silt. Close to the windows, where the wind had blown away the dust Saul could see evidence of an elaborate mosaic on the floor, deep blues and reds in shifting patterns. There was no furniture here, nor any sign of wood. That had long since been destroyed — probably adding to the dust. But there were statues, of warriors in breastplate and helm, reminding Saul of pictures he had seen of Greek soldiers during the battle for Troy.
He walked on through many doorways until he came to a vast, round hall, at the centre of which stood a circle of beautifully crafted rectangular stones, standing vertically. The dust was everywhere, and as he walked it rose up around him, drying his throat and causing him to cough.
Slowly he searched the hall, but found nothing save the golden hilt of a ceremonial dagger, which he dropped into the pocket of his coat. Returning to the horse, he took a drink from his canteen. From here he could see even more powerfully the vastness of this ancient city. Ruins as far as the eye could see, stretching in all directions.
Despair touched him. Even if the Stones are here, how will I find them?
Then an idea came to him. It was brilliant in its simplicity and, did he but know it, Saul Wilkins had arrived at a conclusion that had evaded thousands of brilliant men in the past. He licked his lips, and fought to control his rising excitement.
Sipstrassi power could do anything! Could it not therefore be used like a magnet, calling upon other Stones, drawing them to it or, at the very least, guiding him to where they lay hidden?
Saul delved into his pocket, pulling clear the Stone. Only three threads of gold remained now. Would they be enough? And where to try his theory?
The Stones were too powerful to have been owned by many people in the city. Only the rich would have had access- and the man who owned this palace must have been rich indeed.
The circular hall was at the very centre of the building. That is where to begin, thought Saul. Hurrying back through the empty palace, he made his way to the centre of the circle of stones. Here he paused.
How to use the power? Think, man!
Clenching the Stone tightly in his fist, he pictured a full golden Stone and willed it to come to him. Nothing happened. The Stone in his fist did not grow warm, as was usual when power was drawn from it. What he could not know was that there was no Sipstrassi left in this ancient ruin. He tightened his grip. A small, sharp fragment of the Stone bit into his palm. Saul swore and opened his fingers. A tiny bead of blood swelled there, touching the Stone. The bright yellow threads darkened, turning red-gold in the dim light.