MEGALO KASTRO-DUUD SHABEEL-ALTA HANNALANNATrinigalee ChaseVietoris, Mount Salvat, standing beside my huge father Romano NiranoMegalo KastroAlta HannalannaXamur-Galgala-Earth-Earth-EarthMulanoAlta HannalannaEarth-Earth-EarthWhirling-whirling-helpless-out of control.
THE WINTER IS ENDING THE WARM WINDS ARE BLOWING from the south. The Rom will take to the road again soon. Green pastures, fields of oats and barley ahead. Cool clear mountain springs. Horses hooves' thudding against the roads still damp from melting snow, the wagon wheels rattling, the intoxicating joy of movement, fresh air, the rebirth of life.
We come to the camp of our cousins down the road. We do not know them, but they are our cousins. Sixty campfires burn that night. The scent of roasting meat is everywhere. It is a glorious patshiv, a feast of feasts, two kumpanias meeting on the great highway of the world. Our men are singing by the fire now, toasting our cousins, our hosts. Old songs, songs of our grandparents' grandparents, telling of travels long ago.
A girl comes forth, very dark, very young. Her eyes are shut; she might be in a trance. She sings and a boy hardly a year older than she comes up and stands before her: he has entered her trance. When she is done he begins to dance around her, feet slapping the ground almost angrily, but there is no anger in him, only delight and exuberance. His body leaps, but his arms and torso remain almost still. He sings to her. She laughs. His song ends and he stands staring at her, but he does not speak. They exchange shy smiles and nothing more. And then they retreat, she to her kumpania, he to his; but perhaps he will find her again before the night is over.
Roast beef, chicken, suckling pig. An old grandfather is dancing now, slapping his knees, clicking his booted heels together. Faster, faster, hands clapping, arms swinging. And now the boys; and now the men; and now everyone, first in a circle, then in a long oval loop, then in no pattern at all, for there are too many to hold in a pattern.
Ah, this is the life! The life of the road!
Dogs barking now. Sudden cries of alarm from the darkness on the rim of the encampment. Shouts, the sound of a shot, another shot. "Shangle!" someone cries. "Police! Police!" Riding on horses, coming to drive us away. What have we done? Only to camp here, and make a feast for our cousins, and sing, and dance. Maybe singing and dancing are unlawful in this place. "Shangle! Shangle!" Horses. Police dogs. Shots fired in the air. Men shouting in anger. Cursing, spitting. What have we done? What have we done? It must be the singing. It must be the dancing. They ride right through our midst and we dare not lift a hand against them. For they are the GaJe police; and we, we are only the dirty homeless Gypsies, who must move with care in their world. So we scatter, and the feasting is no more.
I HAVE NO CHOICE. IF I LET MYSELF GO WHIRLING ON randomly through time, I am lost, all is lost. This is mere wandering. Randomness is meaninglessness. We have wandered long enough. Now it is time to find meaning. I need to impose control over my voyage. I need to impose meaning.
Who am I? I am Yakoub Nirano, King of the Gypsies. Where was I born? I was born on Vietoris, long ago. Where do I live? Everywhere and nowhere.
Where am I bound? Nowhere and everywhere.
What am I searching for? For the true home of my wandering people. Where is that? Everywhere and nowhere, nowhere and everywhere. Lost in time. Lost in space. But not beyond the possibility offinding. I will look. I think I know where to look.
Back-back I AM SWEPT AWAY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME IT IS DIFFERENT I am no longer floundering helplessly. This time I begin to feel some measure of command over my voyage.
I KNOW THIS PLACE EVEN IN THE THICK MIST THAT shrouds everything I can see the blueness of the sky, I can see the bright gold of the sun, I can see the whiteness of the thousand marble columns in the plaza. I have gone very far back now. I know this place, yes. I have been here before. This is Earth, the ancient Earth beyond history; and this place is lost Atlantis. This is the great Rom city, the most beautiful place on Earth that ever was.
How serene it is. Our island kingdom, white sands and sparkling sea. How well we have built here: what grace, what order. Alone and undisturbed I move through the long straight streets, among the dark slender people in white robes and sandals. Past the Concourse of the Sky, into the Street of Starwatchers, down the marble causeway to the waterfront. The city gleams through the mist. I envy those who live here in the city's own time, for they can see it plain; this dense mist is none of theirs, but is something I bring with me, out of the thousands of years across which I have come. It is unavoidable, so far back. But if Atlantis is this lovely, shrouded for me as it is, what must it be to those who see it shining brightly in the full sun!
I am at the water now. To my left stands the Temple of the Dolphins, pure and serene, a symphony in white stone. To my right is the Fountain of the Spheres; and straight in front of me lies the Grand Quay, with six fine ships riding at anchor, and one more farther out, coming in with its cargo of gold and silver and apes and peacocks, of precious stones, of pearls, of odors and ointments, of frankincense, wine and oil, all manner vessels of ivory, all manner vessels of most precious wood. This world of Earth is ours and all good things that are upon it; for we alone are civilized folk. The Gaje who live everywhere about us, beyond the waters of the sea that shelter us from them, are little more than beasts, and some not even that. So we go forth and take what we want and our ships bring it to us across the shimmering blue-green sea, and with it we make our city wondrous beautiful.
I will stay here forever, is what I tell myself now.
No matter the mists. No matter that I am only a ghost. I will become a citizen of this Atlantis and dwell here to the end of my days. I will drink the thick red wine in the taverns and I will dine on roasted meats and olives. No matter that I am a ghost and have no need of wine and meats and olives. I am here and here I will stay, deep in the depths of time, cloaked by mist, in a place where the Rom are lords and there is nothing to fear.
But what's this, now? Wavelets tremble at the edge of the shore. A fringe of gentle surf clear as glass laps against the marble piers and jetties, and pulls away, and surges back, not nearly so gentle this time.
The ships riding at anchor rise and fall, and slap the breast of the sea with their hulls.
The ship that is still out at sea vanishes for an instant beneath the horizon, and reappears, lurching, rolling.
The ground trembles. The sky shakes.
Ah, what is this, what is this? A roaring in my ears. The mist clears and I turn to see the mountain behind the city belching fire and black smoke. Great slabs of marble drop from the pediment of the Temple of the Dolphins. Farther up the slope in the Plaza of the Thousand Columns I can see the columns toppling like sticks. The roaring grows louder and louder.
There is no panic. The men and women in the white robes and the sandals move purposefully about, heading for their homes. A marble street splits and rises in the center, revealing steaming black earth below. Horses bolt and run whinnying through the marketplace. A chariot without a rider comes my way and passes through me and is gone.
Atlantis! Atlantis! Today I will see your ruining!
Where is the mist? I want the mist to come back. But no, now everything is clear, mercilessly clear. Every jagged crack, every furrow in the stone. There is still no panic, but I hear them crying out now, begging for the mercy of the gods. Have we not suffered enough? Must we be shattered here also, after we were driven forth from that other place of beauty in the stars?