Atlantis! Atlantis! Alas, that great city. Alas, alas that great city, that was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls! For in one hour so great riches is come to nought. And every shipmaster, and all the company in ships, and sailors, and as many as trade at sea, stood afar off, and cried when they saw the smoke of her burning, saying, What city is like unto this great city! And they cast dust on their heads, and cried, weeping and wailing, saying, Alas, alas that great city! For in one hour is she made desolate.
ATLANTIS IS NOT THE ANSWER. PERHAPS THERE IS NO answer. I am swept away. I am hurled far and far and far, deep and deep and deep. There is no answer. Or if there is one, I do not have the courage to seek it. I spin once more like a seed on the wind. I go on and on, not knowing where, not caring, giving myself over completely into the power of the gods that drive my fate. What does it matter, where I go? What does anything matter? All is lost, is that not so? The Imperiurn is fallen. Quarreling little lords pick and snarl over its yellowing bones. There is no center; there are no boundaries. And in that chaos how can we survive? The Rom will be blown once more on the winds. As I am now.
On. Far. Deep.
Whirling randomly once again, Yakoub?
But this is wrong. If there is an answer to the riddles of your life, you will never find it in this aimless fluttering. You had control; take it again. Go back again. Go back as far as you dare, and then go back even farther. Go to the source, Yakoub.
Go to the source.
Risk it all, or all is lost. Back. Back. To the source, Yakoub. On. Far. Deep.
INTO A LAND WHERE THE MISTS OF TIME ARE SO THICK and heavy that they shroud everything like a winding-sheet, binding tight and close. And mist within mist, clotted masses of white within white. What could have woven this cocoon about the world? Why, it is time itself that has done it. I have gone very far back, farther than I ever thought was possible. I am beyond Rome, beyond Egypt, beyond Atlantis, deep in antiquity. Nor is this Earth. I have no idea where I am, but it is not Earth: it does not have the smell of Earth, it does not have the feel of Earth. Perhaps I have gone back beyond Earth. Perhaps I have reached the source. Is that possible? The idea frightens me. I grope through dark realms of whiteness. Soft strands of mist entangle me. Smothering wisps of it cover my eyes and my nose and my mouth. I see mist; I breathe mist; I eat mist. There is nothing here but mist. Have I come to the beginning of time?
In the dimness, by the lightless light of a shrouded sun, I imagine now that I can see shadows, or at least the shadows of shadows. Perhaps there is something here after all, some substance, some tangibility. A city? That shadowy arch there: is it a bridge? And that, a tower? That, a boulevard? Do I see trees? Figures moving about? Yes. I think my eyes are growing accustomed now. It takes some getting used to, this mist. Or perhaps what it takes is a colossal effort of will, in order to see here. Not-seeing is easy: your eyes will do that for you. Simply open them and they will show you the mist. That is all your eyes will show you: the mist. But seeing something more takes work. You have to throw all your soul into it. It is like a game where the odds are stacked so heavily against you that a small wager is useless; gamble everything on the next toss of the dice, or else move along to a different table. Do you want to see what is here, Yakoub? Then meet the stake. Put up all you have. And then even more. Yes.
I think the mists are beginning to clear.
Yes. Yes. Beyond question, the mists are beginning to clear. There is a chrysalis within this cocoon. Everything is being revealed to me. Here is a city indeed. I see bridges, towers, boulevards. I see trees. I see figures. I see a sun in the sky.
This place is no place I have ever seen before. And yet it seems to me I know it like the fingers of my own hand. The mist is completely gone now and I see everything clearly, with an odd dreamlike intensity, as though through a glass that magnifies. How strange this place is! I have seen so many worlds that I can no longer count them all, worlds of such strangeness that the mind can scarcely encompass it; and yet I feel something here that I have never felt anywhere else.
I move slowly and warily through these strange streets. Timid ghost, glancing this way and that. The city is vast. It sweeps over hills and valleys as far as I can see, dense and populous, though broken frequently by plazas, parks, watercourses, promenades. The people have dark solemn eyes that sparkle with unfamiliar knowledge. Their black hair is braided in elaborate knots. Their clothes are shimmering strings of beads falling in free cascades. They pay no attention to me; perhaps they are unable to see me, or perhaps they have no interest in me. Where am I? What world is this? I know this place, though I have never seen it before. These buildings, these streets. The streets are straight but they cross at angles that bewilder the eye. The buildings have an eerie alien beauty that is nevertheless familiar. This is not my first visit to this place where I have never been before. What does that mean? What am I trying to say? Words I never thought to speak. Streets I never thought I should revisit, when I left my body on a distant shore.
The sun is red. It fills a fourth of the sky.
But though that great sun blazes above me, I am able to see the stars also, thousands of them, millions, a field of light in the heavens. There are no constellations here; there is only light.
And the moons! Jesu Cretchuno Sunto Mario, the moons!
They are like a jeweled belt across the whole vast arc of the sky. From horizon to horizon they hang in a sublime row, glittering, burning, seven, eight, ten dazzling moons-no, eleven, eleven moons, bright as little suns. If this is how they look by day, what must the night be like here?
Eleven moons. Red sun. The stars shining by day. Eleven moons.
Red sun.
The stars shining by day.
I know where I am now, and the astounding truth sweeps through me like the wave from the sea that carries the mountains away. I have traveled a long way, and I have arrived where I meant to go all along. Despite the fears and the hesitations that have held me back, the long quest has ended in success.
Tears flood my eyes. I want to drop to my knees in awe. This is the place, yes. Here in our first world is where I am. The forbidden place, the holy place. At the still point of the turning world, where past and future are gathered. We may go ghosting anywhere in time and space, but not here; it is not lawful to go here, it is not even possible to go here. It is beyond reach. Or so I have thought. So have we all thought. And yet I have achieved it. I am here. I have come home.
This is Romany Star.
How can I doubt it? There is Mulesko Chiriklo, the bird of the dead, swooping, soaring: silent wings, bright staring eyes. I have passed through that unknown, remembered gate, into the one place that is all places for us. The gales of time have blown me to the far end of time. Those were the mists of dawn that I had had to push aside. And now I see with terrible clarity, in this place which has always been forbidden to us, and which we have believed to lie beyond the range of all ghosting. I am here. I alone have made the impossible journey. Time past and time future point to one end, which is always present. For me now there can be neither past nor future. My destiny has come round upon itself. In my end is my beginning.
The sky over Romany Star is exactly as it is said to be in the legends. Red sun, eleven moons, stars shining by day. The tale-tellers were faithful to that much, at least, in the thousands and thousands of years of the telling of the tale.