Remember Atlantis (WIP) – chapter 3

Continued from chapter 2

 

The air is warm and fuzzy like the skin of a peach. There’s a taste of salt and sea, and it’s in the wine they pour for me, too – a taste as if of the island itself. As if I’m swimming in the primeval soup.

But all I can really think of is the mountain.

People are talking about it – I understand it without even knowing their language. They’re throwing looks at it, whispering, huddling in groups, hands balling into fists.

But that only goes on at the periphery, on the street, in the shadows. Everyone close to our group of brave survivors is only trying to make us feel better. We, the Traumatized Ones. The restaurant owners battle over who can offer the most succulent meal on the house, the locals are buying us alcohol to dim our suffering, and rescue parties for luggage are organized before I’ve even swallowed my first bite of crayfish.

After my second glass of complimentary ouzo and red grapefruit juice, I’m having trouble judging time, and it only seems like minutes before boats start coming back with private treasures. I watch others cry and laugh as their computers and lipsticks and teddy bears are safely retrieved, and then airline personnel start to show up. They move among the tables and take down names, offer economic compensation and tell us to see a doctor if we feel any neck pains or experience distorted vision. I have none of these, and answer only in single syllables. They soon leave me alone, but not before eliciting a promise that I contact them within three days to receive my refund and to fill out forms.

“Vermin!” Marco spits. For a moment, I think he’s talking about the poor airline slaves, but then I turn to see a couple of mangy-looking puppies writhing and whining on the restaurant floor. They’re rubbing their ears against the stone as if trying to rid themselves of fleas.

“What are they doing?”

“Normally, they’d be drinking from the fountains,” Marco says with a disgusted grimace. “But tonight… no idea.”

I watch them squirm until they give a howl and run off, whimpering at something invisible. A thrill runs down my spine. “I… feel it too.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Hm?” Marco is still gazing after the dogs. He looks disinterested, absent. I have this one chance to retrace my steps, to take it back, but I don’t.

“They seem to feel something.”

Marco blinks and looks back at me. Then he raises his glass of Mythos and swallows a large mouthful. “Or hear it.”

“Or hear it,” I nod slowly. “And… I think I know… I mean…” I don’t even know what I’m saying. Marco looks suddenly uncomfortable and glances up at the mountain. I almost imagine tremors running through it, reverberating under our feet, as if the ancient volcano is waking up.

But before I can say anything to reveal my childish fear, my rucksack arrives. From one moment to the next, it just sits there in my lap, as if it was never away. Gingerly leafing through my possessions, I make sure nothing is lost. My passport and my money and my pills are all there, and perhaps I should be relieved, but it doesn’t even touch me. It’s not until I have my phone in my hand that a sudden pain lashes through my heart. Hugging it to my chest, I feel retroactive panic pool like tar in the secret crevices of my lungs. I almost lost it: the only thing holding me together. The pills are nothing. It’s the music that tells me I’ll survive – not just the crash, but life itself.

Fumbling, I press the ‘on’ button. I’m rewarded with a reassuring buzz, like a small creature in my hand, responding to my call. It coughs and sputters a few times, but then it works as smoothly as ever. Marco was right to leave it on the plane: if I’d taken it with me during my little swim, the poor thing would be history – and so, consequently, would I.

I have the temporary urge to call someone, to tell them that I’m alright, but then I remember that nobody knows I’m here. They won’t even worry when they see the fallen aircraft on tonight’s news, because they have no idea I was on it.

The thought makes me feel something, I’m not sure what. Anguish? Relief? Amusement? If there had been a real accident and I had died, no one would have known. Perhaps my body would have burned and my teeth sunk to the ocean floor, never to be found. My disappearance would have been a mystery. I can see the rescue party scanning the woods at home, calling my name, German shepherds scouring the ground with their noses – but nothing, no trace. I would have seemed to vanish into thin air.

Could have been a good way to go, actually. A stage exit to eclipse all others.

Suddenly aching for solitude, I excuse myself and rummage around in my bag for the details of my living quarters. It’s a simple hotel five minutes’ walk from the seaside bar. Marco offers to house me – you shouldn’t be alone – but I politely decline and breathe a sigh of relief as I finally walk away from the tourist area. Date palms and bougainvillea hedge my way, and alley kittens caress my ankles as I turn into my street and find the right address.

The landlady speaks animatedly in Greek and offers me Turkish Delight. She’s obviously aware of the emergency landing – because that’s all it was. No fire, no lack of fuel, no engine failure. Just something about the pilots not reaching the tower, or other planes coming in at the same time, or something like that. The grapevine has been worked overtime during the last three hours, and by now the whole island must know every particular of our little adventure.

I switch on the television in my room, hoping for a news report to make my ordeal seem more real to me, but there’s only static. Now and again there are snippets of sound, like voices, but they sound strange, and it’s impossible to decipher any words. One look out of the window confirms that my hotel lies close to the mountain. Perhaps I’m in acoustic shadow.

I could search for news online, I suppose, but I can’t be bothered. Instead I fling myself on the bed and drape an arm over my face in an attempt to shut out the world. It works. Within seconds, my inner demons have moved centre-stage and are performing some kind of elaborate hell-dance for my viewing pleasure. Endless rows of nondescript faces to grade, endless binders full of bureaucratic bullshit, an eternity of teacher conferences dedicated to nothing but the ticking of the clock.

Groaning, I sit up again and rub my leathery face. There’s no mini-bar, but in my bag, there’s a vodka bottle from the plane. Not that I think I can drown my sorrows in five measly centilitres of booze, but the symbolic value calms me. With a half-filled toothbrush glass in my hand, I feel strong enough to explore the balcony.

Darkness is falling fast. The mountain already looks completely black, ominous in the twilight. A trail of blazing torches is moving up the serpentine road. They glimmer and flicker in the dusk, and I feel a vague unease creep up my spine. Someone is up there, hiding. The thought comes from nowhere and fills me with superstitious dread. And they’re looking for him.

I shake my head and pour more vodka down my throat. I’m acting crazy. Maybe plane crashes do that to people. To calm down, I start a playlist on my phone which I designed to be soothing. Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I look up at the sky. The deepening blue is of that uniquely Mediterranean nuance, like the silk garments of long-dead royals. I unfocus my gaze a little and start picking out constellations. It’s what I did as a child to wind down, and sometimes I still do it now, as an adult.

The stars aren’t fully visible yet. It’s that hour when they’re not quite strong enough to outshine the glowing firmament – like a breath held in anticipation, like the turning of the tide – but in minutes, the Northern Cross materializes before my eyes. I sink down on my haunches and lean with my head against the rough stone wall, awed by the sudden beauty of those distant lights. It’s only because I see them from this very angle, from Earth, that they trace a cross at all. Out there in space, they’re light years apart and have nothing to do with each other.

At least I think so. I’m not exactly an astronomer.

I take another sip of vodka and chuckle to myself. I’m a cliché, sitting here by myself, downing hard liquor instead of socializing on the beach.

Just as I think it, there’s a flicker of light on top of the mountain, as if someone is moving a flashlight back and forth up there. A series of small explosions, like dying stars. With a jolt, I remember the Morse code in my head. No, not Morse code, exactly – but a rhythm, a collection of sounds which weren’t random.

Calling.

I shiver in the warm evening air. What a notion. Who would be calling to me? Nobody knows I’m here.

I take another sip and savour the stinging mouthful as it burns its way down my throat. It’s like tears in reverse, but I don’t do tears. I store it all up and get depressed instead.

A wry snort escapes me. My problem is that I’m a romantic, which is bad enough for a Swedish man, and even more embarrassing for a middle-aged one. When I was young, I could get away with being idealistic and emotional. Now, in my thirty-eighth year, it’s almost grounds for incarceration.

I’m distracted by a sound from my phone. It’s not ringing, exactly, just…

I pick it up and squint at it. It’s displaying crazy symbols and making a strange high-pitched noise. Maybe I should just turn it off. It’s probably the heat. The poor little thing is only used to the lukewarm entropy of Scandinavian summers, after all.

But I’m not convincing myself. Something else is wrong, and it’s not just my individual phone. It takes me a while to realize what it is, but when I do, a kind of rigor mortis spreads through my body. The darkness is deepening, and lamps should be switched on everywhere. Streetlamps, storefronts, living rooms… But there’s nothing. Not a single point of light in the whole of the village below me.

My heart stands still for a moment. I must be imagining things. But then I remember that that was exactly what I thought in the plane. And I wasn’t imagining that. We were actually going down.

Pulse pounding, I fumble my way inside my room and flick the light switch by the door. The room remains sunk in darkness. Refusing to believe it, I venture out into the corridor, and it’s completely black. I find the staircase with some difficulty, and emerge on the other side of the house, the one facing the alley. There are people there. I can sense them and hear them, but there’s no light. They’re talking in hushed tones, throwing looks over their shoulders, jumping when I approach.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, but nobody answers me. Perhaps they don’t understand the question, perhaps they just don’t know, or perhaps they‘re afraid that if they offer an explanation it will come true. I wish I could call Marco, just to hear a voice that understands me, but we haven’t exchanged numbers and I’m not sure my phone is up to the task anyway. Uncertain, I just stand there with the others, mute like them, and look up at the stars which shine all the more brightly for having no competition.

It’s silly, really, but I shiver in the warm dusk. Why am I so incapacitated by a simple power cut? I feel naked in the dark, exposed to some higher being that can see through flesh and bone. Is it because I’m in a foreign country, or is it the after-effects of shock? I reason with myself, trying to fit my reaction into a rational matrix, but it’s pointless. I’ve never been rational. I’m governed by my passions, and what has me in its grip right now is a primeval fear of the dark, of the wild animals that come to prey on humankind as soon as the fire dies down.

Up on the mountain, the torches are moving in irregular patterns. People around me are looking at them, holding their breaths. Is there something up there? I want to ask, but I don’t know what language to use. I feel alingual. All my Swedish and my English and French do nothing for me now. I’m a foreigner, an outsider. I might as well come from another planet.

Shuddering, I inch my way back through the dark and inside the house. The thought gathers like a swarm of bees as I mount the stairs: I must go up there. I have to switch on the metaphorical light and look under my bed, to see that there are no monsters. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t care. Tomorrow I have to go up that mountain and face my worst fears, to prove to myself that they are just that – fears, nothing more.

Safe inside my room, I lock the door, wishing I could bolt it too. Why did I come here? Why didn’t I stay at home?

Hands shaking, I set the alarm and stick the phone charger in the socket. Just in case the power comes back.