The Feaster From The Stars (Blackwood and Harrington) (32 page)

‘Madame Blavatsky doesn’t think so...’

Blackwood shook his head in a fashion which he hoped would be condescending enough to send Miss Lee on her way. Had he known a little more of the marvellous intricacies of the feminine mind, he would have realised that this could not fail to have the opposite effect. ‘Blavatsky!’ he exclaimed contemptuously. ‘My dear Miss Lee, Madame Blavatsky is a poseur and a fantasist of the worst kind: one who doesn’t have the decency to market those fantasies as what they undoubtedly are – pure, unadulterated make-believe. If you want to learn something about Atlantean history, I advise you to read people like Mithridas and Zacks – not Blavatsky.’

‘I assure you I have,’ Athena replied. ‘And I suspect they may have to modify their positions somewhat, once the Central Chamber has been fully explored and its contents examined.’

It occurred to Blackwood that Miss Athena Lee might not be a bored socialite after all. ‘What, precisely, is your interest in all this, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Athena Lee’s smile grew broader. ‘As I said, I’m fascinated by the mysteries of the past... and I’m a special correspondent for the London
Times
...’

‘Ah! A journalist,’ Blackwood muttered in a tone which made Athena pout. So much of his work was performed in the utmost secrecy that the Special Investigator was never comfortable around journalists; while he understood that it was necessary to keep the public well informed of events both national and international, he frequently found their inherent inquisitiveness irritating to say the least.

‘I have been commissioned by my editor to write a piece on the new discovery,’ Athena continued. ‘Perhaps you might secure for me an introduction to Professor Skalagrimsson...’

‘Perhaps,’ Blackwood smiled humourlessly. ‘Then again, perhaps not.’

As the
Randolph Churchill
made its final approach to Chalidocean Aerodrome, about a mile south of the capital, Blackwood put his fob watch back three hours to Atlantis time and joined the other passengers in the disembarkation lounge, one deck below the promenade. Many were standing at the windows, watching the island’s southern regions move swiftly by, and Blackwood couldn’t resist joining them. As he looked down at the gentle greens and ochres of the ancient landscape, and the glittering blue lakes scattered here and there like sapphires cast aside by fickle gods, he began to feel a deep and soothing contentment.

He had been away from Atlantis for far too long.

Contrary to his expectations, Athena Lee made no further attempt to engage him in conversation; in fact, she was nowhere to be seen, which he found vaguely puzzling, since all of the hundred or so passengers had arrived in the lounge in preparation for landing.

He put the question from his mind as the sixteen propeller engines mounted along the sides of the gasbag rotated in their gimballed stanchions to face aft. There were a few exclamations of delighted surprise as the deck lurched a little under the sudden reverse thrust and the great vessel began to decelerate.

Like a vast silver whale gliding through a deep ocean, the skyliner made a leisurely descent towards the hundred-foot-tall mooring tower. Guided by cogitators in the control gondola, the small thruster propellers dotted across the surface of the vessel whirred into life, correcting its attitude until the mooring gear in the nosecone connected with the masthead, and the RMD
Randolph Churchill
came to a halt. Guy ropes were instantly thrown down, to be gathered up by the ground crew and attached to cast-iron hitching posts embedded in the ground around the mooring mast.

The doors of the disembarkation lounge slid open, and, travelling case in hand, Blackwood followed the other passengers out onto the lush grass of the airfield, where half a dozen horse-drawn omnibuses waited to take them to the Aerodrome’s reception hall.

As he took a seat in one of the omnibuses and the vehicle set off across the landing field, Blackwood glanced through the rear window at the colossal bulk of the dirigible, fully a thousand feet long and two hundred wide, the Union Jack emblazoned upon the gigantic rudder at the stern. Already, maintenance crews were swarming towards the vessel with the intention of preparing it for its return flight to London.

Presently, the omnibus emerged from the shadow cast by the dirigible and clattered swiftly across the landing field, coming to a halt outside the elegant, whitewashed building which housed the Reception Hall and Customs Office.

Blackwood had been expecting Skalagrimsson to meet him in the arrivals lounge; instead, he found a fresh-faced young man holding a small sheet of card with his name neatly handwritten upon it. He was tall and well-proportioned, with smooth olive skin and shining black hair. His cheekbones were high and well-sculpted, and his chin was delicately pointed. A native Atlantean.

‘I’m Blackwood.’

‘Mr Blackwood,’ the young man smiled broadly, shaking his hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Marko Piritas; Professor Skalagrimsson sends his apologies for not coming to meet you personally. He said you’d understand.’

Blackwood returned the lad’s smile. ‘Of course I do, Mr Piritas. I’ll wager he’s in the Hypogeum right now – I would be too, if I were him.’

Marko Piritas took Blackwood’s suitcase. ‘The professor tells me you’ve booked a room at the Hotel Agartha on the Inner Ring Island. Would you like to go there now, or...?’

‘Actually, I think I’d like to go directly to the Hypogeum.’

‘You’re not too tired?’

Blackwood shook his head. ‘Thank you for your concern, but the flight was eminently comfortable, and I’m anxious to see the new discovery as soon as possible.’

They made their way through the bustle of the arrivals lounge and out into the parking area, where several hansoms waited patiently for passengers. To Blackwood’s surprise, Piritas walked past them all and led him to a combustion-engined motor car, which Blackwood recognised as a Karl Benz Velo.

‘Yours, Mr Piritas?’ asked the Special Investigator as he admired the richly-lacquered wood of the vehicle’s bodywork and the polished brass of its pistons, lanterns and steering column.

‘Oh no!’ Piritas laughed. ‘I couldn’t afford one of these. It’s Professor Skalagrimsson’s: he loaned it to me to pick you up.’

‘How thoughtful of him.’

Blackwood climbed aboard while Piritas secured his suitcase on the luggage rack above the engine compartment and then cranked the four-cylinder boxer engine to sputtering life. He then jumped up onto the bench seat, manipulated several levers and guided the vehicle away from the curb.

‘So,’ Blackwood said as they chugged away from the aerodrome, ‘are you involved with the excavation?’

‘Yes,’ Piritas replied. ‘I’m working towards my doctorate. Professor Skalagrimsson is my supervisor.’

‘You’ve got the best.’

‘I think so. The professor mentioned that you studied with him in Paris.’

‘Indeed. That was a very happy time in my life. What’s the subject of your doctoral thesis, if I may ask?’

‘Changes in Atlantean eschatology during the Late Period. I’m halfway through my first year, but I’m tempted to change, in view of...’

‘In view of what’s been found in the Hypogeum,’ Blackwood completed. ‘May I offer you some advice, Mr Piritas?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Don’t switch subjects in midstream. Regardless of the reason, it never looks good, and besides, you can always do post-doctoral studies on any new discoveries.’

‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Piritas said, his voice sounding oddly relieved.

‘Besides,’ Blackwood added, ‘you may well find you’re able to integrate these discoveries into your thesis.’

Piritas glanced at him. ‘Do you think so?’

Blackwood shrugged. ‘I’d say it’s a fair wager. You’re studying classical Atlantean beliefs about the end-times of the Universe – and they’ve just discovered a secret chamber beneath the most sacred of burial sites. I’m sure that’ll be worth an extra chapter!’

Piritas nodded. ‘I confess that the thought had occurred to me.’

‘In his letter to me, Professor Skalagrimsson mentioned the contents of the chamber, but he didn’t elaborate. What, exactly, have they found?’

Piritas’s reaction was surprising: he tensed visibly, and his knuckles grew white on the Velo’s steering column. ‘I think... it’s best if you discuss this with the professor.’ He gave Blackwood a sidelong glance. ‘No offence, Mr Blackwood.’

The Special Investigator shrugged. ‘None taken.’

Marko Piritas became unaccountably quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the drive north. Blackwood wondered at the reason, but decided not to press him further, and instead contented himself with taking in the lush countryside passing beneath the bright blue sky.

The drive to the Great Hypogeum took just under two hours. Part of the route took them past the outermost circle of the capital, Chalidocean, which had once been known as the City of the Golden Gates – although they had long since been stripped of their gold by the numerous peoples who had invaded Atlantis over the millennia.

In the far distance Blackwood could see the central Acropolis, the gargantuan cylinder of marble-faced granite which rose nearly five hundred feet above the city. On top of the Acropolis stood two equally impressive buildings: the Royal Palace (now home to the Atlantean Parliament) and the Temple of Poseidon. In the winter months, when dawn’s damp mists hung over the city, the two buildings seemed to float in the air without any means of support, as if they had materialised out of the mythological realm that had first inspired their builders in remote epochs. That mythology told how Poseidon had shaped the land around his home into three great circles, divided by canals fed by the glittering blue waters of the River Sturla, the ‘Sighing River’, which tumbled from the mountains to the northwest. Its nickname came from the gentle sounds it made as it followed its upland course towards the flood plain on which Chalidocean stood, which gave rise to the legend that the waters sighed with wonder at the prospect of entering the beautiful City of the Golden Gates.

Looking at the Acropolis, which was said to have inspired Bruegel to paint his miraculous
Tower of Babel
in the sixteenth century, Blackwood wondered whether the great civiliser-god of Atlantis had indeed taught his worshippers the principles of this monumental architecture. He knew it was not so, of course; but it was a pleasant conceit nonetheless.

Amid the ruins of the Outer Wall, he could just glimpse the outermost of the vast concentric canals encircling the Acropolis. Beyond stood the Copper Wall, then the Tin Wall, and finally the Orichalcum Wall which surrounded the Acropolis itself. Many people described Chalidocean as the Venice of the Atlantic. Blackwood certainly believed them to be the two most beautiful cities in the world; however, much as he admired Venice, he preferred to think of it as the Chalidocean of the Adriatic. It certainly made more sense, given the Atlantean capital’s vastly greater age.

The last third of their journey took them through the southern half of the Pallasar Forest, the dense swathe of woodland which dominated the island’s central region. Blackwood breathed in the cypress scent, relishing its fresh tang, while Piritas guided the Velo along the gently winding road. Gradually, his feeling of irritation at Sophia’s absence diminished, and the excitement and anticipation he had felt upon receiving Skalagrimsson’s letter returned.

Presently, the forest grew less dense, and then the trees gave way altogether to the large central clearing with its well-preserved archaeological remains and discreetly-positioned visitors’ centre. The car chugged slowly past the five small subsidiary temples and came to a halt beside the roofed megalithic circle enclosing the Great Hypogeum. At the main entrance, a sign read:

UNIVERSITY OF CHALIDOCEAN

ARCHAEOLOGICAL DIG IN PROGRESS

NO ADMITTANCE WITHOUT WRITTEN

PERMISSION FROM THE DIRECTOR

As Blackwood and Piritas climbed down from the car, the Special Investigator felt his heart quicken. Finally, he was about to find out what, according to Skalagrimsson, might possibly require the rewriting of Atlantean history...