Poul Anderson - The Dancer from Atlantis

Forward, a barely visible haziness betokened Crete. Aft, the cone of Pillar Mountain was a black blot on the horizon, the last glimpse of Atlantis.

“Duncan.”

He turned, Like him, she had resumed Cretan garb. Her hair rippled in the breeze that felt cool on his own bare breast. Suddenly the crew, taking their ease on the thwarts below, and the helmsman and the two lookouts above, were far away.

“May I be here with you?” she asked.

“O gods, Erissa.” He pulled her close. They didn’t kiss. but she laid her cheek against his.

“I’ve wanted you so,” she whispered.

He had no answer.

She released him. They stood side by side at the rail. “Eldritch to ride again on this ship,” she said “After all the years. I do not know if it is the ghost or I am.”

“Reaching Knossos will be hard for you,” he said, look-ing out to sea.

“Yes. My parents; their household ... we had a pet monkey I called Mischief.... Well, it must be. And I will have been given to meet my dead once more. A-a-am I not favored?” She rubbed her eyes.

“Yourself,” he said.

“That!" She caught his arm in both hands and leaned close to him, “Duncan, do you believe ... can you imagine I’m jealous? I feared what you would think of me, old me. But to lie awake in my father’s house, knowing that then,, then I am having the dearest hours of my life—”

The mountain sundered.

Reid’s first warning was a yell from a lookout. He snapped his head around. The cone no longer thrust out of the sea. In its place, monstrously swelling, was a wall of night.

An instant later the first shock wave struck. A fist hit Reid’s whole body and smashed him down on the deck. The, ship staggered, bow shoved into the water, which cataracted aboard. The roaring was so huge that it ceased to be sound, it became the universe, and the universe was a hammer.

The galley righted itself but reeled. Still the blackness grew. It, filled half the circle of the world. It spread swiftly across the sky; for a while, the sun shone ember-red, then went out. Through and through the murk flared lightning, immense jags and sheets of it, hellish blue-white. Their thunders rolled amidst the steady bone-rattling bellow from Atlantis.

Reid glimpsed a stone, larger than the ship, glow as it fell from heaven. Blindly, he clutched the rail with one hand, Erissa with the other. The boulder struck half a mile off. Water reached for the zenith. White across black, lightning-lit, it did not splash under that impact, it shattered. A rising wind rived glasslike shards off it. It tumbled, and the sea was aboil. Reid saw the front wave rush upon them. Higher than the mastheads, fanged with spume, it made a noise of its own, a freight train rumble. He shouted, “Head ‘er into that! Bow on or we’re done!”

The roaring, booming, whining, skirling gulped his voice and spat it back. For an idiotic instant he knew that he had cried in English.

But the quartermaster understood. He put the helm down and the galley, rocking, sluggish from bilges full, came around in time. Barely in time. Water torrented. Blind, beaten, Reid clung while the billow went over him. He had a moment to think: If we’re not swept away, we’ll drown here. I’m out of air, my ribs are being crushed—The galley wallowed. A mast lay in wreckage. The next wave took the next mast.

Lesser blocks were striking everywhere around. They made the sea explode in gouts of steam. One smote the deck and went bouncing down the length of the hull, leaving char marks where it touched. The boy at the helm screamed—he could not be heard, but lightning brought him out of the night, mouth open, eyelids stretched, free hand lifted in defense or appeal—until it reached him. He exploded too. Another wave washed the place clean where he had been.

The lookouts were likewise gone. Reid let go his hold and crawled aft. Somebody had to take the rudder. Erissa vaulted to the rowers’ level, where they hung on and wailed. He glimpsed her, waist deep, slapping, scratching, forcing them to take oars and bailing buckets. But he didn’t see much more; the tiller fought so crazily.

A second volcanic burst smote the air. A third. He was too stunned to count them, to know anything except that he must keep the prow into the waves. A couple of crewmen reached the deck, bearing axes. They cleared the broken masts away. Oars out, the galley had some power now to save itself; and the heaviness departed as the hull was emptied.

The seas ran black under the black sky, save when lightning turned them into brass. Then each drop flung off their crests stood livid, as if frozen in flight. Thunder banged through the ongoing growl and rush and shriek, and blindness clapped back down again. The air reeked of brimstone and poison.

Ash began to fall. Rain followed, driven by the wind till it hit like spears; but it was not clean water, it was gritty, lacerating mud. A new bang and drumfire betokened a new eruption. They were fainter this time than the storm noises.

Erissa returned, chinning herself to the upper deck since the ladders were smashed. Reid couldn’t see her till she was close; he could see almost nothing through the ashen acid rain; the bows were invisible, he steered by feel and by the occasional glimpse when some fulguration was fierce enough to penetrate the darkness and flog his eardrums with its thunder. She had lost her skirt, shed her sandals. was nude except for the hair and dust plastered to her skin. She laid her hand over his on the tiller, her lips to his ear. He could barely hear her: “Let me help you.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t need it physically. The ship was under control and the weather couldn’t get worse than a hurricane. But it was good to have her beside him on this deck that lurched through ruin.

Crack! flared a lightning bolt. He glimpsed her profile etched white athwart the horrible sky. She looked at him, and bow-ward again, showing no more than the will to stay afloat. Darkness fell anew, and wind-yell and wave-rush; thunder rolled like the wheels of an Achaean war chariot.

The hours passed.

When Crete hove in view, it was sudden. There the cliffs were, stark above a rage of surf. Reid slammed the helm over. Erissa, leaning beside him—for once more the rudder sought to wrench free and thresh among murderous currents—exclaimed, “It can’t be this soon!” Her voice was blown thin and tattered through the clamor, the boom, the hiss of black rain.

“We were carried on a tsunami,” he called in reply, but doubted if she heard. Never mind. The need was to claw off that shore. The torrents which had already scarred the heights and borne away who knew how many homes and dwellers, were trying to fling this vessel on the rocks. By another flash, Reid saw the wreck of another galley, high up on ground stripped bare.

Atlantis had sunk. He hoped fleetingly that Velas’ little girl had been killed at once, by the initial blast, before she had time to cry for her daddy. The sea power of the Minos was shattered. Theseus and his merry men were overrunning what remained of quake-tumbled Knossos. Reid wondered dimly, through aches and exhaustion, what reason was left to strive.

Well, whatever Erissa, who had now twice in her life lost the life of her people, waged war for. Maybe just pride, he thought in his battered head: to scorn death’s warm temptation, to fight on after Ragnarok.

They seemed to have won clear. He left her at the tiller and went below to check on his crew. Eight had been lost overboard, besides the boy who saw a red-hot stone coming for him. Several more had collapsed, lay rolling between the benches. The rest rowed or bailed, automatons, emptiness behind their eyes. Uldin huddled in the bilge, face covered by arms against the lightning that streaked over him. When Reid shook the Hun, he retched.