Finding Atlantis - 13. Chapter 13

It was black as pitch under the water, the moonlight reflecting off the glassy surface. Krilla dropped like stone, changing fast as he swam, the layers of human in him peeling away to reveal the fish beneath. He was surrounded by the green phosphorescence, but found no beauty in it now, just clean pale light by which to see, and avoid, the sharp structures in the sea bed so close to land. He swam fast, using all the power in his frame and the streamline design that gave him such sleek fluidity. He swam until he was exhausted, and dropped to the sea floor, far below.

The water here was still warm, the undercurrents skirting along the sands bringing hot water from the surface down into the deep. He was far further out now than the last islands, far further down than any net or ship would go. Krilla let himself collapse, graceless, on the white sand. And there he stayed. He was crying, though the only evidence of this was the way the sand near his face became pitted with the force his heavy tears. He was not quite motionless, his fins rippled and his gills continued to suck in water, keeping him alive, although at that moment he would much rather not be. Everyone knew, everyone knew and life would never be the same again. It was so unfair, to Krilla, lying there at the bottom of the sea, that just as soon as he should find a boy he really cared for, someone who knew knew all his secrets, that he should be outed by mere proximity. Krilla thumped the sand, sending a green-touched white cloud rising up around him, and bit back a scream.

*

The King of the Sea woke from a hazy dream of the sun and the wild call of birds. He smiled at his imagination of these things. Slowly he came to realize that the underwater world was lit by a golden-green phosphorescence. It was day. The King of the Sea dressed himself in robes of shining white, thick cloth woven from the silk of sea spiders. Over this he draped an overcoat lined with gold and edged with finest blue. He stroked the slender gold tips of his crown before deciding not to wear it, placing around his head instead a simple little circlet of braided gold wire set with a single blue gem, a flawless oval of lapis lazuli. The stone lay cold against his forehead and the King went to the forever open window and looked down upon his city.

White stone arched gracefully through the water, pillars fragile as lace and graceful as long, sun reaching strands of kelp, supporting the weight of the city. The sand in his little courtyard was swept to flawless perfection. The city glowed with life, others of his kind streaming from one building to another, going about their business in their normal manner.

“I would like some music,” said the King in a clear smooth tone.

His manservant, a merman much older than himself with short cropped hair and graying scales bowed low.

“And a dancer my lord?”

“Yes,” the King’s tone was soft, reflective, “Yes, bring me a dancer.”

He went out into the grounds of his palace where all was quiet and peaceful. He chose to walk, his webbed footsteps and the sweep of his robes and fins marking out strange graceful lines on the otherwise perfect sand. The music started when he reached the circular courtyard, some ways from his sleeping chambers. Here he swam up to the dais on which his throne stood. On fine days this was where he met with his advisors and with those citizens who commanded his special attentions. Now though the sand was flawless as the music swelled a little, the orchestra of voice and instrument hidden from view. The dancer swam in from the little gateway opposite the dais and hovered gently over the surface of the sand in the centre.

“My Lord,” he bowed deeply.

“Stand boy,” the King commanded and watched the boy settle onto the white sand, “Dance for me.”

The boy was young, perhaps of fifteen major tides, slender and beautiful. His scales lustrous, his hair allowed to grow long, braided against his back. He was dressed in nothing save a simple white, blue edged, little kilt-like arrangement, the cloth tied about his hips with a ribbon. All of the King’s dancing boys were young and slender and pretty and it gave him such pleasure to see them move, the sweeping gestures, the near silent patters of their feet against the sand which puffed up around them. The boy danced as though the music was being played on his bones. The King of the Sea smiled to himself and watched the boy twirl effortlessly across the sand. Something in the corner of his vision distracted him, tiresome and annoying. He hated anything to be viewed with his dancers save the calm white stone of the surrounding wall. But nevertheless, a figure stood in the archway.

There was a man there, naked, panting with the effort. He seemed to have ran to the archway and now stood, leaning against the pillar, watching the boy dance. The dancer, true to his profession, was unaware of anything but the music flowing through him. The King watched the man in the doorway, when all his attention should have been on his stirring desire for the dancing boy of whom he was so fond. Then the strange figure saw him.

From across the courtyard the King saw jade eyes go wide and the figure began to walk across the sand, obvious, unashamed, leaving a trail of footprints in the unmarked sand. The King remained seated; the boy still danced as the music swelled and grew and tore apart the surrounding waters with its sweet harmonies. As the man approached the dais, the dancer noticed him, slowed, stilled and stopped, standing on the white sand, lost for words. There was recognition in the jade eyes as he regarded the King. At the bottom of the dais he opened his full lipped mouth, and said his name.

*

He was still lying in the sand, wiped out by exhaustion, nearly six hours later when Kinau found him. He was almost invisible there, a darker blur against the whiteness, the green phosphorescence having long since settled and vanished. Kinau was hovering over him, a flash of green fire that swiftly faded as the moon dipped into the sea, the sun glowing softly below the horizon up above. The other merman came to settle near Krilla's head, fins fluttering softly in the semi darkness, waiting for the boy to wake up by himself. Krilla reached out a webbed hand to brush against Kinau's leg, in his dreamy half sleep, thinking he was back on La Belle Mere. Contact of scales jolted him out of his dream to find Kinau, reposed and cross legged, on the sand next to him. Krilla said nothing, blue eyes, see-through to the ocean, shining with regret and tears.

Kinau placed a hand on his hair, softly, the gesture held more tenderness than any of their previous contact. Krilla screwed up his eyes and let out a musical whimper, a sad note like the end of the world.

"We all thought that you'd come to find Atlantis," his said conversationally, "To take back the city, bring the people home. But I suppose not huh?"

"I never said I would. I don’t want the city Kinau. I never did." Krilla couldn't keep the raw pain out of his voice, completely at the whim of his emotions.

"You've changed so much in all these years," Kinau's voice was deep and wistful, his words shinning in the deep briefly, "I almost didn't recognize you. But those eyes did it for me. Changing with the sea, deep as all the oceans."

"Don't wax poetic on me." Krilla said. He sat up, shuddering a little in the unexpected chill of leaving the hot sand.

Kinau smiled and reached out to ruffle Krilla's hair. The other snapped back away from the touch, ridged and tensed.

"Krilla…"

"Don't touch me," Krilla hated to find that his voice wavered, biting his lower lip not to cry, "Why did you come back Kinau, why did you want to ruin my life again?"

"I'm sorry," and he looked it, headed bowed, his voice somber. Krilla was struck then, that this was probably the most honest thing Kinau had ever said to him, "I was wrong. About a lot of things. Marriage didn't turn out to be all I though, neither did life with a woman. Found out the hard way I wasn't cut out to be a father, or a husband. All I could think about was you. That I'd lost you." Krilla sat impassively and watched Kinau as he spoke. "I should never have been so hurtful to you, I should have cared more. And I know it's futile to say this sort of thing after the event, but I really am sorry."

"Why are you here Kinau?"

"I want you back."

"You can't have me Kinau. You broke my heart and I won't let you do it twice."

"Krilla!"

"No!" Krilla stood up, sand swirling around him as his fins fanned out, a natural reaction, making himself seem bigger, stronger, "You can't have me Kinau, I'm not yours. I want you to go, leave this sea, it's mine. I claim the territory to swim in alone. Go home, back to your family, find some other young innocent boy to destroy all over again."

"And what about you, Heir to the throne of the Sea King. What will you do if not find the lost city of blue and gold?"

"I found him already," Krilla's voice was faint, tangs of human speech dimming the musical tone of his underwater voice, "My kitta sona. My Atlantis living on the ground."

Kinau started at him, sea green eyes narrowed with jealousy and hate.

“You can’t live with a human!” He snapped, his words clipped and fast, “That’s just so wrong! You’ll spend the rest of your life out on the sun baked land for some boy who will throw you away as soon as he knows what you are? Fuck that Krilla. Come back with me, we’ll go find Atlantis by ourselves.”

Krilla shook his head, no, and a soft, beautiful smile touched his lips.

“I love him.” He said simply, and was shocked to find that it was true.

“You’re crazy Krilla. You always were.” Kinau’s fins flickered quickly, uncontrolled body language stirring the water and the sand.

“Go away Kinau.” Krilla watched the other merman turned, graceful in his element, shot him one last despairing look, a look of foolish pity for his stupidity, and flickered off, fins rippling fast, going into the deeper blues, deep in the endless ocean, back to the cold dark emptiness of the trench.

Krilla let out a deep sigh and repeated the words to himself softly in his sing song language.

“I love him. My Atlantis. I love him.” He smiled. Turning his back on the direction in which Kinau had swum, he rose into the clear blue waters, picking up the warm current that washed towards the land, and began to swim. He had to go back, if only to say goodbye, apologise and explain. Perhaps they would go somewhere else, take La Belle Mere and leave Turkey, sail around the rugged, inlet strewn coast of the Mediterranean, fishing off the back of the ship and sailing alone for days on end. They could go anywhere. Africa, Italy, Spain. Anywhere on the coast. Anywhere where the wind would take them. Krilla laughed, a stream of shining bubbles rising towards the surface as he swam, he was part of the sea, and the sea was part of the wind. The wind would take them wherever he wanted it to.

It was a long way back to the coast, constantly altering his route to pick out the scent and feel of homely waters. The previous evening he hadn’t really been paying attention to where he was going, just that it was in the general direction of away. But Krilla swam carefully, using the currents to do most of his work for him, and when he finally came close enough to the surface to see, it was still daylight, the sun hanging ponderous and expectant over the sea, sinking slowly and inexorably towards its final destination. Under the water, Krilla took a last gulp of clean salt water, let the last of it filter through his gills and let himself sink back into the almost more familiar shape of human. Fins receded, scales became smooth, softer, his hair went fine and golden once more, his skin turned bronze. He needed to breathe, but stayed under just a few moments longer, waiting until he saw spots just begin to flash in his vision before he came up. The air was sweet and salty and tasted like fish and the sea. Swimming to the harbour wall he was surprised to find that someone had left clothes where he had dumped his outfit the previous evening. Just a simple plain pair of linen shorts and an old cheesecloth shirt. He recognised the clothes as Aziz’s, well washed and soft with over use. He slipped out of the water and dressed quickly, his wet skin making the clothes instantly damp and sticky. The shirt clung to the planes of his chest, wearing thin on the elbows. Krilla smiled to himself, squeezed out his hair and combed his fingers through it trying for some semblance of a neat and tidy appearance.

It was rather like being on land for the first time again, a memory that Krilla held with much fondness. The new smells, the crunch and sting of gravel and stones under his feet, the oppressive weight of his own body, used to the suspension of the waters. It had been a day just like this when he’d first come walking up onto the beach, dressed in clothes washed into the sea by swift rivers with nothing but himself and his trinkets from the deep. He looked back now at the sea, sparkling with constant motion, bright points on a blanket of deep blue the same colour as his eyes. Krilla smiled. He loved the sea. Now he turned towards the land and came out from behind the protective shadow of the lighthouse.

The little town looked as it always had, as it had every day of Krilla’s life here. Sure a few more houses had been built and few anciently decrepit ones had been torn down, but the roads were still the same, the traffic still erratic and dangerous and loud, the people still friendly and welcoming. Except that now, Krilla was not sure how welcoming they were going to be to him. He purposefully kept his eyes from the dock, not wanting to see if the Aikaterine was there, not wanting to know if Ali was still in town. It took all his will not to search among the sails. But he didn’t. He walked resolute to the end of the wall and hopped, barefoot, down the narrow concrete stairs and down onto the pavement.

On a bench nearby two small boys were sharing an ice cream with two plastic spoons. Aged around ten, brown as the soil on which they were raised, dressed in simple cotton shirts and shorts, both stared at him with bright round eyes.

“Krilla!” One called, and his friend sat up. Krilla recognised them, local boys, grandsons of the retired harbour watchman Savas.

“Hey little bit,” Krilla smiled and went over to them, “How are you?”

“We’re OK.” The boy grinned, showing small white teeth in pink gums, “We saw Murat!”

“He says his brother’s getting married!” piped up the other one.

“To a girl.”

“That is the tradition,” Krilla said, half smiling.

“I don’t like girls,” One of the boys said, “They’re weird.”

“Do you like girls Krilla?” asked the other, his eyes round and eager for a gospel from the blond fisherman.

Krilla smiled and ruffled his hair.

“There are some girls I like very much thank you, now I have to go see Murat’s big brother. You say hello to your Grandpa for me OK?”

“Yes Krilla!” the boys chimed before falling about in giggles.

Krilla stuck to the shaded side of the street as he walked up the hills through town, avoiding those going to or from market as politely as possible. He was still damp when he arrived at the Shad household, his hair had made the back of the shirt transparent and clingy and the seams of his clothes were dark with salt water. Krilla looked up at the front of the house, and his heart filled with a sudden dread. Never before had he felt anything but happy relief on seeing the house, knowing there was no more hill to climb, knowing that good food and good company awaited him inside. Friends, family. But perhaps no longer. The window boxes were overflowing with bright flowers, red and pink and purple, Aika’s favourites, a riot of colour against the white frontage of the house. Krilla took a deep breath and walked into the open doorway, knocking softly on the frame before leaning against it.

It seemed dark inside after the brightness of the sea and the sky, and Krilla took a moment to adjust. Aika was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, Aziz was seated at the big wooden table, turning a little marble sculpture of a man on a horse over in his hands. It had been a present from the deep, long ago. The white clad shape of Yusuf moved in the far doorway, sitting on the lower stairs. Krilla wasn’t sure what to say, he opened his mouth to speak, shut it again and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his confusion. When he looked up again, no one had moved, save for Aika, who was still stirring the contents of a china mixing bowl with a wooden spoon.

“I’m sorry.” Krilla said, and even to him his voice sounded dead and hollow, “I never meant for this to happen.”

Aziz placed the little figurine down on the table, the soft clink of stone on wood sounded like thunder to Krilla’s ears. Aziz stared at his hands, silent as the statue.

“Apology not accepted,” Aika’s voice was soft, but Krilla flinched automatically when she spoke, turning to look at her with wide terrified eyes, “You don’t have to apologise for who you are. Or whom you choose to love.”

Krilla blinked, disbelieving. He turned to Aziz in time to see his friend grinned widely. The tension in the room snapped and exhaustion suddenly caught up with Krilla and he collapsed in the doorway. Aziz went to him, lifted him, an arm under his shoulders, and brought him to the table.

“Where have you been?” He asked with an arched eyebrow and worried expression.

“Went swimming.”

“Well no wonder he’s half dead,” Yusuf, smiling and looking brilliant and bright, came in from the hall and went to the kitchen, “I’ll get you something.” He returned with water and bread and cold slices of roast pork on a plate. And the set of cutlery bearing Krilla’s initials.

“You’re part of the family Kril,” Aziz said, “You always have been.”

Krilla tried to laugh. Aika smiled at him, and motioned to his food. He dipped his head and ate, grateful beyond all belief that he was still as welcome as he had always been. Only after he was finished did he allow himself to ask the question that had been burning away at the back of his throat.

“Where’s Alek?” He voice shook, and Krilla had the sudden sinking feeling that the boy he had come back to land for would have gone, left on the dolmus for another town to escape the fear of ridicule. Aziz looked to his mother and Krilla raised his eyes to see her, already fearing her answer.

Aika smiled.

“He’s gone fishing.”

“What?”

“He took La Belle Mere out this morning. Someone has to pay your harbour fees you know.” Krilla began to stand but Aika settled him with a motion of her hand. “No, first you stay, have some soup and some tea and we’ll get you into some dry clothes. Then you can go chasing after him.

“Thank you Aika.”

*

The sun was just touching the sea, spilling itself like oil upon the surface of the blue water, red and gold snaking out along the horizon. The sky at zenith was just turning indigo while across the open sky the sea reflected the pinks and golds of the sunset. Krilla stood on the harbour wall, waiting for his ship to come in. He was clean now, unsalted, having showered and dried at the Shad house, dressed in clothes of his own, thick linen slacks and a loose cotton shirt opened at the neck. It was not yet cool, what with the sun sinking ever so slowly down into the sea, and there was still a good hour of apparent daylight left to be had.

La Belle Mere appeared out of the sun, a dark spot on the surface of the glowing disc, growing closer all the time. Krilla recognised the shape of his own boat faster than he would have recognised his own face in the mirror. Years of sailing and life spent on board the little vessel, the gold wood and the white and blue sails carrying him always to safety and to home. Home. Kas was home, he couldn’t sleep here, but this was where his family was, his friends. This was where he dropped anchor and jumped ashore with a ready greeting for the harbour master. This was home. Content with the idea, Krilla watched the boat drew ever nearer until it tacked sails and came around the head of the wall where he stood.

Aleksi was at the tiller, his shirt opened, his hair pushed back against his skull by the wind. He kept his eyes on the dock, moving forward to the mast to drop the mainsail, slowing the little boat’s speed to glide gently into the harbour. Krilla kept his eyes upon the ship as he walked the length of the wall and came around to the jetty where La Belle Mere would moor for the night. Aleksi handled the ship almost as well as Krilla would have done, the bump against the jetty was soft and controlled. Aleksi came to the prow and threw a rope at Krilla. He caught it and cast on securely. Alek stood on the prow and Krilla looked up at him.

He looked like a fisherman, save for his blond hair, what with him being dressed in a pair of Krilla’s old shorts and a shirt, white streaked lines of salt down his neck and arms. His tan was deeper, nearly at a shade similar to Krilla’s own and for a fraction of a second Krilla was afraid that the younger man would deny him. But then he looked into Aleksi’s pale jade eyes and saw him smiling.

“Hey,” Alek’s voice was soft, welcoming. He stepped down off the boat in bare feet, looking as much at ease on land as he had at sea.

“Hey yourself,” Krilla felt himself smiling, looking down at the boy, “I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

Unhesitatingly Krilla went to him and wrapped his arms around the slightly shorter man, tucking his face into the curve of Alek’s neck, feeling the warmth of him, the scent of salt and sea. Aleksi returned the gesture, and Krilla felt the shape of his smile.

“I love you,” the merman said, his voice quiet, like the beginning of a breeze at sea.

“I know,” Alek squeezed him tight, pressing himself against his companion, “I love you right back.”

“Stay with me?” Krilla pulled back to watch Alek’s smile.

“I only caught one box of fish,” he moped, pretending to be unhappy.

“It’s OK Alek, I’ll teach you some more.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come on, let’s go have dinner somewhere.” Krilla wrapped an arm around Aleksi’s waist and was grinning when Alek returned the gesture unhesitatingly. Side by side they turned away from the sinking sun and the harbour and began to walk into the little Turkish town.

There was a splashing on the jetty, unheard by anyone, as the white horse formed itself and pulled its strong foam-flecked body out of the water. Its mane and tail foamed white and frothy, its flanks gleaming transparent in the dying red light. It brayed, but it was no normal equestrian sound, but a note like an accordion joined with an oboe. The beast stamped its damp hooves on the wood of the jetty and watched the figure of the King of the Sea walk away towards the distant hills. It knew better than to think him gone forever. No fish can be kept out of water for life. The horse turned, brayed again, loud enough to startle the birds just beginning to settle sleepily in the orange trees along the bay, and dived sleekly into the sea.