Finding Atlantis - 3. Chapter 3

Aziz yawned in his hammock and groaned at the sudden headache brought on by consciousness. And several bottles of wine. When he’d arrived in Kalkan yesterday Captain Ali had invited him over to his ship while they’d waited for the appearance of his brother. Dinner, wine, and Aziz had returned to the Aikaterine to sleep. Unlike Krilla he wasn’t used to sleeping most nights at sea in a hammock and he was stiff and limping in the morning light. He stretched and went below to change; Aziz hated it when he slept in his clothes. Yusuf was stretched out languidly on one of the spacious bunks in the cabin. Yusuf was, by and large, the most rebellious of all the Shad boys; he grew his hair long and pierced his ears. While he had been away he’d even managed to get a slim silver ring put through his septum, and Aziz could tell already that their mother was not going to like that at all.

But he had brought a lot back with him, carpets and bolts of rich textiles and a large glass jar packed tight with layers of smoked and pickled garlic with dried lamb shanks. It was a tasty looking set of treats. Aziz kicked his brother awake. Yusuf snored once and rolled over. Aziz went to galley, filled a jar with water, and nonchalantly emptied it over his brother’s face.

“ARGH!” Yusuf jumped up and hit his head on the upper bunk, “Allah be damned, what the hell d’you go and do that for?”

“Morning,” said Aziz conversationally, “Fancy a nice trip home today?”

“We’re still in Kalkan?”

“Duh.”

Yusuf groaned and tried to lie down again, but the sheets were wet now. He reached round and thumped his brother’s legs ineffectually.

“Why do I have to be up?”

“We’re going fishing first. Y’know, dinner?”

Yusuf made a distaining noise and hauled his lanky form out of bed. His linen shirt jangled with trinkets and change. Aziz splashed water in his face and went back up on deck in a fresh shirt. Yusuf joined him a short while later, dragging a comb through his hair and bemoaning his lack of sleep.

“Didn’t you spend all of yesterday on a dolmus from Antalya?”

Yusuf nodded.

“But I was sat next to the world’s largest woman and her basket of four chickens. No sleep there.”

“Come on,” Aziz grabbed his little brother round the shoulders and gave him a hug, “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

They walked up the steep hill into the town and sat down at a small table in the tiny town’s best café. Captain Ali was also at Merkez that morning, as he was most mornings, and the three men sat around glasses of tea and traditional Turkish breakfasts of yogurt with honey and fruits, tomatoes, goat cheese, olives, and bread broken into rough chunks. Everyone knew Ali and it seemed every second person coming up or down the street stopped to talk to them about everything under the sun. There was the glass blower and several jewellers and both the tailors and everyone knew Ali. Ali surveyed Yusuf with a critical eye.

“Your father won’t like the way you look these days my boy.”

“I know.”

“You don’t care?”

Yusuf grinned, sharp white teeth and sparkling eyes.

“Of course I care, but I want to look more modern. We don’t live as quite in the middle of nowhere as my Father would like to believe.”

“And that too is true.” Ali patted his shoulder with one huge salt and sea weathered hand, “Well, I must get back to my ship, you boys finish your meal without me. I must take passengers out to sea again.”

“Go well Ali.” Aziz shook his hand, “I hope the sea is good to you.”

Ali laughed.

“She is always good to me!” He called back along the road.

The Shad brothers finished up their meal, paid their bill and ate some Turkish delight while they sat and decided what to do. Eventually they paid an early call into the tailor and picked up a new shirt and jacket set each for practically nothing and then went down to the harbour. Aziz cast off while Yusuf got the motor running and leapt upon deck just as the boat started to pull away. He glanced back at the little town sprawling in the hills, and only barely managed not to topple into the sea, when something closer to hand caught his attention.

There was a man sitting on the harbour wall. He was young and foreign and curious looking. Aziz strained to see as they got steadily further away, but the man raised his hand in a still and silent salute. Aziz half returned the gesture without thinking and then lowered his hand and frowned at it as the figure, and the harbour, got further and further away until they shimmered with the rising heat haze.

*

Tamil berated his second youngest son right there on the quayside for nearly twenty minutes in the heat of the midday sun. Leaving without warning or permission, staying away so long, no contact, requiring lifts home, and now this thing through his nose and how long his hair had got. And it just went on. Eventually Tamil let them both go and retired to his little office where the fan blurred in an attempt to remain cool, to seethe in private. Yusuf was little better greeted at home where his mother have him a short hard slap and then hugged him to her so hard that Aziz had to persuade her that his brother really did need to breathe. After that everyone just settled down to arguing amiably until Tamil came home for lunch and everyone went just that little bit quieter. But they were pleased with the things Yusuf had brought back from is trip. The carpets were new and thick, the designs complex and almost foreign seeming, so different from the local style of décor which was blocky and geometric. The fabric, a whole bolster of which was green and blue shot silk was well received by Aika and she immediately began to design plans for new clothes.

They ate the fish Aziz had caught trailing a line off the back of the boat lightly grilled and simple with lemon juice and olives and bread. Yusuf smiled and declared that it was good to be home. Which started another row as to why he had left in the first place. Aziz left them to it and went for a walk.

It only took ten minutes to get out of town and into the foot hills of the mountain range that ran havoc all over this part of the country. Soon the road was nothing more than a dirt track worn by the scraggy goats and their equally thin herders. This was lonely country, with just the occasional farm house off in the distance. And the land was all the same, dry brown scrub, the soil thin and barren over the sharp grey rocks of the hills. Loggers had come many years ago and torn up the trees for boats and houses and for export. It was only then they had discovered that it was the tree roots holding the soil in place and the rich soil had simply blown away. And so the land became poor and everyone looked to the sea and the tourists for their wealth. Aziz reached the top of the ridge, sweat beading on his forehead and sat down, staring back the way he had come. He took off his shirt and used it to wipe his face, and then sat in the sun, panting like a dog.

Streams, tiny and insignificant, glittered among the slops of the brown land, feeding down to the sea. Kas was a white and terracotta blur through the heat haze. The sea shone, a mirror up to the glowing sun. He could see the road, a thin stripe of failing dusty tarmac, along which the buses thundered, perilously close to the edge. Living somewhere like this, where the nearest hospital was over two hours away in Dalaman, you almost got used to the death, people coming off the road, and sailors scythed down by the sea. Though there was a light house both at the Kas and Kalkan harbours, they often went out of service, and it was not totally uncommon for boats to smash on the rocks.

Way out at sea Aziz could see a little gold and blue boat that he knew was Krilla’s. The sails were distinctive, a blue main sail, a deep blue staysail and a bright white jib sail on a little wooden boat. And Aziz knew that his friend was out there and safe. Krilla’s constant disappearing act worried him. He would go out fishing, and everyone would expect him to return in the morning, but then he’d stay out there for maybe four or five days, and Aziz would know that his friend only took enough water with him for a two day round trip. Every time he would worry, every time he’d never be sure whether Krilla would come back. But every time Krilla would return, as fit and healthy as ever, with a good catch, an easy smile, and a joke that he’d disappear next time. Aziz always told him not to joke like that, but Krilla was adamant. He was allowed to joke about the sea because he knew she’d always forgive him his wrong-doing’s and allow him to come safely home. Aziz shook his head and got up, turning away from the sea and the little town. He started on the slope down into the valley.

Here the soil had remained in a thin layer above the bedrock and olive trees grew in neat twisted rows. Between glossy green and white leaves the olives hung big and ripe. He could see workers from the little hamlet on the other side of the valley, moving along the rows to collect the olives that were ready, big baskets on their backs. Aziz ate a few olives as he went and gave the first gatherer he met a few coins in payment. All along the slopes the olives grew and in the bottom of the valley the fields were flooded and kept water logged by little dams of stone and earth. Rice grew there, its stalks neat and a fine perfect green. Aziz sat down on a little stone wall and leant against an olive tree that had surely been growing into a perfect backrest for the last fifty years. It was good to live in a place like this. A long way from anywhere and yet close to some of the most wondrous and beautiful things that the country had to offer. Aziz sighed contently, ate another olive and sat gazing dreamily out at the landscape.

The sun cooled off after about four and Aziz got up, and started on his way home. He went the long way round, going to the floor of the valley and leaving via the lower olives slopes, following the glint of the gurgling little stream. It sang playfully around his sandaled feet, cooling him and all his worries. On his way back through the foot hills Aziz past another of the great stone Lycian tombs, like the one that stood in the main street in Kas. This one was weathered and ancient but Aziz could clearly make out the lion’s head motif carved on either side of the opening. Someone, long ago, and broken in one end of the tomb, and whatever riches had been inside were long gone. Aziz touched the warm rock of the old tomb gently. These days, the old tombs were more like marker stones and compasses than anything else. Everyone knew where they were, and so Aziz knew he had only to turn himself slightly to his right and continue to walk and he would arrive at the town in no time at all.

*

Aslan was lying on his bed reading when Aziz came in and threw himself down on his own narrow wooden bunk. His younger brother put down his book carefully.

“And where have you been all afternoon?”

Aziz stripped off his shirt and began looking around for something clean.

“I went for a walk in the hills. Got as far as the rice fields.”

“You didn’t happen to bring any back did you? Mum’s throwing a fit because there’s not enough food in the house.”

“No,” Aziz pulled on a new shirt, this one blue and white stripes, “I suppose I’d better go help.”

“I wouldn’t go in there, she already sent Murat out for supplies. Stay here until she’s calmed down.”

Aziz nodded and lay back on his bed. Time was once when Aziz couldn’t even reach both ends of his bed, now his overly lanky frame, quite unlike his father’s stocky form, overlapped each end of the small bed. Aziz was by far the tallest member of his family. His feet hung over the end of the bed and he toed off his sandals sleepily.

“Wake me for dinner OK?”

Just then a little bell rang from downstairs.

“No need,” Aslan said, grinning, “Come on big brother, come see what mother has made for us.”

All four of the Shad boys arrived in the kitchen at the same time, creating a bit of panic while everyone grabbed dishes and cutlery and bowls of steaming, tasty looking food. They all laid up the table in about a minute flat, just in time for their father to step through the door. He surveyed his sons and then turned to embrace his wife.

“We are truly blessed,” he said, smiling at his boys, “Now, let us do justice your mother’s cooking once again.”

Dinner was a non-talkative affair; everyone was far too busy eating. They had kofte, meat balls with sticky brown rice, and baked aubergine. And everyone wanted seconds. Aika truly was an amazing cook. Yusuf’s new carpet had taken pride of place among the cushions and everyone commented on the fine knot work and bright, fresh colours. After dinner Tamil and his wife retired to the garden, a tiny square out the back of the property almost entirely filled by a large orange tree. There they drank tea and Tamil smoked his pipe. They listened to the boys argue over the washing up.

“It’s not my turn.” Murat complained.

“Sure it is, it’s Thursday.” Aslan was holding a tea towel, ready to get on with drying the dishes when someone decided to start doing them.

“But I had to it yesterday because Yusuf was away. He should do it.”

Yusuf rolled his eyes.

“Not a chance, I had to wash up when I was away, and do the drying.”

“Honestly!” Aziz pushed Yusuf at the sink, “You wash, Aslan dries and Murat puts the stuff away. I’ll go clear table. You three are hopeless.”

And so the good arguments ensued amongst the sounds of splashing and cutlery.

*

He was standing outside the gates of the city. He knew it wasn’t any city that he’d ever been to, but it seemed somehow very familiar. As though he’d lived here when he was very small and the memory was only just coming back to him now. The sky was dark, a deep indigo blue, but around him the land glowed. The flat sand was lit with a strange green glow. Aziz bent down and touched the sand. It was warm against his fingers, and went he let some fall it swirled in slow motion as though under water.

The city was huge; the gates were at least four times his height and made of blue stone the colour of lapis lazuli. Gold filigree swirled over it, creating twisting design that seemed to move even as he looked at, not allowing its true form to be seen. Aziz reached out to the gates and with a slow grinding noise, kicking up swirls of watery glowing sand, the doors opened before him. Everywhere lights of gold and blue glittered and shone and the weird green ground light flickered everywhere like the stories of the aurora. Tiny lights filled the air and Aziz realised that they were fire flies, murmuring to each other in their tiny humming voices. The city rose to majestic heights before him. Everything was made of stone so white it seemed to have been made of milk. Everywhere there was gold and blue so strong it was looking at the sea made solid. Great sweeping arches rose over his head as he walked deeper into the heart of the city. At last he came to a set of stairs, gilded and inlaid with gold and was compelled to rise higher into this strange night sky. And so he left the sand and the weird green lights and rose higher into the city. Flames illuminated his way up the great staircase, his hand on the rail as smooth and translucent as glass. At the top of the stairs was a statue. A statue carved entirely out of crystal, reflecting a million colours from its many facets. It was difficult to see the shape for a moment before Aziz realised that it was a man, a man with a fish’s tail and fins along his back. A merman.

A movement behind him made him turn. And there stood a man. Aziz dropped to his knees, not quite knowing why, but knowing, with a mad gripping conviction, that this man was more precious than all the beautiful things in this city. A city which he suddenly understood, belonged to this man. He was a king. He wore robes of the most searing deep blue that shimmered when he moved. They were edged in gold. The king had eyes as blue as his robes and his hair was long and lustrous, the braids hung with little golden rings and gems of white and blue. Around his neck was a collar of the same gems. His glory was not lost on Aziz.

The golden king stepped forwards, his jewellery tinkling as he came, and held out a hand to Aziz. His skin was shimmering and slightly green tinted, but the effect did not make him seem unhealthy. He was warm to the touch but slippery as a fish. Aziz felt a jolt along his arm where the king’s skin touched his. The king smiled a beatific smile and led him off his knees and forwards into a great chamber of white stone. Amazing cloths and silks hung everywhere and for the first time Aziz realised he was naked. He wrapped a great swathe of blue material around his hips and as though of its own accord the cloth fashioned itself into a robe for him, pinned at his waist with a glowing green gem about the size of his palm. The king beckoned him over to where he stood at the window.

Below them lay the city, spreading out as far as the eye could see, curving forms of white stone and gold and blue, towers and great sweeping walk ways, and everything lit from below by the green glow. The king pointed with a jewelled hand to the gates of the city, which stood open, the land beyond them empty and dark. Aziz turned to the king, whose eyes were pained and he gestured again to the gates. Aziz strained his eyes to see and thought he saw fire beyond the gates, the presence of an army. The king gasped once, opened his mouth to speak, and a stream of jewel like bubbles strung out of his mouth, weaving away into the liquid air. His eyes went dim, the blue fading, and he collapsed in Aziz’s arms.