My companion and I were up bright and early for the trip to the Lemurian mainland. According to our instructions, we were to meet our guide in Lemuria and spend a few days with a host at Owl Creek before setting off the Alluvial Mines.
My companion raised a delicate eyebrow. “Mines?” she said. “I may be incorrectly dressed.”
Our transport to the mainland was a charming little boat rowed by a deceptively small ferrywoman. As soon as we pushed off, she proved herself to be a powerful rower, her strong arms pulling the boat quickly away from the marble steps of Hotel Atlantis. We watched the hotel recede with real regret. Our stay there had been extremely comfortable, but adventure lay ahead, and we soon turned to watch the approaching mainland.
Our ferrywoman’s name was Imeena. She was descended from those Atlanteans that had sought refuge in Lemuria when the sea swallowed the great island.
“The waters of this bay are very clear,” she pointed out. “If you look over the side you can see some of the remains of the great city.”
Edith and I peered eagerly over the side of the boat. The water was a translucent jade and far below we could see broken white marble columns and the faint outlines of mosaic floors. Edith gasped as the boat passed over the form of a great golden bull, its head upraised, its eyes of inlaid turquoise seeming to follow us.
“That was the site of the great bullring,” Imeena said sadly. “The centre was laid out as a labyrinth, and the athletes had to journey through it to meet the Minotaur.”
“But the minotaur is a Cretan legend.” My companion demurred.
“It was an Atlantean truth long before it was a legend of Crete,” Imeena smiled. “The Minotaur was a great athlete who once a year challenged contenders to meet him in the centre of the labyrinth. But they had to prove themselves worthy to meet him – throughout the labyrinth there were young bulls and the athletes leapt over them to get to the centre.”
Our minds filled with the lost glory of the city below, we were hardly aware that the boat had docked until strong hands reached down to help us ashore. We watched Imeena row away again, her strong brown arms plying the oars, her long black hair held back with a single gold band. One of the last living links with Old Atlantis – we felt awed and privileged to have met her.
But we still had to meet our guide, who would take us to Owl Creek. Standing on the jetty with our baggage, we watched the sun sparkle on the ocean and the secrets that it held. Then a long-eared shadow fell across the jetty.
“Good morning, ladies.” Said a cultured Scottish voice.
“Hamish!” I cried in delight – for it was he, Hamish, the dear old donkey I had met before in Lemuria. He still wore his raffish tam o’shanter, and a look of impending doom on his lugubrious face.
“This is our guide,” I said to Edith. “We are old friends.”
Edith bowed politely. I could see she was a bit startled to meet a talking donkey, but she was quickly adapting to life in Lemuria. They chatted like old friends as we made our way along the jetty to the town.
Hamish manfully – or should I say donkeyfully – shouldered our luggage and we set out on the road to Owl Creek.
Gail Kavanagh
Recent Comments