Sturm Pillars of Atlantis

A Tale of the First World
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-5144-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten

Reihe: Pillars of Atlantis

Mystery and doubt is a powerful lure, and it is the unsolved mystery of Atlantis which has captivated the imagination for a long time. In the novel 'Pillars of Atlantis' one is swept up in a sprawling odyssey where the seeker of marvels and adventure will find themselves within a wondrous world which lies far beyond the memory of Man.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Sturm, Christian

Leseproben

II The Poet-Warrior __________ As stated within the exordium of our narratus, the Arcanum Resurrectus bespoke of centres of civilization other than Atlantis which were of such early existence, that their period of time upon the earth would shock the most learned scholars of today. Truly, here was an Ancient World far more ancient than the one in the history books of the present time. Founded were these mythic domains of lost antiquity by the old Atlanteans----they who in their desire to exploit certain natural resources of prehistoric Europa came to colonize parts of that vast greatland when it was a raw wilderness of deep forests and grassy plains. Here, in those days long gone, was the savage domain of the sabretooth lion, the giant sloth, and the shaggy steppe-elephant of the Age of Ice, as well as diffused clans of the skin-clad men who moved in epic drifts from one hunting ground of migratory beasts to the next in their eternal pursuit of game. The aevum of our tale, as mentioned, are those dark days of an Atlantis in long decline; and again, it was this isle-realm of long, long ago, as well as those civilized cultures of prehistoric Europa, which comprised that forgotten civilization which the Arcanum Resurrectus referred to as the First World. All but a mere wisp of a memory of the vanished lands of that early world has lingered on in the form of mist-enshrouded myth; but it was writ within those crumbling scrolls that these great and very ancient centres of lost civilization once lay near the seacoasts of Europa as they were before the glaciers of the Age of Ice began to melt and elevate the world’s seas, thus inundating those early cultures with oceanic water across a vast span of time. In very truth, if we of the present day were to take a great step back in time, we would see that during the days of our tale the map of Europa differed from what Mankind has known since time out of mind. To wit, before the complete melting of the vast northern glaciers of the Age of Ice which raised the level of the seas, the British Isles were not yet the familiar sea-girt bodies of land they are in the present time, but were, in those distant days long before recorded time when the earth was wild and much younger than it is today, still part of an archaic peninsula that thrust itself out into the Atlantic Sea thousands of years before the English Channel was yet to formed. Hereto it should be dutifully observed, however, that this lost civilization of prehistoric times, which the sacred scrolls referred to as the First World, was not an altogether different cycle of civilization than the one which exists at the present time, but was, in a rather tenuous sense, a very early part of it. Indeed, a few traces of the old First World still exist up to this very day; for there are buildings from antiquity that rest upon massive substructures, built of giant blocks of eon-weathered stone, whose origins bear no historical record but are believed to have dated back to even earlier times than when the old structures which rest upon these enigmatic foundations were built. Hence, for thousands of years portions of the civilized culture folk have known about for so long have rested upon megalithic foundations which were laid during the early days of that original civilization of earth----a prehistoric culture which is allegorically alluded to in misty legend and myth, as well as curious symbolic representations that hint upon some great before-time of cities, villages, and towns. As stated, besides the Arcanum Resurrectus, as well as narratum of long-gone things which echo across the eons in the guise of myth, ancient memories of this mysterious world that time forgot had also been well-preserved within certain hearthside lore which formed the thread that tied the Good Fisher Folk to their remote ancestors who lived in the very old days of the First World. These time-honored tales bespoke of the kingdom of Kerne, a mythical land which was said to exist in days so far beyond mortal memory that the Good Fisher Folk could not fully place such a remote epoch and thus referred to it quite simply as the Dream Time. It was writ within the excursus of the Arcanum Resurrectus that the kingdom of Kerne once lay within the southwestern corner of Europa as it was in those early days when the level of the earth’s seas was much lower than they are now. A fair agrarian land was this mythical culture of prehistoric times, which, according to the scrolls, existed up to some eleven thousand years ago. But besides its farms that sprawled beneath the god-perched skies of old, both the ancient texts and the Fisher Folk bespoke of Kerne, which was a colony of Atlantis some fourteen thousand years ago, as having a coast-city called Preath. A great port-emporium was this city of the First World, which in the remote days of our tale, before this seat of antediluvian civilization was covered by the sea, sprawled within a coastal vale that once lay where oceanic waters have glimmered off the coast of Portugal for the past ten thousand years. According to the ancestral lore of the Good Fisher Folk, as well as the Arcanum Resurrectus, it was the citadel of mythical Preath which belorded that European city of the great Dream Time by being perched as it was atop the stately brow of a ridge which formed the north wall of the coastal vale wherein that long-lost city did sprawl. And it was writ of this massive stronghold of the nobles of Kerne that its congeries of square towers and domed abodes rose high above the gray battlements of its outer wall of fortification, which, like the rest of the mighty bastion, was a ninety-foot-high rampart fashioned of giant blocks of stone. Thus it befell, that to the denizens of the once great city of Preath this ridge-raised citadel was like some huge, stone-built father of the ages, whose lofty ramparts enclosed a colossal hall----the royal court of Kerne. It was within this vast, high-pillared hall where good King Gilothemas sat in glory upon a high-backed throne, all splendidly adorned with sparkling gemstones and gleaming gold, during court proceedings, or upon certain celebratory days of the year. The name of this well-garrisoned place on high was Gorgolva, the Atlantean word for fortress, and for many generations indeed it was this citadel which had been the focal point of reverence and awe to the people of Preath. From pauper to priest, these urban folk of long, long ago would gaze up from the arched windows of their brick-built tenements, cobbled streets, and cobbled squares upon this megalithic marvel perched on high, which, to those common folk far down in that coastal city below, bore the aspect of some wondrous aerie of the gods. One such admirer of Gorgolva was a young warrior named Athear----he who sat all alone as he gazed northaways, one fine day of early spring thirteen thousand years ago, upon the crowded roofs of Preath and that ridge-raised citadel which belorded everything in sight with all the might attributed to a hundred thousand huge stone blocks stacked up to awesome heights against the sky. It was from the ivy-grown arbor of a fine villa, be-south of the coastal city, where this wistful warrior gazed out upon the wide sweep of city roofs and that mighty stronghold on high which housed the nobility of the land. Up upon a coastal upland of grass, crag, and scattered groves of stately oak stood this splendid villa which was adorned with arched windows and doors, as well as some pillared terraces here and there. But besides these ennobling graces, the shimmering green of ivy clung to certain parts of this large, stone-built house, making for a fine sylvan abode indeed, whose ivy-entwined pillars exemplified the proper residence of the gentry of the land. This high-perched domicile, whose trellised gardens afforded a breathtaking prospect of the old city and the sea, had once been the property of Athear’s father, Ostophilas----he who upon a time bore a distinguished place of honor within the royal court of Kerne, serving as a faithful chamberlain to good King Gilothemas. Upon occasion, Ostophilas had also served as a fine ambassador of the realm. Indeed, a noble pillar was this sterling gentleman among those of the high places of his land, almost up to the day he died; and within the testamentum of this wise and honorable man he bequeathed all his properties to his only child, along with a right generous endowment of gold designed to keep his son from the rags of poverty. Though Athear was now the lord of the villa, elsewhere had he dwelt in days of recent date. Upon a time, when the young man was but a boy, he had an older brother----a mighty warrior slain in battle by a fierce giant who ruled a clan of the Big Folk up within the fastness of forested mounts be-north of Kerne. Of his family, only Athear’s dear mother, Serpina, still dwelt within the young man’s heredium perched high above the coastal city and all the hurly burly of its bustling streets and squares. A woman of sweet and gentle words was Serpina----she who would weep at the sight of a mouse trapped in a cage; and the young lord of the house would come visit this gracious lady of angelic virtue whenever he could. Enchanting were the spacious grounds of Athear’s suburbium villa, with its marble statues of woodland nymphs, sprites, and other such preternatural effigies lurking, as it were, amid the trees and dainty shrubbery roundabout. Floral beds also graced...