I am swept away in the gale of chaos.
5.
MEGALO KASTRO… DUUD SHABEEL… ALTA HANNALANNA…
Trinigalee Chase…
Vietoris, Mount Salvat, standing beside my huge father Romano Nirano…
Megalo Kastro…
Alta Hannalanna…
Xamur… Galgala… Earth… Earth… Earth…
Mulano…
Alta Hannalanna…
Earth… Earth… Earth…
Whirling… whirling… helpless… out of control…
6.
THE WINTER IS ENDING. THE WARM WINDS ARE BLOWING from the south. The Rom will take to the road again soon. Green pastures, fields of oats and barley ahead. Cool clear mountain springs. Horses' hooves thudding against the roads still damp from melting snow, the wagon wheels rattling, the intoxicating joy of movement, fresh air, the rebirth of life.
We come to the camp of our cousins down the road. We do not know them, but they are our cousins. Sixty campfires burn that night. The scent of roasting meat is everywhere. It is a glorious patshiv, a feast of feasts, two kumpanias meeting on the great highway of the world. Our men are singing by the fire now, toasting our cousins, our hosts. Old songs, songs of our grandparents' grandparents, telling of travels long ago.
A girl comes forth, very dark, very young. Her eyes are shut; she might be in a trance. She sings and a boy hardly a year older than she comes up and stands before her: he has entered her trance. When she is done he begins to dance around her, feet slapping the ground almost angrily, but there is no anger in him, only delight and exuberance. His body leaps, but his arms and torso remain almost still. He sings to her. She laughs. His song ends and he stands staring at her, but he does not speak. They exchange shy smiles and nothing more. And then they retreat, she to her kumpania, he to his; but perhaps he will find her again before the night is over.
Roast beef, chicken, suckling pig. An old grandfather is dancing now, slapping his knees, clicking his booted heels together. Faster, faster, hands clapping, arms swinging. And now the boys; and now the men; and now everyone, first in a circle, then in a long oval loop, then in no pattern at all, for there are too many to hold in a pattern.
Ah, this is the life! The life of the road!
Dogs barking now. Sudden cries of alarm from the darkness on the rim of the encampment. Shouts, the sound of a shot, another shot. "Shangle!" someone cries. "Police! Police!" Riding on horses, coming to drive us away. What have we done? Only to camp here, and make a feast for our cousins, and sing, and dance. Maybe singing and dancing are unlawful in this place. "Shangle! Shangle!" Horses. Police dogs. Shots fired in the air. Men shouting in anger. Cursing, spitting. What have we done? What have we done? It must be the singing. It must be the dancing. They ride right through our midst and we dare not lift a hand against them. For they are the Gaje police; and we, we are only the dirty homeless Gypsies, who must move with care in their world. So we scatter, and the feasting is no more.
7.
I HAVE NO CHOICE. IF I LET MYSELF GO WHIRLING on randomly through time, I am lost, all is lost. This is mere wandering. Randomness is meaninglessness. We have wandered long enough. Now it is time to find meaning. I need to impose control over my voyage. I need to impose meaning.
Who am I? I am Yakoub Nirano, King of the Gypsies.
Where was I born? I was born on Vietoris, long ago.
Where do I live? Everywhere and nowhere.
Where am I bound? Nowhere and everywhere.
What am I searching for? For the true home of my wandering people.
Where is that? Everywhere and nowhere, nowhere and everywhere. Lost in time. Lost in space. But not beyond the possibility of finding.
I will look. I think I know where to look.
Back… back…
8.
I AM SWEPT AWAY AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME IT IS DIFFERENT. I am no longer floundering helplessly. This time I begin to feel some measure of command over my voyage.
9.
I KNOW THIS PLACE. EVEN IN THE THICK MIST THAT shrouds everything I can see the blueness of the sky, I can see the bright gold of the sun, I can see the whiteness of the thousand marble columns in the plaza. I have gone very far back now. I know this place, yes. I have been here before. This is Earth, the ancient Earth beyond history; and this place is lost Atlantis. This is the great Rom city, the most beautiful place on Earth that ever was.
How serene it is. Our island kingdom, white sands and sparkling sea. How well we have built here: what grace, what order. Alone and undisturbed I move through the long straight streets, among the dark slender people in white robes and sandals. Past the Concourse of the Sky, into the Street of Starwatchers, down the marble causeway to the waterfront. The city gleams through the mist. I envy those who live here in the city's own time, for they can see it plain; this dense mist is none of theirs, but is something I bring with me, out of the thousands of years across which I have come. It is unavoidable, so far back. But if Atlantis is this lovely, shrouded for me as it is, what must it be to those who see it shining brightly in the full sun!
I am at the water now. To my left stands the Temple of the Dolphins, pure and serene, a symphony in white stone. To my right is the Fountain of the Spheres; and straight in front of me lies the Grand Quay, with six fine ships riding at anchor, and one more farther out, coming in with its cargo of gold and silver and apes and peacocks, of precious stones, of pearls, of odors and ointments, of frankincense, wine and oil, all manner vessels of ivory, all manner vessels of most precious wood. This world of Earth is ours and all good things that are upon it; for we alone are civilized folk. The Gaje who live everywhere about us, beyond the waters of the sea that shelter us from them, are little more than beasts, and some not even that. So we go forth and take what we want and our ships bring it to us across the shimmering blue-green sea, and with it we make our city wondrous beautiful.
I will stay here forever, is what I tell myself now.
No matter the mists. No matter that I am only a ghost. I will become a citizen of this Atlantis and dwell here to the end of my days. I will drink the thick red wine in the taverns and I will dine on roasted meats and olives. No matter that I am a ghost and have no need of wine and meats and olives. I am here and here I will stay, deep in the depths of time, cloaked by mist, in a place where the Rom are lords and there is nothing to fear.
But what's this, now? Wavelets tremble at the edge of the shore. A fringe of gentle surf clear as glass laps against the marble piers and jetties, and pulls away, and surges back, not nearly so gentle this time.
The ships riding at anchor rise and fall, and slap the breast of the sea with their hulls.
The ship that is still out at sea vanishes for an instant beneath the horizon, and reappears, lurching, rolling.
The ground trembles. The sky shakes.
Ah, what is this, what is this? A roaring in my ears. The mist clears and I turn to see the mountain behind the city belching fire and black smoke. Great slabs of marble drop from the pediment of the Temple of the Dolphins. Farther up the slope in the Plaza of the Thousand Columns I can see the columns toppling like sticks. The roaring grows louder and louder.
There is no panic. The men and women in the white robes and the sandals move purposefully about, heading for their homes. A marble street splits and rises in the center, revealing steaming black earth below. Horses bolt and run whinnying through the marketplace. A chariot without a rider comes my way and passes through me and is gone.
Atlantis! Atlantis! Today I will see your ruining!
Where is the mist? I want the mist to come back. But no, now everything is clear, mercilessly clear. Every jagged crack, every furrow in the stone. There is still no panic, but I hear them crying out now, begging for the mercy of the gods. Have we not suffered enough? Must we be shattered here also, after we were driven forth from that other place of beauty in the stars?
Atlantis! Atlantis!
Alas, that great city…
>
Alas, alas that great city, that was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls! For in one hour so great riches is come to nought. And every shipmaster, and all the company in ships, and sailors, and as many as trade at sea, stood afar off, and cried when they saw the smoke of her burning, saying, What city is like unto this great city! And they cast dust on their heads, and cried, weeping and wailing, saying, Alas, alas that great city! For in one hour is she made desolate.
10.
ATLANTIS IS NOT THE ANSWER. PERHAPS THERE IS NO answer. I am swept away. I am hurled far and far and far, deep and deep and deep. There is no answer. Or if there is one, I do not have the courage to seek it. I spin once more like a seed on the wind. I go on and on, not knowing where, not caring, giving myself over completely into the power of the gods that drive my fate. What does it matter, where I go? What does anything matter? All is lost, is that not so? The Imperium is fallen. Quarreling little lords pick and snarl over its yellowing bones. There is no center; there are no boundaries. And in that chaos how can we survive? The Rom will be blown once more on the winds. As I am now.
On. Far. Deep.
Whirling randomly once again, Yakoub?
But this is wrong. If there is an answer to the riddles of your life, you will never find it in this aimless fluttering. You had control; take it again. Go back again. Go back as far as you dare, and then go back even farther. Go to the source, Yakoub.
Go to the source.
Risk it all, or all is lost. Back. Back. To the source, Yakoub.
On. Far. Deep.
11.
INTO A LAND WHERE THE MISTS OF TIME ARE SO THICK and heavy that they shroud everything like a winding-sheet, binding tight and close. And mist within mist, clotted masses of white within white. What could have woven this cocoon about the world? Why, it is time itself that has done it. I have gone very far back, farther than I ever thought was possible. I am beyond Rome, beyond Egypt, beyond Atlantis, deep in antiquity. Nor is this Earth. I have no idea where I am, but it is not Earth: it does not have the smell of Earth, it does not have the feel of Earth. Perhaps I have gone back beyond Earth. Perhaps I have reached the source. Is that possible? The idea frightens me. I grope through dark realms of whiteness. Soft strands of mist entangle me. Smothering wisps of it cover my eyes and my nose and my mouth. I see mist; I breathe mist; I eat mist. There is nothing here but mist.
Have I come to the beginning of time?
In the dimness, by the lightless light of a shrouded sun, I imagine now that I can see shadows, or at least the shadows of shadows. Perhaps there is something here after all, some substance, some tangibility. A city? That shadowy arch there: is it a bridge? And that, a tower? That, a boulevard? Do I see trees? Figures moving about? Yes. I think my eyes are growing accustomed now. It takes some getting used to, this mist. Or perhaps what it takes is a colossal effort of will, in order to see here. Not-seeing is easy: your eyes will do that for you. Simply open them and they will show you the mist. That is all your eyes will show you: the mist. But seeing something more takes work. You have to throw all your soul into it. It is like a game where the odds are stacked so heavily against you that a small wager is useless; gamble everything on the next toss of the dice, or else move along to a different table. Do you want to see what is here, Yakoub? Then meet the stake. Put up all you have. And then even more. Yes.
I think the mists are beginning to clear.
Yes. Yes. Beyond question, the mists are beginning to clear.
There is a chrysalis within this cocoon. Everything is being revealed to me. Here is a city indeed. I see bridges, towers, boulevards. I see trees. I see figures. I see a sun in the sky.
This place is no place I have ever seen before. And yet it seems to me I know it like the fingers of my own hand. The mist is completely gone now and I see everything clearly, with an odd dreamlike intensity, as though through a glass that magnifies. How strange this place is! I have seen so many worlds that I can no longer count them all, worlds of such strangeness that the mind can scarcely encompass it; and yet I feel something here that I have never felt anywhere else.
I move slowly and warily through these strange streets. Timid ghost, glancing this way and that. The city is vast. It sweeps over hills and valleys as far as I can see, dense and populous, though broken frequently by plazas, parks, watercourses, promenades. The people have dark solemn eyes that sparkle with unfamiliar knowledge. Their black hair is braided in elaborate knots. Their clothes are shimmering strings of beads falling in free cascades. They pay no attention to me; perhaps they are unable to see me, or perhaps they have no interest in me. Where am I? What world is this? I know this place, though I have never seen it before. These buildings, these streets. The streets are straight but they cross at angles that bewilder the eye. The buildings have an eerie alien beauty that is nevertheless familiar. This is not my first visit to this place where I have never been before. What does that mean? What am I trying to say? Words I never thought to speak. Streets I never thought I should revisit, when I left my body on a distant shore.
The sun is red. It fills a fourth of the sky.
But though that great sun blazes above me, I am able to see the stars also, thousands of them, millions, a field of light in the heavens. There are no constellations here; there is only light.
And the moons! Jesu Cretchuno Sunto Mario, the moons!
They are like a jeweled belt across the whole vast arc of the sky. From horizon to horizon they hang in a sublime row, glittering, burning, seven, eight, ten dazzling moons-no, eleven, eleven moons, bright as little suns. If this is how they look by day, what must the night be like here?
Eleven moons. Red sun. The stars shining by day.
Eleven moons.
Red sun.
The stars shining by day.
I know where I am now, and the astounding truth sweeps through me like the wave from the sea that carries the mountains away. I have traveled a long way, and I have arrived where I meant to go all along. Despite the fears and the hesitations that have held me back, the long quest has ended in success.
Tears flood my eyes. I want to drop to my knees in awe. This is the place, yes. Here in our first world is where I am. The forbidden place, the holy place. At the still point of the turning world, where past and future are gathered. We may go ghosting anywhere in time and space, but not here; it is not lawful to go here, it is not even possible to go here. It is beyond reach. Or so I have thought. So have we all thought. And yet I have achieved it. I am here. I have come home.
This is Romany Star.
How can I doubt it? There is Mulesko Chiriklo, the bird of the dead, swooping, soaring: silent wings, bright staring eyes. I have passed through that unknown, remembered gate, into the one place that is all places for us. The gales of time have blown me to the far end of time. Those were the mists of dawn that I had had to push aside. And now I see with terrible clarity, in this place which has always been forbidden to us, and which we have believed to lie beyond the range of all ghosting. I am here. I alone have made the impossible journey. Time past and time future point to one end, which is always present. For me now there can be neither past nor future. My destiny has come round upon itself. In my end is my beginning.
The sky over Romany Star is exactly as it is said to be in the legends. Red sun, eleven moons, stars shining by day. The tale-tellers were faithful to that much, at least, in the thousands and thousands of years of the telling of the tale.
But nothing else is as I expect it to be. Shining marble palaces, says the Swatura. Splendid towers, vast concourses, broad highways, gleaming temples of many columns. No. That is Atlantis, not Romany Star. We built differently in our second home, and forgot that we did. Here is beauty also, but of another sort, less formal, less monumental. Nothing seems permanent. They use no stone here. They have woven this city of some delicate reed; everything is pliant, everything is yielding. Towers, yes, and bridges and bou
levards, but they ripple in the gentle breezes, and change form at a touch. There will be nothing left of this place when the time of the swelling of the sun arrives. A dry wind, a gust of heat, a puff of flame: and then nothing but ashes within hours. No charred monuments for future archaeologists to puzzle over; no stumps of fallen obelisks; no foundations, no walls, no mosaics. Nothing. Ashes. Instantly. It is all very beautiful now; it all will perish in a very beautiful way, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, leaving no doleful relicts behind.
Hundreds of people stream past me into a building larger than the others just across the way from me. I join the flow and enter with them, unnoticed, unhindered. A green light shines inside, but its source eludes me. I pass through corridors strewn with woven mats into rooms that yield to other rooms, and at last I come to one room of great size, plainly a meeting-hall, where the citizens of Romany Star have assembled by the thousands.
At the far end of the room a sort of hammock which is also a sort of a throne has been strung high above the floor. It is occupied by a man who by his look could well have been my brother. There is kingliness about him: I see it at once, and I would have seen it even if I had simply met him in the street and not come upon him enthroned in a great hall. His hair is braided in the ancient way and he wears the beaded clothing. But his face is mine, his eyes are mine. He is my brother. No, we are closer than that. He is me.