Atlantis Chronicles: Prince of The Olympics

1839

“Professor! Professor Walker!” Bernard Walker and his friend stopped, and turned toward the echoes of shouts and sprinting footsteps.

“Ah! Master Henry. Have you just left the pitch?” Bernard watched as the olive skinned young man sprinted around a large group of students clogging the hall, dislodging books and collecting deadly

glances as he went.

“Oh no, sir, I just . . .”

“Then are you late for lunch at the mess hall?”

“No, sir.”

“Master Henry,” Bernard continued quietly after the student stopped if front of him, “we gentlemen of Cambridge use our hallways to quietly traverse among our various classes. And, we pray that we will not someday, get run asunder by an overly energetic undergrad.”

“Right! Sorry, sir! I uh . . . I wanted to show you.” He held out a folded paper. “It’s an interesting interpretation of that Egyptian dispatch that you shared with the class last week.”

“Do you mean the military dispatch found near Sagras, Portugal?”

“Military dispatch?” questioned Dr. Emil Landers, a fellow history professor, with whom Bernard had been talking as they walked.

“It had troop movements and locations. Pre-first dynasty.” Bernard explained.

“Hmm. Five or six thousand year old intelligence?” Emil grinned, enjoying the oxymoron.

“Yes. Military intelligence,” Bernard added with a nod and smile, then turned to the student. “You do know, Master Henry, that the goal of that lesson was to show how little that is still know about

Hieroglyphics and how they were used.”

“Yes, sir. Mine is a very . . . ah . . . loose . . . translation. But, I used the rubbing of the Rosetta Stone. Particularly, the Greek translation, and its differences to the Demotic translation, to fill in some holes in the text that you read to us.” Bernard thought back to the weeks that he and his friend, Gerard, then a rising University of Paris Egyptologist, had spent deciphering that same dispatch seventeen years before. It had taken them nearly a month, and still the meaning was unclear at best. Bernard glanced at the paper taken from his student’s hand.

“Master Henry. Egyptian hieroglyphics are not a plaything. One does not create great works of fiction in deciphering them.”

“I know that, sir, but . . . I grew up on the south of Crete. I can read and speak Arabic and Greek both, sir. Now in Greek, the ancients would often use inventive meanings, which means, they would use innuendo and double meanings to give a piece voice. Now, Demotic is similar to ancient Arabic. Arabic authors would often mask hidden meanings behind some of the stoic language and tradition. So, I have expanded on many of the masked meanings, and included some extra meanings to the text that you showed the class.”

After a moment, Bernard nearly handed the paper back, but tucked it into neatly into his breast pocket, and studied his tall, lanky student.

“Thank you, Master Henry. I shall look this over, critique it, and get it back to you at my earliest opportunity.” He turned and briskly continued towards the faculty dorm, followed by Emil.

“Uh . . . thank you, Professor. Aren’t . . . uh,” but they were gone.

X

Bernard closed the door to his cluttered office, then fell into his chair reveling in the leathery smell of his books. Nearly every inch of wall space was fronted with them, there may have been a thousand

crammed into the tiny six by eight foot office, but Bernard could put his hand on any volume you might want in moments. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and put his feet up onto the desk. A deep sigh escaped. One minute to relax was all he allowed himself before he heaved his feet to the floor again. He went through his ledgers and fished out his copy of the hieroglyphic message in question.

“Sagras.”

He found and read over his drawing of the original once again, before checking out his notes. As usual, his notes on the translation were extensive. There was little history of the original message. It had been sent to Paris from Sagras, Portugal, after Napoleon made public his thirst for anything Egyptian. The original owners said that they had no knowledge of how or when the dispatch came into their family’s

possession, but it had been passed on by generations. Finally, they passed it to the experts.

The message made nearly exclusive use of Idea glyphs, one of the two types of Egyptian hieroglyphic. This left many questions to the content of the message. Who was Prince Nehfu? How did he know Egypt’s queen? Further on, his notes reminded him about an argument with Gerard about the importance of the voice of the letter, and how strange that so little of the glyphs were written phonetically, the other type of hieroglyph. It was obvious that the less specific the glyphs, the more different interpretations there could be. These idea glyphs seemingly made a natural code. Only an intimate knowledge of the author would allow a fluent translation. After his notes, he reread his original translation.

My Queen,

I am lost. We were in fear from your letter that the Atlantic would wash us away. In the Ocean all hands will drown. Pharaoh’s last order was to conquer. Now I watch over his last western soldiers. I

know my duty forever is the ocean. Send the letter to Glenset. My freedom is granted when it arrives.

Prince Nehfu

This was a solid translation. Glenset and Nehfu were the only phonetic glyphs. Bernard shook his head. How was the queen supposed to have gleaned any meaning from this letter? Maybe a close relative of Prince Nehfu worked at the palace. Maybe the queen was that relative. Bernard grabbed Allister Henry’s interpretation from his pocket, unfolded it, and looked it over.

Queen mother,

They are lost! It is as you feared in your dispatch. The great sea has washed even the ruins of Oceanna away. I believe all were drowned. The Lord High King’s final order was to conquer the west and to watch over his remaining troops. My duty is clear, to remain with these last Atlanteans forever. I send this dispatch with Glenset. I have promised his freedom will be granted upon the arrival of this message.

Prince Nehfu

After reading the interpretation over for the third time, Bernard compared it to the original hieroglyph. It could work. It could definitely work. But Atlanteans? Oceanna? High King? This created a whole lot more questions. It indeed sounded as though Nehfu knew the queen. But why was he in the west with the Atlantean military? Where was this ‘west?’ If it was Spanish Mexico, that would explain the presence of pyramids there, a not so obvious Egyptian influence. Now what had the queen foretold in her dispatch? Where are the ruins of this Oceanna? Who was this lord high king, if not the pharaoh?

Bernard gave a smile, then jotted the new questions onto his ledger. There was a possibility that this letter connected ancient Egypt to Atlantis, and possibly to Mexico! What are the chances that this

interpretation could be accurate? He remembered Gerard’s estimate of the age of this letter- “the First Dynasty at its latest.” About what year would that be? Bernard guessed about 3500 B.C. First,

he needed to spend time with Allister Henry, and learn more about this interpretation. He hoped Master Henry had been writing his thoughts about the translation into a ledger. If not, they’d be very busy for

the next weeks. This was going to be exciting. Then he had another thought. He’d have to be very careful because unless the evidence of this translation was very convincing, Bernard was doubtful that they’d ever publish these findings. Controversial Egyptologists were usually unemployed. He could not afford to be labeled a zealot. Even so, he sure wanted to know.

X

Bernard closed Allister Henry’s ledger and sighed. He was impressed. Allister, it seemed, was excellent at defending his decisions. Nearly every word of his interpretation was explained. Allister would make a fine historian some day. Today, however, Allister relied too much on intuition. ‘Atlanteans’ and ‘Oceanna’ could be argued to refer to the Atlantic Ocean. Allister’s reasoning was unconvincing. Innuendo and stoic phrases went only so far. Master Henry’s reasons for including those words were sketchy at best. Now, there was little Bernard could do. If he published this translation, there was a good possibility that the paper would result in ridicule for himself and for Cambridge.

Bernard wrote a paragraph or two thanking Allister for his efforts, and pointed out the many positive aspects of his translation. He couldn’t resist adding a sentence saying that a historian needed to be

absolutely convinced of his evidence if he were to use such terms as ‘Atlantis.’ He put Henry’s ledger aside, then turned to wrap up his own notes about the subject.

After carefully putting his notes away, Bernard picked up Master Henry’s ledger. On its back was a faded sketch. It was a face-like drawing with a backward capital ‘R’ partially wrapped around its left

side, like a tatoo. “Hmm. An artist. That almost looks like Nanset.” He tucked the ledger beneath his teaching notes and headed off to class.

1890

Theodore Rixon watched as Jack McGlone grabbed two flags and progressed through a series of motions and patterns while focusing on a nearby mountain peek. He watched the small speck of a squad of surveyors and cartographers, that a minute before, had been descending the snowy face. Just three days ago, the last time this squad had ventured this high, “Ted” would not have been able to semaphore co-commander, Arthur Dodwell. The visibility today was exceptional.

“Good work men! Now, let’s work our way over to the glacier. After, when we return, we can enjoy President Harrison’s hospitality for the weekend.”

“Arrgh! Beans and potatoes again is it Lieutenant, sir?” grumbled Corporal Kerr through his Irish brogue.

“No, I think that ‘Little Ben’ has sent up some crab and oysters for us special- due, of course, to our fine work. Don’t really know for sure, and don’t hold it against me, but it might be.” Rixon teased.

But, they had all heard it before.

“Garr-umph!”

“Mr. Rixon, sir! Message received.” Ted located Dodwells’s squad now moving horizontally, up the valley toward them.

The talking stopped as they shouldered the load, but surveyed up the valley to the east. Before them was the terminal end of Queets Glacier. One of many glaciers in the Olympic mountain range. With the

visibility today, it was an astounding sight. Tons of ice flowed toward them, downhill. Melt water tumbled down the mountain at them, forming the small creek they now skirted, and eventually, becoming the Queets River of western Washington state. They were making for the south side of the glacier, when movement caught Rixon’s eye.

Throughout the Olympics, they had periodically come across deer, bear, or even elk, but these were not deer. What looked to be two human children dressed in gray, were climbing toward an ice cave on the south corner of the glacier. One seemed to be a towhead, the other, larger child, dark haired. Rixon stopped to watch. The dangers to grown men and experienced climbers on the loose moraine rock were many. That is why two squads, each with medics were always sent to survey at these elevations. To see children climbing here was absurd!

“Blimey, Mr. Rixon! Is that kids?” McGlone’s shout in his ear startled him, and by the time he looked back to the children, there was nothing there, only a couple of boulders.

“Did you see that? They vanished into thin air! They both went behind those rocks and disappeared!” McGlone continued even louder.

Rixon climbed the remaining two hundred fifty yards as quickly and as he safely could, leaving the remainder of the team to complete the surveying. He had to be careful with the muddy dirt, rocks and boulders left behind by the glacier, for if he wasn’t careful, his men would pay the price with a landslide behind him. All the while, McGlone, with his voice still at a holler, and growing, was convincing the others as to what he had seen. Rixon examined the first, smaller rock as the rest of the squad worked up the slope. It was typical, gray basalt, like most of these mountains, and was no doubt deposited as the glacier behind them had receded. It was also the same gray of the child’s clothes. But this rock would not budge. Who knew how much of the stone lay buried beneath his feet.

Rixon headed over to the larger stone as McGlone and the others arrived at the smaller one. It was identical. He continued toward the ice cave. The mud this close to the glacier was very fine and sticking to everything. Each step nearly sucked Rixon’s boots off, but there was no sign of any tracks from the children anywhere on the hill.

The cave was bigger than it looked from the outside, with an airy blue hue, and sweet smell. It seemed uncommonly warm in the cave- for a cave made of ice. Corp. Jeffery Kerr climbed up beside him at the entrance to the cave.

“Is this where the urchin’s went, then Mr. Rixon?”

“Let’s find out.”

They entered. The wet moraine floor left no trace of anyone being there. The only prints on the floor were from their own mud-encrusted boots. There was another basalt boulder near the entrance, and one

area of sand at the base of the south cliff, but there was no trace of any activity.

“Where’d they go, sir?” It was McGlone’s shadow at the mouth of the cave.

“I am afraid you and I have been mistaken, Jack! Maybe it’s elevation sickness, though I wouldn’t think so at only six thousand feet. But, there are no children here.”

“Surely you saw them too, Mr. Rixon, sir?”

“Sergeant McGlone, what I know is that we have a batch of measurements to take, and only a few more hours of daylight. Let’s get our work done. Then, if you would like to return here on your own to search for those kids, so be it.”

1892

Thwack! Thwack! He kept the rhythm going. Jim Juelsdonk loved these Olympic mountains. He grew up in Germany’s Black Forest, but the woods here in the Hoh valley were just amazing. The views were incredible. This is where he would live, where he would spend his life. All that was missing was his Dorie. But, she would love this place too, he knew. That is why he was building this cabin, and why he had written to her back in Germany. He paused as he wiped the sweat that ran into his eyes. It was then his empty belly quaked from hunger. Putting down the ax, he grabbed his water skin. He drained it, hoping to stave off the growling, but to no avail. He’ll need to hunt. Breakfast had been flour and cold water. With the warm, clear morning, Jim hadn’t bothered with a fire, but cold batter again would be more than he could tolerate. Throwing on his shirt, he grabbed his Springfield rifle, its supply cache, and headed to the Hoh River for more water before heading upstream to hunt.

Ten minutes into the hunt, Jim came across a deer path that led up toward the south ridge. There were no fresh tracks, but on a warming day, the deer would go higher to keep cool anyway. The deer path led up over the ridge and down the other side, but since there were no tracks, Jim just walked along the ridge for a bit. Through the trees, he could see a small, level valley to his right. The Hoh flowed down the steep valley to his left. Both had Great stands of Sitka Spruce, some bearing the inescapable hanging moss of the temperate rain forest. There were occasional beds of Douglas Fir, and down by the valley bottoms, a few stands of Western Red Cedar. Each tree in either valley was well over three hundred years old. They were monsters, nothing he could use to build a cabin. He had to use the trunks of the much smaller maples down by the river.

He continued east along the ridge, when the peace was broken by two cries from the valley to his right. The first cry, he knew as the cougar that had stolen the venison from his smoking fire. The second cry, more a cry of astonishment, sounded almost human. Bounding down the ridge, he glimpsed a large cougar dragging what looked like a boy under a couple of logs. Jim did not have a shot unless he moved well to his left. He might be able to get a shot between the pair of felled logs the cougar was under. Jim moved as silently as he could into position, but from where he was, he wasn’t sure that what he had in his sites was cougar or boy. There were screams coming from under the log, not 30 yards off. It sounded like a child. It was still alive.

Suddenly, two men appeared right outside the cougar’s lair. One pulled a thin curved knife, the other practically flew to the end of the first log and began shaking and hefting it. He obviously was trying to flush the cougar out from under the logs. It didn’t work. But, this did allow Jim to see his target clearly. He put the .45 caliber bullet through the back of the cat’s powerful neck. Everything stopped while the echoes of the rifle rebounded to its extinction in the small valley.

Jim stood and ambled, smiling, toward the den. The first man grabbed the child, and settled him onto the moss carpeted forest floor. The second man, having dropped the log, jumped back between Jim and the tattered child. The first man, who actually was little more than a boy himself, said something that drew the second man to his side. Jim followed.

Blood was pooling on the boy, particularly near his neck. Scratches ran up the boy’s face and into his blond scalp. The cougar had messed him up well.

Jim walked over and checked the cougar. This was a big one. Quite dead. Male. Good, he wouldn’t have to hunt for cubs. He dragged it out of the lair, then returned to the boy.

The men were holding hands with the lad. The second man, the strong one that had lifted the log, was holding a hand over the boy’s injured neck. Both men were singing a song. Jim didn’t know the language, but that was nothing new. In the four years that he’d been in Washington state, he had heard at least a dozen languages. English and the native trading language called Chinook Jargon, were the

languages shared by most. Jim knew English, but only a little of the Chinook. This song did not, however, sound like Chinook, or the local Quinault or Salish languages either.

The man moved his hand to the boy’s face, holding it steady maybe an inch from the lad’s forehead. The deep scratches were still bleeding a lot, but the boy was still alive. In fact, he began singing as well.

Jim stared at the lad’s throat. There was still a bit of blood on the skin, but the kid’s neck now looked perfectly fine. Just ten minutes ago, it had been a bitten, jumbled mess. Jim leaned forward to look at the boy’s forehead. The blood had stopped flowing, and he noticed a pale blue light on the boy’s face.

The first man, the young one, already holding hands with the boy, extended his other hand to Jim. He was thin, all three of the strangers were. And more pale than all the natives of the Olympic peninsula. Even more pale than most of the whites. He and the other man had brown hair, unfastened, about shoulder length. The boy was the same, but light blond. The open hand extended to him had exceptionally long fingers. Jim had big hands, and he figured his own hand was eight inches from wrist to fingertip. This young man’s hand was approaching a foot in length. His clothes were some kind of hide. The face was small, but the pointed tips of the ears were easy to see. Jim recalled he had seen a man in Seattle with pointed ears before. What was that guy’s name again? Wyatt?

Jim squatted down and took the hand with his own. Jim winced as he felt as if a bug were crawling around inside his chest. Eerily, he felt it move down his arm and into the hand held by the stranger.

It seemed just an instant later, everyone sat up, the boy without even a scratch, but covered in his own blood. Looking at the sky, Jim noticed at least half an hour had passed since they’d joined hands. Each of the strangers said the same something to him. He took it as thanks, so he replied appropriately. Blank stares were his reply. The strong fellow stepped in front of Jim and held his bloodied hands to Jim’s head. Jim felt a definite fullness in his head for a short while.

“Hello,” the man said shortly, “vee are grateful for your ’elp.” He then stepped away as the other helped the boy to his feet.

“My name is Jim Juelsdonk, ’unt I am fixing a cabin in de next valley over dat ridge.” He extended his hand in greeting. Like most of the natives he had met, they didn’t know to shake hands. The one who had touched his head turned and said something to the others in that musical language, but what was said brought concern to their eyes. Jim put his Springfield down and walked over to the log, tried to move it, then turned to the others.

“How did you grow to be so strong?” The three strangers silently agreed on something, then the strong one reached into his belt and pulled out the thin curved knife, like the one the other had used. He

spied a tall fir, then jumped up maybe twelve feet to a limb where he cut something before jumping back down. He stepped up to Jim, returned his knife to his belt, did a funny little bow, and

and held out a piece of fungus he had cut from the Fir.

“Hello, Jim’n. My name is Linn’n. This be call Myosci.” He pulled a small hide pouch from his belt, and placed it in Jim’s hand. “Ven I add a pinch to my meal each mornink, I increase my power. Let it dry, den spread a cloth out and shake da dried spores out. Use only a pinch each day. Too much is no good.” Linn’n handed the small pouch of Myosci to him as well.

Jim replied, “Mein Gott! Back home vee vould call dat Varze des Drachen, the vort of the dragon. Danka to you. Does the boy vant the cougar pelt? By rights, it should be his.” After the translation,

the boy looked horrified for a moment, shook his head and turned away.

“He leaves it for you, Jim. Danka for your help, but vee must be getting back.”

Jim hefted the cougar’s stiffening carcass across his shoulder, grabbed his Springfield, and turned to find that he was alone.

1952

This was the life! A dip in the natural hot springs on the Sol Duc River before breakfast, then a two hour drive to meet with her friend Sherry at her home in Port Townsend. Colette Cameron was on holiday! Her husband, Darren, and her four-year-old son, Conner, had gone off to the campground’s bathroom, leaving her to begin packing up the campground. She methodically packed everything into its proper spot. She didn’t mind this. Darren had the tough job of getting it all into the car. Everything was out of the canvas tent, so she began taking it down. As she was rolling it, a familiar shadow loomed over her.

“Where’s Conner?” Immediately, Colette snapped at attention.

“He was with you! He went with you to the bathroom! I watched! He was right behind you!”

Darren shook his head. “If he was, I didn’t know it!” The couple turned and sprinted down the trail toward the restroom, the resort area, and the parking lot.

“He had his lacrosse stick!” Colette reminded Darren as he easily outdistanced her to the bathroom. Darren had been a rugby player since he was a child. Even now, into his forties, he still was a regular with Calgary city league. He dashed toward the resort area, after searching the empty restroom, and, God forbid, the Sol Duc River beyond it. Seconds ahead now, Darren had already raised the alarm with staff at the resort, who were beginning to search the grounds, and was heading for the river when Colette arrived.

“. . . four-years-old, about three and a half feet tall,” she heard Darren yell to the would-be rescue team, “Brown hair, and blue eyes. Yellow shirt. He’s had swimming lessons, but they were in a pool.”

Virtually all of the guests joined in the search instantly, and the resort staff seemed to know what they were doing. Watching everyone shift into gear, and fighting off a panic, Colette started thinking. Conner would never have been left alone if the girls had been here. Tiffany and Angela loved visiting the states, but they had started their drive back to Calgary just two days ago. Tiffany was

starting University next week, and Angela had her volleyball practice. They were always so good with their little brother, a full twelve years younger.

Out of the corner of an eye, Colette saw a chipmunk scramble down the trail to the parking lot. She recalled how Conner had marveled over a chipmunk just yesterday. He wanted to follow the poor beast and save it from the scary woods. A thought crossed her mind, so Colette dashed up the path, and into the parking lot. There was some assortment of vehicles, most being trucks, their own copper

station wagon sitting untouched. Hollering Conner’s name and looking around, she saw and heard nothing.

Racing around the perimeter of the lot, she saw a small, unmarked trail heading up a steep hill. Forty feet or so up the hill, the trail looked to level off. That vantage point would get her a great view of the resort area.

About twenty-five feet up, laying off the right hand side of the trail, buried under the ground cover leaves, was Conner’s lacrosse stick! She remembered how her brother, Roger, told him it was a three-quarter-size stick. He’d have to grow into a full size stick. Connor never parted with it. He had been carrying it everywhere since his birthday in February!

She gained the top of the hill, but saw no immediate sign of Conner ahead on the trail. She turned. She could see most of the resort, and found Darren across the foot-bridge and charging down the far side of the river. She called, waving the stick, jumping to get his attention before he rounded the corner. When she knew he had seen it, she continued up the trail.

The slope was easier now, but the trail was much smaller. The massive red cedars continually shed bark that littered the floor, trail and all. Colette kept hollering and climbing, as much as the ache in her side and her pounding heart would allow.

There was no longer any sign of a trail, but still Colette climbed on. A full ten minutes she climbed for the life of her child. Twice, she thought she heard something, but was convinced it was echoes from

the other searchers.

“. . om!”

It was faint. It was coming from directly up the hill to her right! She stopped to listen. Someone was coming down the mountainside towards her!

“Conner?” she yelled.

“Mommy!” It was Conner! She could make him out, In someone’s arms among the trees and the giant sword ferns.

“Oh, Conner!” Colette suddenly had no more strength. Her relief seemed to have frozen her legs to the soft forest floor. She waited as her child and his rescuer covered the last fifty feet. Conner shared her tears as they reunited. Through teary eyes, Colette saw that his rescuer wore a gray hood, brown shirt and pants- she saw that at his approach, but his face! His soft gray eyes and warm, young smile were almost saintly.

“Thank you! You’re an angel!” she said after he handed the teary child to her. Conner smelled of Cedar boughs as Collette buried her face in his neck.

“Baliss tiyatae kho vas nerry yushen esnu!” He said with a gentle smile.

He kissed his left thumb and placed it carefully on the bridge of Conner’s nose. He locked eyes with Colette through his stringy white hair, nodded, then turned and sprinted back up the hill, faster than she would have thought possible.

After she was done smothering Conner with kisses, Colette started back down the hill the way she had come. She tried hollering ahead, but the tears had turned her hoarse.