Atlantis Chronicles: Prince of The Olympics

April 25

Michael Curtis noticed that the sky was now a solid gray, and that the raindrops had doubled in size and frequency over the last twenty minutes. He noticed rivulets of water streaming down the path

that led up past the Alder, Cottonwood, and Hemlock, and out of the riverbed toward the road. He could see that the sides of his little cooler, still holding the empty bag of his stash of pretzels, and twelve empty root beer cans, were covered with mud from the afternoon’s beating rain. He noticed that his friend, Don Chessman, downstream forty yards, wasn’t even wearing a hat.

The fishing had started off well. In the first hour, they hooked a legal sized Chinook and a couple small steelhead. They released them all, but since then, nothing but the steady rain.

He and Don had made a pact years ago to come up fly fishing on Senior Ditch day. Don was now a graduating senior at Sequim High School. Michael’s grandpa, Howard Porritt, “Grandpa Howie,” had taught them to tie flies way back when Michael was in third grade at Greywolf Elementary. Don was a year older. In Middle School, after Grandpa Howie died, the boys would drag whomever they could to go fly fishing around the Olympics. Somewhere along the line, they found forest service road 2880, and this spot along the Dungeness River quickly became a favorite.

After his graduation, Don would be heading down to Louisiana or somewhere for boot camp. Don was joining the Navy. When he was done, whether in four years or more, his plan was to have Uncle Sam pay his way through college. Once there, Don would study whatever interested him the most. He didn’t know what that might be, but he’d become a well-paid leader in that field. Don had it all figured out. He always did.

Michael, however, still had a year to go. He would be a senior starting in September. Luckily, his mom had agreed to write a note. Michael didn’t get a ditch day this year. He knew that he would probably not survive in the military. That route was definitely not going to be an option. Besides, he wanted to eventually study journalism. He wrote for the school newspaper for the last two years, something he wanted to continue to do. But his folks weren’t rich. His plan would have to include the local junior college, Peninsula College. From there, he’d have to figure out what was next. He was glad he still had time to think about it.

“I think I’m heading in, Mike.” Don was moving his way up to the shallows. “It’s getting late, and the fish ain’t biting any of my flies.”

“All right. I’m starting to get hungry anyway.” The boys crawled out of the water, grabbed their tackle boxes and the cooler, then practically had to swim their way up the steep embankment to Don’s shiney black 4-by-4 pickup before pulling off their muddy waders.

The pick up hadn’t even started rolling, when Don burst into three of the loudest and messiest sneezes Michael had ever seen.

“Bless you! It’s funny how we always seem to sneeze in twos or threes.”

“I hate it! Once is too much for me.” Don hissed as he eased into gear. Typical Don. Anything that might be a moment of weakness, he disliked. He liked everything predictable and to be in complete

control.

The frequent rains since mid-March had left the roads very messy. Of course, Don was navigating them at nearly forty miles an hour, twice the speed Michael would have thought safe. He made sure the seatbelt was tight around him. The pickup was bouncing and spraying mud everywhere when Don burst into another fit of sneezes. Don never saw the deer until it flew, twisting, from the hood to the windshield, then off to the left. Only then did Don finally slam on the brake to get the truck stopped.

Michael seemed to be all right. He took a few seconds to recount what just happened. He turned to Don. He seemed okay, but the whole driver’s side of the windshield was seriously cracked and smeared with blood. The angles were wrong in the corner of the cab, above Don’s head. It must be seriously bashed in.

“Are you okay, Don?”

He turned towards Michael. He was bleeding by his left eye and cheek. It would probably turn into a bruise. Blood trickled from his mouth, smeared across his chin by the back of his hand.

“I bit my lip! Ohh, and look at my truck!” Don burst into a stream of curses that made Michael wince. Don unbuckled his seat belt and shoved at the driver side door. It didn’t budge. This of course,

made him swear more, so he started banging on it, swearing harder still. Watching his calm, cool friend lose all his composure made Michael laugh nervously.

“What the heck is so funny?” Turning the smile off in an instant, Michael unbuckled his seat belt.

“Just . . . I don’t think the door’s going to open . . . that’s all.”

He opened his own door and motioned Don to slide across. The truck was a mess. Where the deer had hit the front, the grill was cracked, and the hood had a serious wrinkle or two. But most of the damage was to the driver’s side of the cab. The impact had twisted the corner of the cab, which cracked the windshield and driver’s window. The rain was already washing the deer’s blood away.

“Damn deer’s still alive.” Michael looked around.

“Back there.” Don gestured to the road behind them. Michael made out movement and heard the poor thing struggle back toward the bushes along toward the river side of the road. Don tried the driver’s door again, then went back around, cursing, and into the cab through the passenger door for a moment. He came out with his buck knife. “Looks like his legs are broken. No sense letting him suffer.”

As the boys approached, Michael saw panic in the deer’s eye, and heard the rasps of its breathing.

“It’s a doe,” said Don, kneeling down. He raised the knife to the poor animal’s neck, as Michael turned away in distaste.

There was a bright flash of blue light, and a deafening clap of thunder. Then came the echoes throughout the river bottoms. When Michael turned back, a girl was standing over Don, who was now

slumped on his side in the mud. At a closer look, it wasn’t a girl, it was a small, slim guy, staring right at him, in some kind of martial arts stance, ready to fight. He was covered with mud, and breathing hard. When Michael made no move, the guy relaxed and pulled a hood over his wet blond hair.

He said, “I will see to the deer. You see to your friend.” He squatted down to the doe.

“It was an accident you know. Don didn’t mean to hurt the doe. He was driving too fast, but he . . .”

“I will need to concentrate. Please do not talk.”

“Did you hurt him? What’d you do with his. . “

The glare from the guy quieted Michael; that and the memory of that kung fu stuff. Don was one of the bigger seniors, anyone who could take him out that easy, would have no trouble with Michael. So, he tended to Don, who was out cold, but breathing fine. Michael hoisted him up by the arms, then dragged him all the way back to the pickup. After wrestling him into the cab, he noticed that there was blood on Don’s hand. In the door light, it looked like the whole back of the hand was charred, and there was an abrasion along the bottom of Don’s right wrist. There was no sign of blood on the steering wheel, so it had to have happened at the deer. Michael grabbed the gauze from his own tackle box and wrapped the wrist and hand, and administered to the cuts on his friend’s lip and head. He used the shoulder belt to keep the hand raised. Then he returned to the guy with the deer.

As he approached, he noticed that the guy was focusing on the doe, kneeling by its rear hip. The doe was awake, but none of the panic from before was in her eyes. The only sounds were the rain and the

river in the background. The guy had his eyes closed, and wasn’t really touching the deer, but Michael noticed movement in the deer’s hip, and a slight glow. It looked kind of like the guy’s hands were over a flash light. The doe’s hip was no longer at that weird angle.

Staying about ten feet away, Michael watched as the guy went on to the doe’s left rear leg. Michael saw the bone, a compound fracture, actually began mending. He then saw the muscle and skin from the

wound heal, slowly before his eyes. When the guy moved to the last of the broken legs, the left front,

Michael noticed that all this work had taken quite a toll on the stranger. He now looked extremely tired and slow. He had been at it at least half an hour by Michael’s estimation. The gloom of the evening was about all that was left of the daylight. The cold of the evening was clear in each puff of breath through the rain. As the guy finished the doe’s last leg, he actually leaned over and kissed her on the head. Then, he stumbled getting up. Michael was there in a second, helped him to his feet. The stranger started at his touch, looked at him through large gray eyes, then passed out.

Michael held him there for a minute, marveled at the surprising lightness of this guy, compared to Don. The rain continued. Looking around, Michael saw a backpack on the slope above the road. Seeing nowhere nearby to safely put the stranger, Michael lifted him, and carried him back to the pickup. Michael was surprised that Don was still unconscious when he arrived. It took a full fifteen minutes to fish Don’s keys out of his pocket, re-load them both, and climb into the driver’s seat. As he slipped Don’s truck into gear, Michael noticed a dozen deer around where the doe had been laying. They were all standing and staring at the truck’s taillights.

April 26

“Hello, Guy!” This was the first time the stranger stirred since Michael had brought him home. It was nearing six in the evening. Michael was already back from school. The stranger had slept soundly

for nearly a full day. Michael watched as the stranger’s gray eyes finally focused on him. There was an instant of surprise, then he bolted upright.

“We were worried about you. Mom was about to pack you into the car and take you to the hospital. I bet you’re thirsty.” Michael held out a glass of water. The stranger took the glass, sniffed at it twice, then took a sip.

“I hope you don’t mind, but Mom said to get you out of your wet clothes, so Bill and I put some of my old pajamas on you. Oh, the toilet is the first door on the right.” The stranger had taken another sip, then looked back at Michael.

“I . . . am sorry. I am not used to so many words. How did I get here?”

“I brought you here last night. In Don’s pickup. I couldn’t very well leave you laying in the road after you . . . helped that deer!”

“Ah, yes. I remember. The doe had many injuries. She was frantic. Her fawn needed her.”

“Her fawn? I didn’t see . . . “

“Now, where am I?”

“You’re in my home. In Sequim.”

“Where in Sequim?”

“Grandview Drive. Just west of the Dungeness River, maybe forty yards.” The fellow sat there for a while, thinking, before laying back down.”

“I am grateful for the shelter,” he said, “I am very tired . . .very tired.”

“What you did up there?”

“Yes?”

“How?” The guy stared at him.

“How did you do that? Heal that deer?” The stranger thought for a while before responding.

“Perhaps later.”

“All right, but that was amazing! Say, it’s almost dinner time. Should I have Mom fix you something? Can you join us?” The guy just looked at Michael as though he didn’t understand the question.

“I’ll go ask her to make us some plates. . . some food.” Michael got up to leave. “Oh, by the way, my name is Michael. Michael Curtis. What’s your name?”

“Michael Curtis. My name is Mann’n.”

“Nice to meet you, Man. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been telling Mom that you are a friend from school. Is that okay?” The stranger nodded. “Oh, and I said that your first name was Guy. Is that okay? Just for a couple of days?” Guy nodded. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

X

“Good, he’s still awake.” Michael said as he led his parents into his small bedroom. One, a tall man with a van Dyke beard, set a large glass of milk down near Mann’n. The other was a plump woman about Michael’s height, with two plates of spaghetti and Michael’s brown eyes.

“Guy Mann, this is my mother, Marie, and my stepfather, Bill Wright.” Guy sat up, then returned the handshake offered by Bill. Guy then extended his hand to Michael’s mother. Michael saw that a smile

crossed Guy’s lips. His eyes never left his mother.

“Mom made spaghetti tonight. We thought you might like the vegetarian sauce.”

“Thank you, Marie. Thank you for your shelter and the food.”

“Nonsense!” Marie claimed. “It’s Friday, Teresa should be home soon. She’s a vegetarian also.”

“Teresa is my sister,” offered Michael. “She goes to college in Seattle, but we see her most weekends.”

“How are you feeling, Guy?” Mom asked.

“I am weak, but I am feeling better.”

“I’m glad,” she continued, “Well, we’ll leave you two to have your dinner in some peace.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

“Thank you, Marie.”

A warm smile spread across her face. “Eat up now, boys.”

“Thank you again, Marie.” Michael noticed Guy watching his mom well after they were out of sight.

“Have you met her?”

“She seemed . . . familiar.”

Michael sat down and grabbed his plate. He looked up to see Guy swing his thin legs out of his bed.

“I would like to ask you where I could find the privy?”

“Huh?”

“The privy. Where your family goes to . . . relieve themselves?”

“Oh! The bathroom! It’s the first door on the right!”

X

When Guy returned, Michael was most of the way through his own dinner. He sat down, grabbed his plate, ate a few bites, then put the dish aside, and lay back on the bed.

“So, where are you from?” Michael started off. For a second, Michael thought Guy wasn’t going to say anything.

“I was born up in the mountains.”

“In the mountains? Are your Mom and Dad with the park service?”

“No. My mother died when I was born. My father died too, soon after. My brother and I were raised by our community.”

“There are people up there in the mountains? A whole town and stuff?”

“Of course there are people.”

Michael dug out an old map that he had of Olympic National Park.

“What’s the name of your town? Let me find it.”

“It is my chairen.”

Michael quickly looked over the map. “I don’t see any place in the park named ‘Chairing.’ How is it spelled?” Guy looked over at the paper for the first time.

“What is that?”

“It’s a map. It tells me all kinds of things about the mountains. See the blue is the ocean. And the dark green is the park. Light green is the national forest. The black letters and dots are cities and towns. See, there’s Port Angeles, and here’s Sequim. We are about . . . here.” Michael pointed out where he thought the house would be on the map. “This is just a little map. They have some great big ones up at the Visitor’s Center. I’ll take you there.”

“I would like to go with you, Michael. You will need to teach me to read the black letters too. But first, . . . I must get strong again.” Guy laid back into bed and slid his legs into Michael’s sleeping bag on the cot. “Michael, thank you for taking me to your home.”

“You’re certainly welcome, Guy.” Michael answered as he refolded the map. He grabbed the dinner dishes.

“Good night.” But Guy was already asleep.

April 27 wee hours

His bedroom clock glowed ‘3:17 AM.’ Michael turned in his bed to see Guy’s empty cot. He got up as quietly as he could, and walked down the hall, looking for his house guest. The entire house was dark, as usual. The normal night time sounds were audible: Bill’s heavy breathing- even from behind the closed door, the refrigerator kicked on, the rain and wind on the window panes. Michael headed through the kitchen, then toward the sliding glass door to the deck. He slipped the lock off, and was about to pull it open.

“It is amazing. You have thought of everything.” whispered Guy, who was not even fifteen feet away, sitting on the dining room table that Michael had just walked past.

“There you are! I was thinking you had gone outside.” Michael whispered back, after jumping back inside his skin.

“It is cold and wet.”

“So, what are you doing out here?”

“I am thinking.”

“What about?”

“About what amazing creatures humans are. You are so inventive! You create these wonderful homes for your own convenience and comfort. You have maps and letters. Humans are truly resourceful. And now, I find that humans are as kind, and thoughtful, and giving as any creature I have known.”

“Come on. You’re talking like you’re not a human.” Guy looked out the window with a smile on his face.

Michael said nervously, “Well, I guess that explains a lot. I’ve never even heard of anything like what I saw up there with that deer! That was amazing!” Both of them sat in silence for a while, watching the rain, one, sitting on the dining room table, the other on a corner of the couch.

“I think you are right, Michael. We both have much to learn from each other.”

“S- say, . . . y . . . you’re not from another planet are you?” Michael suddenly began to feel very tired, as if his energy was draining from him.

“No. I was born in the Olympic Park, remember?”

“Then . . . what are you?” Michael asked struggling to stay awake, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Come! I will tell you on the way back to bed.” Guy whispered as the boys got up and returned to the bedroom. Once the door was closed, Guy continued, “I am a descendant of Atlan.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He fathered the first race of Earthlings called Atlanteans.”

“You’re from Atlantis?”

“Yes.”

“According . . . to legend, Atlantis sunk beneath the sea.” Michael said, with another yawn as he and Guy slipped beneath the bedcovers.

“That is correct. For nearly seven millennia, the surviving people of my race have scattered to the remote places of the world.”

“W . . . why?” Michael asked through yet another yawn.

“That is a very involved story. I will just say that the Enrai, our high king, wished to ensure our survival.”

“Survival . . . from Atlantis’ sinking?” Michael’s eyes were loosing the struggle to stay awake.

“Michael. You are so full of questions. I think we will stop until tomorrow. Good night.” Michael was asleep before he could respond.