Drowned Legends And Watery Myths

Atlantis–– Did It Exist?

There was a man named Solon. Greek Archon and knowledgeable chap. He found a map, supposedly of this lost continent somewhere beyond the Pillars of Heracles ( aka Gibralter Straits — where Scylla and Charybdis hung out back in the day.) We don’t know much about Solon, but Plato took things further with his allegorical theories about this mystery island continent which challenged Athenian power 9000 years before Solon’s time, (approx 600 BC.)

These Atlanteans were warlike conquerors and took slaves from the mainland, but Athens defeated them, and the gods intervened and Atlantis sunk beneath the waves — or something like that. The myth and legends fade together and the theories, and location, range from shifting tectonic plates in the Atlantic to the island of Santorini near Crete, pictured below.

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Some theories claim Atlantis was part of the Minoan culture in ancient Crete. Another lost civilization destroyed by some epic disaster. Others connect it to Troy, the city sacked by the Mycenean ancestors of the Greeks. And of course, myth and popular culture have placed the Lost Continent deep in the Atlantic ocean, beyond Madeira and maybe near the Azores. But scientists have ruled out any possibility of a continent existing there due to the subsidence of tectonic plates.

Marion Zimmer Bradley who wrote the marvelous Mists of Avalon penned two books about Atlantis. Jules Verne explored it with his 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, one of the first movies I saw. JRR Tolkien’s Numenor and GRR Martin’s Valyria are their takes on the subject. C.S Lewis explored echoes of it in Narnia, and Robert Jordan had a similar theme with part of his Wheel of Time series.

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Sensuata By Tolkien Artist Roger Garland

Gol fell victim to Sensuata’s wrath in my own take on the subject. Sneaky snippet –– The Emerald Queen, next book in the Legends of Ansu series will be returning to Gol. More on that soon!

The mystery and theories surrounding Atlantis are fascinating. Believe in the myth or not, it’s fun to imagine Sinbad sailing there, or Indiana Jones finding that crystal skull again. Here’s a Wiki link to the multitude of popular culture surrounding the Drowned Continent

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We are two-thirds water, and It’s easy to visualize past continents of magic wielding beings, or mythic mysterious places such as Lemuria, HyperboreaHuy Brasil, Ys, Tir Nan Og, and Lyonesse.

So why not sit back with a nice cup of tea or something stronger and play Sheherazade on Spotify — let Sinbad’s Voyage and your imagination carry you off to distant Atlantis before the fall. 5[1]

Next Up: The Weekly Fantasy Series

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Episode Nine: Soggy Boots

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nextGrey skies overhead, a cold wind whistling his ears, and gulls crying and whirling above, as the sloop pitched east through slatey seas. To his right grim cliffs were half visible as low cloud stole the horizon. Corin shivered. After years in the south, he wasn’t ready to face the cold again.

Morwella in winter. Bleak and stark, with the promise of wet snow building in those lowering clouds ahead. Feet braced on the prow; Corin watched as the sloop changed course and made for those towering bluffs. They parted, and the sloop angled into the wide inlet where the River Falahine greeted the sea. Vangaris lay twenty miles upriver. The sloop’s destination but not Corin an Fol’s.

“This will do,” Corin hinted towards the closest bank where a ramshackle dock showed flimsy through the murk. “I’ll need a good fellow to row me ashore.” The skipper nodded and bid his scowling mate lower a craft. Corin thanked the skipper and slapped some coin in his palm. Then, after slinging Clouter’s harness across his back and strapping up, Corin lowered his chilled bones into the smaller vessel.

The mate slipped in beside him and, after deftly fiddling with pulley and ropes, swiftly lowered boat to water. That done he freed the ties, took an oar in each hand, and commenced rowing rigorously shoreward, his primary objective to dispose of their passenger soonest and reach Vangaris before the taverns closed. The mate’s urgency was not lost on Corin who sat his plank despondent as those snow clouds mustered ahead. Suffice to say he wasn’t looking forward to this job.

Corin studied the bank where willows hugged the shore, their bare fingers brushing water. Beyond these, a strand of shingle and random rocks faded off into murky distance. The gap narrowed as the bank loomed close. The rowboat scraped and ground onto shingle. Corin grunted thanks to his pilot and leaped ashore, holding his cloak up to keep it dry.

He clambered onto the jetty. On closer inspection, the timbers looked half rotten. This proved to be the case as the third plank split and Corin crashed through the gap, plunging into the Falahine’s murky chill. A cloud of splinters and rusted nails bruised and grazed his arms as he slid between timbers, his trousers and boots drenched as the icy brine washed over them.

Flailing, Corin gripped a slimy post and clung on dismally as the water filled his boots. That water crept higher, inch by icy inch, as Corin’s grip on the stanchion slipped. Worse, his cloak was tugging at his neck, doing its best to strangle him as — caught by current — it threatened to pull him out to sea again. Meanwhile, his best friend Clouter was weighing him down like an anchor.

That combination of factors half drowned Corin. Mercifully he found a loose nail sticking out from the post and used this tenuous purchase to heave his soaked hide back up onto the jetty. There Corin lay for a brief time, gasping and flapping like a freshly hooked carp.

Corin checked his scrapes and bruises. No bones broken. Just dizzy, cold and wet — nothing untoward. After several soaking moments dripping and shivering, and wondering if things would ever go to plan, Corin staggered to his feet again.

Time for a walk. Corin scanned the shore. If Hagan were watching, he’d be pissing himself. At last satisfied no one had witnessed his calamity, Corin found his feet and tentatively made his way along the jetty, checking the rotten timbers one by one with the heels of his soggy boots.

He made the strand without further mishap and quickly vanished into the deep brush of thorn and bramble above. Once hidden, Corin unfastened Clouter’s harness and let the big sword drop. He freed his cloak and tugged off his boots, upending them to spill out the water squelching inside.

Boots drained, Corin rolled the cloak as tight as he could, wringing and squeezing out droplets. Once that was achieved, Corin slipped back into his boots, slung the crinkled cloak across his shoulder and pinned it with his wolf broach. He was half frozen and stiff with inactivity, but at least he was alive, which is always a good thing. You have to focus on the positive. sword-deco

You can get more from Corin by joining the V.I.P Lounge, a fun weekly newsletter with snippets, and updates, and giveaways, plus a free copy of Gray Wolf Corin’s first adventure at the door. Click Here to join! You can view the entire series so far on the author page at Amazon.com

I’ll see you next week!

JWW.

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