The Bed of Fog

The mahogany lockbox sat motionlessly in my lap. Its mere existence was something that haunted my entire life. The memories I once thought were buried beneath mountains of work came flooding back to me with the box in my grasp. This wooden box was strictly off limits, and oftentimes, it was my father’s efforts that kept me from being able to touch it, much less see it. But on the occasion I did catch a glimpse, it was when father was in his study. Sometimes, he was seated at his desk in frustration, marking blank papers feverishly. Other times, he was at the window, moonlight bathing the room. With the candle snubbed, he would stand there in silence. Father was an archaeologist, and he would often tell me about his ventures to Egypt for the Great Sphinx of Giza or to the Acropolis of ancient Athens. His favorite story, however, was the mythical tale of Atlantis. A sunken utopia of merpeople with highly advanced technology, architecture, and society, located somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

Finally breaking from my haze, I wielded the silver key and pressed it into the box’s keyhole, turning it clockwise until it made a faint click. Then, I braced my thumbs against the edges of the lid and lifted, revealing hand-scrawled diagrams, documents, and a single golden medallion. The medallion had a series of inscriptions all around the circumference of the piece and a symbol in the center. All of the papers were signed by my father in the right-hand margin. I felt as though I were betraying his privacy, but since he was two weeks dead and buried, I could no longer restrain my desire for answers. Like wildfire, I scanned through each document with simultaneous frenzy and care. The more I read, the faster I became, until I finally happened upon a specific memo:

Dr. Robert Griggs

September 2nd, 1910

Katachanook, Minnesota

Although last month’s voyage to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean was supposedly unhelpful, I do believe there is some good to be gleaned. My colleague Robertson told me about a smalltown village up in Maine known as Ridgemont. She said that there’s a man there who’s collecting potential Atlantean artifacts by the name of Harold Engels, who was the town’s lighthouse custodian before the Weyford tanker incident caused the town’s port to close. She says that its only hearsay, some friend-of-hers-whose-cousin kind of nonsense, but frankly it doesn’t matter even if it’s from a charlatan. Any lead is a good lead. And if artifacts are washing up in Northern Maine then perhaps the Sunken City’s true location is closer to shore than we originally thought. It would explain why the bell sensors came up with nothing on last month’s excursion. I’ve already started assembling research funds for a solo trip to Ridgemont, Maine and should be ready to go by the beginning of next year. Until then, I’ll reconvene with my team and write up a progress report on 3 the development of our “Search for Atlantis”. I’m sure the board will be thrilled to hear we’re a year and a half into research and still have barely anything to show for it.

The word rang through my head as mysteriously as the first time my father said it to me. The Sunken City of Atlantis. I read it over and over. The notion that my father’s work revolved around the same city he illustrated to me. Perhaps, after all this time, he wanted me to find this box. I held the medallion up in my hand and looked over it with affection.

When I went back to university for the Spring session, I talked to my professors about arranging a “Self-learning Experience”, a student-organized trip, authorized by the school board. The opportunity is only available to graduate students, and it wasn’t an altogether difficult approval process.

Even after having lived most of my life with just my father, I never felt like I was chasing his shadow more than I was now. In my mind, when he left me his will in the form of the mahogany lockbox and a sum of $860, I felt it was the perfect opportunity to pursue my father’s dream one last time. I was able to pay for the trip without any worry or frustration, and having the lockbox among my things, it was as though my father was guiding me. It wasn’t until I was riding the passenger side of a cab along the coastline of Maine that I realized I was very well outside of my comfort. My eyes fixated on the mist hanging just over the surface of the restless water, a bed of fog that rolled like a sea of clouds. “Just a few miles more till Ridgemont, sir,” the cab driver said, startling me. I turned my head and nodded.

Upon arriving in Ridgemont, one of the many things that caught my interest was the lack of life. The cab dropped me off at the town gate, just a few blocks down from the inn. With how intensely the rain fell, I considered myself lucky to have invested in an umbrella before coming. Suitcase in hand, I alone began making my way to the inn, drugding through the ever-persistent downpour. It was difficult for me to believe that this town was a seaport once. It was as though the town was painted with nothing but gray, because that was the only color the buildings were capable of.

Before long, I was inside the inn and greeted by an elderly receptionist. Her skin was pasty white, almost translucent. The woman’s eyes were gray and shallow. Through her skin, I could see the outlines of her bones. The receptionist’s hair was graying. She looked like a living skeleton.

“Hello, I registered for a room here a month ago.”

The woman stared through me. The silence between us grew. I noticed something around her neck. It was a medallion, similar to the medallion inside of the lockbox. I reached into my suitcase and withdrew the neckpiece, looking at it and comparing. The woman’s eyes suddenly honed in on mine. “Welcome,” she said in a frail tone, grabbing a key off the wall behind her and placing it on the desk between us. “Your room. As you like it.” I stared at her for a moment. The room got colder.

The room wasn’t anything special: it had a bed, a table, a cupboard, a basic kitchen area, and a whiskey cabinet with a few bottles inside. I set the lockbox and the medallion on the table before I started on unpacking. It didn’t take me long but there wasn’t much to unpack anyway. I was only going to be staying in Ridgemont for a couple days afterall. But that quickly left me with nothing else to do. Naturally, I took my umbrella and braved the rain once more to do some exploring. I walked steadily down the street, looking at all the different kinds of buildings there were: a grocery store, hardware store, tackle shop, a law office, and a government office. Yet, despite the variety of locales, there were seldom any people to occupy them. I made it an effort to look in through the glass of each building and those that weren’t covered by blinds usually had only one or two people, or none.

While strolling through the rain, I saw the shape of a person carving their own path through the drizzle. He wasn’t much taller than I. By the way he walked, it was clear he was under the influence. Or, some influence. “There’s the harp!” He called out to the storm, “There’s the sweet song! I do love hearin’ them beautiful voices! Those sweet, beautiful… voices!” He stumbled back and forth, climbing the hill with drunken tenacity. I watched him go for a few moments longer before making the conscious decision to move on, turning around and heading back for the inn.

The walk back to the inn was a short one. However, my surprise was great when I found three people standing over the receptionist on the floor. Her mouth was open, eyes rolled back. “Oh my god,” I said out loud, almost frozen with shock.

The three men turned and looked at me, two of whom looked a lot like all the rest of the people in the town, pale and sickly. The third man less so. He wore a set of dark green trousers with suspenders over his pastel orange plaid flannel. Over that, he wore a blazer that was slightly worn. “Ah, yes. Miss Gotti. She passed away from old age, it seems,” the third man said, looking back down at her. The two other men said nothing as they stared down at her blankly. They wore a medallion. The third man did not.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

“I’m the mayor of Ridgemont. When Miss Gotti wasn’t answering Jorge’s calls here, we gone hurried over quick as we could. But looks like nature got hold before we had any chance to do something.” The mayor sighed and nodded to the two men. They got on both sides of the receptionist and lifted her out the door.

“You must be that Griggs boy. Saw it on her agenda. Staying in town?”

“Yes.”

“Well, sorry you had to see that. Most of the town is comprised of older folk. ‘Tain’t too holy since one day or another, somebody’s passed away. Population’s getting thinner. Hair too,” he laughed at his joke, but I couldn’t even muster a chuckle. “Yup, coming pretty quick to the time I gotta move along from here. Pretty soon I won’t have anybody to govern.”

“Down the street, I saw someone. He was shouting something about a song…”

“Harry Engels is a disturbed little fellow who lives out nearest to the lighthouse on our hill’s peak. Used to be the operator there so he knows quite a thing ‘er two. Harry does get belligerent on occasion every month or so, but he keeps to himself every other part of the year.” The mayor wiped his forehead with a worn handkerchief before walking to the door, pocketing the late receptionist’s medallion. “He’s a good man but simply ain’t right.”

From the mayor’s description, I had no clue what to expect. I was, however, beginning to feel uneasy. Since I had arrived in Ridgemont, the clouds remained stationary and rained perpetually. It was cold. After grabbing a bottle of whiskey as a peace offering, I started towards the lighthouse. At worst, it would make him volatile. At best, it would loosen his lips and his tongue would slip. I shivered the whole way up to the hill peak. The lighthouse was in worse condition than I had imagined: broken windows, sea moss, and fallen shingles–I began to wonder why this town had a lighthouse and no harbor. I approached the house’s dilapidated door and gave it a sturdy rap. It wasn’t until I knocked the second time that a heavyset man answered the door. He wore a green and red striped shirt that was damp with a mix of rain and sweat. Over his shirt were a pair of denim overalls and a black trench coat. On his face was a less-than-fair complexion, a gray beard stained with the yellow dew of hard whiskey. If he spruced up some, he could be the town Saint Nick.

“Whatchu want?” The man scanned me up and down with eyes fixed like a hawk.

“Excuse me. Are you Harold Engels?” I don’t often think about whether I could handle myself in a tussle, but standing in front of this burly and temperamental stranger made me consider my tactics.

He must have sensed my discomfort because the pitch of his voice dropped, now with a hint of intimidation. “Damn straight. What’s got yer nose snoopin’ ‘round my castle?” The big brute grunted. “I have questions about this medallion if you would be willing to answer them please.”

In my left hand, I lifted the medallion with the chain links wrapped around the palm, and in my right hand, I offered the whiskey.

“Well, well, well,” he cackled with a dry wheeze, quickly snagging the bag and beckoning me with a hush, “C’mon in boy.”

I stepped inside his home littered with trash and empty whiskey bottles. The place had a stench that nearly made me cry. Harry hobbled over to his supposed living room. He showed me to a ripped recliner and took a seat on his own throne. “So’s yew got sum questions ‘bout yer little necklace huh? What’s got you so curious in the first place?”

I told him about how my father was an archaeologist like myself and that he worked here in Ridgemont. I told him that the medallion was the only thing my father left me when he passed, and I was here to find some answers about it.

For a moment, he sat there pensively. “Just so’s you knows, that there necklace was ‘riginally mine. Yer bastard father stole it from me lotsa years back and ain’t never returned it, obviously. And it ain’t just sum fancy shmancy necklace either.” Harry’s voice went real quiet and hushed. “It’s got magic.”

I decided to humor him for the moment, “What do you mean?”

“It ain’t the first necklace I found, you sees. I has other stuff like it. Gold slabs with etchings, statues, even sum coins. They’re all a piece.” Harry must have noticed my confusion and continued. “I first came here in nineteen o’ one and lived here for twenty-two years now. I done seen and heard many things, most none too special. I know ‘bout the gossip of those damned folk down the hill. How they talk ‘bout me like some disease. But in this here lighthouse, I was ole’ Ridgemont’s beacon of light. We used to be a major port on all the official maps, y’know. It weren’t always sum forgotten waste of land by the sea. Cargo ships, fishing businesses–we had it. It kept people employed and it made me important. That was ‘bout fourteen years ago.”

He wiped his beard and leaned forward. I did too.

You wanna know why, boy? You wanna know why those cargo ships and those fishing boats stopped comin’? Why they avoid us ‘stead of stoppin’ by?” He wiped his beard and leaned forward, “Back in nineteen o’ nine, when a behemoth were dockin’, a spark let loose and set the whole rig ablaze. That accident killed over three hundred souls in the blink of an eye,” Harry took a swig out of his new whiskey bottle and growled. “The sea is alive. Watchin’. Judgin’. She knows what we gone done, an’ we’re bein’ punished.” He released my arm and relaxed back into his leather chair. “You knows it too. Ever since you spoke to me. To the folk down the hill. Hell, even since yous arrived. Somethin’ sings deep. Just under the surface of the water. And it’s a clawin’.”

Harry stood up with a heave and walked over to the large cabinet. He unlocked it with a key attached to a string around his neck and swung the doors open. Inside was a collection of strange artifacts, each shelf having different themes: statues, coins, tablets, and masks. There were even ceremonial items such as daggers, tiaras and gold veils. To me, it was a treasure trove. All the history—all the knowledge that could be gained from studying even one artifact out of this collection; it was breathtaking. I stood up from my chair, mouth agape with wonder. Harry chuckled at my reaction.

He grabbed a mask from one of the assorted shelves and handed it to me.

The mask had small traces of dust and miscellaneous debris, but overall, it was fantastically preserved. Yet, I couldn’t connect it to any pre-existing civilizations my field of work. “It doesn’t match any civilizations I know of,” I said after a moment, “Greek. Maybe.” I quickly added.

“It’s Atlantis, my boy. Atlantis! The lost city of the under deep. Sunken by fate and hidden by time.”

His eyes drifted towards the open window that faced the sea. A salty ocean breeze poured through and stung my face mildly. As his gaze was glued to the ocean visage, I slowly pieced together his ravings in my mind. “Mr. Engels, you believe that all of this–the jewellery, artefacts–all of it–is from Atlantis?” I asked him.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. I stared at him rather awkwardly before my eyes darted back to the open window. I couldn’t tell if the sky had gotten grayer or if the sea had grown rougher, but something was… off. ‘Different’ is the only way I could put it. I turned my head back to Harry. “Mr. Engels?” I repeated.

“My boy,” Harry’s voice was slurred, likely due to the alcohol catching up with his thoughts, “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

More silence filled the air, interrupted only by the dour pitter-patter of rain on top of the tin roofing panels that sheltered what little was inside the shanty. I wasn’t sure what to say. “Mr. Engels,” I cleared my throat to recapture his attention, “Would you be willing to show me the pools in which you found these artefacts?

*

When we were finally in the canoe, Harry and I were both drenched in the rain water. And though I was apprehensive about getting in after watching the waves violently drown each other, Harry had little to no fear at all rowing us through the tide. The longer I was in the storm, the harder the rain seemed to pour. It felt like hail the weight, size, and fervor the rain droplets 15 fell in. Combine that with the unforgiving waves and the canoe’s laughable capacity, and that accurately depicts the extent of my regret. Needless to say that I couldn’t change my mind now, and so I chose not to think about the potential danger the weather might put us in. I kept my mind on the water’s surface, instead watching for any potential washed up pieces.

One fact I could not deny was how eerily familiar Harry was with the locations where he found the strange artifacts and jewelery. No matter how many times I tried to wrap it around my head, I simply couldn’t understand that, considering the variety of spots he showed me, how he could remember the precise locations of them all. There was a great fog that shrouded the sea just above the water. Given how ferocity of the torrential rain and waves, I thought it was nigh impossible recalling all of the positions to a tee, let alone diving down and scavenging the artifacts unscathed. Harry even claimed he was guided by sound no less.

“Ma’ runnin’ theory is that the half-fish folks down in the city are sendin’ up their history so’s we land dwellers take an interest in them!” Harry called out over the clamor, rowing the boat with two-armed vigor. “After that rig sank, they wanna make themselves known! A sunken tanker crashin’ ‘gainst the ocean floor prolly ain’t peaceful for the foundation!”

“You truly believe Atlantis is down there Mr. Engels?”

It wasn’t long before I lost track of where we had come from. The salt from the crashing waves scorched my eyes. My sight was cloudy and gray with pain. I was desperately fighting to keep my eyes open despite the water constantly splashing my face with a force that can only be described like whetted needles against raw flesh.

The boat was tossed against the floods in a back and forth motion so forceful I was afraid the little canoe might capsize. In a brief moment, I remembered the medallion stowed in my pocket and quickly grabbed for it, clinging to it for dear life. It was the last vestige I had of my father. Fearful I might lose it to the ocean’s grasp, I took the medallion and flung it over my neck.

“Harry get us back to shore!”

He ignored me.

“If you don’t turn around we’ll both drown!”

“Ohhh have faith, my dear sweet boy! Have faith in yer trusty guide. Let me behold you the Sunken City of Atlantis!”

“I’m not going to entertain this delusion any longer. Turn this damned boat around or I’ll do it myself Harry! My God!”

“An’ god be damned! The strings of Circe’s harp calleth me to the land I doth belong. Hail to Thálassa and may his wonder rear new life! I heareth the homecoming melodies of the fertile maiden Nymphs. Their sweet voices caress my once-forsaken ears. Zhikaíre tikaj va Thálassa! I quiver in awe of thy mighty Sunken City of Atlantis, oh wonderful Thálassa! Dóse moue ikti sofría zouk! Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk!” Harry cried out to the storm, releasing the oars to the waves.

As I dared to reach out and retrieve them, I was stopped at the sight of a long, scaly fish tail reentering the water just a few yards out from the boat. It took me a moment to get over my initial shock before grave disbelief set in, whereupon I started to scan the surrounding waters as best I could manage while the sea bombarded me with its hatred.

I swiftly turned to my crazed companion, grabbing his arms in an effort to pull him out of his madness, “Harry! There’s something in the water! Something’s underneath us!”

Harry hardly flinched, wailing out in bursts with phrases using some kind of language that was completely incoherent and unintelligible. His eyes were fixated on either the sky or the sea. With the tide throwing us about violently, I hopelessly paddled in a direction I chose as ‘home’, battling against the violence of the baleful water. The rain poured harder and even thundered. Harry outstretched his arms, welcoming the downpour with an expression of pure ecstasy. He wailed again:

“Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk! Zhikaíre tikaj va Thálassa! Dóse moue ikti sofría zouk! Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk!”

Harry chanted the phases repeatedly until he convulsed and cast himself over the boat and into the sea, disappearing among the waves in an instant. I cried out his name only to be drowned out by the sound of the waves bashing against the boat’s failing hull. It was only for a moment, but I tried to look into the water to try and grab Harry. He was long gone. The waves were terrible, but the only way he would vanish that quickly was if he swam down into the deep. I didn’t care if he had gone insane, I didn’t care if he was trying to kill me–stranded alone was more terrible than anything the ocean could batter me with.

I cried out to God. Any god. I cried out to my father. I cried out to the ocean even. I screamed for it to spare my life. I apologized for everything. I apologized for all of my wrongdoings, all of my mistakes, all of my sins. I begged for the ocean to spare my life. The storm above me crackled and rumbled powerfully in a rapid burst. Quickly, I reached for the medallion and clutched it tightly in my hand while the other clung to the side of the boat as the sea knocked me around. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught yet another glimpse of the sea creature that was preying on me, feeding off of my miserable fear.

From underneath me, the boat was thrust upwards, nearly tipping over as I scrambled to the otherside trying to keep afloat. It was there that I caught sight of the creature before it fled back down under the veil of the black surface. I could not truly describe it even if it were so vividly clear in my dreams, but the creature’s body had a long fishlike tail with iridescent scales and a humanoid torso, its bones so obviously visible through its pale blue skin. It waded through the water with three sets of webbed arms whose fingers were all equipped with long sharp nails. The creature bore a head shaped to fit its seven eyes and wide-stretching mouth filled with teeth like razors. What could only be assumed was hair grew out spontaneously like lightning streaks 19 in a pitch black hue from its scalp, reaching as far as the end of its tail. I estimate the creature was as long as ten to twelve feet in length altogether.

I was petrified as it fled back into the deep abyssal waters. Even though I could no longer see the thing that had briefly revealed its visage to me, my eyes traced the rough waves of the water as if they still held sight of the creature. I could no longer think; my mind was exhausted of my body’s instinct for survival–the instinct for self-preservation. It had all become too much in what felt like forever when it was only a couple of moments in reality. My body’s most primal senses now dominated my actions. My eyes scoured the water, intent on feasting another gaze upon its most awesomely horrific appearance. I laughed, the shape of the water in front of me molding into a silhouette I could only assume was the thing that chose to haunt me. As the shadow’s edge became more clear, I laughed, opening my eyes as wide as they would go so I could fully absorb every detail.

I thought it was impossible but the moment I blinked, I was in the water, being pushed down rapidly. My eyes were staring upwards at the fading halflight of the sky muddled by the water’s incongruent edge. Though I was surrounded by a sea of darkness, I could clearly see the creature who had followed me so intensely was now staring back at me. It was only a moment after before I felt the sensation of its iron grip around my throat. My body tried to scream but nothing came out and the void filled my lungs. Against my will, my hands grabbed on to the set of arms the creature was using to bury my body further underneath the darkest shades of black. I couldn’t tell we were even moving anymore, apart from the fact that I was feeling the weight of my body fighting against the force of hers.

A few moments longer and I couldn’t feel the touch of her arms. My hands had long since let go and the drive of that exhausted survival instinct had fully extinguished. Yet, I couldn’t tell if that was because I was dead or if I was starting finally feel alive. It felt inane at first, but the sensation grew so strong, I could no longer doubt it was real. A light close to me began to shine and the medallion I was wearing–it was glowing. Resonating. I soon realized that the woman was no longer there. No, she hadn’t been for some time now.

The water felt so cold and silky. I didn’t even fear the dark anymore. My breath was smooth. My clothes don’t even fit me. I tore them off of me without so much as a struggle and feel a release I thought was never possible. I close my eyes and began gliding downwards. At first I didn’t know what I was swimming towards. But just like all of my other thoughts, I concluded precisely what it was: the promise of freedom. I laughed joyfully, soaring downwards like a dolphin–no, it was even better than a dolphin. What was I even afraid of? That woman did this for me. She wasn’t trying to hurt me, no, she was trying to set me free!

The further I swam, the more the black haze lifted from my eyes. I could see it clearly now! The Sunken City of Atlantis, in all of its wonderful and awesome glory. Harry was right. I do hear the song now! It has beautiful voices, and melodies, and a gorgeous harp. I must find the source of that sound! It’s all over the place! Where do I even begin looking?

“Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk! Zhikaíre tikaj va Thálassa! Dóse moue ikti sofría zouk! Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk! Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk! Zhikaíre tikaj va Thálassa! Dóse moue ikti sofría zouk! Doxeástek tikaj Thálassa kaiv na gennikeí ton thávyma touk!”