The Avenger

Another oldie from Weird Tales. Nice review:This was very well done. The ending was superb the way you tied the whole thing together with the repeat of the first paragraph. It all made sense. I did see these things that made me stumble while reading. Throw here back into the sea? She had to(the) power to heal and she could see into men’s minds.

From Weird Tales

It started as a rumble, then a shudder. Steam wafted from small cracks in the ground. The cracks grew, the smoke billowed, then gushed as the cracks became crevices, which became radiating fissures. At the center, the nexus of the ripped land, the ground rose — higher and higher. Black smoke spewed from the still rising cone. The smoke was followed by fire, molten, all-consuming fire. Rivers of fire spreading, engulfing, obliterating. It was quickly over. The sea reclaimed the land. Atlantis was no more.

Only those at sea survived, and many of those did not. Once the cone of fire disgorged its wrath, it sank beneath the waves, taking most of the fishermen with her — most, but not all. Far out to sea, far beyond the sight of land, were Regulus and Spiro. They could see the plume of smoke, the inflamed sky. They heard the protesting land as it was rent apart. They did not hear the screams, the cries of agony as flesh was burned, scalded, and then submerged. Regulus and Spiro turned for home.

There was no home waiting for them. As they lowered their sail amongst the bits of wood and floating debris, they came across an old woman clinging to an amphora. Spiro dove into the water as the old woman raised her head, closing her eyes. A smile crossed her lips, then she slid beneath sulfurous water. Spiro followed the woman down, grabbed the tendrils of her hair, dragging her to the surface. Regulus pulled them both aboard. The smile remained on the woman’s blue lips.

The amphora was attached to the woman’s leg by a long, red silk sash. Regulus brought the amphora alongside the boat, Spiro caught his breath lying prostrate on the deck. It was a massive amphora, too big for one man to hoist aboard. After Spiro was rested, they wrestled the amphora aboard over the rear of the boat. They heard crying from the jar.

“It can’t be,” cried Spiro.

They pulled the stopper from the jar. It was. It was a girl child, no more than a few weeks old, maybe not that. This was a baby, a newborn child, a child of Atlantis.

“What are we to do?” asked Spiro.

“Throw her back into the sea? Hell, I don’t know. Who knows how far we are from land, from help. We’re fishermen, what do we know about babies?”

Spiro took the baby in his arms. “We can’t throw her back.”

Regulus smiled. “No, I guess we can’t. What should we do with the old woman?”

“She gave her life for the child, but that is over now. We have nothing to wrap her in to keep her from the fish. Will she forgive us?”

“If we take care of the child. We have to find the child a home.”

They gently rolled the old woman back into the sea. Mercifully, she sank beneath the swells. They had nothing to weigh her down. They raised the sail and headed for Antiparos. No sooner was the sail in place than the wind gathered strength. They assembled what few clothes they had to make a bed, a crib for the baby. They had no goat’s milk, but they did have yogurt and water. They mixed them together and soaked their cleanest rag in the mixture. The infant greedily sucked on the end of the rag. In time, she slept.

They found a woman whose baby had just died. She welcomed the child. Regulus and Spiro returned to the sea. The child grew into a beautiful woman. A beautiful red-haired woman, a rarity in the isles of Cyclades, or all of Greece for that matter. She had the power to heal and could see into men’s minds. Her power protected and threatened her. The men could not kill her, but they could not have her near them. Their secrets were not safe with her around. She was banished to a small promontory on Antiparos. The women brought her food and whatever she needed. She administered to the sick. She had purpose, worth, but she was lonely.

Many thought her a witch, for she would walk the lonely shore talking to a companion who wasn’t there. For the city of Antiparos, she was a good witch. As word of her miraculous powers spread, Antiparos became the center of healing. Many came to learn her secrets. Some she taught, many she sent away. Those she taught stayed. Antiparos thrived.

All knew of her story, the sole survivor of Atlantis. That became her name — Atlantis. Those that Atlantis sent away became her enemies. They despised and mocked her. Some threatened her. She knew who to fear and who to ignore. Those she feared would lose their voice, or become lame, or wander into the waves, never to be seen again. The men stayed away, but there were always men to fear. As long as Atlantis could read their minds, she was safe.

Then one day, a man appeared. A tall, handsome man. He became Atlantis’s lover. She could not read his mind, nor he hers. For the first time in her life, Atlantis was happy. Her happiness would not last. Her enemies became his enemies. They couldn’t attack her, but they could attack him, and they did. When his body washed up on Atlantis’s shore, her red hair turned crimson, her eyes to fire, her breath to smoke.

It started as a rumble, then a shudder. Steam wafted from small cracks in the ground. The cracks grew, the smoke billowed, then gushed as the cracks became crevices, which became radiating fissures. At the center, the nexus of the ripped land, the ground rose — higher and higher. Black smoke spewed from the still rising cone. The smoke was followed by fire, molten, all-consuming fire. Rivers of fire spreading, engulfing, obliterating. It was quickly over. The sea reclaimed the land. Antiporos was no more.