Ilu’itanu
by
Travis King
Ilu’itanu
Copyright © 2007 Travis King
Revised Smashwords Edition, released November 2009 under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License, viewable at
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/
He maketh the deep to boil like a pot; he maketh the sea like a seething mixture.
He maketh a path to shine after him; one would think the deep to be hoary.
Upon earth there is not his like, who is made to be fearless.
He looketh at all high things; he is king over all the proud beasts.
—Job 41:23-26
In the busy hours of the day, when the clamour of human existence is at its uttermost, the voice of the ocean is diminished to little more than an ambient murmuration; but at night, when all has settled, she rises up and roars so all can hear. Her words are eternal and full of mystery, sometimes soothing, but at other times resounding ancient horrors. Many a night have I fallen asleep to the calm rhythmic speech of the sea, but on other nights—especially of late—her words keep me wakeful, clutching my pillow round my head, humming to drown out the sound, doing all that I can to embrace a peaceful slumber. On such nights, when I finally reach that sleep for which I long—if, indeed, I reach it at all—I often dream; and these dreams are of horrid creatures possessed of powerful ability and raw emotion far surpassing our own, and they are so vivid I wake long before the sunrise, tired and trembling in fear and awe.
It would not be so, but for the events I beheld this past March. Was it truly two and a half months ago? Sometimes, when I ponder the strange occurrences, it seems that but a single day has passed, for the images and sensations of what I witnessed on that singular night and during the prevenient months are etched indelibly in my mind—yea, my very soul. And nowhere but here may I relate these events, for to mention them to my colleagues or the local constabulary would serve only to raise questions regarding my sanity—but I know that what I saw is real, even if inexplicable by the modern scientific truths we rational human beings hold dear. This causes a great conflict within me, for I consider myself above all a man of reason, endued during my youth with a classical education, by parents who value erudition and the quest for truth and wisdom above all else. Indeed, it was such a quest in pursuit of scientific knowledge that spurred me halfway round the world in the first place, and my thirst for knowledge and irrepressible desire to understand my experience are why I remain, despite the horrors I have seen—only now my focus has shifted to some degree.
I grew up by the waterside, in the town of Sidmouth, in Devonshire, England. The town lies beside Lyme Bay, an inlet of the Channel, and has done so since the thirteenth century. Long before the foundation of Sidmouth, however, the site was home to human settlers. Ruins of a Bronze Age encampment still exist in the area, and there are legends—based on some reliable evidence—of a Roman habitation that once stood not far to the south, beyond the expanse of the pebbled shore, swallowed sometime in the distant past by the feral waves. The open waters were my constant companion as a youth, and from a young age I yearned to divine their secrets. Thus it was only natural when I entered the University of Exeter at the age of seventeen that I chose to focus my studies on the history and evolution of the world’s seas and the biological inhabitants of marine ecosystems worldwide.
As Exeter lies only twenty-four kilometres from Sidmouth, I chose to remain in the community where I was born and bred, each weekday travelling the short distance to attend classes at the university, and then afterward returning to Sidmouth, where I laboured in the evenings as magister factotum at a small curiosity shop catering both to local inhabitants and to the town’s frequent holidaymakers, earning there the wages with which I paid my rent and purchased comestibles and other necessaries, as well as the occasional indulgence—typically a new addition to my treasury of books and other publications. In this way, I was able to spend those hours when I was unengaged in pressing academic endeavours roaming the littoral surroundings of my home, oftentimes strolling along the esplanade and savouring the ineffable qualities of the natural environment, now and then even ambling with bare feet along the water’s edge seeking aquatic specimens for collection, study and outright enjoyment. The ocean seemed on days such as those an extension of my own body and soul, and I could not—verily, I still cannot, despite all that has occurred—be long gone from her side without feeling in some way empty.
My love for the sea and its multitudinous forms of life impelled me in my academic pursuits, and in the early summertime of the year 2002, between my first and second years of graduate studies at Exeter, I obtained after months of solicitation a coveted position as a student researcher at the Coastal Oregon Aquatic Science and Technology—or COAST—Institute, an internationally renowned organisation located on the distant shores of the Pacific Ocean, in the unassuming little American town of Chelsea, Oregon—a picturesque town, I soon discovered, full of towering trees and other greenery—and yet a dismal town, as well, for in all the time I have spent here since my relocation, I have noticed the sun shines less often than it does upon my native land; even in the summer, the skies pour down rain most of the time, and when it does not rain, a salty mist typically fills the air.
Notwithstanding that the farthest I had ever travelled outside the United Kingdom before was to neighbouring France—and that by rail and ferry rather than aeroplane—nevertheless I was quite exhilarated as a result of my new situation and eager to begin, and, although I was not expected to take on my duties at the Institute till late September, it was the middle of July when I relinquished my rental home, packed some meagre belongings—clothing mostly, and of course some toiletries and other sundries of life, as well as a number of books of both professional and non-professional subject matter—while stowing the remainder of my possessions at my parents’ house, in the bedroom that had been my own throughout childhood and adolescence, and removed to the foreign soul of America.
Of course I made all the necessary preparations preliminary to arriving. I secured the proper papers required to reside and work in the United States, and I arranged to lodge till I could find a dwelling of my own at the home of the Institute’s Assistant Director of Research, an unmarried gentleman near to retirement age called Carlin McAllister, a seasoned biologist whose area of expertise was the sulphide-based ecosystems surrounding hydrothermal vents. Although quite familiar with pelagic life—especially the plants and animals found in littoral zones—I possessed only slight knowledge regarding the extreme demersal regions of the world’s oceans, and I found myself eager to learn more regarding the subject from an expert. My liaison at the Institute assured me that Dr McAllister was a gregarious and affable man who was, to quote, ‘more than happy’ to share all he knew of mysterious seafaring animals and their alien habitats with any and all who would listen. I soon discovered those words to be truthful.
Decent accommodations at a reasonable cost are difficult to come by in Chelsea, and the stipend with which I was provided did not surpass the bounds of reason, so I dwelt with Dr McAllister for longer than the week or two I had at first expected I would, and as our friendship grew, we spent many an evening in colloquy over a pot or two of tea. We exchanged knowledge and ideas regarding divers subjects, but mainly we focussed upon the ocean, our common bond in research. Despite this wizened man’s disordered appearance—to wit, his wrinkled and mismatched attire, interminably unkempt hair and tobacco- and tea-stained teeth—despite this, and his doting, absent-minded manner, I found him to be an astute individual and an affable one, as promised. In just a few short months, he taught me a great deal about the strange hydrothermal communities that existed beneath the ocean’s surface. I at first had little information to offer in return, for it was a prerequisite that Dr McAllister already know of the more conventional forms of oceanic life—my own specialty—in advance of moving on to study the esoteric ones, but within a few weeks of my relocation to Chelsea, my colleague discovered my tangential interest in marine archaeology, and he beseeched me to regale him with tales of my knowledge regarding the various aspects of that field. Such divertissements were quite enjoyable, and they continued intermittently even for some weeks after the end of August, when I finally obtained and furnished an inexpensive rental flat of my own. The meetings ended in late October, though, as I became preoccupied with my oversea university studies and my internship at the COAST Institute. Subsequently I saw Dr McAllister but occasionally, and then primarily in passing along the corridors of the building where we both conducted our business or during brief official encounters regarding my progress, either in his office or in my workspace. I shall never forget that last informal rendezvous, however, for it was to bear relevance to later events.
It was a cold and rainy Saturday evening, less than a week before All Hallows’ Eve. Dr McAllister had just presented me my tea, when I enquired of him regarding a tome that lay solitary on the table, a lengthy hardcover edition entitled A Complete Compendium of Creatures from Near Eastern and European Mythology; the skilfully rendered cover art was faded from much handling and the dust jacket was worn, but to my bibliophilic eye, the wear was due to considerable use rather than age. A small piece of paper marked a page about one third of the way through.
‘Are you interested in mythology, then, Doctor?’
‘Somewhat, er, yes,’ he responded. ‘Especially as it relates to the sea. Marine cryptozoology is a, er, particular interest of mine.’
‘Cryptozoology?’ I asked. ‘The word derives from Greek, yes? The study of hidden life?’
McAllister nodded. “Mm, yes, er, specifically, the study of animals whose existence is unsubstantiated. As you well know, my area of expertise is exotic marine life, but...well...the biota of the deep hydrothermal vents...really, they’re not all that exotic. What I’m truly interested in are those animals known to very ancient cultures—the Kraken, the Leviathan, remnant plesiosaurs, et cetera.’
‘Sea monsters,’ said I. ‘Surely, Doctor, you jest.’
With a straight face and a serious tone, McAllister replied, ‘Not at all.’
‘But how can you believe in such things with no evidence? You are a scientist, after all, sir.’
‘I am, and as a scientist, well, it’s my duty to seek the unknown. Even we scientists must have faith in something, and I base my faith on the fact that new life is discovered all the time. Why, new terrestrial species are discovered on almost a daily basis in the rain forests, and even in the sea new species emerge—albeit at a less significant rate; why, the coelacanth was known only from fossil records till the discovery of a living specimen in 1938—the very year of my birth—and the organisms of the hydrothermal sulphide communities were not discovered till the 1970s.’
‘The coelacanth is a fluke, sir, and the hydrothermal communities remained undiscovered for so long because explorers require submarine vessels to reach such depths. The creatures of which you speak—the Kraken, the Leviathan and others—they are fictional animals, imagined creatures of myth and folklore.’
McAllister chuckled and said firmly, but without severity, ‘My boy, the city of Troy was long believed to be a fiction, a scene out of myth—and it was by separating the fact from fiction that Schliemann showed the world that Troy was real.’
Of course, I knew the story of Heinrich Schliemann—how he drew upon the theories of his predecessor Charles McLaren and insisted upon excavating the Hisarlik Mound in Turkey, where he did, indeed, discover the ruins of the ancient city of Troy—and I could think of no argument to counter Dr McAllister’s belief. I told him as much, adding, ‘Still, as a man of science myself, I will not believe that such creatures exist unless and until I am presented with evidence more substantial than myths.’
‘Ah, yes, I understand,’ he replied. ‘You require reliable eyewitness testimony. I’m sure, of course, you would even prefer to see such things yourself. That’s not possible at the moment, but if you’ll indulge an old man, I’d like to relate to you a brief tale—a horror story, if you will—in the spirit of the upcoming holiday. Believe it or not, as you choose, but do listen...er, please.’ I nodded. Dr McAllister refilled my teacup and his own, replaced the teapot on the table, closed his eyes in recollection. Then he told me the following tale.
‘The year was 1946; I was eight years old. My father, a student of what was then popularly called the Levant, had been invited to take part in the final excavation of the Khirokitia site on Cyprus under the direction of Porphyrios Dikaios, who had been digging at the site off and on since he’d discovered it a dozen years earlier. It was the first pre-pottery Neolithic site known to exist on the island, and Dikaios’ discovery had made no small impact in the field, so my father was overjoyed to be able to work with him; he shared his joy with my mother and me by bringing us along. It was not something he had ever done before, but the war years had taken their toll on us all, and he thought a vacation would brighten our spirits.
‘My father spent the majority of his days at the excavation site, while my mother and I lodged at one of the few hotels in the town of Limassol, about twenty-five miles or so to the southwest. It was a fine little port town, with a mysterious old-time feel; it wasn’t very big at the time—I hear it’s grown quite a bit since then—but what was there worth exploring—especially the mediaeval castle that once belonged to the Knights Templar, and some of the surrounding ruins, which we were lucky enough to get tours of. I was born and raised in Chicago, and such ancient structures seemed mysterious; at times I felt a tangible connection to the people who had frequented and dwelt in such places so long ago, as if their ghosts still haunted the isle, and on more than one occasion, as I explored the town and its surroundings with my mother and some friendly local guides, I felt that I might turn a corner and step into the past, perhaps into the midst of a band of crusading knights or some more ancient inhabitants. The beach, as well, inspired wonder in me; standing on the shore, gazing at the ocean in all its majesty, I found it to be different in some subtle manner than the great lake beside which my native city stood—but I digress.
‘It was, I think, three or four weeks after our arrival that my father decided to bring along with him to the site of the dig myself and a friend I had made in Limassol, a boy named Nikos, five years my senior, who spoke fairly good English and was interested in his island’s past. For twenty minutes, as we rode along with a local member of the excavation crew, Dad gave me a list of things to do and things not to do. I listened very carefully and followed his instructions when we reached Khirokitia. His job sounded exciting, and he was proud of his work, so even at eight years of age, I wanted to do my best to be helpful. His most important rules were to watch where I stepped and not to touch anything without permission. I actually found this quite easy; to me the site looked like piles of dirt and broken stone, and although I understood that it was an important link to the past, it just didn’t impress me like the fortress or the church or even the half-standing ruins twenty miles back. Mostly I just stood and watched while talking with Nikos; sometimes I sat and read some of the pages out of the big history book I had brought for entertainment, while my friend conversed with the archaeological staff. Occasionally, Nikos and I would wander around looking for something interesting that we might claim discovery of—without straying too far, of course. I did this for a few hours, but finally I grew so bored and restless that I confronted my father with a request: Might I, perhaps, walk down to the beach?