The Priestess springeth to the thought of temples old and kings who are but dust, save that their souls died not. Yea, thus I speak.
The Priestess leaps to the thought of old temples and of kings who are now only dust, except that their souls did not die. Yes, so I speak.
The king who reigned in Egypt when the flood destroyed Atlantis was Osiris, son of him who reigned in that ripe age when law perfected brought to that doomed land all things of Earth. Son of him who died with terror in his rheumy eyes, who clung in mute despair, with tightening, trembling lips to hand of her who smote with sore disgrace the kingdom. Thrust from throne the son who thought to reign when he—the sire—had passed, but was driven into Egypt.
The king who reigned in Egypt when the flood destroyed Atlantis was Osiris. He was the son of the king who reigned in that ripe age when perfected law brought all things of Earth to that doomed land. He was the son of that same king who died with terror in his rheumy eyes. The old king clung in mute despair, with tightening, trembling lips, to the hand of the woman who struck the kingdom with bitter disgrace. His son, who thought to reign when he, the father, had died, was thrust from the throne and driven into Egypt.
Egypt, land of sun, of sand, of mighty river which drank deep of blood of sacrifice! For he—Osiris, son—in that past day did offer to his gods a gift of life for preservation from that water-death which smote the land—that, cruel, thrust him forth! But later day he viewed with stern despair that impulse of his youth and placed a ban on such deep wrong.
Egypt, land of sun and sand, and of a mighty river that drank deep of the blood of sacrifice! For he, Osiris the son, back in that day offered his gods a gift of life. He sought to be preserved from the death by water that struck the land, the cruel land that had driven him out. But in a later day he looked back on that impulse of his youth with stern despair. He placed a ban on so deep a wrong.
Ask ye again how "lost Atlantis’" sons bent first their steps to Egypt? Ask ye not in vain, for such would be my question—was, in that dim age when youth held message of the olden line as something to be drunk with ecstasy.
Do you wonder how the descendants of "lost Atlantis" first made their way to Egypt? It's a valid question—one I would have asked eagerly in my youth, when tales of ancient lineages filled me with excitement.
The queen Osiris’ father wed, in age was not of his own land, but stranger to his people. A sage foretold a doom for him who thus perverted law and wed beyond the sea.
The queen whom Osiris's father married in his old age was not of his own land. She was a stranger to his people. A wise man foretold doom for the one who twisted the law this way and married beyond the sea.
Close ties were broken through his choice, for of his house he saw no soul of all who had before been welcome to the feast, these turned their faces from his city fair and sought a home afar, and she who filled another's stead had "welcome" boldly writ to all her house and name.
His choice broke close ties. Of his own house, he saw not one soul among all those who had once been welcome at his feast. They turned their faces from his fair city and sought a home far away. And she who took another's place boldly wrote "welcome" to all of her own house and name.
Of the three sons born to Osiris—king—but twain survived their infancy, and these were strong and beautiful as gods, ye speak. The eldest, for his father named, rebelled against the marriage of his sire when death had claimed the queen the law first gave him—king.
Of the king Osiris's three sons, only two survived infancy. These two were as strong and beautiful as gods, they say. The eldest, named after his father, rebelled against the king's remarriage after the death of his first queen, who had been chosen by law.
Fondly had he loved the one who gave him birth; And she foretold the fate which waited all when death had claimed her—Queen first chosen—banishment to all her house should he, the king, rued.
He had dearly loved the mother who gave him birth. And she foretold the fate that awaited them all once death had claimed her, the queen first chosen. Her whole house would be banished if the king should marry again.
Osiris, old and doting, sent his ships afar to bring to him a daughter of that land which since that day Assyria claimed; the race which first inhabited had passed ere I had seen the light—a fairer race than mine whose origin none knew—a subtle race who sold as slaves their kindred, drank of blood and tilled no soil.
Osiris, old and doting, sent his ships far away to bring him a daughter of the land that Assyria has claimed since that day. The race that first lived there had died out before I was born. They were a fairer race than mine, and no one knew their origin. They were a cunning race who sold their own kin as slaves, drank blood, and farmed no soil.
They passed as passeth hoar frost; none of earth do hold a record of that race today. One of this race—a monarch—once did seek Atlantis’ shore to barter slaves for fruits, or gold, or jewels, and with him in his train of slaves he bore a sister—beautiful as dawn. And thus the king of proud Atlantis craved another of that house when she, his queen, had passed, the wife he loved in youth. So galleys sailed and gifts were sent, and to the ancient monarch came a bride, more fair than she—the slave. It was then the elders of the council rose in great rebellion, but the king was strong in his determination—threatened death—and with his followers (followers hath every man) he quelled the rioters, restoring peace.
They vanished like morning frost; no earthly record of that race remains today. One of their kings once visited Atlantis to trade slaves for fruits, gold, or jewels. Among his slaves was his sister, beautiful as dawn. When the Atlantean king's beloved queen died, he desired another from that family. Ships sailed and gifts were sent, and the ancient monarch received a bride even fairer than the slave. The council elders rebelled fiercely, but the king stood firm, threatening death. With his loyal supporters, he quelled the riots and restored order.
Yet did the prince, first to the monarch born, though banished from the palace of his sires until his sires’ death (and should another heir be born the banishment was for the prince's life and he an outcast), swear by his gods that so disgraced was he, and stung by taunts of them who looked upon the violation of Atlantian law as violation of God's chosen law, that he would never on the island reign, nor stand a subject of the kingdom till his father's death, so, firm, departing took the friends who bode within his halls.
Despite being the firstborn prince and heir to the throne, he was exiled from his ancestral palace until his father's death. If another heir was born, his exile would become lifelong, leaving him an outcast. The prince swore by his gods that, humiliated and stung by the taunts of those who saw the breach of Atlantian law as a violation of divine will, he would never rule the island. He vowed not to remain a subject of the kingdom until his father's death. Resolute in his decision, he left, taking with him the friends who resided in his halls.
Less than one hundred, ye the number speak, but chosen for their grace of heart and wisdom. Thus they went afar unto my land, a band of resolute and daring hearts who builded well a nation woe befell!
Fewer than a hundred, they say, but selected for their compassion and insight. They journeyed far to my country, a group of determined and brave souls who laid the foundation for a nation that would later face misfortune.
Ah, Egypt! when the heart of earth had ceased to beat within the body that I called my own, I deemed not that thy sun had set! I deemed not that the stranger's hand would rise against thy monuments, my very tomb and tomb of her I loved. That grovelling would become her sons, her daughters menial to an alien horde that writes but agitation on their shield!
Oh, Egypt! When my own life had ended, I never imagined your glory would fade. I couldn't have foreseen that foreign powers would threaten your monuments, including my tomb and that of my beloved. Nor could I have predicted that your children would become subservient, your daughters reduced to servants for invaders who bring nothing but turmoil.
Osiris reigned in Egypt first. His court, the rocks that made a mark indeed to them who bode on barren plains, for in that higher spot they first did set their sandaled feet—the feet of refugees. Of them who bowed in grief at thought of palace walls which, kissed by Sun, shot out such gleams of light as comes from towers fair set with polished stones.
Osiris was Egypt's first ruler. His court stood out like rocks on barren plains, a landmark for refugees who settled there. These newcomers, still mourning their lost homes, remembered grand palaces gleaming in the sunlight, adorned with polished stones.
I told the tale of how the monarch old made one a queen from out that far-off land, in later time Assyria, and of the son who might have reigned.
I told the tale of how the old monarch made a woman from that far-off land, later called Assyria, his queen. I told too of the son who might have reigned.
Reigned there? Ah, no! for waters licked the throne, and rotted ermine, silken jewelled robe which clung about a form called "king"! And he, the chastened son, had shared that fate had he but lingered on the mother isle where rosy dreams of power, greatness, marked the pathway of his youth.
Did he rule there? Certainly not! The waters consumed the throne, decaying the royal robes adorned with silk and jewels that cloaked a figure called "king." And the humbled son would have met the same end had he stayed on his native island, where ambitious visions of power and glory defined his youthful path.
I speak of friends assembling in the gloom; I tell of whispered discourse, stealthy setting sail by twos, by threes, the barges; of slaves with mouths embound so that no cry cast out upon the night did ring alarm. Osiris, prince, the future king, fared in the galley eighty manned—Aamhotep to the left, Usertsen at the right with men to battle seasoned.
Friends gather in the darkness, their voices hushed. Small groups slip away quietly, boarding boats. Slaves are silenced to prevent any outcry from alerting others. Prince Osiris, the heir to the throne, sails in a ship crewed by eighty men. Aamhotep stands to his left, Usertsen to his right, both accompanied by battle-hardened warriors.
In their rear the merchants, the craftsmen of the line of Har-Dom El; and in the boats of lesser worth and beauty rode the cooks, the slaves, the little beasts who loved the children smiting playfully, and wives and children, priests with altar stores, filled other barges.
Behind them came the merchants and the craftsmen of the family line of Har-Dom El. In the boats of lesser worth and beauty rode the cooks, the slaves, and the little animals that loved the children and struck at them in play. Wives and children, and priests with their altar supplies, filled other barges.
Spoil they bore not. Not one grain of gold, one length of linen, silk one thread the more, nor lace one shuttle's length that was not theirs by right. For Justice was the watchword of that band, and also feared they swift and sure pursuit if so they bore them plunder from the state.
They took nothing that wasn't theirs. Not a speck of gold, not an inch of linen, not a strand of silk, nor a scrap of lace beyond what they rightfully owned. Justice was their guiding principle, and they also feared quick and certain punishment if they stole anything from the government.
Proud, also, were the refugees and scorned the gifts from king degraded, hampered on his road to heights the soul must climb to reach that higher world portrayed by priest. For marriage was the law which brought men good or ill to soul—that roused or crushed all higher impulse, taught the priests.
The refugees were proud and rejected handouts from the disgraced king, who struggled on his journey toward spiritual enlightenment—a realm described by religious leaders. Marriage, the priests taught, was a powerful force that could either inspire or stifle one's nobler instincts, bringing either benefit or harm to the soul.
Wives were thought to hold within their hands the gift of life to soul as body. From higher planes, etheric, did they spring, contended law of marriage read by priest at ceremony. Mismated ones were said to lose all gifts from higher planes.
Wives were believed to possess the power to give life to both body and soul. This ability was thought to come from higher spiritual realms. The marriage law, as recited by priests during ceremonies, supported this belief. It was said that couples who were poorly matched would lose these spiritual gifts.
Earth-trodden, hampered none might hope to reach the heights, and thus in secret did the priest read low—the doom of that old king as set by gods whose laws were violated.
Weighed down by earthly burdens, no one could hope to reach such lofty goals. So, in hushed tones, the priest quietly read the fate of the ancient king, as decreed by the gods whose laws he had broken.
And when afar the refugees did hear the fate befallen king and subjects, all, low spake they in their horror: "Thus the gods decree for violation of the marriage laws read from lips unseen by men of fleshly mood, but law imparted to such priest as sins not, fasts and peers into the higher world through eyes of soul alone.
When news of the disaster that struck the king and his people reached distant refugees, they whispered in shock: "This is divine punishment for breaking sacred marriage laws. These laws are invisible to ordinary men, but are revealed to virtuous priests who fast and glimpse the spiritual realm through meditation alone."