Word Count 499
Atlantis Lost – Chapter 6
By Sharon Collins
When I speak of my Brother-Priest who protects my sleeping daughter, my Moonstone, I indeed
mean he is my brother as well as a priest. Twins we are, born into this incarnation through the
Lion’s Gate, that powerful alignment of stars occurring just as the time of high harvest begins.
Children of Prophecy, we are embodiments of Harmony and Balance. Dedicated to the Night,
my brother sings the song of Dusk. My dedication is to the Day; I sing the song of Dawn. In the
Temple of Poseidon, I sang the crystals awake. He sang them asleep. Light and Dark, we were,
but no longer are. To know Light one must acknowledge Dark. Without one, the other ceases to
exist. Before the Messenger’s glad tidings that I am needed, no longer superfluous, I had felt
myself ceasing, my light fading more and more of late. I had begun to welcome the ripening
fields and the approaching anniversary of my birth as my last.
Here in the blue mountains of the Cymru coast, the tribes celebrate the start of high harvest with
a festival known as Lughnasadh. It is a pretty time of feasting, hand-fasting, and feats of great
athleticism. The joy abounding has stretched the deeply graven lines on my face into lines of
laughter. I see the transformation in my scrying bowl and I feel young again. When the festival
celebrations draw to a close, I will journey east to reunite with my brother and assist in the
building of his henge of stone.
To that end I will offer him the Song of Awakening within my voice. I will end Moonstone’s
slumber, most gifted and powerful of my daughters and hope just one of eleven will suffice.
With her sisters, to echo and magnify her melody, she could move mountains. However, I fear
my brother knows not seven voices have perished and my three surviving daughters no longer
travel with me. I wonder have the Druids told him their never-ceasing voices now sing distant
duets. Will he be pleased Emerald’s song sustains the lush greens of the Isle of Mists; that
Amethyst’s fills the empty purple gloaming of the Highlands, and now Sapphire’s echoes amid
the deep blue shadows of the Preseli mountains. Dare I hope…
After hearing the messenger’s request of blue stones, I can guess my brother’s plan. It is his
goal, his great endeavor, to recreate on strange soil, a replica of The Oracle, the library of all-
knowing which lay at the heart of our drowned home. Our capital, often described as
constructed in a series of concentric rings, was in reality a labyrinth, wide avenues of glowing
turquoise water and graceful coral arches carved in the shape of leaping dolphins connected the
neighborhoods. Each filled with pale marble villas veined in gold and surrounded by gardens of
delight. Eleven circuits wound into and out of the central plaza paved with precious larimar, over
which presided The Oracle, a mighty ring of standing stones.