Atlantis

The water is cold. 

I’m not swimming now, just wading. The cold air bites into the wet fabric of my cable knit, soaking down into my bones. 

The lake is the color of old steel, its flat surface too opaque to be a window, too dark to be a mirror. I can easily stand where I am now. But I still can’t see the bottom. 

I glance up, checking the distance to the rocky beach. Just a few hundred feet now. I can make out my jacket, crumpled on the ground. Nearby, the pages of my newspaper start to dance and float as the breeze picks up. One catches on the tire of a bicycle leaning against the rock wall divider. Now that I'm alone, the wind is the only sound. 

I’ve walked to this lake and stood on that shore a hundred times. Hardly anyone ever comes here this late in the afternoon. Too cold. Too grey. Once in a while, a cyclist will stop to rest. One stopped today, obviously. But most of the time, it’s quiet. A good place to catch your breath. To get some perspective. There’s something so primal about the water. Its stillness, its depth, its dense and intricate story, all buried, sucked down toward its unknowable center. 

I had a history professor in college. Queer old guy, liked to focus on nasty, real retellings of the stories we all got the whitewash versions of in high school. “History bites,” he would say, standing at the board, chalk all along the back of his tweed jacket, his mouth twisted into something between a grin and a grimace. “History scratches and pokes. History has claws.” 

The lake is like that. 

Today was the first time I’ve actually gone in. I guess I never had much of a reason before. But I’m pretty sure, as I near the shore, that it won’t be my last. 

There was an article in the news today about Atlantis. 

Everyone knows about Atlantis, of course. Mythical metropolis, written about by Plato, sank beneath the waves, blah blah blah. We all know the story. 

Well, according to this article, some geologist in Sweden somewhere claims to have discovered Atlantis. Only, here’s the kicker. 

Apparently, it’s Ireland. 

I don’t really understand it all. The article talks about how they’re both the same length and width and number of cliffs or something, and they both have mountains surrounding a central plain, and there are all these parallels that no one ever noticed before, and all this other stuff. 

But they now believe that the idea of Atlantis originally came from Dogger Bank. It’s a shoal in the North Sea that sank during a flood a long time ago. Not too far from here, actually. Not so far from my little lake. 

So this legend, that people have been chasing forever, this mystical city of gold and light and, for all we know, mermaids and treasure and magic... 

It’s just plain old Ireland. People have been searching for Atlantis their entire lives, and it turns out I’ve been living here the whole time. 

I feel the pebbles crunch beneath my sodden shoes as I reach the shore. I turn and gaze out at my lovely lake, its surface immutable, impassive, the ripples I brought with my passing already starting to fade, dying out like the echoes of a muffled scream. 

I grew up in Belfast. Not exactly a “city of gold and light.” Plenty of residual light from the bombs and all, but...well, let’s just say I was pretty shocked to discover that I’m a living, breathing citizen of Atlantis. 

But the thing is... 

I got to thinking about how “myth” is really just another word for “lie.” 

I’ve been lied to my whole life. I discovered a long time ago that it’s easier not to believe in anything than to try to figure out which lie to believe. But still. Everyone has their stories. 

I used to read about Atlantis, when I was a kid. There was a comic book about it that had all these wizards and warriors. In the book, after the city sank, these people all just learned to live under the surface, and Atlantis became a mighty underwater empire. 

The part I liked to think about was when the city first went down. Imagine all those people, all that water rushing in. Imagine being so sure that you were about to drown, and then finding, somehow, that you could breathe down there. Imagine the knowledge that this situation that was your life, that seemed so hopeless, was going to be perfectly okay after all. Just different. 

I made a decision this morning. 

I’m from Ireland. Lived here all my life. And it’s certainly got its pleasant points. But it’s got its nasty bits, too. Ireland has claws. 

And on the whole, well… 

Frankly, I just don’t think I’m ready to trade Atlantis for it. Not just yet. 

I retrieve my jacket and turn to look at the bicycle. I’ll have to deal with it, I suppose. I reach down and idly free the bit of newspaper from its tire. It’s an expensive-looking bike. Rider seemed fancy, too. Fit, though. Athletic. Someone you’d assume was strong. Looks can be deceiving, I guess. Not much of a struggle at all, really. 

I glance down at the newspaper page I’m holding. Somehow, I’m not surprised to see that it’s the one with the article. The one about Atlantis. I almost smile. 

Well, fine. They can write all the articles they want to. They can say whatever they want. 

But as far as I’m concerned, there will always be an Atlantis. It will always be a thriving metropolis. I plan to make sure of that. 

Even if I have to populate it one person at a time. 

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