3

The Island of Giants

The voyage of Nun, the sailor—The secrets of celestial navigation—People that lived on a volcano—The island of Thira and the myth of the buried Titans

“Oars inboard!” ordered Nun, the sailor. “And hoist the sail!”

The mountains above Gebal were a black wall to the East in the early dawn. Inshore they had cut off the breeze, but the ship was far enough out to sea to catch it now, and the men were glad to pull in their heavy oars and stow them along the bulwarks. They manned the ropes that controlled the single great sail. With a rhythmic chant, following the commands of the boatswain, they heaved the halyard and the spar crept up the mast. The sheets were secured, the sailcloth filled with wind, and the heavy-laden ship, which had been wallowing gently in the swell, slowly gathered way through the blue water.

Nun, second son of Resh, the chief mason, and the youngest master mariner in the merchant fleet of Gebal, felt a sense of peace come over him, as it always did when he put to sea. All that could be done on shore had been done. The rigging had been checked and worn ropes replaced. The ship had been careened and the weed scraped from her bottom. The timbers had been sounded and the seams recaulked to keep her watertight. A new pair of eyes had even been painted on her bows. The cargo of cedar beams had been loaded aboard without any of them being dropped through the bottom. He had his passport, inscribed on stone in the name of the great King of Gebal, and the right sacrifices had been made for a fair wind.

The farewells on the quayside had perhaps been more affecting than usual, for his elder brother Zayin was absent on his expedition to the interior, his younger brother Aleph was overdue from his errand in the mountains, and he could see that his father and his sister Beth were torn to see the last of the brothers go, leaving them to their anxieties. But he had promised them a cheerful reunion soon, pushed out from the quayside, and now all that was behind him.

The wind was fair. Westward lay the islands. Cyprus they could hardly miss. It was Nun’s custom on westbound passages to make the first crossing blind, though there were still shipmasters who thought it rash to go so far out of sight of land, and preferred to creep round the coast until they were north of the island and then strike south to make sure of hitting its longest coast. In this way you were hardly out of sight of land at all—but once you had left a coast for good what guarantee was there that you would ever see it again, however correct your sacrifices had been?

But Nun’s business lay farther west than Cyprus. It would be enough to have a sight of it to the northward to satisfy him that he was on course. Still, he would have to think of a haven for the night. It would be a pity to waste this good easterly breeze—he was impatient at crawling over the face of the water under oars—but one could hardly stay at sea all night.

He looked away from the receding shore and saw his passenger standing beside him. In the distractions of clearing port and putting to sea, he had hardly had time to do more than formally welcome this stranger aboard, and since then he had forgotten about him. It was with an unpleasant feeling of surprise that he noticed him now. What Nun liked about being at sea was the freedom from interruption. No strangers to meet, no news good or bad until the next port. He was vexed now to think that he had with him this man of whom he knew nothing, and to whom he would have to be polite and guarded in his speech.

The passenger smiled pleasantly. “Are we making good time, Master?” he asked, speaking Nun’s language carefully and correctly.

In a hurry? Nun wondered to himself. But perhaps the man was only making a polite remark. “We go with the wind, sir,” he answered. “We can’t do better than that.”

“Your gods are kind to send us such a wind,” said the stranger.

“Goddess, actually, sir,” said Nun. “Yes, the Lady of Gebal is keeping her part of the bargain. Since there were no beasts or babies to sacrifice, we settled for a little gold figure I got last time in Crete. And we lugged a stone anchor up to the temple of the God of Battles, to keep him in mind of the navy. Those ought to buy us enough wind to take us there at least, and a bit of luck to keep us clear of enemies.”

“Ah!” said the passenger. “Let us hope we make good time then. I have an urgent appointment in Crete, or thereabouts.”

“Urgent appointment?” Nun repeated. “What kind of a creature is that? I’ve not heard it spoken before.”

“I mean I must be there by a certain time,” said the passenger. “That is why I took your ship. You have a reputation for swift voyages.”

“I don’t like to waste time certainly,” said Nun, pleased by the compliment. “But as for appointments, and times that are certain, I’ve very little knowledge of them. The winds blow or they don’t; the sea gives you a calm passage or holds you up with storms. All right, we make the best time we can, but there’s never anything certain about it.”

“I speak of sun-time and star-time,” said the passenger. “These are always certain, for centuries ahead. We who watch the heavens in Chaldea know that in a short while certain stars and planets will meet. What this conjunction signifies is less certain, though we expect some great disaster. Nor do we know exactly where this will take place. My calculations lead me to the island of Crete, if Crete lies where they say it does: but it may be that when I get there I shall find it is not the place. I have already completed half my journey from Chaldea, and I trust you will let nothing delay me now. But since there is nothing interesting to see while the sun occupies the heavens, perhaps you will permit me to sleep.”

So saying the stranger wrapped himself in his robe and stretched himself out on the deck. Nun was puzzled and irritated. Who was this overbearing foreigner with his urgency and concern for the future? It was enough to spoil the pleasure of any voyage—having to get there by a certain time, and wondering what was going to happen when you did. A Chaldean, did he say he was? A priest, or a magician, or one of those astrologers, Nun supposed. The sort of person one went to sea to get away from. Nun felt like throwing him overboard to feed the fishes. If there was any trouble with storms or calms he would not hesitate long to do so; but at present all was going well and the stranger had impressed him to such an extent that Nun found himself giving orders in a low voice so as not to disturb his daytime sleep.

All day the east wind drove them on, and there was never even any need to make adjustment to the sail or the sheets. But as the sun sank toward the sea ahead of them, and Nun leaned on the steering oar and steered a little north of where it would disappear below the horizon, he could see that the crew were beginning to look anxiously around, and he could feel a slight anxiety beginning to form inside his own stomach. Darkness was coming, and still no sign of land. He had done this passage often enough before, but from Gebal to Cyprus was a good day’s sail from dawn to dusk. He sent a man up to the masthead and told him to keep a good look-out on the starboard bow, and it was not long before the cry came, “Land ho!”

The passenger woke and got to his feet. “What land is this, Master?” he asked.

Nun was busy altering course toward the land by leaning on the steering oar and giving orders to adjust the pull of the sheets.” He answered the passenger’s question shortly, “Cyprus.”

“Have you business in Cyprus, Master?” asked the passenger.

“No,” replied Nun, “we’re buying no copper on this trip.”

“Why are we altering course, then?”

“It will soon be dark,” said Nun. “We must find a haven for the night.”

The man from the East looked at the heavens. “It will not be dark,” he said. “There is no cloud, and the stars will soon be out.”

“Starlight’s no good to me,” said Nun. “I like to see where I’m going.”

The Chaldean came across the deck and stood close to Nun, putting his hand on the steering oar. “Listen,” he said. “I have traveled many nights across the desert already, under the stars. Why should we waste a night in haven when we have the open sea before us?”

Nun looked at him and thought for a while. Then he said, “When you are traveling across the desert in the dark there is little danger of falling into the sea. But if you strike land while you are crossing the sea it can be fatal. That’s why we like to see where we are going.”

But the passenger continued to argue. “You have made this passage by day?”

“Yes,” replied Nun.

“Did you strike any land?”

“No.”

“If there is no land to run on to by day, why should there be any by night?” the stranger went on persuasively.

“It’s all very well for a landsman to talk,” retorted Nun. “You don’t know how confusing the sea can be at night, with the sea sprites flashing their lights in every wave and all those nameless stars spinning above your head.”

The stranger put his hand over Nun’s on the steering oar and looked deep into his eyes. “Captain,” he said, “would you learn secrets unknown to any other shipmaster? Would you not like to be at home on the sea by night as well as by day? The stars are not nameless; each one has his place and direction. Sail with me tonight and other nights, and I will teach you the names of the stars and the constellations, and tell you how they can guide you.”

No man had ever laid hands on the steering oar when Nun was manning it, and few had ever argued a point of navigation with him since he had become master of a ship. Now is the time to throw this interfering stranger to the fishes, Nun thought. And yet he did not even feel anger rising inside him, and he wondered why. I should assert myself as captain, he told himself. What would the crew think? And yet, what was it that made the crew respect him? Could he pull an oar better than the oarsmen? No. Could he splice a rope better than the seamen? No. Was it because he could curse them and keep them in order? Not even that, for the boatswain could curse much more fluently than his captain. No, it was because he knew where they were going. He had the whole voyage, out and back—the gods willing—planned in his head. The crew respected Nun for it, and Nun could not help respecting this stranger who seemed to carry in his head not merely landmarks of a voyage but also signs in the heavens to guide him. It might be something worth learning.

Without a word, Nun let the steering oar move over to starboard under the pressure of the stranger’s hand, and the ship’s head turned slowly away from the land and toward the open sea and the setting sun.

He saw the startled and outraged looks on the faces of the crew, but spoke to them casually. “What’s the matter, then? You’ve slept all day, while the wind’s done the work. Let’s see if you can sleep as well by night. I only need half of you to keep company with me and the stars. Boatswain, the oarsmen on the starboard side can keep the first watch.” And there was enough confidence in his voice to make the men move obediently to their look-out positions as ordered by the boatswain, though not without some muttering.

“No shore tonight?” he heard them remark. “The Old Man off his head, then?”

Nun did not feel as confident as he hoped he sounded, but part of him felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of the night passage.

The sun sank on to the horizon ahead of the ship, and as it did so it seemed in the haze to lose its roundness and collapse like a pricked bladder. The sailors watched it with long faces. Would they ever see it again in its proper shape, or would they reach the edge of the world in the darkness and be poured over it into nothingness? The last red spark showed above the sea, turned suddenly bright green, and sank. The sailors’ hearts seemed to sink with it. But Nun’s eyes were already on the zenith, the highest part of the sky where the stars were beginning to appear, and on the darkening eastern sky astern of the ship.

“Tell me!” said Nun impatiently. “What is the name of that one? And that one, and the bright one alone by itself there?”

“Have patience!” said the Chaldean calmly. “We shall see them all together soon. Those you see now will not help you with your voyaging, for they are wanderers too, every night in a different part of the sky. It needs many years of study to learn their paths.”

The east wind drove them on, and darkness came quickly. Soon the whole sky was aglitter with stars, and Nun craned his neck and stared as if he had never seen them before. “I shall never know all their names!” he sighed.

“Patience!” said the stranger again. “If a man lived a thousand years and never slept by night, he would still leave many stars unnamed. Learn them by their groups first, their constellations. First of all tell your steersman to steer by that bright group that is now above the horizon. That you may call the Lesser Dog, and it will lead you west for a while until it sinks below the sea. Now look to the North. There is the Great Bear, who is always with us, and the Little Bear, in whose tail sits the North Star, the only one that stays still in the firmament. If you want to steer north at any time, that is your mark.”

“Who wants to steer north?” Nun scoffed. “It’s a region of monsters and barbarians. But if I wish to steer west for Crete, I follow the Little Dog?”

“Ah, but only for the next hour. Then, you must look for the stars of the Hydra, the Virgin, and the Serpent as they come down to the horizon before you. And following them will be the Water-Bearer, the Fish, the Whale, and finally, the Giant Orion.”

“I must remember all that?” Nun mused. “Hydra, Virgin, Serpent, Water-Carrier, Fish, Whale, and Giant? Follow them, and they will always lead me westward from Gebal to Crete?”

“Aye, but only at this time of year, in the Dog Days. See, to the South, the greenish eye of the Great Dog Star. The sun is between the houses of the Bull and the Heavenly Twins, so the Dog is above the horizon.”

“What a busy life these heavenly creatures lead!” exclaimed Nun. “How shall I ever follow their comings and goings?”

“What I have so far told you is simple,” said the astrologer. “You must also learn the sequence of the sun’s travel through the houses of the Zodiac, some of which I have mentioned, and others such as the Ram and the Crab, the Goat and the Lion, the Scales, the Scorpion, and the Archer. And you may wish to know the constellations of the North, the Lyre and the Swan, and of the South, such as the Ship which voyages over unknown seas well down on the southern horizon, as you can now see. These all contain the stars that are fixed.”

“I am glad to hear it. They are always there to see, then?” asked Nun.

“They may rise and set like the sun,” said the other. “And their position in summer is different from their position in winter. But the case of the wandering planets is more difficult, though we can tell their paths among the other stars with reasonable certainty.”

“That must be a great comfort to you,” said Nun, unable to restrain his mockery. “But the only path I wish to know with certainty is that of my ship.”

The Chaldean ignored the interruption, and continued: “But then there are the comets and meteors whose paths no man can foretell and whose significance puzzles our understanding. For the direction of a ship by night or of a line of march over the desert is nothing compared with advising a king in decisions of state, or reading the meanings of celestial conjunctions which may foretell events far distant in time and space. And it is for this that I have been sent with you to the most western point of the civilized world. Something is going to happen which concerns the House of the Bull, and as you must know, both Babylon and Crete are much concerned with the Bull. A little before dawn the constellation of the Bull will be in the heavens. That is one reason I wished to be at sea—there is often mist and cloud near land at that time.”

“An appointment with the Bull!” Nun exclaimed silently to himself. “So it is for that he wants to risk my ship!”

But the Chaldean seemed to read his thoughts. “Be not anxious,” he smiled. “If the stars can guide great empires, surely they can steer your little ship through the night.”

So the night passed, with the Chaldean patiently pointing out the constellations and Nun repeating their names, and the same with the greater individual stars, Altair and Deneb and Alphecca and Dubhe and Algol and Mirfak and Aldebaran and Betelgeuse. The watching sailors looked with awe and suspicion at their captain in deep confabulation with the mysterious stranger, and Nun had to detach himself from his studies now and then to see that the look-outs were awake or to give another star to the steersman to steer by; but he could feel already that this new knowledge was giving him power over his men. And he was so captivated by his lessons that he quite forgot he had not slept. But at last he noticed that it was his tutor who seemed to be losing interest, and was gazing fixedly over the stern of his ship.

“The lesson is finished for the night,” said the Chaldean. “The Bull is rising in the East, and I have my calculations to make.” And not until then was Nun overcome with a great weariness of body and mind, and having given the steersman a last star to steer by until dawn, he stretched himself out to sleep and dreamt of wandering among the Houses of the Virgin and the Twins, and encountering the Serpent and the Scorpion along the Milky Way.

He did not sleep long, but when he woke the sun had risen astern, the easterly breeze still drove the ship through the blue waves, and all around was an empty horizon. Some of the crew were sleeping after having kept the night watches, but those who were awake turned their eyes toward him, with the unspoken question written on their faces: “Where are we?” They looked expectantly at him, as if awaiting new steering orders or adjustments to the sail—but Nun could think of nothing to do but keep driving westward. Indeed, he began to regret the absence of his newly made friends, the stars. The great blazing sun was comforting to see, but the higher he rose in the heavens the less helpful he was in keeping direction. Nun looked at the Chaldean, peacefully sleeping now that the stars were gone, but decided not to wake him. He took some breakfast, doing his best to look more confident than he felt, and told the boatswain to find the crew jobs such as splicing cordage and scrubbing planks to keep them occupied.

All day the ship drove on, and all day the Chaldean slept, but now Nun took comfort from his presence and told himself that all must be well if his learned passenger slept so peacefully. At noon the sun rose so high that the masthead seemed to strike at it as the ship rolled to the port side, and all Nun could do was to keep the wind astern and draw as straight a furrow as possible through the blue sea, trusting that the wind was not playing him tricks but was still coming directly from the East. And after noon, when most of the crew were lying around forward, resting in the heat, the boatswain came aft to Nun and spoke to him quietly.

“Captain, you’re running into danger,” he said.

“Danger?” Nun repeated. “The sea’s wide and clear of rocks, the sun shines and we’ve a fair wind. What’s this talk of danger?”

“I daresay there’s no danger in the sea,” said the boatswain. “Not for me to say you don’t know where you’re going, sir, you and the foreign gentleman. But it’s the crew, sir. The men aren’t happy, not seeing land for a night and a day. They say we’re being driven west to barbarian lands, or worse still heading for the brink of the world, where the water goes over the edge. They want to know where they are.”

“Tell ’em they’re at sea,” said Nun curtly. “That ought to be enough for them. If they don’t like it they should have gone for soldiers or woodcutters.”

“Aye, sir,” said the boatswain, still troubled. “Trouble is, there’s some of them aren’t sailors, and never will be. I tell you, sir,” and the boatswain’s voice lowered to a husky whisper, “it’s the big fellow, Quoph, that’s the troublemaker. He’s no seaman, best of times. Been a soldier, but thinks sitting in a ship’s an easier way of getting around than foot-slogging it through the desert. Now he’s wishing he’d never left shore. Him and some of the others are saying they’ll make you turn round and go back to land.”

“Do they think I can turn the wind round too, so they can sail back?” asked Nun scornfully.

“They say they’d rather row, than sail the devil knows where,” replied the boatswain.

“Tell ’em never mind what the devil knows, their captain knows where he’s going,” said Nun angrily. “And I’ll alter course when I see fit, not when they do.” The boatswain looked at him, as if still uncertain that the captain did know where he was going, but said no more and went forward again. Nun looked after him, saw him speaking to a knot of men, among whom he recognized Quoph, the monkey-faced ex-soldier, saw the boatswain leave the group and the rest of them continue to wave their arms in argument. Then he saw Quoph coming aft down the ship toward him. A few steps behind him was a small group of men, looking equally surly but not quite so bold.

“We’re going back to land,” said Quoph roughly, halting at the beginning of the poop deck.

“Good-bye,” said Nun, just as curtly, leaning lightly on the steering oar and eyeing the waves. “Enjoy your swim!”

Quoph flushed angrily. “We’re not joking,” he growled. “Turn the ship round!”

Nun noted Quoph’s rising rage, and also that the rest of the group were hanging back. I can deal with this one alone, he thought. Aloud he said: “No ignorant soldier gives orders here. I’m in command.”

“If you won’t turn, we’ll make you,” Quoph snarled. He pulled out a copper seamen’s knife from his dress.

If I provoke him, he’ll rush me with the knife, thought Nun, judging the lift of the swell from astern. He turned to Quoph, and putting all the contempt he could into words, sneered, “Get forrard, you scabby ape!”

That did it. Red with rage and without looking to see if he was followed by his supporters, Quoph launched himself with a shambling run across the deck. At the same instant Nun put all his weight on the steering oar. The ship yawed, a swell from astern caught her on the quarter, the deck tilted, and Quoph’s rush took him straight over the ship’s side into the sea. Only then did Nun hesitate for a second, seeing a coil of rope lying handy by the bulwarks. But his second thoughts made him pick up the coil and fling it toward the man floundering in the water. Quoph grasped the bare end and hung on, Nun took a turn round a post with the other end and held it, then turned to the other members of the crew who were still holding back at the other end of the deck.

“Your friend would rather swim home than stay with us,” Nun called to them. “Anyone else like to join him?” The men shook their heads.

“I’ll let him go alone, then?” asked Nun, letting the rope run out a little round the post as he turned the steering oar again and put the ship back on course.

“Save me, save me! I can’t swim!” came the plaintive voice of Quoph from the sea. The ship was moving so fast through the water that it was all he could do to keep hold of the end of the rope.

The men flinched as the line ran out, but one of them muttered, “Best let him go. He only makes trouble.”

“The rest of you are content to stay with me and obey orders?” Nun asked them.

“Aye,” said another man. “Reckon you care for your own skin too. We’ll be better off with you than with that ape on the rope’s end.”

“Right,” said Nun, making his end fast. “I’ll get you there and back, never fear, if you do what I say. As for our shipmate here, he can follow us for a bit if he wishes.” So while the men went back to their stations and he settled the ship back on course, he left Quoph trailing astern, his cries getting more and more waterlogged. When at last he gave orders for him to be hauled aboard gasping and trembling, there was nothing left in him but seawater and the despairing resolution that had kept him grasping the end of the rope. Nun saw that Quoph would cause no more trouble.

Then Nun perceived that the Chaldean was awake and watching him.

“Congratulations, Captain,” said the passenger. “I see you are a man of courage and resource.”

But Nun felt a burst of anger toward this man who had got him into the present situation. “Thank you,” he said curtly. “But where are we?”

“I was about to ask you that,” the passenger said calmly.

Nun took him by the arm to the side of the ship, away from the seaman who had now taken over the steering, and spoke low but angrily. “You don’t know where we are?” he expostulated. “After all your magic with the stars! Perhaps the men were right, and I should have thrown you overboard.”

“Be calm, Captain,” said the Chaldean mildly. “This is a matter of mathematics, not sorcery. If your ship were a camel I should know how far we had traveled in a day’s march over the desert, but I must confess that this thing of wood and rope and canvas is strange to me. Let us reason calmly. This passage, coasting along the mainland and the Isle of Cyprus, takes you how long, usually?”

“Four days.”

“And that is going north a little, and south a little, and sleeping in haven every night?”

“Yes.”

“We have been at sea for a day and a half, with a good following wind,” mused the Chaldean. “Even so, we can hardly be nearing Crete yet, let alone the edge of the world.”

Nun was torn between feeling irritated at his passenger’s air of superior intelligence, and being soothed by his calm approach to the crisis.

“Let us wait till sundown again,” said the Chaldean. “Maybe the stars, or perhaps the moon, will tell us a little more about where we are, and maybe we shall alter course to the North, and to the islands.”

Then darkness came again, the stars reappeared, and the Chaldean noted the height of some of them over the northern horizon. He observed the rising of the moon, and questioned Nun closely about the running of the ship. Then he was silent for a while, and Nun was aware of things going on inside this stranger’s head that were quite new to him. Calculations, to Nun, were a matter of fingers and toes or pebbles, or beads on strings; but the stranger seemed to be able to perform them instantly.

A little before dawn, as they still forged ahead on the same course, the constellation of the Bull rose again astern, and the Chaldean gazed at it in rapt contemplation. At last he spoke, and his voice seemed troubled by uncertainty, but his instructions were clear.

“Captain,” he said. “If you were to alter course now toward the sign of the Lyre, by noon next day we should sight the islands.”

“Is this sure?” Nun asked. “You sound doubtful.”

“Finding the islands is a little thing,” said the sage. “The doubt arises as to what we shall find when we get there. I must confess that I am troubled. Some great disaster is what the stars foretell, but what its nature is I cannot make out.”

“My men will be happy enough to see land,” said Nun. “Disasters can take care of themselves. If what you say is the quickest way, we’ll alter course.”

They did so, and reset the sail, and as morning came they continued on the same course. Sure enough about midday the joyful cry went up “Land ho!” And everybody was jubilant—except the Chaldean.

The crew were chattering excitedly, and the old hands were wagering as to what part of the land it was. When they were near enough for one of them to recognize it as the island of Kasos, off the eastern point of Crete, they were amazed. In just over two days they had completed a voyage that usually took five or six, coasting from point to point. They looked with admiration at their skillful captain, and with awe at their strange navigator.

But the Chaldean took Nun aside. “Master,” he said, “this is your ship and I am a mere passenger—”

“How can you say that?” Nun exclaimed. “You have taught me secrets no other sailor knows. My ship is yours.”

“You feel I have saved you a day or two’s weary coasting?”

“Indeed,” said Nun. “I don’t know where I’d be without you. Still up some mainland creek perhaps. How can I repay you?”

“I beg only two of the days I may have saved you on this voyage,” said the sage.

“They are yours,” said Nun, puzzled. “But what do you mean?”

“Your business is with Knossos, I know,” said the Chaldean. “And so I had thought was mine. But now the stars tell me differently. You know the islands well, Captain?”

“I can tell where I am among the islands by the taste of the water over the side,” Nun bragged.

“Is there an isle about a day’s sail, from dawn to sunset, due north of Knossos?”

“That would be Thira,” Nun replied.

“Then if you can spare me two days from your enterprise, I shall be grateful if we might go there first,” said the Chaldean. “I do not know what we shall find, but, whatever it is, I believe it is of grave enough importance to affect you and all who live in the known world. So it is not only for myself that I ask it.”

“But don’t your stars tell you more precisely?” asked Nun. “They brought us to Kasos at the time you predicted. Why are you doubtful about the other thing?”

“It is of a different kind,” replied the sage. “This knowledge of disaster is within me. The stars merely help me find the time and place. But I can say no more. May we go?”

“You have my promise,” said Nun.

So once again there were looks of outrage on the faces of the crew as, instead of heading west along the northern coast of Crete, they continued on their northwesterly course after clearing Kasos. Here there were lesser islands strewn over the sunlit water to guide them by day, but they would be treacherous hazards by night. So before sunset they found a little bay in one of them and made fast for the night. Nun was glad enough to sleep the night through without responsibilities, while some of the crew stretched their legs on the barren islet, grousing freely at being deprived of the joys of port. But the Chaldean stayed awake all night and communed with the stars.

Next day it was only a short run to Thira, and they neared it in the early afternoon. Indeed, they were aware of it a long way off, because of a thin plume of smoke that seemed to be coming from the pointed top of the island.

Nun and the Chaldean gazed at it from the poop. “You have landed there before, Master?” asked the passenger.

“No,” replied Nun. “I have seen its burning mountain times enough before now. But I’ve never had business there—and who’d go to such a place for pleasure? Though they say …”

“Yes?” the Chaldean prompted.

“I don’t know,” said Nun. “It has a certain reputation …”

“Indeed? What kind of people live there?”

“One hears strange stories, that’s all,” said Nun. “I’ve never taken much note of them, and I can’t even remember what they’re about. But we shall see for ourselves now, shan’t we?”

Suddenly, as they gazed, the wind failed them, for the first time since they left Gebal. The sail flopped heavily against the mast as the ship rolled in the slight swell, not a breath of cooling air touched their bodies, and the distant shore of the island shimmered in the afternoon heat haze. At Nun’s command the sweating sailors furled and secured the sail, got out the heavy oars and sat down on the benches. The boatswain gave the beat, and the ship forged sluggishly ahead as Nun steered a course round the steep shore of the island, looking for the harbor.

The island stood like a pile of white bones in the blue sea, reflecting the heat and the glare of the sun. Here and there were patches of silver-green olive trees, and dried-up wisps of vegetation that might be vines, and they had to look hard to make out the scattered houses built of the same white rock as the island itself. From whichever way they looked at it, as they slowly coasted around, it looked the same—an almost perfect cone, with a blackened top and the sinister plume of smoke now rising straight into the heavens. But of life there seemed to be no sign.

They had made a complete circuit of the isle, and the sun had dropped down the sky very little in that time, before Nun decided that a little jetty and a cluster of buildings on the eastern side was the main harbor. He turned the ship in her tracks and headed back to it.

“Not much of a haven,” Nun murmured as they approached the apparently deserted quays. “But it will do in this calm.”

Even when they were near enough to see rows of sealed wine jars standing waiting in the shade of a rough warehouse, there seemed to be no human guardians of the place. The only sound was the regular plop, groan, and splash of the oars, beating now at a dead slow pace, just enough to keep the stem gently cutting through the water. Nun raised his hand to halt the rowers, and there was only the gurgle of water along the keel and the drips falling from the raised oars. Nun looked at the Chaldean, and the oarsmen looked at each other, and no one seemed capable of breaking the silence—until the boatswain startled them all by letting out a sudden roar:

“Ashore there! Are you all dead, or drunk?”

One of a stack of empty jars seemed to come to life and a human figure got to its feet, grasping clumsily at a spear and rubbing the sleep of his siesta out of his eyes. The harbor guard stared stupidly at the approaching ship, and then shouted something over his shoulder. Other figures appeared from patches of shade and moved confusedly here and there; but though the boatswain, using various shouts and signs, tried to get them to indicate where they should come alongside, there were no helpful gestures in reply. So Nun ordered the oars to be drawn in, manned the steering oar, and there was just enough way on the ship to take her smoothly alongside the jetty, where two of the crew jumped ashore and made fast.

The harbor-guard had now got itself into some sort of military order and Nun noted that their helmets and armor were of Cretan pattern, though the bronze lacked the well-known Cretan spit-and-polish. Yet still there was no offer of help: they stood stolidly across the end of the jetty as if barring the way to the land. Then, just as Nun himself jumped from the poop on to the jetty, the soldier standing nearest to him lifted his hand in the gesture of drinking from a jar and said one word: “Water?”

“So you do speak a known tongue!” Nun remarked. “Thank you, the supplies in our water jars are low.”

The soldier looked into the hold of the ship, looked again at Nun, and repeated with a query in his voice: “Water?”

“Yes, we need it badly,” said Nun. “Where can we get some?”

The soldier looked blankly at Nun, seemed to search in his mind for words in the language that was obviously difficult for him, and at last found four words: “You give me water?”

“I give you water?” Nun repeated. “What do you mean? We have come a long way, been at sea for days. How can we give you water? Have you none on your island?” He looked closely at the soldier: certainly it didn’t look as if he had washed recently. The soldier shrugged and looked away.

“They don’t seem very glad to see us,” said Nun to the Chaldean who was standing patiently on the poop. “Come ashore, sir, and we’ll see if we can get some sense out of this island.”

He held out his hand to the Chaldean to help him over the ship’s side. The soldiers looked with some show of curiosity at the outlandish dress of the stranger as he stood poised on the wooden bulwark. And as the Chaldean’s foot touched the stone of the harbor a hollow rumble seemed to come from the very core of the island and the ground trembled until the stacked wine jars rang one against the other. Nun felt a sudden chill of terror all over his body in the hot afternoon. The sailors who stood by the ropes fell weakly to their knees muttering incantations, the Chaldean stood in thought with a stern set face, and the island soldiers behaved as if nothing had happened.

“Our welcome has been spoken,” said the Chaldean at last.

At that point there was the sound of a disturbance at the landward end of the jetty: voices and footsteps seemed to be approaching. Nun looked round, thinking perhaps it was someone in authority, and wondering weakly what was the next surprise this strange island would produce.

The surprise was a little middle-aged man in a rather grubby civilian robe, chattering to his military escort in the Cretan tongue and helping his short steps through the dust of the harbor with a walking stick. The soldiers stood out of his way without much show of respect, and he came up to where Nun and the Chaldean were standing. Taking one look at Nun, the ship, and the sailors, he switched immediately into the Phoenician language without pausing for breath.

“Have you been waiting? So sorry! You must excuse us,” he burst out. “So unexpected so early in the afternoon—you know our wretched siesta habit. Or perhaps you don’t.” Then turning to glance at the ship: “From the Phoenician coast, aren’t you? I’ve seen your ships in Crete, of course, although you don’t often call at Thira. But you’re very welcome. In fact, you’re here not at all too soon. Things are bad.” He eyed the cargo of cedar beams under its hide covering with some puzzlement: “How much have you got?”

Nun hesitated. “I—I’m afraid we’re not here to trade,” he said.

“Trade?” repeated the little man sharply. “Oh, of course, no haggling. We pay the price. But how much water have you? Where’s it stowed?”

“Water?” said Nun. “We’ve about enough for our crew for half a day, if they’re rowing. I’d be obliged if you’d tell me where we can replenish.”

The man stopped talking for a good half minute and looked amazed at Nun. “You’re asking us for water? But they know the situation perfectly well in Amnisos. All ships calling from there are obliged to bring us water.” His face attempted a smile. “You are pulling my leg, Captain. But it is not kind of you.”

Nun was beginning to understand. “I’m very sorry; sir,” he said. “A misunderstanding. We’re not from Amnisos. We sailed straight from Gebal without touching land. If we’d known there was a water shortage here, of course we would have brought some. But all we have, I’m afraid, is a cargo of timber for Knossos. We called here for …” Well, what had they called for? This worried little man did not seem to have much to do with the Chaldean’s grand calculations and predictions. “Just a social visit,” Nun concluded feebly.

The little man’s face, which had fallen into a picture of disappointment and dejection, pulled itself together. He shrugged. “Oh!” he said, several times, in several different tones of voice. “No water. I had thought perhaps even a bath …” Then he put on a smile. “You must excuse me again. A social visit you said? One forgets on this wretched island. This really is kind. You mean you’ve really come to see me? You know it’s just as good as water to a thirsty man—very nearly—to have visitors. You see nobody comes now, what with one thing and another …” He interrupted his thoughts: “How rude of me. Here I am talking business and I haven’t even introduced myself. Ekerawon’s my name. How nice of you to come!”

“I’m Nun, from Gebal,” said Nun. “And my friend here from Babylon—”

“From Babylon!” interrupted Ekerawon, his face lighting up. “But you mock me, Nun of Gebal, when you say you have come all that way to visit us. You mock our wretched island. What could possibly draw you here?”

And at that moment there came again the hollow rumble from the core of the island, and the stones of the harbor trembled under their feet and the wine jars chimed again. And the Chaldean saluted Ekerawon solemnly and said: “The stars have indeed led me to you, all the way from Babylon, O Ekerawon. And I am sure that your island has something to tell me.”

To Nun’s surprise Ekerawon burst into happy laughter. “Oh, that!” he exclaimed, waving his hand vaguely toward the bowels of the mountain. “Yes, of course, my dear sir, we have signs and wonders here, worthy even of Babylon’s interest. But it’s a long story if you don’t know it. Gentlemen, you will be my guests for the evening! Accept my poor hospitality, and my little knowledge is at your disposal. Come!”

But Nun hesitated. “We must not impose on you,” he protested. “We have brought nothing. Are you sure—”

Ekerawon laughed again. “My house is humble, sir, but we are not paupers. We have food, we have friends, we have music. And if there is no water—who cares, so long as there is wine?”

The evening’s entertainment was wearing on. Darkness had fallen long ago. Sprawled on cushions in Ekerawon’s courtyard, stupefied by the rich dark island wine which his host kept pouring into his cup, but which was doing nothing to quench his thirst, conscious of all the hours of sleep he had missed at sea, Nun was doing his best to keep his eyes open. The Chaldean was sitting in impassive dignity, saying and eating little. A large fat friend of the host, Philaios by name, was gorging himself on stuffed vine leaves and little fish in hot sauce. Four or five slaves kept beating out an insistent, rhythmic tune on drums, cymbals, a pipe, and some kind of stringed instrument. A thin girl with long dark hair, fierce eyes, and few clothes was twisting her body in a dance that seemed to move everything but her feet. And Ekerawon kept on talking.

“… an impossible family,” he was saying. “And, really, one can hardly call them gods.”

Philaios interrupted him, his mouth full of fish. “How can our young friend follow the story, Ekerawon, if you chatter away like an old woman? Begin at the beginning!”

“Perhaps you would like to tell the story then, Philaios,” said Ekerawon with a little pout.

“Very well,” said Philaios, washing down his mouthful with a draft of wine. “Once upon a time—”

“You’ll have to start earlier than that,” Ekerawon interrupted in his turn.

“What do you mean?” said Philaios.

“The story starts before Time was born,” said Ekerawon. “So how can you start with Once Upon a Time? I knew you’d get it wrong.”

“All right, then,” said Philaios, returning to his food with a shrug. “You tell the story. But keep it simple.”

“Right,” said Ekerawon, turning to Nun, “I’ll tell the story. As simply as I can. Only it’s not a simple story. Such a family! All right, Philaios, I see you looking at me!” He sat himself upright on his couch and held up his hand. “In the beginning,” he began solemnly, “in the beginning there was Earth and Sky. We still have our Earth-Mother, of course. If you look south from here you can see the island of Dia: we say that’s the Earth-Mother’s body, lying in the sea.”

“That’s nothing to do with the story,” put in Philaios.

“Am I telling the story, or am I not?” demanded Ekerawon. “The children of the Earth and Sky were the Giants,” he continued. “A monstrous lot they were. Some of them only had one eye, some of them had a hundred limbs, and they grew and grew, out of all proportion. They quarreled among themselves and their parents couldn’t control them. One must admit they were a failure.” He took a sip of wine.

“The last of this brood was old Time himself,” he continued, “Chronos you may call him, or what you like.”

“El,” said Nun. He felt he had to say something, or fall asleep.

“I beg your pardon?” Ekerawon inquired.

“El is our name for Time,” Nun explained. “They say he settled at Gebal!”

“Most interesting!” Ekerawon exclaimed. “I was going to say something about this character, but if he belongs to your part of the world, now, I’d better not say a word against him. Besides, who are we to judge a demigod for a little thing like mutilating his father and devouring his own children?” He giggled and drank some more wine.

“You’ve forgotten the point of the story,” said Philaios.

“What point?” Ekerawon demanded.

“What happened to the Giants,” said Philaios.

“I haven’t finished yet,” said Ekerawon petulantly. “Yes, my friend,” he said to Nun. “The Giants!” He stood up and suddenly became serious. “This monstrous race, who defiled Earth and menaced Heaven, were shut up for eternity in prisons underground, from which ever since they have been trying to break out and take vengeance on the inhabitants of the world. And here we are,” he concluded, draining his wine cup.

“Here we are?” repeated Nun, uncomprehending. He couldn’t even tell whether it was himself who was being stupid or his host who was being incoherent. And then, for the third time since they had set foot on the island, there came the hollow rumble from underground, the floor of the courtyard shook, pieces of twig and insects came raining down from the vines overhead, and the crockery danced on the table. This time, instead of dying away, the tremor was followed by a stronger one, which Nun felt like a blow through the couch on which he was lying. He sat up, no longer sleepy; the music of the various instruments tailed off, the girl dancer stood contorted, her eyes wide and staring. There was silence while Philaios downed a whole cupful of wine and nearly choked himself, but Ekerawon was on his feet quivering and storming at the musicians and the dancer.

“What have you stopped for?” he screamed at them. “Do I keep you to stand and turn pale every time the earth shakes? Play on, you miserable white-livered geese! Dance, girl—it’s all you’re fit for! More wine for the guests! Scatter rose-leaves! Gentlemen of Babylon and Gebal, your cups are empty, you put me to shame. Your health, my old friend Philaios! Be merry! We are not afraid, are we?”

Yes, thought Nun, we are: and you, my host, are more afraid than anyone. But he did not speak his thoughts. He was stone-cold sober, and wished he was anywhere but on this unhappy island.

An unreal smile was pinned on the face of Ekerawon, and he turned to Nun as the music started up again and the wine began to circulate.

“What were we talking about, my friend?”

“You were saying,” replied Nun, “the words. ‘Here we are!’ And then the earth shook. I am afraid I still do not understand.”

Ekerawon sat down. He was still trembling. He drank again, and said weakly: “You have heard the voice of the Giants and felt their struggles in the earth beneath us. Did you not know that it was here they were imprisoned for their revolt?”

Nun was silent for a space. “All of them?” he asked at last.

“Oh, some here, some there, no doubt,” replied Ekerawon. “They say there are other burning mountains under which some of the tribe are pent. But we have enough here, eh, Philaios? Sometimes they sleep for years on end. Sometimes their rage to escape shakes the island for days. Just recently they have been very wakeful. It has been almost impossible to sleep. And, on top of that, no rain and no water. It is very trying, is it not, Philaios?” and now Ekerawon was sitting weeping tears into his wine cup.

“Why do you live here, then?” asked Nun.

“I don’t know why,” sniffed Ekerawon. “Why do we carry on, Philaios? I’m too old for this kind of life, and yet where else have I got to go? I have my vineyards here, and the wine is good. These animals,” he sniffed pointing to the slaves, “they know no better. They’ve always lived here. They’re just as scared—I mean the cowards are afraid when the Giants roar, but next moment they forget about it. But my family’s from Crete. My father came and planted the vineyards. Very special wine we make here, a favorite with the court of Knossos. But no one knows how I suffer from the strain of living here.”

And then the Chaldean spoke, for the first time in many hours.

“What would happen, think you, Ekerawon, if these Giants were to escape?”

“The end of the human race they say,” replied Ekerawon casually. “That’s the story—that the Titans have vowed vengeance on all other creatures, gods and all, once they get loose.”

“Does the thought not appall you, Ekerawon?”

“Yes. Yes, appalling,” agreed Ekerawon gloomily. “But they say it won’t happen.”

“What if the stars tell me that it will happen?”

Ekerawon shrugged. “What could I do about it? Sit on top of the mountain and hold them down? Maybe it will happen. When though no one can tell. We may all be dead long before. Have some more wine, you are drinking nothing.”

“What if I were to tell you the exact date when it will happen, as foretold by the stars, and well within your lifetime?”

Ekerawon got to his feet, holding out his hand in a gesture to stop the Chaldean speaking. “No! No, no, no! No dates! That’s the last thing I want to know, even if you know it. What, sit here waiting for the end of the world? There’s no pleasure in that. Drink man, drink! Why I’ve never met such a solemn fellow.” And turning to the musicians he shouted: “Some really gay music there! What’s this dirge—are you all half asleep? Have you seen me dance? I feel like dancing. How’s this, eh?” And the little man sidled away over the pavement in a ridiculous caricature of the girl dancer’s steps.

The Chaldean was also standing. “I was about to ask you, sir,” he was saying to the retreating back of Ekerawon, “if you would excuse my absence while I go to study the stars. It must be but a short time before dawn.”

“Stars?” said Ekerawon dreamily, spinning on one foot. “Yes, of course. Take as many as you like. Make yourself at home. My stars are yours. And give my compliments to the celestial bodies, but don’t bother me with their predictions, just now, there’s a good fellow. I’m dancing …”

The Chaldean bowed courteously and stepped from the light of the torches into the shadow. Nun saw that Philaios was asleep on his couch, his face flushed with wine. He gave up trying to fight sleep and sank back on the cushions. The music played on. Ekerawon was holding the dancing girl by the hand and spinning her round. Nun’s eyes closed. The couch he lay on seemed to rock—was it wine, sea-weariness, or the subterranean struggles of imprisoned Giants? Until dawn, Nun lay in a nightmare-haunted sleep.