I’m delighted to welcome Carol Roberts to the blog today, with a guest post and extract from her debut novel, Atlantis. Before I hand you over to Carol, here’s the book info.
When Alanthea, high-priestess of Atlantis, connects to a woman in her dreams, she becomes haunted by a mystery. Compelled to trace the other woman’s life she finds coded poems that hold clues to the predicament of her people. Now she has to venture ever farther into forbidden territory to link past and present, and understand the real danger threatening Atlantis.
Arakon always thought of himself as an orphan, a loner without any real belonging. But after a strange encounter his life changes, and he is drawn into events beyond his control.
They move parallel in their search for answers until their destinies converge, and the weave unravels. Yet what they finally uncover lies deep at the heart of collective evolution, and what has been set in motion cannot be undone.
I have always been fascinated by the Atlantis-myth, the story of an advanced city about 9000 years ago, that mysteriously disappeared. In more recent years, researchers, including the National Geographic Society, have taken a new look at these stories, mapping possible locations of this lost land. But to me it was more the question of why and how, that intrigued me, rather than the where and when.
I started to write Atlantis in my late twenties. It was a culmination of my travels to destinations like the Himalayas in India, and the Andes in Peru, that once were home to cultures and traditions no longer existent. As a free lance writer I was keen to dig deep into the question of why some cultures simply disappear, and the undying mystique they leave behind.
The Atlantis-myth, like the stories of other such lost civilizations, tells of a culture more knowledgeable than others, with highly developed skills, that are perceived as the cause of their own, eventual undoing. They were said to be fine-tuned to the power of energy and light, able to use it for various purposes, only to ultimately abuse it.
For me, it was the speculative nature of the myth that kept me inspired, and as a consequence Atlantis was written in many different stages over the course of several years. But still I was not satisfied, until I realized that if I wanted to find my own answer to the question, I had to look within. What could be so important for such myths to survive? Could our collective psyche try to preserve something not in our current awareness, yet lying deep within, buried beneath layers of time?
If so, then I had to look back in time, at other literature preserving knowledge as to the nature of man, and when I finally arrived at the story of creation, I could see new meaning, like a new light shining upon contexts of old. It was all there, the challenge of our own evolution exposed; the origins of being able to polarize energy, like light, and the outcomes of individual as well as collective destiny. It was at that point that I could finally complete Atlantis.
“And that is all I can tell you.”
The big, leather-bound book closed with an air of finality, as if to never again disturb the dust particles that resettled on the ancient, worn cover. Derwan’s voice, harsh and abrupt, carried all the weight of his rank and age, and, bending slightly forward, his whole position radiated an intense dislike of the situation.
The silence between the two dimly illuminated figures lengthened, permeating the ancient Hall of Priests and weaving intricate patterns of potential words and meanings through the thick stone columns and heavy torch holders. Not all the candles were still burning; some had melted into wax pools whilst others were about to extinguish, flickering wildly and releasing puffs of smoke into the blackness above.
Then the stillness became heavy, and Derwan started to feel strained. Nobody but the woman opposite him held the right or rank to ask for such a lengthy audience, nobody had ever dared to give him, the high priest, the position to wait patiently for a dismissal, and it was unheard of that anybody had ever dared to go back in time and request insight into the Book of Justice. And yet, to his old and watery eyes, the woman was only a child wasting his precious time. His anger flared suddenly, throbbing behind the grey skin of his temples and pulsating like a hissing snake through his withered veins.
Alanthea sat motionless, her eyes still tracing the faded image on the book cover: a wolf, standing upright and proud, looking back over his shoulder toward an eagle soaring just above.
Carol Roberts is a free lance writer with particular interest in cultural myth. Originally from Vienna, she has spent all of her adult life in the Far North of New Zealand. Her work took her to several different countries, where she indulged her fascination with stories, particularly those dealing with the creation of man. ‘Atlantis’ is her first full length novel.
You can connect with Carol on Twitter and Goodreads