Apos: The Sunken City Syndrome

By Carlos Wiggen

Suddenly, Greg felt dizzy and tried to look around. In the first class section of the Air France A 380, the others seemed to be dropping off to sleep.
Muffled cries sounded from the cockpit area.
The huge plane heeded over and went into a dive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665588614

Carlos Wiggen

Carlos Wiggen also wrote: “Kant and the Barbarians” “Philosophy at Gunpoint” “The Nazil Grail” “The Spine of Western Culture”

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© 2021 Carlos Wiggen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/22/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8862-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-8861-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 American Gothic

Chapter 2 Kaffi Norðurfjörður

Chapter 3 Hunters Point

Chapter 4 OOC

Chapter 5 The Amersford Statement

Chapter 6 Filling in for God

Chapter 7 The Wisdom of the Serpent

Chapter 8 True Love According to Leo

Chapter 9 The Fair Lady

Chapter 10 The Creatures of the Wasteland

Chapter 11 With Artistic License

Chapter 12 Escape artists

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Apos is the name of a quagmire morass outside a small village in Greece. It lies near the sea, halfway up a hill; one of several rolling hills inland. None of those hills have a name, only Apos. People never talk when they pass it, some spit at it. The elderly are reluctant to explain any story related to Apos; it brings bad luck. They do not say what kind of bad luck but will eventually mumble something about a fall --- a fall into the sea.

A team of amateur scuba divers picked up on that some years ago. As they were not locals, some of them not even Greek, the house owners turned their backs to them and disappeared into their houses and shacks.

At about 45 feet depth, the team found ruins. Most of them were boulders but, chipped like building blocks. One piece looked like the corner of a wall. At that point, sharks began to show interest, and they broke up.

Back in the village some people, most youngsters, had disobeyed their parents and signaled that they knew things that a hermit had told them. He had suddenly died not long ago. However, the young boys mentioned money in exchange for their knowledge. The team sat down, grilled meat and produced two bottles of ouzo. They also let the youngsters try the regulators and lead belts. In the afternoon one had reached a deal they could all live with.

The first interesting piece of information was that the hermit had told them the name Apos was not correct. Apistis was the original; later, it was changed to Apistos, to make it more mystic. In Greek, apistis means ‘faithless’, ‘pistis the road of the faithful as in the good road you shall follow in your life.

Apistis was a monk who was stung by a hornet and started running around, shouting that he had lost his faith. He also jeered at others and called them stupid. A mermaid-woman was also in the picture somehow; he howled her name. She vanished. As he persisted, he was chased out of town. Finally, he sat down on a rock hammer and then, the hammer broke, the mountainside slid into the water and much of the town with it.

No one could say exactly when all that happened. Some of the boys, the bravest ones, had earlier tried to swim down to the wreckage but, without tanks and, as Apos was still there, they said, they had to come up again within minutes. One of them had a wound on his leg. It looked like a nibble from a shark but, he maintained that whatever-it-was swam around in a monk’s coat and sandals.

At this point, the local police arrived and, banned all diving without official permission. They sent out a professional, from the navy, to scout the area. Local TV was on its way but were stopped; unexploded ordnance from the war could be there. When the diver came back up, he had a fragmented marble disk showing a horrible-looking woman, in his hands. As he struggled to hand it over to the braves who stood on the outermost boulders, he suddenly lost his grip and, the plaque disappeared in the deep.

That stopped all further activity. The locals hurriedly returned to their homes and a ‘No Diving’ sign was put up near the beach. Since then the sunken place, reportedly an enormous city, was called APISTOS. However, the name now meant ‘losing your faith so that it sinks and you sink with it, to the realm of the sunken city’.

One Greek psychiatrist used it as a particular state of psychosis and, wrote a book, ‘The Sunken City Syndrome. He got himself a professorate for that.

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CHAPTER ONE

AMERICAN GOTHIC

Greg had used most of the flight time trying to write a kind of speech he could have ready when he found David again – if he found him. In a slow moving arrival line at San Francisco airport, he opened his tablet and went through the last lines again:

David; you’re free boy, the curse is lifted. There is nothing like that in you. The fact that your grandfather’s mother had the surname Ragoshin must be a coincidence. It is time to get back in the fold. Let us go visit your parents and, then there is your soul mate girlfriend in Japan, how about patching that up again? Let us see how Sam Sage is doing; he has probably married his old flame Melanie, is running Mystery Channel and making a ton of money, let us take a trip to London. By the way, Sveta and I ran into this guy in Kaliningrad, named Achill --

He did not quite like that paragraph, maybe because it was such a lie. The curse, if there was one, might just as well go on indefinitely. Everything they had uncovered so far indicated that his grandfather’s family name was not a coincidence. There was no fold to get back into. The outcome of a visit to David’s parents in northern California was anybody’s guess, maybe they had moved. Where his Japanese girlfriend Tsuyu was and what she was doing now was also anybody’s guess. Achill of Kaliningrad was just about the last person Greg wanted to introduce David to and, Heaven knew where his sister Svetlana had settled down, in the service of that Putinocrat.

Most of all, he had no evidence that David was alive. The evening when the boy disappeared up there in the Aleutians, Greg had collected his two newfound friends, harbor hands Hal and Lou, and they had walked down every alley, checked nooks and crannies, knocked on every door of that island settlement under the Midnight Sun that lent a surreal atmosphere to it all. Nothing. If David really believed in the curse, and that he was part of it, he was likely to have lifted a small boat, taken it out into the middle of the fiord and gone down with it, as his father was supposed to have done but, no boats were missing. No clothes and boots neatly folded at the water’s edge.

Back in David’s house in the morning, Greg found a piece of paper with doodling and the word Pangnirtung, in David’s handwriting. It also had a sketch of the devil, and the number 666. It made no sense to Greg, who was dead tired but could not sleep, just lay there gazing out a window showing the azure sky and nothing besides.

Lou and Hal had managed to find the names and whereabouts of David’s parents, and dropped by with the info. Greg showed them the piece of paper with doodling and Pangnirtung. Hal got pensive.

Rings a bell, kind of. Lou nodded.

Inuit place somewhere.

They went down to the new version of The Elbow Room, which was no longer the rowdiest bar in the United States. It was empty except for the nerd owner. However, he had Google Earth on his laptop, and suddenly rose in the esteem of the two locals. Inserting the name, the program took them to an Inuit dwelling on southern Baffin Land, Canada, hundreds of nautical miles north from where they were at that point. Greg looked at his two friends.

Best way to get there?

Hal scratched his bearded chin, looking around the bar for a hint from the Almighty. Apparently, he got one.

Best would be to call Captain Kirk and Spock and Scotty and have them beam you right up there.

The owner laughed. Greg remained pokerfaced.

And, the next best service?

That’d be tricky, even this time of year. You could rent a ship if you’re a millionaire, but even that would take a week; unruly waters, you see.

And then, we don’t really know if he is on his way up there, Lou chimed in. Unless he hitchhiked with Starship Enterprise, he’d still be en route, and people here would know about that.

So, Greg decided on the Northern California option. He rented an SUV and tapped the address of David’s parents into the GPS, then drove about a hundred miles due north to a destination he had never heard of. Clearlake in Lake County; a scenic place in the Coast Range Mountains overlooking a magnificent lake named, aptly, Clear Lake. Choosing an SUV turned out to be fortunate, as the terrain was rugged and the roads were mostly unpaved. It was a great outdoors though; hills and mountains, some volcanic but, the guide said, inactive for thousands of years. Parts of the lakeshore were touristy but the way the GPS insisted on led into a forest area largely untouched by developers’ hands. It had small vegetable fields in between, lodges and shacks well suited for alternativists and extreme survival clubs.

Rita’s and Eddie’s place was a tall, old, decrepit house-turned-grocery-store-with-antique-fuel-pump. A weather-beaten 1970 camper was parked, or rather dumped, behind the main building. No one was home, so Greg parked his rented car between two trees and sat down on the porch stairs, checking his tablet for the first time since his arrival. Achill had told him not to make use of it unless strictly necessary, for security reasons, but Greg wanted to know if Lou and Hal had new info regarding David.

There was a flashing message waiting for him, from a banker friend taking care of their fuck-you-fund.

A large sum has been withdrawn from your account.

As Greg and the banker were in the same time zone, he answered with a code meaning robbery, or my partner?

After a minute: Partner.

Greg sat back, leaned his head against a pole and let out a sigh of relief. David was alive and in sufficient possession of his faculties to make use of their account. Further, down the line Greg would like an explanation, both regarding the large sum, and why David had decided to behave like an escape artist. Now however, it was just wonderful to sit there in the sunny afternoon, close the eyes and relax.

There ain’t no gas in that old fuel pump, if that’s what you’re waiting for, mister.

Greg opened his eyes, realizing he had drifted off to sleep, deep sleep apparently, since the engine of a shabby pickup truck a few yards away had not woken him up. Eddie and Rita Olsson looked at him, how-can-we-help-you like. Something made him think of Grant Wood’s ‘American Gothic’, although in all fairness you could not say they looked like the austere couple in front of that white, church-like building. No pitchfork in Eddie’s hand. There was one on the truck’s flatbed though, and he was wearing blue overalls, but that was all. Clearly Jewish, he had a crown of curly hair going gray-white. Friendly, brown eyes, kind of stocky. Rita, although not addicted to makeup, was definitely better looking and shapelier than Wood’s lean spinster woman, and her eyes were firmly fixed on Greg, not looking away out of contempt or ill-feeling, like in the painting. Her physical likeness to David was striking.

Greg got up and presented himself as a friend and partner of their son, not realizing that he was blowing his Achill-made cover, until it was too late. Silently cursing himself, he doctored his story a bit.

Something about the company’s finances you see, and David’s gone AWOL, although I don’t think--

What is awol? Rita asked, still not mystified or irritated.

Absent without Leave, military jargon.

He has a history of doing that, Eddie said, smiling. Rita indicated the front door.

As long as you took the trouble to come all the way here from Japan, come in.

She unlocked the door and showed him into the house, while Eddie went back to the truck and proceeded to park it next to the SUV. Greg was mystified.

I didn’t mention Japan, missus Olsson.

David mentioned you in an e-mail from Okinawa, I mean, you must be Gregory the Russian, right?

Yes ma’am, I am Gregory but the Ukrainian not the Russian.

That makes all the difference, Greg.

Certainly feels that way to me.

She made him sit down in an easy chair, about as old as the house itself. That went for the whole interior decoration; it was like an antique shop although not over-furnished. Nice.

Want some Irish tea?

What is Irish tea?

Irish coffee with tea instead of coffee.

Greg gave a thumbs-up sign and she moved over to a half-open kitchen. They could still see each other.

So Greg, David gave you our address?

He decided to explain things as close to the truth as possible, featuring the Antonov saga and leaving out the Ragoshin curse part. Eddie joined them, and listened attentively to the rambling account or, rather, an account of their rambling activities. As he finished after about 20 minutes and well into the second big cup of Irish tea, Rita remained pensive for a moment then, rose and excused herself.

Just got to check something in the astrolab.

She left through a back door, while Eddie who, somehow, already seemed like an old friend, made a women, you know-gesture.

What are your plans then, Greg, I mean after we’ve settled the bit about company finances and David’s whereabouts?

Greg liked his use of we and, putting the cup down, decided to speak as frankly as he could.

Being low on funds right now and, knowing next to nothing about what David is up to, I should maybe look around for a job somewhere in these parts.

Got a Green Card?

US passport, Mister Olsson.

No problem then, and it’s Eddie.

Explaining that Rita’s ‘just got to check something’ meant at least one solid hour of conversing with the universe, universing as she said, in her astrology shack. He made Greg come along for a check of the ‘patches’ that he spent most of the day working. Stretching out over a hill behind a rustic entrance saying Eddies Gardens, it turned out to be an integrated system of half an acre to one acre plots, altogether a field with most of the fruits and vegetables of the Napa Valley; grapes, nuts, peaches, cherries, pears, prunes and, a corner with white beehives.

All-out diversity here, I see, Greg said as they walked down the narrow paths between the patches. Eddie nodded.

Monoculture is torturing the soil. Now, I could use you to help out with the fruits and veggies, paying decent wages, if you need a job.

That’d be great, Eddie.

I’ve got something special over here, by the way.

He showed Greg a row of small trees, orange-size but, with bean- or tuber-like things hanging from them. Greg had never seen anything like that before. Eddie picked one and chewed off a bit, inviting Greg to do the same. The taste, sour-sweet but mellow and pleasant, spread like a good wine in the mouth. Greg nodded, impressed.

Seems the Lord had a good day when He made those.

Creator is me, actually.

Got a name for them?

Just a formula, so far.

What are they good for?

Like the soy bean, they cover the complete protein profile, only they are about five times as nutritious and, unlike the soy bean, can be eaten raw like we’re doing right now. They also work as aphrodisiacs.

Still chewing, Greg kept staring at the unassuming man who had just about solved the global food crisis, and still looked sad.

Eddie, the value of this--I mean, multibillionaires, eat your hearts out!

Guess so.

What’s the matter?

It’ll also make the world population leap from 8 to 12 billion in rabbit-reproduction time. Who needs that?

Well, if you want to go ethical about it--

Not going ethical about such an issue today is a crime against humanity.

Greg could not help smiling. The breaking news of a planet devastated because the ruling species ate and euphorically multiplied itself to death, was good enough to broadcast all along The Milky Way. Eddie shrugged.

It is ironical, I know.

The human condition has been ironical from day one, Eddie, but, what makes you share this with me? I could come back here, cut off one of those, find a lab, have it cloned and, I’d be sitting in state on top of the world watching the last act of the human comedy.

Eddie turned and indicated they walk back to the truck.

I know you wouldn’t, Gregory. You’re a mensch.

That is a Yiddish term. Tell me, how does a Jewish person get the family name Olsson?

It was Olmert but my grandfather Christianized himself and, having fled to Sweden on account of the Nazis, changed it, just in case that country also should be invaded.

Didn’t want to change it back after the war?

It got into our US immigration papers and, as seasoned escape artists know, you don’t make unnecessary changes. Anyway, getting back to the mensch issue, if it turned out I was wrong regarding you, cloning one of those fruits wouldn’t cut it, there are too many variables for amateurs to handle.

Back at the house, they found Rita preparing dinner. Eddie went upstairs for a shower, and Greg offered to help her out in the kitchenette. She refused.

There is barely room for one person here, at least a person like me, but you could sit down on that sofa there and engage me in meaningful conversation.

Chuckling, he did as advised.

Any particular subject you would categorize as meaningful?

David wrote that you opted for practical philosophy to make sense of your life.

The point of that is you don’t sit down to philosophize or lecture about it, you take it as it comes.

I see.

She continued with the dinner