Illustration by Romeo Esparrago
The first time I saw the Man of Light, he was feeding sea gulls on the beach. The day was cold, bleak, and windy. The sun was little more than a rumor in the afternoon sky. I approached him with my hands buried deep in my pockets and my head tucked against the wind. He was an old man with a stark-white Santa Claus beard, a faded Army jacket, and an ancient pair of jeans with holes in the knees. The birds flocked around him so thickly that he was partially covered by their flapping wings. At a comfortable distance, I stopped to watch, delighted by such an unlikely sight for a day such as this. I had walked miles down the beach in the cold, my steps just beyond the breaking waves, heartbroken for the usual reasons. But the sight of this old man sharing his bread with dozens of ravenous birds caused me to smile for reasons I could not understand.
His expression puzzled me. He must have done this deed for joy, but there was nothing joyful in his manner. His expression as the birds flocked about him was far too serious for the deed he did. I watched him until his bread was spent, and the final bird had given up. He paid me no notice, and I would have continued on with nothing more than a nod of greeting if he hadn’t spoken.
“Hello, young fellow,” he said, smiling.
“Hello,” I answered. I noted that his smile was a beautiful thing. There was a kindness in his eyes I had not expected, although the sadness remained as well. The smile moved me to add to my greeting.
“Cold day for a bird feed,” I remarked.
“Oh, they’ll eat in any kind of weather, the little gluttons.”
“Wasn’t anything wrong with their appetite, from my view.”
Then we stood regarding one another awkwardly for a moment. It seemed, somehow, that we should have more to say, but neither of us knew quite what it was. Just as I was about to bid him farewell, he spoke again.
“How far did you walk down the beach today, young man?”
“I don’t know. Two or three miles, probably. I had some things on my mind.” I was not one to speak personally to strangers, and even this small confession shocked me as it left my mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “I could tell by the look on your face. I ought to know. I’ve had some thoughts in my own mind for quite some time myself.”
I found myself moving closer to the old man, so that we could speak without raising our voices to be heard over the wind and the surf. An onlooker could have taken us for father and son rather than the strangers we were.
“Do you always feed sea gulls on days like this?”
“No. Not always. I came out today to mull things over as I often do. I think about what might have been sometimes. I’ve been coming here off and on for a very long time, actually.”
“I came out for the same reasons, but only for today.”
“The ocean is a fine place for it,” he said. He turned his head to study it and I followed his example. For a time, we watched the waves in silence as they crashed like marching soldiers against the sand.
“Would you like to hear a story?” he asked. “It’s a true story, but impossible to believe.”
“I’d like to hear a story.”
“I will tell it as it happened.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and his voice never wavered.
* * *
“I once lived in a city you have heard of: a place of legend and mysticism. But it was as real as you or I. It was as real as those waters in front of us and the cold wind that bites our faces. I am the last living citizen of that city that was once the jewel of the Earth. It was a city of silver streets and gold-plated buildings. It was a city of peace and knowledge with wise governors and beautiful people. The name of this city was Atlantis.
