The Tribes of Atlantis (Inspectre adventure #4)

The Tribes of Atlantis

            I cannot adequately describe the range of peculiarities one experiences when working with the Inspectre. Despite being the ghost of a long-dead human being, he is an undisputed genius in the fields of paranormal science and mechanical engineering. His laboratory is quite possibly the most advanced of its kind in any nation, his arsenal of ghost-hunting weapons is ever-expanding, and, as I have already observed, he has constructed an incredible car to speed us to any ghost-related incident in record time.

            But I’ve discovered that his genius does not stop there. As I was inspecting his underground lair one afternoon with our new ghost companion Slosh, I stumbled upon a large hangar containing a steam-powered aeroplane and helicopter, and in the next chamber, a coal-powered tugboat with a subterranean outlet to the Thames. It would seem he is quite prepared to handle any supernatural threat, be it on land, sea, or air.

            During one particularly strange week in August, the east coast of England had been shaken by a series of tremors. No damage had been done, but Scotland Yard had experienced a flood of calls from citizens who feared that the worst was yet to come. Back at the manor house, the Inspectre, Slosh, and I had been taking a bit of a holiday from paranormal studies due to recent events, and were passing the time doing other things. I had found a book of geology in the Inspectre’s library and was poring over it with the hope of finding some answers to the string of recent earthquakes. Slosh was dozing on the floor, his blue, tadpole-shaped and legless body curled up like a sleeping Labrador, while the Inspectre sat in his armchair reading the afternoon paper. I finally looked up from my book and broke the silence.

            “Seems a bit odd, doesn’t it? Earthquakes in the British Isles? I can’t seem to find anything in this book that could offer an explanation.”

            “There is none that I can think of either,” the Inspectre replied. “The closest area of repetitive seismic activity that I can think of is in Iceland. However, there is something curious in this afternoon’s paper that offers a possible, but seemingly outlandish, answer to this riddle.”

            He handed me the paper to look at while Slosh, freshly awakened from his nap by our conversing, floated up behind me to look over my shoulder. “In the gossip column, top of the page,” the Inspectre said to us.

            I flipped to the gossip column and read the headline: Madame Trevala, renowned psychic, predicts that lost island of Atlantis will rise from the depths on August 17 of this year. “But this is merely a gossip column!” I exclaimed. “We can’t take seriously the words of a superstitious gypsy. Why, she may be mad, or perhaps she made the whole story up for profit!”

            “Perhaps so. But you and I have already commented on the peculiarity of getting tremors in such a place as this. And may I remind you that it is our business to take seriously the claims of such people until they can be proven or disproven? In any case, it is a strange but plausible theory as to why earthquakes are occurring in London.”

            “But isn’t Atlantis just a fairy tale?” Slosh argued, yawning.

            “Perhaps there is more to that tale than we believe. After all, the philosopher Plato described it in such vivid detail that it seemed as though he had been there himself. What do you know of Atlantis, Baker?”

            “Only stories from my childhood,” I replied. “Tales we used to read in school. Atlantis was said to be a thriving island kingdom some four thousand years ago, the most magnificent and prosperous civilization of that age.”