The sight waxed slowly before him. At first it seemed little, and he supposed people made much of it only because they knew nothing better. As he neared, the sense of its mass grew and grew. Within a time-worn earthen rampart loomed a triple ring of standing stones, perhaps seventy cubits wide, the tallest of them well-nigh three man-heights, slabs almost as huge joining them on top, gray, lichenous, weathered, powerful beyond his understanding.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“You’ve seen megalithic works in the South, haven’t you?” Hanno’s voice was less calm than his words, hushed beneath the wind.
“Yes, but nothing like—Ask!”
Hanno turned to Segovax. Keltic lilted between them.
“He says giants built it in the morning of the world,” Hanno told Pytheas.
“Then his people are as ignorant as we,” the Greek said low, “We’ll camp here, overnight at least. Maybe we can learn something.” It was more a prayer than a hope.
Throughout the rest of the day he devoted himself to his eyes and his instruments. Hanno could give scant help and Segovax hardly any information. Once Pytheas spent a long time finding the exact center of the complex and sighting from there. “I think,” he said as he pointed, “that yonder stone outside—the sun will be seen to rise over it on Midsummer’s Day, But I cannot be sure, and we cannot wait to find out, can we?”
Night approached. The soldiers, who had snatched the chance to idle, started a fire, cooked food, made ready. Their talk and occasional laughter rattled meaningless. They had no reason to fear attack by mortal men, nor to wonder what ghosts might linger here.
The weather had cleared, and after full darkness Pytheas left the camp to observe, which he did at every opportunity. Hanno came along, bearing a wax tablet and stylus to record the measurements. He had the Phoenician trick of writing without light. Pytheas could use ridges and grooves to read instruments by his fingertips, measurements less close than he wished but preferable to none at all. When a stone had blocked view of flames, they were alone in the ring with the sky.
Titan blacknesses walled them in. Stars flickered between, as if trapped. Overhead curved the Galaxy, a river of mist across which winged the Swan. The Lyre hung silent. The Dragon coiled halfway around a pole strangely high hi heaven. Cold deepened with the hours, the vast wheel turned, frost formed hoar on the stones.
“Hadn’t we better get some sleep?” Hanno asked at last. “I’m forgetting what warmth feels like.”
“I suppose so.” Pytheas’ answer dragged. “I’ve learned as much as I can.” Abruptly, harshly: “It isn’t enough! It never will be. Our lives are a million years too short,”
AFTER THE long voyage north, past land that grew ever more rugged, ever more girded with holms and reefs, the coast finally bent eastward. These were waters as rough as the ground on which their surf crashed; the ships stood well out and cast anchor at sunset. It was better to huddle tireless than dare those unknown approaches. On the fourth day there appeared above haze the red and yellow heights of an island. Pytheas decided to pass between it and the main shore. His vessels battled their way on until dark.
Men saw no dawn, for air had thickened further. Aft of them a whiteness towered from edge to unseen edge of the world. They had a light breeze and visibility of about a dozen Athenian stadia, so they hoisted dripping sails. The sheer island began to fall behind them, and ahead, to starboard, they spied a murk that ought to be a lesser one. Noise of breakers loudened, an undergroundish thunder.
Then the white wall rolled over them, and they were blind. The breeze died and they lay helpless.
Never had they known or heard of a fog such as this. A man amidships saw neither bow nor stern; vision lost itself in smothering, eddying gray. Over the side he could barely make out turbulence streaked with foam. Water settled on cordage and fell off in a wicked little ram. The deck sheened with it. Wetness weighted hair, clothes, breath, while cold gnawed inward to the bone, as if he were already drowning. The formlessness was full of noise. Seas grew heavier, timbers groaned, the hull swayed crazily. Billows rushed and rumbled, surf roared. Horns hooted, crew wailed themselves hoarse, ship called desperately to unseen ship.