The Search for the Red Dragon (10 page)

“These must be fakes,” said John. “Those are obviously sketches from Leonardo Da Vinci’s notebooks.”

Bert shook his head. “Leo swiped all of that from Bacon, who got much of it from King Solomon. The difference is, Bacon gave due credit to Solomon. Leo just preened about pretending to be a genius.”

“I’m astonished,” said Charles. “Leonardo Da Vinci?”

“He had a lot of potential,” said Bert, sighing. “Then Michaelangelo came along, and all bets were off. After that, it was all about trying to show up the newcomer.”

“Salieri and Mozart,” said John.

“Precisely,” agreed Bert. “Except Salieri didn’t have someone better to steal from. Leo had Roger Bacon.”

“At least we know the
Mona Lisa
was authentically his, anyway,” said Charles.

In response, Bert laid a finger along his nose and looked over the books they’d set aside. In a moment he’d found the one he wanted and opened it to a center-spread engraving, which he showed to Charles.

“My God,” Charles exclaimed. “Then who was she, really?”

“A kitchen maid from the court of King Edward,” said Bert. “I imagine she was smiling because Bacon was doing something profane while he sketched her.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” said Charles.

“I think I’ve found something,” said Artus, who’d been reading as the others talked. “It’s in a Latin grammar, which he seems to have been developing as a primer for some of the languages in the Archipelago.”

Artus sat with the book, and the others crowded behind him for a look. He pointed at a passage written in the margins. “Here. It looks as if he wanted to record a happening and had no other materials to write on. See?” he said, thumbing through the sheets of vellum. “It goes on for several pages.”

“What makes you think it’s important, Artus?” asked John.

“This,” said the king, indicating at the second page. “He refers to the ‘construction’ of two mechanical men, but calls them by name before the task has been completed—so perhaps they weren’t entirely mechanical after all.”

“Half man and half machine?” said Jack. “That’s quite a concept, especially for the thirteenth century.”

“He calls them Hugh the Iron and William the Pig,” continued Artus, reading. “They may have been…John? Can you read this?”

John leaned closer and examined the text. “Brothers? Or…comrades, maybe. It’s unclear. But it does indicate that they may have represented his first experiment with constructing Clockworks—even if they began as men.

“It says there was a shipwreck of some kind, and they were nearly killed. Bacon may have saved their lives. They were both mortally wounded, and…how strange,” said John. “Bacon also says that he thought they were deaf, but that it turned out their ears had been sealed with beeswax.”

“That’s all interesting enough,” put in Jack, “but what makes you think it’s relevant to what’s occurring now?”

“The last paragraph,” said Artus excitedly. “I think this is the myth the Caretaker in London was referring to. Can you translate, John? You’re faster than I.”

Artus stood and let the Caretaker take his seat. Clearing his throat, John began to translate the sharp writing.

“It says that when he had made ‘new’ men of them, Hugh the Iron and William the Pig repaid him by turning on him and beating him nearly to death. Only the presence of several animals—including, strangely, chickens—and a friendly griffin saved him.

“Bacon writes that the brothers seemed to be entranced, or enchanted. But the whole time they were beating him, they did not speak.

“Suddenly the sky grew dark and seemed to split into shards, which fell to the horizon. A great shape, absent of form, rose and covered the sky, and Bacon swears that all the while, he could hear
the faint notes of a children’s rhyme being whistled, or played, perhaps on a pipe.

“Then, from the shattered sky, a great ship appeared and beached itself in front of them. Hugh moved to one side of it, and William to the other, and each of them placed a hand upon the prow, then together began to recite a verse:

By right and rule

For need of might

We two bind thee

We two bind thee

By blood bound

By honor given

We two bind thee

We two bind thee

For strength and speed and heaven’s power

By ancient claim in this dark hour

We two bind thee

We two bind thee

John’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “That’s uncomfortably close to another verse I once heard read.”

Artus nodded slowly in understanding. “The Summoning. For the Dragons, in the Ring on Terminus. But as I interpreted it, that could only have been spoken—effectively—by one of royal blood. Uh, me, specifically.”

“’Tis true,” said Bert. “There are very few spoken spells that
have any true power. Not enough to count on two hands. One is the Summoning…But another is the Binding. And even to have known the words to speak would have been a rare thing.”

“But that would have been during the time of Artigel’s rule,” said Artus. “I never heard of Hugh or William in the Histories.”

“Maybe these are the Histories that changed,” murmured Charles. “The unraveling and reweaving the Morgaine spoke of.”

“What happened next, John?” asked Jack. “Does it say?”

John quickly scanned the remainder of the passage. Suddenly his eyes grew wide and the blood drained from his face.

Artus gripped his friend by the shoulders in support, and finally the Caretaker Principia spoke.

“Bacon called out to them as they boarded the ship,” John said hoarsely. “A ship with a large eye inset in the upraised prow, under the head of a great serpent.”

“That’s impossible!” Bert shouted, startling the others out of the subdued calmness they’d effected. “Impossible!” he repeated, shaking. “I won’t believe it!”

“You recognize the ship?” asked Jack. “It sounds just like one of the Dragonships, but not one I remember.”

“That ship,” Bert exclaimed, “is the
Red Dragon
!”

“There’s more,” said John, who was still focused on the text. “Bacon cried out to them, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sound of his voice cleared away the mist that had settled over their minds.

“‘We have claimed our inheritance,’ Hugh replied to Bacon. ‘Tell our father that, and this also: that we will pursue our own Crusade, as he did before us, and ours will be mighty, and rend this world from Heaven to Hades.’”

“That’s our myth!” said Charles. “We—”

“There is more!” John exclaimed, standing and shaking his head from side to side. “But this can’t be right.”

He held the book closer to the lamp, then examined both sides of the paper. The dust on it was clotted, and well-absorbed into the paper. The book had not been opened in many centuries.

“It has to be a forgery,” John whispered, to no one in particular. “There’s no other explanation for this.”

He turned back to the others, his disbelief almost tangible. “The last entry,” John said slowly. “Hugh and William guided the boat back into the sea, then, as Bacon watched, they sailed it straight toward a great stone bluff, whose face split open to receive the ship.

“As it passed through, the ethereal whistling in the air became stronger, and Hugh’s countenance grew cloudy again. But William turned and looked at Bacon with tear-brimmed eyes, and called out to him:

“‘Tell Peter and Jamie I call Olly Olly Oxen-Free,’ William said. And then the stone portal slammed closed, leaving not even a seam in the rock.”

“‘Tell Peter and Jamie,’” John repeated, almost choking on the words. “That’s what William the Pig said. I think he was trying to pass a message to James Barrie and Peter Pan, by giving it to Roger Bacon seven hundred years ago.”

“She’s out of your reach, and that’s all that matters.”

The fire popped
and crackled as the chill of evening began to deepen throughout the cave.

The old man lifted his head and looked at the cave walls, which were covered with paintings. Most of the pictures were of animals, but several were of men, or creatures that resembled men. It was hard to tell.

Some of the images were ancient. Others were much more recent, and still glistened, wet, in the firelight. Those immediately opposite where the old man was sitting were so fresh that the paint dripped into a pool that had formed at his feet. There, the paint mingled with the blood that was streaming its way down his calves, and he realized with a sudden clarity that his blood and the paint on the walls were practically indistinguishable.

The cave was spartan in its decor. Other than the construct holding the old man, there were few furnishings: a couple of chairs, a great mirror with an ornate silver frame, and a battered old wardrobe covered in chains that were fastened with dozens of padlocks.

Nearer the back was something resembling an altar, and on it was a human head draped with a scarlet cloth. This didn’t bother
the old man, who had seen many heads in his time. What rattled him was the fact that he had heard his captor
talking
to it before it had been placed in the cave.

A clicking and popping noise—the sounds of thousands of insects scuttling across the granite floor—told him that his captor had returned and was approaching the mouth of the cave. The old man’s arms tensed against the leather thongs that tied him to the frame. It was normally used for skinning animals, but it served its current purpose just as well.

The clicking noises subsided, and a sallow voice echoed throughout the small cavern.

“Where did you send her?” his captor asked, as he had the night before, and the night before that, but more insistent this time. “I must know. It is in your best interests that I know.”

“She’s out of your reach, and that’s all that matters,” said the old man. “Where she has gone, you cannot follow.”

His captor responded with a sound that was half laughter, half a contemptuous snort. “You don’t think I know where’s she’s gone? Or that I can’t follow her as I choose?”

“Follow her?” said the old man. “You can’t even enter this
cave
. So I don’t think you are as free as you think. Because if you were, you wouldn’t need
me
.”

The other speaker started to spit out a reply, then seemed to acquiesce. “Well played. But I mean to find out, whatever it takes.”

The voice became lower then, almost a purr, as a different approach was tested. “Ah, you and I, Peter…We are old adversaries, are we not? But does that not also make us brothers, of a sort? And can we not set aside old grievances and come together?
You could be first among my allies—my most trusted general. What do you say?”

With the mention of his name, the old man’s eyes widened in alarm, before settling into a resigned calmness. He smiled, and let out a short chuckle. Echoing off the cave walls, it sounded like the laughter of a child.

“You’ve finally made a mistake,” the old man said. “I know who you are now. That has always been your problem—you simply can’t bear for anyone not to know who’s really pulling the strings, so to speak. I wasn’t going to help you to begin with. But now—never.”

“I could
make
you tell,” his captor hissed.

The old man chuckled again. “Not likely. The pipes don’t work on Longbeards.”

“All right,” the other speaker said, retreating a bit. “Perhaps if I offered you something you value more than power. If you will simply tell me where you sent the girl, and for what purpose, then perhaps…Perhaps I will allow you to return to the Well—one last time….”

The old man laughed once more, but could not disguise the brief flash of longing that crossed his features. He blinked and pursed his lips.

“Thank you, no. I think I’ll take my chances. Being old isn’t as bad as I expected it to be. After all, you know what they say—you’re as young as you feel.”

He tipped his head back and crowed, and the sound was both mocking and triumphant. And then he smiled.

The sudden crescendo of insect noises told the old man that his captor was both livid and gesturing to summon his
servants. In a moment several animals had filled the cave entrance. A few made snuffling sounds; one or two were growling. All seemed to be waiting for further instruction. One of them sneezed, then rubbed at its face with a grubby, five-fingered paw.

And then the old man realized they were not animals after all. They were children.

The wolf-child sneezed again. Irritated and distracted, the captor snarled a rebuke, and in that moment the old man saw his chance.

Quickly, he whispered a few words in an ancient tongue, and in an instant, his shadow had separated itself from his body and flew along the ceiling of the cave toward the opening.

His captor cursed and ordered the feral children inside the cave to kick sand over the fire, reducing it to smoke and embers—but it was too late.

The beast-children looked to their leader for the order to pursue this new prey, but he shook his head.

“Let it go. It isn’t that important. It is only his shadow, after all.”

Again he addressed the old man, who was hanging more slackly in the frame, but whose eyes were now glittering. “Let’s begin again, shall we?”

“I can’t believe it,” said Jack, his voice echoing loudly through the halls of the Great Whatsit. “We’re trying too hard to find meaning in meaningless things. You’re seeing connections that aren’t there, John.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Bert, who had calmed down somewhat. “In fact, I think John is exactly right. I think William was trying to
pass a message on. And Peter got it, which is why he sent Laura Glue to Jamie.”

“Perhaps this was the
Liber
the Morgaine referred to,” Charles offered. “It did reveal a missing Dragonship.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Jack, “but what’s the logic that holds this all together?”

“The ship,” said a voice from the open doorway. “Father’s right. The ship Bacon described wasn’t just any vessel. It
was
the
Red Dragon
.”

As one, the companions turned and looked at the speaker. Tall, with a more regal bearing than they’d remembered despite her rough sailor’s clothing, Aven regarded them all coolly before lifting her chin and giving them a half smile.

“I must admit,” she said, “I didn’t think two of you would come, much less all three. But I’m very…I’m…”

Bert rushed to his daughter and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened at first, then relaxed and returned his embrace. Aven looked up at the three Caretakers and gave them a sincere if weary smile. “I’m very pleased to see you. All of you.”

One by one she gave each of them a brief hug, and kisses on both cheeks. Not an entirely informal greeting, but when she came to Artus, she gave him the same—no more, no less. Charles and John exchanged a puzzled glance, which didn’t escape Artus’s notice.

“You didn’t tell them, did you?” he said to Bert.

“Tell them what?” said Aven.

“It’s none of our business,” said Jack, who had also noted the casual way she had greeted the king. “It’s just that if we hadn’t known better, we wouldn’t have thought you were greeting your husband.”

Aven looked startled. “Husband? You mean Artus?”

“O-of course,” John stammered. “He’s the king, and you’re, uh…”

Aven lifted her chin and looked at them. “He is the king,” she said. “But he is not now, nor has he ever been, my husband.”

“But—but,” Jack started. “That’s, that’s…” He stopped speaking and just looked from Aven to Artus, dumbfounded.

“Aren’t you the queen, Aven?” Charles asked. “I had the understanding—”

Artus cut off the discussion with a gesture. “She is, for all intents and purposes, the royal consort. In effect, she is queen. She and no other helps me to guide the affairs of the Archipelago. But if we had married—formally, as a matter of statesmanship—then she would have been expected to remain on Paralon. And that would not have made her happy.”

“So you refused to marry Artus, just so you wouldn’t have to be confined to Paralon?” said Jack.

“You misunderstand,” said Artus. “I chose not to force her into a marriage that would have filled her days with sorrow and longing.”

“Bear in mind,” John said to Jack, “this is the Archipelago. Our conventions are not necessarily theirs.”

“I’m just a bit startled, is all,” Jack said. “I apologize, Aven, for saying anything out of turn.”

“You didn’t,” said Aven. “But now you know. And despite my wanderlust, I always come back to Paralon. My family is here—both Artus, and…”

Her voice broke, and she pulled her vest tighter. She turned to Artus. “I’ve toured the entire northern perimeter of
Paralon. Not a single ship escaped being torched. It’s almost as if a signal was given to an invisible enemy, and all of them were destroyed in a single stroke. Have you heard any news from Samaranth?”

Artus hesitated, then shook his head. “The last report came just as we sent Bert for the Caretaker Principia. There’s been nothing since then.” He paused, considering. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen
any
dragons in more than a day. I wonder where they’ve all gotten to?”

“And the children?” asked Bert. “Are there any more missing?”

“From every village,” Aven said. “The only ones who were spared were too small, or ill.”

“One escaped,” said Charles. “A girl with artificial wings, who called herself Laura Glue.”

“Laura Glue!” exclaimed Aven. “Where is she? Is she here? What did she say?”

“Actually,” said Jack, “we left her sleeping in a wardrobe at James Barrie’s house.”

At the mention of Barrie, Aven’s expression darkened, but she only nodded in understanding. “That’s who she
should
have gone to. Tell me everything.”

After Artus, Bert, and the Caretakers gave her a hurried explanation, Aven sat at the table and looked over the book where they had found mention of a Crusade.

“Jamie didn’t know what the message meant,” said Bert. “‘The Crusade has begun.’ It meant nothing to him, except for a fragment of a memory.”

“This is the fragment,” Aven said, tapping the book. “The
message is what tells me so. And Jamie knows more than he’s led you to believe.”

“Why?” John wondered. “What can possibly connect Jamie and the two men Bacon wrote about? And why wouldn’t he tell us if he knew something more?”

Aven set her jaw and looked at John. “Olly Olly Oxen-Free was the game Peter and Jamie taught all the Lost Boys. They invented it. It’s not a coincidence that the game and its creators are mentioned in the same passage.

“The ship described in that book—the
Red Dragon
—has been seen firsthand only once in the history of the Archipelago. Everything else has been a story—the ‘friend of a friend whose cousin once saw it’ sort of stories. Even here in the archives, despite centuries of writing and record-keeping, there have hardly ever been any mentions of it at all.”

“Precisely four,” Bert interjected. “The first recorded sighting was when Ordo Maas built it from the wreck of the
Argo
. The second was during the first great battle between Arthur and Mordred. The accounting you just read would be the third.”

“When was the fourth?” Artus asked.

Aven glanced at her father and hesitated. “It’s in a book from Verne’s personal archive. A future history that may or may not happen. And that’s what concerns me—the
Red Dragon
seems lost not just in
space
, but also in
time
.

“The Morgaine said that the change that altered the course of history occurred seven centuries ago—but that the event that caused the change happened only nine years ago, because of something
you
did.”

“Really,” said John, “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out
what we did wrong, but I can’t think of anything we did that wasn’t necessary to defeat Mordred.”

“Jules would say that nothing you did
was
wrong, young John,” said Bert. “There are only choices that move us into the future—even if, at times, we seem to go back.

“It stands to reason that all of this is connected—and there was only one place you went to where Time itself could have been affected.”

“The Keep of Time,” said Charles. “Of course!”

“That’s it, then,” said John. “We’re going back to see the Cartographer of Lost Places.”

The companions each said good-bye to Artus, who already appeared apprehensive about the line of officials who had gathered outside the library with yet more documents and decrees that needed his attention, and began winding their way out of the Great Whatsit. As Jack turned to follow the others, Artus grasped his arm and pulled him over to a shallow alcove.