Here, There Be Dragons tcotig-1

by James A. Owen

  “There is indeed,” said Bert. “It’s an island that actually straddles the border between the waters of the world you know and those of the Archipelago.

  “I don’t know what it was originally called—the professor could have told you, John—but for the past thousand years, it has been known as Avalon.”

  Aven estimated that they were still at least an hour out from Avalon, and she suggested that her reluctant passengers try to settle in and enjoy the ride. The night air was cool but not chill, and the calm waters made for mellow sailing.

  Bert noticed that John seemed to be avoiding going anywhere near the Imaginarium Geographica, choosing instead to observe the others from the foredeck, where he could watch for the island. Charles was shaking his head every few moments, as if doing so might wake him from the undigested-mustard-and-cheese nightmare in which he found himself. And Jack acted as if whatever danger or inconvenience he had to endure would be worth the trouble, as long as he could remain in close proximity to Aven.

  The crew of the Indigo Dragon were, as it turned out, fauns: the half-men, half-goat creatures of myth. Aven explained that while their short stature made them rather disagreeable, their inborn ability—from the goat half of their heritage, John had no doubt—to scale mountainous terrain also came in handy on a tempest-tossed deck.

  “It’s an amazing sight,” Aven said. “Twenty-foot waves, decks as slick as ice, rain all but blinding, and these fellows walk about as if they were strolling in the park.”

  “Actually,” said Jack, “I would’ve thought satyrs would be better—larger and stronger, you know?”

  “Satyrs, fft,” Aven hissed. “Stronger, sure—but they spend all their time drinking, and when they’re not drinking, they’re chasing women. More trouble than help.”

  “Fauns don’t drink?” asked Jack.

  “Not like satyrs,” said Aven. “The strongest thing fauns drink is a flaming rum punch. Usually it’s nothing more potent than a nice mulled wine.”

  “You do realize you’re arguing about mythological creatures that can’t possibly exist,” said Charles, waving his arms. “There are no such things as fauns and satyrs!”

  As if in answer, one of the crew dropped a heavy spare mast bracing on Charles’s foot, then picked it up and tipped his hat in mock apology before passing through to the cabin.

  Charles howled and sat on the deck, massaging his injured foot.

  “I think that nonexistent mythological creature just broke some of your toes,” Jack said.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Charles.

  It was not long before the crewman in the crow’s nest signaled to the captain that land was in sight. On the near horizon, shrouded in fine mist and standing in high relief against the darker thunderheads beyond, was Avalon.

  The Indigo Dragon slowed and made its way through the shallows to rest against a tumbledown dock. There, a pebbled beach slowly gave way to a grassy slope and a tangled thicket of growth around what had once been a grand and eloquent structure.

  John, Jack, Charles, and Bert disembarked, with Jack taking the lead ahead of his more cautious and reluctant companions. Aven stayed behind, occasionally casting suspicious glances back in the direction from which they had come.

  Atop the slope were ruined pilasters all about; broken arches, shattered foundations, crumbling stone. In the dim twilight, the young men could almost imagine the great cathedrals that may have once stood on the island—but that age was long past, and nature had since reclaimed it for herself.

  Ruined though it was, there was an undeniable atmosphere of magic and mystery about the island that permeated the ground, the trees, the very air itself. None of them had truly thought for an instant that they were actually traveling to King Arthur’s Avalon of legend, but there, in that moment, they could almost believe.

  Scattered throughout the ruins were several marble pedestals, and here and there they could see the occasional intact statue. A tallish one stood on the pedestal nearest what was once an entry hall. The statue was wrapped in vines and overgrowth, almost as if it were a shrub that had grown up in the form of a knight-at-arms.

  Jack squinted at it and was startled to see it squint back. “That statue,” he said, turning to summon the others. “I think I saw it move.”

  “Ah,” said Bert, who had anchored the group and was still some yards back, “I meant to tell you…”

  Before he could finish the thought, the object of Jack’s attention stepped off the pedestal and with a creaking of joints and metal swung his sword directly at the young man’s head.

  “Jack, get down!” John yelled, diving to pull his friend out of harm’s way. The sword passed in a sharp arc through the space where Jack had been standing as he and John collapsed in a tumble. They rolled to their feet some distance away, fists at the ready.

  They needn’t have worried. The statue—actually a knight in armor that had gone mottled green with rust and decay—could not lift the sword again for a second swing. Even stepping closer into the soft light was an effort, and they saw that his face was deeply creased with age. Age, and something more….

  “Speak,” the knight said, rasping. “Speak and be recognized.”

  Bert hurried forward and spoke for all three of them. “It’s just me, old friend—it’s Bert, and company.”

  A glint of recognition flashed in the knight’s eyes. He lowered his sword and lifted his head, peering at the intruders.

  It was plainly evident that the old sentinel was no danger. John, Jack, and Charles moved closer, but John was the first to realize what was odd about their assailant.

  “Your flesh,” he said, amazed. “It’s wood, isn’t it?”

  “Lads,” said Bert, who stepped aside and put a supporting arm around the old knight’s midriff, “I’d like you to meet the Green Knight. The Guardian of Avalon.”

  The Green Knight’s limbs and torso were hardwood—stout oaks and maples; his joints and face, soft, lined pine. His hair was a bird’s-nest tangle of bark and leafy twigs. When he spoke, it was with the creaking susurrations of an ancient willow swaying in a night breeze.

  “Forgive my hasty estimation,” he said to Jack. “If I had but known you were friend, I would not have tried to remove your head from your shoulders.”

  “He understands,” Bert interjected. “You were simply doing your job.”

  “You were French, if I am to judge by your accent,” said Jack.

  “Are French,” Charles said, underscoring the correction with a scowl at Jack.

  The knight responded with a deep, respectful bow. “A votre service, monsieur,” he said. “My strength, such as it is, is yours to command.”

  “Call me Charles—and thank you,” Charles said.

  “Charles?” the knight said with a spark of surprise in his eyes. “I was called as such, once upon a time, in another life.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Charles. “These are my friends, Jack…”

  “Hello,” said Jack, offering his hand, then examining it briefly after the knight took it in his barklike grip.

  “…and John,” finished Charles.

  “Ah,” said the knight. “The Caretaker.”

  John blinked back his surprise. “So Bert tells me,” he said. “But how would you have known?”

  “The Morgaine,” said the knight, as if that explained everything. “The Three Who Are One foretold your coming, and the dark troubles that are to follow.”

  In answer to the others’ questioning looks, Bert rubbed his chin and sighed. “This bodes ill,” he said, morose. “This bodes not well at all.”

  He turned to the Green Knight. “Take us to the Morgaine. We must know what they know—or at least, what they are willing to tell us.”

  “The Green Knights are compelled to service,” Bert said as they followed the knight’s lead and began walking counterclockwise around the perimeter of the island. “The first of them was a Crusader, who assumed the duty in exchange for a gift
of great value. Others were summoned as a means of penance, or to avenge a wrongdoing. Of the twenty-five Guardians of Avalon that have served, only our friend here and one other have chosen to do so of their own will.”

  “I’ll not argue with you, old friend,” said the knight, nodding back at Bert, “but one might say I was as compelled as all the rest.”

  “How so?” asked Charles.

  “What year is it,” the knight asked in response, “back in the world?”

  “You refer to ‘the world’ as if it were a different place,” said Jack. “But it isn’t really, is it? After all, despite what Aven claims, we did set sail in the waters of London, and as far as my senses can tell, we never left them. Surely an ocean of the world is still an ocean of the world, regardless of the strange nature of some of the lands that reside upon it.”

  “Ah, my young friend, but this world is a different place,” said the knight. “The fields you know are those of Adam and Eve, and the children who followed. The fields we walk now are far, far older.”

  “It’s 1917,” Charles put in, answering the knight’s question.

  “Ah,” the knight sighed. “Has it truly been so long, then?” He sighed again, a deep, regretful sound. For a few moments they walked along in silence before he spoke again.

  “I chose to serve as Guardian of Avalon,” the knight began, “to repay a debt I could not otherwise settle. A place in Death’s realm had been reserved for me—and another man took it in my stead.”

  “A relative, perhaps?” asked John. “Or a close friend?”

  “He was an Englishman,” the knight said. “A commoner, of humble birth, and he sacrificed himself for a matter of principle.

  “I believed, having escaped my fate, that my life would be a happy one. But his sacrifice plagued me. I was restless, unsettled. My wife and daughter, delights both, brought me no joy, for I felt it was not I who had paid the price to live in their world.

  “Then, one day, I became acquainted with one of your predecessors—a Caretaker of the Geographica. And as I told him my story, he shared one in return: that of the last Green Knight, who had grown weary of the job, weary of guarding this place, and yet had seen no relief in the offing.”

  “Not much to guard here, is there?” said Jack, glancing around at the ruined heaps of stone they seemed to be constantly passing. “Someone obviously wasn’t up to the task.”

  “Jack!” Charles chided. “That’s quite rude.”

  “Sorry,” said Jack, reddening. “But, to be fair…”

  “No, the young man is right,” said the knight. “On the surface of things, it seems there is little here of value. But sometimes, it is not about guarding something of value that is important, but rather, being a valuable guard, so that when that thing comes along that needs guarding, there is no question.”

  “And did that thing ever come along?” asked John.

  But the knight did not reply; or if he did, it was lost to the wind rushing in from the west.

  The western side of the island was a stark contrast to the spot where the Indigo Dragon had landed. Steep, sharp crags of porous volcanic rock jutted up into the side of the hills from the pounding surf below. The spray of saltwater filled their nostrils and dampened their clothes.

  “This part of Avalon lies on the Frontier,” said Bert, gesturing to the thunderheads that lined the horizon. “The actual boundary of the Archipelago. Many a ship has been lost to the storms and tidal forces here.”

  The knight led them along a winding path worn through the scrubby grasses that had taken root among the riddled stone, at points coming dangerously close to the steep dropoff to their right.

  Ahead in the gloom, nestled within the crags, was the reddish glow of a fire. On it sat an immense black cauldron, around which were seated three old women who were chanting loudly as the group approached.

  “Witches,” breathed John.

  “The Morgaine,” the knight said, nodding.

  Each witch spoke in turn, as if singing a refrain.

  “By the pricking in my breast—”

  “They come o’er East, into the West—”

  “Though tempest bar and block the way—”

  “The Mapmaker’s heir shall seek the day—”

  “’gainst evil’s might, he will persist—”

  “To restore th’ power of Arthur’s throne—”

  “Twine Paralon with the World of men—”

  “If here be dragons once again.”

  Bert and the Green Knight exchanged curious glances. Had they overheard a prophecy? Or was it simple coincidence?

  “Boy!” the third witch screeched, having finished the chant. She wore a heavy cloak and cowl, and she motioned for the companions to come closer to the fire. “Boy! Where are you? Ah there you are. Bring that over here. Quickly, quickly now!”

  A young man—or a tall boy on the verge of manhood—appeared at the mouth of the cave on the far side of the firelight, copper pot in tow.

  He was sandy-haired, dressed in simple clothes, and his face was smudged with soot, but his mouth was screwed up in an expression of determination. He may have been a servant, but it was obvious he was a good worker.

  “Boy, bring the kettle—we have visitors, rare enough to be sure, but if we don’t feed them proper and true, then they’re not likely to return,” said the first witch.

  “Right,” Jack whispered to Charles. “As if not feeding us would be the only reason.”

  “Perhaps not the only reason,” said the second witch, who had long white hair tied neatly under a scarf and a wicked grin that indicated she could hear better than Jack gave her credit for. “But perhaps our hospitality is not what you should be seeking.”

  “Uh, pleased to meet you,” said John. “And how should I address you, ah, ladies?”ra>“Now there’s a question, if ever I heard one,” said the first witch, who wore dozens of ornate necklaces and had bright eyes that flashed with intelligence. “We haven’t been asked our names since…” She scratched her head with a bird skull on a stick. “How long has it been?”

  “Since he came to Avalon,” said the second witch, hooking her thumb at the knight. “Seventy, eighty years, maybe?”

  “Yes,” the third witch nodded in agreement. “I remember. It was a Tuesday.”

  “Today is Tuesday,” offered Jack.

  “Well, that makes things easier, doesn’t it, my duck?” said the first witch. “On Tuesdays I am Ceridwen. She’s Celedriel,” Ceridwen said, gesturing at the second witch, “and she,” she continued, pointing at the sullen third witch, “is called Cul.”

  “Don’t want to be Cul,” the third witch pouted. “Want to be Gwynhfar.”

  “Now, Cul dear,” Ceridwen admonished. “For one thing, you could only be Gwynhfar on a Sunday, and it’s Tuesday. And for another, she left us long ago to marry that Wart fellow, so you wouldn’t be Gwynhfar anyway. Besides, one of us has to be Cul.”

  “Well,” Cul grumbled, “why does it have to be me?”

  “You are the youngest,” Celedriel clucked. “Can’t be a Ceridwen until you’ve been a Cul for at least another century or three.”

  “This is all very confusing,” said Charles.

  “I just call them all ‘milady,’” the knight offered. “I don’t think it matters which one answers you.”

  Jack stepped to the fire and helped the boy lift the kettle atop the cooking stones. The boy nodded, grateful, then returned to the cave.

  “Good errand boy, that Bug is,” said Ceridwen. “So glad we decided not to eat him.”

  Charles couldn’t suppress a shudder. “Is that what the, er, big cauldron is for?”

  “Oh, no, my dear,” said Celedriel. “Can’t put a living being in that one—not if you want to use them afterward.”

  “You’re thinking of the other one, dear,” Ceridwen corrected. “The pot with the ravens and writings on it—the one that was stolen by that Maggot fellow, remember? It was just a year or three before we g
ot our Bug.”

  “Maggot,” said Cul. “Heh. Have to pay the price for that someday. That was my favorite kettle.”

  “That’s just because you could keep all sorts of unusual things in it,” said Ceridwen. “Misfortune and spirits, specters and shadows.”

  “Putting things into it was easy,” said Celedriel. “It was taking them out again that was hard—because once it was open, there was no telling what would escape.

  “But—forgive me!” she exclaimed. “We’re neglecting our guests!”

  “The chant you were singing as we approached,” Bert began. “You mentioned Paralon….”

  “Paralon!” exclaimed Bug, who had been listening at the mouth of the cave. “That’s where the king lives! And his knights!”

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” grumbled Cul. “Once you get him started on knights and chivalry and whatnot, can’t shut him up for days.”

  “I’m going to be a knight,” the boy stated proudly. “A real knight—not like, um, you know.”

  The Green Knight scowled affectionately. “Brat.”

  John smiled and tousled the young man’s hair. “I’m sure you will, Bug.”

  “If miladies can spare him,” said the knight, “I would like the young squire”—Bug beamed at hearing this—“to resupply the Indigo Dragon with fresh water for its long journey to come.”

  Bert began to say that they had no need of additional supplies, but the knight cut him off. “A caution is better before than after.” He turned to the boy. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Without another word Bug took off down the path at a full run, and an odd expression of contentment came over the knight’s face. Bert gave the knight and the departing Bug a curious look, but said nothing.

  The Green Knight turned back to the Morgaine. “We have come to seek your counsel,” he said.

  “We’ve already given it,” said Cul. “Or weren’t you listening?”

  “No hand is at the rudder in Paralon,” said Celedriel. “No human hand, at least. What was lost, must be found; what was cloven, must be mended.”

  “But without the Mapmaker’s heir, all is lost,” said Ceridwen.