“We are indeed,” stated Charles, with a furtive look at Bert and Aven. “How can we fail, with our good-luck girl Laura Glue guiding us?”
John examined the History to discover the next steps they needed to take, while the others scouted the beach. It was decided that building a fire would be too risky, since it might draw attention to them, and at the moment they had no idea where the army of golden giants was.
Laura Glue told them that the giants were not the same as the Clockworks her grandfather had warned her about, the ones they believed had taken the Lost Boys. This was both reassuring and troubling at once. It meant that there was an additional mystery to be solved, but also that there might be another adversary to be dealt with.
Bert calculated that a stone from the keep was falling about every hour, which meant that every three days or so another intersection crumbled, and another door fell too. So every three days, another entry point into the past became unfocused, uncontrolled, and loosed upon the world.
“Stay close,” Bert cautioned. “Jules and I have had no small experience with Time, and if there are any ‘soft places’ about, I don’t want any of us to step into them by accident.”
“Look for a horn,” John said suddenly. “Somewhere here on the shore should be a horn to summon a ferryman.”
In short order, Aven called out to them from an outcropping just to the north. There, on a tripod of ash, bound with a silver cord, was a conch shell.
“I think this is it,” said John. “Do any of you know how to use it?”
Without replying, Aven lifted the conch to her lips and sounded a long, clear note that echoed across the water.
In moments, as if from nowhere, a long, flat boat appeared, propelled by a ferryman using a tall black pole.
He was dressed in a black leather coat and wore his hair cropped short. His skin was pale and his hair so white it was devoid of color, but he seemed no older than John, and his face was expressionless. He wore round black glasses that hid his eyes, but as the boat approached he raised a hand in greeting.
Charles gulped. “Are…are you Charon?” he said hesitantly.
The man nodded once. “I was called as such, long ago. Charon, Methos, Morpheus…These were all my names, once upon a time. But now I am simply called Kilroy. Have you a coin for the passage?”
John looked at Aven in alarm. Talos had taken the bundles, and with them anything else Daedalus had included to aid in their passage between the islands.
“What kind of coin?” Charles asked suddenly.
“A silver talent is traditional,” replied Kilroy, “but any silver coin will do.”
Charles fumbled around in his pockets for a moment, pulling them all inside out until finally he found what he was looking for. “Aha!” he said triumphantly. “Will this do the trick?”
“An Irish punt?” John said in surprise.
“It’s my lucky coin,” said Charles.
“I’m not so sure it works,” John said wryly.
“That’s why I hadn’t mentioned it before,” Charles admitted, “but on the other hand, I’ve got it now, and that’s lucky enough, isn’t it?”
He handed the coin to the ferryman, who didn’t so much as glance at it before putting it inside the black coat. Kilroy moved back and motioned for them to step onto the boat.
The companions took their seats, and with no apparent effort, the ferryman pushed off with the pole and the boat slid smoothly into open water.
Jack woke in darkness.
Feeling his way around, he discovered he was in a small stone room, approximately ten feet wide and twelve feet long. The ceiling was high, and the walls had brackets for candles, but there was no other decoration in the room, which was obviously a cell of some sort.
The door was stout, and near the top, higher than Jack could jump, was a small window inset with iron bars.
There was just enough ambient light out in the corridor for him to see once his eyes had adjusted, but only just. And it was far too little to tell if he still retained his second shadow.
“Hello?” Jack called, hesitant. “Is anyone there?”
An unexpected answer came drifting through the small window.
It was a song. A child’s rhyme, sung by a child’s voice.
Ring a ring o’roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down.
Jack shuddered. It was the song made up by children during the time of the plague in London. It was an older version than the one he himself had known as a child—the first time he was a child—but authentic. “A-tishoo! A-tishoo!” told him so. Sneezing was a common symptom of plague victims—before they fell down dead by the thousands.
He called out again. “I’m Jack. Who are you? Who’s there?”
The singing stopped abruptly. Then, hesitantly, a girl’s voice answered. “Abby. Abby Tornado. Why be you here, Jack?”
“A giant golden Clockwork captured me,” Jack replied. “And when I woke up, I was in this room.”
“A golden Clockwork?” said another voice, a boy this time. “I should have liked to seen that, I should. I were only taken by a common-variety Clockwork, neh?”
“Are you the Lost Boys?” Jack asked. “Is this where you were taken?”
“Some of us are, and some of us aren’t,” said Abby Tornado. “There be lots an’ lots o’ children here. Some of us be from Haven, and some from elsewheres.”
“I’m from a place called Prydain,” said the boy. “An’ I want to go home.”
Prydain. In the Archipelago of Dreams. Jack had found some of the missing children, at least.
“Why were you brought here?” said Jack. “What is this place?”
“It was supposed to be a great game,” the boy explained. “That’s all it was—just a game.
“A boy like us, but who wore a golden coat and the head and horns of a ram, came to us and told us that if we played a game with him, we would be taken to a place called Pleasure Island, where we’d never have to go to bed, and we could eat cakes and sweets, and no one would tell us what to do, because there are no grown-ups on Pleasure Island, none at all.”
“What was the game he asked you to play?”
“We were to sneak out of our beds after dark,” said the boy, “and were to go to the docks. Then, as the clocks struck midnight, we set the ships on fire.”
“Why would you do that?” Jack exclaimed.
The boy hesitated, then answered in a voice that said he was uncertain himself. “I—I don’t know. The music told us to, so we did. And after we set the fires, we waited for the King of Crickets to pick us up in his Dragonships, and they were supposed to take us to Pleasure Island, but they brung us here instead.”
A chill settled over Jack. The King of Crickets. Orpheus. That explained a great deal.
“Did the ships bring all the children here?”
“No,” said the boy. “Some of us he kept on the ships, and some of us he left here.”
“No one has been back for days,” Abby Tornado said. “We’re all hungry. You didn’t bring any food, did you?” she asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I didn’t.”
“Oh,” said Abby. “Well, do you want to play a game?”
“I don’t know many games,” Jack admitted.
“I want to play Olly Olly Oxen-Free,” said the boy. Then, in a smaller voice, he added, “I want to go home.”
“Be brave,” said Abby Tornado. “Olly Olly Oxen-Free.”
“Olly Olly Oxen-Free,” the boy replied, as did another, and another girl, then another boy, and more, until the sound was a quiet hum of children that echoed throughout the corridors of their dark, dank prison.
It began as a game, Jack said to himself, but it’s become a means of survival for them, hasn’t it? And for me, too, it seems.
Olly Olly Oxen-Free.
Kilroy the ferryman took the companions to the next island, called Fa
lun, which stood in the fourth district.
The ferryman was not verbose, but he answered any questions they asked, simply and without hesitation.
The children, Kilroy said, were most likely being taken to the seventh island in the Underneath. There was a fortress there that had often been used to keep prisoners—sometimes for centuries. And children were not excepted.
On the pebbled shore the boat slid to a halt, and Kilroy bade the companions farewell. Charles thought to ask him something more, but as the ferryman bent to adjust the rudder, Charles got a glimpse behind the dark glasses.
Kilroy had no eyes, and where they were supposed to be were rows of sharp ivory teeth.
Charles stepped quickly away from the boat and did not look back.
Falun, the sixth island, was nothing more than a great rending in the earth; a huge cleft, which glowed with the redness of the mythical Pit it inspired.
“Dante following Beatrice?” said John.
“Just so,” agreed Bert, indicating a series of steps that had been hewn into the walls. “Lead on, Caveo Principia.”
“Thanks a lot,” said John.
As with the crossing from Haven to Centrum Terrae, the opening at the bottom of the rift was connected to the next island by a bridge, although this one was not nearly as trustworthy as the first. It was made of thick, ropy strands of what could have been a spiderweb, and their feet stuck wherever they stepped. As they crossed, it became more and more of an effort to move easily, and they were all relieved when they finally set foot on solid earth once more.
“Remember,” Bert cautioned, “this is also Circe’s island. It could be more dangerous than all the rest combined.”
The island, which the History said was called Aiaia, looked like any island in the Mediterranean. There were olive trees and short, scrubby bushes, and here and there they could see scorpions lying in the warm sand.
And ahead was a great, foreboding building. It was a fortress, in every sense of the word.
The structure was not ostentatious by any means, but the various battlements and towers gave testament to what lay underneath. The towers were capped with steeply pitched roofs, and the outer wall was ringed with archways of sculpted stone. At the wall nearest the companions were three great metal-reinforced oaken doors, each with a small window inset about ten feet off the ground.
“Do we knock?” Charles asked. “What does it say in the History, John?”
“It doesn’t,” John replied. “So I suppose knocking is as good an idea as any other.”
“Then again,” said Charles, “what if it brings out more hostiles? I’d rather avoid a battle, if we can help it.”
Aven rolled her eyes and rapped her knuckles firmly on the door.
“That settles that,” said Charles.
There was no response, so Aven knocked again. Finally a panel in the window slid back and a meek voice spoke.
“What do you want?”
The companions looked at one another, and Aven gave John a nudge.
“Ah,” John began, “we’re looking for a friend of ours. A small fellow, called Jack.”
“Hmm,” the doorman said. “No Jack here, I’m afraid. No, all we’ve got here is children. Sorry I couldn’t help you.” And with that, the panel slid shut.
“Hey!” Aven yelled, pounding on the door. “Jack is a child. Let us in!”
The panel slid back again. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I can’t be expected to know a ‘Jack’ is also a child. I’ve got responsibilities, you know. Can’t keep track of everything.”
There was a clomping noise, followed by the sound of several bolts being thrown back. The door creaked open, and instead of the near giant they expected, they saw that the doorman was only four feet tall.
The curious creature had a hunchback, a carapace like a beetle’s, and six arms. There were two disks on his head, which looked as if they’d been horny growths that had been filed down. One eye was rheumy, the other an empty socket, and his face was sullen.
“Where’s Jack?” said John. “Can you take us to him?”
“I’m sorry,” the six-armed creature said plaintively. “There have to be forms. I can’t release anyone until you’ve filled out the proper forms.”
Charles stepped forward and raised a finger. “I can handle that,” he declared. “I’m an editor. I know how to deal with paperwork.”
The odd little creature led them down a series of corridors, talking all the way. Apparently he didn’t get many visitors, and so was taking full advantage of the opportunity to get acquainted.
“I’m called Asterius,” he said without looking back, “and I assure you, anything you’ve heard about me certainly isn’t true.”
“What would we have heard of you?” Bert asked.
“I can leave whenever I want,” Asterius replied, “I just choose not to. I’m also of noble blood, did you know? Could you tell? Yes,” he continued, answering himself, “noble blood. It’s obvious.”
Charles looked at John and twirled a finger at his temple. John grinned and nodded.
“I don’t usually mix with commoners, not that I have any time to,” Asterius said. “There’s always so much to do here.”
“Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” asked John.
“My house,” Asterius said, surprised. “Didn’t you know? You came to see me, after all.”
“Actually, we came for Jack,” Charles said mildly.
Asterius deflated slightly. “Oh yes, that’s right. Well, paperwork,” he said.
“You have a very large house,” Bert observed.
“As well I should,” the creature replied. “It is as big as Creation, after all.”
“That big?” said Charles.
“Oh yes,” said Asterius. “Maybe bigger.”
“Do you have many visitors?” asked Bert.
“No,” Asterius answered. “Not many. Oh, every nine years or so someone comes along who wants to fight, but that’s about it.”
The corridor opened into a broad room filled with shelves, old bones, and papyrus rolls. The little creature positioned himself on a high stool and began to shuffle through a sheaf of documents.
“Yes,” he continued, somewhat mournfully. “Ever since that brat Theseus put my eye out, I’ve been stuck here at…at…a desk job. I should be out wandering the countryside, spreading fear and terror wherever I roam….”
Asterius sighed. He looked at Charles with a wan eye. “You don’t believe me. You don’t think I’m capable of spreading fear, do you? I never get any respect.”
“Oh, I assure you, you’re considerably fearsome,” Charles said, elbowing John.
“Oh, yes,” agreed John. “Fearful. Terrifying. I wouldn’t sleep for nights if I even got a glimpse of you on the horizon.”
“Really?” the little creature said, eyes brightening. He sat slightly taller (as much taller as the carapace would allow) and seemed to puff out his chest. “Well then, now that’s been established, what can I do for you?”
“Jack,” Aven said, exasperated. “We’re here for Jack.”
“Hmm,” said Asterius. “All I have here is unsuitables. Is Jack unsuitable?”
“Unsuitable for what?” said John.
“To fight,” said Asterius. “To fight in the Great Crusade. Those who were suitable went with the king, and those who were unsuitable came here. You really are rather unlearned, aren’t you?”
Having found whatever documentation it was he needed, Asterius led the companions back into the great labyrinth of halls and corridors, still talking all the way.
“Here we are,” he announced, hefting the lamp to a short pedestal to better light the spacious room they had entered. “The Aedificium.”
It was a great octagon, but, their strange guide explained, it appeared from a distance as a tetragon.
“Why is that significant?” asked John.
“It’s a Christian conceit,” said Charles. “The tetragon is supposed to be the perfect physi
cal expression of the permanence and solidity of the Kingdom of God.”
“The Abbey of the Rose!” Bert exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “Stellan knew of it. He once said that the design of this place was based on the original plans for the library of Babel, although whether he meant before or after the Great Confusion, I’m not sure.”
All the shelves in the Aedificium, or sacred library, were heavily laden with Bibles. There were incunabula from centuries past; leatherbound Bibles from recent decades; and hand-bound, illuminated manuscripts that had been lovingly, carefully illustrated by the monks who had once resided in the abbey.
In his conservative estimate, John calculated that the room contained twelve thousand Bibles.
“The other papers are in order, so if you’ll just choose the Bible that opens the gate,” said Asterius, pointing to an impassably solid wrought-iron door, “then we can go retrieve your ‘Jack.’”
“Which one do we choose?” asked John.
“I’m not doing this for my health, you know,” Asterius complained. “There are covenants, and there are bindings, and I’ve already extended courtesies to you regarding the discrepancies in the paperwork, but if you don’t even know how to get in…” The little creature let the words trail off into silence, as the companions looked around in despair at all the books.
“Here,” said Bert, pointing to letters engraved above the gate. “Perhaps this will give us a clue.”
“Could it be a riddle, like the one outside Samaranth’s lair?” asked Aven. “Or a magic word?”
Bert shook his head. “The monks of the abbey would have eschewed any use of magic words. A riddle is possible, though. Can you read what it says?”
“I can,” said Charles, taking the lamp from Asterius and holding it high to illuminate the lettering. “It’s Hebrew.”
He looked over the letters for a moment, lips moving silently, then turned to the others. “I think it is a riddle,” he told them, “but I don’t know what it means, because the phrase itself is no mystery at all.”
He turned back to the riddle and began to recite: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.”
The Search for the Red Dragon Page 24