“Hmm,” said John. “I wonder why they only work once? There has to be a physical principle at the heart of the dilemma somewhere.”
“There’s a rule of conservation of energy of travel in time,” said Poe, who hadn’t spoken since they’d entered the repository. “A journey into the past must be balanced by one into the future.”
“This is one of the reasons we know as much as we thought we did about the near future,” Verne put in. “All the voyaging Hank and Alvin were doing into the near past had to be counterbalanced with similar trips into the near future.”
“What we didn’t understand at the time,” said Bert, “is that in time, distance equals energy. Thus, a trip into the deeper past had to be counterbalanced by one into the far-flung future.”
“What happened when you didn’t balance the energies?” asked Jack.
“It wasn’t an academic question,” said Verne. “The energies did just fine at balancing themselves—sometimes in a catastrophic fashion.”
“We lost Pym that way,” Bert said with a reproachful glance at Poe, who remained impassive. “Arthur took an ordinary trip out into what should have been the fourth century. Instead, as far as we have been able to determine, he was ripped from his planned pathway and flung into Deep Time. To where—ah, when, we have no idea.”
“Hank didn’t have to come back, but he did anyway,” Jack said in awe. “He spent two centuries trying to get back just to tell us what he’d learned.”
“Small acts of conscience are what make the world, and eternity,” said Poe. “Those little choices, those moments, when everything diverges. Those are what we are trying to preserve.”
“We didn’t change the past, we changed our own future,” said Jack. “You said that it was necessary that we do so, and jump forward, because according to a ‘possible’ future history, we already had.”
Poe inclined his head. “That is so.”
“But,” Jack went on, not giving ground, “it seems to me all we’ve done for decades now is meddle in time trying to make up for mistakes we’d already made! Instead of trying to patch up the mistakes, and fight the Winter King over and over again—”
“He’s dead now,” Fred offered. “The bad part, anyway.”
“I know that, Fred,” said Jack. “But that’s my point. No disrespect to our own dead friend, but if all this grief and suffering is because of the accident that destroyed the Keep of Time, why don’t we go back and try to stop ourselves from doing it? Or better yet, find a way to go and defeat the Winter King in the first place, so that all the rest never needed to have happened at all?”
“It didn’t have to happen, although it did,” said Poe. “Master Wells, do you have the book?”
Bert’s eyes widened in surprise, and he looked not at Poe, but at Verne. He paused a moment, as if considering a response; then, without answering, he stepped out of the room, only to return a moment later carrying one of the Histories.
Bert handed the book to Verne, who skimmed through the pages to the one he expected Poe was seeking. He tapped the page and handed it to Jack.
“This was, at one point in time, another future history,” Poe said, looking Jack directly in the eye. “It was what we call a ‘might-have-been.’ That’s a history that has not happened, but is likely to. In some cases, a might-have-been can even be viewed, as this one once was, by Masters Wells, Verne, and Sigurdsson. They recorded what they witnessed here and shared it with only one of their successors.”
“Charles,” Jack murmured as he scanned the page. “Charles knew about this?”
Poe didn’t reply. Jack continued reading, and suddenly the blood drained from his face. “Dear god in heaven,” he breathed. “I—I never realized …”
“What is it?” asked John, a look of concern etched on his face. “What does it say?”
Jack looked up, his face still ashen. “The destruction of the keep wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said slowly, as if he could not quite accept the words he was speaking. “In fact, according to this, we weren’t supposed to reach the keep at all.”
“Then what did happen?’
“You were the three Caretakers of prophecy,” said Verne, “who were meant to defeat the Winter King. And you did, during your first encounter.”
“We did?” John said, astonished. “What went wrong?”
“Indeed,” said Bert, “but nothing went wrong, practically speaking. What happened is that something went right.”
“Our first meeting,” Jack said to John, pointing with a shaking finger at the pages, “when the Black Dragon overtook the Indigo Dragon. The Winter King offered me a choice, remember? To join him?”
“And you declined,” John said, meeting his friend’s eyes, “as you knew you must.”
“But that’s just it,” said Jack. “I almost didn’t decline. I nearly chose to go with him! And according to this book, that’s exactly what I did!”
John looked at Bert and Verne, who didn’t reply. Their silence was confirmation enough.
“A man’s greatest enemy is himself,” Twain said as he lit his pipe, “and that day, in that might-have-been, Jack was defeated, and he sided with Mordred. You—and he—never went to the keep, but back toward Paralon, where Nemo was already prepared to engage in a battle. The Black Dragon attacked, and this time, was defeated. The Imaginarium Geographica was recovered, and Mordred was bound, and imprisoned in the keep along with his brother, and,” he added, eyes glittering, “you.”
Twain was pointing his pipe at Jack, who lowered the book to the table and gently closed it. “After that, Artus still became king. Nemo never died. E.R. Eddison becomes the new third Caretaker. …”
“The Great War ended a year later,” said Poe, “and this new conflict, which some call the Second Great War, never began—but not because Mordred’s shadow, as the Chancellor, wasn’t there. It never started because the Archipelago was in harmony with the Summer Country. The entire world moved forward into an idealized society, much like the kind Master Wells espouses in his writings. And all because, in that moment, you succumbed to Mordred.”
“I—I wish I didn’t know about this,” Jack said wearily. “It’s too great a burden to bear. That all the grief of two worlds is my fault …”
“You misunderstand,” Verne said gently. “We don’t tell you this so you’ll be burdened. We’re telling you so you’ll understand how great, how important it is to be able to choose.”
“And was my choice good or bad?” Jack asked. “I’m not sure I know.”
“Yes, you do,” answered Bert. “You always have, Jack. You chose according to the dictates of your heart. And you chose wisely and well. It was in that choice that you set the course of the future, and we have rallied all the powers at our disposal to see that it was not a choice made in vain.”
“My heart was tempted,” said Jack. “I really was considering his offer. I didn’t really know John or Charles. I didn’t know you. And …” He paused. “I was probably just trying to impress Aven, if you want to know the whole truth. It wasn’t an epic choice of good versus evil. It was just a choice. I’m going to have to grapple with that, Bert.”
“We all do,” Verne put in, “every day. We all grapple with the two sides of ourselves—but it’s not what you consider that matters, Jack. It’s what you do. And when it did matter, you chose not to betray the trust of your friends.”
“Small moments of conscience,” Poe repeated. “Those are worth the world, and more. So to answer your question, yes—there are zero points in time wherein we could have changed a might-have-been to an is. But in doing so, we would have lost you, and lost the man you have become. We would have Un-Named your choice. And that is the one thing we could not countenance.”
“I’m glad I never knew,” said Jack. “It would have been harder, not easier, to choose.”
“The future Histories are guides,” said Verne, “not instruction manuals. But they should never replace free agency. That’s why we di
dn’t tell you what we knew before—we needed you to choose, freely and unafraid.”
“I don’t see how we can risk trying any of these machines,” said John. “If they only work once for each of us, then there’s no point in risking another accident. We’d just be losing someone every time we tried to find a zero point that can be changed. We simply don’t know enough about what’s happened.”
“We need someone who knows a lot more about time travel,” said Jack, “and if that isn’t any of you, then I’m out of options. We’d be better off sending Hugo again.”
“That would at least be interesting,” a voice said from the ceiling, “considering the mess he made the last time.”
“Cats should be eaten, not heard,” Burton said, irritated. “What are you doing down here, anyway?”
“He’s a Cheshire cat,” said Bert. “He goes pretty much wherever he wants to go.”
“Uh-huh,” said Burton. “Poe doesn’t strike me as an animal lover.”
“You’d be surprised,” Bert replied. “He keeps an orangutan in the larder—mostly to guard the pistachio nuts. But the cat belongs to John—or more properly, John belongs to it.”
“It sort of adopted me,” John said as Grimalkin’s torso disappeared, leaving a head and tail floating in midair. “It used to be Jacob’s cat, I think.”
“And Edmund Spenser’s before that,” added Bert, “and …” He stopped and scratched his head. “Who had him before that?”
“Dante, I think,” said Verne, “but I think Roger Bacon had him first.”
“He’s sort of the animal familiar for Tamerlane House,” Bert said. “It’s hard to remember a time when he wasn’t there.”
“He wasn’t there five minutes ago,” said Jack. “And then suddenly, he was.”
“That’s a Cheshire cat for you,” said Bert.
“Grimalkin,” John said as a tail appeared above his head. “What are you doing down here?”
“Offering advice,” the Cheshire cat said as its head appeared, sans body. “There is an expert in time who is here and not in the Archipelago.”
“I hadn’t actually considered him,” Verne said thoughtfully, “but if all the Nameless Isles are here, the chances are good he is too.”
“What are you suggesting, cat?” asked Twain.
“You already know what to do,” Grimalkin said. “You need to seek the counsel of the Watchmaker.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Watchmaker
Having made this pronouncement, the Cheshire cat promptly began ignoring everyone in the room. Verne stroked his beard in thought, considering the idea. John and Jack had no idea what to think. Houdini was intrigued, as were Doyle and Burton. Having been separated from the Caretaker culture for so long, they knew very little if anything about the being who made the watches.
“If that’s such a wise course of action to take,” Burton said to the cat, “perhaps you would like to go along and make introductions.”
“For one thing, I’m not allowed there,” Grimalkin said as he licked one of his paws in apparent disinterest. “He is a Maker, one of only seven in all of creation, and as such, creatures like myself are not welcomed. Also, there are dogs.”
“What do you mean creatures like yourself?” asked John. “You’re a cat.”
“So you understand,” Grimalkin replied. His lines were beginning to fade, and his tail had already disappeared. “Cats and Makers should not mix, especially this cat, and this Maker. It was bad enough when we saw each other socially, but this is business, so it’s best for all that I stay behind.”
“I’ll go,” said Verne. “He knows me well enough, and Bert will be needed to explain what’s happened. John and Jack as well.”
“I insist—,” Burton began.
“No,” Verne said, cutting him off. “Principal Caretakers only.” His expression said that he would countenance no argument on this point, and Burton withdrew.
“What about me?” asked Fred. “Shouldn’t I go along as well?”
“In other circumstances, yes,” Verne said, patting the badger supportively, “but not here. The Cheshire cat is correct—the Watchmaker does not socialize well with your kind.”
“With animals, you mean?” said Fred, chagrined.
“No,” Verne answered. “With intelligent animals.”
“Mmm,” Fred mused. “That’s a little better, I guess.”
“I thought we were cut off from the Archipelago,” said Jack. “How are we to get to him?”
“He’s not in the Archipelago,” Verne said with a sly grin. “In fact, he’s much closer than you realize.”
Within a hour the tides were low enough that the companions were able to cross to the small island in the northeastern corner of the Nameless Isles, where Verne said the Watchmaker could most likely be found. “He’s often here, working,” the Frenchman explained as they waded through the shallow water. “He isn’t confined, as Merlin was.”
“Is he like the Cartographer, then?” John asked.
“In some ways yes, in others, no,” Verne replied. “We don’t know much about him, to be honest. We know he’s old, very, very old, but doesn’t look it. He’s a friend of Samaranth but seldom speaks of him and how they met. And once, when I came to see him with no advance notice, I saw him—only it was not him. He appeared to be a twelve-foot-tall mantis. I blinked, and an instant later he was just a man again.”
“Did you ask him about that?” asked Jack.
Verne laughed under his breath. “I did. He apologized for being dressed too formally and said he had not yet had time to change after another meeting.”
“Intriguing,” said John. “So he isn’t human, then?”
“Oh, he’s human,” said Bert, “or at least, he started as one. Whatever else he became, who can say?”
The companions traversed the next hollow, where Verne signaled for them to stop. Up above them were three massive dogs standing guard at the crest of the hill.
One was the size of a normal, large dog. The next was the size of a small pony. And the third was the size of an ox. All three had massive round eyes the size of dinner plates—and those eyes were fixed intently on these possible trespassers.
“Ho, Fios,” Verne said as he raised a hand in greeting.
“Well met, Master Verne,” the smallest of the dogs replied. “Is your hunting good?”
“It is,” Verne replied. “Ho, Luaths.”
“Well met, Master Verne,” the second dog said, sniffing. “One of your friends—he smells of cat.”
John frowned. “Uh, sorry about that.”
Verne looked slightly alarmed but continued to smile. “Ho, Tron,” he said to the largest dog. “May we pass?”
“Well met, Master Verne,” the dog replied, stepping aside to make an opening between himself and the other dogs. “You may pass.”
The four companions walked between the huge animals and down the other side of the hill, where there was a small structure made of stone and marble. It resembled a crypt, or an elaborate barrow, and it had a broad door that opened onto steps that led to a shallow chamber.
“That was a bit chilling,” Jack said as he and Bert removed four torches from a niche in the wall. “I suppose if you’re being guarded by fellows like that you don’t need fancy locks or a riddle in code.”
“Exactly,” Verne said as he lit the torches. “The dogs, whose names mean Knowledge, Swiftness, and Heaviness, incidentally, are good judges of character. They go by scent alone—anyone who doesn’t pass is ripped to pieces.”
“So the cat thing …,” John began.
“Oh, I’m sure it would have been nothing,” said Verne as he stepped down into the darkness, “although for a moment there, I did think it was a shame we hadn’t had Basil start a portrait for you yet.”
Inside the chamber a great stone tablet was set into the earth and ringed about with smaller stones, all covered with runes.
Jack touched some of the stones, which were wo
rn smooth with age. He looked questioningly at John, who shook his head. “They’re beyond my skill,” he said. “They may be some sort of proto-Aramaic, or Akkadian. The forms are vaguely familiar, but I can’t suss out the structure.”
“Not Akkadian,” said Verne. “Think older.”
“Cuneiform? Sanskrit?”
“Older,” said Verne. “Poe thinks they may be prehuman.”
“What can possibly be prehuman?” said Jack. “Except …”
“Angelic,” said Bert. “There’s no way to know for sure, but that’s our belief. We haven’t dared ask the Watchmaker.”
“For fear he won’t tell you?” asked John.
“No,” said Verne. “For fear he might.”
Bert placed his watch into an indentation in one of the stones. Suddenly the great stone slab began to slide back into the hill, revealing a narrow set of steps that dropped away into the darkness.
Bert nodded in satisfaction as he pocketed the watch and lit up the torch he was carrying. “It’s always a comfort to do that,” he said, grinning. “It’s like a ritual of acceptance, to ask for entry and be approved.”
“I’m all for security,” said Jack, “but really, after the dogs, this might be overkill.”
“Oh, we only just put the dogs here seven years ago,” said Bert as he stepped down onto the stone stairway. “Verne thought it was time to start considering some extra security, just in case.”
“How long had he gone without the extra security?” John asked as he followed Bert.
Bert shrugged. “How old are the runes? Those were the first safeguards set up. I really can’t tell you when.”
John looked back at Jack, and they traded an expression of wonderment. The runes were deep, and carved in granite. To have been worn smooth by the wind and rain would take hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Their suspicion that the runes were Angelic in nature might not be so wild an idea after all.
Wordlessly they followed their mentor into the earth as the tablet slid closed above them.
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