But privately, each of them had wondered if one of their friends at Oxford might not be inducted into their circle as an apprentice, or Caretaker-in-training of sorts. After all, that was how Bert and his predecessor, Jules Verne, had recruited their successors. In fact, Bert still maintained files of study on potential Caretakers, young and old, for his three protégés to observe from afar. Within the circle at Oxford, there were at least two among their friends who would qualify in matters of knowledge and creative thinking: Owen Barfield and Hugo Dyson. John expected that sometime in the future, he, Jack, and Charles would likely summon one (or both) colleagues for a long discussion of myth, and history, and languages, and then, after a hearty dinner and good drink, they would unveil the Imaginarium Geographica with a flourish, and thus induct their fellow or fellows into the ranks of the Caretakers. Other candidates might be better qualified than the Oxford dons, but familiarity begat comfort, and comfort begat trust. And in a Caretaker, trust was one of the most important qualities of all.
But none of them had anticipated having such a meeting as a matter of necessity, under circumstances that might have mortal consequences for one of their friends. Among them, Jack especially was wary of this. He had lost friends in two worlds and was reluctant to put another at risk if he could help it.
He had requested that all three of them meet for dinner with Hugo Dyson on the upcoming Saturday rather than their usual Thursday gathering time, but as it turned out, Charles was doing research for a novel in the catacombs beneath Paris and could not be reached. He’d been expected back that very day, but as they had heard nothing from him, and he had not yet appeared back in London, John and Jack decided that the meeting was too important to delay, and they confirmed the appointment with Hugo for that evening. It was agreed that the best place for it was in Jack’s rooms at Magdalen. They met there often, and so no one observing them would find anything amiss; but the rooms also afforded a degree of privacy they could not get in the open dining halls or local taverns, should the discussion turn to matters best kept secret.
This was almost inevitable, John realized with a shudder of trepidation, given the nature of the matter he and Jack needed to broach with Hugo. Oddly enough, it was actually Charles who was responsible for setting the events in motion, or rather, a small package that had been addressed to him and that he’d subsequently forwarded to Jack at Magdalen. Charles worked at the Oxford University Press, which was based in London, and very few people knew of his connection to Jack at all—much less knew enough to address the parcel, “Mr. Charles Williams, Caretaker.” Charles sent it to Jack, with the instruction that he open it together with John—and Hugo Dyson.
Invoking the title of Caretaker meant that the parcel involved the Archipelago. And Charles’s request that Hugo be invited meant that whether their colleague was ready for it or not, it might be time to reveal the Geographica to him.
When they were not adding notations—or more rarely, new maps—John kept the atlas in his private study, inside an iron box bound with locks of silver and stamped with the seal of the High King of the Archipelago, the Caretakers, and the mark of the extraordinary man who created it, who was called the Cartographer of Lost Places. In that box it was the most secure book in all the world, but now it was wrapped in oilcloth and tucked under John’s left arm as he walked through Magdalen College. Still safe, if not secure.
John shivered and hunched his shoulders as he approached the building where Jack’s rooms were, then took the steps with a single bound and opened the front door.
The rooms were spare but afforded a degree of elegance by the large quantity of rare and unusual books, which reflected a wealth of selection rather than accumulation. A number of volumes in varying sizes were neatly stacked in all the corners of the rooms and along the tops of the low shelves that were common in Oxford, which all the dons hated. Jack commented frequently that they’d probably been manufactured by dwarves, just to irritate the taller men who’d end up using them.
As John had feared, Hugo was already there, sitting on a big Chesterfield sofa in the center of the sitting room. He was being poured a second cup of Darjeeling tea by their host, who looked wryly at John as he came in.
“The frog in a bonnet set you back again, dear fellow?” said Jack.
“I’m afraid so,” John replied. “The dratted thing just won’t stay wound.”
“Hah!” chortled Hugo. “Time for a new watch, I’d say. Time. For a watch. Hah! Get it?”
Jack rolled his eyes, but John gave a polite chuckle and took a seat in a shabby but comfortable armchair opposite Hugo. The man was a scholar, but he wore the perpetual expression of someone who anticipates winning a carnival prize: anxious but cheerily hopeful. That, combined with his deep academic knowledge of English and his love of truth in all forms, made him a friend both John and Jack valued. Whether he was suited for the calling of Caretaker, however, was yet to be determined.
The three men finished their tea and then ate a sumptuous meal of roast beef, new potatoes, and a dark Irish bread, topped off with sweet biscuits and coffee. John noted that Jack then brought out the rum—much sooner than usual, and with a lesser hesitation than when Warnie was with them—and with the rum, the parcel that had been sent to Charles.
“Ah, yes,” said Hugo. “The great mystery that has brought us all together.” He leaned forward and examined the writing on the package. “Hmm. This wouldn’t be Charles Williams the writer, would it?”
Jack and John looked at each other in surprise. Few of their associates in Oxford knew of Charles, but then again, Charles did have his own reputation in London as an editor, essayist, and poet. His first novel, War in Heaven, had come out only the year before, and it was not particularly well known.
“Yes, it is,” said John. “Have you read his work?”
“Not much of it, I’m afraid,” Hugo replied. “But I’ve had my own work declined by the press, so I might find I like his writing more if my good character prevails when I do read it.
“I’m familiar with his book,” continued Hugo, “because the central object in the story is the Holy Grail.”
“The cup of Christ, from the Last Supper,” said John.
“Either that, or the vessel used to catch his blood as he hung on the cross,” answered Hugo, “depending on which version of the story you believe is more credible as a historian.”
“Or as a Christian,” said John, “although the Grail lore certainly blurs the line between history and myth.”
“It’s very interesting that you feel that way,” Jack said, unwrapping the parcel and casting a sideways glance at John, “because the line between history and myth is about to be wiped away entirely.”
Inside the brown wrapper was a book, about three inches thick and nearly ten inches square. It was bound in ancient leather, and the pages were brown with age. The upper left-hand side of the first few pages had been torn, and the rest bore several deep gashes. Otherwise, the book was intact. The cover itself was filled with ancient writing, and in the center was a detailed impression of the sacred cup itself: the Holy Grail.
Hugo stood to better take in the sight. “Impressive! Is it authentic?”
Jack examined the book in silence for a few minutes, then nodded. “It is. Sixth century, as closely as I can estimate.”
Hugo gave him an admiring look. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in this sort of historical matter.”
“I have some knowledgeable associates,” said Jack. He turned to John. “Can you read it?”
John dusted off the cover with a napkin. “Absolutely. The forms are Anglo-Saxon, but the writing itself is Gothic.”
“Gothic!” Hugo exclaimed. “No one’s used Gothic since …”
“Since the sixth century,” said John. “But it was one of my favorite languages to play with when I was younger.”
“That’s what makes him a genius,” Hugo said to Jack. “It’s all play to him.”
The two men refilled
their glasses (this time adding a bit of hot water to the rum) and stood back to let John work through the translation. After a few minutes had passed, John turned to Jack and grinned.
“It bears closer study,” he said. “If I can refine the actual letter-forms, I might even be able to compare it to some of the Histories and narrow down who the author might be. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it is one of the Histories.”
“The author?” Hugo exclaimed. “Surely you’re having a joke at my expense, my dear fellow. Narrowing down the century would be impressive enough, but I doubt the author signed his work. Not in those days.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Jack. “In a way, that’s why I asked you to come, Hugo.”
“It’s quite exceptional, really,” John exclaimed. “It purports to be a historical accounting of the lineage of the kings of England. And that history is intertwined with the mythology of the Holy Grail. Except …”
“What?” blurted Hugo.
“Except,” John finished, “it starts at least five centuries before the birth of Christ.”
“So, pure mythology rather than history,” said Jack.
“That’s debatable,” said Hugo, “but you yourself said this would wipe away the line between history and myth.”
“Indeed,” Jack said, turning to John. “Was Charles’s note correct? About the writing?”
John nodded. “The cover text is relevant, but it’s the first page that really has me baffled, the same as it did Charles.” He lifted the cover. “And for that page, there’s no need for me to translate.”
Instead of the Gothic writing on the cover, the words on the first page were written in a reddish brown ink in modern English. The page had been torn crosswise from left to right, but the message was largely intact:
The Cartographer
He who seeks the means to
the islands of the Archipelago
will follow the true Grail and
Blood will be saved, by willing choice
that time be restored for the future’s sake.
And in God’s name, don’t close the door!
—Hugo Dyson
Hugo clapped them both on the shoulders. “I knew it! Well done, you old scalawags! An excellent joke! Oh, this will be a tale to dine out on! But tell me this: Who is the Cartographer?”
CHAPTER TWO
The Door in the Wood
“It isn’t a joke, Hugo,” said Jack. “You can’t tell anyone of this. That isn’t ink. And you should take a closer look at the handwriting.”
Hugo did so, and his astonished gasp confirmed what Jack had suspected and John had just realized: The writing was in Hugo’s own hand.
“Mmm,” said John, examining the writing for himself. “You’re right, Jack. This is quite the mystery. I wonder if that’s actually Hugo’s blood?”
“Hard to say for certain,” said Jack. “It’s nearly fourteen centuries old, so there’s probably no way to tell.”
“My blood?” exclaimed Hugo. “Really now, this is carrying things on a bit past the edge, don’t you think?”
“Oh, don’t be so squeamish, Hugo,” said John. “It’s dried, after all.”
Jack sat on the sofa and leaned back, his hands behind his neck. “Let’s assume this is what it appears to be. Hugo and Charles have never met. So why would this have been sent to Charles?”
“And not only that,” John interjected, “but to him in his capacity as a Caretaker.”
“A Caretaker of what?” said Hugo. “And who is the Cartographer?”
“I think,” John said, reaching for the oilcloth-wrapped book he’d brought with him, “that it’s time we explained a few things to you, my baffled friend. Beginning with this.”
On top of the table, John unwrapped the Imaginarium Geographica.
“We’re going to need more rum,” said Jack.
As Hugo sat in stunned silence, John and Jack took turns telling him a slightly abridged version of all the adventures they had experienced as Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica. When they were finished, a completely discombobulated and still slightly skeptical Hugo Dyson squinted one eye and looked them over.
“This is all completely on the level, then?”
“As level as it’s possible to get,” said John. “And as you can see, the Geographica itself is fairly compelling evidence.”
“Indeed,” said Hugo, rising to look at the atlas. “It is extraordinary, I’ll give you that. Extraordinary. And you say this Cartographer of Lost Places created all these maps?”
“Yes,” Jack said, nodding.
“So who is he, really?”
“I don’t think anyone really knows,” said John. “Bert might have his ideas. Samaranth as well. But I’ve never come across any mention of him in any of the Histories. What we know of him is all there is to know.”
“Perhaps he’s the one who sent it,” Hugo suggested. “After all, the note I, uh, wrote seems to be for his benefit.”
John shook his head. “It wouldn’t have come by post. He’d have sent Bert, or a dragon, or a postal owl or something.”
“A postal owl?” said Jack.
“I was just giving a ‘for instance,’” said John. “I don’t think it was really delivered by an owl. Everyone knows swallows are more suited for that sort of thing, anyway.”
“That’s even worse,” said Jack. “At least a good-size owl would have a shot at lifting a heavy book. You’d need several swallows to match that.”
“He has a point,” said Hugo.
“Whatever,” said John, irritated. “What I mean is that it was sent by someone in this world, not someone in the Archipelago.”
“But who here knows that we’re the Caretakers?” asked Jack. “And why not just contact us directly?”
“Maybe they couldn’t,” offered Hugo. “Perhaps whoever sent the book was prevented from bringing it themselves.”
“I think that the reason it was addressed to Charles is obvious,” said John. “His novel proves his interest in Grail lore, and as a Caretaker he has resources other scholars wouldn’t.”
“Fair enough,” said Jack. “But what initiated Hugo’s involvement in all this?” They both turned to their friend, who gulped and grinned sheepishly.
“I’m just trying to keep up, honestly,” said Hugo. “As I said, I was familiar with Charles’s work, but my interest was in what I hoped the novel was, not what it is.
“I’m doing a lot of reading in Arthurian legends, and so of course I’m taking detours into Grail stories. I thought Charles’s book might be a nice diversion, but it was rather disappointing to discover it’s wholly contemporary. To him the Grail is an object, a device, if you will, to allow him to tell a story of the supernatural. And that wasn’t what I was looking for at all.”
“I see,” said John. “We’ll have to speak further about the Arthur legends. I think we can help you there”—he winked at Jack—“particularly with the material about his descendants.”
“You can show me the actual Histories?” Hugo exclaimed.
“Better,” said Jack. “We can show you the actual descendants.”
“We’re the last one’s godfathers,” John explained.
“Good Lord,” said Hugo.
“What I want to know is the connection between the Grail and the Cartographer,” said Jack. “How are they linked, I wonder?”
“Arthur again,” said John. “Remember, the seal of the High King is what keeps the door locked in the Keep. There must be a connection there.”
Jack snapped his fingers. “Right. I’d forgotten. So what do we do?”
“Let’s do this,” said John, rising. “Tomorrow I’ll use the Compass Rose to summon one of the Dragonships from the Archipelago, and we’ll go ask the Cartographer himself. We can answer all these questions in a matter of days.”
“You said the, uh, fortress …,” began Hugo.
“The Keep,” said Jack.
“Yes, the Keep of, uh, Time, w
as almost destroyed. Will we be able to get to him?”
John and Jack looked at each other, thinking the same thing: They were glad, in this moment, that Charles was not in the room. Despite the fact that his actions had once saved their lives, he was nevertheless responsible for the Keep being set ablaze and would have been embarrassed to discuss the matter in front of Hugo.
“Yes,” said Jack. “It’s difficult, but still possible. The fire is long extinguished, but the tower itself continues to crumble. We’ve had to spend more and more time doing damage control with the various Time Storms that have formed as a result, but just going there to speak to him shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Hmm,” said John. “I wonder if a Time Storm might not be the genesis of this book. After all, there has to be some explanation for how Hugo’s writing got on it fourteen centuries ago.”
“I’ve never seen a Time Storm here, in our world,” said Jack. “Just in the Archipelago.”
“There have been crossovers,” John pointed out. “The Bermuda Triangle, for one. And of course, the whole business with the Red Dragon.”
“Red Dragon?” asked Hugo.
“You’d know it better as the Argo,” said Jack.
“Ah,” said Hugo. He got to his feet with a visible wobble. “I think I need some air. Anyone fancy a walk?”
“Excellent idea,” agreed John.
After rewrapping the Grail book and the Geographica (in the unlikely event that one of Jack’s students or the college “scout” responsible for tidying up the rooms should wander in and find them), John, Jack, and Hugo left the New Building and headed down the direction from which John had come earlier. Addison’s Walk was a favorite stroll of theirs; it made a circuit around Magdalen from one side of the college, leading to Dover Pier, and then around to the other side along the Cherwell. It was lined with trees and grassy meadows and offered beautiful views of Magdalen Tower and the Magdalen Bridge. It was an eminently peaceful path to walk alone or with companions, and all three of them had followed it often.
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