The night was pleasant for mid-September, and it was perfect weather for contemplating the universe. The only thing that made the stroll disquieting was the occasional shadows cast by the lamps they passed. Jack tried not to look like he was avoiding them, and he hoped John wouldn’t notice.
Hugo walked ahead of the other two, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. Occasionally he would stop and begin to utter some half-formed thought, then reconsider and keep walking. Finally he fell back with the others.
“So,” Hugo asked, “according to your experiences, all myths are real, and they happened someplace within the Archipelago?”
“That’s an awfully general statement,” said Jack. “I think it’s more reasonable to say that much of what we have believed to be myth and legend in our world here was actually derived from real events in the Archipelago. We’ve been at this Caretaking business for a number of years now, and we’re still just getting our feet wet.”
“Indeed,” said John, who was rustling around in the brush for a walking stick. “Fact and fiction do not fall into the clear patterns they once did.”
“So taken as a whole, mythology, or some of it at least, might actually be real history?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” replied Jack, “although I must admit it’s quite a relief to be able to discuss a lot of this openly with you, Hugo. It’s sometimes been very difficult to restrain myself during conversations with Owen Barfield, for example.”
“I’d imagine,” said John.
Seeing Hugo’s puzzled look, Jack explained. “In recent years Barfield has made the argument that mythology, speech, and literature all have a common source, a common origin. In the dawn of prehistory, men did not make distinctions between the literal and the metaphorical. They were one and the same.”
“The word and the thing were identical,” said Hugo.
“Exactly,” said Jack. “That can be described best as the mythological meaning—somewhere between reality and metaphor. When we translate a word, we make distinctions based on context, but early speakers didn’t.
“Barfield used the Latin word ‘spiritus’ as an example,” Jack continued. “To early man, it meant something like ‘spirit-breathwind.’ When the wind blew, it was not ‘like’ the breath of a god. It was the breath of a god. And when it referred to a speaker’s self, his own spirit, he meant it literally as the ‘breath of life.’
“What made this compelling was that I had already had several discussions along the same lines with John, Charles, and Ordo Maas in the Archipelago.”
“The shipbuilder you told me about?” asked Hugo.
“The same.” Jack nodded. “It began with the discussion of the similarities between himself, as Deucalion, and the Biblical Noah, and the fact that stories of the flood and great arks go back well before Gilgamesh.”
“But some are real, and others are myths based on the realities?” “There are different kinds of reality,” said Jack. “Barfield said mythological stories are metaphors in narrative form—but that makes them no less real.”
Hugo shook his head. “Language gives us the ability to make metaphors, but really, that’s all myths are, whether or not they were created around real happenings. Pretty them up all you like, but myths are essentially lies, and therefore worthless.”
John and Jack stopped and looked directly at Hugo. “No,” John said emphatically. “They are not lies.”
At that moment there was a rush of wind through the trees that pushed past the three friends and swirled down the shallow hill beyond. It burst upon them so suddenly and forcefully from the still, warm night that it sent a cacophony of leaves raining down from the branches, and it was nearly a full minute before the patter subsided and the walk was quiet once more.
They held their breath, standing still on the path.
“What was that all about?” exclaimed Hugo.
“Quiet,” said Jack. “Something’s changed.”
And he was right. Something had changed. There was another presence there with them, somewhere among the trees.
Unmoving, the three men looked about, but nothing seemed amiss. The streams burbled, the trees stood, somber, and the night was as quiet as it had been moments before. And then …
Something fell.
“Here,” John said, pointing off to the right. “It came from this small clearing.”
Cautiously the three scholars stepped away from the path and walked down the gentle slope, threading their way among the beeches and poplars to a small meadow that overlooked one of the streams. In the meadow, standing resolutely in the grass as if it belonged there, was a door. Not a building, just a door. It was plain, made of oak, and set into an arch of crumbling stones. A few feet away lay one of the stones—presumably the one they had heard tumble down from the frame.
All three of them noticed something else that was obviously meant for them to see: Painted across the face of the door in the same reddish brown color as the writing on the book was the image of the Grail.
Hugo turned slightly green. “If that’s more blood, I think I might lose my dinner.”
Jack let out a low whistle. He recognized the door right away. It was unmistakably one of the doors from the Keep of Time.
“But how can it possibly be here?” John said, answering Jack’s unspoken question. “And what’s the meaning of the Grail?”
“It’s not a coincidence,” said Jack. “It’s here because we are. I sense a trap.”
“That’s a bit cloak-and-dagger,” said Hugo, who was recovering from his initial surprise. “It’s just a door, isn’t it?”
“A door into some other time,” stated Jack, who was examining the door, albeit from a safe distance, “and from a place far from here.”
“Remember what the Cartographer told us,” John said. “The doorways were focal points, not actually the pathways themselves.”
“You say that like you know what it means,” said Jack, “when really, we have no clue how the Keep or the doorways worked.”
“I think you’re both getting all hot and bothered over a piffle,” said Hugo. “Besides, look.” He pointed with the toe of his shoe. “It’s already open.”
Hugo was right. The door was sitting slightly askew within the arch. Not open enough to really see through to the other side, but enough to realize it could be pulled open farther—and so Hugo reached out, and did.
“Hold on!” Jack yelled as he and John both grabbed at Hugo. “You don’t know what’s on the other side!”
“What can it hurt to open the door?” Hugo reasoned.
“You’ve obviously never been to Loch Ness,” said John.
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind,” said Jack. “Hugo may be right. Look.”
The door had swung open to reveal … nothing.
It was just meadow on the other side.
“See?” said Hugo with a chuckle. “It’s just a set dressing, perhaps meant to scare us. Or maybe you’re taking a practical joke to unprecedented heights. Either way, I think it’s harmless.”
And then, as if to prove his point, Hugo walked through the doorway, and half a dozen paces on the other side. Then he turned and spread his hands, smiling. “Gentlemen?”
John and Jack both relaxed visibly.
“I was really quite concerned for a moment,” said Jack, as he crouched to sit down in the grass. “I—“He suddenly stopped talking, and his brow furrowed.
“What?” said John.
Jack didn’t answer but started moving his head side to side, looking at Hugo. Then his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.
“Hugo!” he exclaimed. “Come back through the doorway, quickly! Hurry, man!”
Hugo chuckled again. “Jack, you sound like a mother hen. How much rum did you have, anyroad?”
John was looking around, anxious and worried. His Caretaker instincts had gone hyperactive—of them both, Jack wasn’t the one to panic easily—and he re
alized something was wrong.
Jack grabbed him and pulled him two feet to the left of the doorway. As John watched, Hugo vanished.
“Shades!” John hissed. “Hugo! Are you there?” He stepped back. Hugo reappeared.
“Have you both gone round the bend?” asked Hugo. “I’m right here.”
He was—but only if they were looking straight through the open doorway. If they moved to either side, and looked around the arch, he disappeared.
“Hugo,” said John, “we’ll explain in a moment, but for now just walk slowly toward me and through the door.”
But Hugo was having nothing of it. “This has gone far enough, I think. It’s been a grand joke you two have arranged, but I think it’s time to go.”
He walked forward and then, whether by happenstance or in defiance of his friends’ urgent pleading, he stepped over a fallen stone, and then around the frame rather than through it. And just like that, in a trice …
… Hugo Dyson was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
The Royal Animal Rescue Squad
It took several moments for John and Jack to realize what had happened—and when they did, they realized that there was very little they could actually do.
“Hugo!” John shouted. “Hugo, can you hear me?” But there was no response.
“The scenes we could view through the doorways in the Keep were static, remember?” said Jack.
“Until someone crossed the threshold,” said John. “I think Hugo put it into motion.”
“But we can see right through it!” protested Jack. “How can he have disappeared so completely?”
“It is another time,” said John, walking a wide circuit around the door. “He’s just moved out of earshot. He’s still here. He’s just … Elsewhen.”
“I really wish Charles were here,” said Jack. “This is more his forte than ours.”
“We’ll make do,” said John, hefting his walking stick with both hands. “Listen, I’m going to step inside, but I’m going to keep hold of this stick. I want you to remain here and hold on to the other end. That way, whatever happens, you can pull me back through.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I’m going to look around the corner and yell at that idiot to come back through,” said John. “With any luck, he’s stayed here in the meadow and is wondering where in Hades we got to.”
Gingerly Jack took hold of one end of the stick, and with a deep breath, John stepped through the door.
“So far so good,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “It really doesn’t look any different over here.
“Now,” he continued, “I’m going to move around the corner and see if I can spot Hugo.”
Keeping the stick firmly grasped in his left hand, John cautiously turned and moved to his right, around the arch, where he found himself looking directly …
… at Jack.
“Jack,” said John.
“John,” said Jack.
“I don’t think it worked. Why isn’t it working?”
“Maybe it’s because you’re holding on to the stick,” Jack suggested. “It’s keeping you anchored here, to this side.”
John made a noise of frustration, and then more on impulse than out of reason, let go of the stick. He leaned sideways and saw Jack leaning on the stick opposite the door.
He walked around to Jack, touching his shoulder to make sure it was not some sort of illusion, then went back through the doorway. Still nothing. Whatever it was that had happened to Hugo was not happening to John.
They tried reversing the process, this time with Jack playing the part of the canary, but with the same result.
Hugo was gone, and they were helpless to do anything about it.
* * *
The two Caretakers sat under a poplar about twenty feet from the door and stared at it, trying to decide what had just happened.
“This is bad,” said John.
“I know,” said Jack.
“This is very, very bad,” John said again.
“I know!” Jack shot back. “We’ve just lost a colleague!”
“More like we misplaced him, really,” said John. “After all, we do know where he is—it’s when that’s the problem.”
Jack scrambled to his feet. “Regardless, we haven’t the time to sit here moaning about it. We need to get to the Compass Rose and summon some help.”
“Who should we call?” asked John, standing and brushing the dry grass from his trousers. “Bert? Or perhaps Artus?”
“Whoever can get here the fastest—probably Stephen, with one of his new airships.”
“That’s right,” said John. “The magic feathers. Perhaps there’s even a ship not too far from England. It could ferry us to the Cartographer, and we can get to the bottom of all this.”
“You make it sound like getting some help is as easy as snapping your fingers,” said Jack, snapping his fingers. “If only—”
As if on cue, a ferocious rattling and roaring sound echoed across the fields, and a curious shape appeared on the other side of the Magdalen Bridge. In seconds it had moved swiftly into view.
It was a metallic conflagration of wheels, gears, levers, and belching smoke. It moved with the lurching fluidity of a caterpillar fleeing a swallow, and with the same urgency. It had a vague resemblance to the vehicle driven by their friend, the badger Tummeler, but only in the same way that an elephant and a goat were both mammals.
“Dear Lord,” declared John. “That contraption looks as if it was built by some fiend with his own three hands in the basement of a third-rate workhouse.”
“It probably was,” Jack said, “but it’s a welcome sight all the same.”
As the vehicle came closer, they could better see its makeup. It was essentially a truck, but it seemed to have unfulfilled aspirations of becoming a train. Or a fire engine. Or both. And hanging from every available surface were badgers.
In a cloud of dust and smoke, the motorized monstrosity screeched to a halt on the path above John and Jack, and a dozen badgers in emergency gear leaped to the ground. They moved into a loose formation, then saluted. After a moment (and suppressing grins), John and Jack saluted back.
The tallest of the badgers (and the one who had been driving) stepped forward and offered its paw.
John shook the animal’s paw. “I’m guessing you’re looking for us.”
“We are,” said the badger. “The Royal Animal Rescue Squad, at y’r service. Have I th’ honor of addressing Scowler Charles?”
“No, I’m John.”
“Ah,” the badger said, turning to Jack. “Then you must be …”
“I’m Jack.”
“Oh,” said the badger, craning his neck to look around the clearing. “Then Scowler Charles is …”
“In France,” said John.
As one, all the animals immediately slumped in disappointment and began fidgeting.
“Oh,” the apparent leader of the Squad said again. “We’re happy to meet you, too, but if Scowler Charles isn’t here, then p’rhaps we wasn’t needed after all.”
“How did you know we were here to begin with?” asked John. “What brought you looking for us?”
“We wuz told that on this particular Saturday, Scowler Charles would be in trouble an’ needin’ our help. We’ve been waiting for this day f’r as long as I can remember.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Jack, “but he isn’t here. We’re awfully glad to see you, though.”
The badger waved over one of the others, who pulled out a book that they both began examining with great fervor.
“That binding looks very familiar,” said Jack. “What is that book, anyway?”
“Th’ Little Whatsit,” answered the smaller badger. “It’s our guidebook of everything that’s anything.”
“Sort of like the Great Whatsit back on Paralon?” asked John.
“No,” said the first badger, “exactly the Great Whatsit. Just portable-like, so we have wh
at we need to know when we needs it. Um, what year is this, anyway?”
“It’s 1931,” replied John.
“It’s the right date,” the badger said. “Maybe we’re in th’ wrong place! Oh dear, oh dear!”
All of the badgers’ eyes widened in shock, and the bigger ones started smacking themselves in the heads with their paws.
“But, Father—,” said the little one.
“Not now,” the first badger said, shushing him.
“Here now,” said John. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve failed,” said the first badger. “We’ve failed the great Scowler Charles!”
“I assure you,” Jack said soothingly, “Charles is fine. He’s nowhere near here. But our friend Hugo is in trouble, and you are, ah, exactly what we needed.”
“Really?” the badger said hopefully. He saluted again, and the others followed suit. “The Royal Animal Rescue Squad, at y’r service.”
“Thanks,” said John. “Say, none of you would happen to be related to our friend Tummeler, would you?”
The first badger nodded enthusiastically. “I is indeed! I am the son of Tummeler, and this,” he added, pulling the smaller badger with the book alongside him, “is the son of the son of Tummeler.”
“Well met!” said Jack. “And how are you properly addressed?”
“Charles Montgolfier Hargreaves-Heald,” said the badger, “but everyone calls me Uncas.”
“And you?” John asked, looking at the other, slightly smaller animal. “What’s your name?”
“Uh, Fred,” said the badger.
“Fred?” said John.
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