Here, There Be Dragons

by James A. Owen

  Bert began to wrap the atlas in the oilcloth, and Jack stepped in to help him. “Quickly, now,” he said to the three young men. “We must fly!”

  “Fly where?” said Charles.

  “To the harbor, of course,” said Bert. “To my ship. My crew is waiting for us now, and they are beginning to worry, no doubt.”

  Charles began to protest, but Bert cut him short.

  “These are not rioters coming for us. They are not soldiers. They are not even, in point of fact, men as you know them. But whether or not you believe my warnings, or that I have a ship awaiting us in the harbor, or that anything I have told you tonight is true, believe this: If we stay here a minute longer, we shall all be dead.”

  If Bert’s appeal was not convincing enough, the shadows that appeared on the opposite street corner pushed the companions’ motivation to the fore.

  The band hunting them brandished swords and spears of an unusual make. But stranger still was the fact that they appeared to walk on all fours, claws clicking on the cobblestones, only occasionally standing upright to sniff at the air before rending the night with more earsplitting howls.

  “Wendigo,” Bert murmured to himself. “He’s pulling out all the stops—and it can only get worse. Charles,” he asked, turning quickly, “did Sir Arthur have a back exit to this place?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “This way. Hurry.”

  Bert, Jack, and John followed Charles through a warren of small rooms to a door at the end of the apartment. “Here,” said Charles. “They expanded into the adjacent flat, and it has a door that opens onto an alleyway.”

  As they entered the hallway, there was a crash and a splintering of wood from the foyer behind them.

  “Hurry, lads!” said Bert. “Hurry!”

  Finding the exit, the four companions moved quickly but cautiously into the alley, which was empty. Heading for the intersecting street, their steps became more and more hurried, realizing that it would only be a matter of time….

  When they were a block distant, the angry howls of their pursuers told them their path away from the club had been discovered. The hunt had ended. It was now a race.

  In moments the companions were running at full speed toward the harbor.

  Chapter Three

  Flight to the Harbor

  By daylight the streets and alleyways of London were a conundrum; at night, in the middle of a rainstorm, the maze became an impossible labyrinth to the four men running for their lives from a pack of hunters that could, apparently, pursue them by smell.

  “What are they?” said Jack. “You called them ‘Wendigo.’”

  “Our enemy’s huntsmen,” puffed Bert. “They are his bloodhounds, and if not the worst abominations under the sight of Heaven, they are easily contenders for the crown.”

  “Are they men, or beasts?” asked Jack.

  “Both, I’m afraid. When it’s required, they may comport themselves as men—but they become more lupine with every kill. Their bodies have been misshapen by the evil they do, and thus they have gained the senses of hounds, as well as their agility and speed.”

  “How do they become this way?” asked John.

  “By terrible means,” said Bert. “To begin with, they must be black-hearted men. But to become Wendigo, they must eat the flesh of another man.”

  “Cannibals,” breathed John.

  “The Indigo Dragon,” Bert said proudly. “My ship.”

  “Yes,” said Bert, “but not just. It is rumored that to truly become Wendigo, the first flesh they taste must be that of their best friend or a loved one. After that, it doesn’t really matter.”

  A horrified expression crossed John’s features as the implications of this settled in. “Do you think they…the professor’s body?”

  “No,” said Bert. “I believe he was killed while they interrogated him as to the whereabouts of the Geographica. Killed, but not eaten. Wendigo…Wendigo like their meals alive.”

  “Do you really think there’s a boat?” Jack said some minutes later, panting.

  “I doubt it,” Charles replied, “but I’m not of a mind to stand around and debate it.”

  “Shilling that there is,” said Jack.

  “Done.”

  The cobblestones were slick, and the companions had to measure their steps so as not to fall and risk twisting an ankle. Bert led the way. His admitted memory lapses of the geography of London streets seemed not to affect his pace—he moved from corner to corner under the gaslight with a speed and agility that belied his appearance.

  “Almost there, lads,” Bert said. “You can smell it, can’t you?”

  “Ew,” said Jack. “That’s really rank. What is it?”

  “Fish and offal, offal and fish,” said Charles. “Commerce. You know—like the kind of work John doesn’t know if he wants to get into.”

  “Clever,” said John as Bert disappeared around the corner ahead, whooping in triumph.

  Turning the corner himself an instant later, John stopped in his tracks, which caused Charles and Jack to crash into him in turn.

  Bert had spoken the truth. There was indeed a ship moored and floating in the harbor. A ship unlike any they had ever seen.

  Jack held out his hand. “Shilling.”

  “Drat,” said Charles, dropping a coin into Jack’s hand.

  “The Indigo Dragon,” Bert said proudly. “My ship.”

  “Is it a galleon?” asked Charles. “It seems Spanish, but—old.”

  “Sixteenth century,” said Bert. “At least, the newer parts. I believe the oldest parts of the hull are Greek, but I can’t really be sure. There’s a little of everything in her, I think. But she gets the job done and always takes me safely to home port.”

  “And where is home port, exactly?” asked Jack.

  “Later, later,” said Bert, eyeing the shadows of their pursuers stretched tall in the gaslight behind them. “Let’s to safety first—there will be time to talk later.”

  None of the companions paused to ask what Bert meant by “later,” or the broader insinuation that the dialogue was meant to continue after the danger had passed.

  Bert broke into a trot and moved swiftly across the dock to the gangplank that connected to the ship. Standing at the fore of the gangplank was a young woman—tall, dressed like a pirate out of Stevenson, and displaying a commanding appearance that belied her obvious youth.

  “Father, you’re late,” the woman scolded. “We were preparing a landing party to go in and retrieve you.”

  “Not necessary, Aven,” said Bert. “As you can see, my young friends and I have everything running well according to plan.”

  From the dock, a sleek Egyptian spear flew through the night air and pinned Bert’s cloak to the prow, narrowly missing his shoulder. “Oh, ah—well,” said Bert, slipping out of the garment and wincing. “That’s not to say that we shouldn’t, ah, accelerate our departure.”

  As the companions scrambled aboard, Aven stood at the aft of the ship, arms crossed in defiance of the spears being flung at her by the huntsmen.

  “Enough of this,” she said tersely. “Take us out.”

  No oars were lowered into the water, and strangely, the sails were billowed in precisely the opposite direction of the wind—but the instant Aven gave the order, the ship pulled away from the dock and began to pick up speed.

  A howl behind them scored the chill harbor air, and the young woman’s eyes widened. “Wendigo? He sent Wendigo after you?”

  “Yes,” Bert nodded. “Stellan—the professor—was dead before anything could be done.”

  “You had the Geographica,” said Aven, casting a wan glance at the companions. “He needn’t have waited, only to be killed.”

  “His choice, Aven,” Bert admonished her. “I could just as easily blame myself, for having left it solely to him while I traveled….”

  “Or Jamie,” she shot back. “If he hadn’t given it up just for that woman and her children…He’s even in London! Why aren’t the
Wendigo chasing him?”

  “They don’t want him,” said Bert. “They want this,” he finished, patting the Geographica. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why we came. And now, that’s why we have to leave.”

  “Also,” said Charles, “we’re being chased by creatures that want to kill us—”

  “—eat us,” interjected Jack.

  “Kill us and eat us,” Charles corrected. “So, might I suggest we finish this discussion somewhere farther out of range?”

  “Yes,” said Jack, whose eyes had not left Aven since they’d stepped onto the ship. “And, ah, perhaps an introduction is in order.”

  “Of course,” said Bert. “Lads, may I present the captain of the Indigo Dragon—my daughter, Aven.”

  Charles stepped forward, bowing slightly. “A pleasure. I’m Charles.”

  She nodded, eyebrow still arched.

  “I’m Jack,” said Jack, pushing past his companion and offering his hand. “If there’s anything you need a hand with, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Do you know how to work aboard a ship?”

  “Ah, well, no, not exactly,” admitted Jack. “I’m a scholar.”

  Aven rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. “Another scholar. Heaven spare us from fools and their books.”

  She looked at John. “And you?”

  “I’m John. Pleased to meet you.”

  She didn’t respond, but held his gaze a long moment before turning abruptly and saying something just softly enough for him to hear.

  “You had better be worth this.”

  For the first time, the companions got to have a direct look at their pursuers, who were amassing on the dock, howling and flailing their weapons about in a rage.

  The Wendigo were not unlike men. Only those that crouched, showing their disfigured, animalian hindquarters, were obviously something more. They were hairy; rough at the edges. Indistinct, as if they were part of an improperly processed photograph.

  The cloaks they wore to disguise their bodies and to conceal weapons were now being flung aside to reveal strange dress from a dozen cultures.

  “How unusual,” said John. “I count several different costumes among them—Egyptian, Indian…Is that one Norse?”

  “Not costumes,” said Aven. “Did you think a man who turns evil and eats the flesh of his friends had to have a Cockney accent?”

  John and the others shuddered and were turning away when he caught sight of another figure on the dock, passing among the furious Wendigo. He was not certain, but the man looked like one of the passengers who had been on the train with him earlier that day. If he was, it was further proof of Bert’s claim that John was more deeply involved in the events of the evening than he had realized.

  The Indigo Dragon continued to accelerate, and in moments the dock and their pursuers had receded into the dark behind them.

  Given time to catch their breath, the companions now turned their attention to the strange vessel they had boarded. It was indeed a galleon, but of a most unusual design. It was a bit dirty, a bit creaky, but there was no question—it was a ship crafted for grand adventure.

  At the fore of the ship was the masthead, a great head and torso of a dragon. It had eyes of gold and was colored a deep, rich purple. “Indigo,” Bert corrected, hearing Jack suggest the color. “We don’t want to offend her.”

  John thought, but couldn’t be certain, that he saw the dragon breathe.

  There was a cabin in the aft of the ship, and cargo holds below with a most unusual feature: They were much larger on the inside than they appeared to be on the outside.

  Around them the ship’s complement of some twenty sailors, all thickly clothed against the moist night air, busied themselves at their tasks under Aven’s orders.

  “Have you noticed,” Jack ventured to the others, “that we’re each and all a good two feet taller than every member of the crew?”

  John had processed all of the goings-on in the background as the usual ship’s business, but now that it was pointed out, he realized Jack was right. Not a single crewman stood taller than four feet, and the bulk of them were smaller than that.

  “I say,” said Jack to one of the passing crew, “would you happen to—”

  He froze, eyes wide.

  “Jack?” said Charles. “What is it?”

  The crewman, eyes glittering, ignored him and went about his task. But Jack managed to lift his arm and point at the departing sailor’s feet, which were not feet at all.

  They were cloven hooves.

  The crewmen gave no notice that they even cared if they were being observed, and Aven and Bert were deep in discussion over the Imaginarium Geographica. Charles, John, and Jack drew closer together and moved to the opposite side of the cabin.

  “Did you see that?” said Jack, finally able to speak. “Did you see…?”

  “Quiet,” said Charles. “I did. There is something strange about all of this, and I for one am about to be done with the whole matter.”

  “Agreed,” said John. “We’ve gone a good distance from that row with the—whatever it was hunting us. We should be able to stop here along the river somewhere and contact the authorities—perhaps inspector Clowes can deal with all this. Anyroad, it’s not our job.”

  “Right,” said Jack, shivering. “We’re just about to pass the bridge. They’ll have to slow up at the shallows, and we can ask them to let us off at the docks just beyond.”

  “We have a plan, then,” said Charles. “I’ll speak to them.”

  In moments the Indigo Dragon had passed beneath the bridge, but instead of slowing as Jack had predicted, it began to fly across the water with an even greater velocity. The ever-present fog of the river began to coalesce and draw close to the ship. Even the rain had ceased. Something more was beginning to happen.

  In the distance behind them, from beneath the shadows of London Bridge, a second ship, dark-masted and black as a nightmare, lifted anchor and silently began to follow.

  Charles hastened to make his point. “We seem to have lost our pursuers,” he said to Aven. “And I for one am most grateful for your assistance and intervention. Now that the danger is past, can you tell me at what part of the city you intend to leave us?”

  “Yes,” Jack agreed, looking askew at the ship’s crewmen. “We’d like to get off, please.”

  Aven gave her father a knowing look before answering. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible.”

  “Why not?” asked John.

  In answer, Aven gestured at the glowing city lights on the not-distant shore, now dim and hazy through the fog.

  As they watched, the mists drew closer, thickening around the ship, until in mere moments the lights of London had vanished. When the fog began to clear, the city was gone, and the storm had stopped. Above a thousand stars were shining, unfettered by the clouds that had blanketed them just minutes before. And around them, open ocean, no sign of shore in sight.

  “B-but that can’t possibly be!” Charles said, stammering in disbelief and no small amount of fear. “We haven’t been at sail for more than a few minutes! There is no possible way we could be in open waters!”

  “Right,” said Jack. “I’ve been down the river plenty of times. We still have—had—at least twenty miles to go before reaching the Channel.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Bert. “You misunderstand—we left England the minute the ship pulled away from the dock. We’re nowhere near the Channel, or London, or even Europe, for that matter. In fact, we are not even sailing in the same ocean any longer.”

  “Then where are we?” said Charles. “Where are you taking us?”

  Aven tilted her head at John. “Ask him. He knows.”

  John stood at the railing, looking out into the darkness as they let the question hang in the air, shimmering with the promise they all knew would be fulfilled if he would just speak the words. Finally, he answered.

  “The Archipelago,” John said, his voice muted with a mix of d
isbelief and wonder. “That’s where we’re going, isn’t it? We’re going to the Archipelago of Dreams.”

  Chapter Four

  Avalon

  Whatever personal misgivings they may have had, John, Jack, and Charles had to accept the evidence of their senses. Like it or not, they were at sea. And until a destination was named, traveled to, and safely arrived at, they were fully at the mercy of the captain and her unusual crew.

  “This is all your fault,” Charles said to Bert, his voice shaking with anger. “If you hadn’t convinced us to leave the club—”

  “If he hadn’t convinced you to leave the club,” Aven interrupted, “you’d be three kinds of dead. Or didn’t you notice those weren’t accountants and bankers chasing you?”

  “She’s right,” said Jack, kicking at one of the spears on the deck. “Those things weren’t for show. They’re crusted with layers of dried blood. I think they really would have killed us, Charles.”

  “I agree,” said John. “Whatever situation we’re in now, it’s better than if we’d remained in London. Although,” he added, looking askance at Bert, “it would be nice if we had an idea when it would be safe to return.”

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” said Bert. “One of several that I suspect you have. And as I have questions of my own, then perhaps we should make landfall and discuss our next course of action.”

  The statue was wrapped in vines and overgrowth…

  “Landfall?” asked Charles. “Is there a place to land if we’re in fact sailing toward your ‘Imaginary Geography’?”

  “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.”