by Bryan Davis
The professor hustled into the terminal building, his long legs striding across the flat carpet of the seemingly endless hall. A tune played in his head, and he marched to its lively beat. After a minute or two, syllables began mixing into the melody, combining with notes until they strung themselves together into rhythmic sentences to match the tune’s iambic meter.
Once the song completed its self-composition, it replayed until it seemed to come from the airport speakers and float around his ears. But he didn’t mind. The words created a mysterious poem, something for his brain to chew on while he watched for Ashley and Walter.
A sign in the distance announced his journey’s end—British Airways baggage claim. He pulled out his pocket watch, took a reading, and searched the arriving flights display. Ah! Flight fifty-six. On time. He glanced at his watch again. I’m two minutes late.
As he approached the baggage conveyor, he surveyed the sea of rushing passengers. Sidestepping a man barreling down the hall with a suitcase in each hand, the professor bumped into a lady standing next to the luggage queue. He pivoted and bowed his head. “I beg your pardon. Please forgive—”
“Professor Hamilton?” the lady interrupted.
The professor lifted his head. “Marilyn?” He brushed back his unruly hair. “I didn’t expect to see you. Were you able to hire another vehicle after all?”
“Another vehicle? What are you talking about?”
The professor put a hand on his cell phone, his arm shaking. “You called me. Your rental car broke down and—”
“I called you?” Marilyn furrowed her brow. “Professor, are you all right?”
The professor took a heavy step, dizziness overtaking his balance. Suddenly, a strong hand gripped his arm and supported his body. “Steady there, my good fellow. Your legs are as limp as wet noodles.”
The professor pulled himself up on his helper’s sweater sleeve and grasped his beefy biceps. “Sir Barlow!” With a gentle touch, he laid his palm over the bump on his scalp. “I took quite a blow to the head this morning, and it seems that the shock of seeing you has triggered a fainting spell.”
Marilyn stood on tiptoes and peeled the professor’s hand away from his wound. “Oooh! That is nasty!”
The professor flinched at her touch. “No worse than the injury to my dignity, Marilyn. It is clear that I have been hoodwinked by one of the scoundrels of the New Table. Someone imitated your voice—quite well, obviously—and sent me to collect Walter and Miss Stalworth.”
“But why?” Marilyn asked. “Are Billy and Bonnie okay?”
The professor smoothed his hair back again with a gentle stroke. “They are. Sir Patrick is with them. I think they’re safe.”
“You think they’re safe?”
“I’m not as sure as I used to be. Patrick keeps many secrets, more than I ever realized before.” The professor leaned over and whispered. “And now that Clefspeare is a prisoner of the New Table, my confidence in Patrick is waning.”
Marilyn’s eyes lit up with alarm. “A prisoner! How?”
The professor glanced down the corridor and pulled Sir Barlow into their huddle. “It’s a long story, and I prefer to give the details in private after Walter and Miss Stalworth arrive.” He swung his head back and forth. “A song keeps going through my mind, perhaps something Merlin left with me. I’ll reveal its words soon, but the bottom line is simple. Clefspeare is in the hands of the enemy, and William and Miss Silver may also be walking into her lair.”
Walter draped a jacket over his arm and slid his thumb behind the strap of his backpack. With his free hand gripping a waning Moonpie, he marched down an endless hall while chewing a sticky mouthful, trying to keep up with Ashley. She tilted to one side to compensate for a heavy briefcase, her hair bouncing in sync with her lively pace.
Walter took another bite and spoke through the marshmallow goo. “How was I supposed to know? That old guy seemed nice enough.”
Ashley halted and spun around, her face aflame. “You try to survive five hours of cigar breath while listening to cockamamie theories about the ‘spiritual conduits’ of quantum mechanics.”
“I was in his seat up front,” Walter said, shrugging his shoulders. “You should’ve said something.”
“I was trapped, Walter. You were reading Captain Marvel and eating lunch up in First Class while I was pinned to the window seat in row forty-one!” She pulled an apple out of her jacket pocket and held it in front of Walter’s face. “It’s a good thing I brought this. Dr. Weirdo even ate my lunch!” She bit into the apple like an angry pit bull.
“So why are you mad at me? I didn’t steal your sandwich.”
Ashley swallowed her bite of apple. “Right! You had steak!” She closed one eye and held the apple up again. “Supposedly you came along to protect me. Don’t you know what chivalry means?”
Walter lowered his head. “Sure. I know what it means.” He slowly lifted his eyes and extended his half-eaten Moonpie. “Want a bite of this?”
Ashley let out a growling huff and spun back around. She hiked up her briefcase and stormed down the hallway.
Walter stood and watched her for a moment, shaking his head.
“Brilliant and filled with fire, isn’t she, Walter?”
Walter jerked his head around. The smelly old man from the airplane stood at his side, chewing on an unlit cigar. Walter pulled his backpack higher and let out a nervous laugh. “I guess so. But she has a good heart.”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt.” The man pulled the cigar from his mouth and spat out a fleck of tobacco. “Just keep in mind what she said about chivalry, son, and you’ll do fine.”
“Uh, okay. . . . I guess.” Walter squinted at the old man’s widely set brown eyes and his two-day white beard. “What did she say about chivalry?”
“That you’re supposed to protect her, son! She’s a strong, young woman, but she’ll never respect you until you prove yourself to be a strong, young man. The key is to be gentle with her and a warrior against anything that might do her harm.”
Walter stood still, blinking at the stranger.
He grabbed Walter’s shoulder, turned him around, and gave him a firm shove. “So get going!”
Walter ran forward to keep from falling. After catching himself, he looked back at the bizarre old man and gave him a quick wave, then stuffed the rest of the Moonpie into his mouth and sprinted down the corridor.
When he reached Ashley’s side, he grabbed her briefcase handle. “I’ll get this,” he said, his mouth still full.
Ashley stopped in her tracks, resisting for a second before letting it go. “Look, Walter, I’m . . . I’m sorry for giving you such a hard time.”
Walter swallowed hard to dispose of his sticky snack. “No problem. I deserved it.” He nodded toward a moving walkway. “Let’s forget about it and go find Prof.” He led the way into the baggage claim area and spotted the professor and his two companions. He angled his head back toward Ashley. “Did you expect Mrs. B and Sir Barlow?”
Ashley narrowed her eyes. “That’s weird. I thought they were in Scotland.”
They picked up their pace, swerving in and out of lines of trench coats and travel bags. When they reached the three adults, Walter set the briefcase down between his feet and extended his hand toward the professor. “What’s wrong, Prof? You look like the queen just died or something.”
“No,” the professor replied, shaking Walter’s hand. “Her Majesty is alive and well—at least I assume so if she hasn’t met a certain van driver from Yeovil.” He bowed toward Ashley, his hand fishing something from his pocket. “Miss Stalworth, your services are needed more than ever.”
Ashley pushed her fingers through her hair. “I’ll do what I can, Professor Hamilton.”
The professor held out his open palm, revealing two microchips. “If you can decipher the encoding, perhaps we will not be fooled in the future.” He closed his fist and set the chips gently back into his pocket. “There is much to explain, but since tim
e is of the essence, I shall tell the story in the car. We must get to Sir Patrick’s house as soon as possible.”
Ashley strode toward the luggage conveyor belt. “Then let’s get going. The microchip equipment is in my checked baggage.”
After a few minutes, a square box fastened by metal buckles and a wide leather strap appeared on the conveyor. Walter dashed to the front and lugged it down to the floor. “I got it,” he grunted. He nodded toward the line of baggage. “Barlow, will you get my duffle? It’s the blue one with the orange trim.”
Barlow grabbed Walter’s bag and helped him carry the equipment case to the airport’s rental car area. Marilyn returned her rental, and the five proceeded to the professor’s car in the main parking lot. Marilyn climbed into the front passenger seat, and Walter, Ashley, and Sir Barlow settled into the back.
Walter looked around at all the somber faces. “Hey, I read a great joke on the plane. There was this fish who loved to play golf, see, and—”
“Hush, Walter,” Ashley said sharply. “No one wants to hear your fish joke. It’s probably not funny anyway.”
“But it is. This fish—”
“Mr. Foley,” the professor interrupted, “please tell us the joke later. I believe my tale is more crucial right now.” After leaving the airport’s access loop, the professor told the whole story, from the time of the dragons’ arrival with Bonnie to their planned entrance into the view window. He explained Sir Patrick’s theory that the New Table would try to persuade Billy to set their own prisoners free. “I believe,” he said, gripping the steering wheel tightly, “that Clefspeare is now being held somewhere within the circles. If the New Table dragon-nappers threaten to kill the dragon, perhaps William will feel duty bound to do as they wish in order to save his father.
“But a song has entered my mind that has opened a new line of thinking. Listen.”
The professor gave a low “ahem” and pursed his lips. He hummed a quiet bar, then started again, adding words to the melody.
A dragon chained in darkest pits
Will not behold pure freedom’s light,
For dragons claim a lofty perch,
Yet cannot reach the highest height.
For even now in pits of gloom
The dragon’s pride will never bow,
Until redemption’s sword sets free
The dragon’s heart to kneel and vow.
The professor paused while negotiating the car through a busy roundabout. “I think,” he said, accelerating onto a major highway, “that William’s mission is supposed to include rescuing Clefspeare from some sort of pit. It is essential, therefore, that I find a way to deliver the message to him. I’m not sure how the details of the song figure in, but if William doesn’t even know to search in a pit, he might miss the assignment altogether and leave his father stranded. I have already tried calling Patrick’s home and cell phone, but there is no answer.” He cocked his head back. “Miss Stalworth, have you made any progress on the chips?”
Ashley looked up with a start. “Oh! Sorry. I was kind of distracted by your song.” She inserted the two microchips into a small, flat grid, fitting each prong into a tiny hole. “Here,” she said, placing the grid in Walter’s hand. “Hold this.” She ran a short cable from the grid’s panel to the computer on her lap. After she tapped a few keys, thousands of numbers flew across the screen. Her eyes followed the river of data, darting left to right and back again dozens of times. “Now this is interesting.” She pulled a headset out of her laptop case and slipped the pads over her ears. “I’m sending the data to my supercomputer.” She then pressed her finger against her jaw. “Karen? You there?”
“Karen?” the professor repeated. “Your sister?”
“Yes.” Ashley clicked the mouse button on her laptop and pulled off her headset. “I’ll send the response through these speakers so everyone can hear.” She touched her jaw again. “Karen, pick up right now! I know you can’t be far. I told you to stay close to Larry.”
“Ah!” the professor exclaimed, raising a finger in the air. “Larry is your supercomputer! But how are you speaking to Karen?”
Walter set the grid in his lap and pulled a foil bag of peanuts from his backpack. “She has some supersonic connection through a transmitter in her tooth.”
“In her tooth?” The professor scratched his head. “Well, that’s a new—”
A loud voice blasted through the computer speakers. “I’m here! What’s all the fuss?”
Ashley slid a dial on her laptop. “I need to talk to Larry. Can you patch me through?”
“Sure. No problem.” Karen’s quieter voice was followed by three muffled clicks. “Okay. You’re on.”
Ashley looked up toward the car ceiling. “Larry, it’s Ashley. I need the latest research in traversing metaphysical dimension portals.”
“Metaphysical? Did you hear that, Karen? Ashley’s going New Age on us.”
“It’s not New Age, Larry. Get a life.”
“No can do, Ashley. I’m just a machine with a vivid imagination. No life for me.”
“Just cut the jokes and send the research to my laptop. I need the photoanalytical data for purported transdimensional windows, anything that would help me understand a possible migration environment. I’m going to set up some equipment that will analyze the various invisible spectrums in an interdimensional portal, and I need to know what to look for.”
“Coming right up.”
Walter popped a peanut into his mouth. “Translated,” he said, grinning, “Ashley wants to know what the light was like in places where people claim to jump from one dimension to another. She’s going to let her machines stare at that weird window Prof talked about to see if there’s a match.”
Ashley glared at him. “Thank you, Walter.”
Larry’s voice returned. “Do you want the results of the microchip analysis you sent?”
“Did you break the code?” Ashley asked.
“Ashley, it’s me. Of course I broke the code.”
“So you’re a cryptological genius. Big deal. You still have a lot to learn about grammar and humility.”
“So sue me. You wrote my grammar engine. As far as humility goes, I’m merely pointing out the obvious.”
“Okay, okay. Just send me the decoded stream.”
“Coming right up again, most excellent martinet.”
Ashley balled her hand into a fist. “Karen, do you know how to check Larry’s vocabulary level? It needs to be turned down a notch.”
“Yep. No problem. I don’t know how to adjust his sarcasm meter, though.”
Chapter 7
A WORLD WITHIN A WORLD
Bonnie sat upright in a lush garden paradise. Daylight filtered through a tropical canopy, casting its brightest beam toward a nearby pond. She was alone in the eerie quiet. Not a puff of wind moved the sweet-smelling air, a humid blanket of jungle warmth that coaxed beads of sweat from her forehead and neck. She rose to her feet and mopped her brow with her sleeve. This sweatshirt has to go!
After unfastening the Velcro closures at the back, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head and tied it around her waist. She then smoothed out the picture of a roaring lion imprinted on the front of her long-sleeved shirt and set her hands on her hips. Okay, now where am I?
She remembered the ride to Sir Patrick’s castle but nothing after that. Was she in one of the estate’s gardens? Had she fallen asleep on the way, and the others left her here to rest? Maybe if she had a look around she would remember what was going on.
Bonnie walked slowly toward the circular pond, a crystal clear pool no bigger than a Little League baseball diamond. A bushy tree with a broad, twisted trunk grew near the opposite edge, reaching as high as a telephone pole. Wide, velvety leaves covered its branches, almost completely veiling the tree’s woody limbs in greenery. A single fruit dangled near the end of one branch, a red, pear-shaped fruit about the size of a large apple.
When Bonnie reached the water’s edge, she hea
rd voices, more like singing than speaking. The varied pitches blended in sweet harmony, the melody seeming to radiate from the tree branches, as if each leaf had a part in a youthful choir. She walked around the pond on a bed of soft grass and approached the tree. The music sounded oddly familiar, like the haunting chant from a dream that begs to be believed. But this was too real. It couldn’t be a dream.
When she came within ten feet of the trunk, she stopped, and, as if silenced by her hesitation, the song faded away. The leaves rustled from one side of the tree to the other as though a stiff breeze had passed, but she felt no hint of moving air in the steamy glade.
A new sound arose, the pleasant voice of a young male. Although he spoke with the inflections of normal speech, his words seemed to carry the cadence of song. “Bonnie Silver,” he said with a cheery tone.
Bonnie swiveled her head from side to side. “Yes. Who . . . where are you?”
“I’m a friend, and I’m close by. I’m glad you’ve finally arrived.”
Bonnie scanned the scenery, from forest to pond to strange old tree, watching for any movement. “Finally? Have you been expecting me?”
“Oh, yes. For a very long time. Merlin told me of your coming.”
Bonnie tried to peer into the tree without seeming too obvious, but she couldn’t find the speaker. “Merlin told you? How could he know I’d come here?” She glanced around and spread out her hands. “Wherever ‘here’ is.”
The speaker’s voice grew more serious, but still friendly. “Merlin’s prophecies about you are well known. Even back in his day he would sing songs about your coming.”
“In his day?” Bonnie tilted her head, still trying to peek through the leaves. “How old are you?”
“Prepare yourself. I am coming forth.” The tree rustled again. A section of branches parted to reveal the head of a dragon.