The Search for the Red Dragon

by James A. Owen

  “Not a ghost,” John said without turning around or lowering his gaze. “A Titan.”

  The companions crowded around the Geographica and examined the spread John had been looking at. It was one of the first maps, one of the oldest maps, which might have been made in the time of Ptolemy himself. And thus, much of what was written on it was in ancient Greek.

  But it wasn’t the writing that had so stunned their friend. It was the illustration.

  It depicted a world within a world. And the smaller sphere was held aloft on the back and shoulders of the Titan Atlas. The drawing also showed him holding back the oceans above with his hands, so that the world within would not be flooded.

  And together, they suddenly realized what the towers on the horizon were.

  “Look,” John said, tipping his head at the sky. “If you squint your eyes, you can just make out his hands.”

  John took charge of the group and declared that they’d be better off climbing down from the wall of ships and making their way to the beach to try and assess where they were. It was easier to do than any of them expected: The ships were accumulated in such a way that the wall formed a natural (if exceedingly large) set of steps. Within an hour, they were sitting on the beach just outside the tree line. John and Bert continued to study the Geographica while the others looked around for any other distinguishing landmarks they could use to identify the island.

  “Distinguishing landmarks other than the giant skeleton holding up the sky, that is,” said Charles. “If that isn’t a Nether Land kind of sign, I don’t know what is.”

  “This isn’t the Nether Land,” Aven declared. “I have no idea where we are.”

  Laura Glue’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “The sky is all right, but we don’t have smelly trees,” she said bluntly. Then suddenly she grew alarmed. “My wings! I’ve lost my wings!”

  “They’re probably just aboard the Indigo Dragon, wherever it is,” said Jack. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

  “Unless it sank,” Charles said. “Do you think it was damaged that badly?”

  Aven shook her head. “I doubt it. I think it struck the ship we landed on and may have rolled to the other side of the wall. Even if it ended up in the water, the hull was fine, and if we survived however far we fell, it should have too. I haven’t seen any of the crew, either—so perhaps they’ve just moored her someplace to continue repairs.”

  The queen of Paralon sounded very sure—but the worried expression on her face told a different story.

  John closed the Geographica. “That’s all I can get,” he said. “There’s nothing else in here that can help identify where we are.”

  “Dante wrote about nine circles of Hell,” suggested Charles. “Perhaps he based that on nine lands here in the Underneath.”

  “Dante wrote more allegorically than literally,” said Bert. “There’s no way to be sure, short of exploring the place on our own.”

  “I say,” declared Charles, “perhaps we could just ask that lot over there at the trees.”

  The companions looked in the direction Charles was facing and saw nearly a dozen men standing just outside the tree line, watching them. The men were curiously dressed, wearing common-looking shirts and trousers, but also various belts and outer garments that were adorned with feathers and colored beads.

  They were also heavily armed. Several held muskets loosely against their shoulders, and all had either spears or bows and quivers of arrows.

  “Oh, no,” cried Laura Glue. “Run! Hide! It’s Grandfather’s enemies! It’s the Indians! We have to run!”

  Before the companions could process what the girl was saying, another line of men stepped out of the forest on the opposite end of the beach. They were dressed identically to the first group, and were just as well armed.

  The companions were surrounded.

  “Very odd Indians,” Charles said to Jack. “They seem to be Europeans.”

  “Maybe she meant Eastern Indians,” said Jack.

  “Her grandfather’s enemies, she said,” John whispered. “From Barrie’s book, remember? I think they are some kind of American Indian.”

  The two groups of men made no move toward the newcomers they’d encircled, but instead watched and waited. And then another man stepped out of the woods behind the first group and began to walk forward. Bert gasped in recognition.

  “Oh, dear,” said Bert. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

  “What is it?” John hissed. “What’s wrong?”

  “These aren’t just Indians,” Bert said. “We’ve just delivered ourselves into the hands of someone who is supposed to be long dead.”

  “An enemy?” asked Jack.

  “We’ll find out in a moment,” replied Bert.

  The line of curiously costumed Indians parted, and a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a feathered headdress walked toward them. He was not much older than the companions were, but there was a gravity about him that bespoke hard-won experience. The experience of decades, not years.

  His brow was thick, and his cheeks were deeply scarred. His complexion was European, but his dress was a collision of Asian and American Indian, save for his boots, which were Dutch colonial. His manner was brusque, yet cultured—a definite enigma, thought John.

  “As the official representative of the Imperial Cartological Society, I welcome you to Croatoan Island,” the man said, “and even though you were not invited, you shall remain here as our guests.”

  “Thank you,” John said evenly. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “My name,” the man replied, “is Sir Richard Burton.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Imperial Cartological Society

  The man who called himself Burton made a series of quick gestures with his upraised hand, and suddenly the others rushed forward and held the companions fast. There was no mistaking their intent now.

  Burton strode confidently to the group of prisoners and examined them one by one. He stopped at Bert, considering.

  “I seem to know you,” Burton said. “How would that be?”

  “I have one of those faces,” replied Bert.

  “No,” Burton said. “I don’t recognize the face. But you smell like a Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica.”

  Those words sent a chill through each of the companions. This man was indeed their enemy. And he knew more about them than they did about him.

  Close up, John was able to take in the strange appearance of their captors. Most of the men were indeed European, and fair-skinned, but several were also darker-hued, from a light reddish-tan to a deep, rich brown.

  “Croatoan Island?” Jack whispered to Charles.

  “The missing colony, from Roanoke, Virginia,” Charles whispered back. “Sir Walter Raleigh’s expedition.”

  “We are the Croatoans. And we are ourselves.”

  “Precisely so,” Burton said, wheeling about to face Charles. The man had the hearing of a fox. “To survive the first winter in the New World, they became a part of the local tribe of Algonquin Indians. Then, when the following year proved to be even harsher, the colonists persuaded the Indians to help them build new ships with which they hoped to return to England. That, as you can plainly see,” he concluded, “didn’t happen.”

  “So you’re all Indians now?” asked John.

  “There are full-blooded English here,” Burton said, “and Dutch. Most are some combination of each. But we are nonetheless a tribe, and we look after our own.

  “We are the Croatoans. And we are ourselves.”

  Burton instructed his men to tie the companions’ hands together with thick twine, but he allowed Aven and Laura Glue to remain unbound.

  “But,” Burton added as a caution, “if either of them tries to flee, shoot the other one.”

  Laura Glue gulped and took Aven’s hand.

  Burton and his men marched their captives away from the beach and into the woods. The captors formed a ring around the c
ompanions, but Burton walked in front—and John noticed, as did the others, that he both kept and carried the Imaginarium Geographica.

  They walked at a brisk but bearable pace for almost an hour before finally arriving at their destination. The eerie, cold light above was beginning to fade, to be replaced by the warm glow of firelight from the settlement ahead.

  The village of the Croatoans was set in a small valley deep within the pine forest. It was bracketed by tall bluffs on two sides, and a shallow creek ran through it to the south. There were several dozen buildings of simple construction. Wood-and-wattle lodges, mostly—although there were shingles on the roofs of several buildings, and almost all of them had at least one glass window.

  The tribe took little notice of most of the companions—as if marching a group of prisoners through the village were an everyday occurrence—but every villager they passed took special notice of Laura Glue.

  This didn’t go unseen by the girl, and she gripped Aven’s hand all the tighter.

  In the center of the village was a great circle of stones, like low altars, and adjacent to each stone was a fire that had been stoked to blazing.

  As they approached, Bert couldn’t contain the sigh of relief that escaped his lips.

  In the center of the firelight was the Indigo Dragon. Not the entire ship—but the living masthead.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” said Bert. “At least they rescued her.”

  “Rescued?” said Burton. “Hardly. The Indigo Dragon was our first prisoner. We just went back for the rest of you.”

  “How did you know she’s called the Indigo Dragon?” asked John.

  Burton tipped his head at Bert. “Ask him. I’m sure he knows who I am.”

  Bert glared at their adversary, which was a surprise to John—Bert hardly ever glared at anybody.

  “You’ve all heard of him, I believe,” Bert told the others, “or at least have a passing familiarity with his writings. What you don’t know is that Charles Dickens chose him as an apprentice caretaker, with Nemo’s blessing. But it didn’t work out, and he was dismissed.”

  “Was that before or after Magwich?” asked Charles.

  “Does it matter?” said Jack.

  “Good point,” said Charles.

  “He faked his own death and disappeared,” Bert informed them. “No one expected to hear from him again.”

  “A fair enough assessment,” said Burton. “I had made a fortune with my books and decided to create a new future for myself in the Archipelago of Dreams. I had been here again for only a short while when I became caught up in a terrible storm. When it finally passed, I found myself here, and my ship was destroyed. The Croatoans nursed me back to health, and as payment, I let them make me their leader.”

  The companions’ heads were spinning with a thousand questions, but as usual, it was Aven who returned them to the matters at hand.

  “I’m glad you rescued the Indigo Dragon,” she said, “but what of her crew? There were more than twenty fauns aboard. Were any of them injured?”

  “Not to begin with,” Burton replied. “But they put up much more of a fight than you lot did.”

  “And so you killed them?” Aven exclaimed. “What a waste of life.”

  “Oh, they weren’t wasted,” Burton said. “In fact, they were delicious.”

  The companions were speechless with shock—except for Aven.

  “Barbarian!” she exclaimed. “You’re no better than a Wendigo!”

  “Rightly so,” said Burton. “We men of the West have always been more barbaric than our counterparts in the East. How much more so might we be, now that we’re in the westernmost lands that exist?”

  Near the ring of stone and fire was a large structure that appeared to be the central meetinghouse for the Croatoans. The companions were allowed to sit on mats that were laid along the center of the building, and they took in their strange surroundings.

  The walls were lined with great carved chairs like the British Parliament, and the room was brightly lit with torches that were Norse, according to John. The mats on which they sat were Persian, as were the tapestries adorning the walls and draped over the chairs.

  Burton took his place on a pedestal at the far end, and other officious-looking members of the Croatoans filed in and took the rest of the seats.

  With pomp and flourish, Burton introduced the members of the Indian council as they entered. It was slightly disconcerting to the companions to see men dressed so strangely, and speaking in unusual tongues, introduced as Murthwaite and Kelso and Jiggs and Barnaby. There were more traditional Indian names as well, often attached to European ones, in an unusual but nearly seamless marriage of cultures.

  “This is almost a textbook model of cultural democracy,” whispered Jack. “I’d love to do an actual case study on how they came to implement it.”

  “It probably helped things along that they were trapped in the Underneath,” Charles whispered back.

  “Not necessarily,” noted Jack. “They probably just ate anyone who disagreed with them.”

  Most of the Indian Elders sat cross-legged in the broad chairs along the walls, while two of them (whom Burton had indicated as his aides-de-camp) sat on the pedestal with him—though on noticeably lower seats nearer the back. The first, the man called Murthwaite, wore a broad mustache and thick glasses and was scrupulously taking notes on everything said and done.

  “Secretary-general,” whispered Charles.

  “Indeed,” said Bert.

  The other aide was a dusky-skinned, full-blooded Indian Burton called Hairy Billy. He was naked from the waist up, save for several strings of beads and elaborate necklaces that lay on his chest, and had taken a curious interest in Aven. Aven, for her part, regarded him coolly but gave no indication that she noticed the unusual attentions.

  “But he’s bald,” said Laura Glue. “Why do you call him ‘Hairy Billy’?”

  Burton smiled and crouched down in front of the girl. “Once, when he was much younger, he crossed the waters here to a forbidden island, where the children all choose their own names. And although he was rescued later, he insisted we call him by his new name—so we let him keep it. But we took something else.”

  He gestured at the Indian, who gave a wide, openmouthed smile in return, revealing the fact that he had no tongue. It had been cut out.

  Laura Glue shuddered and shrank back from Burton, who grinned more broadly and stood up.

  “Discipline,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s a harsh lesson to learn, but necessary. And lessons we learn through pain are seldom forgotten.” This last he said while fingering the deep scars on his cheeks, before he snapped out of his reverie and turned to Bert.

  “I suppose these are your apprentices, eh, Caretaker?” said Burton.

  “Full Caretakers,” Bert replied. “The very ones who defeated the Winter King.”

  At the mention of their old adversary, Burton’s eyes glittered, and he took a renewed interest in the three young men.

  “I have heard of you,” he said slowly. “The three scholars who changed the course of the world’s destiny. I suppose the prophecy would have been fulfilled sooner or later, else what’s a prophecy for?”

  “Prophecy?” said John.

  “For another time,” Bert said hurriedly. “What do you want of us, Sir Richard?”

  Burton laughed. “The honorific is not necessary. At any rate, it doesn’t apply here. The hierarchy is determined first by age, then by strength and ability. And I’m first among equals in both categories. You may address me as ‘Elder,’ or if you prefer, simply ‘Burton.’”

  “When we, ah, met, Burton,” said Charles, “you introduced yourself as a representative of the Imperial Cartological Society. Is that an organization of the Empire? I’m afraid I never heard of it.”

  Burton swiveled around. “Indeed. It is of the Empire, and it was sanctioned by Victoria herself.

  “After my enlightening but brief apprenticeship as a Caretake
r with Dickens, I continued researching the history of the Geographica and the Archipelago on my own, and I made a surprising discovery: There had been many apprentice Caretakers throughout history who, like myself, were trained, then abandoned.”

  “For cause,” Bert said mildly.

  “An opinion,” Burton shot back, “of one viewing the situation from a privileged position.”

  “Well, why were you set aside?” Charles asked.

  “Because,” replied Burton, “I disagreed with one of the fundamental rules of looking after the Imaginarium Geographica—that it, and everything having to do with the Archipelago of Dreams, must be kept secret from the world. Nemo and I had many violent arguments about it, but in the end, he left the decision to Dickens, and I was shut out.”

  “You don’t think knowledge of the Archipelago would be too great a burden for the common man?” asked Jack.

  “Knowledge is a responsibility,” John said, nodding, “but most people don’t know they aren’t ready for it until they already have it—and by then, it’s too late.”

  “Really?” said Burton. “John, isn’t it? Isn’t that how you came by the job? By having it thrust upon you?”

  “He was being trained,” countered Bert. “He has the temperament. Surely even you can see this. That’s much different.”

  “Is it?” said Burton. “The only difference I see is that I have more faith in mankind’s ability to bear the burden. I think they will be able to take it. More, I think it is their right.

  “The world and the Archipelago were once one. It was only because of their separation that someone decided the Archipelago should be kept secret—and because of that one foolish choice, the world has been starved of treasures and resources we should have claimed long ago.

  “So I took my argument to the queen, who sanctioned a private organization—the Imperial Cartological Society—to begin keeping records, making maps, and funding exploratory ventures that would not be hostage to the Caretakers.”