“All of it?” Jack asked, fingering his collar. “Well, I mean … that is, of course not!”
“Right,” said John.
“Uh-huh,” said Charles.
“What?” said Jack.
“What are we discussing?” Bert said as he entered the room, pocketing a now empty vanilla bottle. “Sounds lively.”
“Plagiarism,” John replied, grinning.
“Swipes,” said Charles.
“You can’t plagiarize from history!” Jack exclaimed, giving both of his friends the stink-eye. “Homages.”
“Ah,” Bert said, as if he completely understood. “Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe been at it again, have they?”
“Then our Bert, the one who’s been in the kitchen sipping the cooking vanilla,” said Jack, “shouldn’t exist at all. If Jules stopped him from going to the future, then the Bert who returned shouldn’t have existed to begin with!”
Twain thumped the younger Caretaker on the arm with his cane. “Boy,” he said with equal parts exasperation and mirth, “just what part of the word ‘anomaly’ don’t you understand?”
“They’re telling you I’m an anomaly, eh?” asked Bert. “Well, in this crowd, I’d have to be.”
“How’s that?” asked John.
“Simple,” said Verne. “He’s the only time traveler who is still among the living.”
The construction of Shakespeare’s Bridge took more than three days, but before the rays of the morning sun broke over the Nameless Isles a fourth time, it was complete.
The bridge was made of cavorite-laced stone, and arched shallowly from a bend in the path behind the house to a spot in the sand about fifteen feet out. It was a fairly ordinary looking bridge, except for the two stones at the apogee of the arch.
“That’s what should allow it to function,” Will explained. “The capstones, into which we’ll be placing these,” he said, showing the others two small golden orbs. “They should allow the bridge to span the two worlds, and if we’ve designed it right, it should take you to somewhere in Oxford, if not directly home.”
“What are they made of?” Jules asked, examining one of the orbs. “They look like …”
Will nodded. “We believed that the life force of the Dragons was not all that allowed them to cross,” he said somberly.
“Their eyes,” said Jack. “The golden eyes of the Dragons.”
“Ordo Maas built them to cross over,” Will said, “before they were living ships. I think we can still use the eyes and this bridge to breach the Frontier.”
With no ceremony, Will stepped onto the bridge and placed one orb in each capstone. Nothing happened.
“Will?” Ransom asked. “Are you supposed to throw a switch or something?”
“I don’t understand,” Will murmured, more to himself than the others, as he examined the bridge. “It should have worked right away.”
Verne looked at Charles and pursed his lips. “Now,” he said softly. “Now is the time to share what you know.”
Charles looked nervously from Verne to John, and then at Morgan. “I ah, er,” he started, tugging at his collar. “That is, John and I, we know how to make the bridge work.”
“How do you know that?” asked Will, surprised.
“We know,” said Charles, “because Hank told us.”
With all the Caretakers and their guests gathered about them, John and Charles related the details of their strange experience at Magdalen Tower.
“Interesting,” Hank said when they were done, “but I’m afraid it wasn’t me. I’ve never actually been a pirate, much less a ghost pirate.”
“The timing is right, though,” said Verne. “You were just there, two centuries back.”
“The problem is with the trumps, not the Anabasis Machines,” Morgan protested, “and I made it back just fine. Although …” He paused, finger aside his nose. “I have been working on a new device. Remember, Alvin?”
“Yes,” said Ransom. “It’s a modified version of the Lanterna Magica, but without the limitations of the slides—”
“Because we’d be using trumps,” Morgan finished, snapping his fingers. “I’ll go fetch it and we’ll give it a try.”
“So,” Burton rumbled as Hank ran back into Tamerlane House, “you are keeping secrets, Caretaker?”
“Not just from you,” Verne answered. “I didn’t want Charles and John to tell what they knew. Not until now.”
“Why?” asked Dickens. “Why not tell us?”
“Why not?” asked Hawthorne. “We might have believed in Shakespeare more if we’d heard Charles and John’s story first.”
“Maybe you would have,” Verne said, looking over to where Will was adjusting stones on the bridge, “but he might not have believed in himself. It needed to be his choice to offer—not just because of a ghostly warning from an ally who is decidedly unghostlike.”
“Whether or not he’s an idiot has yet to be proven,” said Burton. “The bridge doesn’t work.”
“Not yet,” Morgan said as he hurried back to the group, “but this might do the trick.”
He was carrying a strange contraption that resembled an electrified diorama box. “It’s meant to be portable, usable anywhere,” he explained as he set it up at the foot of the bridge, “and it operates using a trump.”
He took the front off the box, revealing lenses and gears, and a slot where a card could be inserted. Carefully, he and Ransom removed one of the stones in the center of the bridge and placed the box inside the shallow hole. Morgan ran leads to both capstones, then turned to face the Caretakers.
“It’s already functional,” he said, nodding at Will. “You were right about the Dragon’s eyes. But,” he went on, “you gave it nothing to connect to on the other side.” He leaned over and swiftly inserted a trump into the slot.
Instantly, half of the bridge vanished.
“Gentlebeings,” said Morgan, “I give you Shakespeare’s Bridge.”
Will turned to the companions, beaming. “I think,” he said, bowing, “you have a short walk to take, and you’ll be home, safe and sound.”
“I’m impressed,” Ransom said, giving the functional bridge a once-over. He checked the time, then shook his watch, tapping it on his hand. “Dratted thing. I’m going to go in and check it against the Intuitive Clock. John, Jack, Charles,” he called out as he left. “See you soon?”
“Of course,” said Jack, who was hugging Rose one last time. “We’ll get things caught up at home, then we’ll be back.”
“I’m going to have to explain we weren’t out at the Bird and Baby,” said John. “Again.”
“Don’t work too hard,” said Fred, waving.
“I can’t promise,” Charles called back over his shoulder as he waved good-bye. “After all, some of us have less time than others—and we need to be making hay while the sun shines.”
“Where in heaven’s name did you get that expression?” John said in mock disgust. “You’ve been fraternizing with the American scholars again, haven’t you?”
The three companions laughed as they stepped onto the bridge—and disappeared.
“Well done, Will,” said Verne. “You’ve just changed the game.”
Ransom was crossing through the dining hall when Grimalkin appeared. “So,” said the cat. “Does it work?”
“Well enough to get them home,” Ransom answered without looking down at the cat, which probably wasn’t there anyway. “Although I’m sure I can figure out what’s wrong with the trumps, given enough time.”
“The trumps?” asked Grimalkin’s voice. “Like the one you just used?”
“Yes,” Ransom said. “I—” He froze midstride. “It still shouldn’t have worked,” he murmured. “Not if it was a spatial problem …”
He looked down at his watch, and his eyes widened in horror. Quickly, he spun about and ran back toward the other end of the house.
“It’s quite a relief, actually,” Morgan was saying as he congratulated Will. “You
r bridge will make traveling back and forth a lot easier.”
The other Caretakers Emeritis voiced their agreement—this was a paradigm shift or a rare kind.
“Of course,” said Burton, “you’ve also rendered your safe house functionally unsafe. As of now, all roads lead to Rome, as it were.”
Suddenly a voice rife with terror rang out as Ransom burst out of Tamerlane House, waving his watch. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t cross over! Don’t cross the bridge!”
“You’re a moment too late, I’m afraid,” said Bert. “They’ve already gone through.”
“It’s a discontinuity!” Ransom exclaimed, panting. “A rift! A rift in time, between this world and the Summer Country! We’ve got to get them back!”
Without warning a terrible earthquake shook the island, throwing them all to the ground. A howling noise like a hurricane filled the air, and for a moment it seemed as if Tamerlane House was going to be shaken to pieces.
More ominously, the other half of the bridge had reappeared—and it brought something else with it.
“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” said Twain, “or even in the Archipelago.”
Through the bridge, they could see the ghost image of England, almost real enough to touch. Behind them, they could still see the Nameless Isles, but beyond that, gray mists.
“Oh my stars and garters,” said Bert. “I think we’ve been ripped free of the Archipelago altogether.”
“And what of the Caretakers?” asked Twain. “Where did they go?”
“Not where, when,” said Ransom. “And there’s only one way to find out. We’ve got to follow them across.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Pirate
The man called Elijah McGee dipped his quill into the watery ink and continued to draw on the broad parchment on the desk before him. The map, which was the seventh he had created for the man who was not quite a friend, and yet was more than an acquaintance, was almost completed. It was the most unusual of the maps he had made, and the most complex. But it was correct in a way he could not explain—as if it had existed in the parchment already, and was only being pulled forth by his penstrokes, not drawn upon it by his hand.
Mapmaking was not his original calling; Elijah McGee was a silversmith of great renown in the Colonies, and particularly there in Charles Town. None had a greater reputation save for one or two in Boston. But for the finest detail work, every man in every trade knew to seek out Elijah McGee.
Even if such a man was a pirate.
The young man who had first come to him was barely thirty years old, if that, but his face bore the lines of a longer life, as if the years he lived had worn down his spirit before they showed on his flesh.
He had approached Elijah with a strange watch, which was made of a metal he had never seen before. It had been damaged in some way, or so the man had claimed. At the first meeting, he was strangely reluctant to describe to Elijah all the supposed workings of the device, but during subsequent encounters he shared more and more extraordinary tales of what it was capable of, and the adventures he had had through its use.
He had taken it to other silversmiths, some in London across the ocean, and some in the Colonies, but none could help him. One of them in Boston had agreed to allow him to try to repair it himself—but the young man had fired up the smelter when his master was at Sunday services, and had a terrible accident: He had tripped and burned his hand in molten silver. A surgeon later restored much of its usefulness, but the hand would never be the same.
Without the watch, he explained to Elijah, he could not communicate with his colleagues, and worse, he would be consigned to remain here in this time, rather than return to his own.
He had said “time” as if it were a place, Elijah remembered thinking. As if it were something to be traveled to. And he spoke of it reluctantly, as if a great confidence were being breached.
More was the pity then, Elijah mused, that he was unable to determine the reason for the device’s malfunctioning. It operated as a watch, and nothing more, and that would have to be good enough.
He had always taken the story of the watch as he had taken the other tales—with a grain of salt. The stories were simply too outlandish to believe: accounts of a group of men and women called Caretakers, and an extraordinary place called the Archipelago, and of a singular personage the man had called the Cartographer, from whom the man had begun learning the art of mapmaking.
If even a few of the stories were true, it would be extraordinary enough, but they were generally too impossible to believe. Still, he seemed a decent enough sort, and he paid in gold (albeit coins of ancient origin), so Elijah had come to look forward to his visits.
When it was evident Elijah could not fix the watch, the young man disappeared for several months, then reappeared. He had become a pirate, which was not all that disreputable a profession—and quite a successful one at that. And he had a curious request: that Elijah draw for him a map.
With his ruined hand, he could no longer do it himself—but he could teach Elijah, and Elijah, with his skilled fingers, could create it. And Elijah agreed, in part out of sympathy, and in part because one does not argue with pirates.
That request was the first of several to come over the years, and in time, Elijah developed a reputation among the other pirates. Before he realized it, he had entered a new, secret profession. And it was all begun by the strange young man with the watch who had become a pirate.
I was a silversmith, Elijah thought, before I became a mapmaker to pirates—so who am I to criticize a craftsman such as my young friend in his choice of careers?
The visits from the young pirate became more sporadic, and Elijah wondered if some mischief had befallen the man. And then one day he returned, with the strangest request of all: He asked that Elijah try to create a map that would guide him not to a specific place …
… but to a specific time.
The years had taken their toll; both Elijah and his pirate friend had aged and weathered. But as Elijah was about to protest that such a thing could not be done, he noticed the fellow fingering the silver watch—and for some reason, he heard himself agreeing to try.
It did not come easily. Many conversations were had about the nature of maps, and time, and the paths that men take in their lives. And Elijah realized that it might be possible that his whole purpose in life was to create this single drawing. It was, he thought with astonishment, going to work.
And besides, he thought as he dipped the quill again to finish the drawing, even a failure would bring him gratitude from someone who had become a very influential man. If one was to find oneself an ally and friend to a pirate, he could do worse than to have that pirate be the most successful, ambitious, and noble of them all. So if Captain Henry Morgan wanted a map of time, Elijah McGee would oblige him. After all, isn’t that what friends are for?
It was decided that Verne, Bert, Ransom, and Morgan would cross the bridge to see what had happened to the companions. Twain and Dickens stayed behind to alert Poe, and to console an inconsolable Shakespeare.
“A bit risky, isn’t it, Caretaker?” Burton said to Verne. “Crossing over with so many?”
“It’s my responsibility, mine and Bert’s,” said Verne, “and if we get stuck ourselves, we’ll need Ransom and Morgan to find a way back.”
“Fair enough,” Burton replied, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture. “Be my guest.”
Bert stepped across first, then the others.
They were in the garden just outside the Kilns, and it was in full bloom. “Spring, not autumn,” Bert said bleakly. “This bodes ill for us all.”
Verne was looking at his watch and shaking his head in disbelief. “This can’t be right,” he murmured to himself. “It’s not possible.”
“It’s all too possible, Jules,” Ransom said grimly. “And all too real.”
They moved around to the entrance that led to the large drawing room, where they hoped to find the three Caretakers. John appe
ared at the door, nearly trampling over Bert in the process.
He was dressed differently than he had been just minutes before in Tamerlane House, and he held a drink in his hand. After a few seconds of stunned disbelief, he set the drink aside and embraced his mentor.
“Knew you’d come,” John said, his voice a mix of joy and barely-restrained sorrow. “I knew you’d find a way!”
Behind him they could see Jack, his brother Warnie, and Hugo Dyson. All were dressed very formally and were drinking strong liquor.
There was some confusion as the new arrivals entered and introductions were made. Warnie and Hugo had never met Verne or Bert, and Ransom and Morgan only briefly.
“We’re so glad to see you’re all right,” said Bert. “When the earthquake happened, we worried something had gone terribly wrong.”
“Earthquake?” Jack asked, looking at John, who shrugged. “Nothing like that happened. The bridge worked like a charm, but then it vanished. We’ve been terribly worried all this time about you. And when we didn’t hear from anyone—”
“All what time?” said Bert. “You just left, not five minutes ago!”
“Bert,” Jack said slowly, his voice trembling, “we came home two years ago. We’ve been trying to reach you the entire time.”
Verne closed his eyes as he suddenly realized: They were having a wake. “Then Charles …,” he began.
“You’ve come too late,” said Jack. “Charles is dead.”
It took a few minutes to let the terrible news sink in before the Caretakers could even speak. Charles was dead—which meant that it was no longer 1943, but 1945. Somehow, the creation of the bridge between worlds had shifted Tamerlane House forward in time two full years.
“We have to speak to Poe,” Bert said when he had regained his composure. “He may be able to help.”
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