The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The)

by Owen, James A.

  “It seems there are times when only a Dragon will do,” Houdini said, slamming shut another ancient tome. “There simply isn’t any substitute.”

  “Do you need a hand with those?” Jack asked, rising from his chair as Laura Glue again descended a ladder carrying a precariously arranged assortment of boxes.

  “It’s all right,” Laura Glue said as she carefully balanced the stack on the table. “I got this.”

  “Actually,” Jack said, “the proper way to say that would be ‘I’ve got this.’ The way you say it makes you sound . . .”

  “Uneducated? Like a wildling, maybe?” Laura Glue replied.

  Jack frowned. “I was going to say, it makes you sound less intelligent than you actually are.”

  Laura Glue frowned back. “ ’Ceptin’,” she said, deliberately using Lost Boy slang, “you knows I be intelligent as all that, and I knows I be intelligent as all that, so what be the problem, neh?”

  “The problem,” Jack said, now in full professor mode, “is that no one else who heard you speak that way would know how intelligent you really are.”

  She shrugged and smiled at the Caretaker. “Why should I care what anyone else thinks? I know, and that’s enough.”

  “She has you there, Jack,” John said, clapping him on the back. “Best just shut up now and help her move the boxes.”

  “Nah,” Laura Glue said, waving one hand at them as she hefted another stack of boxes with her other arm. “Like I said—I got this.”

  “An’ I gots some munchies,” the badger Caretaker Fred announced as he strolled into the room, carrying a large basket filled with fruit. “It’s midafternoon, and you missed lunch, so I thought I’d better bring something up.”

  “Thank you, Fred,” Jack said as he selected a bunch of grapes and sat down. “Anticipating a need is the mark of an excellent Caretaker.”

  “Don’t go quoting Jules, now,” said John. “Especially regarding anticipating our needs.”

  “That’s not entirely fair, is it?” Houdini asked as he examined some pears a moment before selecting a peach. “He hardly could have anticipated a crisis like this one.”

  “He seems to have anticipated every other kind of crisis,” John grumbled, “including an entire alternate timeline set into motion by Hugo Dyson closing a door at the wrong time, which, as I recall, was partially your fault. So why didn’t he anticipate this? Where’s the backup plan for the backup plan?”

  Jack stood and sidled around one of the tables to move another stack of scrolls and parchments, which he dropped onto the floor next to John’s chair. “Perhaps we have gotten too accustomed to his being our deus ex machina,” he said, sitting heavily in the wingback chair next to Laura Glue. “We count on his always having the answers, because before we knew how many strings he was pulling, he always seemed to have all the answers. And then, even after we found out just how many events he was manipulating, we still allowed it because it always seemed to work out. It was only after something finally went terribly wrong that you took matters into your own hands and stepped into the role yourself.”

  John scowled. “You are referring to the role of Prime Caretaker, I hope,” he said with a hint of irritation, “and not Jules’s predilection for meddling with time.”

  “What’s the difference?” Laura Glue asked as she selected an apple from Fred’s basket and bit into it. “Isn’t that precisely what the job be, neh?”

  “That’s the problem in a nutshell,” John said with a sigh. “It really is, but it shouldn’t be.”

  At that moment, Nathaniel Hawthorne stuck his head around the corner. Before he could speak a word, he exploded with a violent sneeze, then another, and another.

  “You would think,” he said as Fred handed him a handkerchief to blow his nose, “that Basil Hallward could have painted some version of my portrait that left out my allergy to dust.”

  Jack chuckled. “That’s not how it works,” he said blithely, referring to their resident artist’s technique for preserving life by painting portraits of Caretakers who were about to end their natural life spans. “As you were in life, so you remain in Tamerlane House.”

  “That’s slender consolation sometimes, Jack,” Hawthorne grumbled as he wiped his nose. “You’ll understand when you eventually join us.”

  Jack hesitated. “I . . . haven’t yet decided,” he finally said. “I know I don’t want to become a tulpa like Charles did when he passed, but I’m not certain that I want to be a portrait, either.”

  “It’s not so bad—as long as you don’t go on vacation for longer than seven days,” Hawthorne said, referring to the one limitation of portrait-extended life: They could only live as long as they were never away from Tamerlane House for more than a week—a lesson the Caretakers learned all too well when both their mentor, Professor Sigurdsson, and their once-ally-turned-enemy Daniel Defoe perished after being gone for too long.

  “Time enough to decide that later,” said Jack. “Hopefully decades. Was there something you needed, Nate?”

  Hawthorne hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s some kind of commotion down at one of the beaches. I’ve dispatched Jason’s sons to go down there just in case it’s trouble, and I’m going to go have a look myself. I just thought the, ah, Prime Caretaker . . .” He paused, looking at John. “I thought you ought to know.”

  John waved his hand. “You’re head of security,” he said. “I trust in that. Let me know what you find, though.”

  Hawthorne winked and disappeared.

  “Mebbe I should go too,” said Fred, “seein’ as I’m one of th’ actual Caretakers now.”

  “Actually, we could use your help here,” said Jack. “There are some cubbyholes in and around the bookshelves that are too small for us to reach, and, not to put too fine a point on it . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Fred said with mock annoyance. “You need a badger to bail out your backsides—again.”

  “I’ll never begrudge the help of a badger,” John said with honest appreciation, “especially considering that you’re the closest thing to a Dragon we have left.”

  “That may not be entirely correct,” said a breathless Hawthorne, who reentered the room in such a rush that he nearly skidded into a bookcase. “Come quickly, everyone! You must see what we’ve found on the South Beach.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hawthorne’s alert roused everyone at Tamerlane House, and so almost every Caretaker, Messenger, Mystorian, and creature arrived on the beach at the same time and saw the same impossible sight:

  There, half out of the water and leaning slightly where it rested on the sand, was the Black Dragon.

  Chapter TWO

  The Prodigal Dragon

  The initial surprise that was felt by all the residents of Tamerlane House at finding the long-missing Black Dragon on the South Beach was quickly eclipsed by their arguing about what it meant, and more, what was to be done next.

  Shakespeare, for his part, was thrilled by the arrival of the Black Dragon. But several of the Caretakers Emeriti, led by da Vinci, were convinced it was some sort of Echthroi trick—a Dragonship version of the Trojan Horse—and advocated burning it on the spot.

  The younger Caretakers, led by John and Jack, suggested it was merely synchronicity that a Dragonship had turned up at just that point in time that a Dragon was needed, and protested that burning it would destroy their only chance of powering Shakespeare’s Zanzibar Gate.

  The rest were basically skirting one side or the other without taking a definitive stance, all of which meant that there was nothing but chaotic bickering right up to the point that Harry Houdini fired the cannon and silenced them all.

  “Hell’s bells,” he said as he moved around the still-smoking cannon, which sat along one of the battlements. “I thought we kept this loaded in case of an attack from the Echthroi, but it seems it’s just as useful in shutting up Caretakers.”

  . . . Houdini and John piloted the Black Dragon . . .

&n
bsp; “Now, see here,” Hawthorne started.

  “You’re all forgetting,” Houdini went on, ignoring Hawthorne, “that the Archipelago isn’t on Chronos time anymore. So this ship didn’t just leave a year ago to make its way here. It’s been sailing for . . .” He looked at Twain. “I can’t do math.”

  “Oh, uh,” said Dumas, who was good with numbers. “About a . . . um, a thousand years, give or take.”

  “A thousand years,” Houdini repeated, glaring at da Vinci. “So we know there’s still a living Dragon at its heart. And as far as using it,” he added, looking at John, “that isn’t our choice. It’s his. And we all know who the Black Dragon once was—so what he’ll choose to do is anybody’s guess.”

  “He’ll do it,” said John.

  “You sound pretty confident of that,” said Dumas.

  “I am,” said John, “because he’s already sacrificed himself once for his daughter, and I have no doubt he’ll do it again.”

  “Why?” asked Houdini.

  “Because,” said John, “I’m a father too, and it’s what I would do.”

  “There’s just one problem,” said Shakespeare. “It’s a Dragonship, not a Dragon. I don’t know if that will work to activate the portal. It may be that the only use for it is as a ship.”

  “It’s all well and good,” Dumas said, giving the Black Dragon a cursory glance, “but of what use is a Dragonship with no Archipelago to cross over to?”

  “More to the point,” said John, “if we can’t separate the Dragon from the ship, how can we power the gate?”

  “Do you really need to, though?” asked Jack. “The bridge didn’t need anything but a Dragon’s eyes to work.”

  “I was hoping to engineer the gate to operate on the same principle as the bridge,” said Shakespeare, “but that’s, it would seem, apples and oranges.”

  “I think I understand,” said John. “The Dragon eyes were sufficient enough talismans to permit us to cross between worlds . . .”

  “But to traverse time, to activate the mechanism, requires a living Dragon,” Shakespeare finished. “It’s a conundrum, to be sure. That’s why this new development is so thrilling—the Black Dragon still has within it a living, breathing Dragon . . . and that may be sufficient to activate the Zanzibar Gate.”

  “In other words,” Jack said, grinning from ear to ear, “the Caretakers are back in the game.”

  “Bangarang!” said Fred.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Under Shakespeare’s direction, Houdini and John piloted the Black Dragon off the beach and around to the small island where the Zanzibar Gate had been constructed. But proximity was not enough.

  “It has to go through the gate,” Shakespeare said glumly. “The Dragon has to go through first, or else it can’t be activated properly.” He turned to Jules Verne, who had typically taken charge of situations like the discovery of the ship—but who had instead chosen to stand back in deference to John. “Is there any way to . . . separate the Dragon from the ship? To perhaps remove the masthead?”

  Verne glanced at John and Twain, then shook his head. “No method that I know of,” he answered. “As far as I know, no one’s ever tried. No one except Ordo Maas knew the process for making a Dragonship—and when the Archipelago was lost, we lost him as well.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” offered John. “He admitted that the Black Dragon wasn’t one of his, remember? Someone else must know the secret, because someone had to create the Black Dragon.”

  Verne looked at John, eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said. “You might have something at that.” He turned and tilted his head at Bert. “Someone one of us may have already met.”

  Bert moved quickly to Verne’s side, eyes glittering. “Surely he can’t still be alive?” he said, his voice trembling with excitement. “I mean, it could only be . . . He’d be the only one . . . But to still be alive, after all these centuries . . .”

  “Maybe,” Verne said, pulling at his beard. “It is possible, Bert.”

  “Who are we talking about?” asked Jack.

  “A possibility,” Verne said enigmatically. “Ordo Maas was not the only shipbuilder to construct living vessels—and the only other one we know of in history made an ancient promise that may have been fulfilled with the creation of the Black Dragon. And if that is so, then he may be the one who can reverse the process too.”

  John looked at the others, and a bit of the starch seemed to have gone out of him. “I’d forgotten,” he said, slightly crestfallen. “That fellow they saved in the past. The one who owed Edmund a boon.”

  “And may have fulfilled it,” said Verne.

  Bert frowned. “We’re wasting time, Jules,” he said testily. “If he has actually survived since Jason’s time . . .”

  Verne held a finger to his lips and turned to the rest of the gathering. “I agree, time is of the essence now,” he said, almost contritely. “But it is no longer my call. John? What do you say?”

  The Prime Caretaker drew a sharp breath. It was the first time in the two months since their friends had been lost that Verne had actually deferred to him in front of the others, all of whom were now watching expectantly.

  “First things first,” he said firmly. “Let’s secure the ship in the boathouse where it ought to be. Then we must attend to other matters, such as the security of Tamerlane House. And then,” he added with a tight smile at Bert and Verne, “we’ll make our battle plan.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Once the ship was safely ensconced in the boathouse, John, Jack, and Bert retreated to the main house to set another part of their newly minted plans in motion.

  Bert had been largely absent from the activities of Tamerlane House for the last two months, for reasons both good and shoddy. The good reason was that upon finding out he had died and was now a portrait, he also discovered that Verne had rescued his love, Weena, from the far future, and made her over into a portrait as well. The love he thought lost to the mists of time was now, here, present, and in his new life. John couldn’t begrudge his old mentor that.

  However, Bert had also been complicit in many of Verne’s plans, including keeping the truth of many things from his protégés simply because Verne had deemed it necessary. And so when John had enough of Verne’s games and declared himself to be the new Prime Caretaker, Bert also bore some of that judgment. So when an opportunity emerged for Bert to actively contribute to the plan of action, he jumped on it with relish—and possibly out of hope of a small measure of forgiveness from the Caretakers whom he had come to love like his own sons.

  On the walk to the house, Bert told the others everything he could remember about the strange shipbuilder he and the other time travelers had encountered in the past—and then, together, they repeated it all to the two residents of Tamerlane House whom they could depend on to carry out their plan.

  “Interesting,” said Don Quixote as he nibbled on a cookie. “Don’t you agree, Uncas?”

  His squire climbed down from the chair where he’d been perched and frowned at the knight. “Interesting?” he exclaimed, whiskers twitching. “Sounds more like a ’mergency t’ me. Finish your snicker-doodle and let’s get going.”

  “Uh, we haven’t even told you what we need you to do,” said Jack.

  “That’s never stopped us before,” said Uncas.

  “What is the task?” Quixote asked, swallowing the last bite of cookie and pocketing two more before dusting off his lap. “I’m not sure where to begin looking for a shipbuilder who might have died thousands of years ago.”

  “You may not,” said Bert, “but someone else you know does. In fact, they were well acquainted at one point.”

  “Of whom are we speaking?”

  “The Zen Detective,” said John.

  “He’s just upstairs, with Rappaccini’s daughter,” said Quixote. “Why not just go ask him yourselves?”

  “Because,” said John, “despite his sudden turnabout in the battle with Dee and the Cabal, the detective still
harbors a lot of deep-seated and unpleasant feelings about working with Caretakers. But you two,” he said, pointing at the knight and the squire, “are not Caretakers. And he still feels a sense of obligation for betraying you.”

  “And you want us to play offa that, hey?” asked Uncas. “That in’t th’ Animal way.”

  “It’s the way that will work,” said John. “Will you do it?”

  Quixote stood and saluted. “For you, Master Caretaker, I would march alone through the gates of Hades itself.”

  “And I’d go with him,” said Uncas.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The knight and his squire made their way through the warren of hallways and corridors to the room that had been provided to the Zen Detective, but as they suspected it might be, it was empty. Since taking up residence at Tamerlane House, he could almost always be found with one of Verne’s time travelers, the assistants known as Messengers. Her name was Beatrice, but everyone called her Rappaccini’s daughter, after her famous father. Her room was less a living space than it was an arboretum, and nearly everything growing in it was poisonous. This might have been a cause for concern to the detective had he not also recently been poisonous himself. Beatrice corrected that unfortunate condition, and in the most unlikely pairing possible, the two fell in love.

  It took several knocks at Beatrice’s door before the detective opened it in a huff. “What is it?” he said, not even trying to disguise the ire in his voice. “We’re busy.”