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

by Owen, James A.

  “You are not of this world, are you?” the old shipbuilder asked the companions as they left his tents to make their way back to the Indigo Dragon.

  “Of this world, yes,” Quixote said primly. “Of this era, ah, no. Not exactly.”

  Deucalion nodded. “I could tell as much. You have the smell of Kairos about you.”

  “Sorry,” Uncas and Fred chorused. “We got a bit wet when we were watering the goats,” said Fred.

  The old shipbuilder smiled. “I think the smell of wet badger fur is more pleasant than the smell of a rose garden,” he said.

  “Y’see?” Uncas said to Madoc. “That’s why ev’rybody loves him.”

  Madoc laughed. “I’m starting to understand that.”

  “Uh-oh,” Fred said as they approached the spot where they had left the airship and the Zanzibar Gate. “You know that whole ‘don’t meddle with history’ thing the Elder Caretakers are always nattering on about? Well, I think we’ve just meddled.”

  The airship, which resembled a boat enough still that everyone who looked at it completely ignored it as another one of Deucalion’s desert follies, was still sitting in the sand where they had left it. But the Zanzibar Gate was drawing a considerably larger amount of attention.

  Craftsmen from all the tribes had formed a perimeter around the gate and were constructing their own replicas of it. Even just a cursory glance among the works-in-progress showed that pyramid-like structures from all the great cultures of the world were being sculpted: the Egyptian, and the Maya, the Chinese, and even the latecomers of Mesopotamia.

  “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” said Quixote.

  “Not likely,” said Madoc. “This is the First City. No one else on earth has built anything like a pyramid before, and suddenly one just appeared out of thin air in the middle of the desert. That’s too significant a happening to be ignored.”

  “Well, at least we finally know the answer to the question as to why there are nearly identical pyramids in every culture around the world throughout recorded history,” said Fred. “They were all inspired by the work of William Shakespeare.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Observing from the circle of Caretakers seated at Conan Doyle’s table in Tamerlane House, John tightened his grip on his colleagues’ hands when he saw a child moving among the sculptors who were making the replica pyramids.

  “There,” he said, hardly daring to breathe. “That boy—isn’t he . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Verne said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “In this time he was Enkidu, friend of Gilgamesh. But when he grows older, we will know him as the End of Time.”

  “Theo,” Jack whispered. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Almost as if he had heard, the boy stopped and cocked his head. He wiped the sweat from his brow and then ran back the other way, moving closer to the companions and the Zanzibar Gate.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Deucalion had moved past the others to examine the Indigo Dragon. He knelt next to the hull and ran his hands along it. “A fascinating vessel,” he murmured, “of impeccable construction.”

  “Don’t let’s be patting ourselves on the back too hard,” said Laura Glue.

  “What?”

  “Never mind her,” said Fred, frowning at the Valkyrie. “It’s a good ship, and she’s taken good care of everyone who’s sailed on her.”

  “She’s been through a lot,” Deucalion said, noting the scars in the wood, “but I have no doubt she’ll continue to serve you well.”

  He turned to Madoc. “Something you ought to know,” he said as the companions reharnessed the goats to the airship. “This is not, in fact, the First City.”

  That froze all of them where they stood.

  “It isn’t?” Quixote said, dumbfounded. “But isn’t this Atlantis?”

  Deucalion chuckled again. “Atlantis is among the oldest cities, and it is certainly the grandest, but it is not the first. My own city, in my own kingdom, predated it by several centuries. It was far humbler, but older nonetheless.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Uncas. “That in’t good.”

  Deucalion knelt, a look of concern crossing his features. “If your friends are in the City of Jade, does it matter if it is the oldest?”

  “It might,” said Fred. “That will affect what it is they came here to find. If this isn’t the First City, then there’s little chance they will find the identity of the first architect.”

  “Is that all?” Deucalion said in surprise. “I can tell you that right now.”

  Again, all the companions stopped doing whatever they were doing and focused their full attention on the old shipbuilder.

  “Seek my great-grandfather,” Deucalion said to Fred. “He left this world long before I came into it, but if any man was ever the kind of architect whom you are seeking, it would be him. He built a city. . . .” He paused, glancing around in sorrow as the enormity of the imminent destruction hit him once again. “He built the first city,” the shipbuilder continued, “and in the beginning, before the names the younger races ascribed to it, before anything in this world had a name, it was named for him. Seek him out, and perhaps you will find the answers you seek.”

  He rummaged around inside his robe and withdrew a bronze disk that bore the likeness of a man on it. “Here,” he said, handing it to Fred. “This was made long ago, and is said to be the best likeness of him, made by someone who knew him in his youth, before the city was built. If it will be of some help to you, you are welcome to it,” he said, scanning the horizon with a visible anxiety. There were no clouds, no signs of rain, but it was clear the notes to the badgers had unnerved him more than he had let on.

  “One way or the other,” he said with finality, “I will have no more use for it myself.”

  With no farewell but a head scratch for the goats, a squeeze to the neck for the badgers, and a polite but curt nod to all the companions, Deucalion strode away to his ship.

  “I don’t know my mythology, uh, my history as well as you do,” Quixote said to Madoc. “Who are we going to look for?”

  “Enoch,” said Madoc. “The city Deucalion mentioned was called the City of Enoch, and if it truly was the first, then I think he’s who we have to find.”

  “First city, second city, or fifth city, this one is about to be covered in water,” said Laura Glue. “There’s no more time to waste—we have to go.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Will the gate be safe while we go into the city?” Uncas asked. “Maybe one of us should stand guard.”

  “It’s a pyramid built of almost indestructible stone that is older than dirt,” said Laura Glue. “What can possibly happen to it?”

  “The mechanisms are breakable,” said Madoc, “but I would trust in Shaksberd’s construction. It’ll be fine.” He turned to Fred. “All right, little Namer,” he said. “Name me.”

  “Okay,” Fred said. He’d been thumbing his way through the Little Whatsit, looking for the proper way to Name a Dragon as a Nephilim, but incredibly, that bit of knowledge was nowhere in the book. He shrugged and tucked it away. “You’re a Nephilim,” Fred said bluntly. “Congratulations.”

  “There’s something to be said for ceremony, you know,” Quixote said as the goats took a running start and the ship lifted into the air.

  “Sorry,” said Fred. “I’ll work on that.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The airship rose into the sky, and a great hue and cry rose up from the thousands of people living in the encampments. It was not unprecedented in a world where angels walked among men and animals talked and gods rose and fell with the seasons, but it was a thrilling sight nonetheless. As the Indigo Dragon flew closer and closer to the impenetrable line of Corinthian Giants, every human within sight was watching its progress. Every human, that is . . .

  . . . save for one.

  Enkidu was standing away from the throng, not watching the flying ship but instead staring directly at the Prime Caretaker sitting in the circle at Ta
merlane House.

  “This is as far as I can take you, O spirit guides,” the boy said. “I have tried to be where I felt you needed me to be, so you could see the things you hoped to see, but I can go no further. I must prepare for what is to come. And so must you.”

  With that the images projecting from the table vanished, and the room was plunged into darkness.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Good Lord!” John exclaimed, jumping up from the table. He was almost choking on his own words. “Wh-what was that, Arthur? What just happened here?”

  “I’m sorry,” Conan Doyle said as he and the others also rose. “I thought you understood—it’s not simply remote viewing. We are almost physically with him. That’s not a hard, fast rule—none of this is set in stone—but he knew we were present the whole time we were watching. And somehow, he understood it was necessary.”

  “And, it seems, done,” said Jack. “How are we to follow them now? We don’t even know if Rose, Edmund, and Charles are in the city!”

  “Yes, we do,” said a voice from the doorway. It was Poe, the master of Tamerlane House.

  In the hierarchy of Caretakers, Poe occupied a unique position somewhere above that of Caveo Principia, and even above Jules Verne when he was the Prime Caretaker before John took over the role. According to Bert, Poe had a unique understanding of space and time, and supposedly could manipulate both when it suited him to do so—but in John’s experience, he rarely involved himself in whatever the Caretakers were dealing with unless it was a serious crisis. His appearance here was both good and bad.

  “The Telos Biblos was written in Samaranth’s own hand, from the time before the Archipelago itself was created, and there are accounts in it we have never understood until now.”

  He held up the book, so devoid of color that the pages appeared cold, and promptly ripped it in half.

  Before any of the shocked Caretakers could react, Poe continued to tear the pages loose from the binding, then threw them into the air. They swirled about him like leaves in a storm, and then they began to slow, emitting a strange, unearthly glow.

  Gradually the pages flowed past Poe and over to the table, where they reassembled themselves in order, and then began to expand until they filled the entire impression inset within the table. The light emanating from them grew stronger, and as the Caretakers again took their seats, images began to form in the light, and faint sound could be heard coming from the pages.

  “Look and listen,” Poe said, still standing near the doorway, “and see how the world you have cared for came into being.”

  “The Jade Empress,” Samaranth said . . .

  Chapter ELEVEN

  The Oldest History

  “What do you think?” Rose asked the two men as Samaranth readied himself to attend the summit. “Should we go with him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Edmund. “It’s history—whatever’s about to go on has already happened, and I’m loath to get involved and possibly mess something up.”

  “We already did,” said Charles. “Didn’t you hear him? The keep is damaged—that means it hasn’t fallen just in the future, but in the past as well. If we leave things as they are and try to go back, we may find our own history has been irrevocably changed.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time talking to Uncle Ray,” Rose said, “but I think you’re right. That’s exactly what we’d be risking. So I don’t think we have anything to lose by trying to learn as much as we can while we’re here.”

  “I agree,” Samaranth said. It was still unnerving to all three of them that this youthful man-child had the eyes of the wise old Dragon that they knew.

  “Whoever you are, it is obvious to me that you understand more about how the world works than most of the principalities,” he said as they left the Library. “If you listen, and learn, it may help you to better . . . take care, of your own world.”

  “That’s pretty much exactly what we had in mind,” said Charles. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  “Samaranth,” the angel corrected. “Your memory needs work.”

  “Sorry,” said Charles.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The great and spacious building where the summit was being held was less an amphitheater than it was an enormous ballroom—and in all the significant ways, that was exactly what it was. Staircases rose from the floor below, which was several hundred feet lower than the entrance, and connected a series of platforms that extended almost to the ceiling, which was so far above them that clouds had formed inside the room. There were fountains that fed streams of mingled light and water flowing through the air from platform to platform at varying levels. Everything was glass and marble and solidified light, except for the huge circle of fire in the center, and the dais above it, which stood at the far end of the chamber. Atop it was something familiar to all three of the companions.

  “The ring of flames is the Creative Fire,” said Samaranth. “It is where all things are made, and thus, this is where all things are decided. The high seat above is . . .”

  “. . . the Silver Throne,” Rose said, breathless with awe.

  “Hmm,” said Charles. “Your father—uh, Mordred, that is, once said he was older than the Silver Throne. I think he was indulging in a bit of puffery.”

  “Obviously,” said Edmund. “It’s all still awfully spectacular, though,” he added, gesturing at the grand spectacle with a sweep of his arm.

  “It is indeed,” Samaranth said, leading them to one of the staircases. “It was built by—”

  “Magic?” Edmund suggested.

  “Yes, that is the word,” said Samaranth. “Magic. Or was it Will? I always get those two confused.”

  As they descended the stairs, Samaranth indicated that he was uncertain where he was expected to go, since he had not in fact attended any session of the summit before. The companions were about to ask why he had been excluded when Rose recognized someone on a nearby platform.

  “Excuse me, ah, Nix?” she said to the angel. “Can you help us, please?”

  Nix frowned—which Rose had noted, when they met before, was his default expression—and consulted his marble tablet. “I don’t know why you weren’t ordered when you arrived,” he complained. “You are minions of a Seraphim, and—” He stopped, having noticed Samaranth for the first time. His eyes widened slightly. “I beg your pardon. I did not realize the elder was also with you.” He consulted the tablet again, then pointed down at the floor level. “There should be some space for you there, if you hurry. The adversaries have claimed most of the upper platforms, and the principalities have claimed everything else.”

  “Adversaries?” said Charles. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “It is the final session of the summit,” Samaranth explained as they moved past several other youthful but apparently elderly angels and located an out-of-the-way corner at the lowest level of the room. “Matters of such importance that all the principalities have been invited, including our enemies.”

  “What are they called?” Edmund asked.

  “One cannot identify one’s adversaries by name,” Samaranth explained. “One can identify them only by their actions, and then act accordingly in return. And if they demonstrate that they no longer serve the Word, then, and only then, may they be Named as Fallen, and cast out.”

  “Cast out to where?” asked Rose.

  “You really don’t want to know,” said Samaranth.

  “So,” said Charles, “all those above us, uh, so to speak, are gods?”

  “Many of them,” Samaranth answered, “but most above are of the angelic Host. Seraphim, Cherubim, and,” he said, darkening slightly, “Nephilim. There are also the elder of us who serve in lesser capacities, but all who have a hand in guiding the course of the world are numbered among the principalities. Since the moment this world was divided from the Un-Made World, the younger races also began to splinter, and they grew and developed into their own distinctive cultures,” he said in a matter-of-fa
ct way. “As they flourished, they lost their connections to the Word and began the development of their own deities, whom they called gods. We, the Host, came here to build this city to try to reconnect the peoples of the world with the Word. But,” he added with a touch of sadness, “the execution of that plan has fallen somewhat short of the aspiration.

  “There,” he said, pointing at a delegation several levels above. “That’s one of the younger groups of gods, from a place called the Fertile Crescent. They are crude in their mannerisms, but effective. And there,” he said, pointing to the left of the first group. “Those call themselves Titans. In truth, they bear many similarities to the Host—but their view is limited. Except,” he added, “for that one.”

  Toward the bottom of the delegation a red-haired man was watching the angels just as intensely as Samaranth was watching him, only occasionally turning away to speak to another god, who carried a staff of living fire.

  “He is the offspring of one of the Titans,” Samaranth explained. “They call him Zeus. I expect great things of him, as well as the one he is with . . . Prometheus, I think.”

  Samaranth continued pointing out deities around the great room, and it was all the companions could do to keep up. “Loki, there,” the angel said, “and his father, Odin, and Odin’s father, Bor. And there,” he continued, gesturing to a broad platform speckled with fountains, “the twin goddesses, Mahu and Mut, who represent two-thirds of the land masses of this world.”

  “What of the angels?” Charles asked. “Where are they?”

  “Scattered throughout,” Samaranth replied. “The Seraphim, like, ah, yourself,” he added with as close an expression of mirth as any of them had yet seen, “are primarily of the Makers’ Guilds, and constitute the bulk of the Host. The Cherubim,” he went on, “are primarily Namers, and are those here on the lower levels with us.”