by Philip Webb
We come at last to the lake. Clogged up with weeds and sludge, it’s more like a swamp now, but Gramps says this was once a place for pleasure boats and picnics. We circle the bank and come to a sunken clearing, the site of the old pump house, and on the far side is Gramps’s falling-down shack of timber and turf. It’s got one cracked window, and a canvas sheet for a door, and poking out the lean-to roof is a rusted pipe chimney. There ain’t no sign of a fire, though, and no one answers as I call out.
Inside there’s just a makeshift bed of busted branches and dry grass with a ratty old blanket and some dirty pots. The ashes of the fire are warm, though.
“He ain’t gone far. Must’ve gone to check his traps, or something.”
“He lives here on his own?” Erin wrinkles her nose at the smell, and I have to admit it looks like the old duffer has let himself go a bit.
She stands there hugging herself, looking warily at all the junk. “Why doesn’t he live with everyone else in the settlement?”
“He fell out big-time with my dad after Mum died. Bit of a long story. He’s lived here about five years now, but even before that, he had the shack up here for trapping game. In the good old days, he used to look after me and Wilbur in the summer, when we was too young for scavving.”
“And he’s searching for the artifact on his own?”
I’m about to answer when we all hear the snick of a gun being cocked.
“And who wants to know?” demands a voice from outside.
We all step out into the light. Gramps is standing just a few feet away, aiming a huge pistol at us. That’s one almighty shock – I’ve never seen him wield anything more dangerous than a skinning knife. And nobody I know has even got a gun.
“Gramps, it’s me. Cass.”
Slowly he lowers the pistol.
“I nearly shot you dead. Thought you were Vlads.”
“I gave you a shout, but there wasn’t no answer.”
“What do you want, Cass?” He stuffs the pistol in his belt and glares at us.
“We heard what you said at the meeting,” I go. “About how scavving wasn’t the way to find the artifact and all that. We thought you could do with some help, you know.”
I go for casual but it comes out false, like I’ve been rehearsing it.
He clocks each of us in turn, lingering most on Wilbur, though he never says a word about the black eye. It dawns on me that it’s been ages since I’ve spoken to him face-to-face. He’s always been a moody old hermit, but he seems more wary now, like he don’t even know us no more.
“So you’re not scavving these days, eh?” he goes.
“Well, we ain’t about to hang up the bins just yet. But we figured your way might be worth a go.”
“Pack off home. It’s too dangerous …”
“Why don’t you listen to us?” goes Peyto. “We gave up a day’s pay to come out here and see you.”
There’s a twitch in Gramps’s beard that might be a smile. “Well, I am honored.” He nods toward Erin. “The two newcomers at the meeting. And just who might you be, then?”
“Just people who are searching for the same thing you are. Sometimes five heads are better than one.”
“You and your mate not from London, eh?”
When Peyto don’t reply, he goes, “And what exactly do you bring to the search, son?”
“Look, we’re offering to help you,” says Erin. “I don’t see too many other volunteers queueing up at your shack!”
“That’s as may be, young lady. But I don’t ask the likes of children for help.”
“Is that how come you ain’t found it yet?” I go, feeling sore about dragging everyone out here now.
“You didn’t just come out here on a whim, eh? Give me one good reason why I should hear you out.”
“Because we know what it looks like,” goes Peyto.
If that’s a bombshell, Gramps don’t let on. He just pulls at his grubby whiskers and sucks his teeth.
“And how would you know that, seeing as no one in living memory has ever set eyes on it?”
“Because I’ve held one just like it in my hands.”
Gramps don’t even blink for a full ten seconds. He just drills his gaze right into Peyto.
Then at last he says, “So you know there’s more than one.”
“There’s forty-nine.”
Gramps goes all goggle-eyed for a moment, but then he settles himself. “Well, seems I was a bit hasty, eh? Why don’t you tell me some more interesting things on the subject of the forty-nine artifacts?”
“You tell us something,” goes Wilbur. “About that voice Morgan Bartlett found in the computers.”
“So you told them about old Morgan Bartlett, eh?”
Gramps looks suddenly weary then, and he parks himself on a tree stump before going on.
“My father told me about Bartlett, and his father before him. Just a fireside story passed down. But it struck me as true, because after that, I heard the Vlad boffins talking about it once, when some promising bit of poke had been found and our crusher was shut down. They spoke then of a thing living in the circuits of computers, though they never mentioned the name Bartlett.”
“But what did this living thing say to Bartlett?” goes Peyto.
“It said it was called the Aeolus, the keeper of the winds, and that it held the storms of war in check.”
I snatch a glance at Peyto. I’m thinking, The ship was able to speak here, on Earth, through computers? How? But maybe it could once, and now it can’t cos of the emergency making it sick, or maybe cos all the computers down here are kaput now …
“It said it was trying to find a special object it had lost,” continues Gramps. “Something trapped here in London. It said this artifact was a thing of immense power and knowledge from a far-gone age, and that perhaps it held the key to life itself. It said that without this artifact, it would die, and then the whole world would suffer – wars would rage forever.”
Gramps spots me eyeballing Peyto, but he carries on. “It warned him that indeed a terrible war was coming that would lay waste to England and all the lands east of here to Russia, and that one day an invading army would come to London, looking to use the artifact for evil purposes. So, to keep it out of the wrong hands, it gave him clues about where the artifact could be found.”
“But at the meeting you said you’d just hand it over to the Vlads if you found it, so they’d leave London alone!” blurts Peyto. “You’d let it be used for evil!”
Gramps flashes him a look of anger. But then his eyes soften. “Well, son, what people say at village meetings is one thing. It’s what they do that really matters. I was just trying to whip everyone up, to get them away from scavving, to get them using their heads to find it. That lot won’t go out on a limb just because I say the artifact is powerful. But they might if it meant the Vlads packing off back to Russia and leaving us in peace.”
“So you lied to them?” goes Wilbur.
“I wanted to spur them on. If the artifact is as truly powerful as the stories say, then it’d make sense for scavs to find it first, don’t you think?”
“Wait a minute,” Erin pipes up. “You said this Aeolus only gave Morgan Bartlett clues about the artifact. Why didn’t it just say where it was?”
“Good question,” goes Gramps. “Because it said the artifact wasn’t ready to be found. A special person needed to find it, to make it even stronger, but that person wasn’t yet born. Bartlett’s job was to listen to all these clues and find a way to preserve them for the future.”
Wilbur’s voice is just a whisper. “So he left those clues behind without ever knowing where the artifact really was?”
“That’s right. He may have died in the war like most other Londoners, but somewhere buried in London is the trail he left behind – a trail I’ve been following for fifty years.”
“You’ve found Bartlett’s clues, then?” I go.
“Yes, I believe I’ve found some of them.”
> “So where are they?”
He points to his smelly old hermit gaff with its one ratty blanket and scuzzy pots.
My heart sinks then, cos his eyes have gone all nutty, and how can this falling-down shack lead to anything? I glance at Peyto and Erin to see what they’re making of it all, but they’re just staring at him, all wide-eyed and breathless. And after everything that’s happened, I’m desperate for just the smallest crumb of hope, anything.
He strides up to the shack and swishes back the canvas sheet like he’s the king of bonkers. We all just stand there, waiting.
“Well, do you want to see Bartlett’s hoard of clues or don’t you?”
That’s when I figure he’s really cracked, as we all huddle together inside his filthy hovel. And I’m about to cry with the sheer disappointment of it, cos how can this be going anywhere?
But then Gramps shoves his bed to one side, and there, set into the ground, is a trapdoor.
THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN JAMESON – ISSUE 13
Gramps flicks on a flashlight and leads the way down some steps into a dripping tunnel caked in lime scale. For a moment I think about his dinghy stashed at the Jubilee tunnel, the notepad and the maps. Still, I keep shtoom, cos Gramps is bound to go spare if he knew we used his dinghy to go on a nighttime trip north of the river.
We follow him through the tunnel into a cellar room piled floor to ceiling with crates and toolboxes and bin liners. Glinting in the flashlight beam are all these heaps of old computer bits and bobs – screens and wires and ’lectric boards, printing machines and towers of silver discs, ripped-out number pads and keyboards, and a thousand more gizmos that I ain’t even got a name for – a hoard of poke that beggars belief. So all these years, he must have been beavering away down here in secret while me and Wilbur played on the grass outside.
“How did you get it all here?” I go.
“I combed the unscavved city at night and hauled it back here piece by piece. I mended the computers, wired them to old batteries, and trawled through their memories for Bartlett’s clues.”
I can’t see his face, but I can hear it in his voice – proud of what he’s done but sad, too. Like he’s given his life to this hoard of clues, but somehow it ain’t exactly worked out.
He moves to the far end of the cellar, and there on the wall is a massive map of London. It’s plastered with notes and scribbles and photos and arrows, and peppered with hundreds of little colored pins. Some of the pins make patterns like S-shapes or spirals. It looks like the life’s work of a lunatic.
“What’s that?” goes Wilbur, all quiet, like he’s scared of what the answer might be.
“My incident map. The pins mark the locations of computers where I think the voice guarding the artifact left a trace of its passing. Morgan Bartlett himself probably tracked them down, too. I’ve checked most of them – they in turn have led to other clues. Anything important is marked on the map – places where the artifact could be hidden.”
We all gaze at it. I can’t read the scribbles, but there’s loads of tiny photos skewered together in little stacks. I reach up and start thumbing through them – there’s statues and billboards and plaques on walls and pub signs. Alleyways and stairwells and rooftop terraces and balconies. Graffiti and fly posters, sundials and weather vanes. All the forgotten corners of London.
“Well?” goes Gramps at last.
He’s got this fixed grin on his face like he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Well what?”
“Well, do you see anything in the clues? There must be something – something I’ve missed.”
And I’m thinking, How do you know there’s anything here to see, you batty old fruitcake?
But to humor him, I go, “There’s a lot here, Gramps.” I turn to the others. “We need some time to check it all out, don’t we?”
They all go mudfish on me, but then Peyto pipes up. “Which ones are your clues and which ones are Bartlett’s?”
It’s a funny question, I think, but there’s an edge to Peyto’s voice. Like his real question is Where’s the original trail? Cos your crazy incident map’s gone and messed it all up.
Gramps gets a twist in his gob then that ain’t pretty to watch. “What does it matter? Bartlett’s dead now – I’ve picked up his work. Everything you see is a possible lead.”
“Is the trail getting any stronger?” goes Erin. “I mean, is there a place on here that we can search right now?”
I’m thinking, Nice one, Erin. Let’s boil it down a bit. ‘Specially as the clock’s running down and we ain’t got another hundred years to keep looking …
Gramps squints at the map, flicking through all the little photo stacks, and I can tell he’s just winging it. He ain’t got the faintest idea.
Then his flashlight dies and I can’t see a sausage.
“I’ve got spare batteries up top,” mutters Gramps. “I’ll just be a minute.”
After he’s traipsed back up the steps, I flick out my lighter and gather everyone round the flame.
“What do you think, then?”
Peyto shrugs.
“It’s guff, innit?” I go. “He’s lost his marbles. You get more sense out of Mabel reading your fortune.”
“Let’s not be so quick to judge,” says Erin. “I mean, he’s spent years gathering all this information.”
“Yeah, but look at it. Every one of them pins is a stab in the dark. And what’s he found? He said it himself, he’s followed most of them, and all they lead to is another bloomin’ goose chase. He’s stirred up the biggest nest of claptrap in history. This geezer Bartlett might’ve been onto something, but Gramps muddied up the water years ago.”
“So if this is a waste of time, what do we do now?” Erin sounds panicky.
We ain’t heard a peep out of Wilbur, and when I look over at him, he’s only sat down leafing through one of his flippin’ comics.
“Come on,” I go. “This is a dead end …”
But then Wilbur leaps up and stands on tiptoe to point at the board. “Look, Cass, Churchill’s bunker!”
“So what? There’s millions of things pinned up there, Wilbur!”
“And Big Ben, see? Maybe me and Gramps were on the same trail – at least some of the places overlap.”
“Oh, yeah? Congratulations! You’ve both been barking up the same wrong tree …”
“No, there’s a connection here, I know it!”
He goes back to riffling through his comic.
“Come on, Wilbur – we ain’t got time to chase down every one of these places. I mean, Gramps has got the whole of London pegged up here!”
“Wait a minute, Cass,” goes Peyto. “Give him a chance.”
Then Wilbur stops leafing through the comic, and he goes very still.
He looks up at me. “Cass, I know where it is.”
“You what?”
“The artifact – I know where it is.”
“Wilbur, I ain’t in the mood for another Churchill’s bunker fiasco …”
“No, I really know this time.” He taps the page of his comic. “It’s right here, in issue thirteen.”
We huddle round and I hold up the flame so we can all see.
It’s a Captain Jameson adventure. There ain’t much in the way of speech bubbles – just pictures. Our hero’s standing in a big circular room, looking a tad ridiculous in his seagoing clobber – I figure it’s a library, by the number of books lining the walls. He’s studying a chart on the wall. Next frame is a close-up of the chart. That’s when I get the goose bumps.
Cos it’s only the same chart as Gramps’s crazy incident map. The streets of London, the colored pins, the photos and scribbles – the whole caboodle.
I snatch the comic up and flick to the next page.
“What’s he looking for? I mean, does he say where the artifact is?”
Wilbur grabs the comic back. “It’s not as simple as that! The captain’s just trying to find buried treasure – it�
��s not our artifact or anything. It’s like the clue for Big Ben. It doesn’t tell you the whole story – you have to figure it out.”
“So how come you’re so sure?”
Peyto puts a hand on my shoulder. “Let him explain, Cass.”
Wilbur takes a deep breath. “He’s looking for treasure, like we’re looking for the artifact. That’s the first link. But this is a fake map made by his old enemy, the Black Cardinal.”
Erin points at the incident map on the cellar wall. “So this is a false map – we can’t trust it.”
Wilbur beams at her like he’s just fallen in love.
“Terrific, Wilbur. We get that – the map is codswallop …”
He turns to the next page in the comic. “So Captain Jameson figures out the map’s a fake meant to throw him off the scent of the treasure.”
He lets us follow the scene then – Jameson rips the map down in fury. And behind it, there’s a gap in the wall. Stuffed to the gills with pieces of eight.
I look up again at Gramps’s map. “So the treasure’s right here, behind the cellar wall?” It seems a tad unlikely.
Wilbur sighs. “No. Don’t you get it?”
“It’s not here where we’re standing,” goes Peyto. He points at the comic. “It’s in this room – wherever Captain Jameson is.”
“Great. And where’s that? Wonderland House, Made-up Avenue, Rubbishville?”
Wilbur holds his comic up and points at the map. “Look at this page, and Gramps’s photo clue here,” Wilbur goes. “They’re both the same.”
He’s right. Both the comic and the photo show a large circular room with rows and rows of bookshelves, and above them, huge arched windows and a dome ceiling.
Wilbur reads out the caption on the map photo. “It’s the library of the British Museum. It’s a real place, Cass – north of the river.”
You have to hand it to my kid brother. He don’t say much, but what he does say is priceless.
