The Lost Cities

by Dale Peck

One of the older Indians spoke now. He was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, and his tone was harsh. The boy’s eyes dropped and his knife curled backward in his hand, as if it too were ashamed. Though Charles couldn’t understand a word of the Indian’s speech, he was pretty sure the boy was being chastised—probably for allowing himself to be seen.

  Suddenly the twentysomething man broke off. He turned and stepped determinedly toward Charles, his right hand reaching for his sheathed knife. Charles fell back in alarm. But before the man could reach him, his younger companion grabbed the man and began speaking in a rapid, pleading tone. Several times the boy pointed to Charles and then he pointed to his own face, and his index fingers traced curious circles in the air around his eyes. At first Charles thought he was indicating the difference in shape between his eyes and the Indian’s—round, rather than oval—but then he realized the boy was pantomiming glasses, and suddenly a word he had heard the boy say several times became clear to him.

  Lunettes.

  Glasses. More specifically, French for “glasses.” Unlike Susan, Charles had never studied French, and wasn’t sure how he knew the word. Maybe his sister had said it sometime? Or maybe—

  Charles suddenly remembered the book in his lap. As nonchalantly as possible, he folded his bag closed, and slowly, one tooth at a time, drew the zipper. Whatever else happened, he knew he couldn’t lose Mario’s book.

  The third man spoke. This man was significantly older than the others—in his fifties or sixties, Charles realized, although the strip of hair running down the center of his head was still inky black. His voice was calm and brief. After he spoke, the twentysomething man barked back at him but the older man didn’t respond. His expression was stern but unruffled.

  A tense moment passed, and then the twentysomething Indian spat something that sounded a lot like “Pah.” Charles got the very distinct impression his life had just been saved.

  A short time later, Charles found himself marching rapidly behind the three Indians. His hands had been bound in front of him with a length of leather. Charles had never had his hands tied before, and he found it surprisingly difficult to keep his balance on the uneven terrain. But he was more bothered by the fact that the youngest Indian had confiscated his backpack. The boy had glanced briefly at Mario’s book, but had been much more fascinated by the working of the bag’s zipper, which he opened and closed a dozen times.

  The Indians marched single file, the eldest leading, the gruff young man second, the boy immediately in front of Charles. It was the boy who had tied Charles’s hands, pulling the cord from the pouch that hung from his shoulder. The binding was loose but the knot itself was tight, and the pace set by the lead Indian was so fast that Charles had to concentrate to keep from falling, and so couldn’t try to untie his hands.

  Still, as they marched Charles noticed that the two older Indians were getting further and further away, isolating himself and the boy. From the way the boy frequently glanced in Charles’s direction, his expression curious and somehow reassuring, Charles guessed he was holding back on purpose. Finally, when the two older men were a good twenty or thirty feet ahead, the boy allowed Charles to catch up to him. He smiled and touched his fingers to his chest.

  “Tankort.”

  It was a pretty universal gesture, and Charles understood at once.

  “Charles O—” He cut himself off. One syllable was probably a lot easier than four.

  “Charzo!” the young Indian—Tankort—said brightly. And then he surprised Charles by saying, “Français?”

  Where was Susan when you needed her? She’d practiced her French all year to impress President Wilson (who could not only speak, but spoke English and French). And where was President Wilson? Charles stole a quick look around before answering Tankort’s question—“Nope”—but failed to see any sign of the parrot.

  He turned back to the Indian, who was looking in the trees with a slightly troubled expression. Stupid, thought Charles. He shouldn’t have been so obvious. Now he smiled as brightly as he could and said,

  “American.”

  Tankort’s brows knit together. “Merkin?”

  Charles realized that America probably didn’t exist yet. He thought for a minute and then said, “English.”

  Tankort’s confusion melted away—only to be replaced by undeniable disgust. Disgust and fury. The boy looked Charles up and down disdainfully. He thumped his fingers to his chest again. “Tankort,” he said forcefully, and then he waved his hand at the two men marching ahead, making a gesture that roped the three together. “Wendat.”

  Wendat. Charles guessed it was the name of their tribe. He’d never heard the word before, but last winter President Wilson had given a bit of a history lesson during which he mentioned that the Iroquois and Huron confederations had been active in the region south of Drift House. Perhaps the Wendat were a part of one or the other? He figured he had a fifty-fifty shot.

  “Iroquois?” he tried, doing his best to make his voice friendly and pleasing.

  If it was possible, Tankort’s face twisted even further, into a grimace of hatred. He made a hissing noise, quiet but sharp as his knife.

  “Iroquois? Wendat hate Iroquois.” And then, thumping Charles on the chest, he snarled, “Wendat hate English.” Without another word, he stalked ahead.

  The rest of the day was pretty much horrible. Tankort rejoined the two older Wendat, and whenever Charles tripped or stumbled the young Indian would turn and say something harsh and mocking in his own language. When at one point the eldest Wendat seemed to chastise him, Tankort made a long-winded explanation that included the words “Iroquois” and “English” several times. Charles wished he’d paid more attention to President Wilson’s lecture, so he’d’ve known what had happened between the Wendat and the English to cause such hatred. And he wished he knew where President Wilson was now—he’d feel terribly if the last human words Drift House’s mascot heard were a crack about a Kentucky Fried Parrot franchise.

  At some point during the day (late morning? afternoon? evening? Charles had no idea) a fourth man seemed to materialize out of the trees. Charles looked around the undifferentiated forest, amazed that anyone could find anything here, let alone a single insignificant human. Well, not exactly insignificant: the new Wendat was rather plump, although he marched easily enough. And not single either: he had four dogs under his care. The animals were, to Charles’s eyes, nondescript: brown, medium sized, with short hair and thin tails like boxers and long snouts like German shepherds. There was a brief heated conference after the dog keeper joined Charles’s group. Tankort and the twentysomething man spoke in angry voices and often pointed at Charles. The dog keeper listened to the conversation silently, attending to his animals and shaking his head slightly when his companions’ voices grew particularly loud, as if he preferred the quiet company of his four-legged friends. Finally the older Wendat spoke, and then, when his companions’ voices continued to rise, held up his hand to stop the debate.

  Somewhat huffily, Tankort and the twentysomething Indian stomped a few feet away. They sat down and pulled strips of dried meat out of their bags, and chewed at them with sullen expressions. The older man and the dog keeper ate as well. The latter brought Charles several pieces of the jerky. He had sweet meaty breath and a furry smell, and he loosened Charles’s bindings, making it easier for him to eat. Charles assumed the meat was venison, and although he didn’t like the idea of eating Bambi he was way too hungry to care. There were more of the tart berries President Wilson had found yesterday, and a skin of lukewarm water from which Charles drank greedily.

  The meal hardly took the edge off Charles’s hunger though, and his body felt incredibly tired from the hard march. But as soon as the four Wendat had finished, they hitched the dogs to sledlike contraptions and set off again. The sleds were piled with stacks of what Charles thought at first were pieces of rotting wood, but when he got a whiff of them he realized they were in fact flattened animal pelts—recen
tly removed from their original wearers, judging from the smell.

  Something came to him then. Hadn’t President Wilson said Pierre Marin learned the secret of time travel from Indians he’d dealt with when he traded fur? Charles wished he could remember—he wished he hadn’t chased President Wilson away, so the parrot could answer these questions for him. But when he glanced around the forest he still saw no glimpse of red among the endless waves of green.

  Charles had no idea how long they walked—how many miles, how many hours. Many miles. Many, many hours. The party stopped twice, both times by streams, where a few more strips of meat were washed down with handfuls of cold water, and then they started up again. The shadows grew shorter as the sun rose, then grew steadily longer as it began to set. The light took on a yellowish cast, then thickened to orange, then gold. It was a rich color, but didn’t do much to illuminate the ground below the leaf canopy, and Charles found it harder and harder to see his footing. He tripped several times, and one time actually fell and cried out in fear. The men just stared at him wordlessly while he struggled up and retrieved his glasses, which were so lopsided they didn’t want to stay on his nose. Had he really twisted them out of shape just to make a dumb fire? Charles couldn’t believe he’d been so dumb. He felt so dumb he couldn’t even think of another word for dumb.

  He was just about to sit down and refuse to go any further when he noticed a flicker between the shadowy tree trunks up ahead. It was hard to get a clear view because of the underbrush, but Charles thought it was—yes! It was a fire!

  One of the dogs let out a yelp and the keeper made a sound like a growl, silencing the animal. Or maybe it was the other way around—maybe the keeper had yelped and the dog had growled. The eagerness of the whole party was palpable. Everyone wanted to get home. Charles wanted to get there too, even if they tied him to a tree. As long as he could sit down they could do anything to him they wanted.

  There were shadows in the forest now. Shadows that weren’t trees. Moving out to greet the newcomers, then pulsing back in. The fire was big now, a ring of light reaching to encircle the humans in its care. Charles slowed, not sure if fear held him back, or some force from the fire, keeping away everything that wasn’t Wendat. Then he felt a hand on his arm—the dog keeper—and he was pulled forward. Suddenly Charles found himself in a small clearing. Dozens of figures emerged from the trees, all of them looking at the newcomers and especially at Charles. Charles could see them pointing at him and drawing circles around their eyes. Lunettes. Glasses. Charles thought he heard the word several times, but then he heard another word much more clearly.

  “English.”

  The Wendat formed a wall with their bodies, fencing Charles in. The party he had come with melted into the tribesmen and -women, who pressed in closer, their circle flattening and elongating. Frightened, Charles retreated down the ever-narrower chute formed by their bodies. The Wendat pressed in closer until they formed two rows. Without actually touching Charles, they guided him down the corridor. The sibilant hiss seemed to come not so much from them as from the forest.

  “English English English English.”

  Charles’s skin prickled with fear. The word surrounded him, bound him as tightly as the ropes on his wrists. Then he saw that the rows of Wendat ended at a small skin-covered tent. Golden light outlined the doorflap, making it seem like a black shadow, a bottomless chasm.

  Charles half expected his bound hands to pass right through the door. But it was solid leather, and he pulled back the flap. He had to bend almost double to enter the tent, but once inside he could stand. He blinked against the light and the smoky air. At first it seemed that the voice came from the smoke itself.

  “Sit down, Charles.”

  The accent was perfect, flat, American English, and Charles recognized it as the voice of people on the Sea of Time. Well, the door had looked like a magical portal. Had he somehow passed onto the sea? He peered into the tent but could see nothing besides the fire.

  Charles blinked.

  He was seated, but he had no memory of sitting down. His hands were untied and the ground beneath him wasn’t ground. It was a carpet of leather, through which Charles could feel round poles. What’s more, Charles could swear he was moving.

  “Relax, Charles. I know the last few days have been trying, but you are safe now.”

  Charles squinted. The fire still burned, but it seemed insubstantial. It gave off no heat, and through the pale flames Charles could see the person who was speaking: an old, old man draped in deerhide. A thin band held his colorless hair off a high wide forehead, which was itself somehow colorless, or perhaps it was the color of ancient paper, pale, yet dark at the same time. The old man’s eyes were two translucent orbs, and they drank in the fire and reflected back luminescent shadows. Underneath them seven lines had been painted on his wrinkled cheeks, each smaller than the one above it. The lines were simultaneously so faint that Charles wasn’t sure they were really there, and blazing with a light that made him squint behind his lopsided glasses.

  It was the symbol on Mario’s book.

  “How do you know my name? And how come you have those lines on your face?”

  The man’s face and voice seemed too old for expression—intimidation or comfort or anything else. One of his hands came out from beneath the deerskin robe and reached across—through—the fire. Charles expected the man’s hand to pass through him in the same way, but a solid, blunt fingernail came to rest on his forehead. It seemed to tingle slightly, like Mario’s book, and the flames of the fire licked the thin arm without burning it.

  “It is time, Charles.”

  Charles wasn’t sure if the man had said these words out loud or transmitted them to his brain through his finger.

  The man nodded, as if he had confirmed something, and then he took his finger away. Somewhat relieved, Charles watched the man’s mouth move and heard the words come from his lips. But no matter what their source, he still didn’t understand them.

  “I have a task for you.”

  “A task?”

  The old man nodded again. The lines on his cheeks blazed and his skin seemed to fade until only the lines remained, as empty as the lines on the cover of the book, yet tauntingly full of unexpressed meaning.

  The old man’s voice seemed to come from the air itself.

  “It is time, Charles. It is time.”

  THIRTEEN

  Osterbygd

  Glass exploded through two more windows. One of the spears struck a mullion and wobbled through the air, narrowly missing Susan’s face. The other pierced the glass cleanly and whizzed through the room, embedding itself in the spine of a book on the opposite wall. It was a hefty volume, but it couldn’t support the weight of the real world for very long, and after a moment, spear and book both fell to the floor.

  “We’re under attack!” Susan screamed. And then, realizing she’d stated the obvious—well, screamed it really—she yelled, “To the cannons!”

  “I think retreat might be a more feasible tack at this point,” Uncle Farley said, his voice not quite as calm as his words. “Let’s go up to the poop deck and see what we’re dealing with.”

  Since Susan had no idea how to fire a cannon, she followed her uncle to the stairs that led to the roof of the gallery—what Charles had once called (and what Murray repeated endlessly) the poop deck. She was set to burst through the doors when Uncle Farley’s hand fell on her shoulder. He was panting heavily, and instead of speaking placed a finger to his lips. He motioned for the two of them to get down on all fours. Only then did he reach up to open the door, just wide enough for Susan to squeeze through, then somewhat more to accommodate his larger form.

  “I won’t ask you to wait here,” he whispered when they were outside, “since I know you’ll just disobey me. But whatever you do, don’t go sticking your head through the balusters.”

  Susan wanted to say she wasn’t that stupid, but she could tell Uncle Farley was only speaking out of concern. A
nd so she said instead, “Don’t say ‘balusters.’ It’s affected.”

  Uncle Farley opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He grinned. “Do you think his adventure is as exciting as ours?”

  “I hope so. Or we’ll never hear the end of it.” And, nodding toward the balusters—or, in honor of Charles, perhaps we should say, the posts—Susan said, “Ready?”

  They slithered to the edge of the deck. In fact, Susan couldn’t have stuck her head through the posts if she’d wanted: they were too thick, and set too closely together, forming an effective shield against things coming from outside the ship. Like spears.

  She did, however, push her nose between two posts to see the water below. She wasn’t sure what she expected—Vikings, dragon ships, horned helmets—but she was quite surprised by the sight that greeted her eyes: five kayaks floated fifteen or twenty feet out from Drift House, each holding a single man. Ships and sailors were uniformly brown and covered in shiny damp leather, and Susan leaned back to hiss: “Uncle Farley! They’re not Vikings! They’re Eskimos!”

  Uncle Farley smiled wanly. “It’s not quite the time for a lesson in anthropology, but I believe the people in the kayaks call themselves Qaanaaq.”

  “Qaanaaq?”

  “Accent on the second syllable, Susan. Qaa-NAAQ.”

  “Um, Uncle Farley? Anthropology? Timing?”

  Suddenly a sharp cry pierced the air. A split second later the wood of a post splintered as a spear struck it. Susan could feel the vibration, and as she and Uncle Farley scuttled backward heated words passed back and forth below them. Even as they spoke, Susan felt a bump beneath her breastbone, and exclaimed (a little more loudly than she’d intended),

  “The translation charms!” She flinched at the sound of her voice. “The charms,” she whispered, pulling hers out.

  “Saved by a preteen again,”

  Uncle Farley lamented. Uncle and niece held the innocuous-looking vials in front of them. Though neither said it aloud, the term “Accursed Returner” rang in both their heads.