James Owen - Here, There Be Dragons

Chapter Fifteen

With that he resumed his work as if they were not even there.
The clock in the corner ticked away for a few minutes before John finally cleared his throat, loudly. Twice.
The Cartographer rubbed his pen on the blotter and looked up. “Aren’t you from the Merchants’ Guild? You are Lorenzo de Medici, are you not?”
“Uh, no,” said John. “I’m the Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica.”
The Cartographer’s eyes widened, and he dropped his pen. “The Caretaker? Really? How extraordinary.”
He hopped out of his chair and gestured for them to enter. “Do come in, come in,” the Cartographer said. “I hope you will understand and forgive. I’ve been under this terrible deadline to complete the maps of Florence Below for the Magnificent—”
“Excuse me,” said Charles, “but Lorenzo de Medici died in 1492.”
“Did he really?” said the Cartographer. “That would explain his failure to forward the additional reference material. I should have expected he would lose track of everything once he started getting distracted by this ‘New World’ nonsense.”
“Do you mean the Americas?” Jack asked.
“It was called something like that, yes,” the Cartographer said. “I’m not sure—I tend not to pay attention to these newish countries until they’ve had a chance to become better established.”
“They’ve been settled for going on three centuries now,” said John.
“Well then, they’ve got a decent start now, don’t they?” said the Cartographer. “Another century or four and they might turn into a place worth taking note of.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Bert, “but we’ve come seeking your help.”
The Cartographer lifted his spectacles and peered more closely at Bert. “I know you, don’t I?” he said matter-of-factly. “You seem familiar to me. Not in a ‘blood brothers’ way, but more of a ‘so-you’ve-come-
to-date-my-daughter’ sort of way.”
“He was one of the most recent Caretakers,” Charles said.
“That’s not it,” said the Cartographer. “I can’t place the face, but the hat is memorable.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s it—we met in the future. I remember now. That nasty business with the Albinos. How is that dear girl Rose, anyway? Is she well?”
“How can you remember him from the future?” asked John.
“Because those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it,” came the reply, “but those who remember the future can plan ahead for the weather.”
“What good is it to know the future if you can’t remember the past?” said Charles. “It seems impractical.”
“You could stand with a little impracticality, I think. Your springs seem to be wound a little too tightly. Besides, the past is over, and if you think on it too closely, you either get lost in the misery of the things done poorly, or you get tangled up patting yourself on the back for the things you did well—which no longer matter, because they’re in the past, anyway.
“The future, however, is still to come—and it’s always fun to look forward to the good events, as well as have an opportunity to plan for the bad.”
“If you know something bad is coming, can’t you plan to avoid it or try to do something differently?” said Charles.
“Probably,” said the Cartographer, “but then the good events would have no flavor. The joy you find in life is paid for by suffering that comes later, just as sometimes, the suffering is redeemed by a joy unexpected. That’s the trade that makes a life worth living.
“Take this tower,” he explained, gesturing at the room around them. “An extraordinary place to visit, but you wouldn’t necessarily want to live here—especially if you could not leave.”
“You’re a prisoner here, you mean,” said Charles.
“The circumstances that resulted in, shall we say, my compulsory residency here in the Keep of Time were of my own making. And while there are moments when I wish I could regain my freedom, given the opportunity, I would still make the same choices.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Jack.
“What year did you say it was?”
“It’s March of 1917,” said Charles.
“About one thousand five hundred years, give or take,” said the Cartographer. “But it’s not as if I haven’t had plenty to do. It is a large Archipelago, after all, and someone has to keep track of it.”
“You haven’t been outside of this room in over a millennium?” Charles said.
“Oh, it hasn’t been easy,” said the Cartographer. “It can be excruciating waiting for someone to come along with something interesting to do, or better yet, someone who brings gifts, like Paralon apples, or whiskey from Heather Blether. There are also times I think it would be interesting to have stayed in your world,” he finished. “I would like to have seen what Hitler would make of someone like me.”
“Who?” said Charles.
“Never mind,” said the Cartographer. He turned to John. “As you were saying, you’re the Caretaker—so you’ve either come to have me make additions to the Geographica, or you want me to destroy it, which I should state right now is just not an option. I’m not about to shred something I spent nearly two thousand years making. So, where is it?”
“I, ah, I seem to have lost it,” John said.
The Cartographer rolled his eyes and sighed. “I should have guessed as much. The simple things can be done solo; catastrophes require an entourage.”
He shook his head. “It’s the Cervantes Dilemma all over again. But what’s done is done, and it can’t be helped.”
The Cartographer walked briskly back to his desk, took a seat, and, whistling a little tune, began working on another map.
The companions looked at each other, bewildered. Finally, John cleared his throat again.
The Cartographer looked at them. “What, are you still here? Do you need validation?”
“Ah, no,” John began, “that is, I mean—”
“Spit it out, boy. I’m a very busy man.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” said John.
The Cartographer turned to them and pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead. “I’m sorry if I was oblique. Let me try to summarize things in a more concise manner.
“You need the Imaginarium Geographica to avert whatever disaster is looming on the world at large. You are the Caretaker of the Geographica. You lost the Geographica. Ergo, you and everyone you know, love, care about, or exchange pleasantries with as you gather your mail are about to perish in darkness and misery. I hope that’s cleared things up for you.”
With that, the Cartographer turned back to his map and continued to draw.

John leaned close to Bert. “What do we do now?” he whispered.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Bert replied. “I’ve never been here. Maybe you should go back and ask Stellan.”
John shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The tower grew, remember? That door may not open into the same time or place.”
“Drat,” said Bert.
“Pardon me,” said the Cartographer, “but just how did you people get in here, anyway?”
“You said to come in,” said Jack.
“I said to knock down the door or go away,” said the Cartographer, “and I expected you to go away, because that door is impossible to knock down. I know. I spent most of the seventh century trying to do it myself.”
“Then how does anyone ever get in?” asked Charles.
“The Caretakers are always permitted to enter with the Imaginarium Geographica,” said the Cartographer. “It’s like a golden ticket that opens doors, or a magic word, like ‘Open Sesame.’”
“Actually, that’s two words,” said Jack, “and the magic word was ‘Alakazam.’”
“Don’t correct your elders, boy,” said the Cartographer. “So, out with it. How did you open the door? You said yourself that you’d lost the Geographica, and the only other way to get in is with the permission of the king—and pardon my assessment, but none of you look to be the kingly sort.”
“You’d be wrong,” said Aven, stepping forward and giving Artus a nudge. “He opened the door.”
The Cartographer hopped off of his chair and shuffled over to Artus. “Ah,” he muttered, looking at the young man, who was reddening under the scrutiny. “Ah, I see it now. That nose is unmistakable—a descendant of Arundel, of the House of Eligure, unless I miss my guess. What do they call you, boy?”
“Um, Bug—Artus, that is.”
“Umbugartis—unusual name for a king, but there’s no accounting for taste,” said the Cartographer. “What may the Cartographer of Lost Places do for King Umbugartis?”
“There we go,” whispered Charles. “We finally have his attention.”
“It’s just Artus,” said Artus, “and it’s my friend Sir John, the Caretaker, who needs your help.”
The Cartographer looked warily at John over the top of his glasses. “You again. I thought we’d established that there was nothing to be done, since at the moment you don’t seem to be the Caretaker of anything.”
Charles and Bert started to come to John’s defense, but he cut them off with a gesture and looked squarely at the Cartographer. “That’s not true,” John said. “I may have lost the Geographica, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still the Caretaker.”
The Cartographer held his gaze, then folded his arms and sighed. “Continue.”
“When I was asked to be the Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica,” said John, “I didn’t want the job. I wasn’t prepared. And I certainly didn’t want the responsibility. But then I realized there was no one else who could do it—and that a lot of people were counting on me to see it through. And there is only one thing you can do in a situation like that—rise to the challenge and bear whatever must be borne to complete the task.”
“Interesting,” said the Cartographer, “but I’ll point it out again: You don’t have the Geographica. How can you fulfill any obligations as Caretaker?”
“It’s about more than the book, isn’t it?” said John. “It’s about taking care of the lands within it too—and right now, that’s all I’m trying to do. Having a book of maps won’t do anyone any good if the Archipelago is consumed by war—but if we can find a way to prevent that happening, wouldn’t that be more important than whether or not I’ve been able to safeguard the book?”
“That,” said the Cartographer, as his eyes glittered and a smile began to spread across his face, “is the first time I’ve heard you speak like a real Caretaker.”
He moved back to his chair and picked up his quill. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you to sit on,” said the Cartographer as he resumed working. “So you’ll just have to make do with the seating apparatus the gods gave you. Pull up a piece of floor, and tell me what’s been going on in the world.”

It took the better part of three hours to recount all that had happened to the companions since they left London up to the point where they reached the tower. It was a silent consensus among them not to mention the incident with the sea monster; and the others left it to John to decide whether or not to mention his encounter with the professor, which he chose not to do.
“Ah, yes. Sigurdsson,” said the Cartographer when they mentioned the murder. “Pleasant fellow. Came by to visit several times. Brought cookies. Do you have any cookies?”
“We did have a cookbook,” said Charles. “But we gave it away.”
“You lot seem to have an awful time holding on to books, don’t you?” said the Cartographer. “How on earth did you get picked to be Caretakers?”
“It’s a long story,” said John. “So, can you help us?”
“I’m a little fuzzy on the details,” said the Cartographer. “What exactly is it you think I can do?”
“To be honest, I’m a little unclear on that myself,” said John. “We think that Magwich is taking the Geographica and the Ring of Power to the Winter King, so that he can summon the dragons—”
“Oh he has the Ring of Power, does he?” the Cartographer said, interrupting John. “Wears it around his neck, hey?”
“Uh, no—probably on his finger,” said Jack.
“Oh ho—even better,” said the Cartographer. “I’d like to see that. Hmf,” he snorted. “That fellow is in for a surprise, I think.
“Well, if you’re bound and determined to try to do something constructive, I suppose I should go ahead and help you. That way, if it all goes badly and the world starts to be consumed in death and fire, you can’t go around saying, ‘It’s the Cartographer’s fault. If only he’d helped us, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.’”
“Fair enough,” said John.
“You don’t need the Geographica, because there is only one island in the Archipelago where he might summon the dragons,” the Cartographer said. “That’s where you’ll find him with his ‘ring,’ trying to summon dragons, and stealing people’s shadows, and whatever else it is evil conquerors do these days.”
“We’ll still need directions to the island,” said John. “The Geographica—”
“Young man, I am the Cartographer. I created the Geographica. It is certainly within my powers to recreate a single, solitary map.”
He drew a single tanned sheet of parchment from the stack next to his desk, dipped his pen in the crusted inkwell, and quickly began sketching in light, fluid strokes.
As his hand flew back and forth across the parchment, a picture of the island began to emerge.
“Amazing how he can keep his maps so clean when he makes such a mess of the work,” Jack whispered to Charles. “He must have ink up to his elbows.”
The Cartographer paused and looked up at John. “Navigational directions?”
John nodded. “Yes, please.”
“No, no, no,” said the Cartographer. “In what language would you like the navigational directions?”
John shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
The Cartographer’s head lifted almost imperceptibly. “Very good, young man.”
He continued adding lines and notations to the sheet until it seemed complete enough to be fully useful. Finally, he set aside the pen and sat back in his chair, giving the freshly created map one last cursory glance and a nod of satisfaction.
The Cartographer sprinkled drying dust across the ink, rolled up the map, bound it with twine, and handed it to John.
“Remember,” he said, taking them all in with his gaze, “there is a price to pay for the choices we make, and my permanent confinement in the Keep of Time is part of the price I’ve paid for choices of my own. Be wary that the choices you make in the coming days do not limit your own paths into the future. Remember it for what you want it to be, and then do that.
“You will find the one you call the Winter King on the Island at the Edge of the World.”