“There are those who may help turn the tide, but there is only one way to summon them in time, if at all.” The sons of Ordo Maas did not reply, for they knew what it was their father was asking of them, just as he knew they would not refuse. “That will take longer than one night,” said Sobek. “We will have to remain changed into the day to reach —” “Yes,” said Ordo Maas. “But if we have not changed back by sunrise…,” Aki began. “Is there no way?” asked Amun. “There was a way, once, to allow the change to be reversed.” “It is lost to us,” Ordo Maas said. “It left the Archipelago with your mother, Pyrrha. Should you choose to do this—” “We will not be able to change back,” said Seti, the eldest, his posture resolute. “We will remain as we once were—but still honored to be sons of our true father, Deucalion. And honored to do this thing he asks.” Tears filled the ancient shipbuilder’s eyes as he stood in the circle of his sons, all of whom knew what their answer would be, each bowing his head as he met their eyes. As they nodded their assent, the transformation had already begun. Their necks grew long and tapered, as silver and scarlet feathers began to emerge all across their skin, shivering, shimmering. One by one, the sons of Ordo Maas turned into cranes, beautiful and elegant, and took flight into the deepening night sky. The experience of sailing in the White Dragon was very similar to that of sailing in the Indigo Dragon, with a few exceptions. For one, it was a much, much bigger boat. And for another, it was faster. “I loved the Indigo Dragon,” Aven said, standing at the great wheel, “but a girl could get used to this kind of vessel. I wonder if Nemo’s seen her?” “We’ll make good time, that’s certain,” said Bert. “What’s the word, John? Where in the Archipelago are we?” John, Charles, and Artus had spread the Geographica out on the deck and were charting the course between Byblos and their destination. Jack was busying himself with examining the riggings and sails. No one quite cared what Magwich was up to, and for his part, he didn’t care that they didn’t care, as long as he could stay as far away from Charles as was physically possible. His head still ached from the earlier kick. John bit his lip and made another quick notation before replying to Bert’s question. “More to the south than I’d hoped, but farther west than I’d expected. Can you keep us about six degrees north by northwest?” he called out to Aven. “That should do the trick.” “No problem.” John put his arm around Bert’s shoulders and indicated the path he was plotting among a series of the maps. “The island where the Cartographer can be found is the largest in a chain of islands,” he explained. “An archipelago within the Archipelago. They seem to be the remnants of a great volcanic crater that rose up from the ocean floor millennia ago. Eventually, it settled back into itself, or the waters rose, or both, leaving only pieces of the rim remaining as a rough circlet of islands.” “How many are there?” asked Artus. John looked back down at the Geographica. “Almost a dozen,” he said. “The one we’re looking for is ahead of us in the center—like a pendant on a necklace.” Charles had helped himself to a bag of Tummeler’s Leprechaun crackers that had been included with the supplies, and he peered over John’s shoulder at the Geographica as he munched on them. “What’s it called, John?” “I can’t see that the island itself has a name,” John replied. “The entire grouping is indicated with a notation that is a mixed-up version of Latin and ancient Greek. It says Chamenos Liber.” “A strange name,” said Charles. “Does it say why they’re called that?” John leafed through several pages before shaking his head, then looked up at Bert, who shrugged. “I can’t say,” said Bert. “Stellan may have known, but he never told me. And I can’t recall ever reading or hearing about it. “Remember,” he continued, “this is one of the oldest places in the Archipelago, and the Cartographer is the one who created the Geographica. If it’s not in here to be found out, it may be possible that even he does not know.” Having set their course, Aven left the White Dragon to her more than able self-corrections and went into the larder to assist Artus with preparing some dinner. Like their meal on Byblos, the foodstuffs were vegetarian in nature: lots of breads and grains, and various compotes and preserves. Still, they were a welcome change of pace from Tummeler’s crackers and the stale cheeses favored by the crew of the Indigo Dragon. John continued to examine the Geographica, working through the extensive annotations dealing with the Cartographer’s island. “According to this note—if my Italian is reliable enough,” he said to himself as much as the others, “the place where we can find the Cartographer is an immense tower called the Keep of Time. Inside is a winding stairway lined with doors. The Cartographer must be behind one of them.” “But it doesn’t say which one?” asked Charles. “No. But there is a caution here not to open any of the doors. I can’t quite follow why….” “I suppose we could just stand at the bottom and bellow his name until he answers,” said Artus, appearing at the galley door holding a tray heavily laden with food. “At least, that’s how I used to call the Green Knight when he left me at the bottom of the Wishing Well on Avalon.” “They really put you through it, didn’t they?” said Charles. “You have no idea,” said Artus. “They claimed it was ‘knightly training,’ but I think it was mostly to keep me out of the way when they didn’t need any work done.” “Why do you call it a Wishing Well?” asked John. “Was it magic of some sort?” “No,” said Artus. “I just call it that because I spent most of my time in it wishing I was someplace else.” John wrapped the Geographica in a fresh sheet of oilcloth he’d found in the ship’s stores and stowed it securely in the rear cabin. Despite the constancy of the thunderheads on the horizon, the moon was again very bright, making the weather pleasant, and in other circumstances, their simple feast on the deck would have been considered an exceptionally fine midnight picnic.
Jack and Bert joined them for the meal, but other than whining about the lack of marmalade, Magwich showed little interest in eating, asking instead when Aven planned to serve drinks.
The bread knife she threw in response struck the mast next to the Steward’s head with a loud tung, and Artus quickly jumped to his feet to show Magwich where the water was stored, before Aven started throwing larger, sharper things.
Charles shook his head in wonder. “How did Dickens ever think that someone like Magwich could be a Caretaker?”
Bert shrugged. “He never said anything to me about it. But then, when I met Charles Dickens, he’d already retired and turned the Geographica over to Jules, who in turn recruited me.”
“It’s possible then,” said John, “that you were recruited as a Caretaker because Magwich didn’t work out.”
Bert thought on that a moment, chewing idly on a carroway seed and stroking his mustache. “I don’t know if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.”
