nearest island.
“What are you doing, you idiot?” Aven said, incredulous. “I’m doing the steering here.”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “There was no time to argue with you—but I think it’s better that we skirt the smaller islands and approach the large one from the eastern side.”
“It’s faster and more direct to cut straight through.” “Probably,” said Jack, “but I don’t think that’s mist out there—I think it’s steam.” The companions went to the railing and looked out into the center of the circle of islands, and they realized that Jack was right. The mist that obscured their view of the Cartographer’s island was contained within the granite pillars. “I remembered what John had said about these islands once being part of a volcano,” said Jack. “I thought it wiser to steer clear, even if we lose time.” “Well done, Jack,” said Bert. “It seems as if you’re the Caretaker of the White Dragon.” “Look,” Artus said, pointing. “On the island. That tower…” He leaned back, toppling into Charles. “I can’t see the top of it.” “The Keep,” John said, his voice hushed in the night mists. “The Keep of Time.” The island was nearly a mile across and, unlike its smaller, harsher siblings, was covered with grasses that sloped gently up to the base of the tower. The tower itself was perhaps forty feet in circumference, and it was inset with windows at staggered intervals as it rose, one about every twenty feet. The frame was wood, but the walls were granite. The stone of the tower was very ancient, and of a somewhat lesser gray than that of the islands, as if it were slightly ethereal, or not in the same focus as the ground on which it stood. Aven steered the White Dragon into the shallows where they could clamber off and walk to the pebbled beach that gave way to the grass. Standing on the shore, they looked at one another and realized they had no idea what they were going to do once they were inside. The entire purpose of their ordeals and long journey had been to bring the Geographica to the one person who could destroy it—and they had lost the book mere hours before they’d reached their goal. Expectantly, they all looked to John to lead the way into the tower. He felt like an idiot. The base of the tower was ringed with open arches that led inside, as if it stood on four massive feet one could walk between. The interior was more brightly lit than could be ascertained from without. A luminosity emanated from the floor, which faded farther up, to be replaced by the light from the windows. In the center of the floor was a raised circular platform, like a dais. On either side of it were two sets of steps that rose into the tower before curving back into each other in a great braided pattern. At each point where the braid of steps crossed was a door set deep into the stone walls, but they bore no visible hinges or handles. They were simply there. Jack stepped into the center of the tower. “I can’t see the top of it,” he said. “It seems endless.” “I couldn’t see the top from outside, either,” said Charles. “No doubt about it—unless the Cartographer is behind the first door we open, we’re in for a bit of a climb.” “Knock on wood that he is, then,” said Artus, reaching out his fist to rap on the bottommost door. Before his hand touched the polished wood, the door swung open. Inside was outside—the door didn’t open into a room within the tower, as they had every reason to expect, but onto the broad expanse of a mist-laden forest primeval. “It’s a swamp,” said Artus. “More than that,” said Bert. “I think it’s a doorway into the past—to the dawn of mankind itself.” “Is that an elephant over there?” said Charles. “That’s not an elephant,” said Bert, “that’s a mammoth.” “A woolly mammoth?” Charles said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.” “It couldn’t be a mammoth,” said Jack. “They lived in colder climates—on steppes, snowy plateaus, that sort of place. This is a swamp.” “Argue with your own eyes,” said Bert. “Mine see a woolly mammoth in a swamp.” “It doesn’t appear to be moving,” said John. “Look—nothing in here is. It’s as if everything were made of stone.” It was true: The leaves on the trees did not stir; the clouds in front of the immense moon did not drift. Even the insects in the air were frozen in place, as if trapped in colorless amber. Until, that is, Artus took a step forward, past the threshold. The buzzing of the insects was immediate, as was the tang of rotting flesh and, they assumed, mammoth dung. The flora were swaying gently alongside the great river that lay just past the entrance, as were the fauna. An extraordinarily large head rose from the water and continued to rise, until the neck atop which it rested had grown to more than forty feet in length. “Is that a sea monster?” said Artus. “My old teacher, Sir Richard, called them ‘dinosaurs,’” said Bert. “Regardless, I think it’s time we took our leave of this place—he looks hungry, and I can’t run as fast as the rest of you.” Artus quickly stepped back, pulling the door behind him. “Agreed. I don’t think the Cartographer’s behind this one.” “Right,” said John. “Onward and upward it is.” Charles pointed to the twin stairways. “Clockwise or counterclockwise?” “Widdershins is always the prudent choice,” said Bert. “Counterclockwise.” Thus agreed, the companions began to climb. Every few levels, one of them would stop to open a door, each time revealing a different landscape from a different period of time. It was Charles who realized that the scenes were not random, but following a very distinct progression.
“We’re moving upward in time,” he explained. “Each doorway is opening into a different point in the past. At the bottom, the beginnings of civilization. And as we move up, so do we move forward in time.”
“What’s at the top, then?” said Aven. “Good question,” said Charles. “We may yet have a chance to find out—as far as I can tell, we haven’t even hit the Bronze Age yet.” “One thing about the past,” said Bert, “it smells awful. My clothes still reek of mammoth dung.” Jack took the next door, which also swung open at a mere gesture. Inside, a frozen diorama like the others depicted a brutal scene of combat between what Bert claimed were Mongols and ancient Icelandic warriors. There were missing limbs, and the ground was awash in blood. “I think this one’s a ‘no’ too,” said Jack, “but I’d say we’re firmly in the Bronze Age now, if we’re to judge by those axes they’re swinging.” “Uh, Jack?” said Charles. “Yes?’ “Those huntsmen,” Charles said. “They’re coming this way.” Jack looked down and realized he’d inadvertently stepped over part of the threshold, unlocking the scenario from its frozen state. He quickly shuffled back—but the huntsmen, scenting fresh prey, and still maddened with bloodlust, were now coming at a full run. 
