Here, There Be Dragons

“This one is different,” John said. “Can’t you smell it?”

Aven moved next to John and sniffed at the air. “Yes, I can. It’s a tobacco of some kind.”

“A cinnamon tobacco,” said John. “A special mix.”

“How odd,” said Bert, scratching his head. “The only person I ever knew who liked cinnamon tobacco was…” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened in surprise. “Open the door, John.”

“John, my dear boy. Please, come inside.”

John reached out with a steady hand and pushed. The door swung open effortlessly on silent hinges, and a fresh wafting of cinnamon-scented tobacco smoke drifted across the companions.

Through the door was a tableaux more familiar to them than any other they’d seen in the keep—because most of them, save for Aven and Artus, had been there mere days before.

It was a study, unmistakably British in decor; a library filled with books and a very familiar figure who could not possibly be sitting in his chair, examining centuries-old incunabula with a magnifying glass and calmly puffing away on a large pipe.

Unlike the other tableaux, which required a crossing of the threshold to spur into motion, this setting was already active, as if it had been waiting for someone to open the door and enter the flow. The figure at the desk noticed them through the open door and spoke; the familiar timbre of his voice left no doubt as to who it was sitting at the broad oaken desk.

Professor Sigurdsson gestured to his young protégé to enter and sit. “John, my dear boy. Please, come inside. We have much to discuss, I think.

“Are there others with you, John?” continued the professor, peering through the smoke at the doorway. “It seems I saw someone else outside.”

John looked back at Bert, who shook his head. Whatever import this had was meant for John, and John alone. He stepped forward into the study and closed the door behind him. “No, Professor,” he said. “Just me.”

The professor stood and took John’s proffered hand in both of his own, pumping it frenetically. “So happy to see you, John,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you for another day or so, given the state of transportation in these troubled times.”

“Believe me, Professor,” John said, taking a seat opposite his mentor, “I wasn’t expecting to see you, either.”

It was almost too much to take in. There had barely been enough time to accept the news of the professor’s death, much less come to terms with it. The adventure to the Archipelago had begun almost immediately. And since, all his thoughts of the professor had been fleeting and commingled with regret, and sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of failure.

For an instant John considered whether this visit might be the universe’s equivalent of sending him to the rector’s office for a reprimand, notwithstanding the fact that the rector was dead.

“I do not know why we have been given this strange opportunity,” said the professor, “but I am glad we have, for I fear I shall not live out the night.”

John started. Was it possible the professor had had a premonition of his own murder?

“It’s true,” the professor continued, keeping his own counsel as to whether or not he’d answered John’s unspoken question. “Strange elements are loose in the city these days, and they involve me far more than I hoped they would at this age. But I have responsibilities, and I must see them through, whatever the cost.”

“I got your note, Professor,” said John. “What did you need to tell me?”

“I know from your letters that you are filled with fear, young John. Not just because of the war, but fear for your future.

“I know you are conflicted—that you are at a crossroads and are not sure which path to take. But know this: I chose you for a reason. You have gifts, John. Remarkable gifts. And if you develop them, as I hope I have helped you begin to do, then you may yet go forth to lead an exceptional, extraordinary life.”

John was taken aback—whatever he had expected, it was not this. The professor had always been friendly toward him, in the way that a mentor might be, but such directness, especially with such passionate encouragement, was more than unusual.

“I have not been entirely honest with you, John,” said the professor. “The studies I have given you—I’ve pushed you, I know. But it was all for a purpose. A purpose far greater than I have told you. I’m ready to do so now.”

John considered what was happening. Had he indeed stepped backward in time, to the night the professor was killed? Or was he experiencing some other kind of spectral visitation, a phenomenon generated by the strange energies of the keep? And if so, what might be the effect of his revealing the future to the professor? Would it change the events of the past? Or merely complicate the present to a worse degree than he already had?

John made his decision.
“You have been training me,” he said, “to become a Caretaker.”
The professor relaxed. “You know, then. Wonderful, my boy. How did you come to realize it?”
“I’ve met Bert. And I’ve seen the Imaginarium Geographica. But—”
“Excellent,” the professor said, cutting him off. “Then it doesn’t matter what happens to me. Not now.”
“Of course it matters!” said John. “How can it not?”
Professor Sigurdsson puffed away on his pipe, filling the room with the aromatic smoke.
“Because,” he said at length, “we each have our role to play, and mine was to train you, to prepare you for the mantle you’ve claimed. No more, no less. And I can see that I did it well enough that I can take whatever is to come with a wink and a nod and a how-do-you-do.”
“That’s the problem,” said John. “You did do your part—but I didn’t do mine. I was a terrible student, Professor! And I think I’ve failed you in every way that one can fail.”
Professor Sigurdsson started to laugh, then realized that the young man was serious.
“Boys will be boys, John, and the distractions of life are there to color your work, and vice versa. Besides, you were called away to war, and that’s bound to have an effect on your studies.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” said John. He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit all that had gone wrong in the Archipelago: the inability to function as a translator, followed by the actual loss of the Geographica itself. “Bert told me what would be expected of me as Caretaker Principia of the Geographica, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it. I’m just not ready.”
“Bert had the same concerns, when last we discussed you,” admitted the professor. “But I assured him that when called upon, you would rise to the challenge. And that was enough for him. He never questioned it again. Although in truth, he was a supporter of you before I was. I’m a good scholar—but Bert has the imagination. Not many like him. But in you, my boy, he found a kindred spirit.
“Listen to him, John. He’ll advise you well, when I’m not able to, and in ways that I cannot. Heed the words of the Caretakers who preceded you, whose wisdom can be found in the Geographica, for they have learned lessons you will need to learn yourself. And make note of the things you observe, so that you can pass the knowledge on to those who will come after—for you have joined a grand tradition, my boy. And once you have accepted this, it will remain forever a part of your life.
“Believe in yourself,” the professor said, grasping John’s hands in his own. “You have all that you need within you. You are strong enough. You are intelligent enough. You have learned more than you need to complete