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.
