“A redemption of himself? Or of me?” said John. “Does it matter?” “Maybe. Maybe it does.” “Then take this as your answer: When the time came, you did all that the professor and I hoped you would be able to do. And while the struggle was not pleasant to endure, I think it made your victory all the sweeter. And wherever he is now, I think the professor is glad of the faith he placed in you, and I know he’s proud of you, John.” “I have a pen,” said Charles. “Who’s to go first?” “Go ahead,” said John. Smiling, and with a trembling hand, Charles inscribed his name in long, looping letters: Charles Williams He handed the book and pen to Jack. “Thanks,” said Jack. “Can you steady the book for me?” “Certainly.” Jack thought a moment, then signed, and passed the book over to John, who looked quizzically at the signature: C.S.Lewis “I always hated the name Clive,” said Jack. “My brother Warnie called me Jack, and it stuck.” “Fair enough,” said Bert. “And now you, John.” John took the pen in hand and paused to look at his friends, who had become his allies, and confidants, and his family in the short time they had known each other. He considered how they had come together, and the price each of them had paid to do what needed to be done—but even then, it had been a grand adventure, and, he suspected, only the first they would have together. It was, after all, a very big world. “Here’s to remembering the future,” said John. “To the future,” said Jack and Charles. “Well said, my boy,” said Bert. John signed his name with clear, tight strokes: J.R.R.Tolkein And closed the book. Epilogue High on a bluff on the Island at the Edge of the World, the High King sat, idly chewing on one of the long grasses that had begun to grow again on the fields decimated by the battle. Nearby was a ring of standing stones that brought him comfort by their very presence, and the newly blessed grave of a dear friend, which, strangely, had the same comforting effect. He sat, chewing, and looking into the darkness beyond the great waterfall, and wondered. In just a few short days, the world—two worlds, in fact—had been irrevocably altered, and as High King of the Silver Throne of Paralon, it was now his duty to see that the changes benefitted the peoples of a hundred lands, even those peoples who did not claim him as king, or support his rule. Such was the burden of a kingdom. He wondered about the woman with whom he’d been traveling, and working beside, and sharing his dreams with, and whether she would stay with him, and help him rule his kingdom, if he asked. Artus wondered if it had really been his summoning that drew the dragons, or if it had been the intervention and call of Samaranth. He wondered what might have happened had the dragons not come at that precise moment he appeared to summon them, or worse, not come at all. He wondered what might happen if he should ever need to call on them again. In the days since the conflict, dragons soaring high in the skies above were not an uncommon sight—but neither were they seen in the numbers that had appeared at that crucial moment during the battle. He wondered what was really out in the void; and what lay below. He wondered if, when someone went over the waterfall, if there was eventually an ending to it, or if you would just keep on falling for eternity. And sometimes… Sometimes, he just wondered. Author’s Note History is comprised less of certainty than of supposition. Go back far enough, and fact begins to merge with fiction—or at least with traditional tales, which bear a truth all their own. To me, the most interesting stories are those that have one foot firmly planted in fantasy, and the other in the real world; and the best way to create a marriage of the two is to find those gaps in history where there is no certainty, and create a supposition. Suppose the worlds of make-believe had a basis in reality. Suppose that we could, in the right circumstances, visit them. And suppose that the proof of their substance was strewn throughout both history and fiction, if only we knew where to look…. At first glance, it seems that Ordo Maas’s story is that of Noah; but in fact, the origin is deeper and older. Ordo Maas says he has many names; and later on, Mordred refers to him as “Deucalion.” In Greek myth, Deucalion was the son of Prometheus (who gave him the fire at the end of his staff) and was married to Pyrrha—who was Pandora’s daughter. When the gods punished mankind by flooding the Earth, they were saved when Prometheus gave them fire, and told them to build an ark. After the flood, they repopulated the Earth. As Deucalion’s father gave him a gift, so did Pyrrha’s mother give her one: Pandora’s Box. My supposition here was that Pyrrha, not her mother, was the one who opened the box, after the flood. The Egyptian equivalent of Deucalion was Thoth—whose daughter, Bast, was the goddess of Cats. Tying the Pandora myth to the Fates (The Three Who Are One) and calling them the Morgaine ties together Greek myth with Welsh and Celtic lore—as does Ordo Maas’s claim that the first Dragonship was the rebuilt Argo, which the Greek hero Jason used to find the Golden Fleece. The Green Knight ties the Arthurian myth to contemporary fiction via Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities, as, of course, does Magwich. The Cartographer of Lost Places is entirely my own invention—but as with the rest, his origins lie in a supposition, and the clues to his true identity are there for careful enough readers. And finally, I wanted to start off the adventure in a place that had a mysterious resonance of its own. The address of the club Charles leads John and Jack to—221B Baker Street—is well known to any Sherlock Holmes reader as the detective’s home. A perfect place to begin a “dark and stormy night” story. James A. Owen Silvertown, USA ,
1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Fantasy
