going, isn’t it? We’re going to the Archipelago of Dreams.” Chapter Four Whatever personal misgivings they may have had, John, Jack, and Charles had to accept the evidence of their senses. Like it or not, they were at sea. And until a destination was named, traveled to, and safely arrived at, they were fully at the mercy of the captain and her unusual crew.
“This is all your fault,” Charles said to Bert, his voice shaking with anger. “If you hadn’t convinced us to leave the club—”
“If he hadn’t convinced you to leave the club,” Aven interrupted, “you’d be three kinds of dead. Or didn’t you notice those weren’t accountants and bankers chasing you?”
“She’s right,” said Jack, kicking at one of the spears on the deck. “Those things weren’t for show. They’re crusted with layers of dried blood. I think they really would have killed us, Charles.”
“I agree,” said John. “Whatever situation we’re in now, it’s better than if we’d remained in London. Although,” he added, looking askance at Bert, “it would be nice if we had an idea when it would be safe to return.”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” said Bert. “One of several that I suspect you have. And as I have questions of my own, then perhaps we should make landfall and discuss our next course of action.”
The statue was wrapped in vines and overgrowth…
“Landfall?” asked Charles. “Is there a place to land if we’re in fact sailing toward your ‘Imaginary Geography’?”
“There is indeed,” said Bert. “It’s an island that actually straddles the border between the waters of the world you know and those of the Archipelago.
“I don’t know what it was originally called—the professor could have told you, John—but for the past thousand years, it has been known as Avalon.”
Aven estimated that they were still at least an hour out from Avalon, and she suggested that her reluctant passengers try to settle in and enjoy the ride. The night air was cool but not chill, and the calm waters made for mellow sailing. Bert noticed that John seemed to be avoiding going anywhere near the Imaginarium Geographica, choosing instead to observe the others from the foredeck, where he could watch for the island. Charles was shaking his head every few moments, as if doing so might wake him from the undigested-mustard-and-cheese nightmare in which he found himself. And Jack acted as if whatever danger or inconvenience he had to endure would be worth the trouble, as long as he could remain in close proximity to Aven. The crew of the Indigo Dragon were, as it turned out, fauns: the half-men, half-goat creatures of myth. Aven explained that while their short stature made them rather disagreeable, their inborn ability—from the goat half of their heritage, John had no doubt—to scale mountainous terrain also came in handy on a tempest-tossed deck. “It’s an amazing sight,” Aven said. “Twenty-foot waves, decks as slick as ice, rain all but blinding, and these fellows walk about as if they were strolling in the park.” “Actually,” said Jack, “I would’ve thought satyrs would be better—larger and stronger, you know?” “Satyrs, fft,” Aven hissed. “Stronger, sure—but they spend all their time drinking, and when they’re not drinking, they’re chasing women. More trouble than help.” “Fauns don’t drink?” asked Jack. “Not like satyrs,” said Aven. “The strongest thing fauns drink is a flaming rum punch. Usually it’s nothing more potent than a nice mulled wine.” “You do realize you’re arguing about mythological creatures that can’t possibly exist,” said Charles, waving his arms. “There are no such things as fauns and satyrs!” As if in answer, one of the crew dropped a heavy spare mast bracing on Charles’s foot, then picked it up and tipped his hat in mock apology before passing through to the cabin. Charles howled and sat on the deck, massaging his injured foot. “I think that nonexistent mythological creature just broke some of your toes,” Jack said. “Oh, shut up,” said Charles. It was not long before the crewman in the crow’s nest signaled to the captain that land was in sight. On the near horizon, shrouded in fine mist and standing in high relief against the darker thunderheads beyond, was Avalon. The Indigo Dragon slowed and made its way through the shallows to rest against a tumbledown dock. There, a pebbled beach slowly gave way to a grassy slope and a tangled thicket of growth around what had once been a grand and eloquent structure. John, Jack, Charles, and Bert disembarked, with Jack taking the lead ahead of his more cautious and reluctant companions. Aven stayed behind, occasionally casting suspicious glances back in the direction from which they had come. Atop the slope were ruined pilasters all about; broken arches, shattered foundations, crumbling stone. In the dim twilight, the young men could almost imagine the great cathedrals that may have once stood on the island—but that age was long past, and nature had since reclaimed it for herself. Ruined though it was, there was an undeniable atmosphere of magic and mystery about the island that permeated the ground, the trees, the very air itself. None of them had truly thought for an instant that they were actually traveling to King Arthur’s Avalon of legend, but there, in that moment, they could almost believe. Scattered throughout the ruins were several marble pedestals, and here and there they could see the occasional intact statue. A tallish one stood on the pedestal nearest what was once an entry hall. The statue was wrapped in vines and overgrowth, almost as if it were a shrub that had grown up in the form of a knight-at- arms. Jack squinted at it and was startled to see it squint back. “That statue,” he said, turning to summon the others. “I think I saw it move.” “Ah,” said Bert, who had anchored the group and was still some yards back, “I meant to tell you…” Before he could finish the thought, the object of Jack’s attention stepped off the pedestal and with a creaking of joints and metal swung his sword directly at the young man’s head. “Jack, get down!” John yelled, diving to pull his friend out of harm’s way. The sword passed in a sharp arc through the space where Jack had been standing as he and John collapsed in a tumble. They rolled to their feet some distance away, fists at the ready. They needn’t have worried. The statue—actually a knight in armor that had gone mottled green with rust
