The Dragons of Winter (27 page)

“Not engineering, or science,” Charles said, looking around at the feather-clad children sitting nearby.

“Architecture?” Burton said, glancing at the pyramid.

“The books,” said Edmund. “The stories—that’s what’s most important in any culture, I think.”

As if that was a request, one of the group that had met them at the entrance leaped to his feet and began, in a rough American accent, to recite:

“CAMELOT—Camelot,” said I to myself. “I don’t seem to remember hearing of it before. Name of the asylum, likely.”

It was a soft, reposeful summer landscape, as lovely as a dream, and as lonesome as Sunday. The air was full of the smell of flowers, and the buzzing of insects, and the twittering of birds . . .

“Dear Lord!” Bert exclaimed, nearly dropping his plate. “Those are the first lines of Samuel Clemens’s book! Do you
mean to tell me he’s memorized the
whole book
?”

Pym nodded. “As his forefathers before him do, done, did. In fact, he
is
the book. So are they all.”

The man shyly walked over to Bert and offered his hand, which the Far Traveler shook, slightly dazzled and definitely bewildered.

“This is A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court 417,” Pym said by way of introduction, “although among friends and family, he’s simply known as ‘In.’”

“‘In’?” asked Charles.

“If that whole title was your name, you’d want a short nickname too,” said Pym.

“Good point,” said Charles. “Who’s this fellow?”

Pym put his arm around a slim, fair-haired man who appeared to be in his forties. “Treasure Island 519. And his brother, the fellow just there by the pylon—Oliver Twist 522.”

“So everyone here is a living book?” Charles asked. “Amazing!”

“Not all the books that started in the beginning have survived to this day,” said Pym. “There have been accidents, and natural deaths before books could be passed on in their entirety. The family line that had
Anna Karenina
lost the last chapter around ninety generations ago, and subsequent generations have decreed it to have improved the book immeasurably.

“Also,” he continued, “
Silas Marner
didn’t last into the fifteenth generation.”

“Was that because of an accident, or a natural death?” asked Edmund.

“Neither,” said Pym. “Just couldn’t stand it anymore. Ended up marrying into and merging with
The Wizard of Oz
.”

One youth stepped forward hesitantly, trying to decide whether he should introduce himself.

“Go ahead, lad,” said Pym. “He’ll be very pleased to meet you in particular.”

“I am The Time Machine 43,” the gangly, copper-headed youth said, unsure whether to offer a hand to Bert. “Are . . . are you really my creator?”

“
The Time Machine
?” Bert said incredulously. “I can’t believe it!”

The young man was a bit flustered at this and took Bert’s statement as a request for verification. So he gulped down his nervousness and began to recite: “The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a recondite matter . . .”

Bert rushed forward and embraced the startled young man before he could continue. “Oh, my stars and garters!” he exclaimed. “You know it! You do know it!”

“Of course,” Pym said, a hangdog expression on his face. “Told you he did—these people are the books, Bert. And he is one of yours, as were forty-two generations before him.”

“Oh, my,” Bert said, unable to keep the tears from streaming down his face. “Do you know what this means, Rose, Charles?” The expression on his face was a mix of joy and pain. “It means that in a way, Weena is still here, in her future. Because I wrote her into the book, and because these people have kept it alive all these centuries, she’s still here.”

“I say,” Charles asked, craning his neck to look at all the Unforgotten gathered around them. “Which, ah, which of these fellows or families represents
my
books?”

Pym looked at him curiously. “Sorry, Charlie, but I don’t
know that any families here ever really took to any poetry.”

Charles frowned. “Oh. Uh, of course not,” he stammered, “but I was asking more about my novels.”

“Novels?” Pym asked, scratching his head. “Thought you were an editor.”

“Editors can
write
!” Charles exclaimed. “I mean, I’m a novelist, besides being an editor. And a poet.” He looked crestfallen. “So—no one here memorized any of
my
books?”

“Wait a moment,” one of the Unforgotten said, stepping closer to Charles. “He said you were friends with the Caveo Principia and the Caveo Secundus?”

“Yes!” Charles said. “They are my friends. My good friends. Actually,” he added with a nervous glance at his companions, “I was, ah, a bit of a mentor to them, in fact.”

A light came on in the Unforgotten’s eyes. “Aha!” he said, turning to the others. “Yes! I do know you.”

Charles exhaled. “That’s quite a relief.”

“You are the Third!” the man said. “This is the
Third
!” he cried to the crowd. “He
did
truly exist after all!”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Charles said, totally deflated. “Shoot me. Shoot me now.”

“Is the Unforgotten all that they are called?” asked Rose. “It seems a shame that such a noble group, with such a worthy calling, is simply known as ‘Unforgotten.’”

“Not only name,” said Pym. “Unforgotten describes their purpose, but they have another name to describe identity. Forefathers many generations ago chose another name. Felt it did honor to the path they chose. Called themselves that ever since.

“They,” Pym said, “are known as the Children of the Summer King.”

After a wonderful, plentiful meal, during which they were entertained by many great and classic stories, the companions were shown to a small tumbledown building where they could rest for the night and gather their wits.

“May I bring you anything else, Third?” one of the young women asked Charles, who answered with a weary smile and a deep sigh.

“No thank you,” he said. “We’re all fine here. And,” he added, “please, call me Charles.”

“As you wish, Third,” she said, bowing.

“I think he’s getting really annoyed with that,” Edmund said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“He ought to be looking on the bright side,” said Burton. “It’s been eight thousand centuries—to even be remembered as ‘Third’ is quite a testament to him and his place in history.”

“Easy for you to say,” Charles grumbled, “seeing as
Arabian Nights
is one of the books that survived.”

“That’s just because it was full of all sorts of lewd, lascivious, awful things that gave people something to feel ashamed about,” said Bert. “You should feel proud that your books faded into obscurity in part because they had none of those things.”

“Thanks,” said Charles, “but that doesn’t really help, you know.”

“Have you noticed,” said Rose, “the longer we’ve been here, the more composed Arthur seems to be getting?”

“His madness does seem to be fading,” Burton agreed, “a bit.”

“At least he’s starting to use pronouns again,” said Charles. “Just listening to him talk was making me itchy.”

Pym, along with the Unforgotten he called Twist, after Dickens’s book, had been explaining more details about this strange world, about the Unforgotten, and especially the dark city, Dys, and Lord Winter.

“The rings they wear are the rings of the Caretakers,” said Pym, “as are the rune stones in the walls. But outside of that, they know little else about how and why this place came to be. They were focused on preserving the books.”

“It’s interesting, don’t you think?” Rose said to the others. “How the Children of the Summer King are essentially the last vestiges of civilization, of all the learning of humankind . . . and yet they live almost as savages, in the most basic ways possible. But the city dwellers, living in thrall to Lord Winter and the Echthroi, who don’t know anything of their own history, live in relative luxury, in that extraordinary metropolis.”

“It’s the same division as the Eloi and the Morlocks,” said Bert. “The Eloi were simpler, purer—but the Morlocks were the ones who retained the technological knowledge that allowed their society to function.”

“So what are we to make of Lord Winter, then?” asked Edmund. “Or the fact that it is Shadow that has ruled the world for all these thousands of years?”

“I’m not sure,” Bert said, frowning. “I had always believed that the Echthroi represented chaos, but that apparently isn’t true. In fact, it’s just the opposite—the Echthroi have imposed an incredible state of order on the whole world.”

“But shouldn’t that have been the goal of all humanity?”
asked Charles. “Isn’t a world of perfect order something to have striven for?”

“You tell me, Caretaker,” Burton said as he tore off a piece of chicken with his teeth. “You’ve spent time in both worlds now. Which place were you more comfortable? There in the city, or here with these wild folk?”

“If I had to choose,” said Charles, “I’d take this place, no doubt. Plus indoor plumbing, if there was an extra wish in the genie bottle.”

“Choice,” Rose said, her voice low and cool, “is the entire point of it all. Choice is the difference. The Echthroi do not allow those whom they make Lloigor to choose to be thus. They compel it. That these people managed to preserve their ability to choose seems almost . . . accidental.”

“You think all this was an accident?” Pym sputtered. “Are you serious? This was no accident—nothing Verne does is accidental. It’s all part of a plan, his and Poe’s. Even my being here, in this horrid place—it was a plan, I’m sure of it.”

“And yet you’re the one who chose to do their bidding,” said Burton. “You idiot.”

“I am prone to occasional lapses of judgment,” Pym admitted, “but those are mostly confined to time travel, and trips to the Arctic Circle.”

“There’s no way to know if Verne or Poe foresaw this,” said Bert. “Not unless they can send a message across eight thousand centuries.”

At this, Twist brightened. “But he did, great creator,” the Unforgotten said. “Follow me—I can show you.”

Twist led them through a warren of tunnels that wrapped around the base of the pyramid to an entrance. As with the gate, it opened for a ring bearer, and they all went inside. The narrow entry corridor opened into a large anteroom that was torch-lit, and empty save for a round, metallic table that was slightly concave. On it rested three golden rings, each about four inches in diameter.

“Oh, my stars and garters!” Bert exclaimed. “These are memory rings! Jules created them, after the ones I saw here—well, in Weena’s future, anyway.” He picked up one of the rings and peered through it. “Sort of a ‘chicken-and-the-egg-and-the-chicken’ kind of setup. I told him about the rings I’d found that recorded history, and he thought it was a capital idea and tried to duplicate them. He designed them to last for as long as ten thousand years.”

“Ten?” asked Burton. So for these to have existed eighty times that long . . .”

“. . . is exceptional and extraordinary,” said Bert. “But they’re here, nonetheless. And we may as well, ah, give them a whirl, so to speak.”

Delicately, he picked up the other two rings, then set one on edge on the table and gave it a spin.

As the ring whirled about, the voice of Jules Verne suddenly echoed across the anteroom:

“No way to know which of these rings may survive into the ancient future,” Verne’s voice was saying. “. . . last of the Caretakers in exile after the restoration of the Archipelago . . .”

“It’s fading in and out,” said Edmund. “I can’t hear it clearly.”

“They’re too old,” said Burton. “It’s been too long.”

“Shush,” said Bert. “Listen!”

“. . . all the lands put in their proper place, then . . . at the waterfall . . . Lloigor . . .”

The ring slowed and clattered to a stop.

“Oh dear,” Charles murmured. “Perhaps the next one will be more cheerful.”

It wasn’t. When Bert spun the second golden ring, it emitted nothing but hissing and scratching, then a few unintelligible words, and then . . . a scream.