The Indigo King (3 page)

“The cup of Christ, from the Last Supper,” said John.

“Either that, or the vessel used to catch his blood as he hung on the cross,” answered Hugo, “depending on which version of the story you believe is more credible as a historian.”

“Or as a Christian,” said John, “although the Grail lore certainly blurs the line between history and myth.”

“It’s very interesting that you feel that way,” Jack said, unwrapping the parcel and casting a sideways glance at John, “because the line between history and myth is about to be wiped away entirely.”

Inside the brown wrapper was a book, about three inches thick and nearly ten inches square. It was bound in ancient leather, and the pages were brown with age. The upper left-hand side of the first few pages had been torn, and the rest bore several deep gashes. Otherwise, the book was intact. The cover itself was filled with ancient writing, and in the center was a detailed impression of the sacred cup itself: the Holy Grail.

Hugo stood to better take in the sight. “Impressive! Is it authentic?”

Jack examined the book in silence for a few minutes, then nodded. “It is. Sixth century, as closely as I can estimate.”

Hugo gave him an admiring look. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in this sort of historical matter.”

“I have some knowledgeable associates,” said Jack. He turned to John. “Can you read it?”

John dusted off the cover with a napkin. “Absolutely. The forms are Anglo-Saxon, but the writing itself is Gothic.”

“Gothic!” Hugo exclaimed. “No one’s used Gothic since …”

“Since the sixth century,” said John. “But it was one of my favorite languages to play with when I was younger.”

“That’s what makes him a genius,” Hugo said to Jack. “It’s all play to him.”

The two men refilled their glasses (this time adding a bit of hot water to the rum) and stood back to let John work through the translation. After a few minutes had passed, John turned to Jack and grinned.

“It bears closer study,” he said. “If I can refine the actual letter-forms, I might even be able to compare it to some of the Histories and narrow down who the author might be. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it
is
one of the Histories.”

“The author?” Hugo exclaimed. “Surely you’re having a joke at my expense, my dear fellow. Narrowing down the century would be impressive enough, but I doubt the author signed his work. Not in those days.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Jack. “In a way, that’s why I asked you to come, Hugo.”

“It’s quite exceptional, really,” John exclaimed. “It purports to be a historical accounting of the lineage of the kings of England. And that history is intertwined with the mythology of the Holy Grail. Except …”

“What?” blurted Hugo.

“Except,” John finished, “it starts at least five centuries before the birth of Christ.”

“So, pure mythology rather than history,” said Jack.

“That’s debatable,” said Hugo, “but you yourself said this would wipe away the line between history and myth.”

“Indeed,” Jack said, turning to John. “Was Charles’s note correct? About the writing?”

John nodded. “The cover text is relevant, but it’s the first page that really has me baffled, the same as it did Charles.” He lifted the cover. “And for that page, there’s no need for me to translate.”

Instead of the Gothic writing on the cover, the words on the first page were written in a reddish brown ink in modern English. The page had been torn crosswise from left to right, but the message was largely intact:

The Cartographer

He who seeks the means to

the islands of the Archipelago

will follow the true Grail and

Blood will be saved, by willing choice

that time be restored for the future’s sake.

And in God’s name, don’t close the door!

—Hugo Dyson

CHAPTER TWO

The Door in the Wood

“It isn’t a joke, Hugo,” said Jack. “You can’t tell anyone of this. That isn’t ink. And you should take a closer look at the handwriting.”

Hugo did so, and his astonished gasp confirmed what Jack had suspected and John had just realized: The writing was in Hugo’s own hand.

“Mmm,” said John, examining the writing for himself. “You’re right, Jack. This
is
quite the mystery. I wonder if that’s actually Hugo’s blood?”

“Hard to say for certain,” said Jack. “It’s nearly fourteen centuries old, so there’s probably no way to tell.”

“My blood?” exclaimed Hugo. “Really now, this is carrying things on a bit past the edge, don’t you think?”

“Oh, don’t be so squeamish, Hugo,” said John. “It’s dried, after all.”

Jack sat on the sofa and leaned back, his hands behind his neck. “Let’s assume this is what it appears to be. Hugo and Charles have never met. So why would this have been sent to Charles?”

“And not only that,” John interjected, “but to him in his capacity as a Caretaker.”

“A Caretaker of what?” said Hugo. “And who is the Cartographer?”

“I think,” John said, reaching for the oilcloth-wrapped book he’d brought with him, “that it’s time we explained a few things to you, my baffled friend. Beginning with this.”

On top of the table, John unwrapped the
Imaginarium Geographica
.

“We’re going to need more rum,” said Jack.

As Hugo sat in stunned silence, John and Jack took turns telling him a slightly abridged version of all the adventures they had experienced as Caretakers of the
Imaginarium Geographica
. When they were finished, a completely discombobulated and still slightly skeptical Hugo Dyson squinted one eye and looked them over.

“This is all completely on the level, then?”

“As level as it’s possible to get,” said John. “And as you can see, the
Geographica
itself is fairly compelling evidence.”

“Indeed,” said Hugo, rising to look at the atlas. “It is extraordinary, I’ll give you that. Extraordinary. And you say this Cartographer of Lost Places created all these maps?”

“Yes,” Jack said, nodding.

“So who is he, really?”

“I don’t think anyone really knows,” said John. “Bert might have his ideas. Samaranth as well. But I’ve never come across any mention of him in any of the Histories. What we know of him is all there
is
to know.”

“Perhaps he’s the one who sent it,” Hugo suggested. “After all, the note I, uh, wrote seems to be for his benefit.”

John shook his head. “It wouldn’t have come by post. He’d have sent Bert, or a dragon, or a postal owl or something.”

“A postal
owl
?” said Jack.

“I was just giving a ‘for instance,’” said John. “I don’t think it was really delivered by an owl. Everyone knows swallows are more suited for that sort of thing, anyway.”

“That’s even worse,” said Jack. “At least a good-size owl would have a shot at lifting a heavy book. You’d need
several
swallows to match that.”

“He has a point,” said Hugo.

“Whatever,” said John, irritated. “What I mean is that it was sent by someone in this world, not someone in the Archipelago.”

“But who here knows that we’re the Caretakers?” asked Jack. “And why not just contact us directly?”

“Maybe they couldn’t,” offered Hugo. “Perhaps whoever sent the book was prevented from bringing it themselves.”

“I think that the reason it was addressed to Charles is obvious,” said John. “His novel proves his interest in Grail lore, and as a Caretaker he has resources other scholars wouldn’t.”

“Fair enough,” said Jack. “But what initiated Hugo’s involvement in all this?” They both turned to their friend, who gulped and grinned sheepishly.

“I’m just trying to keep up, honestly,” said Hugo. “As I said, I was familiar with Charles’s work, but my interest was in what I
hoped
the novel was, not what it is.

“I’m doing a lot of reading in Arthurian legends, and so of course I’m taking detours into Grail stories. I thought Charles’s book might be a nice diversion, but it was rather disappointing to discover it’s wholly contemporary. To him the Grail is an object, a device, if you will, to allow him to tell a story of the supernatural. And that wasn’t what I was looking for at all.”

“I see,” said John. “We’ll have to speak further about the Arthur legends. I think we can help you there”—he winked at Jack—“particularly with the material about his descendants.”

“You can show me the actual Histories?” Hugo exclaimed.

“Better,” said Jack. “We can show you the actual
descendants
.”

“We’re the last one’s godfathers,” John explained.

“Good Lord,” said Hugo.

“What I want to know is the connection between the Grail and the Cartographer,” said Jack. “How are they linked, I wonder?”

“Arthur again,” said John. “Remember, the seal of the High King is what keeps the door locked in the Keep. There must be a connection there.”

Jack snapped his fingers. “Right. I’d forgotten. So what do we do?”

“Let’s do this,” said John, rising. “Tomorrow I’ll use the Compass Rose to summon one of the Dragonships from the Archipelago, and we’ll go ask the Cartographer himself. We can answer all these questions in a matter of days.”

“You said the, uh, fortress …,” began Hugo.

“The Keep,” said Jack.

“Yes, the Keep of, uh, Time, was almost destroyed. Will we be able to get to him?”

John and Jack looked at each other, thinking the same thing: They were glad, in this moment, that Charles was not in the room. Despite the fact that his actions had once saved their lives, he was nevertheless responsible for the Keep being set ablaze and would have been embarrassed to discuss the matter in front of Hugo.

“Yes,” said Jack. “It’s difficult, but still possible. The fire is long extinguished, but the tower itself continues to crumble. We’ve had to spend more and more time doing damage control with the various Time Storms that have formed as a result, but just going there to speak to him shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Hmm,” said John. “I wonder if a Time Storm might not be the genesis of this book. After all, there has to be some explanation for how Hugo’s writing got on it fourteen centuries ago.”

“I’ve never seen a Time Storm here, in our world,” said Jack. “Just in the Archipelago.”

“There have been crossovers,” John pointed out. “The Bermuda Triangle, for one. And of course, the whole business with the
Red Dragon
.”

“
Red Dragon
?” asked Hugo.

“You’d know it better as the
Argo
,” said Jack.

“Ah,” said Hugo. He got to his feet with a visible wobble. “I think I need some air. Anyone fancy a walk?”

“Excellent idea,” agreed John.

After rewrapping the Grail book and the
Geographica
(in the unlikely event that one of Jack’s students or the college “scout” responsible for tidying up the rooms should wander in and find them), John, Jack, and Hugo left the New Building and headed down the direction from which John had come earlier. Addison’s Walk was a favorite stroll of theirs; it made a circuit around Magdalen from one side of the college, leading to Dover Pier, and then around to the other side along the Cherwell. It was lined with trees and grassy meadows and offered beautiful views of Magdalen Tower and the Magdalen Bridge. It was an eminently peaceful path to walk alone or with companions, and all three of them had followed it often.

The night was pleasant for mid-September, and it was perfect weather for contemplating the universe. The only thing that made the stroll disquieting was the occasional shadows cast by the lamps they passed. Jack tried not to look like he was avoiding them, and he hoped John wouldn’t notice.

Hugo walked ahead of the other two, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. Occasionally he would stop and begin to utter some half-formed thought, then reconsider and keep walking. Finally he fell back with the others.

“So,” Hugo asked, “according to your experiences, all myths are real, and they happened someplace within the Archipelago?”

“That’s an awfully general statement,” said Jack. “I think it’s more reasonable to say that much of what we have believed to be myth and legend in our world here was actually derived from real events in the Archipelago. We’ve been at this Caretaking business for a number of years now, and we’re still just getting our feet wet.”

“Indeed,” said John, who was rustling around in the brush for a walking stick. “Fact and fiction do not fall into the clear patterns they once did.”

“So taken as a whole, mythology, or some of it at least, might actually be real history?”

“We’re still trying to figure that out ourselves,” replied Jack, “although I must admit it’s quite a relief to be able to discuss a lot of this openly with you, Hugo. It’s sometimes been very difficult to restrain myself during conversations with Owen Barfield, for example.”

“I’d imagine,” said John.

Seeing Hugo’s puzzled look, Jack explained. “In recent years Barfield has made the argument that mythology, speech, and literature all have a common source, a common origin. In the dawn of prehistory, men did not make distinctions between the literal and the metaphorical. They were one and the same.”

“The word and the thing were identical,” said Hugo.

“Exactly,” said Jack. “That can be described best as the mythological meaning—somewhere between reality and metaphor. When we translate a word, we make distinctions based on context, but early speakers didn’t.

“Barfield used the Latin word ‘spiritus’ as an example,” Jack continued. “To early man, it meant something like ‘spirit-breathwind.’ When the wind blew, it was not ‘like’ the breath of a god. It
was
the breath of a god. And when it referred to a speaker’s self, his own spirit, he meant it literally as the ‘breath of life.’

“What made this compelling was that I had already had several discussions along the same lines with John, Charles, and Ordo Maas in the Archipelago.”

“The shipbuilder you told me about?” asked Hugo.

“The same.” Jack nodded. “It began with the discussion of the similarities between himself, as Deucalion, and the Biblical Noah, and the fact that stories of the flood and great arks go back well before Gilgamesh.”

“But some are real, and others are myths based on the realities?” “There are different kinds of reality,” said Jack. “Barfield said mythological stories are metaphors in narrative form—but that makes them no less real.”

Hugo shook his head. “Language gives us the ability to make metaphors, but really, that’s all myths are, whether or not they were created around real happenings. Pretty them up all you like, but myths are essentially lies, and therefore worthless.”

John and Jack stopped and looked directly at Hugo. “No,” John said emphatically. “They are
not
lies.”

At that moment there was a rush of wind through the trees that pushed past the three friends and swirled down the shallow hill beyond. It burst upon them so suddenly and forcefully from the still, warm night that it sent a cacophony of leaves raining down from the branches, and it was nearly a full minute before the patter subsided and the walk was quiet once more.

They held their breath, standing still on the path.

“What was that all about?” exclaimed Hugo.

“Quiet,” said Jack. “Something’s changed.”

And he was right. Something
had
changed. There was another presence there with them, somewhere among the trees.

Unmoving, the three men looked about, but nothing seemed amiss. The streams burbled, the trees stood, somber, and the night was as quiet as it had been moments before. And then …

Something fell.

“Here,” John said, pointing off to the right. “It came from this small clearing.”

Cautiously the three scholars stepped away from the path and walked down the gentle slope, threading their way among the beeches and poplars to a small meadow that overlooked one of the streams. In the meadow, standing resolutely in the grass as if it belonged there, was a door. Not a building, just a door. It was plain, made of oak, and set into an arch of crumbling stones. A few feet away lay one of the stones—presumably the one they had heard tumble down from the frame.

All three of them noticed something else that was obviously meant for them to see: Painted across the face of the door in the same reddish brown color as the writing on the book was the image of the Grail.

Hugo turned slightly green. “If that’s more blood, I think I might lose my dinner.”

Jack let out a low whistle. He recognized the door right away. It was unmistakably one of the doors from the Keep of Time.

“But how can it possibly be here?” John said, answering Jack’s unspoken question. “And what’s the meaning of the Grail?”

“It’s not a coincidence,” said Jack. “It’s here because we are. I sense a trap.”

“That’s a bit cloak-and-dagger,” said Hugo, who was recovering from his initial surprise. “It’s just a door, isn’t it?”

“A door into some other time,” stated Jack, who was examining the door, albeit from a safe distance, “and from a place far from here.”