The Search for the Red Dragon (18 page)

“What happened during the tests?” asked Jack.

“That’s when we gived the Skelton boys their nicknames,” Laura Glue put in. “Stumpy and One-Eye.”

“Sorry I asked,” said Jack.

It took most of the day, or the day’s equivalent in the Underneath, for the companions to make their way through the forest. Occasionally they heard the sounds of birds, but they neither saw nor heard any other creatures. But every so often, they could feel something watching. Bert, John, and Charles exchanged concerned glances, but Aven, Jack, and Laura Glue seemed not to notice. Aven in particular grew more and more animated as the trees began to thin and the terrain grew more hillpocked.

“Look!” she exclaimed, jumping across a large boulder at the base of a huge oak. “It’s my house! Father, look!”

There amidst the tangle of roots was a child-size set of furniture made of sticks woven together with reeds and sapling strips. There were remnants of what might have been a tea set scattered among the leaves and forest debris, and underneath the table she found a tarnished, twisted silver spoon.

“This is where I used to play, when I came here with Jamie!” she said excitedly. “He helped me build the furniture, and we had a set of spoons he’d brought with him from London. We were the envy of all the Lost Boys, having real spoons for tea.”

“Fascinating,” said Charles.

“There are imaginary houses and tearooms like this one set up
all throughout the hills,” Aven went on. “We’re close now. We’re very close.”

With that, she carefully placed the spoon on the woodland table and turned to the others. “Follow us,” she said, taking Laura Glue’s hand once more. “We know the way from here—and there aren’t any more traps.

“I’ve come home.”

Laura Glue and Aven took off at a quick clip, and the men had to lengthen their strides just to keep them in sight. The forest continued to thin, with the mighty oaks giving way to slighter, paler aspens and stout, bushy cedars.

Eventually the trees stopped altogether, and there was nothing ahead but a high rise of colored sand. Aven and Laura Glue were atop it and waving at the companions to join them.

“There,” said Laura Glue, pointing to the near horizon. “That’s our city.”

From a distance, what Laura Glue called a “city” looked like a fortress that fragmented into a cluster of volcanic flumes, rising high above multicolored but otherwise unimpressive dunes of sand and stone.

“Uh, is it behind the sand?” asked Charles.

“It’s no use just looking for our houses,” said Laura Glue. “You won’t see them. Not yet, anyways.”

“Why not?” asked John.

“Well,” Laura Glue replied, “it’s because here, in the Nether Land, our houses are the exact opposite of your houses in Angle Land. There you can see the houses in the day, but not when it gets dark. But here it’s exactly the opposite. Our houses are the color of night, so you can’t see them in the daytime, only at night.”

“You mean your houses are black?” Charles asked.

Laura Glue scowled. “Of course not! Night isn’t
black
, it’s just
dark
. There’s a difference, you know.”

“Sorry,” said Charles.

“The things that seem dull in the daytime are magic at night,” said Laura Glue. “And that’s where we live—in the magic houses.”

“It is getting toward nightfall again,” Bert observed, scanning the sky. “Will we see them soon?”

“Yes,” said Aven, who was practically glowing with joy. “Just wait. And watch.”

The light of the Underneath began to fade into slumbering pastels; and as it did, the city of the Lost Boys began to awaken.

It was indistinct at first: small pinpoints of light here and there. But as the sky darkened, the lights became brighter and more colorful. The warmth of lanterns sprang up in cultivated rows, and sparkling lights that moved with life spun in circular angles, as if someone had electrified giant spiderwebs and draped them over the stone towers.

As the lights appeared, the companions could see that it wasn’t a desert at all, but an oasis filled with magic. There were pools of water reflecting the glittering homes above, and bridges connecting the towers that moments before had seemed only a mirage, a trick of the light.

It was everything a magic city was supposed to be. And it could only have been created by children, for there was no board or brick of it that would have been imagined by an adult—and when adults saw it, it was not with grown-up eyes, but with the eyes of the children they had once been.

“Well of course you can see it!” Laura Glue said indignantly in response to the exclamations of the others. “I told you it was here!

“We call it Haven.”

At the edges of the city, set within broad stone walls, was a series of grates that were nearly covered over with warning and keep out! signs. Laura Glue ignored them all and marched straight to a grate with a sign that read speake the passwords or be kilt.

Charles leaned toward the grate. “Alakazam!” he said loudly, to no effect.

“Nice try,” offered John.

“Do you know the passwords?” Jack asked Laura Glue.

“Of course I do!” she exclaimed. “You all just got me discombobulated, is all.”

The girl tapped her forehead for a moment and pursed her lips. Then she leaned in close to the grate and began to call out the secret words—and was answered in turn by the voice of a gatekeeper somewhere within.

“Apple core!”

“Baltimore!”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Me!”

There was a gasp and a giggle, then the sound of a creaking, rusty mechanism being turned. Slowly the grate swung inward, and a light appeared in the tunnel below. A puckish face appeared, framed by an explosion of ribboned, light brown pigtails that stuck out in every direction.

“Laura Glue?” the girl with the lamp said, hesitant. “Is that be you, Laura my Glue?”

“Sadie!” Laura Glue exclaimed joyfully, running forward. “Sadie Pepperpot, it is be me! I be coming home, neh?”

“Neh,” replied the girl, giving the evil eye to the rest of the group. “What you bring with you? You bring Longbeards to the city?”

Laura Glue shook her head. “Not Longbeards. Caretakers, like Jamie. We got to take them in, now!”

Still skeptical, the girl turned and trotted off down the tunnel. Laura Glue followed, and Aven went right behind her. The companions brought up the rear, and in a few moments the tunnel gave way to an opening of brick, which came up underneath a large stone fountain of Pegasus.

The fountain was in the center of a courtyard, and there, amidst a dozen children running about, a regal, thin-framed man with curly brown hair and a hawkish nose stood and spread his arms in greeting.

Laura Glue let out a shriek of joy and ran to the man, leaping into his arms.

“Uncle Daedalus!” she cried out. “I did it! I flew! I flew all the way to the Summer Country, and then I flew all the way back!

“And I brung the Caretakers,” she added, “even though they’re not Jamie.”

“You did wonderfully, my little Laura Glue,” said the man, hugging her tightly, then lowering her to the ground. “Why don’t you see if there’s room for a few guests at dinner, neh?”

Still cheshiring from ear to ear, Laura Glue ran off and joined another group of children. Additional shrieks indicated that her greetings were continuing. The man she called Daedalus shook hands with the companions as Bert introduced all of them one by
one. When Daedalus got to Aven, he smiled and then kissed her on the forehead.

“My word,” said Charles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before.”

“You have been missed,” Daedalus said to her. “It brings me joy to see you again, even though the circumstances be grim.”

Before he could elaborate, Laura Glue came rushing back, trailing a group of children the likes of which none of them had ever seen. There was a flurry of introductions as Laura Glue rattled off the names of her friends for John, Jack, Charles, and Bert. But again, it was Aven they were focused on, and they looked at her with something akin to awe.

“Is it true?” asked a lanky, towheaded boy called Fred the Goat, who had been caught midmeal and talked with his mouth full. “Are you really a Mother?”

“I am,” said Aven. “That’s why I’ve come back. We’re searching for my son.”

“Back?” asked the girl Laura Glue called Meggie Tree-and-Leaf, who in fact resembled a bramble bush. “When were you here before?”

“Don’t you remember her?” exclaimed Laura Glue. “This is Poppy! She’s come back to us at last!”

Fred the Goat’s mouth dropped open and a half-chewed carrot fell out. “Poppy Longbottom? F’r reals?”

“Poppy Longbottom?” said John. “Hah! Did you really choose that yourself?”

“Oh, shut up,” Aven said over her shoulder. She turned back to Fred the Goat. “Yes, I’m Poppy. At least I used to be. But you can call me Aven now.”

“Hmm,” mused the girl named Sadie Pepperpot, who had opened the grate to admit them. “Aven. That’s a good Mother name.”

“I don’t believe her,” said a small boy with a shock of black hair that stuck straight up from his head. “I think she’s just another Longbeard, except, you know, without the beard.”

“I’ll have you know, Pelvis Parsley,” Aven said, bending low to look at him an inch from his nose, “I am indeed Poppy Longbottom, and I can prove it.”

She reached inside her blouse and pulled something out of a pocket hidden in the lining. She held her hand in front of Pelvis Parsley’s face, then slowly opened it.

Resting on her palm was a small silver thimble.

Pelvis Parsley’s eyes saucered. “Holy socks!” he exclaimed. “You have a kiss from Jamie? Then you really
must
be Poppy!”

With that the boy let out a war whoop and began dancing around the room, pulling Aven along by the hand. The other children picked up the yell, and soon the din was overwhelming.

“You know,” Jack said to Daedalus over the clamor, “Laura Glue was quite put out if we called her by less than her full name—but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else if she just calls them ‘Poppy’ or ‘Sadie.’”

Daedalus grinned. “At one point in time, there were no less than five Lauras among the Lost Boys. And, as Laura Glue was the smallest of them, she clung very tightly to anything that would make her distinctive. In particular, her name.”

“Hah.” Jack laughed. “There’s plenty more than just her name that sets
that
girl apart from the crowd.”

“Indeed,” said Daedalus.

The noise continued as everyone took their places along several long tables laden with dishes and plates—all of which were empty.

“Ah, is the food still being prepared?” asked Charles. “Or have you already finished eating?”

“Finished?” said Fred the Goat. “We barely got started. I’m only two courses in.”

“How many courses are there?” asked John.

“Eleventy-seven,” replied Fred. “Unless you count dessert. Then there’s more.”

“Good heavens!” Jack exclaimed. “That’s a lot of courses. Who prepares it all?”

Laura Glue laughed. “We all do, gravy-head.”

“You uses your ’magination, Longbeard,” said Sadie Pepperpot. “That’s what makes the world interesting, you know.”

“I suppose you’d have to,” noted Jack, “to have eleventy-seven courses.”

“It all sounds grand to me,” said John, “as long as I don’t have to clean up afterward.”

“That’s the best part about an imaginary feast,” explained Laura Glue. “You can simply imagine that all the mess that’s left over gets cleaned up by an imaginary Feast Beast, and as soon as you do, it’s done.”

“Aw, they’re just Longbeards,” Pelvis scoffed. “I bet they don’t even know how to use their ’maginations.”

Bert leaned close to the shock-headed boy and wiggled his nose. “That’s where you’d be mistaken, my boy,” he said. “If imagination is your cook, then these three fellows will make the greatest feast the Lost Boys have ever seen.”

And with that cue, John, Jack, and Charles smiled and began to think of the most extraordinary foods they could dream of.

And even Pelvis Parsley’s usual sour expression could not hold back the shrieks of delight he uttered when the first incredible dishes began to appear on the tables.

Even if it had not
been the most exceptional dinner they had ever attended, which it was, the companions would have stayed through to the end just to watch the children use their own imaginations to conjure up the Feast Beasts to clean up the leftovers. The creatures looked like large, furry rats, with great dark orbs for eyes and massive claws that were both threatening and delicate.

The Feast Beasts devoured all the leftover food, then gathered up all the dirty plates and utensils—and ate those as well before scampering away into one of the buildings.

Fred the Goat let out a huge belch and smacked his lips. “Mmm,” he said contentedly. “Tasted almost as good coming out as it did going in.”

John frowned in distaste, but Charles merely laughed, and Jack let out a belch of his own.

Sadie Pepperpot and Laura Glue implored Aven to go with them to see their garden, and the rest of the Lost Boys began playing a taglike game they called Monster and the Frogs while Bert and the three Caretakers retired to Daedalus’s workshop to discuss the recent events that had brought them together.

“Hello, Jacks. It’s good to see you.”

The workshop was what might have been created if Thomas Edison had been allowed to run loose in the British Museum with unlimited resources and a penchant for modernizing old artifacts. There were electrical generators and motors and steam engines wound in and around marble statues, stacks of parchment, and pieces of Roman chariots. Bronze Age armor lay in piles next to archaic telescopes and what appeared to be projection equipment, and in each corner of the expansive room was a brick oven over which hung bubbling cauldrons.

The inventor indicated that the companions should sit in several Greek chairs set near the center of the workshop, while he moved from cauldron to cauldron, inspecting the experiments that were evidently still in progress.

“Laura Glue told us you were Icarus’s brother,” said John. “Pardon my asking, but how is that possible?”

“The man you know as Daedalus had two sons,” the inventor replied. “Icarus and Iapyx. As Caretakers, you are evidently well educated enough to know what befell Icarus, and if any of you are fathers, you can imagine the impact that Icarus’s death had upon him.

“My father was one of the great inventors of history. He developed the art of carpentry, and with it invented the saw, ax, plumb line, drill, and even glue. Although,” he added ruefully, “the methods of using wax as a fixative turned out to be less successful than he’d hoped.”

“He was also a very talented artist, wasn’t he?” asked Jack. “Many sculpted wooden figures that have been found throughout Europe have been attributed to Daedalus—it’s even said that his works have a touch of the divine.”

Daedalus the Younger nodded. “It’s true, they did. And to some degree, he absorbed that from one of his teachers—a legendary builder named Deucalion.”

“Our shipbuilder friend,” Charles whispered to John.

“My father’s problem,” the inventor continued, “was pride. Daedalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear the idea of a rival—any rival.

“His own nephew had been placed under his charge to be taught the mechanical arts, and he promptly developed inventions of his own that humiliated my father.

“Daedalus was so envious of his nephew’s accomplishments that when an opportunity arose, he
murdered
my cousin. And for this crime, my father was tried and punished.”

“How was the boy killed?” asked Jack.

“Father pushed him from the top of a high tower,” said Daedalus. “And as punishment, he was imprisoned there forever, never again to leave.”

Imprisoned? In a tower? At this, John and Charles exchanged a startled glance, but Bert gave no indication that it was significant, and Jack was too involved in Daedalus’s story to notice.

“And your name?” said Jack.

“I’d been the Healer for the Argonauts, then followed them to the Trojan conflict,” said Daedalus. “I took the name as a way of honoring my father’s memory, and then chose to continue his work as well.”

“And improved upon his designs,” Jack said, “if Laura Glue’s wings are any indication.”

“Thank you,” said Daedalus, smiling. “I’ve had time to get them just so.”

“How did you end up here in the Underneath?” asked John. “Or in the Archipelago at all, for that matter? We’re a long way from Troy.”

“A long way
now
,” replied Daedalus, stirring one of the cauldrons. “But not
then
.

“In those days, the world was more unified. It was easier to travel to all the lands that exist. Many of the places that might be considered mythological by your world’s modern standards actually exist—they just take longer to get to than they once did.”

Daedalus finished tending to his experiments and took a seat alongside the companions, who proceeded to relate to him all that had happened to them since Laura Glue’s arrival in Oxford. The inventor listened attentively, stopping them only briefly now and again to ask a question or clarify a point. And when they had finished, he steepled his fingers under his nose and leaned back heavily.

“I was not here when the children were taken,” he said slowly, “so I cannot speak to the exact circumstances of their abduction. When I returned, Peter was also gone, and those few dozen children who had not been taken filled in bits and pieces, but, as children are wont to do, they did so imprecisely. So I can only speculate.

“As to the message Peter sent, I believe it was meant to tell Jamie—yourselves—who it was who was taking the children.”

“You know?” exclaimed John.

“I can guess,” said Daedalus. “In your world, ‘The Crusade has begun’ might refer to any number of events. But here in the Archipelago, particularly in the older parts, such as the Drowned Lands
or the Underneath, the word ‘Crusade’ has only ever referred to one great journey—the original voyage of Jason and the Argonauts.”

“How does that help us?” asked Jack. “Peter wasn’t referring to that same Crusade, was he?”

Daedalus shook his head. “Doubtful, especially after what you found in the Library of Alexandria. No, I think he was referring to something entirely new.”

The inventor thought for a minute more, then jumped from his chair and strode to one of the bookshelves set against the walls. He scanned the titles, then chose a large volume whose covers were of carved slate. The front was engraved with the Greek letter
alpha
.

Daedalus turned several of the pages, then looked up at the companions.

“Do any of you know the origin of the name ‘Lost Boys’?” he asked.

Bert frowned. “It—it’s never come up. I always assumed it was simply a term of convenience, used for all the children in Barrie’s stories, based on the orphans Peter had taken in.”

John shook his head. “It has to be far older than that. Chamenos Liber, remember? Lost Boys. Perhaps the name came from the islands?”

“No,” said Daedalus. “The islands that guard the Underneath were named because of who came here in the beginning, not the other way around.

“Jason was a great hero, in many ways the archetype for all who followed after. He had a remarkable charisma and a fierce intelligence, and he managed to draw together heroes
with more power, authority, and experience than himself. He traversed the world on extraordinary quests and saw his legend raised to immortality within his own lifetime. And that was his downfall.

“He let it go to his head. He saw himself as invulnerable, invincible. There was nothing that Jason could not do, especially with the support of his Argonauts—the demigod Heracles, the musician Orpheus, even the great Theseus himself among them. And when Jason had achieved his greatest victory and captured the Golden Fleece of Colchis, he destroyed it all by betraying his own wife, Medea, without whom he would have failed.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “after which, according to legend, she slew his sons in revenge.”

“According to
legend
,” said Daedalus, tapping the book, “but not according to
history
. True history, which spun out
here
, in the Underneath.”

Daedalus handed the book to John. “Can you read Ancient Greek?” he asked.

“Well enough,” answered John, taking the book, “as long as it isn’t mixed up with Latin.”

He scanned the page the inventor had indicated, then the next, and the next. “Amazing,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up at Daedalus. “I think I see what you mean.”

“What is it, John?” said Jack.

“According to this book,” explained John, “Medea never killed Jason’s sons, but brought them to these islands in exile. They were left to fend for themselves and became very bitter—they blamed their father for being abandoned here—so they discarded their Greek names and chose new names for themselves.”

“What did they choose?” asked Charles.

“You’ll never believe it,” said John. “They called themselves Hugh the Iron and William the Pig.”

“Those are the men in Bacon’s History!” Jack exclaimed. “The ones who stole the
Red Dragon
!”

“To them, they weren’t stealing,” said Bert, “but reclaiming their birthright.”

“Just so,” said Daedalus. “The sons of Jason and Medea are the original Lost Boys.”

“That must be the right deduction,” Bert said sadly. “William and Hugh must be the ones who have taken the children and caused all the destruction.”

“They would have known the
Red Dragon
was once the
Argo
,” reasoned Charles, “and they did tell Bacon they were claiming their inheritance.”

“They also said to give a message to Peter and Jamie,” said John. “At least William did. So perhaps he believed that only they would be able to understand the clue and help. What can they possibly have been thinking? How could they be on a crusade of vengeance while at the same time be sabotaging their own efforts by trying to do the right thing?”

“That’s adolescents for you,” said Charles.

“Satyagraha,” John murmured.

“It’s the basic conflict between the two halves of men’s souls,” said Jack, “but Charles is right. There’s no way to determine what they were planning.”

“You’d have to put yourselves in their sandals,” said Daedalus. “Imagine yourself to be them. Imagine you have been abandoned,
and you will never grow old—but you will never have anything more, because you are trapped, and all paths to the future are seemingly closed to you. What would you choose? How would you act, if the means for retribution were placed within your grasp?”

“How can I make a determination like that, when I’ll never be faced with the same circumstance?” said John. “I
have
grown old. I
have
begun a family. I can guess what they have endured, but the recollections of my youth will be imperfect. So there’s no way for me to know how I might have chosen, when I’m already on a path I can’t retrace.”

“Ah,” said Daedalus. “But what if you
can
?”

Daedalus led the companions out of his workshop and down a cobbled path between the gabled towers to a brightly lit clearing where Sadie Pepperpot and Laura Glue had their garden.

There were rows of carrots and lettuce, clumsily arranged between clusters of beets, corn, and some leafy vegetables that none of them could readily identify. Laura Glue was excitedly leading Aven around from cluster to cluster and waved happily when she saw the companions approaching.

“Jack! Charles! John!” she called. “You must see my snozzberries! They’re almost ready to harvest!”

“Snozzberries?” Charles said behind his hand.

“Third dessert course,” Daedalus replied.

“Ah. Lovely,” said Charles. “Show us the snozzberries, my dear girl.”

“I’m sorry I left,” said Aven. “I got caught up in a lot of old feelings. It’s a very comforting place for me.”

“No need to apologize,” said Daedalus, “but you should come
with us now. We’re going to the Well.”

The inventor didn’t explain, but walked past the gardens and into a small orchard that stood on a grassy knoll. The children followed, circling the grown-ups like a whirlwind of paper cranes, and took turns interrupting one another in their haste to explain that the orchard was the reason Haven was built.