The Search for the Red Dragon (19 page)

“This is Raleigh’s Orchard,” said Laura Glue. “It was planted when the Indian colony first came here to the Underneath….”

“But there was an argument with the people on some of the other islands,” added Sadie Pepperpot.

“And so the Indians moved to the other island,” said Fred the Goat, “and we been at war with them ever since.”

“The apples look very robust,” Charles noted, tracing one of the heavy fruits with a finger. “Do you mind if we have a few?”

“The apples are for
everyone
,” replied Laura Glue. “Friend and enemy alike. But you must never,
ever
, eat the seeds.”

“What happens if you eat the seeds?” asked Jack.

Pelvis Parsley pointed up at the tree directly adjacent to them, and the companions realized that the apple tree…

…had a
face
.

Looking more closely, they could make out the shape of a human torso, and arms that had grown into branches. And it seemed as if the tree was observing them
back
.

“He’s called Johnny Appletree,” said Laura Glue. “A long time ago, he traveled across distant lands planting seeds, and apple orchards sprang up wherever he went. Then he got on a ship going to Angle Land, but it never arrived. Instead it came here—and he found out that apples are apples everywhere, but in the Nether Land, you mustn’t ever eat the seeds.”

“If it’s all the same,” said Charles, “I think I’d like apples from a different tree. It feels a little too much like taking someone’s ear to eat fruit from a tree with a name.”

“Why was there war with the Indians over the orchard?” John asked. “Couldn’t they plant trees of their own on Croatoan Island?”

“They didn’t go to war over the apples,” said Daedalus. “They went to war over Echo’s Well.”

The children led the companions down the hill from Johnny Appletree to a pile of stones that sat in a circle of grass.

They gathered around the stones, which were stacked several feet above their heads, and John realized that the stones forming the base were not actually stacked, but rose up out of the earth itself.

On one side was a broad opening, which dropped away into a deep hole.

“A well,” John observed.

“Echo’s Well,” said Daedalus. “Look into it, but do not speak.”

Hesitantly, John leaned over the opening and peered down. There in the darkness about a dozen feet below, a perfect reflection looked back at him. He leaned back and stepped aside so Jack and Charles could do the same—and he noted that Bert made no move toward the well at all, even for a peek.

“It is an old magic, from a time when magic was new, science was old, and vanity was all,” Daedalus said, in a manner that was exceedingly reverent. “When the proper words are spoken into the well, it may allow you to become what you truly desire to be.

“If it is your wish to never age, you need merely speak into the
well, and youth is restored. If it is your wish to become something other than what you believe yourself to be, then you may still get your wish—but may be no happier for it.

“So,” Daedalus concluded, “this is your choice. To achieve your objectives at this critical time, to save those you have come here to save, you have to understand those who have come before. And to do that, you must
become
those whom you have been before. You must become boys who never grew up.”

“Does it really work?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” said Aven, “it does. I’ve done it myself.”

“Yes, you have, Poppy,” Daedalus confirmed. “Are you asking to do so once more?”

Aven paused, then reluctantly shook her head. “I…can’t. I must admit, I’m tempted, but I think when we find my son, it needs to be his mother he sees, not another child.”

“And you, Far Traveler?” Daedalus said to Bert.

Surprisingly, Bert not only declined, but took a step backward, away from the Well’s opening.

“I don’t know,” John replied, noting Bert’s reaction. “This has gone far afield of what I was willing to do.”

“But think, John,” said Jack. “Understanding William and Hugh’s choices, and how Peter interpreted their actions, may be the key to everything going on. How can we decline, if this is the only way?”

“I’ll do it,” Charles declared, to the others’ surprise. “I don’t think I’d mind spending a little time as a child again. Just for the energy, mind you.”

Bert shifted his eyes to look at Daedalus, but the latter took no notice. His attention was completely focused on the three
young Caretakers.

Charles began to move closer, then halted. He took another step forward—and then two steps back.

“I—I don’t think I can do this, after all,” he said. “To be completely forthright about it, I’m a bit worried that what I’ll become isn’t what any of us expect.”

“That’s the talk of a lunatic,” Jack exclaimed. “You are who you are. What else could you be?”

“I…I’m not really an Oxford man,” Charles confessed. His level of distress at admitting this was evident by the nervous tapping of his fingers against his belt. “Not by any legitimate reckoning, that is.”

Jack laughed. “That’s nonsense, Charles. Of course you’re an Oxford man. What are you playing at?”

Charles let out a sigh and sat down on a stump a few paces away from the Well. “I’m afraid all the playacting was done before…and when I thought better of it, it was too late.”

“But when we met in London those years ago, you said you
were
from Oxford,” protested John.

“No,” Charles replied. “I said I was employed at the Oxford University
Press
, and that fool inspector Clowes made the mistake of thinking that meant I was at Oxford University. And considering we were being questioned about a murder, I wasn’t of a mind to correct him.

“Actually,” Charles continued ruefully, “I attended University College in London for a few years, and that’s it and that’s all. I’ve been to Oxford a number of times, certainly, enough to know the schools and the city. But a lot of common people—like the inspector—are oblivious to the difference between the press and
the university. So I don’t often clarify it for them.”

“But then why not tell us afterward?” asked Jack.

“Because the both of you were Oxford men,” admitted Charles. “And face it, Jack—I’m older than both of you. More so now than then, it seems. I’m a good writer, I think…but my true skills lie in editing and publishing. And I could tell very quickly the caliber of men you both promised to be. And…and I wanted you to respect me, Jack.”

“Charles,” said John. “I think you’ve already earned our respect, a long time ago. Really—don’t give it another thought.”

“There’s just one thing,” Charles added. “Please don’t tell Tummeler.”

Jack and John both grinned and clapped their friend on the back. “Don’t worry,” said Jack. “I don’t believe Tummeler will ever think any less of you, as long as you don’t take up a post at Cambridge, that is.”

“So,” said Daedalus. “You have made your choice.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Charles. “It’s just not for me.”

The inventor turned to John. “And you, Caveo Principia? Will you speak into Echo’s Well?”

John shook his head. “One day, perhaps, I might feel the need to recapture my childhood. But today is not that day. Thank you, no.”

Daedalus laughed. “The Well does not steal the years from you. Can you ever recall a time where your faculties were not fully engaged, where every experience of your life did not form a chain with all of the rest? This is merely another link in the chain—but it is a link forged long ago, and it will shape your current perceptions accordingly.

“You will remain yourself, however you appear to us.”

“I’ll do it.”

It was Jack who had spoken.

“It makes sense. I’m the least encumbered of any of us. I have neither a spouse nor children. If something goes awry, at worst I’ll have to wait out a few years to retake the exams at Oxford. I can do this.”

Daedalus bowed and stepped back from the Well.

Jack stepped forward, then leaned in and looked down.

There was no source of light in Echo’s Well, but like the sky of the Underneath, it glowed faintly with warmth. There was water not far below the rim, and Jack could see a reflection on the surface. It was his face—but it wasn’t his reflection.

It was an image he hadn’t seen in decades. It was himself, when he was a child. And so he said the only thing that made sense.

“Hello, Jacks. It’s good to see you.”

John and Charles gasped in surprise as their friend began to shift and change while they watched.

Jack was still there; he hadn’t moved. But there was less of him. It was as if the winds of childhood had swirled around him and drawn off some of his substance.

His face was Jack’s face, but the north wind took away the leanness and sharp angles, leaving new, softer geometries in its wake.

His body was still Jack’s body, but the south wind had taken length, and breadth.

His hands were still Jack’s hands, but the east wind made them smaller and more eager, as they once had been.

His voice was still Jack’s voice, but the west wind took his words and transformed them into memories, and when he spoke, John and Charles felt a shiver pass through them and felt younger themselves for having heard him:

They cared about running…they cared about climbing apple trees…

The old man’s face
was ashen. His captor had not returned to the cave, nor had the children who were dressed in the animal skins. He hadn’t been tortured or beaten—again, anyway—but nevertheless, he was dying.

To live, a man must have food, water, air, and shelter. Everyone knew that. But not everyone knew—or if they knew, believed—that it was also necessary to have spirit.

One’s spirit can be gone for a time, to no ill effect. And it was possible for a man to reject his own spirit, although the ties are never completely broken. But if a spirit leaves of its own accord, then the man it belongs to is weakened. And the old man’s spirit had already been gone for too long.

“It’s no use,” the woman in the mirror said. “No one is coming.”

“Have faith, Medea,” the old man pleaded. “It isn’t over till it’s over.”

The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes. “Child’s logic, Peter.”

“That’s the best kind,” he replied weakly. “It allows you to believe what you need to believe despite all evidence to the contrary. Children do that all the time, and it works more often than you’d think.”

“Not often enough, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

He chuckled. “Thus speaks the cynicism of adulthood. And you wonder why I gave it all up.”

“Oh yes,” she said, mocking. “That explains your gray hair.”

“No,” the old man replied. “I just finally found my balance. I have the advantages of being a Longbeard, but I didn’t have to give up my child’s point of view. That’s what allows me to have hope.”

The reflection in the mirror scoffed. “Your child’s logic sounds a lot like faith to me.”

At that he smiled. “Sure. What’s the difference?”

“A belief in things not seen makes no sense, Peter.”

“And yet,” he replied, “a man with no shadow and a woman who exists only as a reflection in a mirror are being held captive by a creature who exists mostly as a disembodied voice. I wouldn’t have believed in any of that, either. But it’s happened.”

“If you’d behaved more like an adult instead of living as a child, perhaps it wouldn’t have, Peter. If you’d acted more like a father—”

“That’s the only father I knew,” said the old man, indicating the head in the back of the cave, “and while his example was imperfect, he was here when I needed him to be, and he gave me the knowledge I needed to survive. And he never left me alone, Medea. Can you say the same about your own children?”

But there was no reply. The mirror had already gone dark, and the cave lapsed into silence once more.

The only problem, John surmised, with depending on the judgment of a child to decide a course of action that would determine the fate of two worlds was that children, as a general rule, didn’t care about the fate of the world.

They cared about running, as fast as they could run; they cared about climbing apple trees; they cared about telling terrible jokes, and laughing anyway. They cared about being children. Which was as it should be—except when, as John kept trying to point out, the fate of two worlds actually did depend on the judgment of a child. All of which he would have explained to Jack, if he could just manage to talk the professor-turned-boy down from Johnny Appletree.

“You are a teacher, aren’t you, John?” said Charles. “Don’t you have experience talking to children?”

“I teach college, not finishing school,” said John. “Anyway, we’ve both got children, haven’t we? This shouldn’t be quite so hard.”

Daedalus laughed. “I never said it would be easy.”

John turned to Aven. “You have a son. Can’t you get Jack to focus for five minutes so we can sort this out?”

“It’s been some time since I could talk to my son as a mother talks to a child,” said Aven.

“Why is that?” asked John.

“It happened very early on,” Aven explained. “My boy decided he was a man who would one day be king, and therefore should do away with foolishness like a mother’s coddling. He was five, I believe. He wouldn’t let me kiss him anymore either. He didn’t think it was appropriate to display affection in front of ‘his people.’ Of course, ‘his people’ usually just consisted of his playmates at Paralon, his tutors, and Tummeler. But he’d made his point.”

Jack dropped out of the tree and landed clumsily next to Charles, who jumped in surprise.

“This will take some getting used to,” said Charles.

“Why?” asked Jack. “I’m still your Jack, Jacksie, Jack-Jack. I’m still myself. I can still think, and reason, and remember—dear God, how I can remember!”

John grinned wryly. His friend had the energy of a ten-year-old, that was certain. Less certain was whether that viewpoint, both new and familiar at once, could give them the knowledge they sought.

“Tell us, Jacks,” said Daedalus, “if you were Hugh and William, and you had been left here in the Underneath by your parents, what would you do?”

Jack pondered the question a moment. “I think I would build a tree fort.” He leaned over to Aven and whispered behind his hand, “There are Indians about, you know.”

“After the tree fort,” prompted Daedalus.

“I’d look for food and potable water…,” said Jack.

“An adult’s answer,” said John.

“Then I’d probably have a pee,” finished Jack.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Charles.

“Then what?” asked Daedalus.

“I’d have a good think,” said Jack, “and I’d probably wonder why it is that adults make children do things they don’t want to do.”

“Maybe it’s because adults know what’s best for them,” Charles suggested.

“That’s good for the boilerplate,” said Jack, “but too often adults do whatever they want to do, regardless of what the children want or need, and the adults never pay attention anyway, so why bother?”

Aven scowled at this but remained quiet. John and Charles looked at each other, unsure of what to ask next. Jack pretended to put an apple seed in his mouth—much to Daedalus’s dismay—then, grinning, dropped it.

“What are you all so worried about?” said young Jack. “We should play a game. Do you know any games? I bet you do.”

“Jack, really,” Charles said, exasperated. “There are very important matters to discuss.”

“I thought so too,” said Jack, “but I now realize I was wrong. There’s nothing as important as having fun.”

“There are many things more important than having fun!” retorted John. “We have to rescue the missing children! We have to find out what’s become of the Dragonships! There are many, many things that need to be put right!”

“Well,” said Jack, who had climbed back into Johnny Appletree and was hanging from his knees, upside down, “isn’t that what adults are supposed to do?”

“He has a good point,” Bert put in mildly. “Are you starting to see the pattern?”

“Adults don’t pay attention to what children say,” John said, crestfallen. “And here we are, underscoring the point.”

“Jack…I say, Jack,” Charles began, walking around the tree. “Will you come down from there, so we can discuss this properly?”

Jack stuck his fingers in his ears. “Lalalalala!” he cried. “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!”

Charles scratched his head. “We’re never going to get through to him if he can’t even hear what we’re saying.”

John snapped his fingers. “That’s it, Charles! That’s the ticket!”

The Caretaker Principia turned to Daedalus. “When Laura Glue came to us in Oxford, she told us Peter had sealed her ears with beeswax. Why would he have done that?”

“It’s an old trick of Peter’s,” Daedalus said, “that goes back to the origins of Haven itself. It’s to prevent…”

He paused and put his hand to his chin, thinking. “It’s to prevent one from being swayed by the persuasion of the panpipes,” Daedalus said finally. “But why would Peter have put beeswax in his own granddaughter’s ears? She wasn’t at risk from him.”

“What do you mean by ‘persuasion’?” asked John.

Daedalus folded his hands behind his back and bowed his head. “It is something inexorably intertwined with the history of the
Argo
, the Lost Boys, and finally, with Peter himself,” he said. “The pipes of Pan have always had the ability to influence, to persuade, and to enchant. But of all who have heard its charms, the only ones who cannot resist…

“…are the
children
.”

“It began with the old gods,” Daedalus continued. “The Romantics civilized the stories and retroactively remodeled our images of what they were meant to symbolize. They were not toga-draped Caesars and Cleopatras; they were raw. Primal. And the one who most embodied that, who arose from Mother Earth herself, wrapped in root and loam, and who never truly scraped off the soil of his birth, was Pan.

“His exploits and mischief are literally the stuff of legends, but the most famous story of Pan involves the origin of his trademark panpipes,” said Daedalus. “There was a beautiful nymph named Syrinx who was beloved by all the other dwellers in the wood, but
she scorned them all. She believed they were lesser creatures than she, and as such were beneath her notice.

“One day, as she was returning from the hunt, Pan saw her through the trees of his wildwood, and he became enamored of her. She rejected his advances and ran away. He shouted words praising her grace and beauty, but she didn’t stop to hear his compliments, and quickened her pace. He followed, continuing to pursue her until she came to the bank of a river. There he overtook her, and she had only enough time to call out to her kin, the water nymphs, for help.

“Just as the Pan laid his hands upon her, the nymphs turned her into river reeds, which infuriated the god. He stormed to and fro across the banks of the river, shouting his fury, when a slight, plaintive melody caught his attention.

“It was the reeds that had once been Syrinx. When the air blew through them, it produced music, and the sound was very pleasing to him. So the god took some of the reeds to make an instrument that he called a syrinx—the panpipes—in honor of the nymph he had pursued and lost.

“But Pan was not yet finished with the nymphs. One of those who had protected Syrinx was a graceful dancer who had a sweet, trilling voice. Her name was Echo.”

“Like the Well,” said Charles.

“Not like the Well,” corrected Daedalus. “Echo
is
the Well—or at least, she is the water within.

“Like her cousin, Echo scorned the love of any man. This angered Pan even more, to have been turned away twice by those who were not respectful of his birthright as a god. In revenge, he instructed his followers to kill her.

“Echo was torn to pieces and spread all over the Earth, and all that was left was her voice. As punishment for what he had done, the gods, led by the goddess of the earth, Gaia, remade the nymph as an elemental and allowed her to exist as a pool of living waters. They also granted Echo the ability to reflect back the words spoken to her, and to give the speaker his heart’s desire.

“The gods then took from Pan the one object he treasured most—the pipes he had made from the nymph Syrinx. And they gave them to a mortal who had been called on a great quest by the hero Jason.

“They gave the pipes to
Orpheus
.”

“How did the pipes make their way from Orpheus to Peter?” Bert asked. “That implies that there are more connections to the time of Jason’s Crusade than just the name of the islands.”

“Correct,” said Daedalus. “Under Orpheus, ‘the Pan’ became a title in and of itself. A designation of office, of a sort. Orpheus was the first ‘Pan’ to use the panpipes, and although he was skilled with the lyre, it was possession of a divine instrument that time and again saved the Argonauts.

“After Jason’s betrayal of Medea, the Argonauts scattered to the corners of the Earth. Heracles was already gone, as was Theseus. Argos, the builder of the ship, was dead. And the others went on to lead their lives free of Jason’s corrupted legacy. But of them all, only Orpheus maintained a relationship with Medea. He was a kind of uncle to her sons, and secretly helped her when she told him of her plan to hide them away from their father.

“What he didn’t realize was that she intended to abandon them here. She never left them wholly ungoverned—she built a
home for herself on a nearby island—but she seldom visited them, for fear that Jason might discover they still lived.”

“What a wench,” said Charles.

“More like a witch,” said John.

“Well spoken, John,” said Bert.

“She
was
a witch,” Daedalus agreed, “in action as well as name. She enchanted the dragons that had guarded the Golden Fleece, and defeated the bronze giant Talos when he attacked the
Argo
. If she had not been a witch, the Argonauts would have perished many times over. She knew this, and it was at the root of her hatred for Jason’s betrayal.”

“Those poor boys,” said Aven, who had been quietly absorbing all that was said. “To revenge herself against their father, she condemned them to a fate worse than death. A lifetime of loneliness.”

“That’s what Orpheus thought too,” said Daedalus. “He pleaded with Medea to take them elsewhere, but she would not be swayed, and she was far too powerful for him to go against her will. And so, Orpheus chose a different route. He began seeking out playmates for the boys who could be brought here, to the Underneath.”