The Indigo King - James A. Owen [6]
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
Hugo clapped them both on the shoulders. “I knew it! Well done, you old scalawags! An excellent joke! Oh, this will be a tale to dine out on! But tell me this: Who is the Cartographer?”
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