The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [116]
“Impressive,” Peter commented, scratching himself. “His Histories will make for interesting reading.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s John’s path,” said Bert. “He’s not built to write straight accounts, as Bacon did, or even to really fictionalize his adventures the way Jamie and I have. No, John’s an inventor, pure and simple. It’s what first attracted Stellan’s attention. John has within himself entire realities that he’s going to create and share with the world. And to be honest, I think his legacy is going to eclipse us all.”
“See?” said Peter. “That’s the advantage of having never learned to write. I don’t have to worry about things like legacies.”
“Hah!” Bert said. “This from the great Pan? Your legacy is already carved in stone.” He paused. “Actually,” he added, reconsidering, “it’s in bronze. In Kensington Gardens.”
“Yes,” said Peter. “I’ve seen it. It’s awful. Makes me look like a prat. I told Jamie that if they were going to put up a statue, it should at least be one of the ones that pees on people.”
Bert chuckled. “Like the one in Bruxelles?”
“Who, Christoph?” said Peter. “He isn’t a statue. At least he didn’t start out as one. He was one of the first Lost Boys, who learned a valuable lesson from Medea.
“Don’t piss on a witch’s front door.”
On Haven, with a sense of responsibility and no small regret, the Caretakers claimed the Histories that had for so long been part of Daedalus’s collection in his workshop.
“He did do a lot of good things over the centuries,” said Peter as he passed through to check on their progress. “If nothing else, try to think well of him for that.”
“He’s a very forgiving sort, isn’t he?” said Charles. “I don’t know that I could have felt the same way about someone who’d betrayed me so greatly, if I were in his position.”
“I think I understand why,” John said. “I’ve been reading in the other Histories, and I’ve come across a story that explains a great deal about the Pan. You both know the story, and quite well. We just never knew the full extent of it until now.
“There was an old tale, about a European village that was overrun with rats. The village elders held a meeting to decide what to do, and a stranger stood up and declared that he could lead the rats away to the river to be drowned by playing a tune on his magic pipes. The town agreed to pay whatever price he named if he could indeed do this thing, and so that very night, he did.
“He told the villagers to shut their doors and windows tightly, and to stuff rags in the cracks and crevices so that they could not hear the tune he played. And sometime in the night he performed his task, for when they awoke the next morning, all the rats were gone.”
“I know this tale,” said Charles. “The Pied Piper of Hamelin. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm wrote the story in one of their books. As it went, Hamelin refused to pay the Piper’s fee, and so the next night he played a tune that entranced the children in the same way he did the rats. But instead of leading them to the river to drown, he led them to the sheer face of a mountain, which split open to receive them, and they were never seen again.”
“Jacob learned of it from travelers in the Archipelago of Dreams,” said Bert, “although I’m certain he never came here to the Underneath, or else he’d have learned the truth of it.”
“The children were seen again,” John continued, “just not in Europe. They were brought here, to the Underneath, where they were sorted out by Mordred posing as the Piper.”
“The Time Storm,” said Bert. “He was using the openings in time caused by the crumbling Keep to cross back and forth in history and recruit his ‘soldiers.’”
“Wasn’t there one child who was unable to follow?” put in Jack. “One who was lame, and couldn’t reach the opening in the mountain quickly enough?”
“Exactly so,” said John. “That boy, who had a crippled