The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [39]
“You recognize the ship?” asked Jack. “It sounds just like one of the Dragonships, but not one I remember.”
“That ship,” Bert exclaimed, “is the Red Dragon!”
“There’s more,” said John, who was still focused on the text. “Bacon cried out to them, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sound of his voice cleared away the mist that had settled over their minds.
“‘We have claimed our inheritance,’ Hugh replied to Bacon. ‘Tell our father that, and this also: that we will pursue our own Crusade, as he did before us, and ours will be mighty, and rend this world from Heaven to Hades.’”
“That’s our myth!” said Charles. “We—”
“There is more!” John exclaimed, standing and shaking his head from side to side. “But this can’t be right.”
He held the book closer to the lamp, then examined both sides of the paper. The dust on it was clotted, and well-absorbed into the paper. The book had not been opened in many centuries.
“It has to be a forgery,” John whispered, to no one in particular. “There’s no other explanation for this.”
He turned back to the others, his disbelief almost tangible. “The last entry,” John said slowly. “Hugh and William guided the boat back into the sea, then, as Bacon watched, they sailed it straight toward a great stone bluff, whose face split open to receive the ship.
“As it passed through, the ethereal whistling in the air became stronger, and Hugh’s countenance grew cloudy again. But William turned and looked at Bacon with tear-brimmed eyes, and called out to him:
“‘Tell Peter and Jamie I call Olly Olly Oxen-Free,’ William said. And then the stone portal slammed closed, leaving not even a seam in the rock.”
“‘Tell Peter and Jamie,’” John repeated, almost choking on the words. “That’s what William the Pig said. I think he was trying to pass a message to James Barrie and Peter Pan, by giving it to Roger Bacon seven hundred years ago.”
PART THREE
The Search for the Red Dragon
“She’s out of your reach, and that’s all that matters.”
CHAPTER NINE
Shadows in Flight
The fire popped and crackled as the chill of evening began to deepen throughout the cave.
The old man lifted his head and looked at the cave walls, which were covered with paintings. Most of the pictures were of animals, but several were of men, or creatures that resembled men. It was hard to tell.
Some of the images were ancient. Others were much more recent, and still glistened, wet, in the firelight. Those immediately opposite where the old man was sitting were so fresh that the paint dripped into a pool that had formed at his feet. There, the paint mingled with the blood that was streaming its way down his calves, and he realized with a sudden clarity that his blood and the paint on the walls were practically indistinguishable.
The cave was spartan in its decor. Other than the construct holding the old man, there were few furnishings: a couple of chairs, a great mirror with an ornate silver frame, and a battered old wardrobe covered in chains that were fastened with dozens of padlocks.
Nearer the back was something resembling an altar, and on it was a human head draped with a scarlet cloth. This didn’t bother the old man, who had seen many heads in his time. What rattled him was the fact that he had heard his captor talking to it before it had been placed in the cave.
A clicking and popping noise—the sounds of thousands of insects scuttling across the granite floor—told him that his captor had returned and was approaching the mouth of the cave. The old man’s arms tensed against the leather thongs that tied him to the frame. It was normally used for skinning animals, but it served its current purpose just as well.
The clicking noises subsided, and a sallow voice echoed throughout the small cavern.
“Where did you send her?” his captor asked, as he had the night before, and the night before that, but more insistent this time. “I must know. It is in your best interests that I know.”
“She’s out of your reach, and