The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [49]
“Thus, most of what is in the Geographica that concerns the Underneath was added later, by various Caretakers. Only three traveled there with any frequency—although I know others from your world have made their way to it now and again.”
“Who were the three?” asked Charles.
“Dante Alighieri, of course, and that Frenchman…what’s-his-name, who planned that foolish trip to the moon…”
“You mean Jules Verne?” Bert guessed.
The Cartographer snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. Verne. And the third was that young boy…a whelp. Can’t have been more than twelve, at most. Awfully young for a Caretaker if you ask me, but you lot seldom do anymore.”
“A twelve-year-old Caretaker?” exclaimed John. “That sounds pretty unlikely.”
“That’s what I told him,” said the Cartographer. “But he had the Geographica, after all, so I had to take him at his word. I think his name was ‘Barry’ something.”
Aven went white. “Barrie,” she said, her voice breaking. “His name is James Barrie.”
“What it is, what it is,” said the Cartographer, waving his hands dismissively. “I can’t keep you all straight anymore.”
“How do we get to the Underneath?” asked Jack.
“That’s simple,” replied the Cartographer. “The portal is straight down, through the center of the volcanic cone, and the phrase that opens the passage is inscribed in the Imaginarium Geographica, so accessing and opening the portal should be no problem.”
Reflexively, Jack, Charles, and Bert all looked at John, whose face began to turn several shades of red again.
Aven’s eyes narrowed, and she took an accusatory stance as she realized why John was suddenly so embarrassed.
The Cartographer sighed. “Oh, bosh and bother, bother and bosh,” he said, exasperated. “Now I remember you. Sigurdsson’s student. The soldier who fancied himself a scholar. Misplaced it again, have you?”
John began stammering out an explanation about the Geographica, and Laura Glue’s wings, and his car, and how they did have copies of the atlas that had been transcribed by a badger, which might have the information they need, and had started in on a halfhearted apology when the Cartographer held up his hands.
“No offense, but I don’t care,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t really be more helpful here, and considering that there are four Caretakers present and no Geographica, I’d say the criteria for choosing Caretakers is rather more lax than it used to be.”
“In a fashion, it actually is in the possession of a Caretaker,” reasoned John. “The automobile is just down the street from James Barrie’s house.”
“Is that a defense?” said the Cartographer. “That you left it a world away, near the home of a Caretaker who actually walked away from the job?” He looked at Aven and raised his eyebrows. “Who are these people, the Marx Brothers?”
Aven smiled, resigned. “Anything you can offer us would be helpful,” she said. “Anything at all.”
The Cartographer regarded her carefully. “I remember you, too. You’re the angry one. But not so much anymore, I think. Why is that?”
Aven looked startled by this sudden focus on her. “I—I couldn’t say,” she stammered. “Perhaps I just grew up.”
“Maybe,” said the Cartographer. “I think there’s more to you than most people give you credit for. And I’ll bet my last drachma that you’re not through growing.”
Aven didn’t respond, but simply met and held the mapmaker’s gaze. After a moment, he looked away.
The Cartographer went to his window and looked out at the passing clouds. It was his solitary view, and changed only with the onset of nightfall. When he spoke again, it was more somberly than before.
“I am truly sorry. I cannot be of more help to you. What you need is beyond my means. I can offer only this: What has happened