The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [5]
John nodded. “Yes. The professors and college tutors don’t have too many occasions to socialize, but I imagine we’ll be coming together sooner or later.”
“How is it that you know Jack, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We, ah, we met during the war,” said John. “The three of us, that is. It was a very unusual circumstance….”
Warnie made a dismissive gesture but smiled knowingly. “Say no more. It’s all clear to me now. The war created brothers in an instant, and made allies of enemies and vice versa. I was wary that he’s asked me to summon colleagues he’s never mentioned to me—but if you served together in the war…I didn’t mean to pry, but brothers should look out for one another, you understand?”
“We do,” said Charles. “That’s why we didn’t hesitate to answer your summons.”
Warnie smiled again. “Good show, good show. Let me take you back to Jack’s study—he’s waiting for you there.”
“You said it was personal matters he wanted to discuss,” John said. “But it wasn’t clear in the telegram you sent what exactly Jack wanted to see us about.”
“He’s stopped writing in his journal—stopped writing altogether, now I think on it,” said Warnie. “Then he stopped reading. That’s when I really began to worry.”
“Why?” asked John.
“He lost a very close friend in the war. And although he was nowhere near at the time, Jack feels he is somehow responsible for the fellow’s death.”
Charles and John each drew a sharp breath. That had to be a factor in why Jack had asked for them. In the battle with the Winter King, he had been responsible for the death of an ally, and it had affected him greatly. But Jack seemed to have reconciled himself to it well before their return to London—or so they had assumed. Apparently they were mistaken.
“How is he sleeping?” John asked.
“He isn’t. Night terrors, I’m afraid,” Warnie said somberly. “They’ve been going on for several days now, and there’s been little I could do to help. The worst was two nights ago. Lots of screaming and thrashing about, and calling out a word over and over—‘Aven.’ I have no idea what it means, and Jack wouldn’t speak of it. It was that next morning he told me to seek out the two of you and ask you to come here.”
He paused at a sturdy door and hesitated before knocking. “I’ll leave the three of you to catch up. I’ll be puttering about in the garden if you need anything.”
As Warnie moved back down the hall, John and Charles opened the door and entered the book-crammed study. Jack—taller, broader, more manlike than the boy they’d known—stood at the window with his back to the door.
“Jack?” Charles ventured. “Jack, we’ve come. It’s Charles and John.”
Jack tilted his head slightly, acknowledging their presence, but he did not turn around. Instead he asked a question.
“Was it real? Did it all really happen, after all?”
It took a moment for them to realize what he was asking.
“Yes,” said John. “If you’re asking what I think you are.”
“So…the Archipelago of Dreams…the Imaginarium Geographica…”
“Yes,” John repeated. “It’s all real.”
Jack turned to look at them, his face inscrutable. “Do you have the atlas with you? Can—can I see it?”
“It’s, ah, it’s in the backseat of the car,” John admitted sheepishly.
“In a lockbox, or a leather bag, I’d assume?”
“No,” said Charles. “It’s protected by a thick layer of lectures on Ancient Icelandic.”
Jack blinked and then snorted. “And they call you the Caretaker Principia. Did you at least mix in a few papers on old Anglo-Saxon? Or are you giving your professorship short shrift too?”
John and Charles stared at their friend for a moment before the somber expressions on their faces were broken by broad, transcendent smiles.
“Of course it happened, my good fellow,” said Charles, clasping Jack by the shoulders. “Our adventure in the Archipelago of Dreams has become the stuff of legend. And you are one of the heroes.”
Jack embraced each of his friends, then stepped back to look at them. “Charles,” he said with a hint of teasing, “you’ve gotten old.”
“Editors don’t grow old,” Charles retorted.