The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [64]
“Oh, dear,” said Bert. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
“What is it?” John hissed. “What’s wrong?”
“These aren’t just Indians,” Bert said. “We’ve just delivered ourselves into the hands of someone who is supposed to be long dead.”
“An enemy?” asked Jack.
“We’ll find out in a moment,” replied Bert.
The line of curiously costumed Indians parted, and a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a feathered headdress walked toward them. He was not much older than the companions were, but there was a gravity about him that bespoke hard-won experience. The experience of decades, not years.
His brow was thick, and his cheeks were deeply scarred. His complexion was European, but his dress was a collision of Asian and American Indian, save for his boots, which were Dutch colonial. His manner was brusque, yet cultured—a definite enigma, thought John.
“As the official representative of the Imperial Cartological Society, I welcome you to Croatoan Island,” the man said, “and even though you were not invited, you shall remain here as our guests.”
“Thank you,” John said evenly. “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“My name,” the man replied, “is Sir Richard Burton.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Imperial Cartological Society
The man who called himself Burton made a series of quick gestures with his upraised hand, and suddenly the others rushed forward and held the companions fast. There was no mistaking their intent now.
Burton strode confidently to the group of prisoners and examined them one by one. He stopped at Bert, considering.
“I seem to know you,” Burton said. “How would that be?”
“I have one of those faces,” replied Bert.
“No,” Burton said. “I don’t recognize the face. But you smell like a Caretaker of the Imaginarium Geographica.”
Those words sent a chill through each of the companions. This man was indeed their enemy. And he knew more about them than they did about him.
Close up, John was able to take in the strange appearance of their captors. Most of the men were indeed European, and fair-skinned, but several were also darker-hued, from a light reddish-tan to a deep, rich brown.
“Croatoan Island?” Jack whispered to Charles.
“The missing colony, from Roanoke, Virginia,” Charles whispered back. “Sir Walter Raleigh’s expedition.”
“We are the Croatoans. And we are ourselves.”
“Precisely so,” Burton said, wheeling about to face Charles. The man had the hearing of a fox. “To survive the first winter in the New World, they became a part of the local tribe of Algonquin Indians. Then, when the following year proved to be even harsher, the colonists persuaded the Indians to help them build new ships with which they hoped to return to England. That, as you can plainly see,” he concluded, “didn’t happen.”
“So you’re all Indians now?” asked John.
“There are full-blooded English here,” Burton said, “and Dutch. Most are some combination of each. But we are nonetheless a tribe, and we look after our own.
“We are the Croatoans. And we are ourselves.”
Burton instructed his men to tie the companions’ hands together with thick twine, but he allowed Aven and Laura Glue to remain unbound.
“But,” Burton added as a caution, “if either of them tries to flee, shoot the other one.”
Laura Glue gulped and took Aven’s hand.
Burton and his men marched their captives away from the beach and into the woods. The captors formed a ring around the companions, but Burton walked in front—and John noticed, as did the others, that he both kept and carried the Imaginarium Geographica.
They walked at a brisk but bearable pace for almost an hour before finally arriving at their destination. The eerie, cold light above was beginning to fade, to be replaced by the warm glow of firelight from the settlement ahead.
The village of the Croatoans was set in a small valley deep within the pine forest. It was bracketed by tall bluffs on two sides, and a shallow creek ran through it to the south. There were several dozen buildings of simple construction. Wood-and-wattle lodges, mostly