The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [112]
Madoc looked down at the outstretched hand, then turned his back to the companions and strode over to the forge to start breaking it down.
“What if you need to use it for something else?” said Archimedes. “Shouldn’t you leave it be?”
“I won’t use it again,” Madoc said as he continued his dismantling effort. “Once you’ve repaired the sword of Aeneas and Arthur, everything else is just metal.”
It took only a few minutes for Rose, Quixote, Archie, and the professor to ready the Scarlet Dragon for the return voyage home. They wrapped the sword in an oilcloth and secured it under a crossbeam in the prow. Then they went to say good-bye to Madoc.
He had finished dismantling the forge and had strewn the pieces all across the beach. He was standing with his back to them, forty or fifty yards away—far enough that he couldn’t feel them behind him as they prepared to leave, but not so far that the echoing properties of the wall wouldn’t conduct their farewells.
“Thank you, Madoc,” said Archie. “Farewell.”
“I am grateful to you,” said Quixote, “and we shall not forget our promise.”
“I forgive you,” said the professor. “This visit has been far more enjoyable than the last time we met.”
“Good-bye, Madoc,” said Rose. “Good-bye, Father.”
Madoc did not turn around, nor acknowledge that he had heard them.
The four companions boarded the Scarlet Dragon and inflated the balloon. In seconds it was aloft and pointed east.
The Scarlet Dragon flew rather than sailed, because on this trip there was nothing to search for but the horizon. The little ship sped along through the gloom and mist as quickly as they could compel it to go.
It was difficult to estimate time or distance, because there was no real day or night here—it was all varying degrees of light and dark.
Every so often, one of them would glance over at the bundle under the cross-brace, as if to reassure themselves that they had really done it, that the sword was there, and whole. Once Rose offered to unwrap it, but Quixote placed his hands on hers and shook his head.
“It is not a frivolous thing, to be displayed for our amusement or comfort,” he said. “You will know when the time is right, and you will hold it as it is meant to be held.”
“Also,” said Archimedes, “you might drop it over the edge. And that would be a bad, bad thing.”
“We don’t want to spoil the trip now, do we?” said Professor Sigurdsson.
“Professor,” Rose began to ask—but she could not find the words to finish the question. It didn’t matter. He knew what she wanted to know, and his answer was that he refused to turn and look at her.
“Faster,” Rose whispered to the Scarlet Dragon. “We must go faster.”
It was difficult to tell, there in the twilight of the place past the Edge of the World, if the ship was flying any faster because of her prompting, but she felt it was, and that gave her hope.
Their altitude was such that they could not see the waters below, and had no way of knowing if they had passed most or all of the islands. Their only hope was an eastward course—and speed.
The professor fell.
He did not faint, but suddenly his legs would not hold him upright in the boat any longer.
Rose and Quixote knelt next to him and sat him upright. “Are you all right, Professor?” Rose asked. But she could read the answer on his face. He was pale—but not from exertion or anemia. He was beginning to become slightly transparent. Ethereal.
He was starting to fade.
“No, no, no, no,” Rose said, squeezing his hand. “We’re almost there, Professor! You have to hold on!”
He tried to stand, but it was too difficult, and he slumped back down. “Here,” Quixote said, folding the professor’s coat into a pillow. “Lie down a moment. Gather your strength.”
“I fear my strength has all but left me, Don Quixote,” said the professor. “I just wish it wasn’t so dark out here. I suppose it’s all right for the Dragons, but I really prefer the sunshine.”
“Really, Professor?” Rose asked, anxious to keep him talking. “Tell us about it.”