The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [21]
“What are you telling us, Ransom?” Jack asked.
“Instinct counts. Intuition counts. Not everything can be broken down into formulas. There are no equations that can prove that I am in a place where I cannot possibly be. But if I am in that place, then it must be possible—and I think some things can become possible if you just believe that they are.”
“‘Believing is seeing,’” said Charles.
“Yes,” Ransom agreed, handing him the card. “So believe.” He turned to Flannery. “I’m betting you have a secret back door to this place, don’t you?”
“Three, in fact,” the boy replied, pointing at a low door behind the table. “I’ll show you where.”
“Aren’t you going with us?” John asked Ransom, surprised. “You were trying to get to 1943 anyway!”
“My first directive from Verne was to simplify, simplify, simplify,” said Ransom, shaking hands with the three men. “The Trumps aren’t meant for time travel. I need to find out what’s happening here first. I’ll try to join you later—and besides, it may not happen the way we think. Hopefully, you’ll just end up safely at the Keep.”
“I am so filled with confidence at the moment,” said Charles. “What do you plan to do, then?”
“I’ll lead them away. Don’t worry—I’ve dealt with their kind before. I’ll be fine. Just use the Trump as I showed you, and get the girl to safety. And as soon as you are able, you must go to the Nameless Isles.”
A terrible screeching filled the air outside—apparently their pursuers had decided to surround the tree. “No more time to explain!” Ransom urged. “We must go!”
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful . . . ,” John began.
“But I got you into this mess to begin with?” said Ransom. “It’s all right—I understand completely. If all goes to plan, we’ll be meeting again soon, and I’ll try to make it up to you.”
“And just how much of your plan has worked out so far?” asked Charles.
“Forget I said anything,” Ransom suggested, wincing. “Good luck to you all.”
“Thank you, Ransom,” said Jack, gripping the other’s hand once more. “If we can ever repay the favor . . .”
The philologist winked. “Oh, you will,” he said with a chuckle as he ducked into the small doorway Flannery was holding open. “You and I are destined to become great friends, Jack. In one dimension or another, anyway. And Jack,” he called back over his shoulder, “call me Alvin.”
And with that, he clambered into the tunnel and vanished.
Trying to ignore the clamor of the Yoricks outside, Charles held up the Trump and focused his considerable attention on it. And, as before, it started to expand—but this time, as it grew, the image of the Keep of Time began to lighten and fade.
“Uh-oh,” said Jack. “It looks like one of the burned-out slides from the Lanterna Magica.”
John agreed. The frame of the Trump was filling the small storeroom now, and the image was almost completely white. “We may be better off trying to negotiate with Kipling,” he said just as something massively strong struck the side of the tree. “Or not.”
“I’ll go first,” Charles offered, and he stepped through. Jack and Rose were next, followed by John.
“Archie?” said John. “Are you coming?”
“Coming where?” the owl retorted. “There’s nothing there”
Another whump hit the tree. Archimedes hopped off the table and through the portal. The bird sighed. “Oh, very well. It’s obvious you’re afraid to go anywhere without my guidance.”
The sounds of the Yoricks faded as the portal began to shrink, and in moments it had closed completely. The Trump still bore the illustration of the Keep, but that was not where the companions were.
It was an endless expanse of whiteness. There was no distance, no perspective. Just infinite space. Except for the old man.
“Hello,” he said, his voice flat. “Can I help you with something?”
He was slender rather than thin, but hunched with age. He was dressed in a white tunic and cloak, which were embroidered with infinity symbols. His cold eyes were expressionless, and he looked at the companions