The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [29]
Rose had already guessed her role in this visit. The door was locked, to be opened only by one of the descendants of Arthur— but as had been proven once before, being Arthur’s cousin was authority enough. Rose reached out and opened the door.
It swung into the room on silent hinges, revealing what could only be described as organized clutter. Maps and globes and parchment and books filled the space, making it seem smaller than Quixote’s room some forty doors below. In the center of the cartological maelstrom sat a familiar figure, who was busy at work.
“Oh, drat,” the Cartographer said without looking up from his desk. “Is it already the end of the world again?”
. . . on the edge of the uppermost shelf was a small glass bottle . . .
CHAPTER SIX
The Last Map
Rose entered the room first, followed by Archie, the three Caretakers, and Quixote, who was still trying to take stock of what was going on—as well as when and where, for that matter.
“Hello, Uncle,” Rose said. “You’re looking well.”
“What?” the Cartographer said, tilting his head and peering over the top of his glasses. His expression softened when he saw the girl. “Looking well for my age, you mean,” he went on, putting down his quill and standing to better appraise his visitors. “It feels like a thousand years since I last saw you, child.”
“Nearly that, Uncle,” said Rose as she moved forward and embraced the old man. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned the hug and even kissed the top of her head.
“What do you mean, the end of the world?” John asked, closing the door. “Which world are you talking about?”
The Cartographer sighed. “Your first question is ripe with stupidity, but your second redeems you,” he said with a snort. “To make maps, or assist with annotations, or sign autographs for a badger requires only one or two of you to come see me, but for”— he paused and counted heads— “five of you, plus my niece, to come means some kind of disaster is imminent, and at the rate this tower has been crumbling, my guess is that the world is ending.”
“So when the tower is destroyed, the world will end?” asked Charles.
“My world will, at any rate,” said the Cartographer, “so I don’t really make a distinction.”
“I’ve apologized before,” Charles offered, “but repairing the keep really is something that’s beyond my abilities—or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
The old mapmaker waved his hands dismissively. “I wasn’t chiding you, boy,” he said with a huff. “We’ve all known what the inevitable end would be. But still, it would have been nice if you’d dropped in more often to chat. Brought me some cookies, a comic book or two. A better television would have been nice. You can imagine what the reception is like here in the Archipelago.”
“We’ve come as frequently as we’ve been needed,” John started to protest, “and more often in recent years.”
“More often?” said the Cartographer. “You haven’t been back at all in at least seven years, if not more.”
John glanced around at his companions with a dark expression. Ransom had been correct: Going through a card created in their future had transported them to that future. They were in 1943.
“Don’t be so sour about it,” the Cartographer said, noting the expressions on the Caretakers’ faces. “I’m only having a go at you.”
“It’s not that,” John began. “When Ransom sent us here, he—”
“Ransom sent you?” the Cartographer said in surprise. “Alvin Ransom? I thought he’d gotten himself lost in the Southern Isles along with Arthur Pym.”
“Ah, that would be me,” Quixote said, raising his hand. “And I was not lost—not precisely, in any regard.”
“He sent us here through this,” Charles said, holding up the Trump. “It worked a bit differently than we’d expected it to, but it did work.”
“That’s very interesting,” the Cartographer said, in a way that indicated he was not used to being interested. He folded his hands behind him and paced across the braided carpet. “Ransom . . . he’s Verne’s apprentice