The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [31]
“Why couldn’t they?” John asked.
“Because the islands themselves are alive,” came the response, “or at least as close to living creatures as large masses of stone are likely to get. They have a form of consciousness, and they have will. They are constantly on the move, so they can never be found in the same way twice. A map on paper or parchment would be useless.”
John grimaced. “How can we find them if they’re always moving?”
Archimedes let out a snort and sidled over to the Cartographer. “He really doesn’t listen well, does he?”
“It’s been a constant problem,” the Cartographer admitted. “I told you the maps could not be included in the Imaginarium Geographica” he said to John, “not that the islands couldn’t be mapped at all.
“Finding the route to a living island that is constantly moving,” the Cartographer went on, “requires a living map that may constantly change—and so every map I have ever drawn for the Nameless Isles has been drawn on the seekers themselves.”
“You’re going to draw the maps on us?” Jack exclaimed.
“Not all of you,” the Cartographer said in exasperation. “I do have other deadlines to meet, you know, and drawing one on each of you would take all day and then some. No, just one of you will do. So,” he finished, rubbing his hands together, “whose strong back shall we transform into a map?”
John’s face took on a dour expression, and Jack stammered a moment, trying to decide what to say. In his younger days, he would have been the first to volunteer, but age and seasoning had made him much less rash. Still, one of them was going to have to do it if they were to make any progress at all.
Quixote suddenly stepped forward and removed his helmet as he dropped to one knee. “If I may serve yet again in this humble way,” he said in his high baritone, “then I shall offer myself as the canvas for your quill.”
The Cartographer looked startled for a moment, then made a clucking sound with his tongue and helped the knight to his feet.
“Your self-sacrificing gesture is appreciated, and your honor and nobility are without question,” the old mapmaker said, “but to be most frank, while your spirit is willing, your flesh is wrinkled. I could do it, no question, but it would be akin to projecting a movie reel onto a shar-pei.”
“Uncle Merlin,” Rose began as the others comforted the crestfallen Quixote, “I would be willing—”
“Absolutely not,” he replied, holding his hands up defiantly.” For all I know you’ve already got a tattoo or three, and I’m not going to be accused of adding to your delinquency. Also, you’re still quite small, and an island is likely to slide off your back altogether.
“No,” he said with finality, “If it’s to be any of you, it must be one of the Caretakers three.”
“We could draw straws,” Jack began, when Charles let out a loud noise of exasperation.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said as he began pulling off his shirt. “I’ll do it, but when my wife starts asking prickly questions, I’m deferring to you fellows.”
The Cartographer instructed Charles to lean himself over the drafting table to allow as even a working surface as possible. It was set low to the floor, so Charles’s legs dangled at an awkward angle until his companions propped them up with pillows.
“Uncle Charles,” Rose said, hiding a giggle, “you look like a bear rug, stretched out to dry.”
“More like a bare rug,” said John. “The press doesn’t let you out to get much sun, does it, old fellow?”
“Do you want to trade places?” Charles shot back.
“Looking good,” John said quickly. “Carry on.”
The Cartographer rummaged around in the overladen shelves in the back corner of the room, muttering to himself, until he finally emerged with a long, gleaming black quill and a stoppered bottle of ink.
“The quill is made from the tail feather of one of Odin’s ravens,” he explained as he took his seat behind Charles. “Hugin . . . or maybe it was Munin. I forget. It doesn’t matter, anyway. What makes this process work