The Cartographer

Senior Cartographer Peregrin Penhaligon, Third Atlas Chair of the Consortium for Anomalous Realms and Territories, ducked his bushy head closer to the huge book on his desk, waving a tired arm in the air in an attempt to shoo off the flock of golden birds swooping down toward him. Melodious chirping filled the air, mixing with the sound of flapping wings. Not an unpleasant sound. He didn’t really mind the Shimmering Sparrows too much; they were pretty to look at, the chirping was delightful, but on the other hand, this was the fourth time this week. And like all birds they tended to…

He quickly turned to the first page of his tome – a detailed map of his office – and reached for a fresh quill and the indigo ink. The one needed to induce change.

A glance up revealed the small breach. Pretty bluish-white sparkles forming a crack just inches off the wall, near the portrait of the founder of CART. More birds were pouring through, the chirping louder and more excited by the second as they headed for a spot in the rafters or on top of a bookshelf. A predator attack in their homeworld?

Another glance confirmed that the rift was small enough not to let anything majorly threatening get through. Probably. He wasn’t well-versed in the wildlife of worlds he wasn’t specifically assigned to. Had the critters somehow learned to open portals themselves to get to safety? It was possible. If his years in CART had taught him anything, it was that impossibilities were, well… impossible.

But, first things first, before the excited birds started unloading. Dipping the tip of the quill in the ink, he drew a small circle on the map, on the floor under the majority of the birds. Added the rune. Just in time too.

He chuckled contentedly as the first dropping fell, landing not on his stone floor, but on the much rougher floor of a cave, several thousand years ago. Some younger scribe didn’t know just how lucky he was, not having to clean up the mess. Being one of the Elder Chairs did come with some perks after all, and ordering the young ones around was one of them.

He turned another page in his tome, squinting down at the map on it. Failing eyesight, on the other hand, was one of the anti-perks, but there were ways around that after all. Placing his precious square glasses on his hawklike nose, he muttered the words to turn the map alive. Magnify it. The glade in question seemed to be doing fine, fairies remaining in the tree they were assigned, the ring of black stones surrounding it keeping them safe from the nearby human settlements – and vice versa.

Satisfied, he stamped a sign of approval on the appropriate form and moved it to the ‘already-checked’ pile. It was already taller than the ‘to-be-approved’ pile, which wasn’t bad at all, given it wasn’t even midday yet. Perhaps he should check in with Ol’ Ember as well. He wasn’t scheduled to do so for another week or so, but performing extra tasks wasn’t frowned upon. Not encouraged, either, but Ember was the first anomaly Perrin had encountered. The one setting him on the path of transforming from a young, rather silly youngling to a venerable scholar keeping the reins of reality in as tight reins as said reality allowed.

You weren’t born a tome-bearer; you stumbled upon an anomaly in your world and were forcefully dragged into service. ‘Here you go, lad, here’s an empty giant book. Travel the world, note down any oddities and anomalies you see. You will be the anchor to keep them in their place. Now shoo!”

To this day, nobody knows what came first: the anomalies or the tome-bearers who witnessed them. As with most things, there were several schools of thought on the matter.

Would the anomalies keep happening if there were no future tome-bearers to witness them? Nobody knew, but it still provided heated discussions during tea time. But as nobody was keen on erasing the academy, including themselves, to prove their point, the issue remained theoretical, allowing things to progress as normal.

Normal…? As if anyone here understood the meaning of the word.

He waved a hand to deflect a young Shimmering Sparrow who was taking a much too keen interest in his hair, and found the page for Shady Mountain, Ember’s residence for many decades. A massive yellow and gray slab of a mountain, covered with patches of green, towering over a lush valley where a fair-sized village and several farmsteads appeared to be thriving. Bustling in fact. Suspiciously so.

Perrin drew the magnifying rune across the village and frowned. The village market square was filled with metal-clad young men, brandishing spears and pitchforks. Theirs was a peaceful farming area; surely, there was no need for any military displays.

This was… odd to say the least.

A tome doesn’t simply act as a record of reality. It enforces it, encourages it to stay… real. Big discrepancies like this were not unheard of, but still worrisome. One could never know what would lead to a troublesome tear through several realities if one weren’t vigilant.

He leaned closer to get a better look when there was a knock on his door. Before he had a chance to say something, it opened, and a portly figure in an orange robe took a hesitant half-step inside. Round, reddish face, a wad of curly brown hair… It took a few moments for Perrin to place him. One of the third years… someone who should be out roaming the worlds instead of bothering their elders here in the castle… What was his name again…? Portley… Stoney… no… Boulder, yes, that was it.

Boulder took another step inside, smiling as if he had a right to be there.

“Oi, Perrin. Just wanted to tell you…”

Snotty overfamiliar little bugger. Showing proper respect wouldn’t hurt him, would it?

Perrin cleared his throat meaningfully, raising an eyebrow.

“Sir Peregrin, I mean…”

Much better.

“So, as I was saying…” Boulder paused, one chubby hand shadowing his eyes as he peered toward the coiline, distracted. “Golden little buggers are back, are they? They seem to have taken a liking to your room.”

“They have. They’re an inconvenience for sure, but they usually see themselves out.”

Honestly, the birds had more manners than some tome-bearers he could name. He fixed his eyes on his guest.

“Just you wait. Soon they’ll be nesting permanently up there.” Boulder nodded seriously, then laughed, a hand going to his moving belly. “Could be worse though. As far as uninvited lodgers go, they’re not so bad. You remember when that family of gnarly bears hibernated in the library? Now they were a handful.”

As if that family of bears was the worst they’ve seen? Well, Boulder was young. Or, young-ish. Inexperienced. Unadventurous. Preferring to spend his time here. His tome couldn’t be more than a couple of inches thick.

Perrin patted his own tome, thick enough that he could barely grip around the edges when it’s closed. And his hands were big, matching his tall, gangly stature. Long fingers, slightly wrinkled from age and the dryness of parchment. Indicators of a job well done.

Youth these days. Soft around the edges in every way. As far as he was concerned, grumpy giant bears were a mere inconvenience. One among the many that represented normality around here. He even had fond memories of them.

“Cubs were cute. Very playful.” All they wanted was a warm fire, some soft rugs to sleep on, and sturdy armchairs to rip apart when growing teeth were itching and sore. Not unreasonable at all. He fixed one of his best stares on Boulder. “But, we’re getting distracted. You had an announcement?”

Confusion flickered across Boulder’s face, then he smacked his forehead, nodding. Not only was the younger generation soft, but they also had no memory to speak of. Perrin tsked impatiently, waiting for his guest to catch up to his own thoughts.

“Right. Just wanted to warn you not to go to the refectory for lunch today.”

“Oh.” Darnation. Of all the inconveniences, the ones affecting the kitchen were the most annoying. He was honest enough to admit that with advancing age, he’d grown to expect and enjoy the worldly comforts, especially the culinary ones. Say what you want about the castle – and he often did – but the chefs were a talented bunch. Add the fact that they had an unlimited supply of exotic ingredients, and the results were more often than not deliciously brilliant. As long as the anomalies kept their fluttering portals out of it, that was.

He took a deep breath, expecting the worst. “What is it this time. I must admit I’ve been looking forward to a nice hot meal. And a cuppa to go with the pudding after.”

“Unless you’re in the mood for seafood, I’d stay away for the time being.”

“Seafood?” Boulder really needed to grow a beard so he could learn to speak out of it. Perrin proudly stroked his own long and impressive one; a distinguished silver tone had begun to win the battle over the original black, adding to his image.

“The refectory is flooded. Completely. And a pack of large, aggressive octopuses has claimed the kitchen. They’re efficiently emptying the pantries.”

“Octopodes.”

“Huh?”

“Octopodes. That’s the correct plural form of ‘octopus’, not ‘octopuses’.” With an eyeroll, Perrin added ‘lack of grammar’ to his ever-growing list of the younger generations’ shortcomings.

“If you say so.” Thankfully, he doesn’t ask what ‘plural’ means, but continues on the seafood theme. “The chefs are planning to trap a few and prepare them for dinner. Once we figure out which tome-holder is connected to the world in question, and have him send them back.”

“Sooner rather than later, I hope.” Perrin lifts his sturdy ceramic cup and peers sadly at the last cold, dark remains of his preferred hot drink. Coffee. One of humanity's greatest discoveries.

“It might take some time. But,” the round face lights up, pudgy fingers snapping, “they’ve set up tea and biscuits in the west wing. Close to the first-years’ dorms. Should tuck us over until things have been sorted in the mess.”

“That’s something.” Now that he thought about it, a couple of biscuits would do him good. Preferably dipped in a cup of something warm. Perhaps there were freshly baked scones… With spiced purpleberry jam… His stomach growled in anticipation

But he should finish this round of check-ups first. Duty above snacks after all.

“Thank you for the information. I’m grateful.” The tone in his voice was dismissive, and he turned back to the book, picked up his largest, most impressive-looking quill and went back to work.

“Oh. Right. You’re welcome.” Boulder hovered in the doorway, indecisive as ever. “I’ll see you there later, then.”

“I would assume so. And I assume you have other work to attend to as well.”

“Right you are, Perrin, old chap. Need to spread the word.”

That’s Sir Peregrin to you.

The door finally closes behind Boulder, and the room turns silent once more, besides the occasional chirp and rustling of feathers. The small rift in reality the birds had come through had closed, but should reappear whenever the birds felt relaxed and safe enough to return.

Reality, you’d think it’d trot along obediently, rolling out along its path as reliably as a rock rolling down a never-ending slope. In reality, that slope is more like a mountainside, filled with bumps, shrubs, mysterious holes, and the occasional surprised goat headbutting that stone into new and exciting paths while bleeting madly, as if the universe was out to get it. Which it might be. If the universe actually had a plan, that was.

Two millennia of studies strongly suggested that if there ever had been a plan, it had long since shattered. Or… this was the plan. The idea that they were the plan all along was a frightening thought. One best not to dwell upon.

Anyway, back to Ol’ Ember. Whatever was going on around Shady Mountain needed further investigation. The village square was still filled with the metal-clad men, ordinary villagers standing around them, seemingly cheering the fools on as they brandished their weapons.

What on all earths was going on? Hovering somewhere between annoyance and mild curiosity, Perrin pulled up the narrative accompanying this tiny portion of a world, in its own little time and space.

He could hear the chanting as the words sprang at him from the page. See the angry raising of the various pointy weaponry. His stomach lurched in the most unpleasant way before his mind could even begin to comprehend the words. Then they grew horrifyingly clear.

“Death to the dragon! Death!” Repeated again and again and again and…

This was all wrong!

He’d made sure Ember’s presence was firmly integrated as a benign mythical being residing on the mountain. And, Perrin frowns at the page, muttering swearwords under his breath; he’s bloody great at his job. Nothing should be able to twist his most cherished strand of reality away from the narrative he maintained.

Unless it was something major. Major enough to stir the collective mind of that world.

He leaned closer to the text, squinting as he dared it to disobey him. Still, the words cut through him. Manslayer! Killer! Foul beast! The list went on.

What had that stupid reptile been up to in the months since Perrin’s last visit? Prancing about where and when he wasn’t supposed to? Like an arrogant fool? After all, this dragon’s most menacing traits were his ear-numbing snores and his fondness for making bad jokes. Nothing that’d call for mobs or knights with pitchforks.

Still muttering curses, Perrin took out another quill and the rare silvery ink. This was his reality, his narrative, his friend, and he’d bloody well protect it. Set things straight again.

Dragon back to peacefully sunbathing, imbecile knights back to working the fields.

But no matter what rune he tried, the ink sank uselessly into the parchment, as quickly as the sinking feeling in his guts did. It should work. While the unexpected was expected, in all his years, he’d never encountered a narrative or reality breach he couldn’t rewrite.

This was wrong on so many levels. Time for more direct and drastic action!

Decision made, he got up, grabbed a thin traveling cloak, and shoved a small wooden box with administrative supplies into one of the generous pockets. He needed to get to the bottom of this. Immediately.

Muttering to himself, trying to ignore the cold hollow feeling in his chest, he fumbled a bit before he got the right rune down. There, a pale blue and white luminescent portal opened in front of him, the scent of dry, warm dirt and flowers filling his nose. He could see Ember. The dragon was still snoozing innocently, splayed out on his back, all four paws in the air, wings twitching occasionally.

Ignorant of the imminent danger.

The invisible ribbon around Perrin’s chest tightened as he closed the tome and stuffed it into its special pocket, grabbed his soft hat - absentmindedly brushing some shimmering feathers off it – crammed it onto his head, and resolutely stepped through the portal.