He was interrupted in his reverie by Bob Barrett, the porter, who had finished sorting through the post and turned to greet the visitors. "Right," he said. "Sorry about the delay. And you, sir, are…?"
"Professor Prosper Marchand," responded the man, as though he needed no introduction.
Blake whirled round. Sure enough, the man in the leather jacket matched the name on the poster. He had been watching Blake with an amused expression and now winked. Blake blushed.
"And this," continued Prosper Marchand, indicating a tall, birdlike woman who had entered behind them, "is Dr. Adrienne de Jonghe of the Coster Institute in Holland. We're members of the Ex Libris Society."
"Dr. deJonghe waded on stork-thin legs in front of Blake and shook hands with the professor.
The porter, all smiles, asked the visitors to sign a register in front of them and then handed them each a clear plastic folder containing various conference materials and a guide to the college, on which he had marked the shortest routes to their rooms. Finally, he told them the access code to the library and other main buildings, before passing them their keys. The professors promptly gathered their things and left.
The porter let out a sigh as soon as the door was closed. "Goodness, Blake, they've been arriving all day, they have. From all over the world. I've been run off my feet. Who'd have thought so many people would be interested in a few books?"
Blake was gazing out of the window. He could see the Dutch scholar bending down to stroke Mephistopheles, who curled seductively around her legs, but Prosper Marchand was nowhere to be seen. An engine soon revved in the street, however, and roared into the distance.
Bob was a short, stocky man in his mid-fifties, with just a smudge of a mustache beneath his nose. His shirtsleeves had been rolled up to reveal a dragon tattoo on one wrist and a spinach-green anchor on the other. He rubbed his hands together and grinned at the boy. "Now then, Blake, what can I do for you?"
Blake glanced wistfully at the pigeonholes behind the counter. "Is there a letter for me?" he asked, suddenly feeling hesitant and shy.
Even though his dad made a point of calling them every evening, he wanted to receive a special letter — something personal, in writing — to help him make sense of their present situation. His parents were barely speaking to each other and he needed some assurance that everything would be all right.
The porter gave him a sympathetic smile. "I don't think so, but you never know. It's always worth another look."
While Bob bent down to check the slot that had been temporarily assigned to "Dr. Juliet Winters and Family," Blake busied himself by studying the tags on the suitcases near the door: Australia, India, Russia, Japan…People from all over the world were converging on the college for the conference, while his dad — the only person he really cared to see — was thousands of miles away. It wasn't fair. They would never be a family without him.
"Well, wouldn't you know it," said Bob, springing up again like a puppet. "There's something for you after all. How did it find its way in there.?"
He winked at Blake, whose heart leaped at the discovery. The boy grabbed the letter.
Almost immediately, he knew it was not from home. There were no airmail stripes on the envelope and the handwriting was too fussy and feminine to be from his father. A graphic designer, Christopher Winters had distinctive lettering that reminded Blake of circus animals in a procession: his Js swung their trunks like elephants and his Qs sat like fat owls on branches. Everything he touched turned into a work of art.
Blake frowned. This letter was addressed to "Dr. Juliet Somers & Child" and appeared to be an invitation to some formal engagement.
"Not what you wanted, eh?" said Bob, reading the look of disappointment on his face.
Blake didn't respond. He was having trouble swallowing. It didn't really surprise his that the envelope mentioned only one child — Duck was the obvious choice — but it upset him to think that his mother was using her maiden name here in Oxford. He wondered if there had been a mistake, but deep down he knew that she probably preferred it this way.
He glanced at the porter. "No, not really. But maybe tomorrow," he said, almost managing a smile.
3
"It's a reminder about the dinner tonight," said Juliet Winters, reading the letter. "You two are invited and so, it seems, is Sir Giles Bentley. He's the guest of honor."
Duck skipped ahead, pleased to know she would get a chance to show off to the college professors, but Blake lagged behind. He didn't want to go to a stuffy old dinner and meet yet more grown-ups who were either impressed with his mother's books or else astonished by Duck's intelligence. As usual, he would spend most of the time unnoticed. What's more, he didn't want to be introduced to anyone as Dr. Somers' kid. It surprised him that his mother hadn't mentioned it.
"It says only one child on the envelope," he tried. "Do I have to go?"
"Of course you do. It's simply an oversight or a misprint; you know how these things happen."
No, he didn't know how these things happened — but they seemed to happen to him an awful lot.
Juliet Winters noticed the skeptical expression on his face and waited for him to catch up. "The college understands perfectly well that I have two children," she said testily, putting an arm around him to speed him up. "Everyone will be expecting you to come, just as I'll be expecting you to be on your best behavior."
"Who is Giles Bentley?" asked Duck, skipping back to join them.
"Sir Giles," her mother corrected her, "was keeper of Books in the Bodleian Library for many years. He's retired now, but by all accounts is the same crotchety old curmudgeon he always was. I don't want you going anywhere near him."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
Blake could tell that his mother didn't want to discuss the matter further, but Duck had already formed the next question on her lips."
"Why don't you like him so much?"
"Oh, Duck, if you really must know," said her mother, fighting to control her temper, "he interfered with some research your father and I were doing when we were students. He acquired an important manuscript we needed to consult, but refused to let us see it."
They were walking along a shady path near the back of the Fellows' Garden. At the sound of her voice a few timorous birds flew out from the undergrowth, shrilling their displeasure.
"It was an important document," she said more softly. "It could have made our careers. Yet still he kept it from us."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know!" She scowled at a fir tree leaning over the other plants. "Power, perhaps. Or greed. Sir Giles learned long ago that it was possible to make more money by purchasing rare books for his own collection than by sharing them with others."
Juliet Winters motioned them towards an old wooden door set into a mossy wall. Savage spikes jutted above it in an iron crown. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a set of keys.
"Sir Giles' decision set me back — who knows how long — years, probably," she said irritably. "It was all I could do to scrape my way back, but your father…well, he just gave up."
Blake was stunned. He was having a hard time imagining his parents agreeing on anything, let alone a research project, but now he wanted to know what they had hoped to accomplish. It sounded important.
His mother stabbed a key in the lock and twisted it. "I'd still like to get my hands on the manuscript," she said, forcing the door open with her shoulder.
They passed through onto a wide boulevard lined with trees that were gradually losing their leaves. Some had knobbly trunks with bumps and warts of wood; others jigsaws of gray and green bark. An old black-framed bicycle had been propped against a nearby post and Duck raced towards it. She couldn't resist ringing its bell. It let out a dry, rusty croak.
"What book was it?" asked Blake tactfully. "The book you wanted, I mean."
"It wasn't a book," said his mother, ushering them towards the end of the road, where Blake could see the dark silv
er dome and spires of the city center. "It was a manuscript belonging to a monk who lived in Oxford during the Middle Ages."
Blake stopped. "A monk?" he asked, remembering the mysterious book he had found in the library. It had looked hundreds of years old too. Perhaps the two were related?
A tremor of excitement crept through him.
"What was his name?"
"Ignatius," she said, much to his disappointment. His face fell. She regarded him curiously for a moment. "Why the sudden interest?"
Blake pretended to study a leaf floating belly up in a puddle. He could still feel the weight of the blank book in his hands; the memory haunted him. "No reason," he said, unwilling to divulge his discovery to anyone just yet.
His mother shrugged. "Well, it's a fascinating story. Ignatius claimed to have seen the Devil entering the city with a book of forbidden knowledge on his back. No one believed him, of course, and no one ever found the book. It's a piece of apocrypha really. But I was interested in it because of my research on Faust."
"Who?" said Blake, looking up.
"Faust," said Duck, showing off. "He sold his soul to the Devil."
"Did not," muttered Blake, and swung his knapsack in her direction. She ran off, squealing.
His mother gave him a warning glance. "Duck's right. According to some, Faust was a German necromancer who craved all the knowledge and power in the world, made a pact with the Devil and was dragged down to everlasting hellfire by a legion of devils."
Blake's eyes lit up. He didn't know what a necromancer was, but he could imagine a sorcerer dabbling with black magic and being consumed by a ring of fire.
"And Dad?" he asked. "What did he think of the manuscript?"
"Your father had a much more speculative theory," answered his mother, more evasively. "He believed there was some truth to the legend and thought he could prove it."
Blake's heart was pounding fiercely inside him. Perhaps his dad had hoped to find the forbidden book? Perhaps he knew where it was hidden?
"And did he?" he asked breathlessly.
"He never got the chance." His mother snorted contemptuously. "Sir Giles saw to that."
Blake kicked at a twig that had fallen to the ground.
"It would have made his reputation had he been right," his mother added regretfully, "but…" Her voice broke off and she gazed at the scaly branches of an overhanging tree. "But he was probably wrong."
Blake blinked in surprise. He wanted to know much more about his father's ideas, but Duck was more interested in Sir Giles Bentley's collection of books.
"Like, how much do you think Sir Giles's books are worth?" she asked.
Her mother shook her head. "No one knows precisely what Sir Giles paid for the Ignatius manuscript, not even where he found it," she said, "but his private library is rumored to be worth more than a million pounds."
Duck whistled. "What does he do with all his books?"
"He's a collector," responded her mother. "He doesn't necessarily do anything with them."
Blake glanced at Duck, appalled.
"It's the thrill of the chase that excites him," their mother continued. "He hunts down rare books like endangered species and exhibits them on his shelves. They're like gold in the bank."
Duck's eyes lit up greedily. "Do you think we can see his books, if we ask nicely?" She was proud of her collection at home and probably wanted to compare notes.
"You can ask him whatever you like," said Juliet Winters, glancing at the invitation in her hands. "He's giving a special lecture this week. But I wouldn't waste your breath: he doesn't share his collection with anyone."
◬
They came to a broad street interspersed with stone-fronted colleges and tall tilting shops, all selling the same merchandise: Oxford jerseys, Oxford scarves and Oxford teddy bears. Tourists flocked from one to the other, shepherded by guides with colorful umbrellas.
Even though Blake knew his way around the city now, he still felt like a foreigner himself. His accent made him stand out like a flag. Nevertheless, he was beginning to appreciate life in Oxford. Inside each tawny college lay a forgotten world of libraries, chapels and dining halls. It was like stepping back in time. He kept expecting to bump into people with powdered wigs, silk stockings and dark robes — like caped crusaders from long ago.
Unexpectedly, his mother stopped. She was standing next to a secondhand bookshop, staring at a display of fine leather books and novels in torn dust jackets. Before he could prevent her, she had gone inside, telling him to look after Duck. There was something she wanted to look at. "I'll only be a minute," she called out over her shoulder as the door jangled shut behind her.
Blake rolled his eyes. He'd heard that one before.
Annoyed, he wandered over to the curb and started swinging round an old-fashioned lamppost, letting the city swirl past him in a blur of sensations.
It felt liberating to be outside. During the previous weeks, he'd seen mostly dun-colored museums and waterlogged statues from the misted heights of a double-decker bus. This afternoon, however, the city blazed with life: colleges glowed under an azure sky and pigeons spiraled round the towers on whistling wings. Golden clock faces, scattered around the streets, told a multitude of times.
And then he saw him.
The man was sitting close to the bookshop, reading what looked to be an old battered book. Blake slowed to a crawl — then stopped completely.
The stranger was dressed in a brown leather robe and had an unfashionably long, scraggly beard. Despite the heat, he was wearing a peculiar hat that looked like sort of like a nightcap with a fur trim on it. Blake had never seen anything like it before. It was as if one of the many statues in the city had come to life and was resting unnoticed on the pavement. Was he homeless?
All the while the boy stared at him, the man didn't move, didn't even turn a page, but concentrated on his book. In fact, he could have been carved out of stone; he was motionless.
Most of the people passing by didn't pay him any attention, but those who did dropped a few coins at his feet and hurried on. The silver coins glistened like gobs of spit on the ground. The man, however, neither noticed their looks nor pocketed their change. He was lost in his own private world.
A wiry hound with perky ears lay on a tattered blanket beside him, a bright red bandanna wrapped around its neck. Duck walked straight up to it.
"I like your dog," she said, bending down to stroke the animal, which thumped its tail lethargically.
Even then, the man didn't look up, but continued reading. He clutched the volume in grubby fingers that looked like gnarled tree roots.
"Duck!" hissed Blake, trying not to disturb or offend the old man. The dog might have fleas, or, worse, might bite her; but neither possibility really worried him. He was much more concerned with what his mother would say if she found Duck talking to a stranger. He was supposed to be looking after her, after all.
"Duck!" he hissed again.
This time she heard him and looked up, smiling.
"What's your dog's name?" she said, but still the man ignored her.
Blake went to drag her away by the arm.
Then, suddenly, the man lifted his head. It was as if he had come to the end of a complex sentence or an extremely long paragraph. He looked at Blake with an expression that was not altogether hostile, but not entirely friendly either. It was a searching, penetrating gaze, as though he was surprised to find a young boy standing in front of him, casting a shadow over his book. He seemed to have woken up from a deep sleep.
Blake felt uncomfortable and immediately turned away, pulling Duck after him.
Just then the shop door opened and Juliet Winters returned, without the book she had wanted. She gave the man a quick, dismissive glance and led the children away.
"What did he want?" she asked idly as they drifted towards the main shopping area and blended in with the crowds.
Blake didn't answer. He had looked back just once — as they were crossing
a side street — and was alarmed to see that the man was following them with his eyes.
4
Blake tried his best to ignore Duck. She had assumed that smug expression she sometimes got when she knew she had a secret he would want to hear, and which she was secretly dying to tell; but, as usual, she would wait for him to beg her for it first. He decided to ask his mother about the book she had wanted instead.
"Oh, it was a book I used to like when I was a girl," she said vaguely, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A book about butterflies. I saw it in the shop window and it brought back some memories. Only, I don't have time to read such things now. I have more pressing things to do instead."
"Well, I think you should have bought it," he said simply, but firmly, thinking it wouldn't do her any harm to be a child again for a few hours.
"Perhaps you're right," she answered, but he could tell from the sound of her voice that she was already miles away.
Duck's eyes were now the size of marbles. Blake couldn't stand the suspense any longer and slowed his steps to fall in line with hers. "Go on," he growled. "Tell me."
She clutched him eagerly by the arm.
"Did you notice the strange man?" she squealed.
"Of course I did." He disentangled himself from her grasp. "I was standing right next to you, idiot."
"No, I mean, did you notice what he was reading?"
Blake shook his head. "It was just an old book, but it must have been exciting, 'cause he didn't look up once till he got to the end."
"That's it!" she said triumphantly.
"What's it?"
"I noticed what he was reading."
She skipped back and forth, trumpeting the air in her cheeks.
"Well?"
"Nothing!"
"What?"
Endymion Spring Page 4