Endymion Spring

by Matthew Skelton

  "Excuse me," Blake murmured, "where—"

  "Fiction in front; Literature behind; History round the corner," the man started, without looking up. "Nature, Crafts and all that Granny Stuff, not that you'd be interested, to the left; First Editions locked behind glass, away from grubby little fingers like yours; Modern Languages, Classics and Children's Literature upstairs."

  Blake listened in astonishment as the man recited all this in one long, short-tempered breath. With each new addition, his eyes bulged a little more and traveled along the rows of disorderly shelves. He still did not know where to go.

  "What, you still there?" asked the man, sensing the boy's confusion. This time, he stood up. Not much taller than Blake, he had thick, bristly eyebrows that met in the middle like warring caterpillars, and was wearing a faded T-shirt with the name of a rock band Blake had never heard of before: the Plastic Dinosaurs. A hand-knitted scarf straddled his neck like a lazy python, its rainbow-colored ends trailing down to the ground.

  Blake stepped back, feeling as though he had stumbled into a scene from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Duck's favorite book.

  The man, sensing his apprehension, softened his approach. "How can I help you?" he asked more reasonably. His mouth cracked into a grin and Blake realized that he was only pretending to be grumpy and troll-like.

  Remembering what his mother had told him about the book she had liked, Blake tried his best to describe it.

  "I don't recall a children's book being there," replied the man seriously, scratching the back of his neck. "Of course, it might have been sold since then — books in the window tend to go fast — but I put everything that was there this morning under the New Acquisitions. I didn't pay much attention to them myself. Science Fiction is the way to go."

  As if to prove his point, he pointed to a pyramid of cloned silver novels he had built in the window.

  "Um, thanks," said Blake, wandering over to the section the man had indicated.

  He put his head down and got to work. It was going to be more difficult than he'd expected. A tower of brown books reached high above him, almost to the ceiling. Some had detached covers, held together with elastic bands; others mottled pages that either reeked of tobacco or ponged of damp churches the moment he opened them. Still more had fancy covers and gilt edges, like the finest strands of hair. And then, nearer the floor, were books in brightly colored dust jackets. These looked more promising and he knelt down to study them more closely.

  Gradually, he became aware of a man standing close beside him, almost pressing into his back. A pair of dark trousers leaned against him and an expensive watch ticked above his ear. Blake felt uncomfortable and shifted his knapsack in front of him, guarding it with his body, just in case the man crushed the paper dragon he had placed inside.

  Slowly but surely, the man picked his way down the stack of books, selecting a few volumes and then replacing them on the shelves with a dissatisfied grunt. He clearly knew what he was looking for.

  Then, like birds of prey, his hands swooped past Blake's shoulders and grabbed a volume he was about to look at.

  "Hey!" grumbled Blake. "I was just about to—"

  Glancing up, he realized with a start that it was Sir Giles Bentley. The man glared down at him coldly, his eyebrows as dark as thunderheads.

  Blake immediately went quiet and shielded the remaining books from view. With a disdainful snort, Sir Giles continued flipping through the book, almost ripping the pages, his eyes ploughing through the text.

  Blake reached for the next volume.

  A faint rustling movement inside his knapsack stopped him in his tracks. He looked down. The top of his bag twitched. He was about to open the compartment to risk a look inside, when he noticed a half-hidden volume at the back of the shelf nearest him. Sir Giles careless motion must have caused it to slip behind the others. It had become wedged between shelves. Trapped.

  With small fingers, he reached in and tweezed it free.

  Imediately, the paper dragon in his bag went still and a chill crept over him. Unlike Endymion Spring, this book didn't feel warm, comforting or inviting. Thin, bruised and bound in black leather, it seemed as ominous as a tombstone. A few specks of mold mottled its cover like lichen and a faint symbol, like a dagger, had been pressed into its surface: the shadow of a shadow.

  Frightened, Blake opened the book. A vicious f slashed across his vision like a knife blade and his blood went cold. Printed in red ink, the initial went on to form a word in sharp, seriffed letters:

  fAustbucH

  The F matched the design on the cover.

  Blake recognized the first part of the title. Faust. Wasn't he the person his mother had mentioned the previous day, the sorcerer who had sold his soul to the Devil? Hadn't she believed that he was somehow linked to the legend of the lost book of knowledge, the book his father had longed to find and which Sir Giles had ensured was beyond his reach?

  Blake's fingers shook. What had he unearthed?

  On the facing endpaper, smeared with dirt, was a list of names in faded brown ink, the color of dried blood. H. Middleton, L. de la Croix, J. Fell, N. Hart…the book's previous owners. Judging from one of the inscribed dates — MDCLXVI — he guessed the book must be hundreds of years old.

  Blake's mouth felt dry and he shivered involuntarily as he leafed through the volume.

  The book itself was in bad shape. Many of the pages had been torn and only a few jagged strips of paper survived in their place, coated in shady spots that spread through the volume like a pox. The bumped covers smelled earthy and damp, as though someone had once tried to bury it.

  Occasionally, his eyes alighted on broken strands of text, which he tried to sew together to form a story. It was difficult. The sentences were punctuated by rips and tears. One passage, however, grabbed his attention:

  In his simplicitie the boy has founde a marv

  Booke which though blank does contayne

  elusive knowledge. Methinks it is tha

  which Ignatius claims did enter O

  Devil's back. The quiet boy fears

  I have found a way to see inside

  Blake's heart began to gallop. His mind was racing. Wasn't Ignatius the monk his parents had been researching? The one who believed a book of forbidden knowledge had actually found its way to Oxford? Could this terrifying volume really be part of the puzzle?

  He wanted to read on, but became aware of Sir Giles peering over his shoulder.

  "Hey, I was here first," he snapped. "Go and find your own book."

  Sir Giles, however, did not apologize; nor did he move.

  Blake held on to the Faustbuch fiercely. He was unwilling to let this book go. Even though it filled him with trepidation, he sensed that it must be important. He could feel it in his bones. The paper dragon had drawn him towards it and now that it was in his possession the creature was dead still.

  Slowly, Blake flipped through the volume and eventually found a price penciled lightly on the inside cover. His heart sank. It cost more than he had. A note beneath indicted that the book was "sold as seen." He frowned.

  Sir Giles was hovering behind him like a wasp, ready to seize the volume as soon as he put it back on the shelf. His hands clutched the air.

  Deciding to haggle, Blake walked up to the counter, where the Plastic Dinosaurs man was now supervising the shop. "I'd like to buy this book," he said, "but—"

  "But what?" said the man sharply, suspecting a catch.

  "But I don't have enough money to buy it right now," confessed Blake. "This is all I have."

  He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the counter. The foreign coins, which still felt heavy and unusual to his North American fingers, danced and spun for a moment and then collapsed in a paltry heap. They didn't amount to much.

  "What's it say inside?" said the man, disinclined to be generous.

  "Twenty pounds."

  "And what have you got?"

  Blake performed some quick mental arith
metic. "Nine eighty-three," he said weakly, scrunching his nose.

  The man pursed his lips.

  "But it's falling apart!" exclaimed Blake. "It's probably worth nothing at all! Please, it's important."

  The shop assistant looked skeptical. He made little suction motions with his mouth and started to scratch the back of his neck, where the python scarf was slipping. Finally, he opened the cover of the book and read the title. An involuntary laugh escaped his lips.

  "'A True Historie of the Faustbuch, as witnessed by one of God's owne servants…' That's pretty sophisticated reading, isn't it?" he said.

  "Maybe," said Blake, unwilling to give up. His mind fished rapidly for alternatives. "Of course, if you're willing to wait, I could—"

  "—pay you twenty pounds for it right now," Sir Giles finished the sentence, and slapped a freshly folded banknote on the counter. "For me," he added, "and not the boy."

  "But that’s not fair!" shouted Blake.

  "Sir, the boy was here first," said the man responsibly, although Blake could tell that the money tempted him. Helicked the corner of his lips and his eyes returned to the banknote again like a frog targeting a fly.

  "That may be," said Sir Giles, pushing Blake aside, "but the boy can't afford to buy it…unless he means to steal it."

  A lethal glare from Sir Giles warned Blake not to make a sound. Perhaps he did recognize him from the college dinner, after all…

  Blake clenched his hands into fists, but remained silent.

  "Here, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sir Giles, taking control of the situation. He withdrew another banknote from his wallet. "I'll double your asking price. That's my final offer. As the boy said, it really is in appalling condition."

  "But—" appealed Blake mutely.

  "There, there," said Diana Bentley, suddenly appearing from behind her husband and placing a comforting hand on Blake's shoulder. "You shouldn't concern yourself with grubby old books. It's probably contagious."

  "It was…it was for my mum," lied Blake, hoping to appeal to her emotions. "I was going to surprise her with it."

  She gave him a compassionate look. "How sweet," she murmured. "But really, Blake, I should think your mother would prefer a less contaminated sort of book. Why not flowers, perhaps?"

  A playful smile teased her lips.

  "But I think it could be important," said Blake helplessly.

  "This decrepit thing?" She brushed the cover with a gloved fingertip, as though disdaining to get his skin dirty. "Surely not. Giles likes repairing old books. He'll rebind it and give it a fresh lease on life."

  Sir Giles let out a humph of protest. "For heaven's sake, woman, stop humoring the child." He turned his attention back to the man behind the till. "Well?"

  The shop assistant, weakening under the assault of Sir Giles' black eyebrows, looked from the man to the boy and back again. "I'll take it," he said finally, snatching the notes and entering them in the till before he could change his mind.

  He shrugged at Blake and then said, "Sorry, mate, but books nowadays are a business."

  "Don't fret," said Diana mildly, helping Blake on with his knapsack and escorting him away from the shop. "You can always come to our house if you'd like to see the book again." She smiled at the idea. "Yes, Giles has a magnificent collection. You must come by."

  10

  Blake walked the rest of the way to the college with slumped shoulders. Not only had he slept in, but he'd lost the blank book — and now another potentially important one. Nothing was going right!

  He kicked at the stray leaves that had fallen overnight and didn't look up once, not even when he ducked through the small wooden door set into the massive gate guarding St. Jerome's and from habit marched straight into the Porter's Lodge.

  "Why, there's a message for you," said Bob Barrett hurriedly, bending down to retrieve it. "With your name on it, too!"

  "Thanks," said Blake gloomily, taking the envelope without looking at it.

  "Come on, it can't be that bad. What's the—"

  Just then the telephone rang and Bob paused to answer it. Blake took the opportunity to leave without another word. He didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

  He waved a hand in a halfhearted farewell and headed toward the library, where Mephistopeles immediately pounced on his feet, hoping to exact revenge on him for last night.

  "Stupid cat," he growled as the animal leaped away. He stooped to retie his shoes.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Paula Richards bustling around the interior of the library, fetching things from shelves, a whirling dervish of activity. He didn't want to face her either, just in case she suspected him of damaging the books last night, and decided to redirect his steps to a bench under a tree on the far side of the lawn, where he could wait for his mother and sister in private.

  He sat down on the bench, which was beaded with raindrops, and turned the letter over in his hands, careful not to let it get wet. A few more spiteful spots of rain shimmied through the leaves and landed on the back of his neck, but it was the driest place he could find.

  The envelope bore the college coat of arms on its crisp, white paper: a ring of stars surrounding a knight's glove, which clutched a sharpened quill instead of a sword. Sure enough, his name was written on the front in a flourish of swirling letters:

  Blake Winters, Esq.

  He wondered what an Esq. was, but whatever it meant, the title made him feel distinguished and important, rather like a knight himself. He sat up a little straighter.

  He opened the envelope. Inside was an abbreviated message in the same ornate writing:

  Questions?

  He glanced up, suspecting the anonymous author had read his mind. His head was teeming with questions.

  He turned over the invitation, where he encountered further instructions.

  Answers await you in the Old Library. Two o'clock if convenient.

  Hope to see you there.

  Professor Jolyon Fall

  A smile grew on Blake's face. Not only would he get a chance to see inside the Old Library, but he might be able to learn the secret of the blank book, too! Things were definitely looking up.

  He craned his neck to see if he could see the Old Library from where he was seated, but only the tip of the tower above the cloisters was visible, partially hidden behind a screen of leaves. Nevertheless, a quiver of excitement — a bit like a slide whistle of pleasure — passed through him.

  The sound of his sister's voice on the other side of the lawn brought him crashing back to reality. His first obstacle: obtaining his mother's permission. Would she let him go? Judging from the was she was clutching her briefcase in her hand, she was going to spend the whole afternoon in the Bodleian Library. That could mean only one thing. He would be the obligated babysitter.

  He sighed and, as if in sympathy, a volley of raindrops slid through the leaves and landed on his invitation, causing the ink to smear.

  ◬

  "Mum's got e-mail access," Duck announced as soon as they were within shouting distance. "Isn't that great?"

  "Yeah, great," he replied, unconvinced. He got up to find a damp, heart-shaped patch on the seat of his jeans. Duck snickered.

  Blake knew that his mother had found an elusive manuscript in the Bodleian Library and was eager to contact Professor Morgan, the Chair of her Department, for permission to prolong her trip. Secretly, he hoped the college would ignore her request to install an internet connection in her office, since then she couldn't apply for an extension so easily; but now it seemed a distinct possibility.

  "Now we can e-mail Dad every day," said Duck cheerfully. "I've already written to ask if he's finished any of his new drawings yet. He could be reading my message right now. It's like he's here with us!"

  "No, it's not," sulked Blake. "He's on the other side of the world, in case you hadn't noticed."

  Duck had skipped happily ahead and not heard; his mother, however, had. She gave him a sharp look �
� like a pinprick — and he winced. He could sense that she had not forgotten about the trouble he had caused last night and decided to walk on ahead. He wandered towards the dining hall.

  Blake's dad had been working from home for several months, ever since tiring of the rat race and leaving the firm he had worked for in the city. Blake preferred it this way: he enjoyed his dad's company and the extra attention he and Duck received while their mother focused on her career. Just before they'd departed for England, however, Blake had heard his dad despairing that his designs would give a whole new definition to the term "blank canvas." He wondered if Duck's e-mail would only make him feel worse.

  He was debating whether to send a message of his own, when he noticed his mother looking at the card in his hand. He showed her the name on the envelope.

  "It's from Professor Jolyon," he said, deciding to speak first. "He wants to see me this afternoon."

  "Really? What for?"

  She sounded skeptical.

  "I'm not sure," he lied.

  His mother didn't look convinced.

  "Can I see Professor Jolyon too?" piped in Duck suddenly. "Please!"

  "No!" snapped Blake.

  His mother gave his a reproachful look.

  "But it's none of her business!" he protested. "She's always butting in." He reached out to pinch her.

  "Ow! Quit it!"

  "I barely even touched you!"

  "Yes, you did!" Duck sobbed petulantly and batted his hand away.

  His mother cuffed him by the wrist and brought him to a sudden halt. "That's enough," she said. "I don't want any more trouble from you!"

  Blake could detect a serious recrimination behind her words and wriggled free from her grasp. He dodged up the steps to the dining hall.

  He twisted the heavy iron handle of the arched wooden door and entered an immense, oak-paneled room lined with benches and long wooden tables that generations of banqueting scholars had worn smooth. Little lamps with brass stands and red shades, like toadstools, sprung up at intervals, emitting weak coronas of light. A warm meaty aroma oozed through the air like gravy.

  On a raised platform at the front of the hall, surrounded by dazzling diamond-paned windows, was a luxurious table spread with bottled water, silver cutlery and bowls of fresh fruit. A stained-glass crest shone above it like an incandescent sun, dabbing the tablecloth with splashes of color. This was where the professors sat, although not Juliet Winters. It was one of the concessions she'd had to make to have her children with her.