I had just stuffed a flame-colored powder that ignited a fire in each nostril when Peter tapped me on the shoulder and waved several coins before my eyes.
"Herr Gutenberg says we are to enjoy ourselves," he said with a grin. "I know how we can spend it." His eyebrows performed a mischievous jig on his brow and he steered me towards the door.
I glanced back at my Master's stall, which he had erected near a man in a preposterous cockerel-colored outfit, who was selling rolls of leather for binding books. Beside him, a heavyset man with a warty nose flogged gory prints of martyred saints to pilgrims, who devoured such things in their devotion.
The Bible had been attracting a large amount of interest since the opening of the fair. Fust, in fact, was having to fend off merchants, all clamoring like pigs at a trough to see the quality of the print.
"Why, this is neater than a scribe's hand," I heard one say. "I don not need my lenses!" He waved a pair of pointy bone spectacles in the air as though my Master had performed a minor miracle.
"How do you obtain such results?" asked another, laying his hands on a sample of paper and holding it up to the light streaming in from the narrow windows.
Fust swatted away his fingers. "You may admire, but not touch," he hissed. His eyes caught mine from across the room and I flinched. All the way from Mainz, he had been breathing down my neck, trying to determine why he could not yet read from the magical paper in his chest. I was afraid that he would soon discover the pages in my toolkit, which I now carried on my person at all times, and throttle me.
"But the words are written back to front," objected a third, dour-looking man with ashen lips. He was examining a tray of type I had set up specifically for the exhibit. "What manner of devilry is this? The Word of God must not be interfered with in this way!"
I did not get to hear more. Peter grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me up the stairs.
◬
I had to shield my eyes against the pandemonium outside. Acrobats tumbled and rolled in the square, dentists and quacks extracted teeth and coins from the vulnerable and weak, and vendors called attention to wild and wonderful beasts brought in just for the occasion: flightless birds with ungainly necks and massive pack animals with enormous ears and hides like wrinkled men. The air was full of smells and noise, chaos and confusion.
Away from the hall, Peter reverted to a little boy. He bobbed in and out of the crowds, swiping small rounded loaves from the street-sellers and juggling them in his hands before biting into them hungrily and running away from their catcalls of abuse.
For a while, we amused ourselves by leaping over barrels and coils of rope in the coopers' district — just one of five tiny lanes abutting the main square like the fingers of a hand — and ended up, breathless with exhaustion, outside a house the color of dried ox blood. It stood on several wooden plinths like a fussy woman trying not to get her skirts dirty.
Nearby was the Plague House, a darkened building marked by iron crosses above the shuttered windows. We dared each other to stand outside its ominous façade for a count of ten while hopping on one foot to ward off the evil eye of the gorgon carved into the wooden pediment above the door. A bailiff, however, chased us off, telling us to be more respectful of the dead.
Stonemasons were busy extending the tower of the cathedral in the distance, and we moved closer to investigate. The city reverberated with the sounds of chisels and hammers, tap-tap-tapping in the air. The sky snowed chipped stone. Tall ladders, lashed together with ropes, zigzagged up the side of the building and an intricate system of pulleys and wheels spun in mid-air, hoisting baskets of stone bricks up to the masons, who stood on thin walkways high above the earth to receive them. Laborers loaded with mortar scurried up and down the ladders like ants.
Just looking at them made me dizzy. One foot wrong and the whole structure would come tumbling down faster than the Tower of Babel. I much preferred the safety of the press…
The thought reminded me of he dragon skin and the need to get as far away from Fust as possible, and I felt the city crumble around me. It was no good standing still, enjoying myself.
Peter grabbed me by the elbow. Lured back by the smell of food, we returned to the market. Spoiled for choice, we each selected a steaming frankfurter from the sausage stands and spent a long time licking the fatty juice from our wrists. A discordant blast from a trumpeter atop St. Nikolai's Church alerted us to an important arrival by river, and so, still chomping on our sausages, we headed the short distance to the quay, just in time to see a three-masted boat from the Low Countries glide like a wicker swan towards the custom tower.
A rotund man disembarked, followed by a retinue of servants, all carrying chests full of cloth. He cut a grand, distinguished figure.
Peter sucked in his breath and looked forlornly at the small velvet purse he had purchased for Christina. "It's not very much, is it?" he said. It was all I could do to prevent him from tossing it in the waves.
A hoary old gentleman stood on the quayside to greet the newcomer. He bowed so low I feared he would kiss the ground beneath the stranger's feet. Together, they marched across the road to one of the finest residences in Frankfurt: the Saalhof, where the most important dignitaries were housed — unlike the communal inn where Peter and I would spend the night.
Tiring of the spectacle, we worked our way back towards the old quarter, losing ourselves in a maze of tight, twisting lanes. By now we were thirsty and the gleam of the remaining coins in Peter's hand had rekindled a spark in his eye.
"Follow me," he said as he spotted a nearby alehouse.
◬
The Little Lamb was not as innocuous as its name suggested.
A dark hovel, it shrank into the corner of an overgrown courtyard, surrounded by tottering houses that blocked out the sun. A well in the middle of the yard had long ago dried and was now choked with filth.
Like a mongrel with its tail between its legs, Peter sidled up to the tavern and pushed his way inside.
The room was thick with smoke. People played at dice and draughts over large, upended barrels, and the floor was slick with straw. I did not care to look down, but followed Peter as he threaded his way through the crowd and ordered two flagons of apple-wine from the innkeeper, a boarlike man with tusks for teeth.
Clutching our sour-smelling drinks, we dived into a back room, away from the noise and commotion out front.
The room was empty, apart from a slovenly individual lying in a pool of vomit in the corner. Peter paid him scant attention, but walked over to a bench and started speaking on his favorite subject: Christina. His voice swooned whenever he mentioned her and I stared moodily into my drink, letting the smell of rotting apples fester in my nostrils. I did not like to admit that I was jealous.
"Ah, young love," murmured the man in the corner, looking up at us with two unfocused eyes. "You can never trust the heart of another."
Peter paused in his description of Christina's beauty and frowned.
"Amor vincit omnia," the stranger continued in a voice that hinted of too much drink. "It's a load of tripe, if you ask me." His words had a foreign lilt to them and I could not understand them clearly.
Peter, however, detected something in the accent and studied the man more intently. Huge continents of dirt had drifted down his clothes and his face was streaked with grime. It looked as though he had spent a lot of time sleeping in fields…or else on taproom floors.
"Love speaks with a false tongue," the drunkard lamented aloud, continuing his bitter soliloquy. "It kisses you in one ear, then turns with a hiss to bite the other…"
"Enough!" Peter slapped his iron flagon on the table before us. "What do you know of love, friend?" His voice was venomous.
"Plenty," replied the man, with a simpering smile that revealed several missing teeth. "My heart has been broken more times than years you've been alive…boy."
Peter did not rise to the insult, but leaned closer to whisper something in my ear. Then I noticed what he ha
d. In his hands, the man clutched a small brown leather book. A thin ribbon, like a lock of hair or rat's tail, slipped out from between its pages, marking his place.
This was a rare sight. Not many people could read books, let alone afford to buy them. Either this man was a thief or an impoverished scholar, down on his luck. They were often the poorest sort.
He glanced up at us, feeling the weight of our eyes on him.
"It's the tale of the two lovers," he said, indicating the volume in his fingers. "Piccolomini's latest. Scurrilous, rude and guaranteed to put the color back in your young friend's cheek."
He nodded in my direction and I blushed, despite myself. The man took no notice. A sour belch, like a toad, escaped his throat.
"May I?" Peter took the book from the man and leafed expertly through its pages, perusing the words and assessing the quality of the penmanship. "Where do you come from, friend?" he asked in a different voice.
"Here and there," came the answer. "London once, Oxford before that."
Peter pricked up his ears. "Where?"
"Oxford." The man made a vague sketching movement in the dirt with his blunt fingers, mapping his travels. A series of towers and spires grew around him.
"Never heard of it," said Peter.
"I'm not surprised. You're just a young popinjay."
Peter stiffened, stung by the insult. "That may be, but this town you mention, where exactly is it?"
"To the north, across the water. No easy journey, I assure you."
"Is it a place of learning?"
"Second only to Paris."
"And does it have a library?"
The man looked up, aware he had an audience. I gripped my apple wine more tensely, sensing where the argument was headed. The stranger noticed my uneasiness and stumbled to his feet.
He wedged himself between us. "Buy me another drink and I shall tell you all you wish to know." He waved his empty mug at Peter. "William's my name."
I glanced at Peter, who was clutching the remaining coins in his sweaty palm. He could not resist the urge to learn more. He marched into the adjoining room and soon returned with three more flagons of apple-wine.
I could already feel the first mug clouding my judgment and slid my second to William, who guzzled it in one go. He smeared his sleeve over his mouth and then began to tell us about the university town of Oxford. Words streamed from his lips almost as freely as the wine entered them.
He had been a student of theology, he said, living a virtuous life in virtual poverty, when a girl named Moll ignited a passion in is heart — and a fire in his loins. For some reason this did not sit well with the proctors who prowled the town by night, maintaining order and discipline, and he had been cast out from the university in disgrace. Then, when Moll's family got wind of the affair, William had fled for his life, pursued by a rabble of drunken townies, as he called them. Ever since, he had been driven to distraction, moving from library to library, working as a scribe. Those books he could not copy he carried with him in his head.
"If life has taught me one thing," he said, "there is nothing so loyal or true as the written word."
"And this library in Oxford," Peter prompted him. "Is it large?"
William's eyes took on a dreamy appearance. "Chests full of books; colleges crowded with manuscripts; bookbinders forever preparing new ones…Nothing can compare!" he said. "Even now a new library is being built to accommodate the collection of Humfrey, Duke of Gloucester, God rest his soul." He made a clumsy attempt at signing the cross on his stained doublet. "It will surely be a new Alexandria, the greatest seat of learning this side of Rome!"
"Will it?" said Peter dubiously.
I, too, was disinclined to believe him. The library of Alexandria, I knew, had been built by the Greeks to accommodate all the scrolls and manuscripts in the world. It had been the most impressive, exalted depository of books in history. Yet what had taken its devoted libarians hundred of years to acquire from passing travelers had been lost in a blazing inferno. Many of the greatest works known to man had gone up in smoke, the victims of that most avaricious reader: fire. Even now, I supposed, there was a chance the dragon skin could revive them.
"And if we should attempt to find this library?" asked Peter, filling me with trepidation.
"Just follow the banks of the River Thames from that great eyesore, London, and you cannot miss it," said William. "I have traveled far and wide, but I have yet to meet its match."
With that, William reached the end of his story. With a last apologetic belch, he sank to his knees and collapsed in a heap on the floor, leaving Peter and me to ponder his information alone.
Outside, the noise of the fair reminded us of our duties and we reluctantly left the alehouse to join Herr Gutenberg and Fust in the Town Hall.
◬
That evening, in the dormitory of the inn where we were lodging, Peter turned to me.
"This place William spoke of," he whispered. "That is where you must go."
The words stabbed at my heart. I knew Peter could not easily come with me, but the prospect that I was to leave Mainz — and travel alone — was too much to bear. For a moment, my eyes pricked with tears and I rolled over to face the pale, snoring stranger by my side to keep him from noticing. The long communal bed was full of rank, unwashed bodies.
Fust and Herr Gutenberg, like many of the richer merchants, had opted for finer accommodation a few streets away, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
"It's the only way," continued Peter. "I've been thinking. When I was copying books in Paris, I came across an old saying: 'The safest place to hide a leaf is in a forest.' How could anyone find a solitary leaf among so many trees?"
I shut my eyes and tried to imagine the scene. Each time I came close to counting all those leaves, the wind shifted slightly and rearranged the branches. It was a fool's task — an undertaking to last all eternity.
Peter put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't you see? The best place to lose the dragon skin is in a library. The paper would be lost in a labyrinth of words, a forest of books. Fust would never be able to find it."
Begrudgingly, I nodded. My toolkit had already completed its magical transformation into a small book, as though it knew its destiny. The brown leather covers, with my name printed on it, were guarded by two dragon-claw clasps that kept the paper inside from stirring and revealing their secrets. Perhaps the sheets in the chest would do the same?
"The Library of St. Victor is too near," said Peter, referring to the abbey in Paris where he had trained as a scribe. "Fust would follow you there too easily and discover the book in no time. He knows it all too well. But this library in Oxford is unknown. It could be even larger…It's certainly far enough away; Fust would never find you."
The thought ripped at my heart. I started shaking. Then, recalling the way Fust had been creeping closer to me ever since I had opened the chest, as if I held the key to everything he wanted, I knew that Peter was right. I must go. I had no choice but to sacrifice my own happiness to save the skin.
Oxford
14
The sound of scratching woke him, something was trying to get in!
Blake opened his eyes and tore the covers from his body in a panic, remembering the camouflaged dragon he had glimpsed in the tree a few hours earlier. His legs were tangled in a bed sheet, but he managed to scramble free and backed against the wall, breathing hard. He gripped his pillow like a shield and stared at the window.
Nothing was there. Nobody was trying to get in.
He rubbed his eyes. The branches of the nearest tree had been stripped of their leaves by the storm last night and the dragon, if there had been one, had flown away. His imagination must have been playing tricks on him.
He listened carefully, straining to hear anything over the sound of blood galloping in his ears. Then, from somewhere outside, came the soft, scratching noise again.
He edged closer to the window and peered outside.
There, by the garden g
ate, stood a dog. A scruffy gray dog with a wiry tail. It was scratching at the post, as if beckoning him to come down. Blake raked his hand through his hair, wondering what to do.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flash of yellow, streaking from the front of the house to the gate. Duck! What was she doing up so early?
He blinked in astonishment. The dog wagged its tail, as if it had been expecting her all along, and then licked her face as she bent down to stroke it.
And then he remembered. The dog belonged to the homeless man he had seen outside the bookshop. He scanned the pavement for a sign of the strangely dressed figure, but couldn't see him anywhere.
What should he do? It was too early to wake his mother and he knew he oughtn't to leave the house without her permission; yet surely a dog couldn’t be dangerous…
"Duck!" he hissed, watching helplessly as she started following the dog towards the main road, as if they had planned this little excursion together. She didn't look back once.
"Oh, Duck!" he moaned, and dashed away from the window.
There was no time to lose. He pulled on the same scruffy jeans, hooded sweatshirt and smelly socks from the day before and quickly tied his shoelaces, his fingers in knots. Grabbing his coat from the back of a chair, he raced across the landing; then, remembering the dog's bandanna, he rushed back to retrieve it.
He glanced once more out of the window. Duck was almost at the street corner. Soon she would be out of sight.
"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered as he darted down the stairs. He snatched the spare key from its hook — Duck had failed to take it — and ran outside.
The morning was frosty and cold, suffused with a soft white light like the milk bottles he almost tripped over on the doorstep. Duck was visible a short distance ahead, a bright yellow sun battling her way through the mist. Blake rushed after her, cursing her under his breath. She showed no sign of letting up.
"Duck!" he yelled as she crossed the main road and followed the dog down a short slope towards the river, her little legs motoring quickly. He braked sharply to avoid an oncoming bus that kicked up a spray of water against the curb and then, nerves buzzing, charged after her.
Endymion Spring Page 13