Endymion Spring

by Matthew Skelton

  Shielding his eyes, he tiptoed closer and peered down…

  Another library, a whole universe of reading, stretched elastically beneath the floor. Books filled the shimmering space: identical volumes in plain white wrappers fitted onto concentric shelves that spiraled down the edges of the shaft like a helix, connected by long, thin ladders. There appeared to be no end to the number of volumes contained in this bottomless well.

  He recoiled from the sight. His head spun. How could he possibly find the Last Book among so many?

  Endymion Spring was quiet in his hand, as though it had reached its destination. What was he to do?

  The books flickered around him expectantly.

  And then he noticed something. A long way down the narrow chute was a slight shadow, a barely visible seed of darkness in the gleaming wall of light.

  "There's something down there," he told Duck. "A black space. I think there's a book missing. I'm going to take a look."

  Duck panicked. "No! Don't go!" She gripped him tightly by the back of his knapsack. "I can't go without you. I'm scared."

  "Come on, I have no choice!"

  "Yes, you do! You don't have to do this! We could pretend you never found it. We could turn back."

  Blake hesitated, then Endymion Spring moved in his hand and urged him that little bit closer to the lip of the well. It wanted him to go down into the stack of books. It was guiding him.

  Blake glanced again at the small, unassuming volume in his hand. Its faithful glimmer of light gave him renewed confidence. Endymion Spring had brought him here for a reason. Jolyon had told him that many people had searched for the Last Book, but failed. This was his chance. He felt sure the Last Book was nearby — almost within reach. He had never been so close to achieving something amazing in his life before.

  "I've got to try," he said aloud, his mind made up.

  Pushing Duck aside, he quietly took off his knapsack and jacket and placed them on the paper-strewn ground beside the hole. Then he slipped the blank book between his T-shirt and the waistband of his jeans and slid his torch into his pocket. He could feel the restless flutter of Endymion Spring's paper against his skin — an additional heartbeat.

  "I'm going to find the Last Book," he said. "You can watch me from up here, OK?"

  Duck danced uneasily on the spot.

  "Just don't go anywhere. Wait until I get back."

  She fixed him with her large, fearful eyes, but said nothing.

  "Promise!" he barked.

  She nodded obediently and backed away from the hole.

  Blake took a deep breath. His mind focused on the sliver of shadow far below — and what it might contain — he stepped towards the threshold of the well and reached with his toe for the first rung of the ladder. His shoe caught a firm foothold and he swung himself over.

  Duck started to moan.

  "It's all right," he told her one last time. "I'll be back soon."

  Gripping the sides of the ladder, he descended slowly, taking tiny steps, refusing to look down. The rungs were placed close together, nearly tripping him. It was as though they had been constructed in a far-off century: the wood was uneven, knotted with whorls of bark — more like branches than proper footholds. He continued carefully, grasping the vine-bound slats in his tight fists. His entire body was shaking.

  Every now and then, he paused to make sure that Duck was all right at the top of the well. His fingers ached; his muscles were tense; and his teeth set in a determined grimace. Endymion Spring juddered against his belt, encouraging him downwards. He glanced at the dark space below. It was getting nearer.

  All around him the waiting books whispered like leaves in a breeze. Curious, he picked one from the surrounding shelves and, monkeying his arm around the ladder to improve his leverage, flipped through its pages. They were not blank, as he had suspected, but contained a vast number of words, all written in a transparent silver light, as if frozen or suspended in ice. There appeared to be no end to the number of books: made from the same soft, enchanted paper as Endymion Spring, all waiting for some reader's imagination to unleash the writing inside. A trapdoor swung open in his mind. He suddenly comprehended the concept of infinity.

  He looked down. A few feet away was the shadowy crevice he had glimpsed from above, the space that divided the limitless wall of books. At first, he thought it might be a black leather-bound notebook, a book different from the others, but now he realized that it was a small opening — a gap in the heart of the library. The blank book seemed to be guiding him towards it.

  He slipped down the next few rungs, almost falling, until he was on a level with the black hollow on the shelf. He could feel Endymion Spring urging him closer, its irresistible desire to be reunited with the other books drawing him nearer. He removed the blank book from its position in his belt. Part of him didn't want to let go, but as he inched his hands towards the available space no force on earth could have stopped it. Endymion Spring propelled itself between the other volumes, a perfect fit.

  The other books, which had been lisping quietly, suddenly became silent. The air trembled with expectation. The whole library appeared to be waiting for just this moment, as if the stability of the well and its tower of books hung in the balance.

  All of a sudden he became aware of a shiver in the air, a slight quiver of paper. Then, suddenly, in a blinding blizzard of books, the volumes on the shelves started to whirl round him, sucked into a maelstrom of paper. They whipped past his head, brushed against his shoulders and nipped his arms and his legs, slashing him with paper cuts, jettisoning themselves towards the small space on the shelf where moments before he had placed Endymion Spring.

  He screamed in terror and pressed his head against the rung of the ladder to protect himself, fearing something had gone disastrously wrong, closing his eyes against the snowstorm of spinning, spiraling pages. He thought he heard a high-pitched shriek from above, but the din in his ears was near-deafening and all he could do was hang on as the books flew past his face, flapped round his body and got caught in the whirlwind of paper.

  And then, like the aftermath of a violent rain shower, the air was suddenly quiet, refreshed. Only a few loose scraps of paper dripped into the surrounding silence. The ladder wobbled beneath him.

  Tentatively, he opened his eyes. The darkness was overpowering. With fumbling fingers, he reached into his pocket, took out his torch, and shone the light around him.

  The brown battered book — Endymion Spring — was still on its shelf, as though nothing had happened. Except, Blake noticed, sliding his light up and down the sheer sides of the well, the other books had gone. The shaft was as barren as a mountain after a landslide.

  Carefully, he reached out to touch the remaining volume. Was this it? Was this the legendary Last Book? The name "Endymion Spring" was still visible on the scabbed leather cover.

  He edged his fingers round the spine and gently pulled it towards him. Recognizing his touch, the book immediately eased into his hands. The broken clasp coiled tightly round his little finger and the same nervous buzz of excitement rushed into his blood. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he opened it.

  The pages were no longer blank, but covered in minute panels of words that opened like invisible doors the moment his eyes fell on them, leading him into different stories, different languages…each stairwell of paper taking him on a new adventure. Every now and then they froze, stopping in mid-sentence, on the verge of revealing an amazing truth, and he leaped to a new entry. The amount of information was overwhelming. Each page was divided into an infinite number of thin, indestructible membranes.

  And then his heart stopped. Turning over one last luminous page, Blake found what he most dreaded: the black page. It was still there, an ominous bookmark at the heart of the volume. Compared to the wonderful whiteness of the surrounding paper, the purity of its words, this shadow was a chilling, inescapable void — a black hole sucking all the goodness of the book into its absent soul. And at the top of the p
age was the torn corner.

  There was still one piece of the book missing.

  All of a sudden, Blake remembered Duck. He looked up. There was no sign of her at the top of the well.

  Breaking into a cold sweat, he clutched the volume in his hand and scrambled up the ladder as quickly as he could, climbing past the empty shelves, desperately trying to retain his hold on the uneven wooden struts. He slid, exhausted, over the edge of the pit, panting hard.

  "Duck," he whispered. "I've found it! I've found the Last Book! But it's not what we thought…"

  He stopped. There was no response.

  "Duck," he said again, poking his torchlight into the shadows. "You can come out now."

  The room, illuminated only by the faint glow of the Last Book, was empty. He scoured the remaining corners with his torch. Nothing. The books on the shelves and the paper on the floor had vanished. Only a disturbed trail of dust lay on the ground.

  He picked up his knapsack and jacket, which had been flung to the far side of the room, and put them on. He started to hunt for his sister.

  "Duck! Where are you?" he called, his voice a fragile whisper in the dark immensity of the library. Frantically, he checked the other chambers. He found the trail of fingerprints Duck had left on some of the empty shelves and followed them, but there was no sign of her bright yellow raincoat anywhere.

  She was gone.

  ◬

  A few minutes later came a muffled explosion from above: a door slamming far away. The noise echoed through the underground chambers like a popped paper bag.

  Duck!

  Blake raced through the surrounding rooms until he came to the tight, twisting staircase up to the next level of the library. He forced his legs up the sunken stone steps, scraping at the walls with his fingers. He ended up face-to-face with the collapsible bookcase, which someone had hastily, but ineffectually, closed. A pile of books blocked his way.

  "Duck!" he yelled.

  No response.

  He scrambled over the heap of fallen volumes and battled his way through the narrow partition of shelves, scratching his elbows against the sharp metal edges. Pushing the cabinets aside with all his strength, he emerged on the other side.

  The wreckage of furniture was visible nearby and beyond it the battered chair with the lightbulb blazing over the desk. Blake sprinted towards them, then slowed to a crawl as he caught sight of the shadow against the wall.

  The black cloak was gone. In its place hung Duck's yellow raincoat, dangling like a lifeless body from the hook.

  His heart lurched.

  The raincoat looked so small and alien without Duck's cheerful form to fill it and he picked it up uneasily. It felt so light.

  Then he looked down. A coiled notebook lay open on the desk in front of him. A scribbled message waited just for him. The words wobbled before his eyes:

  13:00, Duke Humfrey's Library.

  Bring the book.

  There was no mistaking the author of the message. It was the Person in Shadow.

  25

  There was no time to ask the Last Book for help. A bell shrilled above him, ripping through the stacks, and Blake checked his watch. He had less than fifteen minutes. The library must be closing.

  Duke Humfrey…Duke Humfrey…

  He was sure he'd heard the name before, but where? Where?

  The large machine responsible for sending books up to the reading rooms had grown silent. Unsupervised, its cogs and gears had creaked to a standstill, somehow eerier now they had been suspended than when they were alive. A deathly hush filled the air. Somewhere far above, it suddenly occurred to him, his mother would be packing up her work, completely unaware of the danger her children were in below.

  Duke Humfrey…

  Blake started to run.

  Rows of leather volumes gave way to modern textbooks, which turned into books with bright dust jackets, as he streaked through the stacks. Ahead he could see an endless line of gray cardboard folders. He was on the right track.

  Spying a wrought-iron staircase in the corner, he sprinted towards it and clambered up the tight corkscrew of steps, his feet ringing out on the cold metal.

  And then he remembered: Duke Humfrey…Duck had mentioned it after visiting the bathroom. It was somewhere up the main stairwell. He knew where to go!

  Bursting through the brightly lit tunnel, which connected the entrance of the Bodleian to the stacks, he emerged into the dim corridor just outside the gift shop. The main entrance had been sealed off, closed for another day, and the walls echoed with the lonely sound of his footsteps. No one was around to help him.

  He worked his way up the deserted staircase, climbing the wide wooden stairs. Each step filled him with a chilly sense of foreboding. Would Duck be all right?

  The sight of two regal blue and gold doors, partially open, brought him to a standstill near the top of the stairwell. The Duke Humfrey Library…A fusty smell of learning seeped from the darkness within.

  The chamber was almost exactly as Duck had described it. Thousands of ancient volumes sat on the wooden shelves, set behind thick balustrades. Sturdy ladders climbed to a further tier of books, all crammed beneath a decorated ceiling, covered with scrolls of painted flowers and majestic crests. It looked like a chapel devoted exclusively to reading.

  A porter in a navy-blue suit was clearing a desk in the middle of the room, preparing to lock up. Blake paused on the threshold of the library and then, as soon as the man's back was turned, slid into position behind a banister directly opposite. He squeezed himself between the railing and a bench, which he hoped would shield him from view.

  On the underside of the shelves above him gleamed a constellation of stars, gilded onto a checkered background of red and green squares. Otherwise, the room was thick with shadow. He checked his watch. Only three minutes left. His pulse throbbed wildly as the seconds ticked away.

  Very carefully, he unzipped his bag and put both the Last Book and Duck's jacket, which he had rescued from downstairs, inside. He then sealed the bag and threaded his arms through the straps and gripped them tightly to his back. He would not surrender anything until he knew she was safe.

  Whistling to himself, the porter fetched his keys from the desk, locked the far doors and then started towards Blake's hiding place. Blake shrank even lower and held his breath. He was shaking all over.

  The porter took a last look around the closed-up library, then pulled the doors shut and locked them behind him with a prison-like finality.

  Silence fell.

  The room was eclipsed in darkness.

  All Blake could do was wait.

  ◬

  Minutes dragged by, agonizing in their slowness.

  Then, when Blake could stand the suspense no longer, he heard a metallic quiver thrum the air as an invisible clock chimed the hour. This was followed almost immediately by a tiny, scratching noise at the opposite end of the room.

  He raised his head, alert. A key whispered in the lock.

  The door opened — just a little — and a shadowy form slid into the room. The hooded figure was dressed entirely in black.

  Blake barely breathed.

  The person glanced round the murky room and then drifted on soundless feet towards his hiding place.

  Blake closed his eyes, not daring to look. He hoped that by remaining perfectly still, by shutting out the outside world, he, too, might disappear.

  One thing was clear. Duck was not with the Person in Shadow. They were alone in the ancient library. He had been tricked.

  Crouched like a sprinter, he considered making a mad dash for freedom, hoping to summon help from outside; but then he felt the floorboards beside him stiffen slightly and a black shape fell over him.

  A gloved hand slid silently over the railing near his shoulder and grabbed him by the wrist.

  "Hello, Blake."

  The chilly female voice sent shivers up and down his spine. He know instantly who it was. He looked up.

  "
Isn't this a surprise?"

  Diana Bentley greeted him with a cold smile.

  Blake couldn't bring himself to respond. The sound of her voice, the touch of her glove, both seemed icy now, despite the special butterfly clasp she always wore as decoration and the dark woolen cloak she had draped over her shoulders.

  Blake blinked, confused.

  The butterfly had singed wings, like burnt paper.

  "You should mind your knees," she said, pulling him to his feet. "They'll get dirty."

  He looked down at the hard wooden floor and dumbly rubbed his jeans, which were patched with dust. His clothes were torn and filthy.

  "You poor boy," she murmured. "You really are in trouble. Sneaking into the Bodleian like this. What will your mother think?"

  "She doesn't know," he said miserably, then bit his tongue.

  Diana observed him with mock sympathy. "Ah, I see. You're on your own."

  Blake grimaced, realizing his mistake. "Where's Duck?" he barked.

  "All in good time," she said. "First, where is the book?"

  "I don't know what you mean."

  She locked his arm in a tight, vicious grip and wrenched it behind his back. He yelped, surprised by her strength.

  "Be careful," she warned. "You don't want to make things worse than they already are."

  Her words brought the gravity of his situation home. He stopped struggling.

  "The book," she said again. "Where is it?"

  She levered his arm slowly upwards and he gasped as hot spears of pain shot across his shoulder.

  "My mother," he managed at last, between clenched teeth. "She'll be furious if we don’t turn up soon. She'll go to the police…and…aah!…tell them we're missing."

  He risked a look at Diana, but she seemed unfazed by the remark. She eyed him with steely composure. "What's in your bag, Blake?"

  He squirmed and she jacked up his arm one notch. He winced.

  Blake could feel her fingers spidering along his back and wriggled to prevent her from discovering the book inside his knapsack. Once again, she tightened her grip on his arm and he fought back tears. It was as if her desire to obtain the book had given her superhuman strength — and ruthlessness.