Blake didn't have the strength to say or do anything; he just pretended to go on sleeping. He was unwilling to open his eyes in case the vision of his family, safe and reunited at last, disappeared.
It was like a dream he didn't want to end.
◬
"Isn't he awake yet?" muttered Duck, sensing some animation behind his eyelids.
"I don't think so," said her father.
"Don't wake him," added her mother.
This didn't stop Duck, however, from approaching and tapping him on the forehead. "Hello in there. Anyone home?"
A vicious pain tore down the side of his head. He moaned.
"Duck!" both parents admonished her, and quickly pulled her away.
"See? I told you he was awake."
Blake's body felt like it had been dismembered and then stitched back together again with barbed wire. Despite the snags of pain, he tried to sit up.
"Hunh?" he grunted groggily as the pain welled again in his head and he sank back down, exhausted.
"Don't move your head, darling."
"Diana Bentley's been arrested!"
"Duck!"
"We're just relieved you're safe, darling. There's plenty of time for you to tell us everything."
Blake shook his head, struggling to make sense of the bombardment of voices. Sounds echoed in his ears.
"But how?" he asked vaguely, feeling sick.
"You rescued me," cried Duck.
"Well, it was the dog actually," stated her mother. "It started barking hysterically and leaping at the library gates. I thought it was rabid at first. The owner was a peculiar man; he kept pointing at the roof, muttering something I couldn't comprehend…"
"It was Alice!" cheered Duck, but her mother took no notice.
"And then, of course, the alarm went off," she continued. "I saw you waving Duck's coat from the top of the tower and struggling with that wretched woman. It was like a scene in a movie, I couldn't believe my eyes."
"Then the police arrived…" Duck fast-forwarded the narrative.
"Yes, they clambered up to the roof to save you," said his mother, "but for a moment I thought Diana Bentley was going to kill you."
"She was," Blake tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat.
To his surprise, his mother started weeping.
"And Dad?" he asked wearily. "How did you—"
He reached out a hand that he couldn't quite control and ended up pointing at the floor.
"I was already on my way here," said Christopher Winters, taking his son's hand and tucking it beneath the covers. "I'd been trying to contact you for days. I missed you."
His story was punctuated by a yawn.
"Besides, I heard from yours truly here" — he patted Duck on the head, who squirmed uncomfortably — "that Prosper Marchand was back in the neighborhood. I couldn't have him maing advances on your mother, so I rushed to the airport, boarded a plane last night and arrived in Oxford early this afternoon…to a chorus of shrieks and sirens. I knew that you and your sister must be up to your usual tricks."
Blake grinned, but was unable to take it all in. "You know Professor Marchand?" he said at last.
His father stiffened slightly and nodded. "He and your mother were once quite an item before I, um, complicated matters."
Juliet Winters shook her head. "What makes you think I would—" she started.
"I just wanted to make sure," he said, meekly wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I missed you…all of you."
"I missed you too," said Blake, with a tired smile. "I'm glad you're here."
"Come now, the boy needs his rest," said another voice from the edge of the room.
Blake craned his neck to see a familiar white-haired figure blocking the door with his giant frame. The movement set off an explosion of fireworks in his head and he winced.
Sensing they needed some privacy, Blake's parents got up. "Excuse us," they said. "We'll step outside for a moment."
"It's good to see you again, Jolyon," added Blake's father privately.
"And you, my boy, and you," murmured the professor.
They dragged Duck after them.
"I know what you're going to say," said Jolyon as soon as the room was clear. Blake focused his intent blue eyes on the man's face. "I was after the book…once. I was as desperate as Diana to get my hands on it."
"She said you broke the clasp."
Jolyon contemplated his thumb for a moment.
"Yes."
Duck, who had managed to sneak back in, gasped.
"Go away!" shouted Blake, but his voice was no more than a husky croak.
Jolyon intervened. "No, no, your sister has a right to hear this too. I'm afraid I've not been entirely honest with either of you."
Duck tiptoed closer. "What happened?" she asked, curious.
"I was jealous of George Psalmanazar," said the professor bleakly. "He found the blank book. We were good friends, but I ruined everything by trying to see inside it for myself. I wanted to solve its riddles."
"Like me," said Duck softly.
The old man did not seem to hear. He had retreated into his own private world of memory. "Yes, the book does that to you," he said. "It makes you greedy for knowledge, for power."
His voice clouded. "I tried to steal it from him," he remembered, "an action I regret to this day. The book must have sensed I was unworthy, for it rejected me and George disappeared shortly afterwards. He remained somewhere near Oxford, I believe, probably to keep an eye on the book, but he never uttered another word to anyone. That is, not until the night of Sir Giles' lecture, when he told me the shadow was getting closer."
Jolyon paused. "I thought he was referring to me," he said, shuffling guiltily, "but I was wrong."
"Diana Bentley wanted it even more than you," said Blake.
"Yes," said the professor, examining the floor. "She desired the Last Book more than anything — anyone — else. She seduced me, she used George and she finally took advantage of Sir Giles' money and influence to try to get her hands on it. The power it contained consumed her."
"But she couldn't find it," said Blake. "At least, not until we came along."
"I'm afraid the book awoke the shadows in us all," admitted Jolyon, broodingly. "Except in you."
Blake's confidence suddenly collapsed. "But, Professor Jolyon, I don’t' know where the book is! I dropped it from the library roof and—"
"Relax," said the professor mildly, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "The book is waiting for you, I promise. It will find you again — once you're ready."
"But how?" asked Blake doubtfully.
"Trust me. You are its rightful guardian, Blake. Endymion Spring chose you for a reason."
Blake shook his head. "I still don't know why," he muttered to himself as a nurse entered the room to tell them that visiting hours were over.
Jolyon heard the boy's last remark and smiled.
"Perhaps you should ask your father," he said mysteriously as he led Duck to the door.
27
Blake was once again in the college library, waiting for his mother.
"What's keeping her?" said his father, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. He glanced at his watch. "It's been an hour."
"You have no idea," said Blake, and together, they started walking up and down the corridors, running their fingers along the books. Christopher Winters peered at the shelves, revisiting old memories, while Blake pondered more recent ones. He couldn't help suspecting the portraits were still watching him — hunting for the book, even in death.
They paused as they came to the central staircase leading up to the gallery.
"Have you seen this?" asked Blake, eager for a diversion. He steered his father up the steps and showed him the illustration of the hunched yellow figure on the monk's knee in the illuminated manuscript.
Christopher Winters smiled. "Oh, yes, Theodoric and I go way back," he said, gazing fondly down at the tonsured monk. "There was a time when I spent most of m
y waking hours studying this book. I had quite a theory about it."
"No kidding?" said Blake, feeling the blood rush through his veins.
"It's all a bit complicated…" His father shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. "You probably wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
Christopher Winters glanced down at his son. "Well, this little yellow figure here almost perfectly resembles another on a coat of arms found in Germany at around the same time. The Gutenberg coat of arms, to be precise."
Blake tried not to show the shiver of excitement that ran through him.
"Scholars have disputed the identity of the yellow figure for years, but how anyone, let alone a monk in Oxford, could know of this enigmatic character is a complete mystery," remarked Christopher Winters. "I've always suspected that there's a direct link between this manuscript and Gutenberg's first printing press in Mainz. I'm not sure exactly how, but if you look closely, you can see that the figure is actually…"
"…a young kid like me," said Blake, with a grin.
His father gawped at him in amazement.
"Exactly," he said, shaking his head slightly.
Blake had tried several times in recent days to explain the strange goings-on to his parents, but until now they both attributed much of his story to his fanciful imagination. They believed Diana had desired an important book he had inadvertently found in a secondhand bookshop. For his part, Blake had been careful to describe the Faustbuch to them, instead of Endymion Spring.
"Yes, he's a young boy like you," said his father, "but with a hunched back, as though he's carrying a heavy burden. There's something on his shoulders."
"Oh no, not this again," interrupted Juliet Winters, joining them from downstairs. In her hand she held a draft of her most recent article, "The Faust Conspiracy," fresh from the printer in her office. Duck was with her and had bent down to stroke Mephistopheles, who arched and curved around her legs — his tail held high like an exclamation mark.
Christopher Winters looked hurt. "You never know," he said. "I might have been right."
Juliet Winters shook her head and led them out.
Duck was giggling.
"Don't listen to your mother," said Christopher Winters privately as Blake followed him down the library steps. "There's a fascinating story that a devil once traveled to Oxford with a strange book of knowledge on his back. I think this could be…"
It was another unseasonably warm day and they decided to take the long way home.
◬
That night, as he was preparing for bed, Blake heard a soft scratching sound outside the house on Millstone Lane. He rushed to the door and looked out.
A bright yellow package lay on the front step: Duck's raincoat. Its sleeves were neatly folded across its chest, but the body was filthy and smeared with dirt after her exertions in the library. Blake wondered if she would ever wear it again. He doubted it.
He scanned the dark, frosty street for a sign of Psalmanazar or his dog, but they were nowhere to be seen. He longed to speak to the man about everything that had happened. Quickly, he picked up the coat and closed the door.
Wrapped inside the sleeves was another object — a book. Blake unfolded them, his heart beginning to pound. Endymion Spring was there, still sealed with his crusty patch of blood. His injured finger, cocooned in gauze, throbbed with the memory.
Carefully, he stroked the leather cover. It didn't look like much, but the book contained the secrets to the whole world. He wasn't sure that he wanted it back in his life — the thought of all it enclosed frightened him — and yet the same exhilarating shudder passed through his skin when he touched it, as though the book were meant exclusively for him.
For the first time, he believed he truly understood his part in the riddle. He was the sun the book kept referring to: the son of two seasons, Christopher Winters and Juliet Somers, temporarily divided and now reunited again. Individually, they knew parts of Endymion Spring 's story — and together, the whole.
He could hear them now, sitting side by side in the lounge, reliving their Oxford days. They weren't talking as much as he had hoped, but there was a different kind of silence between them: a more hopeful one. Blake was beginning to feel more optimistic about the future.
Everything was working out fine, exactly as the first riddle had told him it would. The Order of Things will last forever….
Blake glanced down again at the scuffed leather volume. What more could it tell him?
Almost at his bidding, the solitary clasp came undone and the seal of blood disintegrated like red powder before his eyes. The pages began to flicker. Blake's heart leaped with excitement.
Quickly, he checked on his parents, saw that he was not needed and scrambled up the stairs. "I'm going to bed," he called out hastily, and bolted to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him.
Then, in the privacy of his own room, face to face with the book, he sat down on his bed and considered the Last Book more carefully. Endymion Spring. The name seemed so familiar to him now, like a friend.
Very slowly, he opened the cover….
HISTORICAL NOTE:
The book you are now holding took on a life of its own when a good friend asked me an all-important question: "Who was Endymion Spring?" Until then, Endymion had been "more of a shadow than an actual person, a whisper rather than a voice." I decided to scour the stacks of the Bodleian Library to find out. What I learned next amazed me.
In a crumbly old volume from the sixteenth century, I discovered a long-forgotten secret: the true father of the printing press was not Johann Gutenberg, as most people believe, but Laurens Coster, a Dutch woodblock cutter who chanced upon a magnificent beech tree while walking in a wood near Haarlem. To please his grandchildren, he carved some letters from the bark. When he got home, he discovered that the sap from the blocks had bled into the handkerchief they were wrapped in and left a trace of his handmade alphabet behind. The stain gave him an idea: why not print books using movable pieces of wooden type?
Unfortunately, there was a thief in his midst. On Christmas Eve, while Coster attended Mass, someone broke into his workshop, stole his materials and fled to Mainz, where the felon conspired to set up the "first" printing press with Gohann Gutenberg, a talented goldsmith who chose to cast the type from metal, not wood — a decision that would change the world. The culprit was none other than "Johann Fust."
My pulse started racing. Was this true? I quickly turned to another book, which told a different story. No, Johann Fust was not a thief, but a shrewd businessman who invested a large amount of money in Gutenberg's press. He then dissolved his partnership with the inventor just before the Bible could recoup its costs, sued the man for all he was owed and was awarded the rights to the printer's equipment (as well as the Bible), effectively putting him out of business. Gutenberg disappeared into relative obscurity while Fust and his son-in-law, Peter Schoeffer, spread their names far and wide across Europe…
I turned to another, darker volume. No, Fust was actually "Faust": the German magician who sold his soul to the Devil for all the knowledge and experience in the world. For centuries, the tale inspired many works of literature, including Christopher Marlowe's The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus (1588), and led to a false belief that the press had diabolical origins…
How could there be so many interpretations of the past, so many cases of theft and deception? I picked up another book — a moldering volume by an eighteenth-century printer, Prosper Marchand — but it was riddle with footnotes that clarified nothing and I hastily discarded it. Then I came across a compelling account of the printing press by a mysterious man who had hoodwinked London society into believing he was an exile of a far-off country: "George Psalmanazar." He even spoke a made-up language. Could his version of events be trusted?
I delved further into the stacks, poring over each shelf, reading books at random. And yet there was a voice deep inside me quietly insisting that there was something I wasn't quite seeing, som
e secret that would bring all of these stories together. And that's when I noticed the curious hunchbacked figure on the Gutenberg coat of arms, the peculiar yellow-clad figure that no one has ever been able to explain…I opened my notebook. I suddenly knew the answer to that crucial question. Almost immediately, as if by magic, words started appearing on a blank sheet of paper.
◬
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Document ID: ooofbtools-2012-1-4-14-38-12-233
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 01/04/2012
Created using: ExportToFB21 software
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Endymion Spring Page 26