Endymion Spring

by Skelton-Matthew

  A playful, grateful smirk crossed his face and he nodded.

  She smiled. "Just promise me not to disappear again, OK?" she said, planting a coffee-scneted kiss on his forehead.

  "OK, I promise," he said automatically. "Thanks for the book."

  "You're welcome."

  Duck was straining to see the cover, but stuck out her tongue when he showed her the title. "I've already read it," she said. "I could ruin the ending for you, if I wanted."

  His mother was now telling Jolyon about her time in the library. "I thought Oxford would have progressed into the twenty-first century," she said lightly, "but I see it still takes days for the books you most want to reach you from the stacks. At least they have CD-ROMS and e-mail terminals in the reading rooms."

  The way she described it, the Bodleian sounded like an enormous labyrinth of books. Built hundreds of years ago, the library housed millions upon millions of volumes, many of which were stored on miles of shelving below the ground. He could imagine tunnels worming beneath the city streets like tree roots, each full of rare, dust-covered books.

  "Can we go down there one day and take a look?" he asked excitedly. "I'd love to see where the books are stored."

  "Absolutely not," she answered with mock severity. "They'd be furious if someone entered the stacks without permission. Especially a young boy without a reader's ticket. It's strictly off-limits."

  She glanced at him and he smiled back. It really was as if things were back to normal: not just the way they were before last night, but before the Big Argument. She hadn't seemed so relaxed, so young, in a long time.

  For a moment even the thought of the Last Book slipped his mind and he yawned. His jaws stretched open like a rubber band... and then snapped shut again.

  Without warning, he remembered her rendezvous with Prosper Marchand. Suddenly he felt anxious and suspicious. Was this the reason for her good mood?

  Duck was swinging her legs like restless pendulums, eager to be off. Her mother noticed and glanced at her watch.

  "Well, I suppose it's time we headed back," she excused herself. "Thanks again for looking after them, Jolyon. I know they can be quite a handful."

  "No, no," said the professor. "We've had a most interesting time. Most enlightening."

  Duck got up quickly and hurried down the stairs, but Jolyon reached out a hand and patted Blake once on the shoulder in farewell: a silent communication, which Blake understood well. It was an invitation to return to the Old Library, if or when he needed help. He wasn't alone in this mystery.

  He nodded tacitly in response.

  Before they left the college, his mother stopped at her office to print an article she was writing: "The Faust Conspiracy." While the printer churned out endless reams of paper, Blake took the opportunity to send an e-mail to his father. He wasn't sure what to say. There weren't enough words to describe everything that had happened. Too many thoughts crowded his mind. At last he wrote:

  Things OK. Mum bought me a book

  I geuss I'm in her good books

  Again. ;-) I miss you. Write soon.

  LOve, Blake

  His fingers stiffened as he felt his mother reading over his shoulder. He was considering whether to mention anything about Endymion Spring, just in case his father had heard of him, but decided for now to keep the secret to himself.

  "It's g-u-e-s-s," she pointed out, correcting his spelling.

  "I know," he lied, and backspaced over his typo to change it. Annoyed, he thought about adding a note about Prosper Marchand, but decided against it. No one liked a tattletale.

  As soon as his mother's back was turned, he entered a hasty postscript: "I wish you were here."

  It was no better than a postcard, but at least his father would know he was thinking of him. He clicked the send icon and imagined the message arriving almost simultaneously on a computer screen thousands of miles away. Somehow, it only made the distance seem greater.

  A

  Blake discovered the reason for his mother's good mood once they returned to Millstone Lane

  . The university had accepted her proposal to prolong her research trip. She would be remaining in Oxford for an extra term after Christmas.

  "Now I can finish researching my book," she said excitedly. "This will really boost my career."

  Blake didn't respond. He ran upstairs and barricaded himself in his room, slamming the door behind him and sitting on his bed with his back firmly against the wall. He stared at the bars of his prison. Where did this leave him? Was he supposed to go back to his father or stay in England with his mother?

  Home... the word didn't seem to mean much anymore.

  He wondered how Duck felt, but she'd retreated to her own room almost as soon as they'd got in too. She was probably sulking about the present he'd been given. Well, let her sulk, he thought. The book now seemed like a bribe, a trick, an attempt to make him forget about missing his dad. He didn't want to read it anymore. Ruthlessly, he flung it across the room and watched as it crash-landed near the bin. Its cover bent back-wards like a broken wing an some of the pages crumpled. He stared at it through a wall of tears.

  How could he have been so stupid? He should have known better than to trust his mother. She only cared about one thing: her work.

  Everything was back to normal.

  A

  For a second night in a row, Blake could not sleep. Arms folded across his chest, he sat on his bed, brooding.

  Outside, rain lashed against the window and he watched while the trees rocked and buffeted in the wind, bullied by the storm. Each gust sent a fresh marathon of fallen leaves scudding across the street. Large, angry shadows swept across the walls of the room, across the ceiling, occasionally slapping him on the face. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks.

  It was past midnight. An hour ago, he had heard his mother creeping along the landing to Duck's door, which she'd opened briefly, and then across to his own. Blake had mapped her movements in his head. He could sense her standing on the opposite side of the door, only a few feet away, but a whole world apart.

  "Go away!" he'd wanted to shout, willing her not to enter, but at the same time he yearned for her to check on him, to comfort him and tuck him in like a little boy. In the end she had withdrawn to her own room, making him feel even more isolated and miserable than before.

  There had been only one other occasion like this. The Day of the Big Argument. It had been a Friday, the start of a long weekend, and he had planned to spend it gloriously, doing nothing; but both his parents had arrived home hours before him and were standing in the kitchen, glaring at each other. He could sense an unspoken hostility in the air between them — like a storm about to break.

  And then, all of a sudden, it had started.

  With a thunderous roar, his mother had snarled at his father, spitting an obscenity he had never heard her use before, her mouth ripped open with rage. Accusations flew across the room like bullets, ricocheting off the walls, landing in the furniture. He and Duck had dived for cover. The air had seemed fragile, like glass. Breakable.

  Some of his friends had single parents and for a while he had wondered whether this was it: his parents' own D-Day. He'd plugged his fingers in his ears, trying to block out the possibility. He couldn't bring himself to think the word: Divorce sounded almost as final, as fatal, as Death.

  And then there had been the eerie silence afterwards, when his parents had run out of things to say. They'd walked around the house, their eyes swollen, as though they had been boxing, not shouting; but it was Blake who had felt bruised and battered all over.

  Finally, the telephone rang, exploding into the silence. That's when Duck had got up to fetch her raincoat, the one she hadn't taken off since.

  He glanced at the door of his dark Oxford bedroom. He ought to check on her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd asked her how she felt. Perhaps she was asleep, unaware that the world was falling apart?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpse
d the paper dragon on his bedside table, where he'd placed it for safekeeping. He'd almost forgotten about it. But there it was: reminding him of his mission. He had to find Endymion Spring.

  But really, he didn't now where to begin.

  Once again, he felt the inclination to unfold the dragon, to see if it contained any secret information; but it was too lovely to destroy. Besides, he was too tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. His head was full of drowsy thoughts, none of which seemed to make sense.

  He reached out a hand and switched off his bedside light, then slowly settled back in bed. The sound of the storm lashing outside the window began to lull him to sleep.

  Through half-closed eyes, he peered at the window. He could hear rain tapping against the glass like restive fingers and saw a tree swaying rhythmically in the wind at the foot of the garden. He watched it for a while, mesmerized by its movements. Gilded by street lamps, the leaves shook and shimmered — like a golden dragon preening itself in the wind.

  He smiled to himself. Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, he thought sleepily, his eyes closing still further. He could see its outline beginning to take shape: pointy leaflike ears; horny snout; strong black wings, furled back like branches. Each leaf could be a scale and that black space, there, an eye. There was even a thin, plated tail descending from the lowest branches like a sprig of ivy.

  Yes, there could be a dragon in that tree, preparing to spread its wings and fly away. It stretched and tossed and groomed itself in the wind. At any moment, it might breathe a jet of autumnal fire and soar into the sky.

  But before he knew for certain, he was asleep.

  Mainz

  Spring 1453

  I awoke from an uneasy slumber.

  Peter lay on his back beside me, his hands cupped thoughtfully across his chest. Sculpted by the moonlight, he resembled one of the figures entombed in the cathedral on the opposite side of the city, a model of calm and repose. Yet, despite his outward composure, his mind was a hive of activity, busily concocting a plan to get me — and the dragon skin — as far away from Mainz as possible.

  We could hear Fust prowling like an animal downstairs, riffling through the contents of the chest, which I had opened a short time earlier. I wondered if he'd found the dormant words written in my blood.

  "You don't realize what you've done," grumbled Peter at last, filling the room with a menacing rumble of words like thunder.

  I pretended to sleep, but he thumped me in the small of the back. I turned over and was surprised to find that his eyes were moist with tears. He was genuinely afraid, but whether for my well-being or his own, I could not tell.

  "There'll be no stopping him. You — the paper, whatever you've done to it — you've ruined everything. You're not safe."

  I looked at him, frightened.

  "Fust knows," he said. "He cant see the words properly yet, but they're there; he's sure of it. He says you've done something to prevent the skin from unleashing its potential. But he'll figure it out soon, believe you me. And then you'll be in danger. We all will."

  He was silent for a moment, as if considering the awful truth he had to say. "It's not only the knowledge he's after, but the power. He wants to be like God and will side with the Devil until he gets there. Nothing will stand in his way. Not even me."

  I could hear the hurt and disillusionment in his voice and realized that he, too, had been duped. Fust had used him. He had feigned his sudden fit of fever to get Peter out of the room, so that I would creep out of my hiding place and unlock the chest. He had known that I was there all along and had carefully shown me what to do. It had been a test and I had walked right into it — like a fool!

  "You'll have to leave," said Peter then, using the words I least wanted to hear. I cringed at the thought. I didn't want to be orphaned yet again.

  Peter could read the helpless appeal in my eyes. "You have no idea what Fust will do," he tried to convince me. "He'll use other children — not just you — to release the words in the paper... if that's what it takes. Anything to achieve power. You must go and take the whole damned skin with you! It's the only solution."

  I was trembling now — and not just from cold.

  Unable to lie still, I got up and crept over to the dormitory window, which was set high in the wall. I stood on a stool and gazed out over the peaceful, sleeping city. Even though spring had arrived, a trace of winter still silvered the tops of the surrounding houses at night. Roofs sloped towards the cathedral like frosty waves rearing against a cliff. Mainz, I realized, had always been my home. I had no desire to leave it.

  "The dragon skin can be neither burned nor destroyed," said Peter, musing aloud. "He's shown us that much already. So we need to hide it somewhere Fust will never go, somewhere he can't follow. But where?"

  I glanced back at Peter, who was staring up at the joists of the ceiling. He noticed me watching him, shivering in my nightshirt, and in sympathy lifted the covers to allow me close. I tiptoed back to the bed and huddled next to his warm, protective body. He had become a brother to me.

  "I'll help Herr Gutenberg with the Bible," he promised, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders and rolling on his side, "but you must leave, the sooner the better. We'll figure out where. Perhaps after Frankfurt... Until then, I'll protect you."

  He yawned. Despite my predicament, he could not keep his eyes open and was soon asleep, leaving me even more worried and desolate than before. I listened to the sound of his breathing, which rose and fell in steady waves. Even now, he was drifting into another world, a land of dreams, where I could not follow.

  Peter had Christina. Herr Gutenberg had the press. Where, I wondered, did this leave me?

  To comfort myself, I reached out to make sure that the toolkit was safe beneath the straw mattress, where I had concealed it a short while ago. A judder passed through me as my fingers once again brushed against the snow-soft sheets of dragon-skin. I was soothed by a momentary feeling of calm.

  What I didn't realize was that the skin was already preparing itself for the long journey ahead. The paper was slowly stitching itself into the leather cover of my toolkit and another set of dragon's claws was magically coiling round the front edges of the bundle like a lock, guarding its precious secret.

  I had opened a book that could not be closed, started a story that had no obvious conclusion. It was a tale in which I wanted to play no part. Yet Peter was right: I had to go.

  The only question was... where?

  A

  The answer came a few days later.

  Frankfurt was teeming with people. Heavy boats lay at anchor in the choppy river, bringing merchants from far abroad, while traders and journeymen thronged the muddy roads leading to the city walls and blocked the gates with their wagons and carts. Weighed down with bundles of wood and straw, peasants and artisans trudged across the bridge from the surrounding countryside to set up stalls in the cobbled squares. Oblivious to it all, clergymen and patricians waded through the streets like dainty birds among the common sparrows, showing off their finery.

  Peter gazed at them longingly. "One day, I shall be able to afford a cloak like that," he whispered as a wealthy nobleman strolled past in a bright green robe trimmed with rabbit fur.

  Everywhere, people flocked towards the Town Hall — a string of tall gabled buildings in the old quarter, close to the market. Banners and pennants flapped from the walls and bells clanged in the spires in a joyous celebration, summoning pilgrims to church before letting them loose on the fair.

  Downstairs, in the large stone hall, goldsmiths, silversmiths and craftsmen of every description were preparing their booths. Among the displays of Bohemian glass, Italian oils and Flemish cloth were brooches, rings and salt cellars wrought from the finest metals. The selection was astounding. I had never seen such riches.

  Peter loitered by the drapers' stalls, looking like a smitten lover as he trailed his fingers along the bales of linen, brocade and silk. A purse of crushed crimson velv
et eventually took his fancy — a present for Christina — and he stroked it like an exotic animal before finally parting with the coins to buy it. It cost nearly everything he had.

  "That must prove I love her," he remarked as I strolled past.

  I preferred the aromas wafting from the far reaches of the hall and wandered over to the savory corner where bronze-skinned merchants had set up a foreign coastline of fruits and fragrances. Horns, sacks and pouches full of ginger, saffron, aniseed and almonds lay next to the stickiest dates from northern Africa, which clung to the roof of my mouth as I chewed them.

  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.