Endymion Spring

by Skelton-Matthew

  Duck, who had pulled down one of the boxes from a nearby shelf, paused in the process of untying its wrappers to stare at Blake. Then she delved hungrily into the contents of the folder.

  A sorry-looking volume with a bruised leather cover was whirring like a frantic insect inside the cardboard container. It made a dry scuttling sound — like a cockroach — feverishly spinning its pages.

  Startled by the noise, she slammed the box shut and immediately retied the string, gagging the book, but not before the blank book in Blake's hands responded by fanning its pages even more urgently.

  Blake could not believe his eyes. The books were communicating with each other.

  Suddenly Duck hissed in his ear, "Shh! Someone's coming!"

  He clutched the book against his chest, muffling it.

  "Where?" he asked anxiously, straining to catch any sound over the drumlike march of blood in his ears. "I don't hear anything."

  Duck held up a finger.

  Blake heard it too. A series of short, scuffling footsteps, accompanied by a tuneless whistling.

  They crouched even lower and waited.

  Eventually a woman with wild, troll-like hair appeared. She was wheeling a trolley loaded with books down an adjacent corridor, stopping occasionally to shelve them. Fortunately for Duck and Blake, she was wearing headphones that buzzed in her ears like angry bluebottles. No wonder she hadn't heard the commotion.

  The children eyed each other nervously as she approached and then breathed a sign of relief as she passed. Abandoning her still-loaded trolley, she opened the door to the underground passage and disappeared.

  As soon as she had gone, Blake released the blank book and, pinning down its pages with his fingers, whispered, "Please show us where to go, but be quiet, OK? There might be more people in the stacks."

  This time, the paper flickered more slowly and an extra large sheet unfolded in front of him. The veinlike lines he had seen before were visible, but illuminated from within, as though the book were lighting up a path for him to follow.

  So this was it! The marks on the paper were a sort of map.

  He watched as the lines bent and intersected with each other, branching off in unexpected directions, before finally stopping... roughly, he figured, where they were now hiding.

  "So?" Duck breathed in his ear, unable to see the route it was revealing.

  He said nothing, but waited for the paper to disclose the next part of the path. A glimmer of light grew on the page in front of him and unveiled a new section of the library: a narrow line surrounded by a network of shelves. He began to creep in that direction.

  "Hey, where are you going?"

  "Just follow me," he murmured without turning round. "I think it's this way."

  A

  The book guided them through a series of intersecting shelves and a long, poorly lit corridor and then down an iron staircase, which clanged underfoot. Warning his sister to keep quiet, Blake passed through a scuffed wooden door at the bottom and entered yet another iron-grilled chamber full of books.

  This far underground, the air smelled chalky and stale. Some of the books were coated in a fine layer of dust, as though no one had touched or opened them in ages, while others showed evidence of too much activity: bound with string like mummies to prevent their insides from spilling out. The shelves were made from thick black iron and extended into the distance. Scabs of leather littered the floor like the husks of dead insects.

  Duck trailed her fingers along the spines of the books, mapping their path through the ever-deepening library. Inchworms of dust scurried away from her fingertips.

  Blake was beginning to lose all sense of direction. For some time, he had been perturbed by a rusty, creaking noise pursuing them through the stacks. The noise grew louder the further they progressed — like a mechanical snake slithering along the ground. He could feel the hairs on his arms standing up like antennae, sending ripples of anxiety all over him.

  And then he saw it. A huge motorized beast lurked only a few feet away, in an open area in the depths of the library.

  Large, bronze wheels whirled round and round like the tireless cogs of a clock, every now and then propelling thick plastic containers, some loaded with books, along a conveyor belt beside it. The apparatus creaked and moaned, an ancient relic, but was still serviceable: books appeared and disappeared, transported from the stacks up to the reading rooms high above and then back down again.

  "Quick!" said Blake, grabbing Duck's wrist and rushing towards a dark channel between two walls of shelves. "Someone's been here recently."

  A series of footprints, like a dance pattern, lay in the papery dust surrounding the machine.

  Heart pounding, Blake ducked between the rows of book-lined shelves. Cords dangled from the strip lights overhead, tapping him on the shoulder, but he opted to proceed in darkness — unobserved. Keeping his head down, he continued along the narrow passage, guided only by the blank book, which emitted a safe, soft glow.

  Mid-way through the tunnel, he stopped. Books towered above him like an invincible army; shelves crushed against him. Yet for some reason the line in the map had reached a dead end.

  Duck tugged on his sleeve. "What's wrong?"

  Blake crouched on his heels, looking in both directions. "I don’t know. Maybe the book has lost the way."

  Peering into the gloom, he could see a faint pool of light spilling onto the floor. A bare lightbulb blazed above a small wooden desk a short distance ahead. A battered chair with worn wooden arms had been positioned nearby.

  Blake caught his breath. There was a black shape — a shadow — hovering close beside it, pressed against the side of a metal cabinet loaded with books.

  Duck had seen it too. "Who's that?" she whispered, her eyes wide open.

  Blake shook his head and reached out to hold her hand. Barely able to restrain the impulse to flee, he watched the figure closely.

  The shadowy form showed no signs of life. It did not move.

  Blake consulted the book. The map very faintly indicated that the path lay beyond this black figure. He could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his neck. His mouth was dry. He had no choice. He had to edge closer.

  Duck clung to the hem of his jacket. "No, don't," she whined.

  "We have to," he hissed.

  With trembling limbs, he crawled nearer.

  The shape materialized into a black coat — a hooded gown dangling from a hook that had been secured to the side of a metal shelving unit.

  Blake let out a sigh of relief, but his senses were on heightened alert. Someone had been sitting here recently. The leather seat was dimpled. He ran a finger over it. It was warm!

  Wasting no time, he tugged on Duck's sleeve and they raced to the end of the corridor, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whatever specter had been sitting in that chair.

  The book seemed to have regained its focus and pulled them down yet another dark corridor, past a mound of broken furniture and through a series of ever-narrowing shelves, into the heart of the maze. They came face to face with a wall of solid steel. A dead end.

  Blake scratched his head, confused.

  "I don't get it," he said. "The map's pointing straight ahead, but that's impossible." He reexamined the twists and turns on his map, but they all seemed to be leading to this spot.

  "So, what's the problem?" said Duck, moving past him. "Let's just go through it."

  He turned to her in disbelief. "How?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you seen one of these before?" She tapped the steel, which let out a hollow din. Small circular handles, like steering wheels, had been set into the metal barrier at intervals, making the wall resemble a series of bank vaults.

  "It's a collapsible bookcase," she said. "To save space. How else do you think libraries cope with the increasing number of books?"

  She made a great show of rotating the first handle, which released a catch. A sharp metal sound exploded in the air
like a gunshot and he jumped back. Automatically, the other wheels started spinning in a clockwise direction, reminding Blake of a race of scurrying spiders.

  Like someone letting out a deep breath, the units eased open, rolling apart on metal tracks. Numerous parallel shelves, each line with hidden books, opened in front of them — a hall of mirrors, all identical.

  "See?" she said, wiping her hands on her yellow coat. "No problem."

  "OK, so which corridor now?" he asked, irritated.

  "I don't know. You're the one with the book."

  He checked the map. Endymion Spring indicated a passageway next to the wall, in the very corner of the library. It was a tight squeeze, but they could just pass through in single file. They joined hands like paper dolls.

  Sure enough, at the end of the corridor, obscured by a curtain of cobwebs, was an old, unmarked door. A very old one — barely visible against the stone foundation of the library.

  Blake's heart was beating fast: the whole library seemed to shake around him. The book had become agitated, flapping in his hand, almost catapulting itself toward the opening.

  Brushing aside the webs, which clung to his skin like candy floss, Blake cleared the way.

  A stone portal with eroded teeth, just like the one guarding the entrance to the Old Library at St. Jerome's, faced him. He stared at it in stunned silence. It was the ghost of a door, half-sunken in the floor.

  Duck gripped him by the sleeve.

  "I don't like this," she said, her voice a pale whisper. "I don't think we should go any further."

  Blake's hand was already on the door, propelled there more by the book than his own courage. "Don't worry. Endymion Spring is with us," he said, trying to sound brave.

  With trembling fingers, he turned the skeletal handle. It twisted in his hand with a brittle, bone-dry click. Very slowly the door opened.

  A breath of fetid air rushed out to greet him and a million goose bumps erupted over his skin at once. The passage oozed a damp, cold, earthy scent that clogged his nostrils.

  Nervously, he peered into the void.

  A spiral staircase descended steeply away from him, curling into darkness. A few moss-mottled stone steps, that was all. He could see no further.

  He wanted to run away, but the book was drawing him closer, pulling him irresistibly into the shadow, its silver pallor extinguished by the suffocating dark. He needed more light.

  Then he remembered.

  Patting the front of his jacket, he soon found what he was looking for: a cylindrical object tucked into one of his pockets. His torch. He'd forgotten to remove it after his incident in the college library.

  He grinned and pulled it out, struggling to hold both the book and the light at the same time. Duck's face was a moon of fear beside him.

  He turned back to the hole and watched as the thin beam of light tumbled down the ancient steps. Even now, he could not see the bottom.

  "Great, another spiral staircase," he muttered, feeling Duck clinging to his elbow. Her eyes were wet.

  With a shiver, he stepped into the shadow. It was like wading into a moonlit pond; the dark came up to his waist, like very cold water.

  "Don't," squeaked Duck, her voice small and fragile. "I don't want to go down there. It's not funny anymore."

  She hung on to him tightly, pinching his skin.

  "Come on," he grumbled. "We have to!"

  The book was dragging him down, pulling at him like a weight. He was sinking into darkness.

  "It'll be OK," he tried to reassure her. "I'll protect you."

  His voice cracked and he fought hard to keep back the fear scratching at his throat. He reached out to support her, but her sweaty hand eluded his.

  "No, I don't want to," she said again, backing away. Tears slid down her cheeks.

  "Look," he said. "I don't like this any more than you do, but we have no choice. The Last Book is nearby; I can feel it. It wants us to find it."

  "I'm scared."

  "I know, I am too," he confessed, "but I swear I won't let anything happen to you." The darkness was seeping up his legs, chilling him. His teeth were rattling. They had to keep moving. "We'll be OK as long as we stick together."

  Duck's bottom lip quivered, but eventually she nodded. She edged closer to the stairwell like a little kid dipping her foot in a pool. She clung to the hood of Blake's jacket, nearly choking him.

  Together they stepped into darkness.

  24

  The staircase spiraled steeply down before it gave way to an uneven, earthen floor. A damp mossy smell filled the air. For a moment it seemed to Blake that they had stumbled into a graveyard, a reliquary for dead or forgotten books. Endymion Spring's bones might be hidden nearby, he thought with a shiver.

  Apart from a frail shaft of light falling like a veil from the pages of the open book in his hand, the chamber was thick with shadow. He swept the beam of his torch around the room, chasing away layers of darkness. Ancient pillars supported a low, rounded ceiling from which cobwebs dangled like sticky chandeliers. All around him were open chests, like plundered tombs. Rudimentary shelves lined the walls, but these had cracked and splintered centuries ago. Most of their contents had spilled to the ground.

  Everywhere Blake looked there were books: ghostly white volumes in plain wrappers that gradually began to emit a faint silver glow — like the pages in Endymion Spring. Quires of paper filled the chests, while heavy reams, too large to pick up, lay on worn plinths, shrouded in dust. It was more likely a crypt than a library.

  Black doorways gaped at intervals, ready to receive them. Blake peered into the deeper, darker rooms, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They were surrounded by a honeycomb of cell-like chambers.

  Duck had lifted one of the large folios. "It's blank," she muttered as she let it fall. Instantly, a dusty detonation filled the neighboring rooms and a lisp of paper passed through the air. Endymion Spring, the sheets seemed to whisper in an unearthly refrain.

  Blake whirled round, startled. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated.

  Shakily, he held out the blank book in front of him and used its lantern-like light to guide him. It was more effective than his torch; it picked up a trail of scintillating paper on the floor.

  Duck followed, unconsciously leaving fingerprints like bird tracks on the books and shelves she touched.

  The rooms were all alike: lined with blank books that seemed to be waiting for someone to fill them with words. The whole library appeared to be watching, waiting for Blake to find the Last Book. He felt incredibly small and insignificant in comparison. He shrank against the walls.

  As if responding to his growing sense of uneasiness, the book jittered in his hand and fell to the ground. Its comforting light went out. The room was plunged into sudden darkness.

  Duck's fingers clawed at him. "Blake!" she screamed, her voice reverberating against the shelves in a shrill shriek.

  Frantically, Blake swung his torch around the chamber, tyring to locate the blank book.

  There it was. A small square of leather lying against the endless reams of fine white paper. He reached down to pick it up.

  His heart leaped into his throat. The book opened not to the map he had been following earlier, but to the black partition in the center of the volume.

  The ghostly message was still there, but it had changed — ever so slightly. His blood ran cold.

  His torchlight trembled over the awful words:

  Suddenly, the shadows seemed more menacing, more terrifying, and he began to run.

  Blindly, he dashed through the surrounding rooms, no longer following the map in the book, but a path of his own devising. "Come on," he yelled, grabbing Duck's hand.

  "What did the book say?" she squealed, struggling to keep up.

  He didn't answer, but pulled her after him, rushing headlong into the darkness. He made desperate detours, turning first one way and then another, past rows of silent, watchful, waiting books. His torchlight scrabbled over the walls
.

  The riddle he had seen a couple of days ago flashed through his mind:

  The Sun must look the Shadow in the Eye

  Then forfeit the Book lest one Half die...

  Its meaning seemed even more sinister down here in the dark depths of the library.

  Gradually, there was a change in their surroundings. A luminous chamber shone just ahead of them — a beacon in the distance. Or a trap. Blake didn't have time to think. The blood screeched through his body. He raced towards the light.

  A faint tittering noise, like rustling leaves, started up again around him, urging him on, and his pulse quickened. This must be the way. The books were communicating with each other.

  He burst into the light-filled room and came to an abrupt halt. There was no other exit. A circle of book-lined walls surrounded him. Only a deep hole in the ground opened at the center of the chamber: the source of all the light.

  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.