Matthew Skelton - Endymion Spring

He paused to rub the ends of his fingers, which were still smeared with the dusky ointment he had used to touch the silver fangs. Peter glanced uneasily at the table, where he had replaced the metal cup. Whatever it contained was slowly filling the room with a noxious odor — a metallic scent like blood.

"You remember that it was Coster's granddaughter who could see the dragon," started Fust, raising a red eyebrow. "Correct?"

Peter nodded.

"And her blood that brought the letters to life?"

Again Peter nodded, but this time with less conviction.

"Don't you see?" erupted Fust at last. "This paper needs a special kind of ink to make its meaning known!"

I felt the color drain from my skin. Peter, too, had turned pale.

"Blood?" he asked tremulously. "Is blood the ink?"

Fust did not answer, but stared into the flames, which writhed and curled like snakes. His eyes were as red as hot coals.

"Just imagine," he said. "This little girl was so innocent, so naïve, it borders on repellent. And yet she — she! — had the power to summon words from a dragon. A power even I do not possess. Yet."

He snapped the final word with his teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"Coster was very crafty in the way he designed this chest," explained Fust. "As soon as he saw the dead creature, he was filled not with desire, but with regret. He realized he'd destroyed one of God's most sacred creatures, a beast invested with everlasting knowledge. Just one spiteful act — to crush his granddaughter's imagination — was enough to rob this fabled creature of its life. And so he made this chest so frightening, so hideous and horrifying, he hoped no man would dare open it. And he topped it off with these perfidious snakes, right from the Garden of Eden."

Peter's mouth hung open. "But how…how did you…" He pointed at the gaping lid of the chest.

Once again, I felt my eyes drawn to that frightful box. Ferocious monsters scowled at me from the engraved panels, while hellish demons wept tears of amber in the firelight. There was cruelty in its construction, but also guilt and remorse, a sadness that touched my heart.

"Up until now, I have attempted to purify my blood with that," said Fust, indicating the cup on the table. "It was enough to deceive the lock, but something is not yet right. Even monksbane is not potent enough to release the words from the parchment. For that I need something stronger.

He waved a blackened finger in the air and, at last, I recognized the smell wafting towards me. Monksbane. One of the metals my Master used to create his special typeface, an element so powerful monks were believed to drink whole quantities of it to purify their souls. Yet, as my Master frequently warned me, in even minimal doses it could be lethal.

Fust shook his head. "No, this paper responds to something else entirely. Something virtuous, honest and true…"

I felt tempted to run upstairs, to crawl beneath my blankets, for I know what terrible truth was coming.

"This paper," said Fust finally, "feeds on children."

Unable to control myself, I recoiled in horror. My head bumped against the frame of the press and the noise thudded in the dim room. With the swiftness of a fox, Fust turned away from the chest and swept his eyes round the furniture, hoping to flush out any unwanted quarry.

I remained where I was, perfectly still, too afraid even to breathe.

As Fust's eyes neared my hiding place, I pressed myself even deeper into its shadow. I feared he was going to drag me out by my heels and feed me to the paper; yet he seemed to shrug off the suspicion and turned back to the fire. He shuddered, as if cold.

It was then that I noticed my toolkit lying on a nearby bench. As inconspicuously as I could, I reached out to grab it and unrolled its soft leather lining. Inside was a row of shiny metal implements and I selected a sharp gouge to defend myself if either Fust or Peter came too near. Concealed beneath the press, I watched and waited.

Fust had gripped Peter now by the shoulders and was whispering something in his ear. I could not tell what he said, but was startled by Peter's reaction.

"Master! What's wrong?" he cried, for Fust had slipped to the floor. An ashen complexion had come over his face and he had started to shiver, as if seized by a fever.

The man clutched his stomach and made an agonizing retching sound. "It's the monksbane," he gasped. "It disagrees with me."

"What should I do?"

"Take me home. Close the chest and take me home. Christina will know the cure."

The mention of Christina's name seemed to spur Peter into action. He rammed the dragon skin into the chest, kicked the lid to, and rushed to his Master's aid. Bending down, he managed to lift Fust awkwardly to his feet and guided him gently towards the stairs. The man reeled like a drunkard.

Just before he left, Peter allowed himself a quick glance in the mirrors lining the walls and checked his reflection. For the first time that night, I saw a genuine smile pass his lips. And then, remembering the monksbane in the cup, he rushed back to toss the remnants in the fire. The flames emitted a choking white cloud and went out.

The room was plunged into darkness.

I remained where I was and listened. When I was certain they would not reappear, I hurried over to the chest.

The room was dark and cold, and I could barely see what I was doing. Only a glimmer of heat still seethed inside the fire. Like a hibernating beast, its red eye glinted at me from a cavern of ash.

The leather toolkit was bunched in my hands and I laid it out beside me. Desperate to see inside the chest, I worked my fingers round the carved panels of the box until I could feel the domed heads of the snakes protecting the lid. My fingers were jittery, but I fought hard to control them. I knew what I must do.

Taking a deep breath, I let my hands slide down the sleek curves of the silver fangs until they reached the tips of the teeth. The points felt sharp, cold to the touch, and I winced as they bit hard into my skin.

Despite all I had seen, I half-expected a rush of venom to seep into me, to lull my senses to sleep, but nothing happened. After the first stab of pain, there was only a strangely cool, comforting sensation as the fangs sipped from my fingers.

Would I be judged pure enough, I wondered, to see inside?

It did not take long for the flow of blood to subside. Following Fust's example, I then slid the teeth together and watched as the snake's head magically disentwined and the lid opened.

The fire sprang to life, and I jumped.

Almost immediately I discovered that the fangs I had feared for so long di not belong to the snakes, but were parts of the dragon — talons that pierced the front of the lid and protruded from the serpents' mouths. The snakes were merely a façade, a deterrent; it was the dragon itself that guarded the chest and all it contained. Its claws had read my fingers — and allowed me to enter.

Emboldened, I dipped my hands into the chest. The top layer of dragon skin felt like a covering of frost-hardened leaves. Tinged green and silver, they were forged together like an invincible plate of armor. I had to remind myself that these were neither leaves nor chain mail, but actual scales! Dragon scales!

My heart knocked against my ribs. How could this be true?

The parchment beneath was glowing softly and I immersed my hands in the billowing sea of material. My fingers dissolved in a pile of paper as cold and soft as snow, yet without its icy sting. My skin tingled. A feeling of overwhelming security flooded into me.

Greedily, I brought up several leaves of parchment and watched as the air buffeted and breathed within them, filling each separate layer with life. I could barely contain my excitement. The membranes were as thin as moth's wings, yet illumined from within by some strange source of light. I was captivated, spellbound.