Matthew Skelton - Endymion Spring

"Excellent!" said the visitor. He spat on his palm and extended it towards my Master, who took it rather more hesitantly in his own.

They shook.

"I shall get Helmasperger, the notary, to draft an agreement in the morning. Until then, I bid you farewell."

Peter took a few steps to waylay him, but Fust was impatient to be off. "I am sure that Gutenberg will have some bread and beer for you," he snapped. "After all, he is no longer quite the…pauper…he was."

Peter appealed, but to no avail. Without another word, Fust swept out of the house, while my Master, overcome by sudden tiredness, asked me to see that our guest was fed and made to feel at home. There was not enough room in the dormitory upstairs, so Peter would have to make do, like me, by bedding down before the fire. Herr Gutenberg bade us both goodnight and retired to his private bedchamber, with the mound of gold stacked heavily in his hand.

While I prepared my cot, Peter strutted around the workshop, picking up pieces of equipment for the surrounding benches and testing their weights in his hand. He then gave the handle of the press a forcible yank, scraping the flat wooden plate against its marble bed.

Finally, he contented himself with the mirrors along the walls. Muttering to himself, he paced back and forth like a peacock, admiring his reflection. He had a handsome face — penetrating eyes, thick brows and the makings of a beard.

He obviously took pride in his appearance, for among the hand-copied books and writing instruments we carried in from the sledge were several pouches and horns full of ointment and dried herbs. He ran a finger across his teeth with a paste of powdered sage and pinched a few spots before settling down on a bed of blankets by the fire. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

I watched and waited and then, when I was certain he would not stir, padded lightly over to the chest and knelt beside it. The remaining firelight picked out yet more ghoulish shapes from its sides. Red shadows flickered over the two snakes, which courted and kissed, coming together in a seductive embrace.

Detecting a vague rustling movement inside the box, I placed my head closer to the lid. Something was alive within it! A soft sound, like a breeze, whispered in my ears.

Cautiously, I ran my fingers along the bumps and warts of wood until my hands collided with the snakes. My heart, a cannon of excitement, drowned out Fust's previous warning and I coiled my fingers round the cool metal domes of their heads. Carefully, I tried to prize them apart — avoiding the fangs, which looked sharp enough to bite.

Nothing happened.

There were no catches or springs to release the locking mechanism. The lid was clamped shut. There was no way in.

All the same, I could hear the faint hissing sound inside, beckoning me closer.

The fire snapped suddenly beside me and I jumped.

The movement must have disturbed Peter, for he murmured in his sleep and reached a slumbering hand to catch me…but it was the name Christina on his lips and not mine, and he was quickly asleep again. His breathing deepened into a piglike grunt.

Nevertheless, I could not risk incurring the wrath of Fust so soon. His presence seemed to linger in the house like a menacing shadow, a suspicion I couldn't shake off. Remembering the strange way he had looked at me, as though I and not Herr Gutenberg were now the object of his quest, I returned to my cot and lay for some hours awake, my mind full of restless, moving thoughts.

What, I wondered, lay inside the chest?

Finally, the thief of sleep overtook me and, like the snow falling outside, dreams began to settle.

Blake glanced at his watch and let out a small, exasperated sigh. What was taking her so long? His mother had promised to be ready more than half an hour ago. He started drumming his fingers along the books in the college library. What should he do now?

He had already climbed the rolling ladders in the Mandeville Room and used the metal tracks along the shelves to propel himself from one bookcase to another. The he had taken down the largest, heaviest volumes he could find and placed them on a desk near the window so he could look through them properly. The letters in the stone-colored paper had reminded him of fossils and he'd run his fingers over the vertebrae of words for a while before closing the covers. Most of the books were written in languages he couldn't understand and he'd given up trying.

Next, he'd spun the globe near the door and searched for a sign of his hometown. He couldn't find it anywhere. North America was just a featureless blob with a few rivers traversing its plains — like cracks in the varnish. Where the Great Lakes ought to be, the mapmaker had planted a forest of tepees and drawn a solitary buffalo. This, he realized, was about as close to home as he would come for the next few months…

He sighed.

Leaving the room, he now tried to calculate the number of books in the library. There must be tens of thousands, he guessed, scanning the shelves around him: a lifetime's reading stacked from floor to ceiling, extending in both directions.

He trailed his fingers along the spines, expelling little clouds of dust in the air as he walked.

Passing the office door with paula richards librarianstenciled neatly on its white surface, Blake paused to listen. He could just make out the rise and fall of his mother's voice on the other side. She wasn't angry, just forceful — used to getting her own way.

A visiting academic in Oxford for one term, she spent most of her time in the Bodleian Library, one of the largest collections of books in the world, and needed someone to keep an eye on her two children. She was busy negotiating a new arrangement with the librarian, who was fast becoming their babysitter.

Blake checked his watch — thirty-six minutes — and sighed.

He tried walking backwards now, tapping the books in reverse order, to see if this would help pass the time.

A series of stern-looking portraits glared down at him from the walls. Like magicians, they were dressed in dark capes and had sharp, pointy beards. Elaborate ruffs, like squashed chrysanthemums, burst from their collars. The older men had jaded eyes and tortoise-like skin, but there were also a few pale-faced boys like himself. He glanced at their nameplates: Thomas Sternhold (1587-1608); Jeremiah Wood (1534-1609); Isaac Wilkes (1616-37); Lucius St. Boniface de la Croix (1599-1666). Each man was holding a small book and pointing to a relevant passage with a forefinger, as though reminding future generations to remain studious and well-behaved.

Blake disregarded their frowns of disapproval and continued running his fingers along the books, rapping the spines with the back of his knuckles.

All of a sudden, he stopped.

One of the volumes had struck him back! Like a cat, it had taken a playful swipe at his fingers and ducked back into hiding. He whisked his hand away, as though stung.

He looked at his fingers, but couldn't see anything unusual. They were smeared with dust, but there was no obvious mark or injury on his skin. Then he looked at the books to see which one had leaped out at him, but they all seemed pretty ordinary, too. Just row upon row of crumbly old volumes, like toy soldiers in leather uniforms standing to attention — except that one of them had tried to force its way into his hand.

He sucked on his finger thoughtfully. A thin trail of blood, like a paper cut, was forming where the book had nicked his knuckle.