Matthew Skelton: Endymion Spring

Like a hand pressed to my back, the book of dragon skin propelled me towards it.

Careful to ensure I was not followed, I stepped over the knot of roots and tiptoed down the stairs, wrestling with the worm-eaten door at the bottom. With some difficulty, I managed to wrench it open and entered the darkness beyond. The air was as chill as a grave, but virtually dry.

My eyes took time to adjust. Archways led into even colder, dimmer rooms and I ventured into some of these, eventually encountering a dead end where I felt the brown breath of earth close in all around me. Shadows stood guard in the corners; webs grew like moss on the walls. Apart from a few scraps of leather and scrolls of parchment — pickings from the neighboring binderies perhaps — the shelves that lined the walls were bare. Whatever its previous purpose, this barren catacomb was now derelict and abandoned.

In the middle of the chamber was a shallow depression, a font of darkness. On an impulse I took the book of dragon skin from its harness on my back and laid it carefully inside the pit, then covered it quickly with the surrounding dirt, planting it like a seed. It seemed like a perfect hiding place: halfway between the House of God and the new house of learning. In my mind at least, another tree of knowledge began to grow — an amazing tree like the one Coster's granddaughter had first espied, a tree containing all the knowledge in the world.

Hearing Theodoric's worried voice calling me from outside, I wiped the dirt from my hands and emerged into the bright, restless world, blinking away the sudden light. Life went on. Peddlers flogged their wares; masons tapped at their stone; and flies bickered over the ever-growing mounds of dung. Nothing had changed. And yet everything had.

My trembling body felt lighter and freer than it had in ages, as though a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders; but there was also an unexplained emptiness there too, a hole deep inside me, as though I had mislaid a part of my identity. The paper had absorbed my thoughts and feelings for so long, as though it could read my mind.

All of a sudden, I realized that I had not included my own little toolkit with the rest of the dragon skin. The final, completing section of the paper was still in my possession.

My hands delved beneath my cloak, where my fingers brushed against the familiar leather notebook. My name was still printed on its surface, as though it rightfully belonged to me. I did not have the heart to surrender this remaining piece of my story. Not yet. It was my connection to the past, my link to the future. More than anything, it was my voice.

A friendly hand tapped me on the shoulder and the beam of Theodoric's smile fell full on my face and removed any doubt. I patted the little notebook once more, its secret safe with me, and followed Theodoric towards the North Gate and the open doors of St. Jerome's.

This, for now, was my home.

A kiss awoke him.

Blake had been dreaming once again of snow — it settled on top of him like a blanket — but at the touch of a solitary snowflake melting on his brow, he surfaced to find his father sitting beside him, watching over him with tired affection. How had he got there?

Blake blinked, confused.

His father's face was worn and haggard, and there were bags under his eyes. His clothes were creased; but somewhere beneath the stale, ashy scent was the familiar fragrance of home.

It made Blake feel warm and safe. He rolled over onto his side and dozed off again, smiling happily.

A few hours later, he awoke with a start.

Had it all been a dream?

He opened his eyes. At first he was aware of nothing more than a quiet white light, which settled all around him like a pillow. Then his mind started scrambling up a heap of discarded images and he clawed his way back to consciousness. His body ached just enough to remind him that the nightmare had in fact been real.

He took in his surroundings. The bed was thin and hard, like a stretcher, and the starched sheets almost surgically sharp. Blips and bleeps filled the silence. There was also the regular sucking sound of a breathing apparatus — which luckily was not attached to him. Furtively, he brushed his fingers against his nose.

He must be in a hospital.

His parents were sitting near him, nursing him with anxious expressions, while Duck, wrapped in a shiny silver blanket, was watching a doctor administer something to a clear plastic bladder above his head. Liquid dripped into a tube attached to his wrist.

"He'll be all right," the doctor was saying. "We've bandaged his right index finger and stitched the other cuts, but he suffered a nasty blow to the head. We'll keep him in overnight to rule out concussion. He's been through an ordeal."

Blake's head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool. He swallowed back a rising tide of nausea.

"Of course," said Blake's father. "We can't wait to get him home, that's all."

Home …Somehow the word sounded different.

Blake lay where he was, catching glimpses of his family between the curtains of his closed lashes. His father placed a reassuring hand on Duck's shoulder and then gripped his mother — tightly — round the waist. To Blake's astonishment, she was crying.

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—"