Endymion Spring Read online

  Endymion Spring

  by

  M a t t h e w S k e l t o n

  WHAT SORT OF BOOK IS THIS?

  Blake turned over one page, and then another and another, looking for a way into the story, but he couldn't find one. There were no words to guide him — only a series of black pages that led like a spiral staircase into the unknown. He let his mind follow them for a while, wondering where they would go, but they seemed to be leading nowhere, over and over again.

  He felt disappointed an yet exhilarated too, as though he had embarked on a quest to find something. But what was he looking for? And how would he know when he found it? He was just an ordinary boy who wasn't particularly good at reading. And yet he felt certain that the more he explored, the deeper he delved, the more likely he was to uncover something — some secret encoded in the paper perhaps — that would lead to an even greater discovery.

  But how, he wondered, could anyone read a blank book?

  In the end, he closed the volume and returned it to the shelf, little realizing that the story was already writing itself...

  Johann Fust arrived on a cold winter's night. While most of the city slept under a mantle of softly falling snow, he bribed the sentries to open the Iron Gate near the river and advanced, unobserved, through the streets. A young man hauled a heavy sledge behind him.

  Even in the white-whirling darkness, Fust could see the bulk of the cathedral looming over the other buildings inside the city walls. The turrets, made from rich red sandstone, were an attractive rose color by day, but by night they formed a vast mountain range, steeped in shadow. He glanced at them through narrowed eyes, but kept his distance, sticking to the walls of the half-timbered houses in which the noble patricians lived.

  All around him were heaped-up smells: the fug of wood smoke, the tang of straw, not to mention the stink of human sewage, which even the snow could not mask. Occasionally, pigs squealed as they wrestled for warmth in their pens, but otherwise there was just the slithering sledge behind him.

  Fust waited for the boy to catch up.

  Peter, dogging his master's heels, paused to wipe the snow from his brow and mitten his hands under his armpits. He was so cold! Fust might have the luxury of a full-length cloak, thick gloves and laced boots, but his own leggings were too thin to withstand the severe pinch of winter. Worse, his low-cut shoes were no match for the mounting snowdrifts, which sent ice crystals avalanching down to his ankles. All he wanted was a fire to warm his body, food to fill his belly and a bed to rest his weary limbs.

  He gazed at the wooden signs hanging above him in the gloom — the stuffed pigs and wheat sheaves suggestive of inns and bakeries — and longed for the journey to be over.

  "Not far now, Peter," said Fust, as if reading his thoughts. "We're almost there."

  Letting out a long silver breath, Fust cut across an empty square towards the lanes and alleys that crisscrossed behind the market like fractured glass. His footsteps scrunched the snow.

  Peter did not move. Each of his muscles was mulishly reliving the agonies of the trip. From Paris, they had tramped to Strasbourg and then, not finding what they sought, headed northeast towards Mainz, on the banks of the River Rhine: a journey of almost four hundred miles. They had avoided the obvious river routes — the vineyards on the surrounding hills were too exposed, the towns too meddlesome — but kept to the hooded woods and vales, which were nearly impassable this winter. Peter did not believe in spooks or specters, both of which were rumored to dwell off the beaten track, but he was disturbed by Fust's constant need for secrecy. What was the man not telling him?

  Peter cupped his hands over his mouth and blew into them, hoping to ignite a spark of feeling in his fingertips. Surely they were meant for finer things than this! Little more than a month ago, he had been studying at one of the most distinguished libraries in Europe — the Library of St. Victor in Paris — where he was learning the art of calligraphy from the best scribes. He had developed a fine, graceful penmanship and was proud of his achievements, copying missals and other religious books by hand. He like to think that he wielded the quill with the finesse of a sword — drawing ink, if not blood.

  But then Fust had arrived, changing everything.

  A ghost from the past, Fust had promised Peter riches, power — anything — so long as he fulfilled a few simple tasks and chose to follow. He even pledged the hand of his daughter, Christina, in marriage in return for the boy's allegiance. How could he refuse?

  Peter spat on the ground and scowled into the night, rubbing the spots where the blisters had formed on his hands. A rope had been looped around his waist and secured to the sledge behind him, which, like an ox, he had to drag through the snow. It was his yoke, his burden; his part of the agreement. Peter Schoeffer of Gernsheim was no better than a beast.

  As if the provisions and blankets weren't heavy enough, there was a formidable chest to lug around. Loathsome monsters were engraved on its wooden panels, scaring away even his inquisitive fingers. Still more frightening were the two snakes, cast from black metal, which twisted round the lip of the lid. Their heads were entwined so as to form an ingenious lock. One false touch false touch, Fust warned, and their fangs would release a poison so venomous it would paralyze him forever.

  Peter shuddered. Could this be true?

  Fust spoke mostly in riddles, partly to bewitch the boy, but also to safeguard his secret. Inside the chest was a material so rare, so exquisite, he suggested, that it would bring the whole world within the scope of their hands. It held an eye to the future and a tongue to the past. All they required was a means of harnessing it, a way of reading its prophecies in the form of a living, breathing book. That was why Fust needed Peter...

  Peter shook his head. Now they were nearing the end of one journey, and beginning the next, he was having second thoughts. What if this book was a mistake — like Eve's decision to bite the apple, an attempt to gain forbidden knowledge? What if he was putting his very soul in jeopardy? Servitude in life was one thing, but eternal damnation another!

  Sensing Fust waiting for him by the mouth of one of the alleys, Peter muttered an oath, strained against his harness and began once more to drag the heavy load behind him. He grunted like a workhorse. There was no turning back. His choice had been made.

  The snow, falling more thickly now, swiftly and silently filled their tracks so that no one rising early the next morning could tell from which direction they had come or where they had gone. Instead, the citizens of Mainz opened their eyes to a pristine world: a glittering, snow-covered city that hid the mounds of dung from view. They were too dazzled by the spectacle, the surface of things, to sense the peril that had arrived under the cover of darkness.

  Only I knew differently...

  A

  As usual I was peering up at the moon from the small casement window in the workshop on the corner of Christophstrasse. Despite the snow, its pocked face shone through the clouds and I watched, mesmerized, while snowflakes fluttered blackly against its luminescence before settling on the ground in drifts of perfect white — a stunning alchemy. Above, the rooftops rose the shadow of the cathedral, as watchful as heaven.

  My Master had not noticed the dip in temperature nor the diminishing light, but was absorbed in the finicky craft of invention. The other workmen had retired for the night to the dormitory at the top of the house, but he had pulled a stool closer to the fire and was busy tinkering with a complex piece of metal. Using a sharp tool, he scraped away tiny scrolls of brass from the edges of a mold.

  A perfectionist, he was making ever more minute alterations to the equipment so that each piece of type he created would transfer exactly the right amount of ink to the paper he had imported from the mills upstream. Barr
els of ordinary stock were stored beneath the stairs, while finer reams of rag paper from Italy, which he preferred, were kept alongside the expensive animal skins, which he was going to prepare as vellum.

  Each night, he tried to convince me that we were one day closer to our dreams, but I was no longer so sure. The money he had invested in the printing press — a much-guarded secret — was swiftly running out and what remained of his gold was turning to sand between his fingers. Besides, I was content the way things were. The room crackled with warmth, and the sounds of my Master's industry were all the company I needed. It was a far cry from my past.

  Just then, I sensed a bundled-up figure lurking outside the church on the opposite side of the street and pressed my face closer to the glass, trying to distinguish its shape. A lump of shadow had detached itself from the main porch and was staring in my direction.

  "Are you moon-gazing again, young Endymion?" said my Master, making me turn around. "Come, I need your fingers."

  I nodded, then glanced back at the window. The figure had gone. Breathing on the thick swirl of glass, I drew a face in the moon of condensation and turned back to my Master before the smile could fade.

  "My hands are too clumsy for this work," he sighed as I crouched behind him. His fingers were scored with scars and his skin coated in a soft silvery sheen from the metals he used: lead, tin and just a touch of antimony — that most poisonous element, which gave his pieces of type their bite. Black inky blotches had settled on his knuckles like flies.

  I took the magnifying lens from the table and held it out to him. His face was streaked with dirt and his beard had grown long and grizzled, but I loved him just the same. He studied the mold in his hand for a moment, his eye swimming behind the lens of beryl. Even now he was not satisfied. He held the apparatus closer to the fire and resumed his tinkering.

  I liked to think that I could help Herr Gutenberg. He had taken me in as an apprentice two years before, when I was a starving waif on the street. It was the least I could do to repay his kindness — no, better yet, his confidence.

  Mostly, I performed menial tasks in the print room. I rose early to stoke the fire, sweep the floor and dampen the sheets of paper prior to his daily experiments with the printing press: a machine he'd had specially adapted from the wine presses in the region. This latest model consisted of a sturdy, upright wooden frame with a lever and screw that lowered a heavy plate onto an artfully arranged tray of type, which he slid beneath. The inked letters then transferred their message to the paper he inserted, sheet by sheet. We could print multiple copies of a text for as long as the type lasted. Books would no longer have to be copied laboriously by hand; we could print them with this machine. The invention, Herr Gutenberg believed, would change the world.

  Sometimes he allowed me to mix the inks. This was a messy business that involved blending the soot from our lamps with varnish, with just a splash of urine added in for good measure ("The secret ingredient," he said with a smile); but what I really enjoyed was composing type. This was my special task — a job reserved for my fingers alone.

  For a few hours each day, while the workmen operated the press, I would sit at a low trestle table with hundreds of bits of metal type — a broken alphabet — in front of me. Piece by piece, I would string the letters together to form words, sentences and finally whole passages of text, always mirror images of the examples my Master set before me. Backwards writing, he called it. I excelled at it. Even better, I was learning to read.

  So far, we had experimented with basic Latin primers for the law students who thronged the city, but my Master had recently set his sights on greater, bolder initiatives: Bibles. This was where the real money lay. There were always people hungry for the Word of God. All we needed was additional backing from our investors and a chance to prove that our books were every bit as beautiful and accurate as those produced by the most accomplished scribes.

  Unbeknownst to my Master, I was also practicing the art of printing on my own. Already, I had put my name on a little toolkit he had given me on my first anniversary: a soft leather pouch containing my picks, awls and chisels. One by one, I added the letters in my composing stick, and then punched them into the leather with the utmost care, gradually assuming my new identity: E-n-d-y-m-i-o-n S-p-r-i-n-g. The letters were a little crooked, but the name stuck.

  I knew that my skill impressed him. Herr Gutenberg said that I had swift fingers, but an even swifter mind. I was growing into a fine apprentice. "A real printer's devil," he said half jokingly, dislodging my cap and mussing my hair.

  I wanted to tell him that he was growing into a fine father, too, but I couldn't. My voice, like everything else, had been taken from me at birth.

  A

  At this moment the door downstairs blew open and I got up to shut it.

  No sooner had I reached the top stair than I stopped. A figure had entered the house and was rapidly ascending the steps towards me. A gust of snow raged in behind him. I rushed back to rejoin my Master by the fire.

  Within moments a bullish man had appeared on the threshold of the room. Red welts streaked his cheeks, where the frost had nipped him, and he breathed through flared nostrils. His eyes roamed round the workshop, knocking over tables and equipment until they settled on my Master, who had looked up in surprise.

  "Fust," he said, recognizing the stranger. There was little warmth in his voice.

  The intruder bit back a smile. "Gutenberg," he replied.

  Fust noticed my look of disapproval.

  "And who is this urchin?" he asked, flicking the snow from his shoulders and advancing towards the fire. A short, round-shouldered man, he was dressed in a heavy, fur-trimmed cloak with chains and medallions draped across his chest — a sure sign of his wealth. The boards creaked under his weight.

  He brought a surge of cold air into the room and I shivered.

  "His name is Endymion," said my Master. "My apprentice."

  I glowed to hear those words, but Fust snorted derisively. He tore off his gloves and slapped them on the table, making me flinch. Then he reached out and grasped my chin between his ring-encrusted fingers. Turning my face from left to right, he inspected me with hard, flinty eyes, which flashed in the firelight. He had thick, reddish-brown hair and a fox-colored beard that divided at the base to form two distinct points.

  "Endymion, he?" He tasted my name, then spat it out. "What is he? A dreamer?"

  My Master said nothing. He had often told me the legend of Endymion, the Greek shepherd who was loved by the moon and granted eternal youth. He said the name suited the way I gazed into the distance, dreaming of other things.

  "Johann, what are you doing?" said Fust, finally letting me go. "Just look at him. He's a runt! Too puny even to pick up a piece of type, let alone turn the screw. What use is he to you?"

  I opened my mouth to protest, but no sound emerged.

  "And a mute, too," said Fust, amused, smothering me in a foul-smelling laugh. "Tell me, Johann. Where did you find him?"

  I willed my Master not to answer. I didn't want him mentioning the time I had reached for his purse in the crowded marketplace, only to encounter a pouch full of type and a firm hand fettered round my wrist.

  Luckily, he chose to ignore the insult.

  "I see you have an apprentice of your own," he said, glancing at the young man who had entered behind Fust. "Peter Schoeffer, if I'm not mistaken, back in Mainz at last."

  I turned to stare at the newcomer, who stood at the top of the stairs, ill at ease. Dressed in rags that were hardly suited to the weather, Peter inched closer to the hearth, trying to steal whatever warmth he could from the room.

  A furtive look from Fust warned him to remain still.

  My Master, noticing the young man's discomfort, addressed him directly. "Tell me, Peter, where have you been?"

  "Never you mind," snapped Fust, but Peter had already opened his mouth to speak.

  "Paris," he mumbled, looking down at his soiled shoes. His leggi
ngs were patched with mud and holes gaped in his jacket. "The Library of St. Victor."

  My Master's eyes widened with approval. "The Library of St. Victor! Why, move closer to the fire, boy, and tell me all about it! Is it as remarkable as they say?"

  "It's wonderful," said Peter, his face brightening for the first time. "The library must contain a thousand volumes. I've read half the books in the world!"

  Fust interrupted. "Peter, aren't you forgetting something? In fact, why don't you take this opportunity to fetch my things and get this" — he eyed me up and down — "...boy... to help you? There's no point delaying the purpose of our visit."

  He pressed a hand to my back and shoved me towards the stairs. I checked with my Master to make sure I was not needed, but he was staring at the lens in his fingers, apparently under the impression that the meeting could not be avoided.

  "Now then, let's talk business," I heard Fust say as I followed Peter down the stairs.

  A

  Snow had drifted against the side of the house, nearly obliterating the sledge Peter had dragged up to the door. White peaks crowned the surrounding roofs and reared against the neighboring buildings like a frozen sea, spangling timbers and frosting shutters.

  I started bundling the heavy, snow-caked blankets into my hands, wondering how long our guests were planning to stay — it looked like a long time — when Peter stopped me.

  "Not those," he grumbled. "This."

  With a flourish, he ripped off the remaining covers to reveal a monstrous chest buried beneath the mound of blankets. I stared at it, appalled. The casket seemed to suck the very night into it: it was laden with shadow. A chill wind whipped the loose snow round my legs and I hugged myself to keep warm.

  "Here, take that end," Peter bossed me, evidently in a hurry to return to the fireside, "and be careful not to drop it."

  I took the iron handle in both hands and attempted to lift it. It was extremely heavy. Fortunately Peter bore the brunt of the weight in his strong arms and slowly, stopping every few steps, we managed to heave the chest into the house. The icy metal bit into my skin.