Endymion Spring

Oxford Summer-Winter, 1453

I felt like I was flying.

Crowds reeled drunkenly around me, spinning on their heads, while houses, taverns and spires turned somersaults. Booths with canvas awnings swung at weird angles.

I could not tell where I was. The ground was thatched with mud and straw, and the sky stretched far above me like an impossibly blue ocean. My arms flailed uselessly to either side, the limbs of a dead man.

A stranger, I realized dimly, was transporting me through a market in the back of his cart. My head jolted painfully each time the wheels struck a loose stone, and twice I vomited.

A round, worried face peered down at me from the side of the cart. "Be not afraid," it said in the softest of voices — first in English, which I could not understand, and then in Latin, which I could. "You are safe with me, Endymion."

My brow furrowed. How did he know my name?

Then, sensing my confusion, the man smiled and added, "I am Theodoric. I am taking you to St. Jerome's."

A circle of unruly hair crowned his head like a halo and a long black robe cloaked his body. His hands were as smooth and white as vellum, but covered in inky scribbles — like my Master's.

For a moment I feared an angel had come to take me up to heaven and I struggled to be set free. I still had my task to complete. I could feel the book of dragon skin strapped to my back, cutting into my flesh. Yet try as I might, I could not move. I could not even sit up.

The world swayed sickeningly around me and my head lolled weakly in the straw.

"Faster, Methuselah," Theodoric urged the grizzled mule, which pulled the cart behind it and brayed objectionably at the extra load it was carrying.

Then everything plunged into darkness.

I dreamed a lion swallowed me. Its teeth were set in a silent roar, a shoulder's width apart, but luckily they had no bite. I passed through its stone mouth into a chamber full of books. The walls were pierced with light and the room divided into alcoves by a number of sloping desks and large chests. The air was quiet with the sound of quills and whispering parchment.

Bleary-eyed, I looked around me. Black-robed figures hunched over the desks, hard at work. Some were writing in a beautiful script that flowed from their quills in streams of ink, while others pressed thin sheets of gold to the capital letters they were adorning. Still more dipped their brushes in oyster shells of crushed crimson powder, which they applied to the flowers they were painting in the margins of a wonderful manuscript.

All of a sudden I understood the marks on Theodoric's hands. He was a scribe, an illuminator. He had taken me to one of Oxford's monastic colleges.

The book of dragon skin stirred again on my back and I squirmed, trying to get down; but Theodoric refused to let go. He carried me in his arms to the front of the room, where a small, white-haired man was seated on a large, thronelike chair. The Abbot was deep in prayer: His eyes closed, his fingers fumbling with beads of a rosary.

An ancient librarian with skin like melted wax sat close beside him, reading from a tiny book. His lips made a soft sound like a sputtering candle as he recited the words to himself and traced them in his Psalter. Suddenly, he stopped. One of his eyes was milky blue and rolled alarmingly in his head; the other, as clear as day, drifted towards me and fixed on my face.

Unnerved, I glanced away. Through the window, I could see a sapling in an enclosed garden, its pale green leaves shuddering in a breeze.

Luckily, the Abbot took one look at me, crossed himself and rushed to my aid. Despite his wild thistledown hair, he showed no signs of a prickly disposition. He clamped his hand to my forehead and checked for symptoms of disease. Then, ignoring the protests of Ignatius, the librarian beside me, he indicated the Theodoric should escort me to the infirmary.

Words were unnecessary. They communicated by means of a system of simple hand gestures.

Theodoric, however, stood his ground and slowly drew the Abbot's attention to the leather toolkit I normally wore beneath my belt. It had transformed itself into a sealed notebook ages ago. Somehow it had worked itself free.

I reached out to grab it, but Ignatius was too quick. He snatched the book before either I or the Abbot could lay our fingers on it.

I watched helplessly as the old man turned the notebook over in his hands and tried unsuccessfully to prize the covers apart. He studied the clasps more intently. No matter what he tried, he could not get the book to open. His brow creased in consternation and he shot me a suspicious look, as though the Devil lurked somewhere behind my eyes.

Theodoric, amused by the older man's struggles, calmly took back the book and showed it to the Abbot. Shifting my weight onto his shoulder, he underlined the name on the cover and gestured towards me. Endymion Spring. No wonder he had known my name.

The Abbot nodded thoughtfully and then, after gazing at the notebook for a while, made a curious writing motion with his hands. The message was clear: he wanted to know if I could read or write.

Theodoric shrugged.

I didn't have the strength to enlighten them. Despite the sunlight streaming in through the windows, I was shivering uncontrollably. My face was clammy and hot, and my body felt as though I had rolled in splintered glass. Every little noise boomed in my ears like thunder.

Theodoric looked at me worriedly and then, returning the book to my possession, cradled me in his arms and hurried me through the cloisters to the infirmary. My hands curled weakly round the book like an additional clasp.

We passed under another archway engraved with lion's teeth and dashed across an open area full of herb gardens and neatly cultivated flowerbeds. Wicker hives, daubed with clay, hummed in the distance. The air was sweet and honey-scented; but I barely noticed. Already, I was sinking into a deathly cold delirium.

By the time we reached the infirmary, a long low building close to the latrines, a fever had gripped me — and would not let go.

Fust waited for me in the darkness.

No matter how far I ran, no matter how hard I tried to escape, he always caught up with me the moment I closed my eyes. He swept into my dreams like a shadow, filling my heart with dread. Endlessly, he pursued me; endlessly, he hunted for the book…

From Mainz, I had fled not to Frankfurt, nor to Paris, as he had imagined, but to Eltville, a pretty little village on the banks of the River Rhine, where Herr Gutenberg had a niece. For a few days I sheltered among the fragrant grape-greeen hills; then, when Peter sent word that Fust had stormed off towards the Library of St. Victor, hoping to overtake me, I grudgingly began my route north to Oxford.

For weeks, I kept to the grassy banks of the river. Fust had placed a bounty on my head and I was no better that a wanted criminal. I avoided the inns, which were infested with lice, fleas and thieves, and bedded down with the cows in the fields at night. Nowhere was safe. No one could be trusted.

The book was my sole companion, but even this did not contain any news of Herr Gutenberg or Peter. For all its power, it could not bring them back to me. I was befriended only by the past, by the memories of those I had left behind.

As I neared Coster's homeland, the birthplace of the book, the place where Coster had slain the dragon, I began to fear that Fust had finally caught up with me. His name was never very far from the lips of the people I passed in the woods or villages; but it was a name spoken of with loathing and distrust. His theft had not been forgotten. It rankled in the hearts of Coster's countrymen. Yet, even here, the book was not safe. Haarlem was too close to Mainz and Fust could follow my tracks too easily. Only in the depths of the vast new library William had described in the Little Lamb could its pages be properly be hidden. I kept going.

In Rotterdam, where the Rhine meets the sea, I found a vessel bound for England and two or three days later emerged from it, dazed and disorientated, in a city far larger than any I had known: London. Hungry and cold, I shivered through the densely packed streets, shunning strangers and disappearing into anonymous cracks. I could not wait to be free of the city. Yet there seemed to be no end to the wharves, houses and alleys that flanked the busy river, spewing their filth into the mighty waterway that cut through that land like a gash. Boroughs festered outside the city walls.

Nevertheless, as the drunkard William had promised, the river eventually narrowed into a more navigable stream and I followed its wriggling course through the more pleasant countryside, overtaken by boats loaded with luxury silks and linens. Half-starved, I stole from farms and hamlets, sheltered beneath the lych-gates of old stone churches and watched miserably each night as the day's reflections sank in the turbid water.

Finally, Oxford lay, huddled in mist, on the other side of the river. The spires were not nearly so grand as I had imagined — they squatted closer to earth than aspired to heaven — but I was cheered by the thought of the colleges and libraries, and the expectation of somewhere warm to rest my weary feet, which were rubbed raw with blisters.

I rushed forwards, joining a pilgrimage of laborers up to the South Gate, but my cheerfulness turned almost to despair.

"Your kind is not welcome here," snarled the shorter and smellier of the guards at the gate. I could barely comprehend his language. His face, however, said it all. His partner stared fixedly over my head at the restless line of people behind me.

My bright yellow cloak was no more than a soiled rag and my skin was covered with sores and abrasions. I looked like a victim of the plague.

I began to unfold my notebook, hoping to prove that I could read and write — surely a valuable skill in a university town — but they were not impressed.

"Look, be off with you," said the more officious guard. "If you don’t move on, I'll throw you in the boggards' prison myself."

He shoved me roughly back and I tripped over the edge of a cartwheel that had been drawn up close behind. I collapsed in a pool of muck and thought I heard a mule snigger. Tears of humiliation pricked my eyes.

I got up and brushed the dirt from my already tattered clothes. I had faced too many obstacles to be turned away so easily. While the guards inspected the other travelers, checking their loads and wagons, I concealed myself in a cartload of squawking chickens and sneaked into town. Theodoric, however, must have noticed my notebook and kept a safe distance behind, biding his time…until my fever overcame me, my world went black and I collapsed in the filthy street.

I awoke to find Theodoric examining the little notebook by my side, wondering why the clasps would not open even for him. He noticed me eyeing him from the edge of sleep and welcomed me back to the world of the living with an immense grin.

We were in a long infirmary lined with straw-filled beds. I was the sole occupant.

Sheets of radiant light streamed in from the vine-trellised windows, offering glimpses of the garden outside. Chests and cabinets stood with their backs to the walls.

The afternoon hummed with heat. Flies circled the air in drowsy loops and bees droned near their hives. Bunches of dried flowers had been tied to the rafters to obliterate the smells of death and disease, the rooms previous tenants.

Theodoric looked around him apprehensively. I could tell that a question was burning his lips, but he seemed uncertain how — or if — to ask. Despite my aching bones, I sat up, grimacing with the effort.

"You can read?" he said at last, when he judged me ready to answer.

I nodded.

"And write?" he asked, even more doubtful. He glanced at the window, through which we could see black-robed monks tending the garden, hopping from plant to plant like crows. Theodoric had phrased both questions in Latin, which it pleased him to know I understood.

Again I nodded.

"But this," he said, pointing to the book and stroking the letters on the cover. "This is a different kind of book. You are blessed with a secret knowledge, yes?"

Wearily, I smiled. I was too tired to explain. Besides, who would believe my story?

Theodoric did not appear to mind my silence. "You must rest," he said finally, and then got up as a solitary bell clanged outside, summoning him to prayers.

The bed they had placed me in was as soft as a cloud. I could have lain there forever. It had freshly laundered sheets, sprinkled with lavender and tansy to keep the fleas at bay, and the straw mattress smelled every bit as sweet as the day it was threshed. I did not care that this could be my deathbed. After the ditches and fields I had slept in, it felt like heaven.

For days, I drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time I surfaced, I found Theodoric doting over me like a faithful puppy. He treated the chlblains on my feet with a poultice made from marjoram and prepared bittersweet remedies for me to drink. At first, the feverfew and lemon balm made my skin erupt in prickles of sweat, but gradually I began to recover my appetite and regain my strength. Soon I was able to sit up and take note of my surroundings.

My clothes lay in a paltry heap on the floor at the foot of the bed — a dingy skin I had sloughed off like a past life. The bright yellow cloak, which Christina had so lovingly sewed for me, was now no more than a flimsy burial shroud. In its place I wore a garment of white cloth, its sleeves far too wide for my skinny arms. They spread out from my shoulders like wings.

To amuse me, Theodoric tried on the long yellow hood I had worn on my arrival. It sat on his head like a dirty sock, a tiny jester's cap, making me laugh. Whereas the other monks shuffled past as discreetly as possible, keeping a respectful distance, through vows of silence were not strictly observed, Theodoric seemed unable to remain quiet or still for long. He was too full of questions.

Where had I come from? Why had I chosen Oxford? What was so special about the books I carried.

I tried my best to satisfy his curiosity with a system of nods and smiles, but said nothing. He trusted that I would speak when the time was right.

The books strapped to my back had caused no end of speculation when the monks first undressed me. Theodoric told me there were rumors, perpetuated by Ignatius, that I carried the Devil on my shoulders: the sealed volume was surely a sign of my wicked heart. But if my strange cargo troubled Theodoric he gave no indication of it. Instead, he tried to assure me that both books were safe in a chest close to my bed. He had one key, and I the other. He would let no one near them.

Occasionally, the librarian visited the infirmary. Cowled in black, he made a pretext of checking the properties of the herbs he was including in a book of medicine, but I could feel his eye on me whenever he was near. It was as though he could sense the nature of the dragon skin I was concealing. He was forever scribbling notes in a private journal, muttering to himself, his fingers scurrying like spiders.

Sadly, I began to realize that no hiding place — not even in Oxford — would be safe for the book. There would always be people like Fust, or Ignatius, desiring the knowledge it contained. It was a temptation too great to resist; it attracted evil like a magnet. The curse of Adam and Eve lived among all men.

Luckily, the Abbot was sympathetic to my plight. Books were valuable commodities in Oxford — scholars devoted their lives to them and the town teemed with bookbinders, papermakers and stationers, all busy copying manuscripts in the vicinity of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin — and so he invited me to stay on at St. Jerome's even after I began to recuperate. Impressed by my ability to read and write, he delighted in showing me the work of the college scribes.

For years, they had been copying a translation of the Bible, supposed to have been written by their patron saint, Jerome. It was a labor of love: a book full of beautiful calligraphy and devout illustrations. Theodoric, in particular, was a gifted illuminator. When he was not busy lampooning the other monks as foxes and gargoyles in the margins of the manuscript, he was imagining a world full of saints and angels.

Slowly, in my own way, I began to teach him the principles of printing. I lacked my Master's skill and equipment, but relied on clumsier methods — whittling letters from strips of willow that we found near the river, instructing him with messages written on a wax tablet with a stylus. Theodoric, to his credit, caught on quickly and began to incorporate some of the innovations and techniques in his work.

On one occasion, he pressed a large O he had carved from wood onto the surface of the vellum he was illuminating and decorated it with a fancy picture of the two of us. I was seated on his lap like a tiny yellow puppet, speaking volumes. Ignatius objected to the monstrosity, proclaiming it an abomination, but the Abbot allowed it to pass, indicating that I was a welcome initiate of the Order.

If Ignatius viewed me with suspicion and hostility, then Theodoric was my savior, my guardian and my friend. More than anything, it was his love of life that nursed me back to health.

Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks slowly into months. Trees thatching the hills in the distance gradually lost their color and chill mists blistered the landscape. Winter closed in.

Memories of Mainz continued to fill me with wisps of longing, but I was gradually building a new life here in Oxford. I quickly learned the layout of the streets. Not surprisingly, a large proportion of the scolars — like William — spent their time in the taverns, their rooming houses much too squalid or dilapidated to live in. The Swyndelstock Tavern and the Bear Inn were the most popular, and I often dived into their boozy, warm interiors to escape Ignatius, who took it into his head to follow me on occasion. The rooms were rife with unwholesome discussion and I began to suspect that some of the scholars learned far more here than in their tutorials.

My excursions, however, did little to diminish Ignatius' suspicions. Word began to arrive from the continent of a Black Art, a mode of artificial writing that produced mirror copies of books. It was no more than a whisper, but Ignatius believed I held the key to such secrets. He thirsted to know more. He began to keep vigil by my bed at night, his blind eye rolling in its socket and his good one hunting for the truth — a truth he never learned. I took to carrying the book of dragon skin again on my back, and the toolkit concealed beneath my girdle, anything to keep its knowledge safe with me.

I had to find a more secure resting place for them — and fast.

The answer came on a frosty December morning.

Theodoric was summoned to the Congregation House in the center of town to discuss the performance of three young novitiates who had embarked on a course of undergraduate study.

While he met with the university officials in a small stone chamber attached to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, I was free to roam through the Old Library above. A long rectangular room, it was full of gowned scholars, mainly standing at dark wooden lecterns, memorizing lengthy tracts from books. The mothlike flutter of lips drowned out the sound of my book of dragon skin, which, strapped to my back, responded to the setting with excited flickers of movement.

At the far end of the library, under an arched window overlooking the recent foundations of the College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed, was an immense chest. Longer than I was tall, it was fortified with thick metal slats, like an iron maiden, which the librarian calmly told me no living man could break. Five locks awaited five keys from five separate key holders to unleash its secrets. Inside lay irreplaceable documents pertaining to the university's origins and a pile of books belonging to students who could no longer afford their tuition. They had to pay their debts in books — for books, in Oxford at least, were as precious as gold.

For a moment, I considered hiding the book of dragon skin inside. What better place could there be than a guarded chest in a spectacular library! But there was no way of picking the locks unaided and the bearded librarian was regarding me with suspicion. Besides, the magical paper was pulling me in a different direction.

A hundred or so paces from the Old Library was another structure, a half-built edifice girded by ladders and wooden scaffolds. For almost three decades, masons had been working on an exquisite chamber to house a collection of books bequeathed to the university by Humfrey, Duke of Gloucester. This was the room William had spoken of in the Little Lamb, the library to rival Alexandria!

Everything seemed to be leading towards this moment. I hurried towards the building, my heart full of joy. My journey was almost at an end.

And yet, when I looked around me, I could see that the chamber was hardly a hallowed depository for books: workmen clambered over the wooden platforms, industrious as ants, and tall fluted columns supported a ceiling of open sky. Reeds matted the ground, bundled against the walls to prevent the damp from seeping in. The time was not yet right. The book and I would have to wait.

Disheartened, I ventured outside and stood in the cold, desolate square. Clouds of powdered stone hovered in the air as masons chipped a forest of foliage from the massive slabs of rock that had been drawn up close to the library. Squinting away my disappointment, I peered up at the lonely spire of St. Mary the Virgin. The church seemed no match for the magnificent cathedral I had left behind in Mainz. Once again, I felt empty, alone.

For a while, I paced back and forth between the two libraries, the old and the new, unable to settle, beginning to despair that my mission had been in vain. Around me the town heaved with activity. From the south came the competing calls of peddlers and street-sellers, while the anguished cries of cattle in the slaughterhouse close to the castle sluiced through the lanes from the west. Flies buzzed everywhere — around the heaps of salted fish on the market stalls, the carcasses of meat dangling from the butchers' shambles and the ropes of entrails slung across the streets. Scribes ducked into the nearby binderies, keen to replenish their supplies.

And then I glimpsed something. On the far side of the church, obscured by a stunted, twisted tree, a series of stone steps led down to a tiny door set into the wall of the chapel. My pulse quickened. Could there be a hidden chamber beneath the church? A vault, perhaps, silted up and forgotten?

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.