Authors: Skelton-Matthew
Endymion Spring (13 page)
Like a shadow passing into the room behind me, a suspicion entered my mind.
Wasn't this exactly what
Fust
had wanted all along?
The answers to the world's mysteries
laid
out before him like an open book?
Still more words were appearing on the magic parchment, bleeding through the skin, spreading into the contents of the chest.
They were unstoppable!
Instantly, I recognized the error of my ways.
I had opened a vast
florilegium
of knowledge — a book of books without any conceivable end.
How could I close it again?
A breath of night air stole into the room and brushed against the back of my neck.
The door downstairs had opened and two sets of footsteps — not one — approached.
Peter was not alone.
Fust
had returned with him.
Terrified, I tightened my grip on the paper.
As if in response, the expanding sheet in my hand began to diminish rapidly in size, folding itself into smaller and smaller compartments.
The immense wing of paper was soon no more than a booklet — al section of paper that fitted easily in the palm of my hand.
Grabbing my toolkit, I hastily remove its contents and stuffed the wad of paper inside, wrapping the leather straps around it as quickly and tightly as possible to form a secure bundle, hoping to keep at least the top layers of enchanted dragon skin from
Fust's
possession.
Miraculously, the words in the rest of the paper began to halt, as if frozen.
Like shadows beneath ice, they were just visible against the whiteness of the paper, but virtually indecipherable.
Perhaps these lower reams of paper would be incapable of releasing their power without the top layers to complete them?
Perhaps I could still put things right?
I had to hope so.
Fust
had almost arrived.
Quickly, I closed the lid of the chest, leaving it as I had found it, and then as quietly as possible picked up the loose tools from the floor and trotted across the room towards the stairs, the booklet of paper concealed beneath my linen nightshirt.
The fire had died to a red glow.
I could feel
Fust's
eyes hunting for me in the dark, but I was already on the stairs, hurrying back to the dormitory and my fate — a thief, once again.
Oxford
8
B
lake rubbed his brow and reached for his watch, wondering what time it was.
He knew he'd overslept; he just wasn't sure for how long.
His heart rang out in alarm.
It was more than two hours after he was supposed to get up!
His mother would be furious.
Jolted awake, he scurried into the clothes he had left on the floor and tried desperately to think of an excuse to tell her.
He'd had so many strange dreams.
He couldn't remember them all, but weird images had flitted through his mind all night like a nightmarish picture book come to life.
In one, voracious goblins had escaped from their pages and were attempting to devour books in a library he had never seen before.
They had greedy, gluttonous faces with beastly teeth — like sharp, red pomegranate seeds — which they used to shred paper and pulverize words.
He shivered at the recollections, wondering where they had come from.
The house seemed disconcertingly quiet and he crept down the stairs like an intruder, careful not to make a sound.
There was no sign of his mother or sister anywhere.
The kitchen
was
empty
and even the regular clutter of cereal boxes on the dining-room table, which he and Duck used to build a wall so they didn't have to look at each other, had been cleared away.
A note on the table confirmed his suspicions.
9:25 a.m.
Gone to college.
Meet us for lunch (if you're up)
M
Duck had added her own postscript in lopsided writing:
PS
Sleepyhead
We
NEED to talk.
Blake tore the note into tiny strips and tossed them in a bin under the kitchen sink.
He wasn't going to talk to his sister about anything.
She was just being nosy as usual.
But it was harder to know how to deal with his mother.
There was no "Good morning, Blake," or "I love you, Mum" to lift his spirits.
It was the shortest possible note — a continuation of the silent treatment from the night before.
He would have to make sure he arrived early for lunch to avoid further trouble.
A that
moment, the letter box in the front door slapped open and shut.
Blake looked behind him, surprised.
Apart from a few flyers, mostly for Indian takeaways, nothing had been sent to them at
He stepped into the hall, wondering if his father had finally written him a letter, and came to an abrupt halt.
A piece of bright red cloth lay on the mat just inside the door.
It had been tied so as to form a small pouch, the ends drawn together and secured with a tight knot.
Attached to it was a little note, written in wobbly letters on a piece of torn paper, which read:
"To the Boy of the House."
Blake gulped.
Immediately, he glanced at the door, but all he could see was a tiny moon of glass shining above the latch:
a peephole.
He checked it.
No one was there.
Just to make sure, he unlocked the door and stepped outside.
An oily drizzle was falling, turning the leaves on the path to
a slippery
mulch.
A damp autumnal smell filled the air.
But apart from a hardy jogger crossing the road towards the river, a few blocks away,
It was a regular September morning.
Blake rubbed his arms to ward off the chill, then closed the door and bolted it firmly behind him.
He tapped the cloth lightly with his foot.
Nothing stirred inside it.
A funny smell had now reached him:
a muddy, furry scent that made the insides of his nose twinge.
The beginnings of a sneeze teased his nostrils.
It smelled like a wild animal.
And then the answer struck him.
The cloth belonged to the dog he had seen outside the bookshop.
It was its red bandanna!
Quickly, he bent down to pick it up.
It was incredibly light.
In fact, he wondered if there was anything wrapped up in the cloth at all.
The bandanna felt suspiciously empty.
Handling the package carefully, as though it were a bomb, he tiptoed through the kitchen and laid it out on the dining-room table.
Cautiously, he loosened the knot and peered inside.
Instinctively, he jumped back.
What was it?
At first glance, it resembled a large grasshopper or a cadaverous insect.
A ghostly exoskeleton covered in hundreds of horned ridges, like scales, cowered at the bottom of the pouch.
He half-expected the creature to leap into the air or spring out at him, but nothing happened.
The creature was dead.
With his heart aflutter, Blake edged back to the table and this time untied the package properly.
It wasn't a grasshopper, but a lizard with a long tail snaking behind it, barely longer than his hand.
Each of its reptilian legs ended in a sharp set of claws, ready to rip any unsuspecting prey to shreds.
He prodded it gently with his finger.
It rocked back and forth, perfectly harmless.
Despite the scales plating its body like armor, it felt soft and light — like a husk.
Picking it up, he realized that it was made from folded paper.
A strange sensual ripple traveled through him, setting off sparks in his mind.
His heart began to thud.
He knew exactly where the paper had come from
...
Endymion
Spring!
He studied the scaly creature more closely, cradling it in his jittery fingers.
It had to be the most intricate piece of origami he had ever seen.
For a moment, he considered unfolding it to see if the paper contained any extra information.
And yet he didn't have the heart to destroy the lovely lizard.
There was no sign of ink leaching through the scales and he doubted anything would be inside if he dismantled it.
It was as if the object itself really was the message:
a greeting or invitation or even a clue.
But what did it mean?
Turning the lizard over in his hands, he unexpectedly triggered a mechanism that unleashed two scrolls of paper on either side of the animal's body.
Near-invisible wings of parchment unfolded in his fingers.
They were smoother and stronger than silk, yet virtually transparent.
He held them up to the light.
A network of fine veins glowed from within — just like the book he had found in the library yesterday.
He swallowed hard, his breathing in rapid, shallow bursts.
The creature wasn't a lizard, but a paper dragon:
a dragon made from the most marvelous paper he had ever seen; paper that seemed to communicate with him directly; paper that could possibly
connect
him to
Endymion
Spring
himself.
But that didn't explain anything.
9
B
lake was so engrossed in his discovery that he almost forgot about the time.
Luckily, his stomach intervened and a rumble of hunger, like distant thunder, reminded him of his rendezvous with his mother.
She would be furious if he missed lunch as well as breakfast.
Grabbing an apple from the kitchen, he charged upstairs to get ready.
As he passed his sister's bedroom, he felt a faint tugging motion in his right hand, as though the dragon were struggling to escape.
A quiver of scales brushed against his skin.
He looked from the origami dragon to the closed wooden door.
"Hey, you're mine, not hers," he told the creature firmly.
"I'm not sharing you with anyone."
He placed the dragon on his bedside table.
Once he had eaten his apple and brushed his teeth, he snatched his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged his knapsack onto his shoulders.
Then, remembering the dog's bandanna, he rushed back downstairs to retrieve it.
He stuffed the cloth next to the overlooked worksheets his teacher had given him to work on in his absence and finally place the dragon carefully on top.
Wondering what he would say to the homeless man if he saw him, he took the spare key from its hook in the hall and let himself out.
The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and fresh.
A cool wind tugged at the clouds, pulling them apart like fleece.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned towards the river.
A
Twenty minutes later, he passed the bookshop where he had spotted the homeless man the previous afternoon.
Apart from tourists wrapped in colorful windcheaters, the street was deserted.
There was no sign of the man or his dog.
Disappointed, Blake watched idly as a young man rearranged a pile of books in the cluttered shop window.
He was suddenly struck by an idea.
Perhaps he could find the book his mother had liked as a child and buy it for her as a present — as a way of apologizing for last night.
He knew a serious confrontation with her was coming, but surely this would help her to forgive him.
He smiled at his own brilliance.