Endymion Spring (2 page)

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 leggings 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.

As we climbed the stairs, the light from the workshop began to pick out shapes from the sides of the box.
 
Lumpy knobs revealed themselves as hideous beasts I had never seen before.
 
Scaly monsters and frightening demons leered at me, as if from the pits of Hell.
 
They had scabby cheeks and savage teeth and eyes like burnt umber.
 
But it was only once we reentered the room, half-kicking and half-sliding the chest across the
floor, that
I noticed the two snakes coiled tightly round the lid, their heads interlocked.
 
Peter eyed them with obvious distrust, but I was fascinated.
 
They seemed to draw me towards them.

"I wouldn't touch those if I were you,"
Fust
advised me suddenly, catching my hands straying closer to the snakes.
 
"They just might bite."

My hands whipped back to my sides.
 
Something about the way he said this made me believe him.
 
Perhaps they were venomous?
 
Fust
was regarding me down the length of his nose, his dark eyes glinting.
 
Obediently, I backed away.

Fust
turned his attention to my Master, who was staring at the fire, as though the future were held in its flames.
 
He seemed to have aged in the interval.

"So, Gutenberg, what do you say?"