Authors: Skelton-Matthew
Glancing at his watch, he reckoned he had just enough time to locate the book, which he knew was about butterflies, and then sprint to the dining hall to meet his mother for lunch.
Without another moment's thought, he went inside.
A little bell jingled above him and he stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, uncertain where to go.
The shop was longer and narrower than he'd expected and the walls were crammed with books.
Mismatched volumes spilled from the shelves onto the floor, where stacks of oversized hardbacks grew like primitive rock formations.
Apart from the man rearranging bruised paperbacks in the window, the shop appeared to be empty.
"Excuse me," Blake murmured, "where—"
"Fiction in front; Literature behind; History round the corner," the man started, without looking up.
"Nature, Crafts and all that Granny Stuff, not that you'd be interested, to the left; First Editions locked behind glass, away from grubby little fingers like yours; Modern Languages, Classics and Children's Literature upstairs."
Blake listened in astonishment as the man recited all this in one long, short-tempered breath.
With each new addition, his eyes bulged a little more and traveled along the rows of disorderly shelves.
He still did not know where to go.
"What, you still there?" asked the man, sensing the boy's confusion.
This time, he stood up.
Not much taller than Blake, he had thick, bristly eyebrows that met in the middle like warring caterpillars, and was wearing a faded T-shirt with the name of a rock band Blake had never heard of before:
the Plastic Dinosaurs.
A hand-knitted scarf straddled his neck like a lazy python, its rainbow-colored ends trailing down to the ground.
Blake stepped back, feeling as though he had stumbled into a scene from
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
, Duck's favorite book.
The man, sensing his apprehension, softened his approach.
"How can I help you?" he asked more reasonably.
His mouth cracked into a grin and Blake realized that he was only pretending to be grumpy and troll-like.
Remembering what his mother had told him about the book she had liked, Blake tried his best to describe it.
"I don't recall a children's book being there," replied the man seriously, scratching the back of his neck.
"Of course, it might have been sold since then — books in the window tend to go fast — but I put everything that was there this morning under the New Acquisitions.
I didn't pay much attention to them myself.
Science Fiction is the way to go."
As if to prove his point, he pointed to a pyramid of cloned silver novels he had built in the window.
"Um, thanks," said Blake, wandering over to the section the man had indicated.
He put his head down and got to work.
It was going to be more difficult than he'd expected.
A tower of brown books reached high above him, almost to the ceiling.
Some had detached covers, held together with elastic bands; others mottled pages that either
reeked
of tobacco or
ponged
of damp churches the moment he opened them.
Still more had fancy covers and gilt edges, like the finest strands of hair.
And then, nearer the floor, were books in brightly colored dust jackets.
These looked more promising and he knelt down to study them more closely.
Gradually, he became aware of a man standing close beside him, almost pressing into his back.
A pair of dark trousers leaned against him and an expensive watch ticked above his ear.
Blake felt uncomfortable and shifted his knapsack in front of him, guarding it with his body, just in case the man crushed the paper dragon he had placed inside.
Slowly but surely, the man picked his way down the stack of books, selecting a few volumes and then replacing them on the shelves with a dissatisfied grunt.
He clearly knew what he was looking for.
Then, like birds of prey, his hands swooped past Blake's shoulders and grabbed a volume he was about to look at.
"Hey!" grumbled Blake.
"I was just about to—"
Glancing up, he realized with a start that it was Sir Giles Bentley.
The man glared down at him coldly, his eyebrows as dark as thunderheads.
Blake immediately went quiet and shielded the remaining books from view.
With a disdainful snort, Sir Giles continued flipping through the book, almost ripping the pages, his eyes
ploughing
through the text.
Blake reached for the next volume.
A faint rustling movement inside his knapsack stopped him in his tracks.
He looked down.
The top of his bag twitched.
He was about to open the compartment to risk a look inside, when he noticed a half-hidden volume at the back of the shelf nearest him.
Sir Giles careless motion must have caused it to slip behind the others.
It had become wedged between shelves.
Trapped.
With small fingers, he reached in and tweezed it free.
Imediately
, the paper dragon in his bag went still and a chill crept over him.
Unlike
Endymion
Spring
, this book didn't feel warm, comforting or inviting.
Thin, bruised and bound in black leather, it seemed as ominous as a tombstone.
A few specks of mold mottled its cover like lichen and a faint symbol, like a dagger, had been pressed into its surface:
the shadow of a shadow.
Frightened, Blake opened the book.
A vicious
f
slashed across his vision like a knife blade and his blood went cold.
Printed in red ink, the initial went on to form a word in sharp,
seriffed
letters:
fAustbucH
The
F
matched
the design on the cover.
Blake recognized the first part of the title.
Faust
.
Wasn't he the person his mother had mentioned the previous day, the sorcerer who had sold his soul to the Devil?
Hadn't she believed that he was somehow linked to the legend of the lost book of knowledge, the book his father had longed to find and which Sir Giles had ensured was beyond his reach?
Blake's fingers shook.
What had he unearthed?
On the facing endpaper, smeared with dirt, was a list of names in faded brown ink, the color of dried blood.
H. Middleton, L. de la Croix, J. Fell, N. Hart... the book's previous owners.
Judging from one of the inscribed dates — MDCLXVI — he guessed the book must be hundreds of years old.
Blake's mouth felt dry and he shivered involuntarily as he leafed through the volume.
The book itself was in bad shape.
Many of the pages had been torn and only a few jagged strips of paper survived in their place, coated in shady spots that spread through the volume like a pox.
The bumped covers smelled earthy and damp, as though someone had once tried to bury it.
Occasionally, his eyes alighted on broken strands of text, which he tried to sew together to form a story.
It was difficult.
The sentences were punctuated by rips and tears.
One passage, however, grabbed his attention:
In his
simplicitie
the boy has
founde
a
marv
Booke
which though blank does
contayne
elusive
knowledge.
Methinks it is
tha
which
Ignatius claims did enter O
Devil's back.
The quiet boy fears
I have found a way to see insid
e
Blake's heart began to gallop.
His mind was racing.
Wasn't Ignatius the monk his parents had been researching?
The one who believed a book of forbidden knowledge had actually found its way to Oxford?
Could this terrifying volume
really
be part of the puzzle?
He wanted to read on, but became aware of Sir Giles peering over his shoulder.
"Hey, I was here first," he snapped.
"Go and find your own book."
Sir Giles, however, did not apologize; nor did he move.
Blake held on to the
Faustbuch
fiercely.
He was unwilling to let
this
book go.
Even though it filled him with trepidation, he sensed that it must be important.
He could feel it in his bones.
The paper dragon had drawn him towards it and now that it was in his possession the creature was dead still.
Slowly, Blake flipped through the volume and eventually found a price penciled lightly on the inside cover.
His heart sank.
It cost more than he had.
A note beneath indicted that the book was "sold as seen."
He frowned.
Sir Giles was hovering behind him like a wasp, ready to seize the volume as soon as he put it back on the shelf.
His hands clutched the air.
Deciding to haggle, Blake walked up to the counter, where the Plastic Dinosaurs man was now supervising the shop.
"I'd like to buy this book," he said, "but—"
"But what?" said the man sharply, suspecting a catch.
"But I don't have enough money to buy it right now," confessed Blake.
"This is all I have."
He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the counter.
The foreign coins, which still felt heavy and unusual to his North American fingers, danced and spun for a moment and then collapsed in a paltry heap.
They didn't amount to much.
"What's it say inside?" said the man, disinclined to be generous.
"Twenty pounds."
"And what have you got?"
Blake performed some quick mental arithmetic.
"Nine eighty-three," he said weakly, scrunching his nose.
The man pursed his lips.
"But it's falling apart!" exclaimed Blake.
"It's probably worth nothing at all!
Please, it's important."
The shop assistant looked skeptical.
He made little suction motions with his mouth and started to scratch the back of his neck, where the python scarf was slipping.
Finally, he opened the cover of the book and read the title.
An involuntary laugh escaped his lips.
"'
A True
Historie
of the
Faustbuch
, as witnessed by one of God's
owne
servants..
.
'
That's pretty sophisticated reading, isn't it?" he said.
"Maybe," said Blake, unwilling to give up.
His mind fished rapidly for alternatives.
"Of course, if you're willing to wait, I could—"
"—pay you twenty pounds for it right now," Sir Giles finished the sentence, and slapped a freshly folded banknote on the counter.
"For me," he added, "and not the boy."
"But that’s not fair!" shouted Blake.
"Sir, the boy was here first," said the man responsibly, although Blake could tell that the money tempted him.
Helicked
the corner of his lips and his eyes returned to the banknote again like a frog targeting a fly.
"That may be," said Sir Giles, pushing Blake aside, "but the boy can't afford to buy it... unless he means to
steal
it."
A lethal glare from Sir Giles warned Blake not to make a sound.
Perhaps he did recognize him from the college dinner, after all...
Blake clenched his hands into fists, but remained silent.
"Here, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sir Giles, taking control of the situation.
He withdrew another banknote from his wallet.
"I'll double your asking price.
That's my final offer.
As the boy said, it really is in appalling condition."
"But—" appealed Blake mutely.
"There, there," said Diana Bentley, suddenly appearing from behind her husband and placing a comforting hand on Blake's shoulder.
"You shouldn't concern yourself with grubby old books.
It's probably contagious."
"It was... it was for my mum,"
lied
Blake, hoping to appeal to her emotions.
"I was going to surprise her with it."
She gave him a compassionate look.
"How sweet," she murmured.
"But really, Blake, I should think your mother would prefer a less contaminated sort of book.
Why not flowers, perhaps?"
A playful smile teased her lips.
"But I think it could be important," said Blake helplessly.
"This decrepit thing?"
She brushed the cover with a gloved fingertip, as though disdaining to get his skin dirty.
"Surely not.
Giles likes repairing old books.
He'll rebind it and give it a fresh lease on life."