Endymion Spring

Mainz, Spring, 1453

Without warning, a devil sprinted past the window and performed a grotesque, gyrating dance in the middle of the street. Peter and I ran to the front of the house to watch. The fiend made lewd gestures with its tail and mocked all those who came near.

Before long a gang of children had encircled it and started heckling. In a bid to escape, the devil dashed beneath their outstretched arms and raced towards the cathedral, pursued by a chorus of catcalls and whistles.

Almost immediately after, a procession of unsightly skeletons — faces powdered, eyes blackened and ribs painted across their chests — started walking along the straw-strewn streets, knocking on the walls of the surrounding houses, summoning the living to join the dead.

"Come one, come all!" they sang, beating their sticks together and prancing from door to door. "The time has come! All will be judged!"

Like obedient sheep, the citizens of Mainz emerged from their timbered houses to join the parade, all heading in the same direction: the graveyard beyond the city walls. Some were dressed in the false finery of kings and queens, which they had sewn specifically for the occasion, while others donned masks to disguise their faces and wore their normal clothes back to front. The more outlandish tied cowbells to their breeches and lowed like cattle, while younger children banged pots and pans together and cheered — or cried. Half-naked tumblers somersaulted up and down the length of the street, waving flags of multicolored cloth and adding their laughter to the general chaos and confusion.

Meanwhile, the players struck up their instruments. Bladder pipes, viols, lutes and lyres all belched and thrummed as madrigals began to weave in and out of the crowd, singing at the top of their voices.

Hundreds of footsteps thundered in reply, as the congregation shuffled slowly towards the grave, forming its own relentless march through the city.

The Last Judgment had begun.

Herr Gutenberg sneaked up behind me.

"Aren't you going to join in the festivities?" he asked, laying a hand on my shoulder. "It's considered bad luck, you know, not to participate in the Dance of Death."

I turned round. Ordinarily, I would have laughed at his mismatched clothes — he was covered from head to toe in red and yellow squares, like a harlequin — but my heart was heavy. I shrugged. I knew that my time in Mainz was swiftly coming to an end and there would be no turning back. The day of my reckoning had indeed come.

Outside in the street a butcher with a pig's snout strapped to his brow jostled with a maid as the Dance of Death continued.

"Do not dawdle, do not labor," sang the madrigals. "Join hands — now — with your nearest neighbor…"

The people in the street linked hands and began to wind like a serpent through the crowded city. It was one of the spring's most festive occasions. The windows and doors were festooned with bright garlands of flowers, mixing their hopeful scent with the richer smells of meat roasting in the distance. Herr Gutenberg was stepping back and forth in a little jig of his own invention, completely out of time with the music, preparing to join in; but I held out a hand to detain him.

He glanced at me. "You look as though the end is near," he said, his worried voice full of compassion. "What's wrong?"

Crouching down beside me, he gestured towards the cheerful faces of the crowd. "This is a celebration, Endymion. You ought to be happy. The Dance of Death is merely a reminder of all we have to be thankful for. There is nothing to fear."

He patted me affectionately on the head. Almost immediately, my lips started to tremble, as if they would speak.

"Don't mind him," said Peter suddenly, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me back into the house. "His costume isn't finished yet, that's all. There are a few minor adjustments we need to make. I'll take care of them." His hand gripped me like a vise.

Herr Gutenberg looked up. "Well, hurry," he said. "You especially, Peter, must not be late."

Peter nodded, a certain satisfaction on his face. He and Christina had been given pride of place in this year's festivities: the most important roles of Adam and Eve, whose job it was to lead the dead into the graveyard and then sing to them about their mortality. Once the bodies of all the citizens in Mainz were lined up in a symbolic death, God would descend and resurrect the crowd. Then the real merriment would begin: dancing and feasting to continue long into the night.

And I wouldn't be there to enjoy it…

"Don't worry about us," said Peter. "We'll meet you at the city gates."

I watched helplessly as Herr Gutenberg nodded and left. Almost immediately, his long bearded face was lost in a surge of bobbing, dancing heads. He had no idea that I would not be returning from the grave. I had to harden my eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

"Here," said Peter, shoving a shallow wooden bowl into my hands. "This will complete the look — and allow you to beg for money along the way. You'll need all the help you can get."

He winked at me in an effort to cheer me up and then stepped back to assess his handiwork.

I glanced shyly at the mirrors on the wall. An old man stared back. Peter had taken care to dress me as the poorest beggar this side of Christendom. A rough Hessian cloak had been pulled over my small, hunched frame and a long pointed hood, like a jester's cap, hung loose behind me. My eyes were unnaturally round and large, my back misshapen.

The change in my appearance only heightened my sense of foreboding. I was headed from Oxford. An unknown landscape unrolled before me: frigid territories to the north; mysterious cities to the east and west; marauding Turks somewhere to the south; and a limitless expanse of water surrounding the island I needed to find. My legs shook beneath me. I was already at sea.

I had hoped that Peter would accompany me — he had traveled far and wide and could protect me from cutthroats and thieves — but I had underestimated his love for Christina. She had proved the greatest temptation of all. Peter was indebted to her father…at least until he achieved his independence and claimed her hand in marriage. He promised to take care of Herr Gutenberg and defend him, should the need arise.

I grabbed my short wooden staff — half walking stick, half weapon — and followed Peter towards the hearth.

We had rehearsed this moment several times since returning from Frankfurt four days ago, but that didn't make it any easier now that the time had finally come. We approached the open chest with a shared sense of misgiving.

As if aware of the monumental journey ahead, the loose sheets of dragon skin had undergone a magnificent transformation — withdrawing from the snakes' fangs and binding themselves into a wondrous book that looked impossibly heavy to carry, yet weighed surprisingly little. It was guarded by new talon clasps and armored with jagged silver-green scales. Fust was fascinated by the alteration, but unable to account for its sudden metamorphosis. He had no idea of my imminent departure. Nor could he read yet from its pages: stories began, but ended in mid-sentence; potions appeared, but lacked one or two vital ingredients to achieve their full potency; and all doorways to the future remained sealed…at least until he discovered I held the missing sheets in my toolkit. And that was only a matter of time.

Peter stared into the chest, while noises from the crowd outside lapped beneath the open windows.

"I wish there were another way," he sighed as he took the fabulous book make of dragon skin and fitted it into a makeshift harness, which he had secured to my back, making me look even more hunched over than ever. The toolkit, which even Peter did not know about, was safely concealed beneath my girdle.

He refused to meet my gaze, but worked steadily and methodically, tightening the straps of cloth around my body and then covering the whole again with my rough yellow cloak. He kept his thoughts to himself, as though words would be a sign of weakness.

I tried to imagine Fust's face when next he peered inside the chest and found the dragon skin missing. Surely his wrath would be insurmountable! I quivered at the thought. Would he pursue me to the ends of the earth, searching for it? Would I ever be able to return to Mainz?

My knees buckled beneath me, but Peter put out a hand to support me.

"Are you ready?" he asked, giving me a sad smile — his most brotherly gesture yet. Before I could react, he raised the hood of my cloak, so that I could not see to either side: only straight ahead. That way, he thought, I could not detect the tears in his eyes.

But I could.

Christina surprised us by bounding down the street to meet us. Her flyaway hair showed her distress.

"My father knows!" she called out over the din of the jubilant voices. "I tried to hide it from him, but he knows! He's coming for you now!"

She shoved and battled her way through the throng of dancers. Peter had entrusted her with the job of keeping Fust preoccupied while we prepared for my departure; but the man, ever wary, had wrested the truth from her. There was no end to his jealousy or suspicion. Even now, he was visible at the far end of the street, fighting through the crowd. By sheer force of will, Christina had beaten him to us.

My heart bolted inside me. I looked frantically to right and left, desperately seeking a means of escape, but my legs had turned to water. Bodies boxed us in. Cries of "Thief! Thief!" rose in the distance, Fust's voice unmistakable above the roar of the crowd.

"Hurry! There's no time!" shrieked Christina. "You've got to go!" Like a frantic hen, she started shooing people away from her with lifted skirts — which only made them rowdier.

Luckily, Peter had a plan. He grabbed me by the arm and propelled me through a knot of merrymakers.

"Quick! Act as if you're dancing!" he shouted to me as kings, queens, knights and jesters whirled round us in a blur of masks. I did a poor imitation of a leap and caper behind him, unable to match the fervor of his steps, and pretended to smile — but inwardly, I was stiff with terror. I grinned like a death's-head.

Fust was rapidly closing in, his jeweled hands pulling people aside.

Our diversion finally started to take effect. Recognizing the principal characters, Adam and Eve, dancing towards them, most of the revelers stopped to point and stare.

"Why are you waiting here?" cried Peter, giving the nearest onlookers the order to start the formal procession towards the grave. "Let's go!"

The words seemed to release the citizens of Mainz from a spell. With a mighty cheer, the crowd surged after us, dancing in our wake, all heading in the same direction: the graveyard at the edge of the city. Ahead of us, strangers jumped aside to let us pass and then clapped their hands and leaped in our trail, joining the carnival atmosphere. The street was sheer pandemonium .

"Stop!" I heard Fust cry as more and more people blocked his way. "Let me pass, you fools! They've stolen my book!"

I glanced behind me. Fust, in his vanity, had dressed as the Pope, one of the foremost members of the procession. While some taunted him with jibes and jests, others bowed before him and allowed his Holiness to advance unimpeded. If anything, the stream of bodies was pulling him closer.

Feeling me waver, Christina tightened her grip on my other hand and together we charged through the streets and alleys, picking up more stragglers. Breathless and dizzy, I clung to my rescuers as they pulled me under the shadow of the large rose-colored cathedral and up the cobbled lane towards the North Gate.

Suddenly, like an assault of brass angels, a triumphal fanfare greeted us from the heights of the city wall. Musicians scurried along the parapets, dancing and playing their instruments. The flames of the apocalypse were upon us! Horns and trumpets sparked in the sunlight and red and gold pennants, fixed to the gate, rippled like silken fire. Already, a great crowd had assembled by the tall, turreted tower, close to the graveyard. Voices burst into song the moment we appeared.

Fust pursued us, showing no sign of letting up. His cries hounded us like a baying dog.

Desperately I searched for a sign of Herr Gutenberg, but couldn't see him anywhere in the confusion of faces. We tore through the crowd.

Ahead of us loomed the large wooden gate and, beyond that, the entrance to the graveyard. If we were not careful we would soon be sucked into its embrace and trapped for good. Fust would surely have us then.

Peter and Christina seemed to have reached the same conclusion. Without warning, they flung me ruthlessly aside, into a multitude of waiting arms. I bobbed and bounced from person to person, until I landed, winded and bruised, near the giant stone ramparts, on the city-side of the wall. Bent double with exhaustion, I struggled to regain my breath. The book felt suddenly too heavy for my back; my body ached. By the time I looked up, Peter and Christina had gone, swallowed by the graveyard.

For a moment, I stood where I was. People yelled and applauded and danced all around me, but I neither heard their songs nor felt their joy. I was numb with shock. I had not expected Peter to fling me aside so roughly, so impersonally, without even a word of farewell. I knew why he had done so — to give me time to escape — but still I felt betrayed. I didn't want it to end this way. Slowly, shouldering my burden, I began to pick my way through the crowd. Tears blinded my path.

As if sensing my mood, the revelers suddenly fell quiet. A hush shifted through the crowd like a snake. The musicians' frantic playing faded.

Fust had arrived.

He stood barely a stone's throw away, prowling through a mass of spectators, hunting me down. I crouched by the wall, trying to make myself invisible. He had not been fooled by Peter's ploy. He must have seen me escape. He was coming for the book…

I held my breath.

The crowd opened before him in a quivering circle, surprised by the vehemence of his actions, which were no longer those of an innocent bystander. His eyes had narrowed to dark slits and his nostrils flared, like a wild animal sniffing me out.

Fortunately, a brave horn-player broke the silence with an untimely belch and a nervous ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. Fust paused to glare at the ring of offending faces.

"Fools," he spat. "You laugh now, but you have no idean what will come!"

The few titters stopped. Peter, dressed as Adam, strode into the arena. Bare-chested and brave, he faced his Master. To a chorus of approval, Christina the walked up behind him and, like Eve, coiled her arm seductively around his waist.

Fust, as the Pope, pointed at them accusingly.

"You!" he hissed, barely able to contain his fury. "You two are to blame for all this! It's all your fault!"

A couple of spectators, thinking this was part of the performance, chuckled.

Fust, livid with rage, turned on them with his heavy ring-clad fingers. "Fools!" he cursed again, his jewels catching fire in the light. "You're all damned fools!"

This only served to increase the general sense of hilarity. People broke into a chorus of laughter and insults, taunting the Pope.

Immediately, Peter and Christina raised their hands to silence the commotion. Gently, with voices tinged with sorrow, they began to sing:

"King or Queen, Pope or Knight,

Each lies equal in God's Sight;

Earth to Earth and Dust to Dust,

We claim your Soul: Johann Fust…"

Fust looked at them in disgust and then, as the full comprehension of his situation dawned on him, his mouth curled into a sneer.

"No! I won't go! You can't make me!"

Peter and Christina — as Adam and Eve — repeated the verse, emphasizing Fust's role as Pope, a preeminent member of the procession and the first to be led to the grave. While they sang, a host of skeletons emerged from hiding and moved stealthily towards him, about to claim their first victim. Once summoned to the grave, Fust would have to wait in quiet compliance — death — until all the citizens of Mainz lay beside him, from the noblest knight to the poorest beggar. Finally, at the end of the symbolic dance, God would descend and raise them all from their slumber…by which time I would be gone.

One by one the skeletons approached Fust and bowed before him, inviting him to participate in the Dance of Death.

Fust became hysterical. "No! I won't go! Never! You can't take me!"

He ran from one side of the crowd to the other, appealing to people to let him pass, scrabbling at them, but the spectators, now a wall of bodies, blocked his way.

Peter and Christina walked steadily closer.

Fust attempted once more to run away, but a mischievous devil, sensing trouble, rushed up behind him and kicked him in the backside, causing him to fall down. On his hands and knees, he scrambled away from his daughter and chosen son-in-law, crawling like an infant.

Even now, the skeletons barred his way.

Impassive, Peter and Christina looked on as Fust, reduced to no more than a child, was dragged away by his arms and legs, struggling furiously against the ignominy of death. The crowd gave an enormous roar of approval — like the earth opening up — and the musicians on top of the wallstruck up their instruments. The last I saw he was pinned to the ground by an army of devils and demons in the realm of the dead and forced to remain still by an open grave. He was writhing desperately beneath their hoofs and claws, trying to pursue me and regain the book.

Peter and Christina shook their heads and scanned the faces of the crowd for the next person to join the Dance of Death. I longed for them to pick me out of the mass of heads, but I forced my steps away.

Blindly, I stumbled through the excited throng of people — an unnoticed beggar, hapered by a burden on his back — working my way towards the protective shadow of the great cathedral. I glanced back just once, when I heard Peter's voice soaring above the crowd like an angel's chorus:

"Naked we're born, Naked we'll go,

See how the Vain are soon brought low.

Godspeed the poor Boy on his Way.

Fear not, we'll meet some other Day…"

I turned and made my solitary way through the suddenly cheerless city, waling towards my future.