Mister B. Gone

are in my workshop.'

'I've told her she has nothing to fear,' the Archbishop said. 'I am here to protect this house from the workings of the Evil One. They all have their tricks, of course, but I can see right through their guises as clearly as I see you before me, Mister B.'

'That's reassuring,' I said.

The conversation died away for a time, during which I heard whispered exchanges from beyond the door on the far side of the room.

'I was told you were a goldsmith,' I said.

'Once. Before I knew what greater work I had to do.'

'And what is that greater work, if I may ask?'

Gutenberg looked troubled. He glanced over at the Archbishop, then back at me, then at the floor between us.

'I understand,' I said, 'you've invented something of great consequence, yes? Something that must be kept secret.'

Gutenberg looked up from the floor, and met my gaze. 'I think it will change everything,' he said very softly.

'I know it will,' I replied, matching his calm tone with a comforting softness of my own. 'The world will never be the same again.'

'But there are spies, you know.'

'I know.'

'And thieves.'

'Of course. Everywhere. Something like this, something so significant, brings out the predators. It's bound to. But you have friends.'

'Fewer than I thought,' Gutenberg said, his face taut, his voice grim. 'There's corruption wherever I look.'

'There's also help from Heaven,' I said. 'I've seen both sides. They're on your roof right now.'

'Both sides, huh…' His gaze strayed to the ceiling for a moment.

'Yes, both. I swear. You're not alone.'

'You swear.'

'I just did. And there are more warriors in the streets. Moving in the ground beneath people's feet.'

'Is he telling the truth?' Gutenberg asked the Archbishop.

Before he could answer the question, his Excellency had to chew and swallow the mouthful of pork he'd surreptitiously bitten off. He made one attempt to reply with his mouth still half-full, but his words were incomprehensible. So we waited another minute or so while he thoroughly emptied his mouth. Then he set the pork bone down on the plate where he'd been served it, wiped his hand and mouth with the fine linen cloth laid beside his plate, and finished off by taking a cleansing mouthful of wine before finally saying:

'For all the sad state of him, this visitor of yours knows whereof he speaks. And I know for a fact that angelic forces are here with us, assembled as a consequence of my request to the Pope. Inevitably their presence here aroused the interest of the Fallen One. We should not be surprised at that. Nor should we be surprised that he sent his vermin to do battle with those the Pope requested to protect you.'

'So now they fight on the roof of my workshop,' Gutenberg said, shaking his head in disbelief.

'And in the street,' the Archbishop added, plucking the detail from my own report to fuel his own. In truth, I doubt the man had ever laid his eyes upon any creature that had not first been spiced and roasted to his taste. But the weight of his robes and crosses and rings seemed to lend their heft to his words.

'We are entirely surrounded by soldiers of the Lord,' he told Gutenberg. 'These are warrior-angels, Johannes, their one purpose to protect you and what you have made from harm.'

'Speaking of which — ' I began.

'I am not finished!' The Archbishop snapped, a stringy piece of greasy pork escaping with the words to land upon my cheek. His vulgarity made me reorder my execution list somewhat: this pork-spitting Excellency had just been elevated to second place, directly below Quitoon.

Quitoon. Ha. Though I'd come here in pursuit of him, so much else had happened, or was in the process of happening, that I'd forgotten him for a time, which had been a pleasant release. For too many years I'd thought of him and only of him: I'd been perpetually concerned for his comfort, intimidated by his rages, anguished whenever he staged one of his departures, and pathetically grateful when he returned to me. But paradoxically this final pursuit of him had brought me to a stage where a drama greater than love was being played, a stage where the agent of destruction that my sorrow had made of me was ideally placed to do harm. Indeed, if even a part of what had been claimed on behalf of Gutenberg's creation was true, then by destroying it I would — oh God, how strange to even shape the words, much less consider their reality — be wounding the world.

There was a sweet thought.

'What do you think, Mister B.?'

I had briefly lost track of the conversation as I'd mused on love and destruction. To gain myself a little thinking time, I repeated the question:

'What do I think? Now that you ask, what do I think?'

'How can there be any doubt?' the Archbishop said, slamming the base of his Shepherd's crook on the bare boards of the workshop floor to emphasize his feelings. 'The Devil will not carry this day.'

Now I understood what I'd missed: Gutenberg had voiced some doubt as to how the battle being raged around his house (and on the roof all the way up to Heaven, and in its bowels all the way down to Hell) would come to an end. To judge by the fretful look he wore, Gutenberg was by no means certain that the angelic legion would triumph. The Archbishop's response was unequivocal.

'Do not doubt the Lord's power, Johannes,' he breathed.

Gutenberg offered no reply to this, which further inflamed the Archbishop, who again hammered the floorboards with his dazzling crook.

'You!' he said, turning in my direction and striking the floor a third time, just in case I missed the fact that I was now being blessed with his attentions. 'Yes, Mister B., you! What is your opinion on the matter?'

'That we're perfectly safe, your Excellency. Yes, the battle is fierce. But it rages outside. In here, we are protected by your presence. No soldier of Hell would dare enter this fortress with your Excellency's holy presence to drive him off.'

'You see?' the Archbishop said. 'Even your dream visitor understands.'

'Besides,' I added, unable to resist the fun of this, 'how would he enter? Just knock on the front door and invite himself in?'

Gutenberg seemed to see the sense in this, and was reassured.

'Then nothing can undo what I have made?'

'Nothing,' the Archbishop said.

Gutenberg looked at me.

'Nothing,' I said.

'Perhaps I should show it to you then,' he suggested.

'Only if you wish to,' I replied lightly.

He smiled. 'I do.'

So saying, he led me across the room to the heavy door with DO NOT ENTER carved into it. He knocked, rapping out a code of entry, and the door, which was twice the thickness of any door I'd ever seen, was opened. I could not see what was inside; Gutenberg was blocking my view. But I caught the oily, bitter smell that came through the door like a greasy wave.

'What's that smell?'

'Ink, of course,' Gutenberg replied. 'To print the words.'

I should have taken the warning that 'of course' offered me: He expected me to know that he was more than something as commonplace as a copier of books. But I blundered on, stupidly.

'So you copy books?' I said. 'What have you invented? A new quill?'

It was meant as a joke, but Gutenberg did not see the humor in it. He stopped on the bottom step, preventing me from descending any further.