(c. 1450)
Mainz, Flanders
The air in Gutenberg's workshop was thick with the scent of lampblack, linseed oil, and a new, metallic tang of type. Enki, his hands stained dark, worked as a lowly ink-grinder, his immortal mind captivated by the machine's potential. It was a lever for the soul.
A Church official, draped in finery, oversaw the commissioning of the first print run. "The Psalter only. The approved translation. No commentary. The laity needs doctrine, not poetry."
Later, a painter named Henrik, his fingers nimble and nervous, came to consult on the illuminations. He showed Enki a panel of a serene saint. "Look," Henrik whispered, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He pointed to the windowsill in the painting, where he had added a tiny, perfectly rendered fly. "A little life. A little dirt. To remind them that holiness has flies buzzing around it too."
Enki felt a kinship with this man who fought his war with a single brushstroke. In a shadowed corner, he shared a fragment of truth. "The words you illustrate... they are a cage. The real story is wilder."
Henrik's eyes widened. "You speak like a man who has seen the wildness."
For a terrifying, exhilarating moment, Enki considered it. He could give Henrik texts—the real, raw, unvarnished accounts of grace he carried in his memory. He could use this press, this "new sword," to shatter the lock.
But then he felt the psychic weight of the Veil. A cold pressure behind his eyes. Reveal yourself, and the comets will fall.
He looked at Henrik's hopeful face and let the moment die. "I am just an ink-grinder," he mumbled, turning back to his stone.
He watched as Henrik, defeated, painted flawless, sterile saints for the printed Psalter. The press, the tool of liberation, began its life printing approved doctrine. The fly was the only rebellion that survived.
Scrapbook Entry: "The artist painted a fly. I remained silent. Two rebellions, never united. The press will remember the priest's doctrine, not the painter's defiance. And I will remember the taste of my own cowardice. The sword was forged, and I handed the hilt to the jailer."