“Coming,” Johannes said. But he stopped for a moment to glance at the spectacle on the street. A block ahead he saw a man draped in heavy rusted chains, walking toward him. A small battalion circled the man, swinging their swords to keep the raucous crowd at bay.

“Johannes!” his father said. But the boy lost sight of him, lost among the growing throng. Pushed to the ground, Johannes crawled to the edge of the street. He stood as the chained man approached. Johannes squinted up, seeing that the heretic wore a tall, pointed hat—a miter—the same hat a priest wore. Only this one bore a terrifying image of the devil and a mocking title: Ringleader of Heretics.

The chained man staggered to the ground. Without thinking about the implications, Johannes leaped to his side to help him. A soldier pointed his sword at Johannes’s neck. “Leave him alone, boy!”

He ignored the soldier and gazed into the heretic’s eyes. Despite the man’s state of distress, there was not a shred of malice in them. In that moment, Johannes sensed a peace so deep and so profound that the howling of the crowd around him faded to a whisper. The man murmured something, motioning him closer. Johannes leaned in.

“Boy, get away, or you will burn at the stake with this devil worshipper!” the soldier barked. “Do you hear me?”

The heretic reached out and placed a small object in Johannes’s hand. “What is it?” he asked, fingering a small metal disc. But the heretic did not reply.

A sharp pain stabbed Johannes’s shoulder, the point of a sword digging into his skin. He felt himself lifted and shoved back into the crowd. The press of bodies prevented him from falling, and he slipped the object into his pocket. He turned to watch the heretic shuffle down the road, the angry mob still swirling about him. Had this all really happened? Had his encounter been nothing more than a strange dream?

His father’s strong hand yanked him to his senses. “Where on earth have you been? There is no doubt I will be late now. Your mother will not be proud to hear that her son has caused such disgrace.”

“Sorry,” he said. He followed his father down a side street, away from the crowd, fingering the hidden disc. “What will become of that man?”

“That’s no business of ours,” his father said. They walked for many blocks in silence. His father studied a map, and before long they stopped before a small green door.

After two knocks, the door opened and a face appeared, broad and ruddy, with wisps of hair sticking out from his head like shocks of bleached wheat. “Can I help you?”

“It’s Gutenberg. And son, for that matter.”