The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic by Avi

  “Or fall down the ladder,” added Alfric.

  5

  It was both easier and harder to bury Thorston the second time. There were no body noises, and the hefting was done with greater sureness. But Thorston, in becoming younger, had become heavier. Still, once they had carried the body to the basement, they were glad to discover that having previously dug the grave (and Thorston having dug himself out), they had a much easier time putting him back in.

  “A used grave is less grave,” suggested Odo.

  “But still not gravy,” said Damian, who had joined in the work this time. “Perhaps the first time you didn’t dig deep enough.”

  “My fear,” said Sybil, “is that for Master, no grave is deep enough.”

  They shoveled the dirt back. When done, Alfric asked, “Please, Mistress, shall I repeat my words?”

  “If you would be so good.”

  “Rest in peace,” said Alfric.

  “And be content to stay this time!” Damian shouted. “I don’t want to do this again.”

  “Now,” said Odo, “we must resume our search. And with the reeve sure to return soon, we’d best be fast and thorough.”

  The boys started to ascend the ladder. Sybil did not move. “I shall stay a moment longer,” she said.

  “Why?” demanded Damian.

  “By Saint George, Master Damian, it’s not for you to be always asking my whys and wherefores. I wish to speak to Odo. Be gone with you!”

  Damian started to protest, but changed his mind when he took in Sybil’s angry glare. He went up the ladder. Alfric went too.

  Odo turned to Sybil. “What is it this time?” he said with a sigh.

  6

  “Odo,” began Sybil, “it’s those stones. You saw him swallow one. It is they that allow him to come back to life.”

  “How could that be?”

  “I’m not sure, but the way to make and take them is to be found in the Book Without Words. And since Master swallowed another stone, he’s bound to return.” She considered the grave with discomfort.

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “A Brother Wilfrid has come to Fulworth. Years ago, Master—when my age—stole the book from him. Odo, the monk wants the book—and the stones—back.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “He told me these things when I spoke to him.”

  “Spoke to him! When? Where?”

  “In the courtyard. Yesterday. And this morning.”

  “Where was I?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Sybil,” said Odo, “if what you say is true, and we give the book or the stones away, Master will surely not live again. If he dies, we’ll never have the chance to learn his gold-making secret. We will have nothing.”

  “But the monk told me that if Master lives, I’ll die.”

  “Why should that be?”

  “It has to do with the making and swallowing of the stones. He said I’ll live only if Master truly dies.”

  “And you believe all that?”

  “You need to speak with him yourself. Odo, what good is gold if we’re dead?” That said, Sybil hastened up the ladder, leaving Odo alone.

  When the raven was quite sure Sybil was gone to the upper room, he hopped close to one of the locked chests. Rising a claw, he started to mutter, “Ofan, Ofan—”

  “Odo,” came Sybil’s cry from the room. “Come here. Quickly.”

  “What is it?” Odo called up.

  “It’s Alfric,” said Sybil. “He says he can read the book!”

  7

  “What has he read?” said an excited Odo when he hopped up to the second floor.

  “It’s about the stones,” said Sybil.

  As Odo fluttered close, and Damian hovered near, Sybil drew Alfric to the table where the Book Without Words lay open. “Tell us what you saw,” she ordered him.

  The boy brushed his red hair away from his eyes and stared hard. “It’s … a list,” he said.

  “What kind?” Odo said.

  Alfric moved his hand up and down the left side of the page. “Numbers are here,” he began. “Top to bottom: one, two, three, and four.”

  “Is there anything about gold?” asked Odo.

  “Shhh!” said Sybil.

  “Not that I’ve seen yet,” said Alfric. “But over here,” he said, indicating the right-hand page, “there are words.”

  “Can you read them?” said Sybil.

  Alfric nodded. “They also go from top to bottom. On the top it says, ‘Life.’ Then”—his hand moved down—“‘Thoughts,’ ‘Magic,’ and finally, Time.’”

  “Four,” said Sybil, who had been counting on her fingers.

  “They’re just words,” scoffed Damian.

  Odo, his tail twitching, studied the book intently. “It’s the gold-making formula I want. Look some more.”

  Alfric stole a glance toward at Sybil. When she gave a tiny shake of her head, the boy turned some more pages. “I don’t see anything about gold,” he said after a while.

  “There were four stones,” Sybil said. “And four words. Odo, do we agree Master made those stones?”

  “I suppose we must.”

  “And that he has already swallowed two. Remember,” she said to Odo, “the time when he first died—or so we thought. He must have swallowed the first stone and come back to life then, too. Which is why I found only three.”

  “The first word is Life,” said Odo.

  “Just so,” agreed Sybil. “Then four in all. Odo, recall what he said before his first death: he spoke about stones. That they contained life. Living again.”

  “Something like,” agreed Odo.

  “Life stones,’he said. ‘Immortality. Secrets.'”

  “Then maybe—each stone,” said Odo with a flap of his wings, “gives one of the things on the list.”

  “I must see those stones,” said Damian. “Where are they?”

  Sybil went to the chest, took them out, and put the two remaining on the book.

  “Are you claiming,” said Damian, “that each of the stones provided one of those things—Life, Thoughts, Magic, or Time?”

  “I think so,” said Sybil.

  “Which ones did he take?”

  “Please,” said Alfric. “Perhaps they go from the first number to the last.”

  “If we think the first gave him life,” said Sybil, “then the second must have been Thoughts. The third is Magic. The fourth, and smallest, is Time.”

  Damian reached out and picked up a stone. The moment he did, Odo leaped forward and pecked the boy’s hand sharply. “Leave it alone!” he squawked.

  “Ow!” cried Damian, dropping the stone. He sucked his hand where the raven had pecked. “I was only going to look. You need not attack me so!”

  Sybil scooped up the stones and put them in her purse. To Alfric she said, “Thank you. You have been a great blessing. Come,” she said to the raven. “We must decide what to do.”

  8

  Ignoring Damian’s angry looks, Sybil and Odo went halfway down the steps. When she sat, the raven perched on her knees and stared up at her, his black eyes intense.

  “Odo,” said Sybil, her voice low. “If all of this is true, it’s we who shall decide if Master lives or dies.”

  “You mean, decide to … kill him or not?”

  “I don’t think we can kill a man who is already dead.”

  “Then—keep him from resuming life,” said Odo. “I don’t know but it’s the same thing. Except it’s not certain he’ll return.”

  “Odo, he swallowed another stone.”

  “Perhaps he never really died.”

  “You know he did,” said Sybil. “And the monk said if Master swallows all the stones, and thereby lives, I shall die.”

  “In other words, if we don’t murder him—he will murder you.”

  “That’s not fair. I say, let him die a natural death so I might live my natural life.”

  “What about the gold?” said Odo. r />
  “Is that all you care about?”

  “Sybil, nothing is more important.”

  “Why?”

  “Only gold will buy the life we wish.”

  Sybil shook her head. “I’m young. Shouldn’t I have a chance to live? I want to give both stones and book back to Brother Wilfrid.”

  “And I say,” said Odo, “without gold, we might as well be dead.”

  “Talk to the monk,” said Sybil. “Listen to him. You’ll see he’s right.”

  “If you insist,” said the bird. “Just know that I’ll demand some reason to do what he wants.”

  9

  When Thorston slammed the door in Bashcroft’s face, the thwarted reeve remained in the courtyard. It was the second time he had been treated rudely by those in the house. It made him angrier than ever. He did consider making a third try immediately and demanding—by force of law and arms—that Alfric be returned to him. But Bashcroft hesitated: there was something odd about Master Thorston, something unsettling. It made him cautious.

  The reeve consoled himself with the fact that he had at least confronted the man—proof that he was real—surely not dying. What’s more, the man had all but confessed to being an alchemist. As far as Bashcroft was concerned, even if he did not find the means of making gold, the least he should get was the gold already made.

  He decided it was time to speak to Mistress Weebly again.

  “As God is my witness,” the apothecary said to him, “the girl told me her master was close to death.”

  “She lied. No man could be more alive. And I for one am glad of it. I shall make this Master Thorston’s gold my own, as well as his gold-making formula. My question to you, Mistress, is this: have you all the ingredients this recipe might require?”

  “It was I who supplied him with all.”

  “Mistress, I offer you this proposition: once I have the secrets, I shall share them with you. Of course, I shall take most of what you make, but you shall have some.”

  “I’ll do so,” said the woman.

  “Agreed. Then I shall bring my soldiers forward to lay siege to the house. The prospect of death is always frightening. Once I have the formula, I’ll hang Master Thorston and his maid, take the house, and keep everything within. Now, Mistress, one final point: your apprentice is in that house.”

  “The rascal. I fear he overheard me when you were here. The very next morning—all on his own—he went off without a word. He has lost all favor with me.”

  “Then he too must be hanged,” said the reeve. “On the morrow, I’ll demand they all come out. If they don’t, we’ll enter by force of arms. My gallows is already erected before the house. But then, Mistress, Dura lex, sed lex. I intend to be as hard as death itself.”

  10

  The night was cold and bright, the skies clear and calm, save for a few supple shreds of clouds shifting south. Moonlight streamed though the front window of the upper room, suffusing all with a pale yellow light. The thin barley soup Sybil made had been consumed. All was still.

  Odo sat upon his column of books, preening his shabby feathers. Alfric had the Book Without Words in his lap and was studying it. Damian sat in a corner, fiddling with some of Thorstorn’s apparatus. Sybil, leaning on her arms, gazed out the window at the gallows. She wondered if she were not like a condemned person in prison, awaiting execution.

  Exactly when he appeared, Sybil was not certain, but she suddenly realized Brother Wilfrid was there. She had no doubt: he was waiting for her.

  “Have you found out anything about gold?” Damian asked of Alfric.

  Alfric looked up from the book, darted a glance at Sybil, and then said, “No.”

  “Then this is a fools’ school,” said Damian, tossing aside the tool he had been holding. “All this sitting about. We know what the stones can do. Which means we can have your master’s magic by simply swallowing them. You can have the one for Time. I’ll take Magic. What are we waiting for?”

  “They are not ours for the swallowing,” said Sybil.

  “Surely they are no longer your master’s,” said Damian. “He’s dead. Buried. Twice. That’s enough for most men.”

  “You must be patient,” said Sybil.

  “Patient!” cried Damian. “If I stay another day in this place, I shall go daft. No, I’ll stay until morning. No more. Then—I don’t care what you say—I intend to leave. For now I prefer to sleep. It will pass the time quickly.” He got up and lumbered back toward the back room.

  Odo looked around. “Irritating boy,” he muttered.

  Alfric yawned and put the book on the table. “Please, Mistress, may I go to sleep too?”

  “Of course,” said Sybil.

  Alfric brought the book to Sybil. As she took it, he whispered, “Follow me,” and headed down the hall toward the back room. Sybil set the book on the table, glanced out the window, and then went down the hall.

  Alfric was waiting for her halfway down the hall.

  “What is it?” Sybil asked.

  “In the book,” Alfric whispered, “there is something about gold.”

  Sybil put a finger to her lips. “Don’t speak of it yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t wish to be tempted. Now, just go to sleep.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” The boy looked up at Sybil, unexpectedly hugged her, and then went into the back room.

  Sybil returned to the main room. “Odo,” she said, “he’s out there.”

  “Who?” said the bird. “Bashcroft?”

  “The man from whom Master stole the book: Brother Wilfrid. I’m sure he’s come to speak to me. You agreed you’d listen to him. Will you come with me?”

  “And the boys?”

  “They’re sleeping. Master is buried. All is safe.”

  “I want to be sure they are sleeping,” said Odo. He hopped to the back room. “They’re fine,” he said when he returned. “But I beg you, for safety’s sake, don’t take the stones. And promise me we’ll go no farther than the courtyard.”

  “Agreed,” said Sybil. “The stones can stay in the chest.” She went toward the steps, holding her elbow out. Odo jumped upon it, and when he clawed his way to her shoulder, the two went down to the door.

  Sybil lifted the crossbar from the door. As she began to put it down it slipped from her hand and fell with a bang.

  “Clumsy girl,” muttered Odo.

  “Sorry,” murmured Sybil. She pulled the door open and looked out. Moonlight cast a glow over the courtyard, bringing a silver sheen to the smallest of puddles. Overhead clouds drifted. The air was calm, if chilly. “Remember,” repeated Odo. “Only for a short time.”

  Sybil nodded and the two stepped away from the house.

  11

  In the back room, a sleeping Damian heard the sound of the falling crossbeam. He sat up in alarm. Alfric did not stir.

  “Girl!” called Damian. “Bird! What was that?” Getting no response, he went into the front room, only to find it deserted.

  “Deceivers,” the boy muttered. “I suppose they are at those chests below.” He took up a candle and crept down the steps. He saw that the trapdoor was open, but when he peered below he saw no one. The chests remained closed, locked. Puzzled, Damian looked about and discovered the door’s crossbeam on the ground. “Churls. They’ve gone somewhere without telling me.”

  Suddenly his face brightened. “The stones,” he said aloud, and started back up the steps.

  12

  Sybil, with Odo on her shoulder, walked to the gallows, paused, and looked up. The noose dangled from the crossbeam like an open hand—as if ready to snatch her. It made her feel queasy.

  Odo glanced up too. “We are surrounded by death,” he said.

  Sybil put her arms around herself to keep warm. But even as they stood there, Brother Wilfred, small, stooped, and limping, appeared. While an agitated Odo shifted about on her shoulder, Sybil acknowledged him with a nod.

  “Ah,” said the monk, his voice faint. “Th
e raven, too.”

  “Do you object?” snapped Odo.

  “A raven’s feather is a necessary ingredient to the making of the stones,” said Wilfrid. “Just as he took the girl’s life by taking her breath, he took some of your being with your feather.”

  “I can spare a feather.”

  “Alas, bird,” said Wilfred. “By so doing, he has taken far more than your feather. It is your life he’s stolen, too.”

  Odo opened his beak but said nothing.

  “Did you bring the stones?” Wilfrid asked Sybil.

  Sybil shook her head. “We need some proof of what you say.”

  “Proof? That Thorston stole the Book Without Words from me?”

  “You could be lying,” said Odo.

  Wilfrid stood motionless, as if lost in thought. The few strands of his hair on his head stirred in the calm air. His pale unblinking green eyes seemed to be gazing at nothing. “Very well,” he said. Follow me.” He turned and began to walk away.

  “Wait,” croaked Odo. “Where are you taking us?”

  Wilfrid paused. “You asked for proof that I speak the truth. I intend to provide it.”

  Odo said, “How long will it take?”

  “Not as long as I have been following Thorston.”

  “Sybil …” Odo warned.

  “Go back to the house if you want,” she said. “I’m going with him.”

  Odo remained.

  Wilfrid, not looking back, walked up through the lane. Sybil came a few paces behind. Odo—now and again fluttering his wings—remained on her shoulder, hunched, black eyes glaring.

  Though Sybil thought she knew the town well, she was soon confused as to where they were going. But though the monk said nothing, she plodded on, walking through the gloomy, constricted streets and alleys, over mud and stone, by heaps of dung and other filth. The only sound was what she made herself, feet squishing through mud. Occasionally Odo flapped his wings, but otherwise remained still.