The Book Without Words (10 page)

Sybil continued downward one step at a time-backward. Once, twice, she teetered and called out, “Careful!” When she did, Alfric pushed up from below. It brought on another body fart.

“God’s miracles,” cried Damian, “we should be taking him to a privy, not his grave.”

Amid more laughter they reached the lower floor.

Once there, Sybil shifted the body so that Thorston’s lolling head was close to the trapdoor. She moved down the ladder, pausing a third of the way.

“Lower him,” she called up to the others as she braced herself. “I’ll keep him from tumbling.”

Grunting and grumbling, Alfric and Damian did as told. The body edged over the hole headfirst, then went down toward Sybil’s reaching arms.

“Blessed Lord!” she screamed. “He’s falling!”

Thorston’s corpse slid down the ladder—
bump
,

bump—
over the rungs, and dropped at the ladder’s foot directly into the grave, with a heavy
thump
.

They scrambled down the ladder after him. Sybil snatched up the candle, and, heart pounding, peered into the grave. “God’s mercy? she said.

“This is almost farcical,” said Damian, grinning broadly.

“When you are older,” said Odo, “you’ll learn that farce is but tragedy in excess.”

Alfric peered into the grave. “He’s all twisted.”

“Straighten him out,” Damian said to Sybil.

Sybil, though irritated the boy was giving her orders, climbed into the grave.

“Don’t step on him!” cried Odo.

Trying to keep from gagging, Sybil aligned Thorston’s body so that he lay reasonably straight.

“Now what?” said Damian when Sybil had hauled herself out.

“He must be covered by earth,” said Odo.

“Shall I speak what was said over my parents’ grave?” asked Alfric.

“It would be kind,” said Sybil.

Alfric took a deep breath and then said, “Rest in peace.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Surely,” cried Damian, “there was more said.”

“That’s all the priest spoke,” said Alfric.

“Never mind,” said Sybil, feeling ill. “We must finish.” With Alfric’s help, she started to shovel dirt over the body. As she did, she began to cry. Odo bobbed his head with grief. Alfric wept, too.

“Why are you crying?” Damian asked Alfric.

“I’m thinking of my parents.”

“Being without parents hardly makes you special,” said Damian. “I’m an orphan, too.”

“As am I,” said Sybil through a sob. “And Odo.”

“Live long enough,” said Odo, “and all become orphans.”

Damian looked around. “It’s a mercy your sermons are short,” he said.

“My father,” said Alfric, “was wont to say, ‘The shorter the sermon, the longer the truth.'”

Sybil stepped back and wiped her hands on her frock.

“Are we finished?” said Damian.

“Yes,” whispered Sybil, without strength to speak louder.

“Then I want my reward,” said Damian. “And I want it now. Or I shall immediately go to the reeve. I’m sure he will be pleased to know what you’ve done.”

12

“Go up to the room,” said Sybil, “and wait. I need to talk to Odo.” Alfric went. Damian did not.

“Why can’t you speak with me here?” he said.

“Just go!” Sybil cried.

Damian, seeing the fierceness of Sybil’s face, climbed the ladder without further protest.

As soon as they were alone, a nervous Odo said, “What did you wish to say?”

“Even with their green eyes,” Sybil whispered, “the boys can make nothing of that book. What are we to do?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Odo.

“I wish,” said Sybil, looking the bird in the eyes, “I could trust you more.”

“You can.”

“Then tell me about Master. If I knew more about him, I might understand more about the gold. Odo, what kind of man was he?”

“What does it matter? Dead men do few deeds.”

“How long were you with him?”

The bird hung his head. “I’m not sure.”

“How can that be?”

Odo nodded a few time before saying, “Sybil, the truth is, I suspect I was something else before I was a raven.”

“What do you mean?” said Sybil.

“I believe Master transformed me from something else.”

“Was he a sorcerer, then?”

“Of a kind. And in transforming me, he also took my memory.”

“Could he truly have done all that?”

“All his magic came from the book.”

“Then have you
no
idea what you were?”

“I’d like to think I was a human,” said the raven. “But, for all I know I could have been a … cabbage. Or a goat. Master always liked goats.”

“But why would he want you to be a raven?”

“I suspect it has something to do with the making of gold. At least, he promised me half the gold he made if I would stay with him and let him use my feathers. I even allowed him to clip my wings—my foolish way of assuring him I wouldn’t fly away. Sybil, he told me there was a man in York who could restore my wings so I could fly again. Of course, it would take gold; but I supposed I’d have a great deal.”

“Odo, is flying all you seek?”

The raven dropped down a rung closer to the girl. “Sybil, look at me. I’m an old, useless bird. Unable to fly, I’m bound to this wretched earth. I talk only to you, an impoverished peasant girl. What a pair. I cannot fly—you are ignorant. Have you no desires?”

“You always say I’m nothing,” said Sybil. “Perhaps it’s true. But all the same, I want to live, though I can’t say for what purpose. Perhaps being alive is enough. Odo, it was you who convinced me Master’s gold-making secret could make a difference in my life. Now all we have are those stones. I put them in the chest.”

“I suspected as much,” said the bird. “I wish I knew their importance. But I still think we can find gold.”

“Then,” said Sybil, “are we agreed? Even though there appear to be no secrets to be learned from that book, we must make these boys stay, if only to keep the news of Master’s death a secret. We’ll use the time for searching. Have you no idea what’s in these chests?”

“None.”

Sybil saw the rock that Damian had used, and used it to strike the locks hard, one after the other. They held. “Have you ever seen keys?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Perhaps it’s magic that keeps them closed. But we need to look for keys, too.” She glanced at the grave. “Oh, Odo, at least Master is dead and gone. They say it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But if ever there were a more unpleasant man, ‘twas he. A sullen, angry man. And he treated us poorly.”

“And yet,” said Odo, “if by gaining our freedom from him we lose our lives, what have we won?”

Sybil shrugged. “Sometimes I think I’ve never done anything that could be called true living.”

“Gold!” cried the bird. “Put your faith in that!” And he went up the ladder.

Sybil looked at the Thorston’s grave. Suddenly she remembered: the old monk had spoken of the Book Without Words. And he knew of Master. She made up her mind that if she had the opportunity, she would ask him more.

13

When Sybil reached the upper room, Alfric was by the window gazing out. Damian was sitting on the stool. The moment she appeared he said, “How long do you expect me to stay?”

“Until we find gold,” said Sybil.

“We believe,” said Odo, “our master hid his gold somewhere—here about.”

“Mid this disarray?” said Damian.

“Yes,” said Odo.

Damian stood up. “But if I stay, I have no intention of working.”

“So be it,” said Sybil, and she offered up a silent prayer of relief.

The search began. Sybil set Alfric the task of finding all small bottles and placing them on the table, which he was happy to do. She tried to set the room into better order by dumping pieces of glass and debris in one corner, collecting useless items in another, putting Thorston’s alchemic apparatus upright. The only thing she did not touch—sensing it was important—was the pot from which she had taken the stones. Odo busied himself by fluttering about, peering everywhere, poking into the small things he could grasp in his beak or talons.

Damian, true to his word, sat on Thorston’s bed and merely watched. But as the day wore on he became bored. In time he began to help—if only in a half-hearted way.

By early evening, the room was in far better order, the stench less odious. Even so, nothing of importance had been found. So when the cathedral bells rang for Vespers, a weary Sybil fetched a fist of barley from the back room along with a half cabbage and some turnips so they might eat.

“Water,” she reminded herself. It had always been her chore to fetch it from the well. Without even considering that anyone else might do the task, she took up a wooden bucket and went down the steps to the ground floor and opened the door. After checking to make sure no one was lurking about, she stepped away from the house.

14

Sybil darted across the courtyard, going directly to the well. Once there, feeling a vague unease, she looked about. A low fog lay like a shallow swamp upon the ground, rendering the courtyard formless—as if it were there but not there. It made her think of Master Thorston in his grave—here—but
not
here.

As Sybil tried to imagine death, she tied the well rope to her bucket handle and flung it down. It landed with a distant splash.

Is death—she found herself thinking—like an empty bucket at the bottom of a well?

Even as she had the thought, the bucket settled and filled. She began to haul it up. Is that what life is? A full bucket, rising? Then where am I? she asked herself—rising or falling?

“I want to rise,” she said aloud.

Her musing faded when, with a start, she became aware that someone had entered the courtyard. She looked up. It was Brother Wilfrid. As he drew to within a few feet of her she became frightened but made herself hold fast.

The monk halted. His green eyes, amid the mass of face wrinkles, fixed upon her. “You are fearful of me,” he said.

“I am,” said Sybil.

“You need not be. I’m little more than a presence with neither the strength nor inclination to do you harm. There are more important people to fear than me.”

“Who?”

“Thorston.”

“He’s dead,” said Sybil.

“Dead!”

“We buried him today.”

“Where?”

“In the house,” said Sybil, belatedly thinking she should not have made the admission.

Brother Wilfrid seemed to sway in a breeze. “Did he … did he not make the stones?” he asked.

Though she knew exactly what the monk was asking about, Sybil said, “What stones?”

“He was making them when I first came,” said Wilfrid. “They must be in the house. You need to find them. You are in great danger.”

“Why?”

“Do you know nothing about them?”

Sybil shook her head.

Brother Wilfrid was silent for a long moment. “Then you must hear me,” he finally said.

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