The Book Without Words (11 page)

“It was in 973,” began the monk, “seventy-three years ago, that a boy was born. Extraordinary omens occurred: stars fell out of the heavens. On Saint Waccar’s day, the sun grew dark at noon. Sheets of fire hung in the night sky. Between cockcrow and dawn, frightful flashes of lightning were observed. There were those who swore they had seen dragons flying through the air. These dreadful omens were followed by a great famine that stirred the flames of civil conflict. All over Northumbria, thieves and brigands roamed. In the strife that followed, the boy’s parents were killed.

“Relations took the child in, but the ravages of famine overwhelmed all, and he lost them, too. Alone, he lived in fear. And when it appeared as if life could not be worse, news spread that Viking raiders had returned to Northumbria. They looted churches and slaughtered many, while taking some into slavery and holding others for ransom.

“Devastation ruled the land.

“So it was that by the time the boy reached thirteen years of age, beyond all else, he feared death.

“The boy heard that the safest place on earth was Saint Elfleda’s monastery, which was on a small island off the northeastern coast of Northumbria. There he accepted the only work he could get, that of a goatherd.”

“Who was that boy?” asked Sybil.

“Your master, Thorston.”

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“One afternoon,” the monk went on, “long boats with high dragon bows and long oars appeared. The boats carried some two hundred bearded, long-haired men with iron helmets, and chain mail on their chests. Shields on the boats sides proclaimed them to be Viking raiders.

“After dragging the boats high onto the beaches, the men took up axes, swords, and shields. With fierce shouts and cries, they raced inland. When the monks of Saint Elfleda’s saw them, they dropped their tools and fled, only to be overtaken and killed. Screams of terror and cries for mercy filled the air. Looting began. From a place of concealment Thorston saw it all.

“How old are you?” the monk suddenly asked Sybil.

“Thirteen,” she said.

“His age at that time, exactly.

“As for me, at the time I was a young monk entrusted with a great responsibility, a book. Clutching this book I fled the monastery through a small door in the wall, only to come upon a very frightened Thorston. The boy reeked of goat. ‘Follow me,’I cried to him.

“The two of us ran to the western side of the island, and then over the sandbar to the mainland. Once we were safe—thinking he would help me—I foolishly told Thorston about the Book Without Words. ‘You should praise God,’I told him, ‘that He has sent you—as a means of your salvation—to help keep this book from evildoers.’

“‘Why do you have it, then?’

“‘Young and weak though I am, Abbot Sigfrid entrusted it to me that I might shield it from those who might use it,'” I said, and I opened the book and gingerly turned the stiff, yellow parchment pages.

“Thorston, looking down over my shoulder, said, ‘Brother Wilfrid, the pages are blank. How does one read it?’

“‘It requires green eyes and earthly desire.’

“‘Why green eyes?’he asked.

“‘The old religion claimed green to be the color of life.’

“And earthly desire?’

“The things most wanted.’

“‘Brother Wilfrid,’said Thorston, ‘I was once told I had green eyes.’

“I darted a look at him. When I saw that his eyes were indeed green, I became alarmed and closed the book.

“But he had become excited. ‘Brother Wilfrid; he said, ‘can the book’s magic tell me how to live forever?’

“I stood up. ‘I must go,’I said.

“Thorston restrained me. ‘Please,’he pleaded, ‘my desire is never to die. Teach me how to read and use the book.’

“’No,’I said, pulling free, ‘it’s not for such as you and I.’ But I held out my hand. ‘Be my friend and companion. If something happens to me, you could bring the book to our bishop. You would be blessed.’

“‘But, Brother Wilfrid, if we used the book’s magic, we—’

“‘Didn’t you hear me?’I said. ‘It must not be used. I must get it to safety. Thank you for your assistance. Godspeed; I said, ‘and a blessed death.’I started off.

“Abruptly, Thorston threw his tunic over my head, smothering me. He struck, too. As I fell, he tore the Book Without Words from my grasp, took back his tunic, and ran off through the forest.

“I lay dying on the thick forest floor, the stench of goat in my nostrils. ‘Saint Elfleda,’I cried, ‘help me retrieve the book.’

“And so,” concluded the monk, “she has.”

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“Is all of that true?” whispered an astonished Sybil. “All of it?”

“By Saint Elfleda, it is.”

“And have you been searching for Thorston all these years?”

“Beyond all else, it’s the book I seek.”

“Is the book truly so valuable?”

“It contains all the evil magic of Northumbria. Whereas it can only be used in these Northumbrian precincts, its magic gives what is desired, even as the desire consumes the magician.”

“Why do you want it, then?”

“Since such evil can never be entirely destroyed, it must be kept from those who might misuse it.”

“Why are green eyes so important?”

“As I told you the old religion held it to be the color of life. And if one wishes to live forever—as Thorston does—the means can be found there, but only in these Northumbrian precincts.”

“But I told you, Thorston is dead.”

“Are you sure? He was determined to live forever.”

“Is it so wrong to want to live?”

“Wrong for him to reclaim his life by taking yours.”

“What do you mean?” cried Sybil.

Wilfrid sighed. “It’s the stones. They will renew his life. To make them he had to take the very breath of
your
life. When he uses the stones, he will live, but you won’t.”

“But I told you, he’s dead!” cried Sybil.

Wilfrid shook his head. “Beware the book’s magic. No doubt he chose you because of your age. If you would keep him dead, and thereby save yourself, bring the book and the stones to me.”

“Tell me how he uses those stones.”

“I beg you, just bring the book and the stones to me.” The monk stretched out his trembling hands toward Sybil, hands little more than sinew and bones. As Sybil looked at Wilfrid, his face appeared to be as much a skeleton as a living face—as if he too hovered between life and death. Gripped by sudden terror, she fled back to the house.

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Sybil, unable to free herself of thoughts about what the ancient monk had said—“When he uses the stones, he will live, but you won’t”—made a cabbage soup on the brazier and served it to the others. The people ate with wooden spoons. Odo dipped his beak into a bowl.

“Some say that spring will never come this year,” said Damian as he slurped his food.

“Perhaps time has frozen,” said Odo.

“My father,” said Alfric, “used to say that time is like an oxcart wheel—that it has no end or beginning, but only rolls.”

“But,” added Damian with a laugh, “the cart it lugs has nothing but muck.”

“You are a vulgar boy,” said Odo.

“Better boy than bird,” Damian retorted. “We haven’t found anything, have we?” he said.

The stones, Sybil thought to herself, but she said nothing.

“We’re not finished looking,” said Odo. “But even,” he went on, “if it does not seem like gold, I know Master’s test for it.”

“As long as it looks like gold,” said Damian with a grin, “I don’t care.”

Odo nodded. “A sniff of gold makes all noses sneeze,” he said.

It was Alfric who, in his small pensive voice, said, “Mistress, what shall we do when Master Bashcroft returns tomorrow?”

“God’s mercy,” said the girl, her attention brought back to the others. “I forgot about him. I shall put my mind to it.”

Alfric’s question dampened the mood. For the rest of the meal, no one spoke. They finished eating.

“Forgive me,” said Alfric with a yawn. “I’ve not slept indoors for so long, the closeness makes me sleepy.”

“You can sleep where you like,” said Sybil.

“I’ll rest on the floor,” said the boy, and he went off to a corner.

“As for me,” said Damian, “since your master sleeps elsewhere, I’ll take his bed.” He went to it and lay down.

Odo sat where the skull used to be, on the pile of books.

Sybil retreated to her straw pallet in the back room. After pulling the thin blanket up to her chin, she stared up at the darkness. She thought of the monk’s tale, that Master had stolen the Book Without Words from him. If it had been stolen, was it not proper to return it to its rightful owner? Besides, its empty pages were useless to them. But there were the stones, which seemed to be important. Finally—reluctantly—Sybil made herself consider the monk’s warning: that when Thorston regained his life, she would lose hers. It made no sense: Master
was
dead; and she, after a fashion, lived.

More than that: with Thorston dead, she was free. True, the notion of being unattached to anyone made her uneasy. Even so, there was something pleasing about it. Except—what should she
do
with her life? Something, she told herself. I must do
something.

The sound of soft scratches coming down the hallway reached her ears. In a moment, Odo peered into her face.

“Sybil,” said the raven, his voice a croaked whisper. “I wish to acknowledge I’ve spoken ill of you too often. I’ve been unkind. My only excuse is that a sharp master makes for a dull servant. Will you forgive me?”

“I’m trying.”

“And will there be no secrets between us?” said the bird.

“I’m weary with secrets,” said Sybil. “Let me sleep.”

“As God is my witness,” said Odo, “once I fly again, I’ll leave you. You’ll not be bothered by me again.”

Sybil, wondering what would she do without Odo, felt pain. But afraid the bird would mock her if she confessed such soft thoughts, she said nothing.

“You have no heart,” said Odo, and he hopped away.

As the raven pattered down the hallway, Sybil’s thoughts concentrated on the stones. She wished the monk had told her how they were to be used. She also wished she had not fled so quickly from him. She hoped he would return.

As Sybil drifted off to sleep, she wondered if it had been wrong to tell Odo where she’d put the stones. I must trust him, she told herself I must. He’s my only friend.

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