The Book Without Words (12 page)

“Unfeeling girl,” Odo muttered as he retreated to the front room. “Why should I care or trust her?” He reached the top of the steps, paused, and looked toward the back room. Seeing and hearing nothing, he hopped softly down the steps. Upon reaching the ground-floor level he went to the closed trapdoor, stood before it, and extended one claw.
“Risan … risan,”
he whispered.

The heavy door trembled as it struggled to rise.

“Risan … risan,”
the bird repeated, somewhat louder.

The door quivered anew, strained to open, but failed and settled back.

“My magic is too weak,” moaned Odo. “I still need her.” Softly, he returned to the room and went to his column of books and tried to sleep.

20

In the back room Sybil remained awake. Wishing she had said spoken more kindly to Odo, she got up and padded into the front room.

All was still: Damian lay asleep in Thorston’s bed, breathing deeply. Alfric was curled up in a corner, eyes closed, his thumb in his mouth. Seeing that Odo had his head tucked under a wing—apparently asleep-she decided she’d wait until the morning to speak to him.

Instead she went to the window and pulled aside the leather curtain, hoping to see Brother Wilfrid. The courtyard was deserted. In the clear sky, an all but full moon cast pale light into the room. She turned. On the table lay the Book Without Words, its pages glowing in the moonlight. The monk had said it was evil. Perhaps, she thought, it would be better not to read it. And the stones…

She went to the foot of Thorston’s bed, knelt, and opened the chest. A sweet, springlike smell wafted up. As she held the chest lid up with one hand, with the other, she moved aside the bolt of cloth under which she had hidden the stones. She gasped. The three stones were glowing. But even as Sybil gazed at them, she thought she heard the sound of someone stirring across the room. In haste, she covered the stones, lowered the lid, and crept back to her room.

On her pallet she kept thinking about the stones. That there was something magical about them, she had no doubt. The monk said they restored life. But how? She resolved to speak to the monk and ask him for an explanation.

21

In the front room, Alfric, his head full of worry, had not been able to sleep. The death and burial of Master Thorston made him think upon his parents and their death. It brought tears to his eyes.

He also thought about Sybil. He was touched by her sympathy. How long it had been since anyone had been kind to him! The last thing he wanted was to return to Bashcroft. The boy prayed she would let him stay with her.

Even as Alfric had the thought, he saw her enter the room and look about. Feigning sleep, he closed his eyes partway and watched her pull aside the leather curtain from the front window. When moonlight filled the room, he shut his eyes and waited until he heard her go back down the hallway.

Once she had gone, he propped himself up on an elbow and peered about. It occurred to him that Sybil might let him stay if he could do something she wanted, something that would make her desirous of keeping him. Something like—the reading of that book: if he could find a way to read it, she might look with favor upon him.

Seeing that Damian was asleep and snoring on the alchemist’s bed, and that the raven had his head tucked under a wing, Alfric went to the table where the Book Without Words lay.

Illuminated by moonlight, its stiff, yellow parchment pages seemed to have their own glow. Gingerly, Alfric touched one sheet. The scraped parchment made his fingertips tingle. One by one, he turned over the leaves. Each page appeared the same—blank. Or did it?

Bending closer, he scrutinized them hard, wanting with all his desire to see
something.
As he concentrated, faint lines began to appear—lines he was sure had not been there before. They were indistinct squiggles—but they were there. He stared harder. The lines became clearer. They became
words.
Alfric’s heart began to pound.

Alarmed, Alfric backed away. The chill air made him shiver. He must be careful. Without question there
was
magic here. But he didn’t want to antagonize the girl. Perhaps he was doing something wrong. He went down the hallway toward her room.

“Mistress?” he called to Sybil. She opened her eyes.

“Are you awake?” Alfric whispered.

“Yes.”

“I can’t sleep. And I’m cold. May I stay close to you?”

“Of course.”

The boy crept close to her. She was thin but warm. “May God bless you,” he said in a choked voice. “You are the kindest lady in the world.”

As Sybil drew the frail boy close, she realized something: Odo had apologized to her. The monk had said he needed her. The boy had blessed her. In all her life no one had ever said or done any of those things. Here, in one day, were all three. Was that not a kind of magic?

22

From his perch on the books, Odo had watched Alfric examine the Book Without Words, then move into the back room. As soon as the boy had gone, the raven fluttered over to the book and gazed at it. He saw nothing. Agitated, he hopped over to the chest at the foot of

Thorston’s bed. After making sure no one was watching, he lifted a claw and said,
“Risan … risan.”
When the chest lid opened, he hopped upon its edge and peered inside. The sweet smell rose up. He was just about to jump into the chest when he heard a loud
bang.
The sound came from the ground level. Alarmed, the raven leaped out of the chest and muttered some words. As soon as the chest lid lowered, Odo retreated to his roost. Head cocked, he sat and listened intently.

23

The same sound Odo heard woke Sybil from her shallow sleep. Disentangling herself from Alfric, she sat up. The noise seemed to have come from below, on the ground floor. She listened. Within moments there were new sounds: grunts and groans, the sounds of someone laboring.

Sybil jumped up and moved halfway down the hall to listen. The sounds resumed. Recalling that she had barred the front door, the only sense she could make of the sounds was that someone had broken in. Perhaps it was through the old stone wall. The stones, she knew, were none too firm.

She crept into the main room. Moonlight streamed in, bringing radiance to the top of the steps. She heard more grunts and groans followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.

“Odo,” she whispered across the room. “Someone’s in the house.”

The raven lifted his head. “I hear.” He stood, head cocked, beak open—an attitude of intense listening.

“Do you think it’s the reeve?” said Sybil. “Could he have come through that back way—through the old city walls?”

“It’s blocked,” said Odo.

A loud boom echoed from below, loud enough to make Sybil jump. What, she thought, if it’s Brother Wilfrid coming for the book?

“Odo,” said Sybil, “I didn’t tell you, but I saw-”

“Quiet!” hissed the bird. “That’s … the trapdoor.”

Breathless, Sybil listened as more sounds came: the unmistakable sound of footsteps could be heard moving toward the room.

A form, lit up by the moonlight, rose up from the well of the steps. Head. Shoulders. Body. A human shape.

“Dear God…” whispered Sybil, holding her breath.

The person stepped into the circle of moonlight that lay upon the floor at the top of the stairwell. A face.

Sybil gasped. It was the face of the man they had just buried, Master Thorston.

24

Speechless with astonishment, Sybil stared at Thorston. That it was the master, she had not the slightest doubt. Yet there was something different about him, but nothing she could grasp.

Thorston stood at the top of the stairs, motionless. Traces of dirt clung to his hair, face, and beard. His tattered blue robe was smudged. His hands and fingers were encrusted with dirt. Slowly, he moved his head, scanning the room, although there was no hint he was aware of anyone’s presence.

Thorston, paying no heed to Sybil and Odo, came forward slowly. Sybil backed to one side of the room. Odo retreated to his book column.

When he reached the brazier and the iron pot with its mixture—the one he had been working on—Thorston gazed at it, and then reached inside. Momentarily, he held his hand there—as if feeling for something—only to withdraw it, filthier than before—but empty. “The stones,” he said in a loud, angry voice. “Where are they?”

Sybil was too frightened to answer.

Grimacing enough to reveal teeth, Thorston continued to survey the room, without suggesting he was aware of those watching. In the end he turned toward his bed. Whether he saw the sleeping Damian, Sybil could not tell. He simply walked to the bed and lay down by the boy’s side. Damian stirred. “Blessed Saint Dunstan,” he muttered. “If I cannot sleep in peace…” The boy sat up and looked for the cause of his discomfort. “This was to be my—” he began to protest, then halted.

Sybil held her breath.

“God the mighty!” Damian screamed and leaped out of the bed.
“It’s him!”

Sybil darted forward and clamped a hand over his mouth from behind. “Be still,” she commanded.

Only when Damian ceased to struggle did Sybil take away her hand.

“Is that … your master?” asked Damian.