The Book Without Words (16 page)

“Ah,” said the monk, his voice faint. “The 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.

The monk halted. “We are here,” he said. They had come to the back of a church and were facing a neglected cemetery surrounded by a low wall of stacked slate. The graveyard was populated by crosses and stones, only a few of which stood erect.

“This is where Thorston should be,” said the monk. “But your proof is in the church.”

They went inside. It was deserted. A solitary light flickered in the old altar.

Brother Wilfrid went to the eastern wall and knelt before the large image that was there. Sybil, with Odo on her shoulder, stood behind him.

“Saint Elfleda,” whispered the monk, his hands clasped. “I beg you; speak the truth about the Book Without Words.”

In the stillness of the church, the only sound Sybil heard was her own heartbeat. But as she gazed at the image, the saint’s eyes seemed to shift until they looked directly at her. Then the saint’s arm, the one held in blessing, began to move. It reached out to her, palm up. “Bring the book back to me,” Sybil heard a voice, soft, and as if from a great distance, say. “Its magic is evil. Since it cannot be destroyed, it must be hidden.”

“What’s so evil about it?” cried Odo.

“It gives what is desired, but the desire consumes the taker.”

“My desire is to fix my wings,” said Odo. “I need gold for that.”

Saint Elfleda held up Saint Cuthbert’s belt. “Bring me the book and I shall make thee what thou were.”

That said, the saint’s dark eyes shifted. The arm went back in its position of blessing. She became still again.

“Will you believe me now?” said Brother Wilfrid.

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Sybil and Odo headed back to Clutterbuck Lane. At first they followed the monk, but at some point—Sybil was not sure when—he left them.

“We must give the monk the book and stones,” she said, breaking her silence.

“And the gold-making secrets?” said the bird.

“Oh, Odo, wouldn’t you rather live? Besides, the saint said she would fix you.”

“Actually, she said she’d make me what I was.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“I don’t like it,” said Odo, “that all this living and dying is so mixed up. It should be one or the other.”

“It doesn’t seem to be,” said the girl.

The raven remained still for a while. Then he said, “He didn’t say we had to return
all
the stones. Perhaps if I took the Magic one, I could gain the secret of gold-making.”

“That’s what Damian said. Odo,” said Sybil, “I want to live. And to do that we must return the book and stones.”

Odo only shook his head. “And the gold?”

“Odo, there isn’t any.”

“The chests,” said Odo.

“We have no keys.”

“I still want to look,” said Odo.

“When we return home,” said Sybil, “I’m going to fetch the book and the stones and bring them to Brother Wilfrid.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never cared about living before. What has changed?”

“I have learned something.”

“What?”

“Master may wish to never die, but I have yet to live.”

Within moments they entered the house. “You go up,” said the bird. “I want to look at the chests again.” Sybil went up the steps.

14

As soon as she had gone, Odo hopped down the ladder. First he checked the grave and was relieved to find it undisturbed. Then he drew close to one of the chests, lifted a claw, and whispered,
“Meltan
.
Meltan.”
One of the locks shook, turned to water, flowed down to the ground, and disappeared.

Head cocked, Odo listened. Certain no one was coming, he lifted his claw a second time.
“Ofan, Ofan,”
he murmured. With a creak the chest lid swung open. Fluttering his wings and leaping, Odo landed upon the chest’s lip. He looked within. “Ah!” he croaked. He was about to hop into the chest when he heard Sybil cry from above: “Odo, come quickly! Damian has stolen the stones!”

15

Odo raced up to the second floor as fast as he could hop. When he arrived, a red-faced Damian was by the front window, right hand held aloft and clenched in a fist. A furious Sybil, iron bottle in hand, stood before him, not allowing him to move. Alfric, frightened, stood across the room.

“Give me those stones!” Sybil shouted at Damian. “Or by Saint Lull, I’ll crown you with this, and then pry them from your dead fingers.”

“They’re magic,” shouted the boy. “And since there’s no gold, it’s only what I deserve and need. I shall eat them myself.” He opened his mouth wide.

With a raucous squawk and jump, Odo landed on Damian’s head. As his talons sank into the boy’s scalp, he began to peck around his neck.

“Off, you filthy bird!” the boy screamed.

“Release the stones!” cried Sybil, drawing closer with her bottle, arm cocked.

“I won’t!” returned Damian. As he tried to swat Odo away with his free hand, Sybil dropped the bottle, darted forward, and grabbed the boy’s arm, pinning it to his side. “Let them go,” she shouted.

“No!” screamed Damian.

“Alfric,” Sybil called. “Pry his hand open. I’ll hold him.”

Alfric approached timidly.

“I’ll kick you,” Damian warned.

Odo pecked Damian’s head furiously.

“You’re hurting me!” screamed the boy.

“Alfric,” cried Sybil. “Do as I say.”

Alfric darted forward and grabbed Damian’s hand. Damian tried to kick him. Alfric responded by bending over and biting Damian’s wrist.

“Yow!” cried Damian. His hand opened. The stones clattered to the floor. Alfric snatched them up and scurried off to a corner. As Odo leaped away, Sybil released the boy. Panting, she went to where Alfric stood, and held out her hand. He gave her the two stones.

“I’m bloody,” cried Damian, holding out a red-stained hand. He dropped to the floor and began to sob. “I despise you all. You’re low, filthy people—and you’re a filthy bird.”

“And you are an ill-mannered, thieving boy,” a trembling Sybil called from across the room. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“You all loathe me,” Damian blubbered.

“What have you done to deserve otherwise?” said Sybil.

“You have all these secrets,” Damian retorted. “But you tell me nothing. I’m sure by now Mistress Weebly will want none of me. I was a fool to come here. Now I have nothing.”

“It was your choice to stay,” Sybil said.

“You forced me!”

“Anyway,” said Sybil, “you can’t leave now. What’s happened here must remain a secret.”

“And we might find gold,” offered Alfric.

“Stupid boy,” yelled Damian. “THERE IS NO GOLD. We’ll never find any. It’s a cheat. A fraud. This Thorston is a disgusting old man who hasn’t the common decency to stay dead. If I were dead I should stay dead. I hate being alive! I despise Fulworth. I’ve already run away, and now I’ll go farther.”

“Where will you go?” asked Alfric.

“What do you care? Do you think I’d take you? Not likely.” He began to cry anew, big air-gulping sobs.

Sybil sighed. “Master Damian, we are all just trying to live. But we can’t if we steal from one another, can we?” She sat on Thorston’s bed and opened her hand. The two stones, one smaller than the other, lay glowing in her palm. “Do you wish to know the truth about these?”

Alfric drew near. Damian looked away as if he didn’t care, but Sybil was sure he was listening.

“These stones,” began Sybil, “were made by our master a few days ago. They are his way of staying alive.”

“He’s bloody well failed, hasn’t he?” said Damian, wiping away his tears. “And I’m glad of it. So why couldn’t I have at least one stone?”

“Damian,” said a weary Sybil, “we need to work together. And if we find anything of value, we’ll surely share.”

Exhausted, they sat in silence. Sybil gazed at the stones and wondered what would happen if she swallowed one. Would she become something else? Would she die? Then she remembered: she was going to bring them to Brother Wilfrid.

Even as she got up, Odo, from atop the books, bobbed his head a few times and said, “I wish to announce something.”

They looked around.

The raven opened his beak, stuck out his black tongue, and then said: “I have found Master’s gold.”

16

There was stunned silence.

Sybil found voice to ask, “Is that truly so?” The bird nodded.

“Where is it?” demanded Damian.