The Book Without Words (7 page)

M
ORNING
, however unwilling, seeped into Fulworth. A gray, raw morning, with blustery winds blowing through the narrow streets and alleys, spreading the stink of rot, open privies, and spoiled food. When the bells of Saint Osyth’s cathedral rang for Prime, they did so with peals that sounded like colliding lumps of lead. And in the decaying stone house at the end of Clutterbuck Lane, Sybil, through chattering teeth said, “I don’t think Master wishes to live.'’

“He once told me,” said Odo, “that when he knew he was going to die, he’d make sure he stayed alive. Like most humans, he’s not kept his word.”

Sybil, contemplating Thorston’s unmoving face, said, “How old do you think he is?”

“Eighty years or so.”

“I suppose,” said Sybil, “he should be content: he’s lived far longer than most.”

“I don’t care how long he’s lived,” said Odo. “I ask for just one hour—if he talks.”

Sybil filled the wooden spoon with broth and continued trying to force liquid through Thorston’s clenched lips. A few drops got in. Most dribbled down his chin. She wiped the spill with a dirty rag. “It’s useless,” she said. “He won’t take anything.”

“Which means
we
won’t get anything,” croaked the bird.

Upset, Sybil carried the bowl to the brazier where she had kept a small fire burning with chips of sea coal. Next to the fire stood the iron pot with which Thorston had been working when he took ill. She stood close to it. As she shifted about, trying to warm herself, she caught a sudden, furtive glance from Odo. Sensing he was troubled by her nearness to the pot, she decided to look at it closely. As she bent over it she saw—out of the corner of her eye—Odo become more agitated.

She pulled back. He relaxed. She went forward. He tensed.

“Odo,” she asked, certain it was her nearness to the pot that was upsetting him, “did you ever—for a certainty—know if Master actually
made
gold?”

When the raven gave no answer, she moved her hand toward the pot.

“Sybil!” shrilled the bird.

She looked about.

“Perhaps,” said Odo, “I should have told you before: I think Master found the way to make gold. In fact, I believe he was making it when he had his stroke.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He cried out,” said the raven, “as I never heard before. It’s what woke me. Come here, and I’ll describe it.”

Sybil, convinced Odo was trying to keep her from the pot, did not move. “Odo, if Master did make gold it should be about. Could it be—in here?” She gestured toward the pot.

The bird bobbed his head up and down. “You may be assured I’ve looked. It’s not there.”

Sybil felt a surge of anger. “When did you look?”

“When I discovered him ill.”

“And what, Master raven, did you find?”

“I told you, nothing.”

“Is that when you woke me?” cried Sybil. “Only
after
you found nothing?” Furious, she plunged her hand into the pot.

“Don’t!” screamed the bird.

Sybil worked her fingers through the thick, pongy mess. Touching some lumps, she cried, “Odo, there
is
something.”

“Gold?” cried the bird. He hopped toward her.

Sybil snatched up the lumps, and turned from him.

“Is it gold?” repeated Odo, beating about her. “Is it?”

Keeping her back to the bird, Sybil wiped the lumps on her gown and looked at them. There were three of them, greenish, imperfectly round, each smaller than the next, the smallest the size of a pea. “They are only stones,” she said, with a sinking heart. “Green ones.”

“Show them to me!” squawked Odo as he jumped to her arm and gave her a sharp peck. Sybil, clutching the stones in one hand, smacked the bird away with the other.

Odo glared up at her from the floor. “Idiot!”

Sybil, annoyed by the bird, went to the foot of the bed, where a wooden chest sat upon the floor. She knelt. Trusting the lid screened her movements, she put the stones beneath a bolt of cloth, then took up a small leather pouch—Thorston’s money pouch. She let the chest lid slam shut and drew out the few coins that were inside. “What will give out first—Master, the money—or us?”

“What difference will a few coins make?” spat out the raven. “All you’ve insured is that
our
deaths will closely follow his.” He shook his head, jumped to the window, and peered out through the glass, tail feathers twitching with agitation. Suddenly he croaked, “Sybil—a boy is coming here.”

2

“Are you certain?” cried Sybil, forgetting about the stones.

“Where else could he be going?” said Odo. “There’s no other house but ours in this horrid court. God’s mercy! He’s with the city reeve.”

“Master Bashcroft?”

“Yes! He’s pushing the boy—who doesn’t seem eager to move—forward. Now the reeve has retreated. But not far. He’s shaking a fist at the lad.”

“Does the boy have green eyes?”

“Sybil, I don’t care if he’s entirely green. If it’s Bashcroft who’s sending him, we should have nothing to do with him.”

Sybil opened the chest, threw back Thorston’s pouch, slammed the lid back down, and stood up. “But green eyes are what I need,” she said. She took up the candle and headed for the steps.

“Are you truly going to let him in?” Odo screeched after her.

“I am,” said Sybil, “but things will go badly if he hears you talk.”

She hurried to the ground floor just in time to hear a timid knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“Please, I’m a child,” said a small voice. “With green eyes. I’m here to see Master Thorston.”

Sybil looked around at Odo, who had followed her down the steps. “There,” she said, “my plan worked.”

“Alas! But you mustn’t let him in.”

Enjoying the raven’s frustration, Sybil removed the crossbeam and pulled in the heavy door.

Alfric stood on the threshold, his head bowed so that Sybil could see nothing of his eyes. She could see his unruly red hair, his ragged clothing, his torn boots, and that he was younger than she.

“Please, Mistress,” said Alfric, speaking in a whisper and addressing the ground, “I was told a boy with green eyes was wanted.” His trembling fingers—raw with cold—twisted in distress.

“Who told you?” said Sybil.

“Master Bashcroft.” Alfric turned halfway around.

Sybil followed his gaze but saw no one in the courtyard. “Let me see your eyes.”

A reluctant Alfric lifted his head. Tears were running down his red, chapped face.

“God’s grace, boy,” said Sybil. “What ails you?”

“I’m frightened.”

“Of what?”

“Of what will happen to me here.” He covered his face with his hands as if to ward off a blow.

Gently, Sybil pulled the boy’s hand away and looked at his eyes anew. Seeing that they were green, her heart fluttered. “By all grace,” she said, “nothing bad shall befall you here. Step in.”

When Alfric edged forward, Sybil shut the door behind him. The noise made the boy jump.

“May I know your name?” said Sybil as she set back the crossbar.

“Alfric,” the boy said with a shuddering sob. “Please, Mistress, I didn’t want to find out about how to make the gold.”

“Gold?” said a startled Sybil. “What gold?”

“That your master makes.”

Sybil heard Odo hiss softly. To Alfric she said, “You appear hungry. Are you?”

“Yes, please.”

“Come. I’ll give you something warm.” She turned toward the steps.

The boy hesitated.

“I shan’t hurt you,” said Sybil. “It’s only your green eyes that are wanted.”

The boy threw himself back up against the door. “Are you going to cut them out?” he cried.

“No, no! You need only
look
at something with them,” said Sybil. She moved toward the steps, turning to make sure Alfric was coming.

Halfway up the steps they passed Odo who fixed his beady eyes on the boy. Alfric shied away but continued on. When he reached the gloomy room, he stopped and looked about, wide-eyed.

Odo went to his customary roost upon the skull.

“Mistress,” the boy whispered, “is that old man … dead?”

“Just resting,” said Sybil. She drew the three-legged stool close to the hot brazier. “Pray sit,” she said.

Alfric, sitting on the stool’s edge, looked about the room. Now and again he wiped his face with his dirty hands.

Sybil placed the bowl from which she had been attempting to feed Thorston back on the brazier. As it warmed, she watched Alfric survey the room. She sensed he was looking for something.

“Tell me, Alfric,” she said, “what is your connection to Master Bashcroft?”

“He bought me for two pennies.”

“Bought you! Where are your parents, then?”

“Dead,” the boy whispered.

“May they find grace,” said Sybil as she handed the bowl to the boy.

With a look of gratitude, Alfric took the bowl in both raw hands. He allowed himself a sip; then a second, deeper one. His third swallow drained the bowl. Though the bowl was empty, he continued to clutch it, reluctant to give up its warmth.

“Now, Alfric,” said Sybil, “I require you to look at something with those green eyes of yours.”

“Mistress, I can read. Truly. My father, who did ledgers for merchants, was also a scrivener. He taught me the skill.”

“Even better,” said Sybil, glancing at Odo and feeling a heart swell of anticipation. She went to Thorston’s bed, took up the Book Without Words, placed it on Alfric’s knees, and opened it at random. “Be so good as to read what you see.”

As Alfric bent over the open page, Odo hopped closer to observe better. Sybil also watched intently.

After a long time Alfric looked up. “Please, Mistress,” he whispered. “There are no words here.”

Sybil sighed. “Turn some pages. Perhaps you’ll find something.”

Alfric reached the end of the book. “I don’t see anything,” he said. “Is it something I’ve done?”

Even as he spoke there came a loud pounding on the door below.

3

Sybil looked to Odo. The raven’s head was up, bright black eyes full of alarm.

“It must be Master Bashcroft,” whispered Alfric. His thin chest heaved. Tears began to flow. “He said he’d be watching me closely. Said he’d beat me if I don’t find out how your master makes gold.”

Odo jumped up to the window and peered down. Sybil joined him.

“Now what do you propose to do?” the bird whispered.

“Look there,” said Sybil, tapping the glass with her finger. “In that far doorway. It’s Bashcroft. So it can’t be him who’s knocking.”

“No doubt,” said Odo, “he’s sending an army of green-eyed children.”

Sybil turned to boy. “Alfric,” she called, “did you come with anyone beside the reeve?”

Alfric, his face full of fright, was standing stiff as a stick with the Book Without Words clutched to his chest like a shield. He shook his head.

Another knock came.

Sybil gave Odo a warning look, as if to say “Don’t speak!” then hastened down the steps, candle in hand. By the time she reached the seventh step, Odo had leaped to her shoulder, and he rode the rest of the way down with her. He pecked her neck twice, but she ignored it.

“Who’s there?” she called when she reached the door.

“A child with green eyes,” was the bellowed reply from the other side. “Here to see Master Thorston.”

“God’s grace,” said Sybil, “whoever it is, he doesn’t lack for boldness.” She pulled the door open.

On the threshold stood Damian.

Sybil, recognizing him as the apothecary’s apprentice, was immediately alarmed. She took a mental measure of him. He was bigger than she, well fed, but not much older. She noted his pimpled red face and the fact that he wore decent boots and a wool jacket. He seemed soft, with much padding.

“I am Damian Perbeck. Apprentice to Mistress Weebly, the apothecary. My eyes are green.”

Despite feeling an instant dislike for the boy, Sybil stepped aside. “Enter,” she said.

Damian eyed her. “Who are you?”

“Master Thorston’s servant.”

“Then my business is not with you” said the boy. He stepped inside and turned his back on her. “Take me to your master.”

“I’ll take you nowhere, till you tell me why you’ve come,” said Sybil as she slammed the door, set the bar, and faced the boy.