The Book Without Words Read online

  “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.

  13

  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 reme
mbered: 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.

  “Below. In those chests by his grave.”

  “They were locked,” said Sybil. “Did you find the key?”

  “I … had another way of opening it.”

  “Which was??” said Sybil.

  “It’s what I told you. I can turn things—small things—into water. I did so with the lock. Sybil,” he said in response to her accusatory look. “I told you I could do that. I did.”

  “Did you really find gold?” asked a wide-eyed Damian.

  “You may look for yourself,” said the bird.

  Sybil shoved the two stones into her purse, grabbed a candle and, with the others, rushed down the steps and ladder into the dirt basement. Holding up the candle, she glanced at the grave. It was undisturbed. “He hasn’t moved,” she said, much relieved.

  “God grant him a true death this time,” said Alfric.

  Damian was only interested in the chests. “Did you really turn the lock into water?” he asked Odo.

  “Watch,” said Odo. He lifted a claw to the second lock and said, “Meltan. Meltan.” The old iron lock shook on its hasp, quivered, turned to water, and dribbled into the ground.

  “It is magic,” Alfric whispered.

  “Can you make the lock come back?” asked Sybil.

  “I fear it will probably do so on its own,” the bird admitted. “My magic isn’t strong.”

  “Who cares whether it’s strong or not,” said Damian. “Open the chests.”

  Sybil and Alfric took hold of a chest lid and swung it open. The candlelight revealed a great heap of coins, most of them golden.

  “Heaven’s mercy!” gasped Sybil.

  A giggling Damian pushed his arm up to his elbow into the coins. “A king’s fortune!” he exclaimed.

  Sybil picked up one of the golden coins and let it drop. It made a heavy plunking sound. She grinned.

  “You wondered where he got his money,” Odo said to Sybil. “Now you know: he did make it.”

  “And we’ll share it, won’t we?” said a laughing Damian.

  “We can,” said Sybil, her eyes fixed on the bright coins.

  Alfric tugged on Sybil’s sleeve. “Mistress …”

  “What now?”

  “When you dropped that coin it didn’t … sound like gold.”

  “How would a beggar like you know anything about gold?” Damian demanded.

  “There were times,” said Alfric, “when my father did ledgers for merchants. I’d be with him often enough and he’d let me play with money. The sound of gold is not one I’d ever forget. There’s nothing like it. But a gold coin—when it falls—doesn’t sound like that one did.”

  “What are you suggesting?” cried Sybil.

  “Forgive me,” said Alfric, afraid to look up. “Perhaps they are false.”

  “Do you mean to say,” roared Damian, “Master Thorston was no more than a falsifier of coins?”

  Sybil felt ill. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps because he made it, it has a different sound.”

  “I know the test for gold,” said Odo. “I saw Master do it many times.”

  “God’s heart,” said Sybil. “Then we had best test them.” She scooped up a handful of the coins and headed above.

  17

  As soon as they cleared a place on Thorston’s worktable, Sybil put a coin in a clay dish.

  “As best I can recall,” said Odo, while the others gathered around, “we must make a solution of mercury and vinegar mixed with salt. It will turn green. But when you put a drop of it on a coin that is not true gold, the liquid turns blue.”

  “Do we have those ingredients?” said Damian.

  Sybil looked to Odo.

  “I’m sure we do,” said the raven. “On the shelves.”

  A frantic search commenced. Since both Damian and Alfric could read, they took the lead, checking bottle after bottle, peering at labels and signs. It was not long before they found what they needed.

  Following Odo’s excited, squawked instructions, Sybil mixed up the concoction. Using a silver spoon, she scooped up a small quantity and let a few drops fall on one of the coins. Hardly daring to breathe, they watched as the green drop on the coin frothed, bubbled, and turned … blue.

  “God’s truth,” sighed Sybil. “It’s false.”

  “Try another,” Damian urged.

  Sybil tested two more gold coins. Four more. All of them. The results were always the same: blue.

  “Then that whole chest is nothing but false gold!” said Odo. “As bogus as Master.”

  “According to my father,” said Alfric, “the making and using of false gold is a hanging offense.”

  “So what,” said Damian. “It looks like gold. Enough to fool people. If you don’t want any, I’ll be happy to take it.”

  Sybil felt a poke from Alfric. “What is it?” she asked the boy.

  “Mistress,” said Alfric, his voice trembling. “At the top of the steps. He’s come back again. Your master.”

  They spun about. There, at the top of the steps stood an unsteady Thorston.

  18

  Thorston’s hair was tousled, his eyes bleary. Though traces of dirt were about his robe and face, he appeared to be hardly more than thirty years of age—some twenty years younger than when he had last died. His skin was smooth, his beard and hair full and black, with not a trace of gray. His tattered and dirty robe was far too small for his erect, muscular body—as if he had grown a few inches. It was almost as if the man who stood before them was the son of the previous Thorston.

  His appearance of momentary confusion gave way quickly to a fierce, hard look as he gazed about. “Why are you all staring at me?” he demanded.

  “Master,” said Sybil, “we were waiting for you.”

  “Waiting will do you no good,” said Thorston. He moved toward the worktable. The boys—Odo was on Sybil’s shoulder—stepped hastily aside to let him pass.

  Midway to his worktable, Thorston halted. “Sybil!” he barked. “Who told you to clean the room?”

  “You were … dead, Master,” she replied. “I thought it wise.”

  “I was not dead,” said Thorston, adding, “I was only pausing between stones.”

  “I thought something worse,” said Sybil. “Forgive me.”

  “I forgive nothing,” said Thorston. He noticed the small heap of coins on the table and picked one up. “Where do these come from?”

  “Please, Master,” said Sybil, “we found them.”

  “Found them? Where would you find these?”

  No one replied.

  “Answer!” shouted Thorston.

  “If you wish to know—” began Damian.

  Sybil put out her hands as if to protect the boy.

  “I insist upon knowing,” said Thorston.

  “We took them from those chests in the cellar,” said Damian.

  “Who gave you permission?” roared Thorston.

  “You were dead,” said Damian.

  “Dead?” Thorston echoed. “I will not be dead. I have no intention of dying. These are valuable coins.”

  “They’re false,” said an angry Damian. “Which makes you a cheat.”

  “Damian!” Sybil cried.

  Thorston turned about. “Are you accusing me of a crime?” he said to the boy.

  “Master,” Odo called, leaning forward from the books. “I assure you, we know your strengths. We respect them.”

  “But unless you give me some real gold,” said Damian, refusing to be held back,
“I’ll inform the authorities.”

  Thorston glared angrily at the boy. “Inform the—! What is your name and why are you here?”

  “I am Damian Perbeck and I’m here because she”—he pointed at Sybil—“said you had gold. I was promised some. Will you provide it or not?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I shall inform the authorities,” said Damian. “Perhaps they will give me a reward when they hang you.” He headed toward the stairs.

  “Stop!” cried Thorston, pointing right at the boy. Damian came to an instant halt—as if held by iron hoops.

  “Turn,” Thorston commanded.

  Damian turned, though the turning was not of his own doing. The look on his face was of great perplexity, as if he could not grasp what was happening.

  “If your great desire is coins,” cried Thorston “then be one.” He made a flourish with his hand, and called, “Cuneus!”

  The next instant—where Damian stood—where he had been—where he had been a person—was a heavy coin. For a moment it hung in the air, then clunked to the floor, spinning three times before flopping over.

  “Master!” cried Sybil. “What have you done?” She ran to the coin and picked it up. It was the color of lead, and there was an image of Damian’s face on it: hair clipped around his head like an inverted bowl, heavily lidded eyes, turned-up nose.

  “I will not be threatened,” said Thorston, turning back to his worktable. “Not that he was worth anything.”

  “But … Master … .” stammered Sybil.

  Thorston glared at Sybil. “Was it you who brought these people here?”

  “Master, you told us to fetch someone with green eyes.”

  “Green eyes!” cried Thorston. “All such must be avoided.” He spun about and pointed at Alfric. “Does he have green eyes too?”

  Alfric shrank into the corner.

  “Master,” cried a frightened Sybil, “I implore you—”