The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic Page 2

6

  The girl woke slowly. “Wh—at?” she murmured.

  “Master is calling you.”

  “Is it to cook, fetch…or run an errand?” Sybil said as she rolled away from the bird and pressed down into the thin straw. “Is he too lazy to look for something himself?”

  “Sybil, he’s dying.”

  “Who’s dying?

  “Master.”

  The girl rubbed her eyes. “Is he—really?”

  “Yes, and he wants to tell you the secret of making gold.”

  “You’re jesting.”

  Odo, his panic growing, shook his head. “Sybil, know the truth: Master is an … alchemist.”

  For a moment Sybil remained on her back, staring upward. Then she said, “I don’t know the word.”

  “An alchemist is someone who makes gold.”

  “Are you saying that Master Thorston…makes…gold?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m England’s queen.”

  “Idiot, what do you think he’s been trying to do these past few months?”

  “How would I know? He barely speaks to me.”

  The bird leaped atop the girl’s head and gave her nose a rap with his beak. “Stupid girl—if he reveals the secret, we can live like lords.”

  Sybil wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Odo, four months ago he took me in from the streets. I’m his servant. Nothing more.”

  “Sit up!”

  When Sybil pushed herself up, the bird dropped to her knees and peered up into her face. She stared back at him. Odo was almost two feet long, from black, curved beak, to hunched back, to stiff tail. Though his black feathers were without sheen, his eyes wer bright as polished ebony. His talons were sharp.

  “Sybil,” he croaked, “you’re an orphan. You’re attached to no one. Not to me. Not to anyone. Do you think—when he dies—that anyone will give you food and shelter?”

  Sybil considered the raven’s words. When Master had taken her up, she was grateful. Oddly, all he had cared about was her age. As for his house, it mattered nothing to her that it was filthy and chaotic. Nor did she mind the work, any more than she considered Thorston’s silent, reclusive life. Winter was approaching. She had a roof above. Something to eat. It was enough.

  As for Odo—at first she had found it odd that he talked. But from the moment she had arrived the bird had belittled her, bossed her about. Though self-effacing to Master, he never said a kind word to her—he was ever snide or cynical. But wasn’t that the way people always talked to her? It might as well be so with a bird. Though she didn’t trust him, she had to admit he was right: if Master died, she’d have even less than she had now.

  She looked about. In the dim light she could see the little room that was her domain: cold and dirty stone walls. No windows. A straw pallet. A few rusty iron pots and cracked wooden spoons. Some chipped clay pots that contained food: dry, salted fish; cabbage; turnip bits; and barley grains. A damp, dreary chill that made her shiver. She supposed Odo was correct: it could get worse.

  “Odo,” she said, “please, is Master truly dying?”

  “Do not all men die? And when he does,” said the raven, “I suppose even brainless girls like you might appreciate some gold.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “Sybil, listen!” cried the bird. “He has made gold. I’m sure of it. If we don’t find it, or learn how he makes it, we’ll have to steal to stay alive. Get caught stealing, and Master Bashcroft, the city reeve, will put us in jail and hang us.”

  “I haven’t told you,” said Sybil, “but Master has been sending me to the apothecary quite often.”

  “Of course he did! He was working on the gold-making secret.”

  “When I bought those things Master wanted—gargoyle ears, spider legs—the apothecary began asking questions about him.”

  “Mistress Weebly is a meddlesome fool.”

  “But the last time I went, Master Bashcroft watched me from the street.”

  “You should have told me,” said the bird. “The moment that vast man learns of Master Thorston’s death and discovers there’s no heir, he’ll seize the house. He won’t care dead slugs about a stupid servant girl and a raven that can’t fly. He’ll throw us onto the streets. In less than two weeks we’ll be dead, dumped into shallow paupers’ graves, and left to rot and stink. I suppose even you can hope for something more than death.”

  Sybil rubbed her eyes, her nose. “All right,” she said after a few moments. “I’ll go to him.”

  7

  Sybil padded down the dim hallway into the large front room. The wooden floor, worn and uneven, was icy to her bare feet. Odo came right behind, his claws tip-tapping as he hopped along.

  Candlelight revealed the clutter: Thorston’s apparatus—pestles, bone cups, mortars, vials, kuttrolf bottles, flagons, and funnels—lay strewn about. Tilted and broken shelves were laden with glass jars, wooden boxes, and clay vessels. Books, screeds, and parchment had been cast about at random. A cracked human skull, capped by a wig of bird droppings, sat atop a pile of moldy books. The brazier contained a small green flame, which crackled and popped. Aside from the iron pot whose boiling contents spewed thick, foul fumes, everything was encrusted with dust, filth, and cobwebs.

  In the four months Sybil had been there, the room had not been cleaned. She wondered if it ever had been. But she was never allowed to touch anything until a crisis erupted. Then, though Master worked at night when she slept, he’d roar: “Where’s the pestle?” or some such. All was in tumult until she found what he’d misplaced, usually right under his sharp nose.

  As for money, as far as Sybil knew, Master never seemed to have much. When she went marketing he rarely gave her more than a farthing or a groat. Only at the apothecary did he pay more.

  “Tell me what happened,” said Sybil.

  “He seems to have collapsed.” The bird indicated the brazier with his beak. “I think he was working there.”

  Sybil looked at the brazier just in time to see the fire die, the coals turn to ash, and the muck in the pot cease to bubble. The stench remained.

  “God’s breath,” she muttered as she looked about. “What a gross reek.” She peered through the gloom and saw Thorston on his disheveled bed. Feeble and dried up, his long, big-knuckled hands lay by his sides, twitching spasmodically.

  Though the stink in the room made her want to gag, she forced herself close. “Master,” she called. “It’s me. Sybil. Did you call?”

  His jaws working as if chewing a tiny object, Thorston partly opened his eyes. He beckoned with a crooked finger. “Girl,” he whispered, “if I’m … to live, I must reveal … the secret of the book.”

  “He’s talking about that book,” whispered Sybil. “Odo, I may be ignorant, but even I know you have to be mad to read a book that has no words.”

  “Never mind the book,” Odo whispered into her ear. “Ask him about gold.”

  “Master” said Sybil, “tell me tell me how to make gold.”

  “No—it’s the…stones of life which I…speak,” the old man struggled to say. “They promise…life. Keep them … safe, so I may…continue to live.”

  “Master,” said Sybil, “it’s not stones that Odo and I need to live, but gold. Tell me how to make it.”

  “The secret is … here.” Thorston’s hands crawled over the Book Without Words like a crippled spider. “You must find someone with green eyes to read … the proper sequence.”

  “Master,” said Sybil, “your book has no words.”

  “No, no, the magic of immortality … is … here. Don’t let him … get it.”

  “Him?” asked Sybil. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The green-eyed one …”

  “Master, it’s you who have green eyes.”

  Thorston’s eyes widened with fright. “Keep him away!” he cried.

  Even as he spoke, the twisted hand that lay upon the book fluttered like a broken moth, then lay perfectly still.

>   “God of mercy,” Sybil whispered. “He’s dead.”

  8

  “Dead!” shrieked Odo. “Didn’t I tell you to hurry?” Wings beating wildly, the raven leaped onto Thorston’s chest, peered into his face, and pecked his lower lip. When there was no response the bird shook his head and crouched, muttering to himself.

  Sybil trembled. She could hardly draw breath. All that Odo had warned her about—eviction, abandonment, starvation, and death—burst upon her like the clap of a cathedral bell. What would become of her!

  She reached out and touched Thorston’s wrist. To her surprise, she felt a feeble pulse. Next moment, she saw the old man’s chest rise and fall. A surge of relief passed through her. “Odo!” she cried. “Master hasn’t died. He lives!”

  “It no longer matters,” moaned Odo. “Dead or alive. He’s addled and we’re undone.”

  “Not if we find a green-eyed person,” said the girl.

  The bird whipped his head about. “What are you saying?”

  “Only what Master said: his secrets are in his book, but they can be read by a green-eyed person.”

  “What he said was: we needed to keep the book away from green-eyed persons.”

  “Then you,” said the girl, “are as vacant of brain as that skull upon which you sit. You said he was confused. He must have been talking about himself. Well, then, his secret is in the book. We need to find someone with green eyes to read it.”

  “Are you actually suggesting,” said Odo, “we walk about this wretched city peering into people’s eyes?”

  “If we want those secrets, we will.”

  “Sybil, alchemy is illegal. It’s considered sorcery. A hanging offense.”

  “But you said if we didn’t learn how to make gold we’ll perish,” returned the girl. “Now, be still. I need to think how to find a green-eyed person.”

  “You can’t think, so don’t waste your time. You’re nothing!” said the raven, and he retreated to his skull to sulk.

  9

  Sybil went to her favorite place—she could only go there when Thorston slept—the small, round, thick-glassed front window. She looked out. The weather with its dark, cold fog was, as always, nasty. How she longed for spring with its soft breezes, flowers, and warm sun.

  Shifting slightly, Sybil caught sight of her likeness in the glass. Despising her looks; despising the fact that she was a worthless, ignorant, homely girl; despising how dependent she was, she turned away. Odo was right: she was alone in the world. A nothing. But Odo was right about another thing: knowing how to make gold would change her life.

  She started: for a moment she thought she saw someone standing in the courtyard shadows, observing their house. A small person. A child, perhaps. She looked again. The figure was gone. I’ve become as addle-pated as Master, she thought.

  Leaning on the window, she resumed her musings. If a green-eyed person was needed, how could she find one? Seeing the person in the courtyard gave her an idea.

  “Odo,” she said, “I think we should seek out a green-eyed child.”

  “A child? Why?”

  “Children are easy to control. They won’t ask questions.”

  “But few can read.”

  “It’s only green eyes that are necessary.”

  “And how do you intend to find such?”

  “I’ll invent something to say to the merchants from whom I market.”

  “What of Master’s rule that no one know of his existence?”

  “Your eyes are black. Mine, brown. Our sole hope is to find a green-eyed person.”

  “Hope!” hissed Odo. “Nothings don’t hope.” “I

  won’t be nothing,” cried Sybil. Eyes welling with tears, she ran into the back room and threw herself upon her straw pallet. If I’m to survive, she thought as she smeared away the wetness on her cheeks, I need to find a green-eyed child. With that, she began to compose the speech she would give to merchants on the morrow. She would start with the apothecary, Mistress Weebly. She was closest.

  10

  Odo, on his skull, stared at the pot that sat upon the brazier. He was convinced gold was in it, gold that Thorston had made. Not that Odo had any intention of sharing it with Sybil. Not a grain. But, he told himself, to get it will take patience—and cunning.

  11

  In another part of town, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth—the man in charge of the city’s law and order—lay in his quilted bed propped up by a dozen goose-down pillows. The bed, curtained round with heavy wool, provided him with an effective cocoon of self-importance.

  A big man, Bashcroft was broad as a barrel and not much taller, his bulky body much given to jigs and jounces. His head was rooted upon a short, wide neck, and was beetle browed with bristling eyebrows, one slightly lower than the other. With pendulant jowls and enough chins to serve as palace steps, Bashcroft looked more bullish than most bulls.

  “Dura lex, sed lex” was the sole Latin legal phrase Bashcroft knew, but, liking its meaning—The law is hard, but it is the law—he used it as both the anvil and hammer of his office. For to this phrase he always added, “And since I am the law, it therefore follows, I must be hard.”

  As far as the reeve was concerned, it was his duty, his obligation, to keep Fulworth beneath his outsized thumb. And in the exercise of this power, his silent partner was Mistress Weebly.

  Mistress Weebly was the town apothecary, a profession that enabled her to gather information about town inhabitants. Not only did she provide physic for the sick and dying, she offered potions, tonics, and charms to those suffering from other kinds of afflictions, real or imagined. That’s to say, broken arms or broken hearts were all one to Mistress Weebly. A woman of insatiable curiosity, she traded in rumor, gossip, and scandal the way a merchant trades in goods. And everything she gleaned by way of personal information was of the greatest interest to the reeve.

  Their arrangement was this: she told him what she learned; he protected her from the occasional questions raised about the advice she offered and the odd things she sold.

  So it was that Mistress Weebly had informed Bashcroft about the girl who had recently come to town, the one who appeared in her shop with a raven on her shoulder. And when this girl began to buy such things as spider’s legs, white clay, and fire-lizard’s tail, the reeve and Mistress Weebly were even more interested. But other than the girl’s name—Sybil—they knew very little.

  Bashcroft had ordered Mistress Weebly to learn more about the girl. For whom did she work? Where did she live? And, most of all, what was the purpose of such odd purchases?

  As the reeve shifted his corpulent bulk to find a tad of comfort on his bed, he made up his mind he would speak to the apothecary on the morrow.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1

  THE EARLY morning was cold and damp when a shivering Sybil stepped from Thorston’s house into the muddy, ice-encrusted courtyard. Odo, hunched on her shoulder, gripped her shawl so tightly his talons pricked her skin.

  “Sybil,” he croaked into her ear as the girl walked toward the city center, “must I say it again: Master insisted no one must learn of his existence, much less enter the house.”

  “Master is all but dead,” said Sybil. “If we’re to get the gold-making secret we have to do something.”

  “But you said the apothecary has been asking questions,” said the bird. “And what of the reeve? You claimed he was watching you. You may be a fool, but those people aren’t.”

  “I’m not a fool,” Sybil protested.

  Odo shook his head in dismay. “A fool is the first to think himself wise but last to know it isn’t so. Oh, I do wish I could fly away.'’

  “Where would you go?”

  “Master once told me about a land called Italy. He said the sky was always blue and warm. Flowers are beautiful. Bright colors are on walls. People sing while they work. Even the drying laundry looks like flags of celebration.”

  “Could I go with you?”

  “
Can worms sing?”

  Stung, Sybil said, “You think only of yourself.”

  “I don’t like to waste my—”

  “Shhh!” Sybil whispered. “People are ahead. It will prove a disaster if you’re heard talking.”

  They made their silent way through the narrow, crowded streets of Fulworth, passing merchants with sickly faces, empty hands, and even emptier purses; passing porters and traders hauling meager goods on backs or in broken barrows; passing an old ox pulling a cart of steaming dung, making his laborious, slipping, sliding way. Black-robed priests and nuns crept along the high street, clutching rosary beads and wooden crosses in chilled hands as cold lips whispered pensive prayers; goodwives, few with parcels, hastened past street-level shops, whose lowered shutters offered more icicles than goods. Troves of foot-stamping, teeth-chattering paupers were already begging and were already being ignored. And among the throng was Brother Wilfrid.

  As Sybil and Odo went by, the old monk, catching a whiff of Thorston’s goat reek, whirled about. He spotted Odo first, then Sybil. His stink is on that raven, he reasoned. That must be the girl I detected. The one I need to help me. The one in peril.

  He began to follow.

  Sybil, unaware she was being pursued, reached the apothecary, a small shop wedged between a potter’s store and a scrivener. She paused beneath its painted symbol, a unicorn horn, to recall the speech she had prepared.

  “Sybil…” whispered the bird in warning.

  “Shhh,” said the girl as she opened the door and stepped inside.

  2

  The apothecary’s shop was a small, crowded room walled with shelves that bore bottles and jars containing roots, like ginger; herbs, like mandragora; spices, like cloves; powdered minerals, like lead; ointments like spikenard.

  Opposite the doorway was a low trestle table upon which had been placed a mortar and pestle plus a copper balance scale. An oil lamp provided meager light. A little mirror hung on one wall. Behind the table stood Mistress Weebly, the apothecary.