The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic Page 3

  Everything about Mistress Weebly was small: small body; small face; small, gimlet eyes; small nose. Her smallness was emphasized by her being dressed in an overlarge, soiled gown of green that reached her ankles—sleeves pinched at her wrists, apron over all, wimple on her head. It was as if she had been dropped into a dirty sack and was spying out from it. Indeed, the woman’s only largeness was her curiosity.

  Standing next to her was Damian Perbeck, her apprentice. He was plucking rosemary leaves from stems and chopping them into tiny pieces with a small knife. The boy was fourteen years old. He was somewhat plump; his fair hair had been clipped round his head like an inverted bowl. His red, splotchy face bore sleepy eyes, turned-up nose, and turned-down lips, all of which he marshaled to provide a mask of indifference.

  “Good morrow, Mistress Weebly,” said Sybil, closing the door and cutting a curtsy. She noticed the boy, but she made no greeting.

  “Ah, Maid Sybil,” returned the little woman, her voice squeaky and shrill. “How fare you this cold morning?”

  “Chilly, Mistress,” said Sybil, her eyes cast down as befit her station.

  “And how,” said the woman, “does your master’s health bode this morning?” She brought her small hands together as if in prayer.

  “Mistress Weebly,” began Sybil in a low voice as she embarked upon the speech she had prepared, “I fear my master is gravely ill. And—”

  “God grant him a speedy recovery,” interrupted the apothecary.

  She turned to Damian. “You, now,” she said, abruptly boxing him on the ear. “Get away from here. Continue your work in the back room. Go!” She all but pushed the boy out the door at the back of the shop. Only then did she turn back to Sybil.

  “Now, then, my dear maid, I should like to pray for your master’s good health. But it’s difficult to do so without knowing his name. Would you be kind enough to share it with me?”

  Sybil, taken by surprise, stammered, “It’s … Master Thorston. But-”

  “I’ve never heard of him, I fear. Has he been in town long?”

  “I don’t know. But-”

  “These things you purchase for him, Maid Sybil, they’re most unusual. Just between us what does he do with them?”

  Odo moved uneasily on Sybil’s shoulder, his talons digging into her.

  “I know nothing of such matters, Mistress Weebly,” returned Sybil in haste. “I’m but Master’s house drudge, there to moil his filth and cook his swill.”

  “Are you his only servant?”

  “I am, Mistress.”

  “And is your Master Thorston young or old?”

  Sybil, feeling she was losing control of the conversation, whispered, “Very old.”

  “Alas,” said the apothecary, “advanced age and illness oft step the dance of death. Is he near his end?”

  “Oh … no … I assure you—”

  “But you did say he was sick. Perhaps I can provide useful physic.”

  Sybil hardly knew what to say.

  “Maid Sybil,” pressed the apothecary, “I must say this: within my little head lingers a lengthy list of your master’s requests: fire-lizard’s tail, hairs from a Manx cat’s tail, unicorn tears—among other such oddments. Pray now,” said the little woman, leaning forward in conspiratorial fashion, “could he be dabbling in the alchemic arts—making gold?”

  “Please, Mistress,” whispered Sybil in great alarm, “I assure you, I know nothing of such things.”

  Mistress Weebly, enjoying Sybil’s discomfort, smiled. “But if your master should die,” she said, “hasten here. I’ll provide real coin for those secrets of his you’ve managed to glean.”

  “Mistress Weebly,” said Sybil, “I promise you, I know of no such secrets. But if you please,” she said, desperate to speak what she had planned to say, “only yesterday a child came to our door and—”

  “And where pray, is that door?”

  “Clutterbuck Lane,” Sybil blurted out and raced on: “The child was asking for my master. I had to send it away, for as I told you, Master Thorston is ill. Alas, the child went so quickly I neglected to ask a name. But I did notice green eyes. Know you, Mistress, of any such child in town? One with … green eyes?”

  The apothecary’s small eyes narrowed: “Boy or girl?” she asked.

  “In faith, Mistress, I know not. The child was bundled so against the chill.”

  “But,” the woman said, “all the same—you noticed green eyes?”

  Sybil, feeling panicky, nodded and moved toward the door, only to pause: “Pray, Mistress Weebly; please send any such green-eyed child you know to my master’s house. He’d be much obliged.”

  “To Master Thorston of Clutterbuck Lane,” said the apothecary, “a green-eyed child. I shall surely try.'’

  Sybil stepped out upon the street as quickly as she could.

  “You are a fool,” rasped Odo the moment they left the shop. “You gave everything away.”

  “I didn’t expect so many questions,” Sybil admitted.

  “You even told her about his alchemy.”

  “Odo,” gasped Sybil. “The reeve is approaching.”

  Master Bashcroft was marching down the narrow street toward them. Two steel-helmeted soldiers, pointed pikes in hand, trailed behind.

  Sybil, eyes averted, hastily stepped aside and dropped a curtsy as the reeve passed by. Bashcroft did not so much as glance at her.

  “By Saint Modoc,” the girl whispered as soon as he had passed, “I swear that man has been spying on me.”

  “Then take us home,” snapped Odo. “Where it’s safe. And no more talk of green-eyed children.”

  “What about master’s gold-making secret?” said Sybil.

  “All we can do is pray he regains his speech,” said the bird.

  “I doubt he will,” muttered a disappointed Sybil. She set off, paying no attention to Brother Wilfrid, who was observing her closely as she hurried through the muddy streets back toward Clutterbuck Lane.

  3

  Should I follow? the monk wondered. No. She’s with that raven—who talks. Such magic is surely Thorston’s work. Which means the bird is his underling. I’ll have to speak to the girl alone.

  Wilfrid observed the reeve watching the girl. Why is he so concerned with her? he asked himself. I’d best keep my eye on him as well.

  4

  Bashcroft watched Sybil and Odo until the two turned a corner and were lost to his view. Telling the soldiers to wait, he shoved open the door to the apothecary shop and stomped inside.

  “Master Bashcroft,” cried Mistress Weebly when the large man banged his staff down on the floor with a loud crack of authority. “God grant us days of greater warmth.”

  “That maid—” said Bashcroft, giving no pause for civility, “the one with a raven on her shoulder. She was just here. What have you learned?”

  The apothecary’s small hands went together so quickly it was hard to know if she were praying or applauding. Smiling, she said, “She is servant to one Master Thorston.”

  “I never heard of the man.”

  “He resides at the end of Clutterhuck Lane.”

  “But no one could live there without my knowledge,” exclaimed Bashcroft, who, being a man who thought he knew everything, cast doubt on all he didn’t know.

  “Apparently he does.”

  “What else?” said Bashcroft.

  “I’ve compiled a list of all the things the girl has purchased for this Master Thorston. It’s the kind of things one would want for”—she leaned forward—“alchemy.”

  “Alchemy!” roared the reeve, giving way to a rare moment of honest astonishment. “Has he truly made gold?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What more did you learn?”

  “He seems to be ill,” said Mistress Weebly. “Indeed, Master Reeve, as I read signs, I believe this Thorston fellow is dying.”

  “Dying!”

  Mistress Weebly smiled. “But even as he dies, he’s in need of—
a green-eyed child.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I believe,” said the apothecary, “for his alchemy.”

  “Mistress Weebly,” proclaimed the reeve, drawing himself up to the full bulk of his bluster, “alchemy, being unnatural, is an offense against all nature, its practice treason against the state. Moreover, all those who gain by such acts are equally guilty—with dire punishments for those engaged. Confiscation of property will occur. Removal of a finger may be necessary. A hand, perhaps. Even a head. Depending. Depending on me. Dura lex, sed lex. I am the law, and I am hard.”

  “And,” simpered the apothecary, “how glad I am that such power rests with you.”

  “Mistress Weebly,” said Bashcroft. “In exercise of that power, I hereby put you under house arrest.”

  “Arrest!” cried the apothecary.

  “This information about Master Thorston’s alchemy,” said the reeve, “is much too dangerous to be allowed to flow freely among the ignorant public. Rumors of it will cause excitement. Excitement will cause expectations to rise. Large expectations in small minds are a menace that must be always suppressed, else riots will follow. For, beyond all else, it’s my duty to protect the citizens of Fulworth.”

  “But, Master Reeve, you and I have been partners and-”

  “Silence! When I resolve this matter you’ll be free.

  For now, do not leave these premises. Speak to no one about this. Not even to your apprentice. I shall post a soldier by the door.”

  Without further ado, the reeve stormed out of the shop.

  5

  After arranging for a guard to remain at the apothecary’s door, Bashcroft mulled over what he had learned: a Master Thorston, residing in town but hiding, was a dying man practicing alchemy. Making gold.

  Bashcroft could only feel that the secret of how to make gold would be an extraordinary stroke of luck and fortune—in his own hands. He considered his position: he had insufficient wealth. Without wealth, there is no real authority. Without real authority, there is no dignity. Without dignity, chaos comes. If chaos reigns, the world is undone. Undo the world, and you strike against God’s very creation. Therefore, for him, Ambrose Bashcroft, to live in poverty was a sin against God Himself.

  If this Master Thorston was in need of a child with green eyes, then he—Bashcroft—would place just such a child in that household—and gather the gold-making secret for himself. But it must be done in haste—before the old man expired. Happily, Bashcroft knew where to secure such a child. So resolved, he headed for the banks of the River Scrogg—the poorest part of Fulworth.

  6

  Mistress Weebly was furious. She cursed herself for being such a dupe. Why had she so trusted the reeve that she gave him all that information about Master Thorston? It was perfectly clear to her that Bashcroft was going to take advantage of her information for his profit. But she—more than anyone—could make use of it. Did she not have all the ingredients required to make gold? All that was wanting was the formula.

  Greatly agitated, she pushed open the rear door, shoving Damian away, who had been standing on the other side.

  “Were you listening?” she demanded.

  “Of course not, Mistress,” said the boy as meekly as he knew how.

  “See that you don’t,” she said, boxing his ear for good measure. “Now, go and attend the shop. My head hurts. I must he down.” She went directly off to bed.

  Damian, his ear smarting, came into the shop. But it wasn’t only the blow that was causing his ear to tingle: he had been listening, and heard all about Master Thorston and his alchemy.

  He went right to the little mirror and studied his eyes. Not completely green, he thought. They contain flecks of blue. Still, close enough. “Indeed, I’m tired of being an apprentice,” he muttered. “I’m fit for better things.”

  So it was that Damian made up his mind: the next morning he would go to this house on Clutterbuck Lane. This Master Thorston was apparently old, sick, and dying. Easy enough to pry the gold-making secret from him. As for this Sybil—she being the only servant, and a maid, he had no doubt he could dominate her.

  Moreover, Damian vowed that once he had gold coins and knew how to make more, he’d run away from this obnoxious apprenticeship and live the life of a wealthy freeman.

  7

  Ambrose Bashcroft, in search of a green-eyed boy, made his loud and lumbering way through narrow, muddy alleys and back ways, until he reached the banks of the River Scrogg. There, amid moldering wharves, paltry chandler shops, and dilapidated hovels, were to be found the homeless men, women, and children of Fulworth, those who eked out their empty lives in desolation.

  Whenever the reeve came upon an assemblage of such folk, he approached them, banged his staff upon the ground to draw their attention, and cried out: “Pay heed! Pay heed! I, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth, am offering you the privilege of helping me. Hear me well: I am in lawful need of a green-eyed child. I shall pay two pennies for such a child. All who have one to offer may approach me humbly now.”

  When no one came, he scowled and moved on.

  So did Brother Wilfrid, who had heard it all.

  8

  The old monk meandered though the city’s poor quarter. In his ragged robe and with his emaciated appearance, he looked so like a local inhabitant that they paid him scant attention.

  He had considered any number of children before he found one sleeping against a building. He was a wretchedly thin and dirty boy with an ill-fitting smock and hole-ridden boots. But what attracted Wilfrid to him was the tangle of dark red hair that fell off his face. And when Wilfrid looked down upon him, and the boy, who had been asleep, started and looked up, he did so with—green eyes.

  “Please, sir,” said the boy, scrambling to his feet, “is something the matter?”

  “What are you doing here?” asked Wilfrid.

  “I live about, sir,” said the boy, staring at Wilfrid’s ancient face with the repugnance youth reserves for age.

  “No home?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No family?”

  “Dead, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Alfric, sir.”

  “When have you last eaten?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Would you like some bread?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Listen to me,” said the monk, “I am in search of a book without words. Help me recover it, and you will earn some bread.”

  “A book, sir? With no words?”

  “’Tis so. Now, come with me,” said Wilfrid.

  Alfric was hesitant but hungry. And hunger, having least, often risks most. He chose to follow the monk.

  9

  Night came to Fulworth. In the upper room at the house at the end of Clutterbuck Lane, a solitary rush candle provided a glimmer of languishing light. Upon the bed lay Master Thorston, eyes closed. Near to his hand was the Book Without Words; Odo insisted it stay there in case Master recovered his senses. But though the small rise and fall of his chest suggested life, he had not uttered a word since the day before.

  Sybil, sure her master would not speak, sat on a three-legged stool next to his bed. The room was chilly enough to see her vaporous breath in the gloom. A chipped clay bowl filled with warm bone broth rested in her lap. Though the broth was for her master, she welcomed its heat. Now and again she tried to feed him.

  No one spoke until low rumblings of thunder made her lift her head. “There will be a storm soon,” she said, as much to herself as Odo.

  Drawing her dirty shawl tighter around her shoulders, she studied Thorston’s slack, withered face. What secrets, she wondered, lay within?

  “Odo,” she said after a while, “how long have you been with Master?”

  “Too long.”

  “In all that time, did you ever learn any of his secrets?”

  “The lengthier the life, the more locked the lip,” said the bird.

 
Sybil rubbed her tired eyes. “That’s not an answer to my question.”

  The raven shook his head. Sybil, knowing the bird was not about to tell her anything, sighed. Restless, deciding her efforts to feed Thorston were of no use, she put the bowl aside and went to the front window and gazed out. The courtyard was deserted. Or was it? There, where she had seen a figure the night before, she again thought she saw someone.

  “Odo,” she called.

  “What?” said the raven, his voice sleepy. He had jumped to the skull.

  Sybil peered into the courtyard again. Whoever she had seen had gone. She was disappointed.

  “All this has exhausted me,” murmured Odo. “I need my sleep. You keep watch on Master.” He crouched on a stack of books.

  Sybil made no reply. Doubting Master would ever wake, she wondered if it would not be better to leave right away. It was bad luck to be in a house when a man died. In any case, when Master died—which could not be long—her own life here would end. But where could she go? Other than servant’s work, she didn’t know what to do. As for the world beyond Fulworth, she knew nothing more than the wretched village where she had been raised, where her peasant parents had lived—if one could call it that—and died.

  There was that Italy Odo had mentioned. It sounded wonderful. Sybil wondered if she could walk to it.

  “Odo,” she called. “How far off is that Italy?”

  “Find it … yourself,” murmured the bird, all but asleep.

  No, thought Sybil, I can’t even go there. Not till I have gold—which I’ll never have. But I must do something.

  She gazed out the window. The person had returned. As she considered him, it occurred to Sybil that he was rather childlike in size. And as she continued to gaze, she had the distinct sensation he was looking right at her. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, it’s a green-eyed child!