The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic Page 4

  She looked to Odo. The bird was sound asleep. Suddenly she felt pleased with herself. Here’s my chance to show him my plan was right!

  She crept down to the ground level, a large, empty area whose window spaces had been filled in with stone and mortar. The front door was kept closed by a heavy crossbeam. The rear wall—behind the central steps—was, in fact, part of the decaying city wall. An entryway had once existed there, but it too had been filled in with stone.

  But there was nothing in the room save a pair of shovels used for disposing of night soil. In the room’s center was a trapdoor that led to a dirt basement. Only Thorston—who had never gone out—had descended. Sybil preferred to use the outside privy.

  She used both hands to lift the front-door crossbar. Noiselessly, she set it on the floor, then pulled open the door. Cold air blew in. Thunder rumbled again, closer. Trembling from the chill as well as nervousness, Sybil hesitated. She adjusted her shawl. Reminding herself she was only searching to see if a green-eyed child had come, she stepped out and set off across the courtyard. She had almost reached the well when a figure stepped from the shadows and blocked her way.

  10

  Sybil halted and gasped. Though the face was partly obscured by a monk’s cowl, this wasn’t a child, but a man.

  “You come from that house,” said Brother Wilfrid, his voice weak and raspy. “Does a man called Thorston live there?”

  “Y-es.”

  “Is he in possession of a book that has no words?”

  Sybil, taken by surprise, said, “What can it matter to you?”

  “Everything.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your help,” said Wilfrid.

  Even as he spoke a crack of lightning flooded the courtyard with white light. Simultaneously, a puff of wind blew back Wilfrid’s hood. Sybil saw his face: it was as if she were looking at a living skull, some green-eyed dead thing that had, though hideous with decrepitude, somehow survived. Unnerved, she turned and fled.

  “Stop!” the monk cried after her. “I need you. And you need me!”

  11

  Sybil ran back into the house, and replaced the crossbeam to bar the door. Not ready to go back upstairs, she went behind the steps into a little alcove and sat against the wall. She took a deep breath. Her head was full of questions: Who was the man? How did he know about

  Thorston? Why was he interested in that blank be Why should he say he needed her? And—she suddenly recalled—that she needed him? Unwilling to confront such questions, she poked idly at the old mortar in the wall behind her. It crumbled with ease. I am in a hole, she thought. I should dig myself out. With a yawn she went up the steps to the second floor. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. Odo remained asleep. Thorston was in his bed as still as before, the Book Without Words by his side.

  Sybil went to the window and peered out. No one was in the courtyard. With another yawn she crept to the back room and lay down on her pallet. Her thoughts drifted back to her home, the tiny, mud-encrusted village where her parents worked endlessly in sodden fields. To the food they ate—never much. To their death from illness—common enough. To her relations’ refusal to take her in—ordinary. To how, alone, she tramped to Fulworth in search of food and work. The hungry days. The lonely days. How grateful she’d been when Thorston plucked her off the street to be his servant! Yet her days were empty, isolated. Have I ever really lived? she asked herself. I might as well be dead.

  The monk’s words—I need you—came back to her. She tried to remember if anyone had ever said such a thing to her before. She could not.

  Why would a perfect stranger say such a thing?

  12

  In another part of Fulworth, along the polluted, weed-infested, slick and slimy waters of the River Scrogg, was the tavern known as the Pure Hart. Its solitary room reeked of stale ale and sour sweat: its sagging floor creaked and groaned with the river’s heaving flow. Upon its roof drummed a monotony of rain.

  Inside, a solitary oil lamp, affixed to a rough-hewn wall, cast as much shadow as light. A lump of peat in a rusty iron brazier threw off more smoke than heat. The man who owned the tavern, a scarred old soldier, sat by the creaking doorway, leaning against the wall, his grizzled mouth agape, snoring like a winded ox. And at the other end of the room, upon one of three low, plank tables, sat Ambrose Bashcroft. Standing opposite him was the boy: Alfric.

  “Now, then, Alfric,” said Bashcroft, “you are aware, are you not, that God put children on earth to serve their adult masters?”

  Alfric nodded.

  “Who was that monk I bought you from?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “It doesn’t matter. As Fulworth’s city reeve, I am your sole master now. Those who disobey me, I hang high—and often.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dura lex, sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard.” The reeve adjusted his bulging bulk as he leaned forward. “But, Alfric”—the reeve jabbed a hard, fat forefinger upon the boy’s pigeon chest—“if you do what I say—though I paid two whole pennies for you—you’ll soon be free to starve at your own convenience. There’s always heaven.”

  “I pray so,” whispered the boy. Listening to the rain beat upon the roof, he reminded himself he was better off inside.

  “Then we understand each other,” said the reeve. He peered around to make sure the innkeeper remained asleep before continuing, in a lower voice. “Now, then, Alfric, pay close heed: there’s a man in town—a very old man—who goes by the name of Thorston. He’s an alchemist. Which is to say, he makes—gold.”

  “Please, sir, how does he do that?”

  “That, Alfric, is something you must discover.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Since gold making is illegal, only I—who am the law—should know of it, so as to protect the public from its misuse. Now, then, as I say, this Master Thorston is old and dying. But, Alfric, hearken, he’s in need of … a green-eyed boy.”

  Alfric lowered his eyes.

  “Indeed,” pronounced Bashcroft, “I never would have purchased such a worthless boy as you unless you had green eyes.”

  “My eyes can read, sir.”

  “Who taught you?” snapped the reeve.

  “My father, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Dead, sir.”

  “Then reading didn’t profit him much, did it?”

  Alfric gave a dismal nod.

  “And your mother?”

  “Dead, too.”

  “I can assure you,” said Bashcroft, “they’re better off. Now then, tomorrow morning, I shall bring you to this Master Thorston’s house. You will insinuate yourself into his household, discover the man’s gold-making method, and deliver it to me—only to me.”

  “What will this man do with me, sir?”

  “I neither know nor care. I merely warn you that if you fail to learn his secret, I’ll thrash you—mercilessly. Do you understand?”

  Alfric nodded.

  “Moreover, I shall always be close, watching. You’ll not escape me, Alfric, not until you’ve provided me—only me—with the gold-making secret. And, if you reveal his secret to anyone else but me, I shall wring your neck like the runty puppy you are. Can you grasp that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you may have just enough intelligence to survive. Now, follow me.” So saying, the reeve heaved himself up, wrapped himself in a great cape, and strode loudly out of the Pure Hart and into the pelting rain.

  Miserable, cold, and wet, Alfric kept close.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1

  MORNING, 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 ston
e 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.
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  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?”