The Book Without Words Page 6

  “Such as?”

  “I … I can make small objects rise up in the air. But little beyond my own weight.”

  “And?”

  “I can move … things—as I did with the skull. But just for short distances. And either they go back where they came from—or they break.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Sometimes I can turn hard objects—again, puny ones—into water. It’s useful when I’m thirsty.”

  “Go on.”

  “God’s truth, there is no more.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “What you believe doesn’t matter,” said the bird. “What will we do when the reeve returns?”

  “I’ll deal with him then,” said Sybil.

  “Have you no fear of death?”

  “It’s not my death I fear,” said Sybil, “but my life. Now, go tell the boys to bring the shovels.”

  “Idiocy,” muttered the raven as he fluttered up. But within moments Sybil heard him croak, “She says to bring the shovels.”

  10

  It was Alfric who carried down the shovels, one with an iron blade, the other wood. Damian came next, descending clumsily, continually muttering complaints. Odo, feathers agitated, settled himself on a rung halfway down the ladder and watched. Now and again he fluttered his wings or bobbed his tail.

  Damian, holding his nose, said, “It stinks like a privy here.”

  “Master used it so,” said Sybil, “but it will serve.” She took the iron shovel from Alfric and began to dig close to the foot of the ladder where the dirt was soft. Alfric worked by her side.

  “I wish to announce,” said Damian from the chest upon which he was sitting, “that in my whole life I’ve never dug anything. Certainly not a grave. I have no intention of doing so now.”

  Sybil, making no response, worked in silence, scooping up the sandy loam and piling it up to one side.

  “It’s said,” Odo pronounced from the ladder rung, “the deeper the grave, the more undisturbed the death.”

  “You surely don’t want your master to return,” Damian said with a grin. “He looks most unlikable.”

  Sybil paused to wipe the grime and sweat from her face. “You know nothing about him.”

  “I suppose,” Damian went on, “that whereas alchemy is illegal, the gold made is legal enough. Therefore, in payment for keeping silence about what’s happening here, I will want my share.”

  “You are a beastly boy,” said Odo, his eyes glittering.

  “At least I’m human,” said Damian.

  “And where did Master Thorston put his hoard?” Damian said. “In here?” He thumped the chest on which he sat, and jangled the heavy, rusty lock that held it shut. When no one replied, he bent over, picked up a rock, and pounded the lock. The lock held, and the blow only stung his hand.

  Sybil looked up from the grave pit. “Master Damian,” she cried, “if you desire one grain of my master’s gold, by God’s bones, you’ll keep quiet.”

  “Does that mean the gold is about?” retorted the boy.

  “Of course it is,” said Sybil.

  Sybil and Alfric kept digging until Odo, from the ladder said; “I should think that’s deep enough.”

  “Then it’s time,” said Sybil, “to put Master to his final rest.”

  11

  They made their way to the upper room and stood by Thorston’s bed. The dead man lay as they had left him: face dull white, eyes sunken, toothless mouth agape, body somewhat shrunken within his blue robe. His knobby, motionless hands rested by his sides.

  “I admit,” said Sybil as she gazed at him, “I don’t care for this. He may have been unpleasant, but it’s not easy to think him dead.”

  “You said he treated you kindly,” said Damian.

  “Death gives life to memories,” Odo said.

  “Mistress,” Alfric whispered, “are you quite certain he’s gone?”

  Odo hopped onto the old man’s body, lowered his head to Thorston’s chest, and listened. “Nothing remains but his mortal husk,” he proclaimed.

  “His purse,” said Damian. “You’re not going to bury that, are you?”

  “It’s not wise to remove anything from a dead man,” returned Sybil. “Indeed, his old blanket can be his winding sheet.” Holding her breath, she leaned across the corpse, snatched up his blanket, drew it over his body, and covered him head to toe.

  “A sexton should be doing this,” said Damian. “Or some old woman from the church, whose duty it is to lay bodies out. And there should be a priest.”

  Sybil, ignoring the boy, said, “I’ll lift him. When I do, best tuck it under.” She braced herself, then plunged her arms under the body and lifted, taken aback by how light he was. “He’s not heavy,” she said. “Does a soul weigh so much?”

  “I’ve heard say,” said Damian, “the more one sins the heavier one gets.”

  “No wonder you are gross,” said Odo.

  “Slanderer.”

  Alfric tucked the blanket under, after which Sybil lowered the body. Thorston looked like a rolled-up rug.

  “Now we must carry him down” said Sybil. Her voice trembled.

  “You made that skull rise,” said Damian. “Can’t you make him float down?”

  Sybil darted a glance at Odo.

  The bird, standing atop Thorston’s chest, gave a tiny shake of his head. “I shall direct this,” he said. “Sybil, take his shoulders. Damian, his feet. Alfric, hoist the middle.”

  Sybil, trying to keep from being sick, put her hands under Thorston’s shoulders and jerked up. The body farted.

  “He lives!” cried Damian, bursting into laughter.

  “Stop your mockery,” said Sybil, trying to keep from laughing, too.

  There were a few stumbles, but no one lost their grip, though Damian wheezed from his efforts.

  “Go slower,” said Sybil. “Or I’ll fall.” She took a step down, backward. The others pushed. “Not so fast.” she cried, barely managing to keep from tumbling.

  “This is the most dreadful thing I’ve ever done in my life,” said Damian.

  “Death is part of life,” Odo snapped.

  Sybil continued downward one step at a time-backward. Once, twice, she teetered and called out, “Careful!” When she did, Alfric pushed up from below. It brought on another body fart.

  “God’s miracles,” cried Damian, “we should be taking him to a privy, not his grave.”

  Amid more laughter they reached the lower floor.

  Once there, Sybil shifted the body so that Thorston’s lolling head was close to the trapdoor. She moved down the ladder, pausing a third of the way.

  “Lower him,” she called up to the others as she braced herself. “I’ll keep him from tumbling.”

  Grunting and grumbling, Alfric and Damian did as told. The body edged over the hole headfirst, then went down toward Sybil’s reaching arms.

  “Blessed Lord!” she screamed. “He’s falling!”

  Thorston’s corpse slid down the ladder—bump,

  bump—over the rungs, and dropped at the ladder’s foot directly into the grave, with a heavy thump.

  They scrambled down the ladder after him. Sybil snatched up the candle, and, heart pounding, peered into the grave. “God’s mercy? she said.

  “This is almost farcical,” said Damian, grinning broadly.

  “When you are older,” said Odo, “you’ll learn that farce is but tragedy in excess.”

  Alfric peered into the grave. “He’s all twisted.”

  “Straighten him out,” Damian said to Sybil.

  Sybil, though irritated the boy was giving her orders, climbed into the grave.

  “Don’t step on him!” cried Odo.

  Trying to keep from gagging, Sybil aligned Thorston’s body so that he lay reasonably straight.

  “Now what?” said Damian when Sybil had hauled herself out.

  “He must be covered by earth,” said Odo.

  “Shall I speak what was sa
id over my parents’ grave?” asked Alfric.

  “It would be kind,” said Sybil.

  Alfric took a deep breath and then said, “Rest in peace.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence. “Surely,” cried Damian, “there was more said.”

  “That’s all the priest spoke,” said Alfric.

  “Never mind,” said Sybil, feeling ill. “We must finish.” With Alfric’s help, she started to shovel dirt over the body. As she did, she began to cry. Odo bobbed his head with grief. Alfric wept, too.

  “Why are you crying?” Damian asked Alfric.

  “I’m thinking of my parents.”

  “Being without parents hardly makes you special,” said Damian. “I’m an orphan, too.”

  “As am I,” said Sybil through a sob. “And Odo.”

  “Live long enough,” said Odo, “and all become orphans.”

  Damian looked around. “It’s a mercy your sermons are short,” he said.

  “My father,” said Alfric, “was wont to say, ‘The shorter the sermon, the longer the truth.'”

  Sybil stepped back and wiped her hands on her frock.

  “Are we finished?” said Damian.

  “Yes,” whispered Sybil, without strength to speak louder.

  “Then I want my reward,” said Damian. “And I want it now. Or I shall immediately go to the reeve. I’m sure he will be pleased to know what you’ve done.”

  12

  “Go up to the room,” said Sybil, “and wait. I need to talk to Odo.” Alfric went. Damian did not.

  “Why can’t you speak with me here?” he said.

  “Just go!” Sybil cried.

  Damian, seeing the fierceness of Sybil’s face, climbed the ladder without further protest.

  As soon as they were alone, a nervous Odo said, “What did you wish to say?”

  “Even with their green eyes,” Sybil whispered, “the boys can make nothing of that book. What are we to do?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Odo.

  “I wish,” said Sybil, looking the bird in the eyes, “I could trust you more.”

  “You can.”

  “Then tell me about Master. If I knew more about him, I might understand more about the gold. Odo, what kind of man was he?”

  “What does it matter? Dead men do few deeds.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  The bird hung his head. “I’m not sure.”

  “How can that be?”

  Odo nodded a few time before saying, “Sybil, the truth is, I suspect I was something else before I was a raven.”

  “What do you mean?” said Sybil.

  “I believe Master transformed me from something else.”

  “Was he a sorcerer, then?”

  “Of a kind. And in transforming me, he also took my memory.”

  “Could he truly have done all that?”

  “All his magic came from the book.”

  “Then have you no idea what you were?”

  “I’d like to think I was a human,” said the raven. “But, for all I know I could have been a … cabbage. Or a goat. Master always liked goats.”

  “But why would he want you to be a raven?”

  “I suspect it has something to do with the making of gold. At least, he promised me half the gold he made if I would stay with him and let him use my feathers. I even allowed him to clip my wings—my foolish way of assuring him I wouldn’t fly away. Sybil, he told me there was a man in York who could restore my wings so I could fly again. Of course, it would take gold; but I supposed I’d have a great deal.”

  “Odo, is flying all you seek?”

  The raven dropped down a rung closer to the girl. “Sybil, look at me. I’m an old, useless bird. Unable to fly, I’m bound to this wretched earth. I talk only to you, an impoverished peasant girl. What a pair. I cannot fly—you are ignorant. Have you no desires?”

  “You always say I’m nothing,” said Sybil. “Perhaps it’s true. But all the same, I want to live, though I can’t say for what purpose. Perhaps being alive is enough. Odo, it was you who convinced me Master’s gold-making secret could make a difference in my life. Now all we have are those stones. I put them in the chest.”

  “I suspected as much,” said the bird. “I wish I knew their importance. But I still think we can find gold.”

  “Then,” said Sybil, “are we agreed? Even though there appear to be no secrets to be learned from that book, we must make these boys stay, if only to keep the news of Master’s death a secret. We’ll use the time for searching. Have you no idea what’s in these chests?”

  “None.”

  Sybil saw the rock that Damian had used, and used it to strike the locks hard, one after the other. They held. “Have you ever seen keys?” she asked.

  “Never.”

  “Perhaps it’s magic that keeps them closed. But we need to look for keys, too.” She glanced at the grave. “Oh, Odo, at least Master is dead and gone. They say it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But if ever there were a more unpleasant man, ‘twas he. A sullen, angry man. And he treated us poorly.”

  “And yet,” said Odo, “if by gaining our freedom from him we lose our lives, what have we won?”

  Sybil shrugged. “Sometimes I think I’ve never done anything that could be called true living.”

  “Gold!” cried the bird. “Put your faith in that!” And he went up the ladder.

  Sybil looked at the Thorston’s grave. Suddenly she remembered: the old monk had spoken of the Book Without Words. And he knew of Master. She made up her mind that if she had the opportunity, she would ask him more.

  13

  When Sybil reached the upper room, Alfric was by the window gazing out. Damian was sitting on the stool. The moment she appeared he said, “How long do you expect me to stay?”

  “Until we find gold,” said Sybil.

  “We believe,” said Odo, “our master hid his gold somewhere—here about.”

  “Mid this disarray?” said Damian.

  “Yes,” said Odo.

  Damian stood up. “But if I stay, I have no intention of working.”

  “So be it,” said Sybil, and she offered up a silent prayer of relief.

  The search began. Sybil set Alfric the task of finding all small bottles and placing them on the table, which he was happy to do. She tried to set the room into better order by dumping pieces of glass and debris in one corner, collecting useless items in another, putting Thorston’s alchemic apparatus upright. The only thing she did not touch—sensing it was important—was the pot from which she had taken the stones. Odo busied himself by fluttering about, peering everywhere, poking into the small things he could grasp in his beak or talons.

  Damian, true to his word, sat on Thorston’s bed and merely watched. But as the day wore on he became bored. In time he began to help—if only in a half-hearted way.

  By early evening, the room was in far better order, the stench less odious. Even so, nothing of importance had been found. So when the cathedral bells rang for Vespers, a weary Sybil fetched a fist of barley from the back room along with a half cabbage and some turnips so they might eat.

  “Water,” she reminded herself. It had always been her chore to fetch it from the well. Without even considering that anyone else might do the task, she took up a wooden bucket and went down the steps to the ground floor and opened the door. After checking to make sure no one was lurking about, she stepped away from the house.

  14

  Sybil darted across the courtyard, going directly to the well. Once there, feeling a vague unease, she looked about. A low fog lay like a shallow swamp upon the ground, rendering the courtyard formless—as if it were there but not there. It made her think of Master Thorston in his grave—here—but not here.

  As Sybil tried to imagine death, she tied the well rope to her bucket handle and flung it down. It landed with a distant splash.

  Is death—she found herself thinking—like an empty bucket at the bottom of a well?r />
  Even as she had the thought, the bucket settled and filled. She began to haul it up. Is that what life is? A full bucket, rising? Then where am I? she asked herself—rising or falling?

  “I want to rise,” she said aloud.

  Her musing faded when, with a start, she became aware that someone had entered the courtyard. She looked up. It was Brother Wilfrid. As he drew to within a few feet of her she became frightened but made herself hold fast.

  The monk halted. His green eyes, amid the mass of face wrinkles, fixed upon her. “You are fearful of me,” he said.

  “I am,” said Sybil.

  “You need not be. I’m little more than a presence with neither the strength nor inclination to do you harm. There are more important people to fear than me.”

  “Who?”

  “Thorston.”

  “He’s dead,” said Sybil.

  “Dead!”

  “We buried him today.”

  “Where?”

  “In the house,” said Sybil, belatedly thinking she should not have made the admission.

  Brother Wilfrid seemed to sway in a breeze. “Did he … did he not make the stones?” he asked.

  Though she knew exactly what the monk was asking about, Sybil said, “What stones?”

  “He was making them when I first came,” said Wilfrid. “They must be in the house. You need to find them. You are in great danger.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you know nothing about them?”

  Sybil shook her head.

  Brother Wilfrid was silent for a long moment. “Then you must hear me,” he finally said.

  15

  “It was in 973,” began the monk, “seventy-three years ago, that a boy was born. Extraordinary omens occurred: stars fell out of the heavens. On Saint Waccar’s day, the sun grew dark at noon. Sheets of fire hung in the night sky. Between cockcrow and dawn, frightful flashes of lightning were observed. There were those who swore they had seen dragons flying through the air. These dreadful omens were followed by a great famine that stirred the flames of civil conflict. All over Northumbria, thieves and brigands roamed. In the strife that followed, the boy’s parents were killed.