The Book Without Words Page 7

  “Relations took the child in, but the ravages of famine overwhelmed all, and he lost them, too. Alone, he lived in fear. And when it appeared as if life could not be worse, news spread that Viking raiders had returned to Northumbria. They looted churches and slaughtered many, while taking some into slavery and holding others for ransom.

  “Devastation ruled the land.

  “So it was that by the time the boy reached thirteen years of age, beyond all else, he feared death.

  “The boy heard that the safest place on earth was Saint Elfleda’s monastery, which was on a small island off the northeastern coast of Northumbria. There he accepted the only work he could get, that of a goatherd.”

  “Who was that boy?” asked Sybil.

  “Your master, Thorston.”

  16

  “One afternoon,” the monk went on, “long boats with high dragon bows and long oars appeared. The boats carried some two hundred bearded, long-haired men with iron helmets, and chain mail on their chests. Shields on the boats sides proclaimed them to be Viking raiders.

  “After dragging the boats high onto the beaches, the men took up axes, swords, and shields. With fierce shouts and cries, they raced inland. When the monks of Saint Elfleda’s saw them, they dropped their tools and fled, only to be overtaken and killed. Screams of terror and cries for mercy filled the air. Looting began. From a place of concealment Thorston saw it all.

  “How old are you?” the monk suddenly asked Sybil.

  “Thirteen,” she said.

  “His age at that time, exactly.

  “As for me, at the time I was a young monk entrusted with a great responsibility, a book. Clutching this book I fled the monastery through a small door in the wall, only to come upon a very frightened Thorston. The boy reeked of goat. ‘Follow me,’I cried to him.

  “The two of us ran to the western side of the island, and then over the sandbar to the mainland. Once we were safe—thinking he would help me—I foolishly told Thorston about the Book Without Words. ‘You should praise God,’I told him, ‘that He has sent you—as a means of your salvation—to help keep this book from evildoers.’

  “‘Why do you have it, then?’

  “‘Young and weak though I am, Abbot Sigfrid entrusted it to me that I might shield it from those who might use it,'” I said, and I opened the book and gingerly turned the stiff, yellow parchment pages.

  “Thorston, looking down over my shoulder, said, ‘Brother Wilfrid, the pages are blank. How does one read it?’

  “‘It requires green eyes and earthly desire.’

  “‘Why green eyes?’he asked.

  “‘The old religion claimed green to be the color of life.’

  “And earthly desire?’

  “The things most wanted.’

  “‘Brother Wilfrid,’said Thorston, ‘I was once told I had green eyes.’

  “I darted a look at him. When I saw that his eyes were indeed green, I became alarmed and closed the book.

  “But he had become excited. ‘Brother Wilfrid; he said, ‘can the book’s magic tell me how to live forever?’

  “I stood up. ‘I must go,’I said.

  “Thorston restrained me. ‘Please,’he pleaded, ‘my desire is never to die. Teach me how to read and use the book.’

  “’No,’I said, pulling free, ‘it’s not for such as you and I.’ But I held out my hand. ‘Be my friend and companion. If something happens to me, you could bring the book to our bishop. You would be blessed.’

  “‘But, Brother Wilfrid, if we used the book’s magic, we—’

  “‘Didn’t you hear me?’I said. ‘It must not be used. I must get it to safety. Thank you for your assistance. Godspeed; I said, ‘and a blessed death.’I started off.

  “Abruptly, Thorston threw his tunic over my head, smothering me. He struck, too. As I fell, he tore the Book Without Words from my grasp, took back his tunic, and ran off through the forest.

  “I lay dying on the thick forest floor, the stench of goat in my nostrils. ‘Saint Elfleda,’I cried, ‘help me retrieve the book.’

  “And so,” concluded the monk, “she has.”

  17

  “Is all of that true?” whispered an astonished Sybil. “All of it?”

  “By Saint Elfleda, it is.”

  “And have you been searching for Thorston all these years?”

  “Beyond all else, it’s the book I seek.”

  “Is the book truly so valuable?”

  “It contains all the evil magic of Northumbria. Whereas it can only be used in these Northumbrian precincts, its magic gives what is desired, even as the desire consumes the magician.”

  “Why do you want it, then?”

  “Since such evil can never be entirely destroyed, it must be kept from those who might misuse it.”

  “Why are green eyes so important?”

  “As I told you the old religion held it to be the color of life. And if one wishes to live forever—as Thorston does—the means can be found there, but only in these Northumbrian precincts.”

  “But I told you, Thorston is dead.”

  “Are you sure? He was determined to live forever.”

  “Is it so wrong to want to live?”

  “Wrong for him to reclaim his life by taking yours.”

  “What do you mean?” cried Sybil.

  Wilfrid sighed. “It’s the stones. They will renew his life. To make them he had to take the very breath of your life. When he uses the stones, he will live, but you won’t.”

  “But I told you, he’s dead!” cried Sybil.

  Wilfrid shook his head. “Beware the book’s magic. No doubt he chose you because of your age. If you would keep him dead, and thereby save yourself, bring the book and the stones to me.”

  “Tell me how he uses those stones.”

  “I beg you, just bring the book and the stones to me.” The monk stretched out his trembling hands toward Sybil, hands little more than sinew and bones. As Sybil looked at Wilfrid, his face appeared to be as much a skeleton as a living face—as if he too hovered between life and death. Gripped by sudden terror, she fled back to the house.

  18

  Sybil, unable to free herself of thoughts about what the ancient monk had said—“When he uses the stones, he will live, but you won’t”—made a cabbage soup on the brazier and served it to the others. The people ate with wooden spoons. Odo dipped his beak into a bowl.

  “Some say that spring will never come this year,” said Damian as he slurped his food.

  “Perhaps time has frozen,” said Odo.

  “My father,” said Alfric, “used to say that time is like an oxcart wheel—that it has no end or beginning, but only rolls.”

  “But,” added Damian with a laugh, “the cart it lugs has nothing but muck.”

  “You are a vulgar boy,” said Odo.

  “Better boy than bird,” Damian retorted. “We haven’t found anything, have we?” he said.

  The stones, Sybil thought to herself, but she said nothing.

  “We’re not finished looking,” said Odo. “But even,” he went on, “if it does not seem like gold, I know Master’s test for it.”

  “As long as it looks like gold,” said Damian with a grin, “I don’t care.”

  Odo nodded. “A sniff of gold makes all noses sneeze,” he said.

  It was Alfric who, in his small pensive voice, said, “Mistress, what shall we do when Master Bashcroft returns tomorrow?”

  “God’s mercy,” said the girl, her attention brought back to the others. “I forgot about him. I shall put my mind to it.”

  Alfric’s question dampened the mood. For the rest of the meal, no one spoke. They finished eating.

  “Forgive me,” said Alfric with a yawn. “I’ve not slept indoors for so long, the closeness makes me sleepy.”

  “You can sleep where you like,” said Sybil.

  “I’ll rest on the floor,” said the boy, and he went off to a corner.

  “As for me,” said Dam
ian, “since your master sleeps elsewhere, I’ll take his bed.” He went to it and lay down.

  Odo sat where the skull used to be, on the pile of books.

  Sybil retreated to her straw pallet in the back room. After pulling the thin blanket up to her chin, she stared up at the darkness. She thought of the monk’s tale, that Master had stolen the Book Without Words from him. If it had been stolen, was it not proper to return it to its rightful owner? Besides, its empty pages were useless to them. But there were the stones, which seemed to be important. Finally—reluctantly—Sybil made herself consider the monk’s warning: that when Thorston regained his life, she would lose hers. It made no sense: Master was dead; and she, after a fashion, lived.

  More than that: with Thorston dead, she was free. True, the notion of being unattached to anyone made her uneasy. Even so, there was something pleasing about it. Except—what should she do with her life? Something, she told herself. I must do something.

  The sound of soft scratches coming down the hallway reached her ears. In a moment, Odo peered into her face.

  “Sybil,” said the raven, his voice a croaked whisper. “I wish to acknowledge I’ve spoken ill of you too often. I’ve been unkind. My only excuse is that a sharp master makes for a dull servant. Will you forgive me?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “And will there be no secrets between us?” said the bird.

  “I’m weary with secrets,” said Sybil. “Let me sleep.”

  “As God is my witness,” said Odo, “once I fly again, I’ll leave you. You’ll not be bothered by me again.”

  Sybil, wondering what would she do without Odo, felt pain. But afraid the bird would mock her if she confessed such soft thoughts, she said nothing.

  “You have no heart,” said Odo, and he hopped away.

  As the raven pattered down the hallway, Sybil’s thoughts concentrated on the stones. She wished the monk had told her how they were to be used. She also wished she had not fled so quickly from him. She hoped he would return.

  As Sybil drifted off to sleep, she wondered if it had been wrong to tell Odo where she’d put the stones. I must trust him, she told herself I must. He’s my only friend.

  19

  “Unfeeling girl,” Odo muttered as he retreated to the front room. “Why should I care or trust her?” He reached the top of the steps, paused, and looked toward the back room. Seeing and hearing nothing, he hopped softly down the steps. Upon reaching the ground-floor level he went to the closed trapdoor, stood before it, and extended one claw. “Risan … risan,” he whispered.

  The heavy door trembled as it struggled to rise.

  “Risan … risan,” the bird repeated, somewhat louder.

  The door quivered anew, strained to open, but failed and settled back.

  “My magic is too weak,” moaned Odo. “I still need her.” Softly, he returned to the room and went to his column of books and tried to sleep.

  20

  In the back room Sybil remained awake. Wishing she had said spoken more kindly to Odo, she got up and padded into the front room.

  All was still: Damian lay asleep in Thorston’s bed, breathing deeply. Alfric was curled up in a corner, eyes closed, his thumb in his mouth. Seeing that Odo had his head tucked under a wing—apparently asleep-she decided she’d wait until the morning to speak to him.

  Instead she went to the window and pulled aside the leather curtain, hoping to see Brother Wilfrid. The courtyard was deserted. In the clear sky, an all but full moon cast pale light into the room. She turned. On the table lay the Book Without Words, its pages glowing in the moonlight. The monk had said it was evil. Perhaps, she thought, it would be better not to read it. And the stones…

  She went to the foot of Thorston’s bed, knelt, and opened the chest. A sweet, springlike smell wafted up. As she held the chest lid up with one hand, with the other, she moved aside the bolt of cloth under which she had hidden the stones. She gasped. The three stones were glowing. But even as Sybil gazed at them, she thought she heard the sound of someone stirring across the room. In haste, she covered the stones, lowered the lid, and crept back to her room.

  On her pallet she kept thinking about the stones. That there was something magical about them, she had no doubt. The monk said they restored life. But how? She resolved to speak to the monk and ask him for an explanation.

  21

  In the front room, Alfric, his head full of worry, had not been able to sleep. The death and burial of Master Thorston made him think upon his parents and their death. It brought tears to his eyes.

  He also thought about Sybil. He was touched by her sympathy. How long it had been since anyone had been kind to him! The last thing he wanted was to return to Bashcroft. The boy prayed she would let him stay with her.

  Even as Alfric had the thought, he saw her enter the room and look about. Feigning sleep, he closed his eyes partway and watched her pull aside the leather curtain from the front window. When moonlight filled the room, he shut his eyes and waited until he heard her go back down the hallway.

  Once she had gone, he propped himself up on an elbow and peered about. It occurred to him that Sybil might let him stay if he could do something she wanted, something that would make her desirous of keeping him. Something like—the reading of that book: if he could find a way to read it, she might look with favor upon him.

  Seeing that Damian was asleep and snoring on the alchemist’s bed, and that the raven had his head tucked under a wing, Alfric went to the table where the Book Without Words lay.

  Illuminated by moonlight, its stiff, yellow parchment pages seemed to have their own glow. Gingerly, Alfric touched one sheet. The scraped parchment made his fingertips tingle. One by one, he turned over the leaves. Each page appeared the same—blank. Or did it?

  Bending closer, he scrutinized them hard, wanting with all his desire to see something. As he concentrated, faint lines began to appear—lines he was sure had not been there before. They were indistinct squiggles—but they were there. He stared harder. The lines became clearer. They became words. Alfric’s heart began to pound.

  Alarmed, Alfric backed away. The chill air made him shiver. He must be careful. Without question there was magic here. But he didn’t want to antagonize the girl. Perhaps he was doing something wrong. He went down the hallway toward her room.

  “Mistress?” he called to Sybil. She opened her eyes.

  “Are you awake?” Alfric whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t sleep. And I’m cold. May I stay close to you?”

  “Of course.”

  The boy crept close to her. She was thin but warm. “May God bless you,” he said in a choked voice. “You are the kindest lady in the world.”

  As Sybil drew the frail boy close, she realized something: Odo had apologized to her. The monk had said he needed her. The boy had blessed her. In all her life no one had ever said or done any of those things. Here, in one day, were all three. Was that not a kind of magic?

  22

  From his perch on the books, Odo had watched Alfric examine the Book Without Words, then move into the back room. As soon as the boy had gone, the raven fluttered over to the book and gazed at it. He saw nothing. Agitated, he hopped over to the chest at the foot of

  Thorston’s bed. After making sure no one was watching, he lifted a claw and said, “Risan … risan.” When the chest lid opened, he hopped upon its edge and peered inside. The sweet smell rose up. He was just about to jump into the chest when he heard a loud bang. The sound came from the ground level. Alarmed, the raven leaped out of the chest and muttered some words. As soon as the chest lid lowered, Odo retreated to his roost. Head cocked, he sat and listened intently.

  23

  The same sound Odo heard woke Sybil from her shallow sleep. Disentangling herself from Alfric, she sat up. The noise seemed to have come from below, on the ground floor. She listened. Within moments there were new sounds: grunts and groans, the sounds of someone laboring.


  Sybil jumped up and moved halfway down the hall to listen. The sounds resumed. Recalling that she had barred the front door, the only sense she could make of the sounds was that someone had broken in. Perhaps it was through the old stone wall. The stones, she knew, were none too firm.

  She crept into the main room. Moonlight streamed in, bringing radiance to the top of the steps. She heard more grunts and groans followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.

  “Odo,” she whispered across the room. “Someone’s in the house.”

  The raven lifted his head. “I hear.” He stood, head cocked, beak open—an attitude of intense listening.

  “Do you think it’s the reeve?” said Sybil. “Could he have come through that back way—through the old city walls?”

  “It’s blocked,” said Odo.

  A loud boom echoed from below, loud enough to make Sybil jump. What, she thought, if it’s Brother Wilfrid coming for the book?

  “Odo,” said Sybil, “I didn’t tell you, but I saw-”

  “Quiet!” hissed the bird. “That’s … the trapdoor.”

  Breathless, Sybil listened as more sounds came: the unmistakable sound of footsteps could be heard moving toward the room.

  A form, lit up by the moonlight, rose up from the well of the steps. Head. Shoulders. Body. A human shape.

  “Dear God…” whispered Sybil, holding her breath.

  The person stepped into the circle of moonlight that lay upon the floor at the top of the stairwell. A face.

  Sybil gasped. It was the face of the man they had just buried, Master Thorston.

  24

  Speechless with astonishment, Sybil stared at Thorston. That it was the master, she had not the slightest doubt. Yet there was something different about him, but nothing she could grasp.