The Book Without Words (2 page)

Wilfrid sank to his knees. “Help me,” he pleaded. “Help me help you.”

A short time later, the old monk left the church, went out into the roiling fog, and roamed through Fulworth, making his way along stinking, narrow streets, constricted lanes, and neglected courtyards. But in truth, Wilfrid did not look where he was going so much as he
sniffed.

Suddenly he halted, lifted his frail head, and breathed deeply. He had smelled something. Goat reek!
Thorston’s stink!
A smell he could never forget.

The monk, breathing deeply, old heart pounding, went on. His nose led him to a neglected corner of town, to the bottom of Clutterbuck Lane and its grimy courtyard centered by a fetid well. There, against the city’s crumbling walls, he saw a dilapidated two-story stone house. But though the house appeared to contain no life, Brother Wilfrid stared at it, sniffed at it.

“Blessed Saint Elfleda,” he whispered. “I’ve found him! Thorston is here.” He sniffed again. This time he smelled gargoyle, chimera, fire-lizard, and … a raven. “God’s mercy!” cried Wilfrid. “He’s about to make the stones of life!”

The old monk stretched out a frail, trembling hand toward the house. “Return the book to me!” he called in a rasping voice.

No reply. Wilfrid hardly expected one. Worse, as he stood there, he knew he was too feeble to take back the book himself. He would need help. But who would help him? He sniffed again. This time he detected—a girl. A
young
girl.

Of course! If Thorston were working to renew his life by making the stones, he would need some young person’s breath—and then her life.

He must talk to her and warn her before it was too late.

3

Thorston crept into the back room, where Sybil, covered by a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket, lay asleep on a straw pallet. Thorston gazed at her. She was big boned, and skinny. Long brown hair was tangled; face chapped and sullied; her nose—often dripping—was blunt and red from the chill. She had on a tattered, gray wool gown with wide sleeves, which she wore night and day. Most important of all—for Thorston—was the fact that she was as young as he had been when he stole the book: thirteen years of age. Now her breath would become
his
breath—his life. When he regained his young life, she would die. What does her life matter? thought Thorston. She’s nobody. No one will miss or care about her. It’s
my
life I desire.

He bent over the girl. With a quick, scooping gesture, he caught up a fistful of her sleepy breath—a hand bowl, as it were, of her life. He clapped his other hand over it, trapping it.

Back at the brazier, the old man let Sybil’s breath slide through his thin fingers into the pot. The brew seethed, frothed, and boiled, then settled into a slow simmer.

Though Thorston’s heart pounded so hard he experienced some dizziness, he plunged his right hand into the hot concoction. Paying no heed to the searing pain, he pressed down to the pot’s bottom. There—in the midst of thick and sticky sludge—he found
four stones
.

Breathless with excitement, knowing he must hurry, Thorston plucked up the largest stone. It was white, round, and an inch in diameter. He clutched it in his trembling hand. With faltering steps, he staggered to the window at the front of the house, where he drew aside the leather curtain that kept in and out the light.

Outside, the thick fog had made the night sky impenetrable. But as Thorston stood before the window, clenched fist lifted heavenward, the mists parted. A full moon blossomed. From it, a glittering shaft of gold light fell like an arrow upon his quaking hand.

Thorston counted to thirteen—slowly—before drawing down his hand. Though it was growing difficult, even painful for him to breathe, he unfolded his fingers and peered into his palm.

There lay the piece he had taken from the pot. It had turned
green.

“I have it,” he whispered with breathless ferocity. “Life! Three more stones, and I shall be reborn.”

But even as Thorston exalted, a sharp pain squeezed his heart. His left arm turned numb. His right eye fogged. As he struggled for breath, it became hard for him to grip the stone. “Spirits of mortality,” he gasped. “What’s amiss?”

His heart gave a jolt.

Thorston lurched across the room. Tripping on a pot, he started to fall. In a panic, he stuffed the green stone into his gaping, toothless mouth, and with a desperate gulp, swallowed it. Even so, he collapsed onto his bed. “Save me!” he shrieked. “Save the stones of life!” There lay Thorston—all but dead.

4

Thorston’s cry woke Odo the raven. The bird lifted his head and looked about the dismal room. When he saw his master sprawled on the bed, he flapped his wings and squawked, “Wings of salvation. What is wrong?”

A flutter of wings, some jumps and a hop—Odo could not fly—brought the raven to the old man’s chest. “Master,” he said, peering into Thorston’s wizened face. “It’s me, Odo, your most loving, your most faithful of servants. What ails you?”

“I’ve begun,” muttered the old man, “my rebirth. But … I may be too … old.”

Odo cocked his head. “Gold, Master? Did you say you made gold?”

“Yes … old … and dying.”

“Dying, dear Master? But did you make gold?”

“Just … the first … step,” the old man whispered, “toward new life. If I’m to live, I must reveal the secret.”

“Me, Master,” cried the raven. “Reveal the gold-making secret to me!”

“No. The … girl.”

“Sybil?”

“Yes, her.”

“Kind master,” croaked the bird. “Gentle master! I’m sure you didn’t mean to say that. You know she’s a fool. A street beggar. A nothing. Don’t you remember? You promised that when you finally made gold, it would be me that would get half.”

“Fetch … the girl,” Thorston whispered, even as his eyes clouded and his toothless jaw went slack.

5

Odo stared at the old man in disbelief. He pecked on his bony chest. “Most generous of masters, speak to me!”

When Thorston did not respond, Odo looked about the room. Spying the boiling pot, he leaped from the bed, clawed his way to the brazier, and stood upon the pot’s hot rim. Hopping about its edge, he peered inside. The rising vapors caused his eyes to tear. He could see nothing.

Livid, talons hurting, Odo leaped away and began a frantic search about the cluttered room. He skipped under the bed, around it, on it. Nothing. He climbed on the table. Nothing. Crawled under it. Nothing. Coming upon an upside-down copper pot, he attempted to poke his beak under its rim in case anything was hidden beneath. When it proved too heavy, he darted a glance back toward the rear room to make certain Sybil was asleep. She was. He checked Thorston: the old man’s eyes remained shut.

Satisfied he was unobserved, the raven lifted his left claw, held it toward the pot, and hissed: “Risan—Risan.” The pot rose into the air where it hovered unsteadily. Odo looked beneath. Nothing. The next moment the pot fell with a crash.

Furious, the raven hopped back to the old man and pried back each of his fingers. Nothing. He jumped to Thorston’s chest and drew close to his face. “Master!” he screamed, black tongue sticking out. “Think how loyally I’ve served you. In your solitary days, I alone talked to you. When you were hungry, I fetched food for you. When you were sick, I watched over you. Brought herbs to you. Guarded you from the world. Kept watch for dangers. To prove my loyalty, I gave up flying, my bird essence, allowing myself to become almost human—for you. Be grateful, Master. Be open handed. Tell me how to make gold. I want to fly again!”

The old man remained mute.

“Birds of mercy,” hissed Odo. “He’s truly dying. Cruel Master!” he suddenly shrieked. “Liar! Cheat! Self-centered knave! Hateful human! You’re betraying me. What’s to be done?” With a violent shake of his head, the bird peered down the hallway toward the back room. The thought that he would have to share his master’s gold-making secret with the new servant girl filled him with fury. But with Thorston dying, there was no choice. Swallowing his rage, Odo leaped off the bed and hopped down the hallway. Upon reaching the girl, he leaned forward and gave a sharp peck to her hand. “Sybil! Wake!” he croaked. “Master Thorston is dying. Get up!”

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.