The Book Without Words (13 page)

“Yes.”

“Is he … dead … or alive?”

“I’m not certain,” said Sybil. She stood by Damian’s side, staring at Thorston. Odo fluttered up to her shoulder. A sleepy Alfric—woken by the commotion—crept from the back room to see what the matter was. When he saw Thorston, he took Sybil’s hand in his. “Has your master … returned?” he asked.

“I think so,” she replied. “Odo, go to him. See if he’s … alive.”

The raven hesitated before he fluttered his wings and landed on the bed. He hopped the length of the old man’s arm. When he reached shoulder level, he cocked his head first one way and then another before jumping on the old man’s chest.

Thorston stirred, but did not waken.

The raven drew closer to his face. “Master,” he croaked, “are you … are you … living?”

“Go away, you filthy bird,” muttered Thorston. “I need to sleep.” With a sweep of his hand he brushed Odo away.

Sybil, Odo, Alfric, and Damian scurried to the far side of the room, where they huddled, eyes on Thorston.

“No doubt,” said Odo, bobbing his head. “He’s alive.”

“Did you feel him?” Sybil asked Damian.

“He was trying to take over the bed. Which—may I remind you—was supposed to be mine.”

“It is his bed,” said Odo.

“If a person dies,” said Damian, “he should stay dead and not reclaim his bed. It’s rude.”

Alfric tugged at Sybil’s hand. “Mistress,” he asked, “is that truly him? Or his spirit?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Wait here.” She tiptoed to the steps and stopped halfway to the ground floor. From that vantage point she could see that the trapdoor was open. Dirt from the grave had been thrown to one side. The grave was empty.

She rejoined the others. “He’s come back from his grave,” she announced.

“How could he do that?” asked Alfric.

“I don’t know,” said Sybil. But in her head she heard the monk’s words: “He
will live, but you won’t.”

CHAPTER FOUR

1

D
AWN CAME
to Fulworth, and with it, a drizzling rain. Lowering light hung heavy in the chilly air. When the bells of Saint Osyth’s rang for prime, they pealed with glum solemnity.

Sybil, fascinated as much as she was fearful as to what Thorston might do, had kept watch all night. So had the two boys and Odo. But when the morning chimes rang, Damian, grumbling how tedious it was to observe a dead man at his slumbers, went off to the back room to sleep on Sybil’s pallet of straw. Alfric joined him and dozed by his side. Odo, proclaiming exhaustion, returned to the book column and slept too, head tucked beneath a wing. Only Sybil remained awake.

Sitting with her back propped against a wall, holding her knees in her arms, she continued to gaze at her sleeping master. She was greatly troubled. When Thorston had died, she’d first felt a sense of abandonment. But then the notion of possible freedom had come, and with it, the chance of change. His return left her feeling trapped. Repeatedly, she recalled the monk’s prophecy: if Thorston lived, she would die. How would it happen? Would he make an attempt on her life? Would it be by magic? What was the connection to the stones?

The cathedral bells pronounced Terce: mid-morning. Yawning, Sybil walked across the room and stood by her master’s bed. His chest rose and fell with a gentle, fixed rhythm. Now and again he grunted. She wondered if they had made a horrible mistake, if they had buried a living man. She reminded herself that he had truly died. She had witnessed it. So had Odo. So had the boys. They buried him to hide his death, not his life. It was Master who had come back. The return was his doing, not theirs.

But as Sybil considered him, she finally grasped what she’d only dimly recognized: Thorston had changed. There were fewer wrinkles on his face. His hair was fuller and darker than before. The beard thicker. His hands bore fewer blue veins and spots. Fingernails were no longer cracked, no longer yellow.

There were teeth. Thorston was some twenty years younger than before—little more than fifty.

While Sybil had no understanding of how it had happened, she recalled that the first thing Master had done when he returned was to look for the stones he’d made before his stroke came: the stones Brother Wilfrid had wanted.

She opened the chest at the foot of the bed. Pushing aside the bolt of cloth, she looked at the stones. Their sweet smell rose up to greet her. They were still glowing.

Shutting the lid softly, Sybil went to the front window, wiped her nose, and leaned upon her crossed arms. Rain spattered against the thick glass window and ran down in trickling rivulets. With a stubby fingertip, she rubbed away the vapor her breath made on the glass, and looked out. Despite the rain, the normally deserted courtyard was full of soldiers. Bashcroft was there too, giving orders. On the ground lay massive wooden beams. Sybil wondered what they were.

After a while, the reeve marched off with the soldiers, leaving the wood behind, the courtyard deserted. But as Sybil continued to study the beams, Brother Wilfrid stepped out of the lane and into the court. He stood by the well, head forward, shoulders sagged, hands clasped as if in prayer, sandaled feet in a shallow puddle—seemingly indifferent to the pelting rain—an image of patience and misery. Sybil sensed he was waiting for her.

She glanced over her shoulder. Thorston remained in his bed, asleep. The others slept too. Determined to ask the monk about the stones, Sybil crept down the steps, opened the door, and stepped into the rain.

2

As Sybil approached the monk, he lifted his ghastly face and looked at her with his deep-set, pale green eyes.

“Is he still dead?” he said, his voice distant, and to Sybil’s ears, weaker than before.

“He’s come back to life,” said Sybil, pushing wet hair away from her face.

“Younger?”

“Yes.”

“Which means he did make the stones and has swallowed at least the first of them.”

“Swallowed them!”

“That is the way.”

“Is it the stones that allow him to return?” asked Sybil.

“Each one he takes will make him younger,” said the monk. “They allow him to regain his life, his thoughts, his magic, and finally, time—in that order.”

“Why does he do it?”

“Why?” cried Wilfrid, the wash of rain making it appear as if he were crying. “His sole aim is to live. Fearing death, his life is lived merely to stay alive. It will take a life—your life—to give him the life he desires.”

“My life! How can that be!” cried Sybil.

“It’s the stones.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Are they with you?” asked the monk, his voice rising in excitement.

“No. But I know where they are.”

The monk sighed. “I must have them,” he said. “But it is even more important that I have the book.”

“What would you do with it if it was returned to you?” asked Sybil.

“I’d take it to where it belongs so it could not be read. As for Thorston, he can’t survive without the stones and the book. Not only is the formula for making the stones found in its pages, the proper order is written there. There’s other magic too. Only green eyes can read these things.”

“Green eyes have tried—and failed.”

“It takes great desire.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s more than mere wanting. It’s … desperation.”

“Can’t you take the book and stones for yourself?” asked Sybil.

“Look upon me,” cried the monk. “He’s strong and getting stronger. I’m weak and growing weaker. I need your help. You can right this great wrong.”

“He’s still my master,” said Sybil.

“When he was your age he stole the book from me. He who steals, learns nothing. He who learns, need not steal. Save yourself; bring me the book and the stones.”

“I … I don’t know if I can,” said Sybil, wet and shivering with cold. She took a step back, “What … if I don’t get them for you?”

“Then he will live, and you will die. And I shall continue my life, which is a death without dying.”

“Please, sir, is there gold-making in the book?”

“Only false gold,” said Brother Wilfrid. He turned and walked away through the rain.

“If you can prove what you’re saying is true,” Sybil called after him. “I might help you.”

“Then I will return,” said the monk in a voice that faded as he disappeared down the lane.

A soaked and chilled Sybil ran back to the house and barred the door from the inside. As she leaned against the door to catch her breath, she tried to think about Thorston anew. But the only thing she could fasten on was what the monk had said: if Thorston lived, she would die. Wearily, she climbed the steps and went to Thorston’s bedside.

He was awake.

3

It took a moment for Sybil to recover from her surprise. Once she had, she said, “Good morning, Master.”

Thorston stared at her with his green eyes. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Fetch me something to eat and drink.”

“Yes, Master.”

She returned in moments with bread and a flagon of wine. Thorston had not moved. “Master,” she said, “here’s the food you requested.”

“Set it down,” said Thorston. While Sybil retreated into a corner to watch, he ate ravenously until nothing remained.

Odo woke and stared at Thorston who, when he finished eating, went to his worktable. As he passed, Odo leaned toward him. “Master,” he called, “I’m glad you are well.”

“Why shouldn’t I be well?” snapped Thorston.

“Do you remember who I am?”

“An old goat who thinks he is a raven.”

Odo shook his head and ruffled his tail feathers.

For a while, Thorston studied the Book Without Words. Then he picked up an iron bottle, only to put it down and examine something else.

Odo fluttered to Sybil’s shoulder. “He’s no sweeter than he was—only younger,” he whispered.

Damian and Alfric emerged from the back room, yawning and stretching. When they saw Thorston awake and moving about, they joined Sybil and Odo.

“By Saint Walburga, he
is
alive,” mumbled Damian. “It was no bad dream.”

“Was it magic that did it?” asked Alfric.

“I think so,” said Sybil.

“Why don’t you ask him?” said Damian.

Before the boy could reply, a knocking burst upon the lower door.

Alfric snatched at Sybil’s hand. “It must be Bashcroft.”

“God’s mercy,” Sybil whispered. “I forgot his promise to return.”

As the knocking became more insistent, she looked to see if Thorston would respond. At first he did not. Only when the knocking continued did he shout, “There’s someone at the door.”

“It’s most likely the reeve, sir,” said Sybil.

“The reeve? Why is he coming here? What does he want?” When no one answered, Thorston flung down the tool he’d been examining and headed down the steps. Sybil, along with the others, rushed after him.

Thorston went to the door, lifted the crossbar, pulled it open a few inches, and peeked out through the crack. Bashcroft was there, standing in the rain.

“What do you want?” Thorston demanded.

“I am Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth. And you, I presume, are Master Thorston.”

“Perhaps.”

“It has been rumored that you are an alchemist.”