The Book Without Words (9 page)

Alfric hung his head. “He bought me.”

There was more pounding on the door.

“Please, Mistress,” said Alfric, tugging on Sybil’s sleeve. “I want to stay.”

“You may stay,” said Sybil. “But you, Master Damian, decide: Go or stay?”

“I can’t go home” said Damian, “I have to have the secrets.”

The knocking below resumed.

“Well?” said Sybil.

“I’ll stay.”

“Good,” said Sybil. “Then I’ll deal with the reeve.”

8

Sybil hurried down the stairs. As she did, Odo leaped to her shoulder.

“You did that, didn’t you?” said Sybil.

“Did what?”

“Made that skull rise.”

“I did only what you requested.”

“Master raven, how many of Master’s secrets do you know?”

“Sybil, if you truly are going to bury Master here, I promise you that Damian will spread the news. Things will go badly.”

“Master Odo, since you won’t answer my questions and only change the subject, I intend to take care of myself.” As she reached for the door, it suddenly occurred to her that the ancient monk—the one she met the night before—might be on the other side. “Who is it?” she called.

“It’s I, Ambrose Bashcroft, the reeve of Fulworth.
Dura
lex, sed lex.
The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must see Master Thorston.”

“In faith, sir,” called Sybil, “my master is in no condition to have visitors.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“His servant, sir.”

“Why can’t your master have visitors?”

Sybil looked over her shoulder. Alfric and Damian had come down the steps. “Master Reeve,” she cried through the closed door. “My master’s condition is such that he will speak to no one.”

“Dying, is he? Then I’ll speak to my boy, Alfric. Send him out immediately.”

“But, sir,” called Sybil, “even as you speak, your boy is about to attend my master.”

There was a moment of silence, after which the reeve said, “What is he doing?”

“He is going to help my master find his rest.”

“Is your master talking to him?”

“I’ve no doubt your boy is listening to every word my master utters.”

“Very well,” said the reeve. “I’ll return on the morrow at noon. I’ll speak to your master then. Advise him that I’ve ample reason to believe that dangerous doings are being conducted in this house.”

“I shall tell him,” said Sybil. She pressed an ear to the door. “He’s gone,” she announced after a moment.

“But he’ll be back,” cried Odd.

“Then,” said Sybil, “we’d best bury Master quickly.”

9

Sybil knelt by the trapdoor, grasped its iron rung, and yanked. It barely gave.

Odo started to lift a claw but stopped himself.

“Come here,” Sybil called to the boys. “I need your help.”

Alfric took hold of the ring. “Blessings on you for letting me stay,” he whispered.

“By God’s hands, you’re most welcome,” said Sybil. “Just lift.” The two pulled. With a jerk, the trapdoor came up, exposing a square, dark hole.

“Are there more dead below?” asked Damian.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Sybil. “There’s nothing but dirt.”

“You call me a fool, but it’s clear you have no respect for the dead,” said Damian.

“Whereas you have no respect for the living,” returned Sybil. “Now, come,” she said. “Both of you. We need to work in haste.”

She sat on the square’s open edge. A rickety ladder led into the dark. She started down. The air was damp, cold, and smelled horrible. The basement had a dirt floor, and nothing was there save for two old chests with rusty locks. It had been so long since Sybil had gone into the basement, she had forgotten about them.

Odo dropped onto her shoulder. “This is madness,” he hissed. “Why are you doing this?”

“Odo,” Sybil returned in a hushed voice, “tell me the secrets you learned from our master, or by Saint Osyth, I’ll wring your neck and bury you by his side.”

“What do you mean?” cried the alarmed bird.

“It’s perfectly clear,” said Sybil, “you know some of Master’s magic. That skull rising was proof enough.”

“You may be sure
he
never taught me,” said the raven. “I had to spy on him.”

“Why did you let the skull break?”

“I didn’t
let
it. It’s what his magic seems to do: something good happens, then … the opposite.”

“What other magic did you learn?”

“A few pretty things.”

“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.