The Book Without Words (3 page)

As for Odo—at first she had found it odd that he talked. But from the moment she had arrived the bird had belittled her, bossed her about. Though self-effacing to Master, he never said a kind word to her—he was ever snide or cynical. But wasn’t that the way people always talked to her? It might as well be so with a bird. Though she didn’t trust him, she had to admit he was right: if Master died, she’d have even less than she had now.

She looked about. In the dim light she could see the little room that was her domain: cold and dirty stone walls. No windows. A straw pallet. A few rusty iron pots and cracked wooden spoons. Some chipped clay pots that contained food: dry, salted fish; cabbage; turnip bits; and barley grains. A damp, dreary chill that made her shiver. She supposed Odo was correct: it could get worse.

“Odo,” she said, “please, is Master
truly
dying?”

“Do not all men die? And when he does,” said the raven, “I suppose even brainless girls like you might appreciate some gold.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Sybil, listen!” cried the bird. “He has made gold. I’m sure of it. If we don’t find it, or learn how he makes it, we’ll have to steal to stay alive. Get caught stealing, and Master Bashcroft, the city reeve, will put us in jail and hang us.”

“I haven’t told you,” said Sybil, “but Master has been sending me to the apothecary quite often.”

“Of course he did! He was working on the gold-making secret.”

“When I bought those things Master wanted—gargoyle ears, spider legs—the apothecary began asking questions about him.”

“Mistress Weebly is a meddlesome fool.”

“But the last time I went, Master Bashcroft watched me from the street.”

“You should have told me,” said the bird. “The moment that vast man learns of Master Thorston’s death and discovers there’s no heir, he’ll seize the house. He won’t care dead slugs about a stupid servant girl and a raven that can’t fly. He’ll throw us onto the streets. In less than two weeks
we’ll
be dead, dumped into shallow paupers’ graves, and left to rot and stink. I suppose even you can hope for something more than death.”

Sybil rubbed her eyes, her nose. “All right,” she said after a few moments. “I’ll go to him.”

7

Sybil padded down the dim hallway into the large front room. The wooden floor, worn and uneven, was icy to her bare feet. Odo came right behind, his claws tip-tapping as he hopped along.

Candlelight revealed the clutter: Thorston’s apparatus—pestles, bone cups, mortars, vials, kuttrolf bottles, flagons, and funnels—lay strewn about. Tilted and broken shelves were laden with glass jars, wooden boxes, and clay vessels. Books, screeds, and parchment had been cast about at random. A cracked human skull, capped by a wig of bird droppings, sat atop a pile of moldy books. The brazier contained a small green flame, which crackled and popped. Aside from the iron pot whose boiling contents spewed thick, foul fumes, everything was encrusted with dust, filth, and cobwebs.

In the four months Sybil had been there, the room had not been cleaned. She wondered if it ever had been. But she was never allowed to touch anything until a crisis erupted. Then, though Master worked at night when she slept, he’d roar: “Where’s the pestle?” or some such. All was in tumult until she found what he’d misplaced, usually right under his sharp nose.

As for money, as far as Sybil knew, Master never seemed to have much. When she went marketing he rarely gave her more than a farthing or a groat. Only at the apothecary did he pay more.

“Tell me what happened,” said Sybil.

“He seems to have collapsed.” The bird indicated the brazier with his beak. “I think he was working there.”

Sybil looked at the brazier just in time to see the fire die, the coals turn to ash, and the muck in the pot cease to bubble. The stench remained.

“God’s breath,” she muttered as she looked about. “What a gross reek.” She peered through the gloom and saw Thorston on his disheveled bed. Feeble and dried up, his long, big-knuckled hands lay by his sides, twitching spasmodically.

Though the stink in the room made her want to gag, she forced herself close. “Master,” she called. “It’s me. Sybil. Did you call?”

His jaws working as if chewing a tiny object, Thorston partly opened his eyes. He beckoned with a crooked finger. “Girl,” he whispered, “if I’m … to live, I must reveal … the secret of the book.”

“He’s talking about that book,” whispered Sybil. “Odo, I may be ignorant, but even I know you have to be mad to read a book that has no words.”

“Never mind the book,” Odo whispered into her ear. “Ask him about gold.”

“Master” said Sybil, “tell me tell me how to make gold.”

“No—it’s the…stones of life which I…speak,” the old man struggled to say. “They promise…life. Keep them … safe, so I may…continue to live.”

“Master,” said Sybil, “it’s not stones that Odo and I need to live, but gold. Tell me how to make it.”

“The secret is … here.” Thorston’s hands crawled over the Book Without Words like a crippled spider. “You must find someone with green eyes to read … the proper sequence.”

“Master,” said Sybil, “your book has no words.”

“No, no, the magic of immortality … is … here. Don’t let him … get it.”

“Him?” asked Sybil. “Who are you talking about?”

“The green-eyed one …”

“Master, it’s you who have green eyes.”

Thorston’s eyes widened with fright. “Keep him away!” he cried.

Even as he spoke, the twisted hand that lay upon the book fluttered like a broken moth, then lay perfectly still.

“God of mercy,” Sybil whispered. “He’s dead.”

8

“Dead!” shrieked Odo. “Didn’t I tell you to hurry?” Wings beating wildly, the raven leaped onto Thorston’s chest, peered into his face, and pecked his lower lip. When there was no response the bird shook his head and crouched, muttering to himself.

Sybil trembled. She could hardly draw breath. All that Odo had warned her about—eviction, abandonment, starvation, and death—burst upon her like the clap of a cathedral bell. What would become of her!

She reached out and touched Thorston’s wrist. To her surprise, she felt a feeble pulse. Next moment, she saw the old man’s chest rise and fall. A surge of relief passed through her. “Odo!” she cried. “Master hasn’t died. He lives!”

“It no longer matters,” moaned Odo. “Dead or alive. He’s addled and we’re undone.”

“Not if we find a green-eyed person,” said the girl.

The bird whipped his head about. “What are you saying?”

“Only what Master said: his secrets are in his book, but they can be read by a green-eyed person.”

“What he said was: we needed to keep the book
away
from green-eyed persons.”

“Then you,” said the girl, “are as vacant of brain as that skull upon which you sit. You said he was confused. He must have been talking about himself. Well, then, his secret is in the book. We need to find someone with green eyes to read it.”

“Are you actually suggesting,” said Odo, “we walk about this wretched city peering into people’s eyes?”

“If we want those secrets, we will.”

“Sybil, alchemy is
illegal.
It’s considered sorcery. A hanging offense.”

“But you said if we didn’t learn how to make gold we’ll perish,” returned the girl. “Now, be still. I need to think how to find a green-eyed person.”

“You can’t think, so don’t waste your time. You’re nothing!” said the raven, and he retreated to his skull to sulk.

9

Sybil went to her favorite place—she could only go there when Thorston slept—the small, round, thick-glassed front window. She looked out. The weather with its dark, cold fog was, as always, nasty. How she longed for spring with its soft breezes, flowers, and warm sun.

Shifting slightly, Sybil caught sight of her likeness in the glass. Despising her looks; despising the fact that she was a worthless, ignorant, homely girl; despising how dependent she was, she turned away. Odo was right: she was alone in the world. A nothing. But Odo was right about another thing: knowing how to make gold would change her life.

She started: for a moment she thought she saw someone standing in the courtyard shadows, observing their house. A small person. A child, perhaps. She looked again. The figure was gone. I’ve become as addle-pated as Master, she thought.

Leaning on the window, she resumed her musings. If a green-eyed person was needed, how could she find one? Seeing the person in the courtyard gave her an idea.

“Odo,” she said, “I think we should seek out a green-eyed
child.”

“A child? Why?”

“Children are easy to control. They won’t ask questions.”

“But few can read.”

“It’s only green eyes that are necessary.”

“And how do you intend to find such?”

“I’ll invent something to say to the merchants from whom I market.”

“What of Master’s rule that no one know of his existence?”

“Your eyes are black. Mine, brown. Our sole hope is to find a green-eyed person.”

“Hope!” hissed Odo. “Nothings don’t hope.” “I

won’t
be nothing,” cried Sybil. Eyes welling with tears, she ran into the back room and threw herself upon her straw pallet. If I’m to survive, she thought as she smeared away the wetness on her cheeks, I need to find a green-eyed child. With that, she began to compose the speech she would give to merchants on the morrow. She would start with the apothecary, Mistress Weebly. She was closest.

10

Odo, on his skull, stared at the pot that sat upon the brazier. He was convinced gold was in it, gold that Thorston had made. Not that Odo had any intention of sharing it with Sybil. Not a grain. But, he told himself, to
get
it will take patience—and cunning.

11