The Book Without Words (6 page)

Night came to Fulworth. In the upper room at the house at the end of Clutterbuck Lane, a solitary rush candle provided a glimmer of languishing light. Upon the bed lay Master Thorston, eyes closed. Near to his hand was the Book Without Words; Odo insisted it stay there in case Master recovered his senses. But though the small rise and fall of his chest suggested life, he had not uttered a word since the day before.

Sybil, sure her master would not speak, sat on a three-legged stool next to his bed. The room was chilly enough to see her vaporous breath in the gloom. A chipped clay bowl filled with warm bone broth rested in her lap. Though the broth was for her master, she welcomed its heat. Now and again she tried to feed him.

No one spoke until low rumblings of thunder made her lift her head. “There will be a storm soon,” she said, as much to herself as Odo.

Drawing her dirty shawl tighter around her shoulders, she studied Thorston’s slack, withered face. What secrets, she wondered, lay within?

“Odo,” she said after a while, “how long have you been with Master?”

“Too long.”

“In all that time, did you ever learn any of his secrets?”

“The lengthier the life, the more locked the lip,” said the bird.

Sybil rubbed her tired eyes. “That’s not an answer to my question.”

The raven shook his head. Sybil, knowing the bird was not about to tell her anything, sighed. Restless, deciding her efforts to feed Thorston were of no use, she put the bowl aside and went to the front window and gazed out. The courtyard was deserted. Or was it? There, where she had seen a figure the night before, she again thought she saw someone.

“Odo,” she called.

“What?” said the raven, his voice sleepy. He had jumped to the skull.

Sybil peered into the courtyard again. Whoever she had seen had gone. She was disappointed.

“All this has exhausted me,” murmured Odo. “I need my sleep. You keep watch on Master.” He crouched on a stack of books.

Sybil made no reply. Doubting Master would ever wake, she wondered if it would not be better to leave right away. It was bad luck to be in a house when a man died. In any case, when Master died—which could not be long—her own life here would end. But where could she go? Other than servant’s work, she didn’t know what to do. As for the world beyond Fulworth, she knew nothing more than the wretched village where she had been raised, where her peasant parents had lived—if one could call it that—and died.

There was that Italy Odo had mentioned. It sounded wonderful. Sybil wondered if she could walk to it.

“Odo,” she called. “How far off is that Italy?”

“Find it … yourself,” murmured the bird, all but asleep.

No, thought Sybil, I can’t even go there. Not till I have gold—which I’ll never have. But I must do something.

She gazed out the window. The person had returned. As she considered him, it occurred to Sybil that he was rather childlike in size. And as she continued to gaze, she had the distinct sensation he was looking right at her. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, it’s a green-eyed child!

She looked to Odo. The bird was sound asleep. Suddenly she felt pleased with herself. Here’s
my chance to show him my plan was right!

She crept down to the ground level, a large, empty area whose window spaces had been filled in with stone and mortar. The front door was kept closed by a heavy crossbeam. The rear wall—behind the central steps—was, in fact, part of the decaying city wall. An entryway had once existed there, but it too had been filled in with stone.

But there was nothing in the room save a pair of shovels used for disposing of night soil. In the room’s center was a trapdoor that led to a dirt basement. Only Thorston—who had never gone out—had descended. Sybil preferred to use the outside privy.

She used both hands to lift the front-door crossbar. Noiselessly, she set it on the floor, then pulled open the door. Cold air blew in. Thunder rumbled again, closer. Trembling from the chill as well as nervousness, Sybil hesitated. She adjusted her shawl. Reminding herself she was only searching to see if a green-eyed child had come, she stepped out and set off across the courtyard. She had almost reached the well when a figure stepped from the shadows and blocked her way.

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Sybil halted and gasped. Though the face was partly obscured by a monk’s cowl, this wasn’t a child, but a man.

“You come from that house,” said Brother Wilfrid, his voice weak and raspy. “Does a man called Thorston live there?”

“Y-es.”

“Is he in possession of a book that has no words?”

Sybil, taken by surprise, said, “What can it matter to you?”

“Everything.”

“What do you want?”

“Your help,” said Wilfrid.

Even as he spoke a crack of lightning flooded the courtyard with white light. Simultaneously, a puff of wind blew back Wilfrid’s hood. Sybil saw his face: it was as if she were looking at a living skull, some green-eyed
dead
thing that had, though hideous with decrepitude, somehow survived. Unnerved, she turned and fled.

“Stop!” the monk cried after her. “I need you. And you need me!”

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Sybil ran back into the house, and replaced the crossbeam to bar the door. Not ready to go back upstairs, she went behind the steps into a little alcove and sat against the wall. She took a deep breath. Her head was full of questions: Who was the man? How did he know about

Thorston? Why was he interested in that blank be Why should he say he needed her? And—she suddenly recalled—that
she
needed him? Unwilling to confront such questions, she poked idly at the old mortar in the wall behind her. It crumbled with ease. I am in a hole, she thought. I should dig myself out. With a yawn she went up the steps to the second floor. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. Odo remained asleep. Thorston was in his bed as still as before, the Book Without Words by his side.

Sybil went to the window and peered out. No one was in the courtyard. With another yawn she crept to the back room and lay down on her pallet. Her thoughts drifted back to her home, the tiny, mud-encrusted village where her parents worked endlessly in sodden fields. To the food they ate—never much. To their death from illness—common enough. To her relations’ refusal to take her in—ordinary. To how, alone, she tramped to Fulworth in search of food and work. The hungry days. The lonely days. How grateful she’d been when Thorston plucked her off the street to be his servant! Yet her days were empty, isolated. Have I ever really lived? she asked herself. I might as well be dead.

The monk’s words—I
need you—
came back to her. She tried to remember if anyone had ever said such a thing to her before. She could not.

Why would a perfect stranger say such a thing?

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In another part of Fulworth, along the polluted, weed-infested, slick and slimy waters of the River Scrogg, was the tavern known as the Pure Hart. Its solitary room reeked of stale ale and sour sweat: its sagging floor creaked and groaned with the river’s heaving flow. Upon its roof drummed a monotony of rain.

Inside, a solitary oil lamp, affixed to a rough-hewn wall, cast as much shadow as light. A lump of peat in a rusty iron brazier threw off more smoke than heat. The man who owned the tavern, a scarred old soldier, sat by the creaking doorway, leaning against the wall, his grizzled mouth agape, snoring like a winded ox. And at the other end of the room, upon one of three low, plank tables, sat Ambrose Bashcroft. Standing opposite him was the boy: Alfric.

“Now, then, Alfric,” said Bashcroft, “you are aware, are you not, that God put children on earth to serve their adult masters?”

Alfric nodded.

“Who was that monk I bought you from?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It doesn’t matter. As Fulworth’s city reeve, I am your sole master now. Those who disobey me, I hang high—and often.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dura lex, sed lex.
The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard.” The reeve adjusted his bulging bulk as he leaned forward. “But, Alfric”—the reeve jabbed a hard, fat forefinger upon the boy’s pigeon chest—“if you do what I say—though I paid two whole pennies for you—you’ll soon be free to starve at your own convenience. There’s always heaven.”

“I pray so,” whispered the boy. Listening to the rain beat upon the roof, he reminded himself he
was
better off inside.

“Then we understand each other,” said the reeve. He peered around to make sure the innkeeper remained asleep before continuing, in a lower voice. “Now, then, Alfric, pay close heed: there’s a man in town—a very old man—who goes by the name of Thorston. He’s an alchemist. Which is to say, he makes—gold.”

“Please, sir, how does he do that?”

“That, Alfric, is something
you
must discover.”

“Me, sir?”

“Since gold making is illegal, only I—who am the law—should know of it, so as to protect the public from its misuse. Now, then, as I say, this Master Thorston is old and dying. But, Alfric, hearken, he’s in need of … a green-eyed boy.”

Alfric lowered his eyes.

“Indeed,” pronounced Bashcroft, “I never would have purchased such a worthless boy as you unless you
had
green eyes.”

“My eyes can read, sir.”

“Who taught you?” snapped the reeve.

“My father, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead, sir.”

“Then reading didn’t profit him much, did it?”

Alfric gave a dismal nod.

“And your mother?”

“Dead, too.”

“I can assure you,” said Bashcroft, “they’re better off. Now then, tomorrow morning, I shall bring you to this Master Thorston’s house. You will insinuate yourself into his household, discover the man’s gold-making method, and deliver it to me—only to me.”

“What will this man do with me, sir?”

“I neither know nor care. I merely warn you that if you fail to learn his secret, I’ll thrash you—mercilessly. Do you understand?”

Alfric nodded.

“Moreover, I shall always be close, watching. You’ll not escape me, Alfric, not until you’ve provided me—only me—with the gold-making secret. And, if you reveal his secret to anyone else but me, I shall wring your neck like the runty puppy you are. Can you grasp that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you may have just enough intelligence to survive. Now, follow me.” So saying, the reeve heaved himself up, wrapped himself in a great cape, and strode loudly out of the Pure Hart and into the pelting rain.

Miserable, cold, and wet, Alfric kept close.

CHAPTER THREE

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