The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [0]
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Copyright © 2005 by Avi
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval
system, without written permission from the publisher.
For information address Hyperion Books for Children,
114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
First Hyperion Paperbacks edition, 2006
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
This book is set in 14-point Celestia Antiqua.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
eISBN 978-1-4231-4025-2
ISBN 0-7868-1659-7 (pbk.)
Visit www.hyperionbooksforchildren.com
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
CHAPTER ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
CHAPTER TWO
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
CHAPTER THREE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
CHAPTER FOUR
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
CHAPTER FIVE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
CHAPTER SIX
1
2
3
4
NOTES TO THE BOOK WITHOUT WORDS
DISCUSSION GUIDE
A life unlived
is like
a book without words
Old proverb
CHAPTER ONE
1
IT WAS in the year 1046, on a cold winter’s night, when a fog, thick as wool and dank as a dead man’s hand, crept up from the River Scrogg into the ancient town of Fulworth. The fog settled like an icy shroud over the town, filling the mud-clogged streets and crooked lanes from Westgate to Bishopsgate, from Three Rats Quay upon the decaying river-banks to Saint Osyth’s Cathedral by the city center. It clung to the crumbling city walls. It heightened the stench of rotten hay and offal, of vinegary wine and rancid ale. It muffled the sound of pealing church bells calling the weary faithful to apprehensive prayers.
In a neglected corner of town, at the bottom of Clutterbuck Lane, with its grimy courtyard and noxious well, against the town’s walls, stood a dilapidated two-story stone house. The first-level windows were blocked up with stone. A single second-floor window was curtained.
In a large room on the second floor stood a very old man by the name of Thorston. His dirty, high-cheek-boned face—with baggy eyes and long narrow nose-was deeply lined. His mouth was toothless. His eyes were green. Unkempt hair, hoary eyebrows, and wispy beard were as sparse as they were gray. He was wearing an old, torn blue robe to which was attached—at his waist—a small leather purse.
In the trembling light provided by an all but guttered candle, Thorston fed bits of sea coal into a brazier and watched its blaze change from red to blue. He sprinkled in some copper grains: the flames turned green.
“Green,” whispered Thorston. “The color of life.” The thought brought an anxious recollection of Brother Wilfrid’s eyes. “No,” he murmured. “There shall be no death for me.”
He peered back into the room’s shifting shadows. Nearest to him was a tar-black raven. The sleeping bird—his name was Odo—was perched on a cracked human skull that rested atop a column of leather-bound books.
Farther on, in a small back room, Thorston could see his servant girl, Sybil, asleep on her straw pallet. She had been with him for just four months and knew nothing about him—not who he was, not what he was doing—nothing.
The old man shuffled to his dirty, rumpled bed where the Book Without Words lay open. He read it. “Yes,” he muttered, “one by one—in the proper sequence, at the proper moment, and I at the proper age.”
He went back to the brazier. With twisted, twig-thin, and stained fingers, Thorston took up an iron pot and placed it over the green flames. “All is ready,” he said.
With his left hand, he reached into a round box and removed a perfect cube