The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [11]
7
Ambrose Bashcroft, in search of a green-eyed boy, made his loud and lumbering way through narrow, muddy alleys and back ways, until he reached the banks of the River Scrogg. There, amid moldering wharves, paltry chandler shops, and dilapidated hovels, were to be found the homeless men, women, and children of Fulworth, those who eked out their empty lives in desolation.
Whenever the reeve came upon an assemblage of such folk, he approached them, banged his staff upon the ground to draw their attention, and cried out: “Pay heed! Pay heed! I, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth, am offering you the privilege of helping me. Hear me well: I am in lawful need of a green-eyed child. I shall pay two pennies for such a child. All who have one to offer may approach me humbly now.”
When no one came, he scowled and moved on.
So did Brother Wilfrid, who had heard it all.
8
The old monk meandered though the city’s poor quarter. In his ragged robe and with his emaciated appearance, he looked so like a local inhabitant that they paid him scant attention.
He had considered any number of children before he found one sleeping against a building. He was a wretchedly thin and dirty boy with an ill-fitting smock and hole-ridden boots. But what attracted Wilfrid to him was the tangle of dark red hair that fell off his face. And when Wilfrid looked down upon him, and the boy, who had been asleep, started and looked up, he did so with—green eyes.
“Please, sir,” said the boy, scrambling to his feet, “is something the matter?”
“What are you doing here?” asked Wilfrid.
“I live about, sir,” said the boy, staring at Wilfrid’s ancient face with the repugnance youth reserves for age.
“No home?”
“No, sir.”
“No family?”
“Dead, sir.”
“What is your name?”
“Alfric, sir.”
“When have you last eaten?”
“Three days ago.”
“Would you like some bread?”
“Yes, please.”
“Listen to me,” said the monk, “I am in search of a book without words. Help me recover it, and you will earn some bread.”
“A book, sir? With no words?”
“’Tis so. Now, come with me,” said Wilfrid.
Alfric was hesitant but hungry. And hunger, having least, often risks most. He chose to follow the monk.
9
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