The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [12]
“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.
10
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!”
11
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