The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [2]
Suddenly he halted, lifted his frail head, and breathed deeply. He had smelled something. Goat reek! Thorston’s stink! A smell he could never forget.
The monk, breathing deeply, old heart pounding, went on. His nose led him to a neglected corner of town, to the bottom of Clutterbuck Lane and its grimy courtyard centered by a fetid well. There, against the city’s crumbling walls, he saw a dilapidated two-story stone house. But though the house appeared to contain no life, Brother Wilfrid stared at it, sniffed at it.
“Blessed Saint Elfleda,” he whispered. “I’ve found him! Thorston is here.” He sniffed again. This time he smelled gargoyle, chimera, fire-lizard, and … a raven. “God’s mercy!” cried Wilfrid. “He’s about to make the stones of life!”
The old monk stretched out a frail, trembling hand toward the house. “Return the book to me!” he called in a rasping voice.
No reply. Wilfrid hardly expected one. Worse, as he stood there, he knew he was too feeble to take back the book himself. He would need help. But who would help him? He sniffed again. This time he detected—a girl. A young girl.
Of course! If Thorston were working to renew his life by making the stones, he would need some young person’s breath—and then her life.
He must talk to her and warn her before it was too late.
3
Thorston crept into the back room, where Sybil, covered by a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket, lay asleep on a straw pallet. Thorston gazed at her. She was big boned, and skinny. Long brown hair was tangled; face chapped and sullied; her nose—often dripping—was blunt and red from the chill. She had on a tattered, gray wool gown with wide sleeves, which she wore night and day. Most important of all—for Thorston—was the fact that she was as young as he had been when he stole the book: thirteen years of age. Now her breath would become his breath—his life. When he regained his young life, she would die. What does her life matter? thought Thorston. She’s nobody. No one will miss or care about her. It’s my life I desire.
He bent over the girl. With a quick, scooping gesture, he caught up a fistful of her sleepy breath—a hand bowl, as it were, of her life. He clapped his other hand over it, trapping it.
Back at the brazier, the old man let Sybil’s breath slide through his thin fingers into the pot. The brew seethed, frothed, and boiled, then settled into a slow simmer.
Though Thorston’s heart pounded so hard he experienced some dizziness, he plunged his right hand into the hot concoction. Paying no heed to the searing pain, he pressed down to the pot’s bottom. There—in the midst of thick and sticky sludge—he found four stones.
Breathless with excitement, knowing he must hurry, Thorston plucked up the largest stone. It was white, round, and an inch in diameter. He clutched it in his trembling hand. With faltering steps, he staggered to the window at the front of the house, where he drew aside the leather curtain that kept in and out the light.
Outside, the thick fog had made the night sky impenetrable. But as Thorston stood before the window, clenched fist lifted heavenward, the mists parted. A full moon blossomed. From it, a glittering shaft of gold light fell like an arrow upon his quaking hand.
Thorston counted to thirteen—slowly—before drawing down his hand. Though it was growing difficult, even painful for him to breathe, he unfolded his fingers and peered into his palm.
There lay the piece he had taken from the pot. It had turned green.
“I have it,” he whispered with breathless ferocity. “Life! Three more stones, and I shall be reborn.”
But even as Thorston exalted, a sharp pain squeezed his heart. His left arm turned numb. His right eye fogged. As he struggled for breath, it became hard for him to grip the stone. “Spirits of mortality,” he gasped. “What’s amiss?”
His heart gave a jolt.
Thorston lurched across the room. Tripping on a pot,