The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [23]
“Then,” said Sybil, “are we agreed? Even though there appear to be no secrets to be learned from that book, we must make these boys stay, if only to keep the news of Master’s death a secret. We’ll use the time for searching. Have you no idea what’s in these chests?”
“None.”
Sybil saw the rock that Damian had used, and used it to strike the locks hard, one after the other. They held. “Have you ever seen keys?” she asked.
“Never.”
“Perhaps it’s magic that keeps them closed. But we need to look for keys, too.” She glanced at the grave. “Oh, Odo, at least Master is dead and gone. They say it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But if ever there were a more unpleasant man, ‘twas he. A sullen, angry man. And he treated us poorly.”
“And yet,” said Odo, “if by gaining our freedom from him we lose our lives, what have we won?”
Sybil shrugged. “Sometimes I think I’ve never done anything that could be called true living.”
“Gold!” cried the bird. “Put your faith in that!” And he went up the ladder.
Sybil looked at the Thorston’s grave. Suddenly she remembered: the old monk had spoken of the Book Without Words. And he knew of Master. She made up her mind that if she had the opportunity, she would ask him more.
13
When Sybil reached the upper room, Alfric was by the window gazing out. Damian was sitting on the stool. The moment she appeared he said, “How long do you expect me to stay?”
“Until we find gold,” said Sybil.
“We believe,” said Odo, “our master hid his gold somewhere—here about.”
“Mid this disarray?” said Damian.
“Yes,” said Odo.
Damian stood up. “But if I stay, I have no intention of working.”
“So be it,” said Sybil, and she offered up a silent prayer of relief.
The search began. Sybil set Alfric the task of finding all small bottles and placing them on the table, which he was happy to do. She tried to set the room into better order by dumping pieces of glass and debris in one corner, collecting useless items in another, putting Thorston’s alchemic apparatus upright. The only thing she did not touch—sensing it was important—was the pot from which she had taken the stones. Odo busied himself by fluttering about, peering everywhere, poking into the small things he could grasp in his beak or talons.
Damian, true to his word, sat on Thorston’s bed and merely watched. But as the day wore on he became bored. In time he began to help—if only in a half-hearted way.
By early evening, the room was in far better order, the stench less odious. Even so, nothing of importance had been found. So when the cathedral bells rang for Vespers, a weary Sybil fetched a fist of barley from the back room along with a half cabbage and some turnips so they might eat.
“Water,” she reminded herself. It had always been her chore to fetch it from the well. Without even considering that anyone else might do the task, she took up a wooden bucket and went down the steps to the ground floor and opened the door. After checking to make sure no one was lurking about, she stepped away from the house.
14
Sybil darted across the courtyard, going directly to the well. Once there, feeling a vague unease, she looked about. A low fog lay like a shallow swamp upon the ground, rendering the courtyard formless—as if it were there but not there. It made her think of Master Thorston in his grave—here—but not here.
As Sybil tried to imagine death, she tied the well rope to her bucket handle and flung it down. It landed with a distant splash.
Is death—she found herself thinking—like an empty bucket at the bottom of a well?
Even as she had the thought, the bucket settled and filled. She began to haul it up. Is that what life is? A full bucket, rising? Then where am I? she asked herself—rising or falling?
“I want to rise,” she said aloud.
Her musing faded when, with a start, she became aware that someone had entered the courtyard. She looked up. It was Brother Wilfrid. As he drew to within a few feet of her she became frightened but made herself hold fast.
The monk halted. His green eyes, amid the mass of