The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [28]
23
The same sound Odo heard woke Sybil from her shallow sleep. Disentangling herself from Alfric, she sat up. The noise seemed to have come from below, on the ground floor. She listened. Within moments there were new sounds: grunts and groans, the sounds of someone laboring.
Sybil jumped up and moved halfway down the hall to listen. The sounds resumed. Recalling that she had barred the front door, the only sense she could make of the sounds was that someone had broken in. Perhaps it was through the old stone wall. The stones, she knew, were none too firm.
She crept into the main room. Moonlight streamed in, bringing radiance to the top of the steps. She heard more grunts and groans followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.
“Odo,” she whispered across the room. “Someone’s in the house.”
The raven lifted his head. “I hear.” He stood, head cocked, beak open—an attitude of intense listening.
“Do you think it’s the reeve?” said Sybil. “Could he have come through that back way—through the old city walls?”
“It’s blocked,” said Odo.
A loud boom echoed from below, loud enough to make Sybil jump. What, she thought, if it’s Brother Wilfrid coming for the book?
“Odo,” said Sybil, “I didn’t tell you, but I saw-”
“Quiet!” hissed the bird. “That’s … the trapdoor.”
Breathless, Sybil listened as more sounds came: the unmistakable sound of footsteps could be heard moving toward the room.
A form, lit up by the moonlight, rose up from the well of the steps. Head. Shoulders. Body. A human shape.
“Dear God…” whispered Sybil, holding her breath.
The person stepped into the circle of moonlight that lay upon the floor at the top of the stairwell. A face.
Sybil gasped. It was the face of the man they had just buried, Master Thorston.
24
Speechless with astonishment, Sybil stared at Thorston. That it was the master, she had not the slightest doubt. Yet there was something different about him, but nothing she could grasp.
Thorston stood at the top of the stairs, motionless. Traces of dirt clung to his hair, face, and beard. His tattered blue robe was smudged. His hands and fingers were encrusted with dirt. Slowly, he moved his head, scanning the room, although there was no hint he was aware of anyone’s presence.
Thorston, paying no heed to Sybil and Odo, came forward slowly. Sybil backed to one side of the room. Odo retreated to his book column.
When he reached the brazier and the iron pot with its mixture—the one he had been working on—Thorston gazed at it, and then reached inside. Momentarily, he held his hand there—as if feeling for something—only to withdraw it, filthier than before—but empty. “The stones,” he said in a loud, angry voice. “Where are they?”
Sybil was too frightened to answer.
Grimacing enough to reveal teeth, Thorston continued to survey the room, without suggesting he was aware of those watching. In the end he turned toward his bed. Whether he saw the sleeping Damian, Sybil could not tell. He simply walked to the bed and lay down by the boy’s side. Damian stirred. “Blessed Saint Dunstan,” he muttered. “If I cannot sleep in peace…” The boy sat up and looked for the cause of his discomfort. “This was to be my—” he began to protest, then halted.
Sybil held her breath.
“God the mighty!” Damian screamed and leaped out of the bed. “It’s him!”
Sybil darted forward and clamped a hand over his mouth from behind. “Be still,” she commanded.
Only when Damian ceased to struggle did Sybil take away her hand.
“Is that … your master?” asked Damian.
“Yes.”
“Is he … dead … or alive?”
“I’m not certain,” said Sybil. She stood by Damian’s side, staring at Thorston. Odo fluttered up to her shoulder. A sleepy Alfric—woken by the commotion—crept from the back room to see what the matter was. When he saw Thorston, he took Sybil’s hand in his. “Has your master … returned?” he asked.
“I think so,” she replied. “Odo, go to him. See if he’s … alive.”
The raven hesitated