The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [29]
Thorston stirred, but did not waken.
The raven drew closer to his face. “Master,” he croaked, “are you … are you … living?”
“Go away, you filthy bird,” muttered Thorston. “I need to sleep.” With a sweep of his hand he brushed Odo away.
Sybil, Odo, Alfric, and Damian scurried to the far side of the room, where they huddled, eyes on Thorston.
“No doubt,” said Odo, bobbing his head. “He’s alive.”
“Did you feel him?” Sybil asked Damian.
“He was trying to take over the bed. Which—may I remind you—was supposed to be mine.”
“It is his bed,” said Odo.
“If a person dies,” said Damian, “he should stay dead and not reclaim his bed. It’s rude.”
Alfric tugged at Sybil’s hand. “Mistress,” he asked, “is that truly him? Or his spirit?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Wait here.” She tiptoed to the steps and stopped halfway to the ground floor. From that vantage point she could see that the trapdoor was open. Dirt from the grave had been thrown to one side. The grave was empty.
She rejoined the others. “He’s come back from his grave,” she announced.
“How could he do that?” asked Alfric.
“I don’t know,” said Sybil. But in her head she heard the monk’s words: “He will live, but you won’t.”
CHAPTER FOUR
1
DAWN CAME to Fulworth, and with it, a drizzling rain. Lowering light hung heavy in the chilly air. When the bells of Saint Osyth’s rang for prime, they pealed with glum solemnity.
Sybil, fascinated as much as she was fearful as to what Thorston might do, had kept watch all night. So had the two boys and Odo. But when the morning chimes rang, Damian, grumbling how tedious it was to observe a dead man at his slumbers, went off to the back room to sleep on Sybil’s pallet of straw. Alfric joined him and dozed by his side. Odo, proclaiming exhaustion, returned to the book column and slept too, head tucked beneath a wing. Only Sybil remained awake.
Sitting with her back propped against a wall, holding her knees in her arms, she continued to gaze at her sleeping master. She was greatly troubled. When Thorston had died, she’d first felt a sense of abandonment. But then the notion of possible freedom had come, and with it, the chance of change. His return left her feeling trapped. Repeatedly, she recalled the monk’s prophecy: if Thorston lived, she would die. How would it happen? Would he make an attempt on her life? Would it be by magic? What was the connection to the stones?
The cathedral bells pronounced Terce: mid-morning. Yawning, Sybil walked across the room and stood by her master’s bed. His chest rose and fell with a gentle, fixed rhythm. Now and again he grunted. She wondered if they had made a horrible mistake, if they had buried a living man. She reminded herself that he had truly died. She had witnessed it. So had Odo. So had the boys. They buried him to hide his death, not his life. It was Master who had come back. The return was his doing, not theirs.
But as Sybil considered him, she finally grasped what she’d only dimly recognized: Thorston had changed. There were fewer wrinkles on his face. His hair was fuller and darker than before. The beard thicker. His hands bore fewer blue veins and spots. Fingernails were no longer cracked, no longer yellow.
There were teeth. Thorston was some twenty years younger than before—little more than fifty.
While Sybil had no understanding of how it had happened, she recalled that the first thing Master had done when he returned was to look for the stones he’d made before his stroke came: the stones Brother Wilfrid had wanted.
She opened the chest at the foot of the bed. Pushing aside the bolt of cloth, she looked at the stones. Their sweet smell rose up to greet her. They were still glowing.
Shutting the lid softly, Sybil went to the front window, wiped her nose, and leaned upon her crossed arms. Rain spattered against the thick glass window and ran down in