The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [30]
After a while, the reeve marched off with the soldiers, leaving the wood behind, the courtyard deserted. But as Sybil continued to study the beams, Brother Wilfrid stepped out of the lane and into the court. He stood by the well, head forward, shoulders sagged, hands clasped as if in prayer, sandaled feet in a shallow puddle—seemingly indifferent to the pelting rain—an image of patience and misery. Sybil sensed he was waiting for her.
She glanced over her shoulder. Thorston remained in his bed, asleep. The others slept too. Determined to ask the monk about the stones, Sybil crept down the steps, opened the door, and stepped into the rain.
2
As Sybil approached the monk, he lifted his ghastly face and looked at her with his deep-set, pale green eyes.
“Is he still dead?” he said, his voice distant, and to Sybil’s ears, weaker than before.
“He’s come back to life,” said Sybil, pushing wet hair away from her face.
“Younger?”
“Yes.”
“Which means he did make the stones and has swallowed at least the first of them.”
“Swallowed them!”
“That is the way.”
“Is it the stones that allow him to return?” asked Sybil.
“Each one he takes will make him younger,” said the monk. “They allow him to regain his life, his thoughts, his magic, and finally, time—in that order.”
“Why does he do it?”
“Why?” cried Wilfrid, the wash of rain making it appear as if he were crying. “His sole aim is to live. Fearing death, his life is lived merely to stay alive. It will take a life—your life—to give him the life he desires.”
“My life! How can that be!” cried Sybil.
“It’s the stones.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Are they with you?” asked the monk, his voice rising in excitement.
“No. But I know where they are.”
The monk sighed. “I must have them,” he said. “But it is even more important that I have the book.”
“What would you do with it if it was returned to you?” asked Sybil.
“I’d take it to where it belongs so it could not be read. As for Thorston, he can’t survive without the stones and the book. Not only is the formula for making the stones found in its pages, the proper order is written there. There’s other magic too. Only green eyes can read these things.”
“Green eyes have tried—and failed.”
“It takes great desire.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s more than mere wanting. It’s … desperation.”
“Can’t you take the book and stones for yourself?” asked Sybil.
“Look upon me,” cried the monk. “He’s strong and getting stronger. I’m weak and growing weaker. I need your help. You can right this great wrong.”
“He’s still my master,” said Sybil.
“When he was your age he stole the book from me. He who steals, learns nothing. He who learns, need not steal. Save yourself; bring me the book and the stones.”
“I … I don’t know if I can,” said Sybil, wet and shivering with cold. She took a step back, “What … if I don’t get them for you?”
“Then he will live, and you will die. And I shall continue my life, which is a death without dying.”
“Please, sir, is there gold-making in the book?”
“Only false gold,” said Brother Wilfrid. He turned and walked away through the rain.
“If you can prove what you’re saying is true,” Sybil called after him. “I might help you.”
“Then I will return,” said the monk in a voice that faded as he disappeared down the lane.
A soaked and chilled Sybil ran back to the house and barred the door from the inside. As she leaned against the door to catch her breath, she tried to think about Thorston anew. But the only thing she could fasten on was what the monk had said: if Thorston lived, she would die. Wearily, she climbed the steps and went to Thorston’s bedside.
He was awake.
3
It took a moment for Sybil to recover from her surprise. Once she had, she said, “Good morning, Master.”
Thorston stared at her with