The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [36]
Sybil, with Odo on her shoulder, walked to the gallows, paused, and looked up. The noose dangled from the crossbeam like an open hand—as if ready to snatch her. It made her feel queasy.
Odo glanced up too. “We are surrounded by death,” he said.
Sybil put her arms around herself to keep warm. But even as they stood there, Brother Wilfred, small, stooped, and limping, appeared. While an agitated Odo shifted about on her shoulder, Sybil acknowledged him with a nod.
“Ah,” said the monk, his voice faint. “The raven, too.”
“Do you object?” snapped Odo.
“A raven’s feather is a necessary ingredient to the making of the stones,” said Wilfrid. “Just as he took the girl’s life by taking her breath, he took some of your being with your feather.”
“I can spare a feather.”
“Alas, bird,” said Wilfred. “By so doing, he has taken far more than your feather. It is your life he’s stolen, too.”
Odo opened his beak but said nothing.
“Did you bring the stones?” Wilfrid asked Sybil.
Sybil shook her head. “We need some proof of what you say.”
“Proof? That Thorston stole the Book Without Words from me?”
“You could be lying,” said Odo.
Wilfrid stood motionless, as if lost in thought. The few strands of his hair on his head stirred in the calm air. His pale unblinking green eyes seemed to be gazing at nothing. “Very well,” he said. Follow me.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Wait,” croaked Odo. “Where are you taking us?”
Wilfrid paused. “You asked for proof that I speak the truth. I intend to provide it.”
Odo said, “How long will it take?”
“Not as long as I have been following Thorston.”
“Sybil …” Odo warned.
“Go back to the house if you want,” she said. “I’m going with him.”
Odo remained.
Wilfrid, not looking back, walked up through the lane. Sybil came a few paces behind. Odo—now and again fluttering his wings—remained on her shoulder, hunched, black eyes glaring.
Though Sybil thought she knew the town well, she was soon confused as to where they were going. But though the monk said nothing, she plodded on, walking through the gloomy, constricted streets and alleys, over mud and stone, by heaps of dung and other filth. The only sound was what she made herself, feet squishing through mud. Occasionally Odo flapped his wings, but otherwise remained still.
The monk halted. “We are here,” he said. They had come to the back of a church and were facing a neglected cemetery surrounded by a low wall of stacked slate. The graveyard was populated by crosses and stones, only a few of which stood erect.
“This is where Thorston should be,” said the monk. “But your proof is in the church.”
They went inside. It was deserted. A solitary light flickered in the old altar.
Brother Wilfrid went to the eastern wall and knelt before the large image that was there. Sybil, with Odo on her shoulder, stood behind him.
“Saint Elfleda,” whispered the monk, his hands clasped. “I beg you; speak the truth about the Book Without Words.”
In the stillness of the church, the only sound Sybil heard was her own heartbeat. But as she gazed at the image, the saint’s eyes seemed to shift until they looked directly at her. Then the saint’s arm, the one held in blessing, began to move. It reached out to her, palm up. “Bring the book back to me,” Sybil heard a voice, soft, and as if from a great distance, say. “Its magic is evil. Since it cannot be destroyed, it must be hidden.”
“What’s so evil about it?” cried Odo.
“It gives what is desired, but the desire consumes the taker.”
“My desire is to fix my wings,” said Odo. “I need gold for that.”
Saint Elfleda held up Saint Cuthbert’s belt. “Bring me the book and I shall make thee what thou were.”
That said, the saint’s dark eyes shifted. The arm went back in its position of blessing. She became still again.
“Will you believe me now?” said Brother Wilfrid.
13
Sybil and Odo headed back to Clutterbuck Lane. At first they followed the monk, but at some point—Sybil was not sure when—he left them.
“We must give the monk the book and stones,” she said, breaking her silence.
“And the gold-making secrets?