The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [39]
“What are you suggesting?” cried Sybil.
“Forgive me,” said Alfric, afraid to look up. “Perhaps they are false.”
“Do you mean to say,” roared Damian, “Master Thorston was no more than a falsifier of coins?”
Sybil felt ill. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps because he made it, it has a different sound.”
“I know the test for gold,” said Odo. “I saw Master do it many times.”
“God’s heart,” said Sybil. “Then we had best test them.” She scooped up a handful of the coins and headed above.
17
As soon as they cleared a place on Thorston’s worktable, Sybil put a coin in a clay dish.
“As best I can recall,” said Odo, while the others gathered around, “we must make a solution of mercury and vinegar mixed with salt. It will turn green. But when you put a drop of it on a coin that is not true gold, the liquid turns blue.”
“Do we have those ingredients?” said Damian.
Sybil looked to Odo.
“I’m sure we do,” said the raven. “On the shelves.”
A frantic search commenced. Since both Damian and Alfric could read, they took the lead, checking bottle after bottle, peering at labels and signs. It was not long before they found what they needed.
Following Odo’s excited, squawked instructions, Sybil mixed up the concoction. Using a silver spoon, she scooped up a small quantity and let a few drops fall on one of the coins. Hardly daring to breathe, they watched as the green drop on the coin frothed, bubbled, and turned … blue.
“God’s truth,” sighed Sybil. “It’s false.”
“Try another,” Damian urged.
Sybil tested two more gold coins. Four more. All of them. The results were always the same: blue.
“Then that whole chest is nothing but false gold!” said Odo. “As bogus as Master.”
“According to my father,” said Alfric, “the making and using of false gold is a hanging offense.”
“So what,” said Damian. “It looks like gold. Enough to fool people. If you don’t want any, I’ll be happy to take it.”
Sybil felt a poke from Alfric. “What is it?” she asked the boy.
“Mistress,” said Alfric, his voice trembling. “At the top of the steps. He’s come back again. Your master.”
They spun about. There, at the top of the steps stood an unsteady Thorston.
18
Thorston’s hair was tousled, his eyes bleary. Though traces of dirt were about his robe and face, he appeared to be hardly more than thirty years of age—some twenty years younger than when he had last died. His skin was smooth, his beard and hair full and black, with not a trace of gray. His tattered and dirty robe was far too small for his erect, muscular body—as if he had grown a few inches. It was almost as if the man who stood before them was the son of the previous Thorston.
His appearance of momentary confusion gave way quickly to a fierce, hard look as he gazed about. “Why are you all staring at me?” he demanded.
“Master,” said Sybil, “we were waiting for you.”
“Waiting will do you no good,” said Thorston. He moved toward the worktable. The boys—Odo was on Sybil’s shoulder—stepped hastily aside to let him pass.
Midway to his worktable, Thorston halted. “Sybil!” he barked. “Who told you to clean the room?”
“You were … dead, Master,” she replied. “I thought it wise.”
“I was not dead,” said Thorston, adding, “I was only pausing between stones.”
“I thought something worse,” said Sybil. “Forgive me.”
“I forgive nothing,” said Thorston. He noticed the small heap of coins on the table and picked one up. “Where do these come from?”
“Please, Master,” said Sybil, “we found them.”
“Found them? Where would you find these?”
No one replied.
“Answer!” shouted Thorston.
“If you wish to know—” began Damian.
Sybil put out her hands as if to protect the boy.
“I insist upon knowing,” said Thorston.
“We took them from those chests in the cellar,” said Damian.
“Who gave you permission?” roared Thorston.
“You were dead,” said Damian.