The Book Without Words_ A Fable of Medieval Magic - Avi [5]
Candlelight revealed the clutter: Thorston’s apparatus—pestles, bone cups, mortars, vials, kuttrolf bottles, flagons, and funnels—lay strewn about. Tilted and broken shelves were laden with glass jars, wooden boxes, and clay vessels. Books, screeds, and parchment had been cast about at random. A cracked human skull, capped by a wig of bird droppings, sat atop a pile of moldy books. The brazier contained a small green flame, which crackled and popped. Aside from the iron pot whose boiling contents spewed thick, foul fumes, everything was encrusted with dust, filth, and cobwebs.
In the four months Sybil had been there, the room had not been cleaned. She wondered if it ever had been. But she was never allowed to touch anything until a crisis erupted. Then, though Master worked at night when she slept, he’d roar: “Where’s the pestle?” or some such. All was in tumult until she found what he’d misplaced, usually right under his sharp nose.
As for money, as far as Sybil knew, Master never seemed to have much. When she went marketing he rarely gave her more than a farthing or a groat. Only at the apothecary did he pay more.
“Tell me what happened,” said Sybil.
“He seems to have collapsed.” The bird indicated the brazier with his beak. “I think he was working there.”
Sybil looked at the brazier just in time to see the fire die, the coals turn to ash, and the muck in the pot cease to bubble. The stench remained.
“God’s breath,” she muttered as she looked about. “What a gross reek.” She peered through the gloom and saw Thorston on his disheveled bed. Feeble and dried up, his long, big-knuckled hands lay by his sides, twitching spasmodically.
Though the stink in the room made her want to gag, she forced herself close. “Master,” she called. “It’s me. Sybil. Did you call?”
His jaws working as if chewing a tiny object, Thorston partly opened his eyes. He beckoned with a crooked finger. “Girl,” he whispered, “if I’m … to live, I must reveal … the secret of the book.”
“He’s talking about that book,” whispered Sybil. “Odo, I may be ignorant, but even I know you have to be mad to read a book that has no words.”
“Never mind the book,” Odo whispered into her ear. “Ask him about gold.”
“Master” said Sybil, “tell me tell me how to make gold.”
“No—it’s the…stones of life which I…speak,” the old man struggled to say. “They promise…life. Keep them … safe, so I may…continue to live.”
“Master,” said Sybil, “it’s not stones that Odo and I need to live, but gold. Tell me how to make it.”
“The secret is … here.” Thorston’s hands crawled over the Book Without Words like a crippled spider. “You must find someone with green eyes to read … the proper sequence.”
“Master,” said Sybil, “your book has no words.”
“No, no, the magic of immortality … is … here. Don’t let him … get it.”
“Him?” asked Sybil. “Who are you talking about?”
“The green-eyed one …”
“Master, it’s you who have green eyes.”
Thorston’s eyes widened with fright. “Keep him away!” he cried.
Even as he spoke, the twisted hand that lay upon the book fluttered like a broken moth, then lay perfectly still.
“God of mercy,” Sybil whispered. “He’s dead.”
8
“Dead!” shrieked Odo. “Didn’t I tell you to hurry?” Wings beating wildly, the raven leaped onto Thorston’s chest, peered into his face, and pecked his lower lip. When there was no response the bird shook his head and crouched, muttering to himself.
Sybil trembled. She could hardly draw breath. All that Odo had warned her about—eviction, abandonment, starvation, and death—burst upon her like the clap of a cathedral bell. What would become of her!
She reached out and touched Thorston’s wrist. To her surprise, she felt a feeble pulse. Next moment, she saw the old man’s chest rise and fall. A surge of relief passed through her. “Odo!” she cried. “Master hasn’t died. He lives!”
“It no longer matters,” moaned Odo. “Dead or alive. He’s addled and we’re undone.”
“Not if we find a green-eyed