The Book Without Words: A Fable of Medieval Magic By Avi 1 It was in the year 1046, on a cold winter's night, when a fog, thick as wool and dank as a dead man's hand, crept up from the River Scrogg into the ancient town of Fulworth. The fog settled like an icy shroud over the town, filling the mud-clogged streets and crooked lanes from Westgate to Bishopsgate, from Three Rats Quay upon the decaying riverbanks to Saint Osyth's Cathedral by the city center. It clung to the crumbling city walls. It heightened the stench of rotten hay and offal, of vinegary wine and rancid ale. It muffled the sound of pealing church bells calling the weary faithful to apprehensive prayers. In a neglected corner of town, at the bottom of Clutterbuck Lane, with its grimy courtyard and noxious well, against the town's crumbling walls, stood a dilapidated two-story stone house. The first-level windows were blocked up with stone. A single second-floor window was curtained. In a large room on the second floor stood a very old man by the name of Thorston. His dirty, high-cheeked-boned face -- with baggy eyes and long narrow nose -- was deeply lined. His mouth was toothless. His eyes were green. Unkempt hair, hoary eyebrows, and wispy beard were as sparse as they were gray. He was wearing an old, torn blue robe to which was attached -- at his waist -- a small leather purse. In the trembling light provided by an all but guttered candle, Thorston fed bits of sea coal into a brazier and watched its blaze change from red to blue. He sprinkled in some copper grains: the flames turned green. "Green," whispered Thorston. "The color of life." The thought brought an anxious recollection of Brother Wilfrid's eyes. "No," he murmured. "There shall be no death for me." He peered back into the room's shifting shadows. Nearest to him was a tar-black raven. The sleeping bird -- his name was Odo -- was perched on a cracked human skull that rested atop a column of leather-bound books. Farther on, in a small back room, Thorston could see his servant girl, Sybil, asleep on her straw pallet. She had been with him for just four months and knew nothing about him-not who he was, not what he was doing -- nothing. The old man shuffled to his dirty, rumpled bed where the Book Without Words lay open. He read it. "Yes," he muttered, "one by one -- in the proper sequence, at the proper moment, and I at the proper age." He went back to the brazier. With twisted, twig-thin, and stained fingers, Thorston took up an iron pot and placed it over the green flames. "All is ready," he said. With his left hand, he reached into a round box and removed a perfect cube of white clay. With his right hand, he kneaded the clay until it became as soft as the nape of a newborn's neck. With his left hand, he placed the clay at the bottom of the pot -- in its exact center. Weak heart fluttering with excitement, Thorston used his right hand to pour a flagon of water over the clay. The water was holy water siphoned secretly from the cathedral's baptismal font, then tinted pink with a drop of his own blood. Taking the items from his hip purse, the old man rapidly added to the mix; bits of shredded gargoyle ears, chimera crumbs, scales from a fire-lizard's tail, two dozen white spider legs, thirteen and a half nightshade leaves, sixteen hairs from the tip of a Manx cat's tail, plus six white pearls of dried unicorn tears. He also dropped in the blackest of the raven's black feathers. Using a spoon made of Jerusalem silver, Thorston stirred the mixture eighty-six times to the left -- once for each year of his life. He stirred the right eighty-one more times -- once for each day of his eighty-sixth year. When the brew smelled like the sweet breath of a resurrected phoenix, he knew he was close. His pulse quickened. From the small leather purse on his belt, he drew forth a box made of narwhale bone. Within lay the dusty remains of Pythagoras, most ancient of philosophers. Thorston paused: the dust had cost him much -- all the gold he could make -- gold that would soon crumble. The other ingredients in the formula had taken more false gold. Thorston didn't care that it was false. His new life would make him -- for all practical purposes -- invisible. As he had planned things, by the time his gold turned to sand, he would not be found. Thorston sprinkled Pythagoras's remains grain by grain into the pot, until the brew frothed, foamed, and fumed. His excitement rising, Thorston scurried to his bed, checked the book anew, then hastened back to stir the recipe: one stir to the right -- for the midnight sky. Three stirs to the left -- for the heavenly three. One stir across -- for the noonday sun. A final stir for the cold and distant moon. "Now," he said, unable to suppress his exhilaration, "the final ingredient...the girl's life." 2 In quite another part of Fulworth, a monk appeared at the entrance of a small and bleak cemetery. His name was Brother Wilfrid, and he too was very old. Indeed, his face was a web of wrinkles upon skin so thin, so translucent, the skull beneath offered up its own yellow cast. Upon his mottled head hung shreds of lank white hair. His small, green-hued eyes were sunk deep and forever leaking tears. His nose was all but fleshless, his mouth almost without lips. Knobby feet were bare. Fatigued, stooped, and limping, Brother Wilfrid wore an old brown tunic, more tattered than complete. In one clawlike hand, he held up a smoldering torch. The light of the feeble flame seeped through the shifting veils of fog, a fog that drifted back and forth like the ebb and flow of open sea. The monk prowled about the cemetery, over the oozing black mire, pausing before cracked gravestones, holding his torch close to examine obscure names. From time to time he rubbed encrusted dirt away to read Latin or Runic words. "Not here," he murmured at last. Leaving his spent torch behind, the old monk limped out of the cemetery and into the church. It was a small, ancient structure built with gray stone. Its modest single tower was sharply pointed. Wilfrid entered by a narrow, arched doorway, stepping noiselessly into the building. It was deserted. On the old stone altar, a solitary candle burned its muted light making the outer reaches of the building indistinct. But on the eastern wall was a large painting. Wilfrid looked at it and gasped. "Saint Elfleda!" he cried. The saint was portrayed larger than life, garbed in white, floating in the air. One hand held a belt, the other hand was lifted in blessing. Her large, dark eyes were almond-shaped and full of pain. Wilfrid sank to his knees. "Help me," he pleaded. "Help me help you." A short time later, the old monk left the church, went out into the roiling fog, and roamed through Fulworth, making his way along stinking, narrow streets, constricted lanes, and neglected courtyards. But in truth, Wilfrid did not look where he was going so much as he sniffed. Suddenly he halted, lifted his frail head, and breathed deeply. He had smelled something. Goat reek! Thorston's stink! A smell he could never forget. The monk, breathing deeply, old heart pounding, went on. His nose led him to a neglected corner of town, to the bottom of Clutterbuck Lane and its grimy courtyard centered by a fetid well. There, against the city's crumbling walls, he saw a dilapidated two-story stone house. But though the house appeared to contain no life, Brother Wilfrid stared at it, sniffed at it. "Blessed Saint Elfleda," he whispered. "I've found him! Thorston is here." He sniffed again. This time he smelled gargoyle, chimera, fire-lizard, and . . . a raven. "God's mercy!" cried Wilfrid. "He's about to make the stones of life!" The old monk stretched out a feeble, trembling hand toward the house. "Return the book to me!" he called in a thin, rasping voice. No reply. Wilfrid hardly expected one. Worse, as he stood there, he knew he was too feeble to take back the book himself. He would need help. But who would help him? He sniffed again. This time he detected -- a girl. A young girl. Of course! If Thorston were working to renew his life by making the stones, he would need some young person's breath -- and then her life. He must talk to her and warn her before it was too late. 3 Thorston crept into the back room, where Sybil, covered by a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket, lay asleep on a straw pallet. Thorston gazed at her. She was big boned, and skinny. Long brown hair was tangled; face chapped and sullied; her nose -- often dripping -- was blunt and red from the chill. She had on a tattered, gray wool gown with wide sleeves, which she wore night and day. Most important of all -- for Thorston -- was the fact that she was as young as he had been when he stole the book: thirteen years of age. Now her breath would become his breath -- his life. When he regained his young life, she would die. What does her life matter? thought Thorston. She's nobody. No one will miss or care about her. It's my life I desire. He bent over the girl. With a quick, scooping gesture, he caught up a fist full of her sleepy breath-a hand bowl, as it were, of her life. He clapped his other hand over it, trapping it. Back at the brazier, the old man let Sybil's breath slide through his thin fingers into the pot. The brew seethed, frothed, and boiled, then settled into a slow simmer. Though Thorston's heart pounded so hard he experienced some dizziness, he plunged his right hand into the hot concoction. Paying no heed to the searing pain, he pressed down to the pot's bottom. There -- in the midst of thick and sticky sludge -- he found four stones. Breathless with excitement, knowing he must hurry, Thorston plucked up the largest stone. It was white, round, and an inch in diameter. He clutched it in his trembling hand. With faltering steps, he staggered to the window at the front of the house, where he drew aside the leather curtain that kept in and out the light. Outside, the thick fog had made the night sky impenetrable. But as Thorston stood before the window, clenched fist lifted heavenward, the mists parted. A full moon blossomed. From it, a glittering shaft of gold light fell like an arrow upon his quaking hand. Thorston counted to thirteen - slowly -- before drawing down his hand. Though it was growing difficult, even painful for him to breathe, he unfolded his fingers and peered into his palm. There lay the piece he had taken from the pot. It had turned green. "I have it," he whispered with breathless ferocity. "Life! Three more stones, and I shall be reborn." But even as Thorston exalted, a sharp pain squeezed his heart. His left arm turned numb. His right eye fogged. As he struggled for breath, it became hard for him to grip the stone. "Spirits of mortality," he gasped. "What is amiss?" His heart gave a jolt. Thorston lurched across the room. Tripping on a pot, he started to fall. In a panic, he stuffed the green stone into his gaping, toothless mouth, and with a desperate gulp, swallowed it. Even so, he collapsed onto his bed. "Save me!" he shrieked. "Save the stones of life!" There lay Thorston -- all but dead. 4 Thorston's cry woke Odo the raven. The bird lifted his head and looked about the dismal room. When he saw his master sprawled on the bed, he flapped his wings and squawked, "Wings of salvation. What is wrong?" A flutter of wings, some jumps and a hop -- Odo could not fly -- brought the raven to the old man's chest. "Master," he said, peering into Thorston's wizened face. "It's me, Odo, your most loving, your most faithful of servants. What ails you?" "I've begun," muttered the old man, "my rebirth. But . . . I may be too . . . old." Odo cocked his head. "Gold, Master? Did you say you made gold?" "Yes . . . old . . . and dying." "Dying, dear Master? But did you make gold?" "Just . . . the first . . . step," the old man whispered, "toward new life. If I'm to live, I must reveal the secret." "Me, Master," cried the raven. "Reveal the gold making secret to me!" "No. The . . . girl." "Sybil?" "Yes, her." "Kind master," croaked the bird. "Gentle master! I'm sure you didn't mean to say that. You know she's a fool. A street beggar. A nothing. Don't you remember? You promised that when you finally made gold, it would be me that would get half." "Fetch . . . the girl," Thorston whispered, even as his eyes clouded and his toothless jaw went slack. 5 Odo stared at the old man in disbelief. He pecked on his bony chest. "Most generous of masters, speak to me!" When Thorston did not respond, Odo looked about the room. Spying the boiling pot, he leaped from the bed, clawed his way to the brazier, and stood upon the pot's hot rim. Hopping about its edge, he peered inside. The rising vapors caused his eyes to tear. He could see nothing. Livid, talons hurting, Odo leaped away and began a frantic search about the cluttered room. He skipped under the bed, around it, on it. Nothing. He climbed on the table. Nothing. Crawled under it. Nothing. Coming upon an upside-down copper pot, he attempted to poke his beak under its rim in case anything was hidden beneath. When it proved too heavy, he darted a glance back toward the rear room to make certain Sybil was asleep. She was. He checked Thorston: the old man's eyes remained shut. Satisfied he was unobserved, the raven lifted his left claw, held it toward the pot, and hissed: "Risan -- Risan." The pot rose into the air where it hovered unsteadily. Odo looked beneath. Nothing. The next moment the pot fell with a crash. Furious, the raven hopped back to the old man and pried back each of his fingers. Nothing. He jumped to Thorston's chest and drew close to his face. "Master!" he screamed, black tongue sticking out; "think how loyally I've served you. In your solitary days, I alone talked to you. When you were hungry, I fetched food for you. When you were sick, I watched over you. Brought herbs to you. Guarded you from the world. Kept watch for dangers. To prove my loyalty, I gave up flying, my bird essence, allowing myself to become almost human -- for you. Be grateful, Master. Be open handed. Tell me how to make gold. I want to fly again!" The old man remained mute. "Birds of mercy," hissed Odo. "He's truly dying. Cruel Master!" he suddenly shrieked. "Liar! Cheat! Self-centered knave! Hateful human! You're betraying me. What's to be done?" With a violent shake of his head, the bird peered down the hallway toward the back room. The thought that he would have to share his master's gold-making secret with the new servant girl filled him with fury. But with Thorston dying, there was no choice. Swallowing his rage, Odo leaped off the bed and hopped down the hallway. Upon reaching the girl, he leaned forward and gave a sharp peck to her hand. "Sybil! Wake!" he croaked. "Master Thorston is dying. Get up!" 6 The girl woke slowly. "Wh -- at?" she murmured. "Master is calling you." "Is it to cook, fetch . . . or run an errand?" Sybil said as she rolled away from the bird and pressed down into the thin straw. "Is he too lazy to look for something himself?" "Sybil, he's dying." "Who's dying?" "Master." The girl rubbed her eyes. "Is he -- really?" "Yes, and he wants to tell you the secret of making gold." "You're jesting." Odo, his panic growing, shook his head. "Sybil, know the truth: Master is an . . . alchemist." For a moment Sybil remained on her back, staring upward. Then she said, "I don't know the word." "An alchemist is someone who makes gold." "Are you saying that Master Thorston . . . makes . . . gold?" "Yes." "Then I'm England's queen." "Idiot, what do you think he's been trying to do these past few months?" "How would I know? He barely speaks to me." The bird leaped atop the girl's head and gave her nose a rap with his beak. "Stupid girl -- if he reveals the secret, we can live like lords." Sybil wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "Odo, four months ago he took me in from the streets. I'm his servant. Nothing more." "Sit up!" When Sybil pushed herself up, the bird dropped to her knees and peered up into her face. She stared back at him. Odo was almost two feet long, from black, curved beak, to hunched back, to stiff tail. Though his black feathers were without sheen, his eyes were as bright as polished ebony. "Sybil," he croaked, "you're an orphan. You're attached to no one. Not to me. Not to anyone. Do you think -- when he dies -- that anyone will give you food and shelter?" Sybil considered the raven's words. When Master had taken her up, she was grateful. Oddly, all he had cared about was her age. As for his house, it mattered nothing to her that it was filthy and chaotic. Nor did she mind the work, any more than she considered Thorston's silent, reclusive life. Winter was approaching. She had a roof above. Something to eat. It was enough. As for Odo -- at first she had found it odd that he talked. But from the moment she had arrived the bird had belittled her, bossed her about. Though self-effacing to Master, he never said a kind word to her -- he was ever snide or cynical. But wasn't that the way people always talked to her? It might as well be so with a bird. Though she didn't trust him, she had to admit he was right: if Master died, she'd have even less than she had now. She looked about. In the dim light she could see the little room that was her domain: cold and dirty stone walls. No windows. A straw pallet. A few rusty iron pots and cracked wooden spoons. Some chipped clay pots that contained food: dry, salted fish; cabbage; turnip bits; and barley grains. A damp, dreary chill that made her shiver. She supposed Odo was correct: it could get worse. "Odo," she said, "please, is Master truly dying?" "Do not all men die? And when he does," said the raven, "I suppose even brainless girls like you might appreciate some gold." "You're mocking me." "Sybil, listen!" cried the bird. "He has made gold. I'm sure of it. If we don't find it, or learn how he makes it, we'll have to steal to stay alive. Get caught stealing, and Master Bashcroft, the city reeve, will put us in jail and hang us." "I haven't told you," said Sybil, "but Master has been sending me to the apothecary quite often." "Of course he did! He was working on the gold-making secret." "When I bought those things Master wanted -- gargoyle ears, spider legs -- the apothecary began asking questions about him." "Mistress Weebly is a meddlesome fool." "But the last time I went, Master Bashcroft watched me from the street." "You should have told me," said the bird. "The moment that vast man learns of Master Thorston's death and discovers there's no heir, he'll seize the house. He won't care dead slugs about a stupid servant girl and a raven that can't fly. He'll throw us onto the streets. In less than two weeks we'll be dead, dumped into shallow paupers' graves, and left to rot and stink. I suppose even you can hope for something more than death." Sybil rubbed her eyes, her nose. "All right," she said after a few moments. "I'll go to him." 7 Sybil padded down the dim hallway into the large front room. The wooden floor, worn and uneven, was icy to her bare feet. Odo came right behind, his claws tip-tapping as he hopped along. 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 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 person," said the girl. The bird whipped his head about. "What are you saying?" "Only what Master said: his secrets are in his book, but they can be read by a green-eyed person." "What he said was: we needed to keep the book away from green-eyed persons." "Then you," said the girl, "are as vacant of brain as that skull upon which you sit. You said he was confused. He must have been talking about himself. Well, then, his secret is in the book. We need to find someone with green eyes to read it." "Are you actually suggesting," said Odo, "we walk about this wretched city peering into people's eyes?" "If we want those secrets, we will." "Sybil, alchemy is illegal. It's considered sorcery. A hanging offense." "But you said if we didn't learn how to make gold we'll perish," returned the girl. "Now, be still. I need to think how to find a green-eyed person." "You can't think, so don't waste your time. You're nothing!" said the raven, and he retreated to his skull to sulk. 9 Sybil went to her favorite place -- she could only go there when Thorston slept-the small, round, thick-glassed front window. She looked out. The weather with its dark, cold fog was, as always, nasty. How she longed for spring with its soft breezes, flowers, and warm sun. Shifting slightly, Sybil caught sight of her likeness in the glass. Despising her looks; despising the fact that she was a worthless, ignorant, homely girl, despising how dependent she was, she turned away. Odo was right: She was alone in the world. A nothing. But Odo was right about another thing: knowing how to make gold would change her life. She started: for a moment she thought she saw someone standing in the courtyard shadows, observing their house. A small person. A child, perhaps. She looked again. The figure was gone. I've become as addle-pated as Master, she thought. Leaning on the window, she resumed her musings. If a green-eyed person was needed, how could she find one? Seeing the person in the courtyard gave her an idea. "Odo," she said, "I think we should seek out a green-eyed child." "A child? Why?" "Children are easy to control. They won't ask questions." "But few can read." "It's only green eyes that are necessary." "And how do you intend to find such?" "I'll invent something to say to the merchants from whom I market." "What of Master's rule that no one know of his existence?" "Your eyes are black. Mine, brown. Our sole hope is to find a green-eyed person." "Hope!" hissed Odo. "Nothings don't hope." "I won't be nothing," cried Sybil. Eyes welling with tears, she ran into the back room and threw herself upon her straw pallet. If I'm to survive, she thought as she smeared away the wetness on her cheeks, I need to find a green-eyed child. With that, she began to compose the speech she would give to merchants on the morrow. She would start with the apothecary, Mistress Weebly. She was closest. 10 Odo, on his skull, stared at the pot that sat upon the brazier. He was convinced gold was in it, gold that Thorston had made. Not that Odo had any intention of sharing it with Sybil. Not a grain. But, he told himself, to get it will take patience -- and cunning. 11 In another part of town, Ambrose Bashcroft, the city reeve of Fulworth -- the man in charge of the city's law and order -- lay in his quilted bed propped up by a dozen goose-down pillows. The bed, curtained round with heavy wool, provided him with an effective cocoon of self-importance. A big man, Bashcroft was broad as a barrel and not much taller, his bulky body much given to jigs and jounces. His head was rooted upon a short, wide neck, and was beetle browed with bristling eyebrows, one slightly lower than the other. With pendulant jowls and enough chins to serve as palace steps, Bashcroft looked more bullish than most bulls. "Dura lex, sed lex" was the sole Latin legal phrase Bashcroft knew, but, liking its meaning-The law is hard, but it is the law -- he used it as both the anvil and hammer of his office. For to this phrase he always added, "And since I am the law, it therefore follows, I must be hard." As far as the reeve was concerned, it was his duty, his obligation, to keep Fulworth beneath his outsized thumb. And in the exercise of this power, his silent partner was Mistress Weebly. Mistress Weebly was the town apothecary, a profession that enabled her to gather information about town inhabitants. Not only did she provide physic for the sick and dying, she offered potions, tonics, and charms to those suffering from other kinds of afflictions, real or imagined. That's to say, broken arms or broken hearts were all one to Mistress Weebly. A woman of insatiable curiosity, she traded in rumor, gossip, and scandal the way a merchant trades in goods. And everything she gleaned by way of personal information was of the greatest interest to the reeve. Their arrangement was this: she told him what she learned; he protected her from the occasional questions raised about the advice she offered and the odd things she sold. So it was that Mistress Weebly had informed Bashcroft about the girl who had recently come to town, the one who appeared in her shop with a raven on her shoulder. And when this girl began to buy such things as spider's legs, white clay, and fire-lizard's tail, the reeve and Mistress Weebly were even more interested. But other than the girl's name -- Sybil -- they knew very little. Bashcroft had ordered Mistress Weebly to learn more about the girl. For whom did she work? Where did she live? And, most of all, what was the purpose of such odd purchases? As the reeve shifted his corpulent bulk to find a tad of comfort on his bed, he made up his mind he would speak to the apothecary on the morrow.