by Avi
“I will not be endangered!” cried Thorston. “He must go too.” He lifted his hand, only to be interrupted by a banging on the door.
Thorston turned from Alfric. “What is that?” he demanded, his hand dropping.
“It’s someone at the front door,” Odo said in haste.
Thorston went to the window and looked out. “There are soldiers milling in the courtyard,” he said. “And a gallows. Why has it been erected? Why must I always be threatened by death? Indeed, why have any life at all if it must end? What have you done?” he shouted at Sybil. “And you,” he said to Odo. “You, who I trusted. You’re a fool. Well, it’s time enough to be done with you, too.”
“Please, Master,” said Sybil, “the gallows is meant to threaten all of us.”
“Why?” demanded Thorston.
“It’s the city reeve, Master,” said Odo. “He wants gold.”
“What made him think there is any here?”
“We’re … not sure,” said Odo. “Perhaps it was Mistress Weebly, the apothecary. That boy—the one you just transformed. He was her apprentice.”
The knocking on the door resumed, louder.
“I’ve no time to deal with anyone,” said Thorston. “I have yet to finish with the stones.”
“Do you wish me to do something, Master?” Sybil offered.
“If it will make the man go away, I’ll give him some of these coins,” said Thorston. “They’ll turn to nothing soon enough.” He scooped the coins up and went down the steps.
“Odo,” said Sybil. “He mustn’t.”
“How am I to stop him?”
“Hateful man,” she cried. “Run to the back room,” she said to Alfric. “Hide. I’ll tell him you’re gone.”
As Alfric ran off, she hurried down the steps—Odo with her—stopping halfway down to look on. Thorston was at the door, lifting the crossbar.
“Master,” Sybil called. “I beg you, don’t give those coins away. It will only cause more difficulties.”
Thorston turned. “Don’t give me advice. These Fulworth people are fools. How long have I managed to hide from them? I assure you, they’ll be satisfied with false gold.” He yanked the door open.
It was Bashcroft. He held up a lantern and gazed at Thorston with puzzlement. “I am Ambrose Bashcroft,” he announced. “Fulworth’s city reeve. And you, from your age and likeness, I presume you … are the son of the alchemist, Master Thorston. Very well: I must see your father.”
“I fear,” said Thorston, “you cannot speak to him.”
“Why? I spoke to him before.”
“My father is dead.”
“Dead,” cried Bashcroft. “When?”
“Many years ago.”
“But—I spoke to him today, right here.”
“I assure you,” said Thorston, “my father is no longer living.”
A baffled Bashcroft stared at Thorston. “Are you truly your father’s son?”
“May I suggest,” said Thorston, “it’s the rare man who is not his father’s son. And you sir, why have you come?”
Bashcroft drew himself up to his full girth and thumped his staff-of-office down. “There is gold within this house—made by your father. To make such gold is illegal. Dura lex, sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must be hard. I have come to claim not just the gold but the method by which you make it.”
“Then for your pains,” said Thorston, “you are welcome to this.” And he flung the handful of coins at the reeve.
Taken by surprise, Bashcroft bent over and hastily began to pluck up the coins. Once in hand he let his lantern shine on them. He was still examining them when Thorston slammed the door shut and barred it from within.
There was immediate banging on the door. “Wait! By order of the law. I must have all of your father’s golden hoard. Otherwise you’ll be arrested and hanged. All of you!”
19
Thorston went back up the steps, passing Sybil and Odo on his way to the upper room. When he reached it, he suddenly stopped and stood still, as if struggling to remember something.
Sybil came to the top of the steps. “Master, what is it?”
Thorston stretched and yawned. “I am tired.”
“Master,” said Sybil, “of late you have been often weary.”
“It’s the stones,” said Thorston. He sat down on his bed. “They do that to one. But all the same,” he said, “I think—” He turned his head one way, then another, as if looking for something. He opened the Book Without Words, studied it, then went to the chest and looked through it.
He swung about. “Where are they?” he said. “Must I rid myself of you, too?”
Sybil was too frightened to move.
“Give them to me!” he shouted.
Sybil held out her shaking hand. The remaining two green stones lay in her hand.
“Fool!” said Thorston as he snatched the largest, put it into his mouth, and swallowed it whole. For a moment he just sat there. Then he looked at Sybil. “Give me the last one.”
“But, Master …”
“Give it. I don’t trust you.”
Sybil, knowing its importance, hesitated.
“Now!” shouted Thorston.
Sybil, flinching, held out her open palm where the remaining stone rested.
Thorston snatched it up and put it in his hip purse.
“Do not bother to bury me again. I shall return shortly. Safety is in reach.”
Sybil and Odo waited in silence. After a few moments, Thorston yawned, lay back on his bed, clasped his hands over his chest, and closed his eyes. Gradually, his breathing ceased.
“Odo,” said Sybil, “examine him.”
The raven hopped onto the bed and scrutinized Thorston’s face. “He’s dead—again.”
20
When Bashcroft looked at the gold Thorston had just given him, he was dazzled. All he could think was that he wanted more. But he understood he needed help to get it. What could it matter if the soldiers got some? As long as he got most … .
“Look here,” Bashcroft called, with great excitement to the soldiers who had gathered around. “True gold.” By the light of the reeve’s lantern the coins glowed brightly.
“There’s much more,” said the reeve, “in the house. Enough to make us all rich. On the morrow, as soon as the cathedral bells ring for Terce, we shall lay siege to the building, enter, and take the gold. I herewith promise each one of you shall have at least one gold coin for your efforts.
“Remain on guard through the night so no one may escape from the house. By this time tomorrow,” he said, “they shall all be hanged and we shall be wealthy men.”
The cheering soldiers took up their positions around the house.
21
A trembling Sybil covered the newly dead Thorston with a blanket.
“I’m afraid I agree with Master,” said a weary Odo from atop the books. “We need not bury him again. With Damian gone, I’m not sure we even could manage it. Anyway, I fear Master will be back all too soon.”
“God protect us,” said Sybil. She turned and held her hand out to Odo. The coin, the one with Damian’s image, rested in her palm. “The boy was false in life,” she whispered. “He’s false in death. Is that how the book’s magic works? That his desire for gold truly consumed him? How could Master have done such a thing?”
“I suspect,” said Odo, “those stones he swallows not only make him younger, but more powerful each time.”
“Crueler, too,” said Sybil. “And, Odo, according to the monk, when he takes this last one—Time—we shall have no more time: we’ll die.”
Odo fluttered to the window and peered out.
“Odo,” said Sybil, “we need to bring the book and stone to the monk—now.”
“It’s too late,” said Odo. “Look.”
Sybil joined him at the window.
“There, you see,” said Odo. “Bashcroft is showing the soldiers the gold. If I know anything abo
ut humans, that will make them hungry for more. Step out the door, and Bashcroft and the soldiers will only hang us.”
“But if we stay,” said Sybil, “we won’t be any better off in Master’s hands.”
“I suppose one of us could swallow the stone,” said Odo. “That might help.”
“Odo,” said Sybil, “whatever good might come of it, it’s clear something bad will come too—perhaps worse.”
Alfric emerged from the back room. “Please, mistress, is it safe?”
“For a while,” Sybil replied. “Master is dead again.”
“But—he’ll return, won’t he?”
“We think so,” said Odo.
“What will he do then?” said the boy.
“We don’t know,” said Sybil. “Best return to the back room. I’ll come comfort you.”
The boy started off, then stopped and turned. “Mistress, what shall become of us?”
“I don’t know that either,” admitted Sybil.
CHAPTER FIVE
1
AS THE cathedral bells tolled midnight, the upper room was aglow with moonlight. Alfric lay asleep in the back room. Odo was crouched on the windowsill, bright eyes fixed on the gallows and the soldiers, who were either sleeping or standing on guard.
Sybil sat by herself in a corner of the room, eyes fixed on the bed where Thorston continued to lay dead. On the floor by her side lay the Damian coin—as she had come to think of it. Now and again she glanced at it: the image of the boy seemed to be glaring up at her—complaining about his plight.
“Perhaps,” said the raven, “we could use some of those coins Master made to pay ransom for our freedom.”
Sybil looked up. “Do you think it would work?”
“It might,” said Odo. “As long as they don’t know the gold is false.”
“I’m willing to try,” said Sybil, putting the Damian coin in her own purse.
The two hurried down to the basement, where Sybil flung open one of the chests. She gasped. The coins were gone: each and every one had turned to sand.
“Blessed mercy,” cried Odo. “Try the other chest!”
They were the same.
“My heart is breaking,” whispered Odo.
The two returned to the upper room. “This is all my fault,” said the bird.
“Why?”
“My thoughts were only about gold.”
“You only desired to free yourself.”
“I should have been content with what was.”
“But you hated that life,” said Sybil. “Besides, we may still have a chance. I suppose it depends now on Master.” She went to Thorston’s bedside and gazed at his unmoving body beneath the blanket. She wondered if the astonishing changes of age came slowly or suddenly. “Odo,” she said, “do you think magic is nothing but life in haste?”
The bird shook his head. “More likely it’s the other way around: life being the slowest magic.”
“But magic all the same,” said Sybil. She thought of the last and smallest stone. “Such a small stone,” she said. “Time. Such a great gift. How odd it’s the smallest.”
“How young do you think he’ll be when he returns?” Odo asked.
“The changes seem to work in jumps of twenty years or so,” said Sybil.
“Then perhaps,” said Odo, “he’ll be as young as when he first stole the book from the monk.”
“About my age,” said Sybil. “I don’t think I would enjoy his company.” She held up the stone. “What do you think might happen if I swallowed it?”
“Perhaps you too could start anew.”
“And relive this misery of my life? I’d rather not go far back, but start anew—from now.”
She went to the window and stared out at the gallows and the soldiers. But she was thinking about what she had just said. “Odo,” she said at last, “there is a back way—the old back entry.”
The bird shook his head. “It’s blocked.”
“By the old city wall. You know how its mortar is crumbled in many places. It’s that way here, too. Odo,” she said, becoming excited. “I’ve seen you move small things with your magic. Couldn’t you make the stones fall out so there would be a hole? If you could, we might escape that way and make our way into town—to
Wilfrid—without Bashcroft and his soldiers ever knowing.”
The bird shook his head. “Sybil, I don’t know if I can. I’m an old bird. My magic is borrowed and, at best, weak.”
“Odo, to stay here is certain death.”
“That’s almost what I said to you the night Master first died.”
“You were right.”
“How would we find the monk?”
“Once we got out of here I’m sure we’d find a way.”
“And Alfric?”
“He needs to come with us.”
The raven bobbed his head a few times in thought. “All right. I’ll try. Save for one thing.”
“What?”
“Master has the stone.”
Sybil took a deep breath. “Then we must take it from him.”
“Thorston will be furious when he returns to life.”
“Odo, if we wish to live we have no choice.”
“What if in taking the stone we cause him to waken?”
“I pray he won’t.”
Odo ruffled his wings. “Then pray and do it,” said the bird.
2
Sybil approached the bed, her heart pounding as she stared at Thorston’s covered body. She darted a nervous glance at Odo, braced herself, then reached out and took hold of the blanket’s edge with the tips of three fingers. Even so, she vacillated.
“What’s the matter?” hissed Odo.
“To take from a dead man …”
“He would filch your life,” Odo reminded her.
Sybil, nodding grimly, took another deep breath and slowly pulled back the blanket from Thorston’s body. “Odo!” she cried.
“What?”
“He’s much younger!”
“I don’t care how old he is, get the stone!”
Sybil gazed at Thorston. He was a young man, smooth-faced; lanky and thick-haired, with full lips. Yet there was no apparent breathing.
“The stone!” chided Odo.
Sybil made herself look about his body. “I can’t see his purse,” she said.
“It must be on his other side.”
Sybil began to lean over the body, only to pull back.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m frightened.”
“You handled him before when he was dead.”
“But what if he should come back now?”
“I’ll help,” said the raven. He fluttered across the room and landed on the bed at the far side of the body. With bright eyes he looked about. “The purse is right here,” said Odo, pointing with his beak. “If you open it I can pluck out the stone.”
Girding herself, and taking great care even as she held her breath, Sybil leaned over Thorston’s body. She saw the purse immediately. It was tied to Thorston’s belt. With her arm arched so as not to touch him, Sybil felt for it.
“Odo, he’s knotted it closed!”
“Get back,” said the raven, even as he hopped closer. With quick sharp pecks that alternated with pulls upon the drawstrings, he unraveled the knot.
“Untied!” he announced, drawing back.
Sybil leaned over the body again and slipped her fingers into the purse, and spread them wide so there was a gap. “Open,” she said and drew her hand away.
Once more Odo hopped close, leaned in, then abruptly plunged his head into the purse. Next moment he emerged, the small green stone locked between the bills of his beak.
On the instant Sybil stepped away from the bed while Odo fluttered to the book pile.
“Perhaps I should swallow it,” said Odo.
“Odo, if you do you will kill us both!” She held out her palm.
For a moment the bird did nothing.
“Odo!”
Odo leaned forward and let the stone drop into Sybil’s open hand.
3
Sybil, making sure the stone was secure in her belt purse—where it clinked against the Damian coin—hurried down the steps to the ground floor, candle in hand. Odo rode her shoulder. Together they examined the old wall. It was easy enough to see the outline of the old entryway. And when Sybil poked at the mortar between the stones, it crumbled. “You see,” she said. “It’s not hard. I’m sure you can do it. Do you need my help?”
“I have to do it on my own,” said Odo. He gazed fixedly at the wall with his black eyes and raised a claw: “Feallan, feallan,” he whispered.
A rock vibrated—and tumbled out of the wall.
Sybil clapped her hands. “There! You can do it.”
“One stone at least,” said Odo. He lifted his claw and repeated the words. When a second stone fell, he nodded with excitement and set to work in earnest. He chanted, and stones tumbled to the floor.
“It’s exhausting,” he panted, beak open. “Sybil, be warned, the magical things I do never last. At least I now understand why: it’s the nature of the book’s magic.”
“But don’t stop,” said Sybil. “You’re succeeding.”
Odo went on until a rush of cold air announced he had breached the wall. Sybil peered into the hole. “Tumble a few more stones, and I’ll just be able to squeeze through.”
Odo continued. Sybil checked again. “There,” she announced. “It’s wide enough. Wait here and rest. I’ll fetch the boy.”
“Just hurry,” urged Odo.
4
Sybil ran up the steps and into the back room. “Alfric, wake up.”
The boy sat up with a start. “Mistress, is something the matter?”
“You need to come with me.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you as we go.”
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Out of the house.”
“What of Master Thorston?”