by Avi
Even as he spoke there came a loud pounding on the door below.
3
Sybil looked to Odo. The raven’s head was up, bright black eyes full of alarm.
“It must be Master Bashcroft,” whispered Alfric. His thin chest heaved. Tears began to flow. “He said he’d be watching me closely. Said he’d beat me if I don’t find out how your master makes gold.”
Odo jumped up to the window and peered down. Sybil joined him.
“Now what do you propose to do?” the bird whispered.
“Look there,” said Sybil, tapping the glass with her finger. “In that far doorway. It’s Bashcroft. So it can’t be him who’s knocking.”
“No doubt,” said Odo, “he’s sending an army of green-eyed children.”
Sybil turned to boy. “Alfric,” she called, “did you come with anyone beside the reeve?”
Alfric, his face full of fright, was standing stiff as a stick with the Book Without Words clutched to his chest like a shield. He shook his head.
Another knock came.
Sybil gave Odo a warning look, as if to say “Don’t speak!” then hastened down the steps, candle in hand. By the time she reached the seventh step, Odo had leaped to her shoulder, and he rode the rest of the way down with her. He pecked her neck twice, but she ignored it.
“Who’s there?” she called when she reached the door.
“A child with green eyes,” was the bellowed reply from the other side. “Here to see Master Thorston.”
“God’s grace,” said Sybil, “whoever it is, he doesn’t lack for boldness.” She pulled the door open.
On the threshold stood Damian.
Sybil, recognizing him as the apothecary’s apprentice, was immediately alarmed. She took a mental measure of him. He was bigger than she, well fed, but not much older. She noted his pimpled red face and the fact that he wore decent boots and a wool jacket. He seemed soft, with much padding.
“I am Damian Perbeck. Apprentice to Mistress Weebly, the apothecary. My eyes are green.”
Despite feeling an instant dislike for the boy, Sybil stepped aside. “Enter,” she said.
Damian eyed her. “Who are you?”
“Master Thorston’s servant.”
“Then my business is not with you” said the boy. He stepped inside and turned his back on her. “Take me to your master.”
“I’ll take you nowhere, till you tell me why you’ve come,” said Sybil as she slammed the door, set the bar, and faced the boy.
“Mistress Weebly, knowing Master Thorston is in need of a green-eyed child, sent me. To learn his alchemy.”
Odo glared at Damian from Sybil’s shoulder. Damian, eyeing the bird with disgust, folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll answer you no more,” he said. “Lead the way.”
4
Spying into the courtyard from Clutterbuck Lane, Bashcroft could not believe what he had just seen: Damian Perbeck, Mistress Weebly’s apprentice, entering the alchemist’s house. Could that boy have green eyes too? Did that mean the apothecary was after the gold for herself?
Selfish wench. How dare she!
“Dura lex, sed lex,” the reeve murmured. Then he swore an oath that he would wait and watch until doomsday if required. Indeed, to get that gold, he would hang them all.
5
Damian, following Sybil, reached the top step and gazed about the jumbled room. “Ah!” he exclaimed when he spied the old man. “Is this Master Thorston, the alchemist?” He went to the bedside. “What ails him?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him and tell him I’m here.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” said Sybil.
“Then why are my green eyes wanted?” said Damian. “Who is this disgusting boy? Why is that dirty bird here?”
Instead of answering, Sybil went to Alfric and took the Book Without Words from him.
“Pray, sit,” she said to Damian.
Damian glared at her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you may leave. Now.”
“What is it you wish of me?” he said.
“We require a reading. Can you do it?”
“Of course,” said Damian. “My tutor taught me.”
“Then sit.”
“I sit because I choose to,” said Damian as he sat, “not because you tell me.”
Sybil put the book on his lap. “Read this,” she said.
Damian contemplated a few pages. After a while he looked up. “Is this some kind of joke?” he said. “There’s nothing here to read. If you would just tell me your master’s gold-making secrets, I’ll be pleased to go.” He snapped the book shut and stood up.
Sybil didn’t know what to say.
“May I remind you,” said Damian, “I’m Mistress Weebly’s apprentice. As the town apothecary, she’s very powerful. Accordingly, know that I too am powerful.”
When Sybil only stared at him, the boy flushed and added: “In some ways, at least.”
Sybil snatched the book out of Damian’s hands and carried it to the bed. “Master,” she shouted, as if he were deaf, “we have two people with green eyes! They see nothing! Tell us what to do!”
When the old man made no response, Odo fluttered across the room and landed on the bed. Head cocked to one side, he studied the alchemist intently.
“Master,” Sybil cried again. “Speak to us. What shall we do?”
Odo hopped the length of the bed. Leaning forward, he stared fixedly at Thorston’s inert face, cocking his head first one way then another. “Sybil,” he said, “he’s not going to answer. Ever. Master Thorston is dead.”
6
Tightness came to Sybil’s chest. It was hard for her to breathe. Her head hurt. “God’s mercy,” she managed to whisper.
“Dead,” croaked the raven, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Gone to wherever treacherous men such as he belong. We are lost!”
Alfric and Damian gaped. “Did … did that bird talk?” asked Damian.
Odo, paying no heed, kept muttering, “Doomed. Cut off. Abandoned.” He leaped closer to the dead man’s face. “Cruel Master,” he croaked, “did you forget your promise? Now the reeve will discover your death. But it’s we who shall lose everything.” Livid, he pecked the old man’s nose.
“Stop that,” cried Sybil. “Have you no respect?”
“Respect!” cried Odo. “What respect had he for me? Or you, for that matter? None. He treated all with contempt. How long did I put up with him! What do I have for my pains?” he screeched. “Nothing. Less than nothing.”
“That raven,” said Alfric, “he’s truly talking.”
“Doesn’t he know,” said Damian, “it’s unnatural for beasts to talk?”
Odo leaned toward Sybil. “Idiot!” he screamed. “I warned you. Now what do you propose to do?”
“That talking is magic, isn’t it?” said Damian. Nervous, he moved toward the steps
Sybil whirled about. “Anyone can talk,” she cried. “You talk. I have yet to hear you say one intelligent word. Does that make you a bird?”
Damian’s face turned bright red. “You have no right to speak to me that way,” he said. “I’m your superior.”
“Does your master’s death mean that you don’t want me anymore?” said Alfric. “That I must go?”
“Come here, both of you,” Sybil snapped at the boys.
The two eyed one another. Alfric came forward. Damian stood his ground. “What for?” he demanded.
“It’s gold!” shouted Sybil, her frustration bursting forth. “The secret of gold-making is in this book. But Master told us it can only be read by someone with green eyes.” She flung the book on the table. Some of the apparatus flew off and smashed.
“God in heaven,” screamed Odo. “You’ve told them.”
“Well, then,” said Damian, a smile on his lips, “if that’s what it is, perhaps I may be of use.” He swaggered forward. Pushing Alfric aside, he bent over the book. After a few silent moments he looked up. “Nonsense�
�� he said. “There’s still nothing here. Nothing.”
“You try,” Sybil said to Alfric.
Alfric wiped his face with his grubby fingers and leaned over the pages, staring hard. In a few moments he looked up. “Please, Mistress, there’s nothing more than last time.”
“Fooled,” screeched Odo. “Tricked. Deceived.”
Sybil, biting her lip to keep from screaming, went to the window and stared out. Bashcroft was lurking in a doorway, moving his feet up and down, beating his chest with his hands to keep warm.
“If your master,” Damian announced, “is dead, there’s little point in my staying. Anyway, there’s something grossly unnatural here. A dead man. A bird that talks.” He smirked. “There is nothing to stay for. I am leaving.” He moved toward the stairs.
“If you go,” said Sybil without looking at him, “I won’t share any of Master’s magic with you.”
Odo, opening his beak with surprise, looked around at Sybil from the bed.
“Ah!” said Damian, grinning. ‘Then you do know magic. I thought as much.”
“Of course I know magic,” cried Sybil, so upset she didn’t care what she said. She was glaring out the window, arms folded over her chest. “Haven’t I been the alchemist’s servant for … years? How could I not learn his secrets?” She turned to face him. “You may think I am nothing.” She gulped back tears. “I may not have been his kin, but he treated me with … great kindness. Love.”
“I don’t care how he treated you,” said Damian. “I’ll stay, but only if you show me some of your magic.”
Sybil darted a panicky look at Odo, who was sitting on Thorston’s head. He shrugged, lifted a claw, and muttered, “Risan … risan.” Next moment, the skull—Odo’s customary perch—rose into the air a few feet. Momentarily, it hovered, only to drop and shatter into bits.
As the boys stared with amazement Sybil darted a ferocious look at Odo. But after taking a deep breath, she turned to Damian and said, “There, you see, my magic. Now you are perfectly free to leave.”
“Did you truly do that?” exclaimed Damian, who had been watching Sybil, not Odo.
“Who else would?” said Sybil. Unwilling to look at Odo, she spun about and stared out the window. “And when you leave,” she called, “be free to greet Master Bashcroft. He’s waiting right outside.”
“Bashcroft?” said Damian. “Out there?”
“He watched you as you came.”
The boy paled. “He did? The reeve is the most despicable man in Fulworth,” he said. “I’ll have nothing to do with him.”
“He seems to be spying on you,” said Sybil.
“Please, Mistress,” said Alfric, “Let me stay. I’ll do whatever you ask. Just don’t send me back to that man.”
Damian shoved Sybil aside and looked down into the courtyard at the reeve. “He bullies Mistress Weebly,” he said. “Which makes her bully me.”
“Sybil,” said Odo, “may I remind you: if Bashcroft discovers Master is dead, he will walk right in and take possession of everything. Including us.”
“Can’t you do something to keep him away?” Damian said to Sybil. “You’re a magician.”
Sybil peered down into the courtyard before turning back to Odo. “There is something we can do: we can bury him.”
“Bury the city reeve?” cried Odo.
“Don’t be silly,” said Sybil. “Bury Master Thorston.”
7
“What are you saying?” shrieked Odo.
“Did I not say it simply enough?” said Sybil. “We must bury Master in the cellar.”
“In the cellar?” cried Damian.
“Have you a cemetery there?” asked Alfric.
“But why?” said Odo.
“Because if we take Master’s body out of the building, his death will be noted—will it not?”
“Yes, but-”
“If his death is noted,” Sybil continued, “you said so yourself—we’ll lose all chance of learning anything. Bury him here, and no one need know. It will give us time to find his secrets.”
“May I remind you,” said Damian, “I did see him die. Anyway, you can’t just bury a person in one’s house. It must be in sacred ground.”
Sybil glared at him. “You’re perfectly welcome to leave,” she said. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me,” returned Damian. “I’ve come to learn your master’s secrets. You’ve made it clear you have some. I’ve no intention of leaving without learning them.”
Knocking erupted on the front door.
“God’s mercy,” cried Odo. “If that’s another green-eyed child, I shall lie on my back and stick my feet into the air.”
Sybil, seeing Damian wince, said, “What are you frightened about?”
“It’s possibly my mistress come after me.”
“Why should she do that?”
“I’ve … I’ve run away.”
Alfric, who had been looking out the window, said, “Please, I think it’s Master Bashcroft.”
“That’s no better,” said Damian.
“This boy belongs to him” said Sybil, pointing to Alfric.
Damian looked on Alfric as if for the first time. “What do you mean belongs to him?”
Alfric hung his head. “He bought me.”
There was more pounding on the door.
“Please, Mistress,” said Alfric, tugging on Sybil’s sleeve. “I want to stay.”
“You may stay,” said Sybil. “But you, Master Damian, decide: Go or stay?”
“I can’t go home” said Damian, “I have to have the secrets.”
The knocking below resumed.
“Well?” said Sybil.
“I’ll stay.”
“Good,” said Sybil. “Then I’ll deal with the reeve.”
8
Sybil hurried down the stairs. As she did, Odo leaped to her shoulder.
“You did that, didn’t you?” said Sybil.
“Did what?”
“Made that skull rise.”
“I did only what you requested.”
“Master raven, how many of Master’s secrets do you know?”
“Sybil, if you truly are going to bury Master here, I promise you that Damian will spread the news. Things will go badly.”
“Master Odo, since you won’t answer my questions and only change the subject, I intend to take care of myself.” As she reached for the door, it suddenly occurred to her that the ancient monk—the one she met the night before—might be on the other side. “Who is it?” she called.
“It’s I, Ambrose Bashcroft, the reeve of Fulworth. Dura lex, sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law. Since I am the law, I must see Master Thorston.”
“In faith, sir,” called Sybil, “my master is in no condition to have visitors.”
“To whom am I speaking?”
“His servant, sir.”
“Why can’t your master have visitors?”
Sybil looked over her shoulder. Alfric and Damian had come down the steps. “Master Reeve,” she cried through the closed door. “My master’s condition is such that he will speak to no one.”
“Dying, is he? Then I’ll speak to my boy, Alfric. Send him out immediately.”
“But, sir,” called Sybil, “even as you speak, your boy is about to attend my master.”
There was a moment of silence, after which the reeve said, “What is he doing?”
“He is going to help my master find his rest.”
“Is your master talking to him?”
“I’ve no doubt your boy is listening to every word my master utters.”
“Very well,” said the reeve. “I’ll return on the morrow at noon. I’ll speak to your master then. Advise him that I’ve ample reason to believe that dangerous doings are being conducted in this house.”
“I shall tell him,” said Sybil. She pressed an ear to the door. “He’s gone,” she announced after a moment.
“But he’ll be ba
ck,” cried Odd.
“Then,” said Sybil, “we’d best bury Master quickly.”
9
Sybil knelt by the trapdoor, grasped its iron rung, and yanked. It barely gave.
Odo started to lift a claw but stopped himself.
“Come here,” Sybil called to the boys. “I need your help.”
Alfric took hold of the ring. “Blessings on you for letting me stay,” he whispered.
“By God’s hands, you’re most welcome,” said Sybil. “Just lift.” The two pulled. With a jerk, the trapdoor came up, exposing a square, dark hole.
“Are there more dead below?” asked Damian.
“Don’t be a fool,” said Sybil. “There’s nothing but dirt.”
“You call me a fool, but it’s clear you have no respect for the dead,” said Damian.
“Whereas you have no respect for the living,” returned Sybil. “Now, come,” she said. “Both of you. We need to work in haste.”
She sat on the square’s open edge. A rickety ladder led into the dark. She started down. The air was damp, cold, and smelled horrible. The basement had a dirt floor, and nothing was there save for two old chests with rusty locks. It had been so long since Sybil had gone into the basement, she had forgotten about them.
Odo dropped onto her shoulder. “This is madness,” he hissed. “Why are you doing this?”
“Odo,” Sybil returned in a hushed voice, “tell me the secrets you learned from our master, or by Saint Osyth, I’ll wring your neck and bury you by his side.”
“What do you mean?” cried the alarmed bird.
“It’s perfectly clear,” said Sybil, “you know some of Master’s magic. That skull rising was proof enough.”
“You may be sure he never taught me,” said the raven. “I had to spy on him.”
“Why did you let the skull break?”
“I didn’t let it. It’s what his magic seems to do: something good happens, then … the opposite.”
“What other magic did you learn?”
“A few pretty things.”
