The Book of Dreams(36)

‘Ask him nevertheless. If he can read the book, maybe he’ll find a recipe for another potion, one that will speed my recovery. Everyone knows that the Saracens are skilled healers.’

The old man was visibly tiring. I turned my attention back to the book in my hands. The soaking had stuck the first page to the inside of the cover, and I carefully peeled it apart. Here, at last, I could recognize some writing, though not what it meant. Bertwald had taught me the Greek alphabet before he fled the Church hounds, though I suspected he knew little of the language itself. On the first page was a single word in Greek script. I presumed it was the book’s title or perhaps the name of its owner. Letter by letter I deciphered what was written and silently rehearsed how it might be spoken.

Gerard had fallen asleep. His breathing was laboured and shallow, his head rolled to one side. I thought about replacing the book under his pillow, but feared that would disturb him. Instead I wrapped it back in its cloth cover, tucked it under my arm and set out in search of Osric. If the book did contain medical information that would help the old man, I should locate a translator as quickly as possible.

*



I found my slave at the stables, questioning the head groom whether my bay gelding would run straight when the reins were left slack, or veer to one side. Before he had his answer, I called him outside and together we walked to a spot where we could not be overheard.

‘Old Gerard believes you saved his life by giving him that medicine,’ I said.

‘He’s not out of danger yet. There could be a relapse.’

Osric’s eyes flicked towards the parcel I was carrying.

‘He’s given me a book that he thinks is a leech book and contains medical knowledge which might help his recovery.’ I hesitated, fearing to cause offence. Few people would like being mistaken for a Saracen.

Osric regarded me impassively.

‘I can’t read it,’ I stumbled on. ‘Maybe you can?’ I had committed myself now. I took the book from its cover and handed it to Osric.

Osric opened the book without a word, and glanced inside. Then he raised his head and looked straight at me.

‘Gerard supposes that your homeland may be Hispania or Africa,’ I said, feeling the colour rising to my cheeks.

Osric did not move a muscle.

I grew more embarrassed under his silent gaze.

‘Whether he’s right or wrong makes no difference to me. I’m just trying to help him.’

Eventually Osric let out a long, slow breath.

‘It has been a long, long time since I held a book like this in my hands. I should be able to read what is written here, provided the content is uncomplicated.’ He looked down at the volume and slowly turned the pages.

I waited for his assessment. The time dragged by.

Finally he said. ‘Gerard is wrong. This is not a book of medicine.’

I was crestfallen. Worse, I regretted that I had intruded on Osric’s life before he was enslaved. If he had wanted me to know about his origins, he would have told me long ago.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know for sure. There are some words that I do not know.’ He pointed. ‘Here it says that a man who dreams he is flying means that he will gain great riches.’ He turned over several more pages and selected another section. ‘Here is something about clouds and wind.’

He closed the book and handed it back to me.

‘If I had enough time perhaps I could make sense of it.’

I took the volume from him.

‘Osric, whether you are Saracen, Christian or pagan matters not to me.’

‘Where I come from, it would be said that is God’s will,’ he assured me with a wan smile.

I left Osric at the stables and went in search of Alcuin. He was standing before the porch of the chancery, deep in conversation with another priest whom I recognized as Odo, the king’s chief architect. They must have been discussing the next stage in the construction work because they turned to face the chapel and pointed upward at the new roof and were exchanging comments. I waited until they had finished their conversation, then approached Alcuin and asked if he could help me with the meaning of a Greek word.

‘What word is that?’ asked Alcuin.

‘Oneirokritikon’ I said.

My pronunciation must have been astray, for he asked me to repeat slowly what I had said.

It took me three attempts before I got it right, then Alcuin smiled and said, ‘Ah! I have it now. “Oneir” is a dream or vision. “Kriticon” comes from “kritikos”, which means able to discern or judge. So your word means something like “the interpretation of dreams”. Does that make sense?’

I felt a shiver of apprehension. I had never breathed a word to anyone, even Osric, about my disturbing dreams, or how my dead brother’s fetch sometimes appeared to me. If this alien book was genuine, it would allow me to unravel what my visions signified.