the gloomy dawn, the ring glittered on the Master’s palm. There were footsteps, heavy and purposeful. A chicken squawked, booted none too gently out of the way. I didn’t have to look to know who was approaching. The Master’s eyes strained wide. The ring shone like a fiery stain. “Oh my Lord!” He could hardly breathe. I couldn’t bear it. “On your finger,” I hissed.
“What?”
“Stick the ring on your marriage finger. Didn’t you ever play hunt the thimble when you were little? The best way to hide something is to hide it in plain sight.”
Blindly, he obeyed. We both bent to pick up the remaining scattered writing tools.
The summoner flicked his watery eyes from the Master to me and finally to the writing box. “Well now,” he said, hacking up early morning phlegm and scratching his boils, “what have we here? A little conspiracy?”
The Master cleared his throat. “Conspiracy’s a long word to use before breakfast.”
“Conspirators get up early.” The summoner wiped away a gob of saliva. “I’ve been told that the contents of a writer’s box reveal everything— everything —about the writer. All his foibles. Everything he’d prefer to conceal. Cherrywood, this one, isn’t it?” He moved closer and stroked the box the way I once saw an old bargeman stroke the flesh of a drowned girl.
“Walnut,” said the Master. I wished he didn’t look so frightened.
“Walnut!” sneered the summoner. “Well, well. Show me all its—its secrets , Master Chaucer. Will you do that?”
The Master could have refused. Instead, he fiddled about, his fingers trembling round a ring that seemed determined to glow with all its might. I began tohand him the things I’d collected and he named each item as he put it in its appointed place. “Gall, er, pricket, stylus, er, er, miniver brush, swan—no—goose feather”—his voice was at least five tones higher than usual, particularly when the ring snagged on bristles or feathers or a fold of parchment. Several times the summoner frowned. He knew we were hiding something, but my hunch was right: he took no more notice of the Master’s ring than he did of his own. Naturally, though, the refilling of the box took too long for his liking, so he pushed the Master aside and ran sweaty fingers round the inkwells and bottles, pressing the box here and there as though something might spring out of the wood itself. Finally, he picked the whole box up and, with a low-life smile, casually dropped it. Surprisingly, it didn’t splinter, but just as he hoped, a drawer sprang out, a flat drawer with no lock or mark, a drawer whose presence was clearly supposed to be known only to the box’s owner.
“Ah!” said the summoner, licking his lips. “Aaaaaah!” From the drawer he removed a fold of the thinnest Italian paper. I tried to still my breathing. The summoner wasn’t interested in me. He gazed long and hard at the Master before unfolding the paper and inspecting it minutely, even wetting his forefinger and rubbing spittle over the surface. The Master didn’t move. The summoner held the paper to the light. Though heturned it over half a dozen times, it remained steadfastly blank. When, finally, he had to admit that there was no message, he scrunched the paper up and tossed it down the well. There was no sound as it hit the water.
The Master, leaning heavily on the bench, tried not to hide his hands in his sleeves. “Writing boxes are not really very fascinating,” he said, and I was relieved that his voice was less shaky than his legs. “I’d say they’re usually not as fascinating as people think—or hope.” He crouched to pick up tools scattered for the second time that morning and I crouched once again to help. The summoner crouched too. All our hands were together. We could see the summoner’s thick gold bands biting into his flesh. The thumb ring was streaked with tarnish. He leaned right over so that the Master’s left hand was right under his nose. A
“What?”
“Stick the ring on your marriage finger. Didn’t you ever play hunt the thimble when you were little? The best way to hide something is to hide it in plain sight.”
Blindly, he obeyed. We both bent to pick up the remaining scattered writing tools.
The summoner flicked his watery eyes from the Master to me and finally to the writing box. “Well now,” he said, hacking up early morning phlegm and scratching his boils, “what have we here? A little conspiracy?”
The Master cleared his throat. “Conspiracy’s a long word to use before breakfast.”
“Conspirators get up early.” The summoner wiped away a gob of saliva. “I’ve been told that the contents of a writer’s box reveal everything— everything —about the writer. All his foibles. Everything he’d prefer to conceal. Cherrywood, this one, isn’t it?” He moved closer and stroked the box the way I once saw an old bargeman stroke the flesh of a drowned girl.
“Walnut,” said the Master. I wished he didn’t look so frightened.
“Walnut!” sneered the summoner. “Well, well. Show me all its—its secrets , Master Chaucer. Will you do that?”
The Master could have refused. Instead, he fiddled about, his fingers trembling round a ring that seemed determined to glow with all its might. I began tohand him the things I’d collected and he named each item as he put it in its appointed place. “Gall, er, pricket, stylus, er, er, miniver brush, swan—no—goose feather”—his voice was at least five tones higher than usual, particularly when the ring snagged on bristles or feathers or a fold of parchment. Several times the summoner frowned. He knew we were hiding something, but my hunch was right: he took no more notice of the Master’s ring than he did of his own. Naturally, though, the refilling of the box took too long for his liking, so he pushed the Master aside and ran sweaty fingers round the inkwells and bottles, pressing the box here and there as though something might spring out of the wood itself. Finally, he picked the whole box up and, with a low-life smile, casually dropped it. Surprisingly, it didn’t splinter, but just as he hoped, a drawer sprang out, a flat drawer with no lock or mark, a drawer whose presence was clearly supposed to be known only to the box’s owner.
“Ah!” said the summoner, licking his lips. “Aaaaaah!” From the drawer he removed a fold of the thinnest Italian paper. I tried to still my breathing. The summoner wasn’t interested in me. He gazed long and hard at the Master before unfolding the paper and inspecting it minutely, even wetting his forefinger and rubbing spittle over the surface. The Master didn’t move. The summoner held the paper to the light. Though heturned it over half a dozen times, it remained steadfastly blank. When, finally, he had to admit that there was no message, he scrunched the paper up and tossed it down the well. There was no sound as it hit the water.
The Master, leaning heavily on the bench, tried not to hide his hands in his sleeves. “Writing boxes are not really very fascinating,” he said, and I was relieved that his voice was less shaky than his legs. “I’d say they’re usually not as fascinating as people think—or hope.” He crouched to pick up tools scattered for the second time that morning and I crouched once again to help. The summoner crouched too. All our hands were together. We could see the summoner’s thick gold bands biting into his flesh. The thumb ring was streaked with tarnish. He leaned right over so that the Master’s left hand was right under his nose. A
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