A Mystery Of Errors

Smythe was a bit taken aback by this. He had never before seen a fireplace on a second floor. In a nobleman’s house, perhaps, it would not have been surprising, though he had only been in one such house, Sir William’s, and then only on the first floor. However, he recalled seeing numerous chimney tops sticking up out of the roof. Perhaps Sir William had fireplaces upstairs, too. But in a thatch-roofed house such as the one Smythe had grown up in, a fireplace on a second floor would have been an invitation to disaster. With no wood between the interior and the thickly piled thatch, the fire hazard would have been extreme. When it was dry, bits of thatch-along with bugs and sometimes mice- would often fall upon the occupants, for which reason cloth canopies were usually put up on posts over the beds. And when it rained, domestic animals who often slept upon the soft thatch roof would occasionally slip through and fall into the house, giving rise to the expression that it was “raining cats and dogs.”

The overwhelming impression of the place, though it was very clean, was one of nearly incomprehensible clutter. As below, wooden shelving lined all four walls and each shelf was filled to overflowing with books, earthenware jars, and other bric-a-brac. There were little pieces of statuary on the shelves such as Smythe had never seen, little figures carved from stone, some having shapes vaguely reminiscent of pregnant women and others resembling birds and animals, though of a type that Smythe had never seen. There were little tiny clay pots and great big ones, holding God only knew what, and there were beaded necklaces and amulets and little leather pouches suspended from thongs, apparently meant to be worn around the neck. No matter where one looked, there were a hundred things to draw the eye. Smythe’s gaze was drawn by a strange-looking dagger lying on a shelf in front of a row of jars. Curious, he reached out for it.

“Please do not touch that, young man.”

The voice was unmistakably feminine, soft and low, yet with a melodious richness that at the same time somehow managed to soothe and command authority. Startled, Smythe jerked back his hand. He felt a bit embarrassed. He, of all people, should have known better. His uncle had taught him the significance of having respect for other people’s properly, especially their blades.

“Forgive me,” he said, uncomfortably. “I did not mean to offend. I… that is, I was…”

“Drawn to it?” She came into the firelight.

“Aye,” Smythe said, softly. He blinked. He was not even entirely certain where she had come from. He had not noticed anyone come from behind the shelves dividing the main portion of the room from the sleeping area, but neither had he seen her in the room before. Yet, suddenly, there she was, as if she had somehow suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. Smythe felt Elizabeth shrink behind him, as if trying to conceal herself.

Yet, as he beheld Granny Meg, Smythe realized that she did not look anything like what he might have expected. She was of average height, with long, thick, silvery gray hair that fell in waves down past her shoulders to her waist. Her eyes were large and luminous, the sort of eyes that it was difficult to look away from. They were a pale shade of blue-gray, like cracked ice on a pond in early winter. Her features were sharp and elfin, bringing to mind some nocturnal forest creature. Her chin came almost to a point, her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and her nose had a delicate, almost birdlike sharpness. Her pale, flawless skin was practically translucent. It almost seemed to glow with vibrancy. Smythe could not begin to guess her age.

Clearly, she was no longer young, but her skin, while faintly lined in places, had no wrinkles and there were no liver spots upon her hands, neither moles or blemishes upon her face. She was slim, girlishly so, and willowy, with a figure most young women would have envied. She wore a simple homespun gown of dark blue cloth with some vine-like embroidery around the low-cut neck. The skin at her throat also belied her age. Smythe would have put Freddy’s age at around sixty-five or even seventy or more. In any case, he was obviously a man well advanced in years. Granny Meg, how ever, did not truly live up-or perhaps down-to her name. She could have been in her fifties, or her sixties, or her seventies… it was impossible to tell. She was certainly not young. But she was the most singularly beautiful older woman Smythe had ever seen.

“Good evening, Granny Meg,” said Burbage.

“And a good evening to you, Master Richard. It is good to see you again. How is your father?”

“Well, thank you, mum.”

“You are Granny Meg?” said Shakespeare, as if giving voice to Smythe’s thoughts. “The name does you an injustice. You scarcely look old enough to be beyond your middle years.”

She turned toward him and smiled. “I am old enough to be your grandmother, young man.”