A Mystery Of Errors

“If, indeed, you do speak truly,” Shakespeare replied, “then never in all my days have I seen a woman who wore time so lightly.”

“How prettily you speak,” she said. “Yet, as you are a poet, I think that you shall write more prettily still. About time… and other things.”

“Odd’s blood! How could you possibly know I am a poet?” Shakespeare asked, taken aback. “However did you divine it?”

“ ‘Tis true,” Elizabeth whispered in Smythe’s ear, “she is a witch!”

“ ‘Tis no great feat of divination,” Granny Meg replied, with a graceful shrug. “Your pretty speech betrays you. And there are little ink spatters low upon your doublet, such as would occur when one sits and dips a pen too quickly and, in a rush to set words down, fails to shake off the excess ink. Together with the fact that you came with Master Richard, who keeps company mainly with his fellow actors and with disreputable poets, and it was no great leap of intuition to deduce your calling.”

Smythe grinned. “ ‘Twould seem, Will, that even a disreputable poet can learn a thing or two about detailed observation.”

Shakespeare gave him a wry look.

Granny Meg then turned toward Smythe. “You, however, do not strike me as an actor.”

“And yet, I soon shall be,” said Smythe.

Granny Meg pursed her lips. “Well, perhaps. But methinks I see another role for you. Perhaps no less dramatic. And as for you…” Her gaze fell upon Elizabeth. “Come here, girl.”

Elizabeth now went to her without fear or apprehension. Indeed, thought Smythe, it would be difficult to feel any such emotion in this woman’s presence. She seemed to radiate a peaceful calmness, a grace and serenity that spoke of wisdom and experience. And… something else. But what it was, Smythe did not know.

As Elizabeth came up to Granny Meg, the older woman gently touched her underneath her chin and lifted her head slightly, to gaze straight into her eyes. “I sense a great turmoil within you, girl. A most profound disquiet. Perhaps even desperation… You have recently seen death.”

Elizabeth gasped and pulled away. “You had no ink stains from which to deduce that!”

“Some signs are merely more subtle than others,” Granny Meg replied. “Give me your hand.” She reached out to her. Elizabeth hesitated briefly, then held out her right hand. Granny Meg took it and turned it palm up, then traced several lines upon it with her long and graceful forefinger. “You shall have a long life,” she said. She smiled then. “And many lovers.”

Elizabeth snatched her hand back.

“Come, all of you, sit at the table,” Granny Meg said. “Freddy, could we have some tea, please?”

“Are you going to read the tea leaves?” Shakespeare asked.

“No, we are going to have some tea,” Granny Meg replied.

Burbage chuckled. “Granny Meg, we have come to ask a favor…”

“This much I had surmised,” she replied, “but it can wait. There is something else I must do first.” Seemingly from out of nowhere, she produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. She stopped at one point and selected one, the Queen of Pentacles, and placed it face up in the center of the table, then continued to shuffle. After a moment or two, she handed the deck to Elizabeth. “Take these, girl, and shuffle them, as I did.”

“I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it near as quickly,” Elizabeth replied, watching her dubiously.

“Do it as slowly as you like then. The point is just to mix them up.”

Elizabeth took the deck and started to shuffle the cards awkwardly. “I have never seen cards such as these,” she said. “They are quite beautiful. What sort of game are they for?”

“They are called tarot cards,” Granny Meg replied. “And they are not used in any sort of game.” She shrugged. “Well, some people might call this sort of thing a game, I suppose. And their results would, of course, come out accordingly.”

“How long should I do this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Until you feel that you have done it enough. There is no set time or number.”

Elizabeth glanced at her uncertainly and promptly dropped some of the cards on the table.

“ ‘Tis all right,” Granny Meg said. “Just pick them up and put them back into the deck, however you like.”

Elizabeth did so, and after a moment more, said, “I think I have mixed these well enough.”

Granny Meg nodded. “So be it. Put them down here, upon the table. Now, I shall cut them three times, and then you do likewise.”

When each of them was done, Granny Meg picked up the deck. “Now,” she said, “this spread is called the Celtic cross. This card here,” she pointed to the Queen of Pentacles, “signifies you. And this,” she pulled one card off the top of the deck and covered the Queen of Pentacles with it. “… this covers you. The Six of Cups. It depicts children playing in a garden, as you see. Behind the garden is a manor, with servants, all signifying wealth, happiness, contentment, childhood… but these things have largely passed now. This next card signifies your obstacles, those things which now oppose you…”