Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

by Lisa Goldstein

  George took the jar and backed away. The other man’s eyes shone with a strange light, like a Bedlamite’s. Something fell with a loud noise in the house behind him. George turned and ran down the street.

  After a few minutes he felt something soft squelch under his feet. He shuddered and slowed to a walk. Where was he? How was he to get back home?

  He looked around him, seeking a familiar landmark. Clouds covered the sun, making it look like a dark watchful eye. Something moved in the shadows and he jumped, but it was only a scrap of cloth blown by the wind. The same wind drove the clouds before it and the sun flared out for a brief instant. He saw a broad street in the distance and went toward it cautiously. As he came closer he saw movement and heard the creaking of cart wheels. Hurrying now, he followed the sights and sounds and found himself on Cheapside. He walked quickly toward the crowds of people ahead of him, not wanting to travel alone.

  Anthony had deliberately confused him, then, so that he would not remember the way back. But why? Did it have something to do with the mechanical monster in Anthony’s house? George had only gotten a quick glimpse of it, but he thought he recognized an alchemist’s alembic from a book he’d seen in the churchyard. Did Anthony know the secret of changing base minerals into gold? But surely he would not live in such squalor if he had money.

  He made his way slowly down the street. Now that he had leisure to think his mind filled with a tangle of questions. What was the creature? It had seemed bound to Anthony in some way. Had he conjured it and was now unable to rid himself of it?

  And what was in the jar Anthony had given him? Did it come from the same place as the creature, and would it bind Alice to the same kind of necromancy? What if the other man had given him the wrong jar? He had had only a short time to find what he wanted, after all. If what he had given George harmed Alice in any way, George thought, the other man would have to face something worse than the green creature.

  As he prepared for bed that night the memory of his strange journey began to fade. But he dreamed that the creature, in falling on Anthony, had brushed against him. It felt dank, repulsive, and George’s gasp of horror woke him up. He lay still, his heart pounding. He tried not to look at the dark corners of the room where, he was certain, something crouched, waiting for him.

  Afternoon light fell through the windows when Alice woke. She rolled over in bed and covered her eyes with her arm. What a night, she thought.

  But what, exactly, had happened? Had she truly gone dancing in the fields with the faerie folk? Were all the stories from her childhood true?

  Every muscle ached as she tried to sit up. If only John were here, she thought. What a tale she would have to tell him. Brownies and winged creatures and Robin Goodfellow, and at the end of it all the brightness of the queen herself.

  But she couldn’t lie here dreaming. There was work to be done, her stall in the churchyard to tend to. Nay, the young man who sometimes worked for her came in today, God be thanked. Today would have been the day she went to the printshop. But it was still early afternoon; she could go by the shop and then, if there was time, she could pay a visit to Margery.

  Margery. Had she truly seen her sitting in the field as if she belonged there, talking to Queen Oriana? Alice knew Margery was wise in the knowledge of herbs and flowers and stones, but how did she come to have business with the Queen of Faerie? Aye, she would certainly go and have a talk with her friend, whether she had the time or not. There were questions she had to ask her.

  At the printing house near Paul’s Wharf she sought out the proprietor, a plump graying man whose leather apron had turned black across the stomach from bending over the presses, and gave him her order. One of her pamphlets and several of the ballads needed to go back to press, and already some acting companies had given her orders for playbills. He looked over the list and nodded, his free hand moving in the air as he calculated costs. The stationers whose books he printed complained loudly and often about his rudeness, but she liked him just for that reason, because he treated her the same way he treated everyone else. If he was curt to the other stationers he was also curt to her.

  As he looked over the list she watched his employees at work. In one corner the compositor set up type, and when he had finished the corrector of the press looked over what he had done, reading it backwards like a Mohammedan or Jew. Then another man inked the type, worked the screw on the press and took out the finished pages.

  Finally he looked up from the list and named a figure. She countered with a lower one, and he handed the list back to her and made as if to go. She called him back, the ritual familiar to her from her other visits and from the times before that, when she had accompanied John to the shop. Finally they agreed on an amount and she left.

  It had rained that morning and the water in the ditches and gutters reflected the damp gray clouds. As she watched the sun came out, striking the water and turning it pale gold. The sudden blaze of color gladdened her, reminded her that spring would be here soon. The trees around her were starting to put out fine green leaves. Winter had lasted too long; they had been packed within the walls of the city like goods in a peddlar’s bag. The brownie had done well to bring her outside.

  Something moved on the surface of the water, something small and clad in gold. Was she always to be haunted like this, by things barely seen? Jewels hung on tavern signs and in horses’ manes, and motes of silver winged past her. The gold reminded her of faerie coins, and she put her hand in the purse at her side. She felt the small coins she carried with her, groats and pennies, and a hard round lump. A piece of coal. So that was why they had laughed!

  Margery lived out beyond the city walls, and as Alice passed through Ludgate she looked around her, hoping to find some trace of the faeries’ revels. These fields, that stand of trees, the small stream running over stones in the distance—it all looked familiar, or nearly so. But where was the cottage? And where the hill where Robin Goodfellow had stood? And yet, look—faerie rings covered the grass as far as she could see.

  At last she came to Margery’s small thatched cottage and knocked on the door, but to her intense disappointment no one answered. Just as she was about to go she saw Margery coming up the path, asphodels in her upturned apron.

  “Good day,” Margery said, opening the door.

  Whenever she saw the inside of Margery’s house Alice always thought that it looked bigger than she would have expected from the outside. Books and scrolls lay open everywhere, the books bound in cracked leather, in vellum or not bound at all. Vegetables and herbs and stones set in silver hung from beams in the low ceiling, and cobwebs fell from the walls. The floor was littered with the parchment Margery used for her calculations, and a scrying stone covered with dust lay half-hidden in a corner. Alice smelled flowers and cat dung and tobacco. The first time Margery had invited her in Alice had thought, Marry, all she lacks is a stuffed alligator to set herself up as an apothecary.

  As they came in a plump ginger cat jumped down from one of the stools and yawned hugely, then curled up on a cushion and went to sleep again. Margery set the flowers in a pewter jug and lit fat candles from the fire. She moved a dish caked with what looked like the remnants of a failed experiment but was probably only her supper, and sat down heavily on the bench she had cleared. Alice brushed tobacco crumbs and fur off a stool and sat near her.

  Margery said nothing. How do you ask someone if she’d attended the faeries’ revels without her thinking you belonged in Bedlam? But just then Margery brushed back her tangle of black hair, and for a moment her face seemed to shine like the queen’s. Alice closed her left eye and the light disappeared. “Did you—Were you—Was that you I saw last night, talking to the Queen of Faerie?”

  “Aye,” Margery said. She picked up her tobacco-pipe from a pile of books and drew on it. Though Alice hadn’t seen her light it a wreath of smoke soon covered her face. If the faerie-light had truly been there it was gone now.

  “How long have you known her?�
�

  “Oh, a long time.”

  Alice had forgotten how difficult conversation with her friend could be. She rarely talked about the thing you most wanted to know but would lead you around it, through overgrown and twisting roads. And by the time you emerged into the light of day you had learned many things, each one stranger than the next, but never what you wanted to know. For the first time Alice wondered what sights Margery saw with her left eye, and if that was why she seemed so distracted so much of the time. When the people of Faerie crowded your vision you had little time for the rest of the world.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “She asked for my aid in something.”

  “Your—aid? In what?”

  “Ah, that I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because many things are told to me in confidence. But be patient—I think you will learn more of this later.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, I think. Things hurry toward their conclusions.”

  “Does it have something to do with the brownie in my house?”

  Margery laughed. “Do you truly have a brownie? I’ve always wanted one.” She turned to look at the confusion around her. “Aye, it might have something to do with him, after all. Does he bring you luck? Would you like some mulled wine?”

  “I would, thank you.” Alice looked on as Margery set out tarnished silver goblets and poured wine in a pot to heat it. Then she gave thought to the woman’s other question, remembering the number of orders she had left at the printshop just an hour before. “I think he does. My business prospers, anyway. But why did he come to me?”

  “Why do they come to anyone? But you must do all you can to keep him.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Never thank him for his labors. Set aside a bowl of milk for him every night, but give him nothing else, or he may consider his wages paid in full and do no more work. Never offend him in any way.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about the—these—”

  “About the Fair Folk? They have not been in London long. An urgent errand brought them here.”

  Alice nearly asked Margery what that errand was, but she felt certain the other woman would not tell her. “But what are they?” she asked. “They are not angels …”

  Margery laughed. “Nay, not angels. But they are very old. The uncovenanted powers, folks call them now.”

  “Then they are not—not godly—”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean by godly.”

  Alice felt a small shock. How could Margery not understand a thing like that? She knew that Margery didn’t go to church, and the knowledge worried her. In the small town where Alice had grown up the other woman would have been fined for her lack of attendance, might have even been accused of being a witch. Here, so close to the city, people’s businesses kept them too occupied to notice her.

  “I mean that it may be unlawful to deal with them,” Alice said. “Perhaps I should have nothing to do with them.”

  “Nothing?”

  Alice had forgotten Brownie. She felt her face grow hot under the other woman’s shrewd gaze. But had that been all that Margery meant by her question? Or did she know something of the future? Had she guessed how strongly Alice was drawn to the splendor of the queen?

  The wine had heated; Margery poured it out and handed her a goblet. It tasted a little odd, and she looked down to see cut tobacco leaves floating on top. And this was the woman to whom the queen had gone for help! But perhaps it was as she had thought: Margery’s other sight kept her from noticing the things everyone else considered important.

  “I hope you’ve spoken to no one else about these—these powers. If your talk should come to the ears of the Privy Council—”

  “Do you think I’ve lost my wits? But no one listens to old women—you know that as well as I do.”

  “We’re not so old,” Alice said. “But you might be right. I’m rarely called on at the Stationers’ Company meetings, and it’s only when another printer repeats my suggestions that they’re taken seriously. Someone tried to flatter me the other day by asking for my advice. I almost believed him—I wanted so much to be accepted by the rest of the company.”

  The conversation turned to the gossip in the churchyard. “George has asked me to marry him,” Alice said.

  “George? That foolish-looking man at Paul’s?” Margery had met Alice when she had gone into London looking for a book. Later one of the other stationers had told Alice he thought the book Margery wanted had last been printed over a hundred years ago. Since then Alice had kept aside things she thought would interest Margery.

  “Do you truly think he looks foolish? He seems to me just the opposite—a man who can never laugh at anything.”

  “Aye, and that’s what makes him a fool. I hope you told him no.”

  “I did. I don’t think I will ever marry again.”

  “You can do better for yourself than George.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I will not marry again. I’m too old for marriage, and I’ve grown too solitary this past year. I’m not suited to live with anyone.”

  “Ah. But you don’t know what fortune has in store for you.”

  “Are you prophesying for me?” Alice laughed, but her heart seemed to lift a little. To marry again, to put an end to her loneliness …

  “Do you want me to?”

  “God forfend,” Alice said.

  5

  Evening had fallen by the time Alice got back to the churchyard. All over the yard stalls stood in shadow; from the gate she could not even make out her own station. Around her the other stationers were putting their books away for the day, closing their stalls, counting out the money they had made.

  When she got to her station she saw that the young man who worked for her had gone. She unlocked her stall, curious to see what he had sold that day. Someone moved toward her from the shadows.

  “Good day, Mistress Wood.”

  It was Tom Nashe. How long had he been waiting for her? His manner seemed urgent; she guessed that he had something to tell her. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, an icy winter’s wind blew through the yard, riffling the pages of her books. She shivered. “What is it, Tom?”

  “I’ve found him.”

  “Found who?”

  “Your son. That is to say, I found him once. He’s gone again.”

  “My—son?”

  “Aye. Arthur. He sits and talks with us sometimes at the Saracen’s Head, but he never told us his name. He has red hair—”

  “Aye,” she said softly, trying not to hope too much.

  “And green eyes, with long lashes. But I fear—”

  “What? What do you fear?”

  “His wits—”

  She had never known Tom to hesitate so much. “His wits are gone,” she said.

  “Not as bad as that. But he calls himself king, speaks of certain prophecies made at his birth … I think his poverty has made him frantic.”

  “That was always one of his fancies, even when he was a small child. He was a king, and we were to do his bidding.” She tried to smile. “Perhaps my husband should not have named him Arthur. But where is he?” She looked around as if Tom might have brought him into the churchyard.

  “I’m trying to tell you. I looked for him all day today, but he’s gone. I’m afraid he might have left because of something I said. When he told me his name I asked him if he was your son, and he grew angry—I had never seen him so angry. He swore to me he was a king and no son of yours. I said I would bring him with me to the churchyard. I think that’s why he’s disappeared.”

  “Then he is alive. But so changed—even when he played at being a king he always knew he was my son. Please let me know if you see him again.”

  “Of course.”

  “What tavern does he frequent?”

  “The Saracen’s Head, in Shoreditch.”

  “Ah,” she said. Arthur, alive—she could barely
credit it.

  Tom took his leave. She nodded to him absently, but all the while her mind was on Arthur. Perhaps she could get someone to go with her to the Saracen’s Head. Her son would know her when he saw her, she felt sure of it.

  “Alice Wood?” someone said, and she looked up in alarm. A man dressed in the livery of the queen stood in front of her stall. She had been so deep in thought she had not even seen him approach.

  “Aye?” she said warily. What did he want with her so late in the day? All her books had been licensed and recorded in the stationers’ registry; he could have checked that for himself.

  “I have a warrant summoning you to court.”

  “A—warrant?”

  “Aye. The queen wants to ask you certain questions.”

  What questions? she nearly asked, but she found that she could guess the answer. If Tom had heard Arthur boast he was a king then others had certainly heard him as well. But where was Arthur now? Did the queen’s men have him? “What—does this concern?” she asked cautiously, careful not to give anything away.

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked down at the warrant and began to read, “… by virtue here of to bring her to Court …” He looked up, seeming to realize only at that moment where he was, surrounded by books of every sort. Probably most of the men and women he summoned to court could not read. With a gesture almost of apology, he handed her the warrant and left.

  She looked at it, the words blurring before her in her anxiety. Who could she turn to? Not George, certainly, and Margery was too unworldly to be of much help. What had Arthur done that Queen Elizabeth herself should take an interest in her?

  She had never been in trouble with the law in her life. She would have to ask Margery for her help, she realized; she had no one else. With a heavy heart, she closed her stall and left the churchyard.

  A week later Christopher stood in the queen’s Council Chamber, looking around him in satisfaction. Busts of great men stood in the corners and carved gold cherubim flew against the ceiling. Two fireplaces faced each other from across the room, each burning what looked like a small tree. Paintings and tapestries lined one side of the hall. Blocks of light, like gold ingots, came through the tall windows on the other side, and as the courtiers stepped into the sun their clothing blazed with color.