A Vision of Light (36 page)

“I am not in the house next door; this is your house, and you are banging on the door of those new people, like a fool.”

“I’m no fool. This is the right house, and you’re next door—and just what are you doing next door?” he asked, with a rising tone of suspicion in his voice.

“You’re drunk! And late! Just what did you do after the guild feast? Speak up and answer!”

“Why, sweetheart,” he said, in an exaggeratedly conciliatory tone, “I stopped off at the house of one of the brethren—on business.”

“On drinking business, you mean! And just who is that with you?”

“’Nother brother. His wife won’t let him in, he says, so I says, my Kate’s a hospitable woman. Stay over with us. But you’ve locked us out, and now you want us to stay next door—”

There was a sound of footsteps as the woman came and grabbed him by the ear and pulled him away from our door.

“Ow! My ear!” we heard him cry.

“You are disgusting! Come in this minute and get away from that woman’s door. She’s a whore, and I know it!”

“She seems nice ’nough to me.”

“She’s no better than she should be. Midwife, ha! She’s far too young. She couldn’t midwife a cat. This neighborhood is going down, I say—” The door slammed, and we heard no more.

That was my problem. The streets of London may be paved with gold, but you need the right sort of shovel to dig it out. I couldn’t get any clients at all. It’s very hard to start up business where you’re not known. It’s a lot different from the village. When we first arrived, we had all of us stayed in a single room, partitioned off at the back of a bakeshop in Cheapside. It was a lot less costly than an inn, because bakeshop owners aren’t allowed to keep overnight guests, that being the business of the Innkeepers’ Guild. But Brother Malachi was something of a master at saving money by living on the shady side, so there we stayed, until he could rent a house for himself and his “tragically newly widowed cousins, whom he supported out of charity.” One day he came back rubbing his hands together.

“Well, my dears, haven’t I always said that the other side of disaster is opportunity? We could never have hoped for such a splendid place before the pestilence made so many rentals free! We would have lived in a rented room forever, but now, thanks to my ingenuity, we have a fabulous great house, perfectly suited to our interests. Envision a veritable palace, with only a slight air of aged dignity!”

We retrieved Moll from her rented stall and together threaded our way through the narrow streets to Cornhill, where, after rounding a corner, Brother Malachi gestured to the right and announced that this was the place. Goods were displayed for sale on the street, mostly odds and ends: some hoods and gloves, cups, spoons, a cooking pan, some knives of various sizes.

“Where is the street?” I asked. “I don’t see any.”

“Right in there,” he gestured. “Secluded, yet central to everything.”

Sure enough. Between the houses fronted by the street vendors, there was a narrow opening with a long, crooked alley visible beyond. It was hardly worthy to be called a street: it was more of a winding gutter, only four or five feet wide, suitable for draining sewage out to the main street. It seemed sunk in shadow, for even in bright daylight the sun could not penetrate between the close-set houses. As we entered the alley, my heart started to sink.

“What’s this place called?” I asked.

“Once it was known as St. Katherine’s Street, I believe, but lately it has acquired the name of ‘Thieves’ Alley.’ Those things for sale out front—they’re mostly stolen, I’m afraid. But the house is a find. Here it is.” Brother Malachi looked very pleased with himself.

One look at the house, and my heart fell all the way down into my shoes. I looked at Hilde, and Hilde looked at me. Her face was long. I thought, I won’t cry for Hilde’s sake. But my eyes pricked and stung. It was the awfulest, ugliest place I could imagine. It was true, it was large. The other houses were shabby two- and three-story tenements, and the far end of the alley was closed off by several tumbledown single-story cottages.

This house was a narrow, two-story old horror, wedged like an aged drunk between two equally drunken companions, a pair of shabby three-storied houses divided up and rented by the floor on either side of it. None of the trio was more than ten feet in its frontage on the alley. There was an arched door with a little gate in it on the left of our house, which gave access to the back garden. Perhaps the house had once been nice. There was a shattered, unpainted window box that held a few scraps of dirt, sagging between the flapping, rotted shutters of the front window below the eaves.

The second story overhung the first by a good three feet, pitching the front door into permanent shadow, and preventing a mounted man from ever being able to ride the length of the alley. Whoever had added the overhang that extended the upper story had given no thought to symmetry, and that, plus the age of the supporting timbers, gave the drunken appearance to the house. The high, pointed roof was missing so many tiles that it reminded me of a gap-toothed smile. There was not a sign of a gutter under the eaves. The house had not been painted in a very long time, and great chunks of faded plaster had fallen out of the outer walls. I heard a rustling sound and saw a great rat leap through one of the holes.

“Don’t look so crestfallen, my dears. It has a real tile roof and a lovely garden in back. You’ll find it quite cozy in time. I got a special discount on the rent in return for the promise of fixing it up.”

Of course. It was a bargain. That explains everything. The roof wouldn’t hold out the slightest drizzle, I thought morosely. Brother Malachi pushed open the side gate. It opened on a narrow walkway that led to both the outside staircase to the second floor and the back garden. We all followed, leading Moll slowly down the hard-packed dirt of the narrow path. The garden was a sunny patch of weeds with a shed for animals. We left Moll tethered in the garden and entered by the back door, which was very smelly from the uncleaned necessary-place that drained into a pit in the back garden. The ground floor consisted of a large back room, with a chimney, and a smaller front room, also with a chimney. Someone must have cared about the house once. Chimneys are rare in old houses. They must have been added later. The upper floor, we were soon to find, also had two rooms. There was not a stick of furniture. The walls had lain unwhitewashed for a good long time, and were crumbling into piles of plaster dust on the floor. Spiders had draped the corners with their webs.

“This back room is quite perfect for my work. A nice corner for my oratory. And it has its own chimney, which is quite convenient, as you’ll soon find out,” announced Brother Malachi. “And now, good-bye for a while, my dears. I must retrieve some goods I have stored with a friend. I’m sure you’ll know what to do.” We watched as he departed out the back door. There, among the weeds, Peter sat, waving a long stalk and grinning cheerfully. Inside, everything was dark and filthy. The rooms smelled of decay. I looked at Hilde, Hilde looked at me, and we embraced and wept.

They say there is nothing that restores a woman so much as cleaning up, and we certainly had a great deal of opportunity for self-restoration in the next few weeks. As we swept and scrubbed, Brother Malachi whistled and arranged strange-looking things in the back room. He had a bellows such as you see in a blacksmith’s shop, and other things much stranger. One he called a crucible, for making very hot fire; there were odd copper jugs with long spouts that he called pelicans, as well as a big jar made of glass with a crooked, pointed mouth that drooped down and sideways. There were stands and tongs and little jars and boxes full of odd-smelling things.

“Ah, ah, don’t touch, little nosy one, some of these things, used wrongly—or, I might add, sniffed up your pretty little nose—could prove deadly,” he cautioned me.

“But what is all this for?” I would ask him.

“No, NO, Margaret, if you must pick up the
vas bermeticum
, don’t set it down so hard you crack it.” Brother Malachi kept on bustling, as if he had something in mind.

“But can’t you tell me even a little?”

“Another time, perhaps, I will confide in you, but just now I must ask that you never speak of it to anyone.”

“You needn’t worry, Brother Malachi,” I’d answer. “I don’t know anyone to tell.”

And it was true, I didn’t. I was young, but I didn’t feel like other young people anymore. And older people don’t want to know a widow without money. It’s suspicious, they think, and besides, they might have to lend her something. Hilde had introduced us to the priest at St. Michael le Querne, where we went to worship, and had convinced him of her competence and honesty as a midwife by demonstrating that she knew the correct form for baptism and explaining that she had buried nine children of her own. But I looked too young to him and had buried only one child, so he saved his recommendations for Hilde. For a while I was content to go with Mother Hilde and add to my own store of knowledge by assisting her. But I soon grew despondent and stayed home, where I would mend, sweep, cook, and snoop in Brother Malachi’s workshop.

“Could you kindly blow the bellows just a bit harder, dear? It needs more heat, this process,” he would say.

“And just what is it you’re doing?” I would ask him.

“Making
aquae regis
by a process known as distillation,” he answered. “The fire causes the spirit to rise, here—and it is trapped—there—and moves down to reappear—right there.” There was something dripping into a container.

“How many times must I tell you not to touch, Margaret? It will dissolve your finger.”

“Well, at least it doesn’t smell as bad as some of the things you do in here. Can’t you ever tell me what it’s all for?”

“Hmmm,” he said, fixing me with a serious stare. “I guess you can keep a secret. Margaret, I am very, very close to the Secret of the Ages.”

“What secret is that?” I was thrilled.

“The secret of Transmutation. When I have penetrated this secret, I will be able to change base metals into gold. I have been working on it for years. I intend to be very, very rich someday.”

My goodness! That was a mighty Secret. I was very swelled up that I knew about it. Brother Malachi swore me to secrecy, not only because of the large amounts of gold we would soon have in our house, but also because some ignorant souls thought that alchemy—the kind of work he was doing—could only be pursued by those who had sold their souls to the Devil.

I was suddenly very concerned. “You haven’t done
that
, have you?”

“Don’t fret yourself in the least, dear child, I would never consider it. I wish to be wealthy and have my soul as well. It wouldn’t be as much fun the other way.”

The smells from the back room got much more unpleasant as the weather got colder and we could not air out the house as easily. When we acted terribly annoyed, one day, he said he would show us something we would like and be grateful for. Setting up the distillery, he made something he called “spirits of wine,” a clear liquid that could be ignited by fire.

“What on earth is it good for?” we asked. When he said it could be drunk, we tried it, but it tasted nasty and made our noses burn.

“It’s completely useless, just like the other things from your room of smells, Brother Malachi,” I chided him.

“Well, Margaret, it’s useful for other things too. One use for which it might find greater approval in your ungenerous heart is as cleaning fluid.” So when we had it, that’s what we used it for. That, and Brother Malachi sealed some in little jars for medicine, which he sold quite successfully at the fair at Cheap.

Eventually I acquired a clientele, but it was a very odd one that brought me no payment at all. However, it raised my spirits considerably, and so it is worthy of mention. Fall had passed without work, and it was now winter, and walking the streets without money had become a dull pursuit. I liked to escape the Smellery as much as possible, and so I wandered out-of-doors by myself, oblivious of any danger. At first I enjoyed the wandering. There were grand palaces to see on the Strand, and the comings and goings of great lords on horseback, followed by their liveried retainers. I would go down to Galley Quay to watch the foreign ships come in. Some were tall, brightly painted vessels with sails, and you could hear the sailors singing in strange tongues. Others were galleys, some with double or triple rows of oars, that bobbed gently at anchor as bales of precious things from the Orient were unloaded.

If you walk along the bank of the river, you can see them bringing the fish into Billingsgate Wharf—but if you don’t buy there, they shout insults. In rough weather I would wander to the great cathedral. There, right in the nave of St. Paul’s itself, every kind of business is transacted; laborers offer themselves for hire, people sell things of dubious origin from underneath their cloaks, and boys play ball. But if you’re a woman alone there, people think you’re seeking an assignation, so I couldn’t stay. It’s not all that cheerful, walking about, wrapped up against the wind in your old cloak, looking at all the houses and places where people have things to do and happy families waiting for them, and knowing that when the street vendor calls, “Hot pies!” you haven’t got a penny for that or anything else. It makes you wonder what’s going to happen to you, and whether you have any purpose being on earth.

So Mother Hilde, who was always busy now, thought to cheer me up by asking my assistance at a confinement outside the walls, where the woman was “big enough for twins.” Together we walked through the twisting streets to Bishopsgate, and into the shabby suburbs beyond. It turned out that it was not twins, but triplets, all born dead, though we saved the mother. She, poor woman, consoled herself for her loss with the thought that she could not have fed all of them anyway. Returning by Moorfields, we saw that the marsh was quite frozen solid and aswarm with little boys sliding on the ice. You could see their breath coming in frosty white puffs as they shouted to each other. Some were pulling each other, and others were holding mock battles, tilting at each other with sticks. But best of all, some sped like the wind. They had something slippery on their feet, and pushed themselves along with two little poles, like crazy things. I was completely taken by it.