Read Online Alchemy and Meggy Swann by Karen Cushman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Karen Cushman
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Girls & Women
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responded.
"But you said—"
"I said naught. Naught."
She prayed she had merely misunderstood, that her robustious imagination had caused these fancies of poison and death. She looked at Master Peevish, who was bent over a book, turning the pages with sooty fingers. Were those the hands of a murderer? His face was moody and troubled, not murderous. But her fear did not vanish, merely shriveled into a tiny, uncomfortable knot.
Heating glass and clay vessels was a treacherous business. They often cracked or shattered. That day Master Ambrose showed her how to prepare a cement for mending the repairable breaks—old cheese, roots, pitch, boiled horses' hooves, and turpentine. Boiled all together, they emitted a stench so horrendous, Meggy thought she would heave her gorge as she stirred, but she did not and was rewarded with a nod.
The sun was high in the sky when the master said, "Mistress, err, mistress, I wish you to go to Master Pomfret's shop, in the alley off Paul's Chain at the west end of the city. Tell him I require a worm condenser."
"Aye, certes," she said. "What is a worm condenser?"
"You need not concern yourself. Master Pomfret knows."
The alchemist described the quickest way to Paul's Chain, and Meggy, her sack over her shoulder, set off. A warm, dry, gritty wind blew her west along Candlewick Street, and then Budge Row, with its lamb skinners and fur merchants. Blue-coated apprentices called copper pots and silver knives. Peddlers offered oysters, meat pies, cesspit cleaning. Vendors balanced baskets of produce on their heads or carried open pails of fly-speckled milk for sale.
Beggars grabbed and shoved and howled their misery. One of them screeched to another, "Leave my corner, you wart-necked, flap-mouthed maggot!" and Meggy remembered trading insults with Roger so many weeks ago. What did the boy now? Was he busy with his playmaking? Was that why he did not come to see her? Had he forgotten his pledge of friendship?
She walked on. Some streets were wider and houses larger, and there she saw shops offering fur-trimmed cloaks and leather-bound books; compasses and drinking goblets of silver and gold; coifs, gorgets, sleeves, and ruffs for the fashionable. Men in richly furred robes and gold chains passed by, and fine ladies with pomanders held to their noses. A man with a ruff so big it looked like he carried his head on a platter gave Meggy a merry laugh until, with a shiver, she remembered the heads on London Bridge.
The sun shone more fiercely and the day grew hot. Meggy stopped a moment to cool her head, rest her aching legs, and ease her sore hands. "Come and buy the latest ballad," said a ballad seller suddenly beside her. "'Antiprognostication,' it is called, an invective against the vain and unprofitable predictions of astrologers. Or this epitaph upon the death of..." He took a closer look at Meggy and said, "Belike not that one for a fair young mistress. Here be a tale of romance and betrayal:
Young Johnstone and the young colonel sat drinking at the wine,
" the ballad seller sang. "
Oh if ye would marry my sister, then I would marry thine.
"
Meggy shook her head. "'Tis a fine story, but I have no pennies to spend." The ballad seller shrugged and turned away, but Meggy did have a question. She pulled at his sleeve and pointed to the great building with spires and towers she had seen ahead of her for some while. "Be that the queen's palace?"
"Nay, mistress, 'tis Paul's, the greatest church in Christendom," said the ballad seller. "Know you not St. Paul's?"
St. Paul's seemed more a small city than a church. Houses and shops bordered the churchyard. Meggy passed the barbershop of one Master Tiffin, a button shop even smaller than her own small house, and stalls selling pins, pens, and paper.
Inside the yard was the great church, with its charred and broken steeple, vast covered galleries, an outdoor pulpit with roof and a cross atop, and centuries of grave markers. Bookshops and stalls
"But you said—"
"I said naught. Naught."
She prayed she had merely misunderstood, that her robustious imagination had caused these fancies of poison and death. She looked at Master Peevish, who was bent over a book, turning the pages with sooty fingers. Were those the hands of a murderer? His face was moody and troubled, not murderous. But her fear did not vanish, merely shriveled into a tiny, uncomfortable knot.
Heating glass and clay vessels was a treacherous business. They often cracked or shattered. That day Master Ambrose showed her how to prepare a cement for mending the repairable breaks—old cheese, roots, pitch, boiled horses' hooves, and turpentine. Boiled all together, they emitted a stench so horrendous, Meggy thought she would heave her gorge as she stirred, but she did not and was rewarded with a nod.
The sun was high in the sky when the master said, "Mistress, err, mistress, I wish you to go to Master Pomfret's shop, in the alley off Paul's Chain at the west end of the city. Tell him I require a worm condenser."
"Aye, certes," she said. "What is a worm condenser?"
"You need not concern yourself. Master Pomfret knows."
The alchemist described the quickest way to Paul's Chain, and Meggy, her sack over her shoulder, set off. A warm, dry, gritty wind blew her west along Candlewick Street, and then Budge Row, with its lamb skinners and fur merchants. Blue-coated apprentices called copper pots and silver knives. Peddlers offered oysters, meat pies, cesspit cleaning. Vendors balanced baskets of produce on their heads or carried open pails of fly-speckled milk for sale.
Beggars grabbed and shoved and howled their misery. One of them screeched to another, "Leave my corner, you wart-necked, flap-mouthed maggot!" and Meggy remembered trading insults with Roger so many weeks ago. What did the boy now? Was he busy with his playmaking? Was that why he did not come to see her? Had he forgotten his pledge of friendship?
She walked on. Some streets were wider and houses larger, and there she saw shops offering fur-trimmed cloaks and leather-bound books; compasses and drinking goblets of silver and gold; coifs, gorgets, sleeves, and ruffs for the fashionable. Men in richly furred robes and gold chains passed by, and fine ladies with pomanders held to their noses. A man with a ruff so big it looked like he carried his head on a platter gave Meggy a merry laugh until, with a shiver, she remembered the heads on London Bridge.
The sun shone more fiercely and the day grew hot. Meggy stopped a moment to cool her head, rest her aching legs, and ease her sore hands. "Come and buy the latest ballad," said a ballad seller suddenly beside her. "'Antiprognostication,' it is called, an invective against the vain and unprofitable predictions of astrologers. Or this epitaph upon the death of..." He took a closer look at Meggy and said, "Belike not that one for a fair young mistress. Here be a tale of romance and betrayal:
Young Johnstone and the young colonel sat drinking at the wine,
" the ballad seller sang. "
Oh if ye would marry my sister, then I would marry thine.
"
Meggy shook her head. "'Tis a fine story, but I have no pennies to spend." The ballad seller shrugged and turned away, but Meggy did have a question. She pulled at his sleeve and pointed to the great building with spires and towers she had seen ahead of her for some while. "Be that the queen's palace?"
"Nay, mistress, 'tis Paul's, the greatest church in Christendom," said the ballad seller. "Know you not St. Paul's?"
St. Paul's seemed more a small city than a church. Houses and shops bordered the churchyard. Meggy passed the barbershop of one Master Tiffin, a button shop even smaller than her own small house, and stalls selling pins, pens, and paper.
Inside the yard was the great church, with its charred and broken steeple, vast covered galleries, an outdoor pulpit with roof and a cross atop, and centuries of grave markers. Bookshops and stalls
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