In the Shadow of Shakespeare (7 page)

“Culti…What?”

 “A
plant you find in a garden.”

 “Oh. 
I really don’t know.”

“If
it’s wild I’ll have to refer you to botany.”

 “Great,” 
Alice rolled her eyes.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 “Do
you know how to get here?”

 “Yes.”

 “Okay. 
See you then.”

She
opened the refrigerator, picked up the rose.  Beads of moisture had formed
in the bag so she poked a little hole in the zip lock to let out some of the
condensation.  Shutting the refrigerator door, she decided she would make
an early night of it.  She picked
The
Jew of Malta
off the
table and went upstairs to bed to read. 

Chapter 11

The
days had been hot and bright and Kate had taken Christopher outside with her
whenever she could.  Kate swept the floor, trying to keep the dust to a
minimum.  It had been hard to keep the dust flying up from the floor with
so little rain.  

Christopher
stood next to the table watching her.  He no longer played underneath the
table with Mary’s old poppet.  He was now content to leave it lying in the
bed. 

Mostly
silent, he had been getting over Mary’s death slowly.  He was content to
listen to her tell stories and quietly play by him self outside or in the
corner.  Kate had noticed that he would stare into the sky and watch the
clouds, a smile on his face.   She would watch as he would sit in a
patch of sun by the window.  He could sit like that for a long time.

But
today he looked a little sad, a little forlorn, and Kate became concerned.
She  placed her broom in the corner and picked up a basket. 

“Come
Christopher.  Let us pick some apples.”  She smiled and held out her
hand.  He took her hand and let himself be led out the door.  Kate
left baby Margaret with the neighbor woman, Anne, who often helped out in
return for watching her small ones. 

A
few doors down they were met by a beggar.

 “Hungry,
please.”  The woman held out her hand.  A hand that was dirty and
skin and bones.

 “Go,
tush
.”  Kate waved her on.  She was worried about the
increasing amount of beggars who roamed the streets Canterbury.  She heard
they were coming because of the plague in London.  Creeping along the
streets, they slept alongside the houses for warmth.  When you opened the
door in the morning there often was a beggar in front of it.  Many of them
were drunks and would wait outside a tavern for a keg to burst so they could
fill their mugs. 

They
walked past the market square where vendors hawked their wares.

 “Bread! 
Fresh bread!”  A woman called out to her.

Kate
smiled.  The woman was Bess Parker, a neighbor.

 “Surely
Bess, you have saved the plumpest loaf for me.”  Kate handed her some
coins.

 “Christopher
looks well.”   Bess placed the loaf in Kate’s basket and handed him a
piece of bread crust.  “You’ll be working with your father soon
enough.”  she nodded.

Christopher
clung to Kate’s skirts.  “Yes, soon enough.  He has been ill. 
Ever since Mary’s death you know.  Goody said to take him out, get him
some air.  Tell the old tales to him.  That sort of thing.”

Bess
frowned.  “The old tales?  I’ve heard it said that Goody Frye is a
witch.  Can charm the moths from the shadows with the light of her
eyes.” 

 “The
old tales are for healing Bess.  Christopher needs to be talked to, not
shut up in a room with his father, mending and making soles.”  She had
forgotten how pious Bess Parker was – this was a woman with Puritan
leanings. 

 “Souls
mama?”  Christopher tugged at her skirt.  “Like God making
them?  Is papa like God?”

The
two women laughed.  “He is a clever one my Christopher.  He’ll be a
poet this one.  Thank you Mistress Parker, for the bread.  We will
gather some apples now.”  Kate bowed her head in deference to the older woman. 

They
began walking away. 

 “I’ll
see you in church, Kate?”  Bess called after her.

Kate
turned, nodded.  Christopher looked back, noticed that Bess was frowning,
watching them walk away.

 “Mama,
why does that woman say Goody is a witch?”

 “Because
she thinks that – Christopher, there are some people that care only for what
they
think God is.  They do not care for the old stories, or old
festivals.”  Kate didn’t understand what it had to do with the old
festivals: the maypoles, or the Morrice Dancers, but it did.  Now some
folk were even raising objection to the mystery plays.

Kate
thought of the plays.  The traveling guilds would usually arrive in
spring; bringing their troop of actors.  The play that had been performed
that year was
Mary Magdalene.
  Jesus had sung a beautiful song to
his mother, the Moon.  He sang of how he rested with his moon mother, the
vessel, and then ascended to the Sun.  Christopher had been fascinated
with the play.  She remembered how wide his eyes had gotten after Jesus had
disappeared in a puff of smoke.  He had sat and looked at the actors and
watched them on their portable stage long after everyone had left.  An
actor had noticed his interest and invited him up on the stage, showing him the
hole where smoke was emitted and Jesus had disappeared. 

They
had arrived at the small grove of trees.  Christopher had been
silent.  Kate examined the apples, they appeared small, probably from lack
of rain, she thought.

“What
is a witch, mama?”  He held a small apple in his hand, looking for worm
holes.

“A
witch?  I don’t know what a witch is Christopher.”

“Is
a witch
bad
?”

Kate
thought for a moment.  She looked at the clear blue sky, lacy clouds
moving towards the center.  It was going to be another hot day.  “The
people who call women
weird
, or witches, yes, they think they are bad.”

“Bad? 
How are they bad?”

“Ah…Perchance
they cast evil spells on people and that sort of thing.” 

“Goody
is not bad.”  He looked at her, concerned.  Satisfied his apple did
not contain a worm hole, he took a large bite.

“No,
Goody is not bad.  Goody is wise.  She knows things that women
younger than her do not.” 

“Does
she know where our Mary is?”

Kate
stopped, looked at him.  The eyes – they were so big and brown.  She
wanted to cry out then. 
Why had this happened?
But it always was
happening.  It could happen again, would most likely happen again. 
And yet, she needed to get on, they
all
had needed to go on.  Even
Christopher.  But he was so curious, his mind was always spinning. 

“I
don’t know Christopher.  There are some…such as Mistress Parker…who would
say Mary was with God in heaven.”

“Is
she mama?”

Kate
smiled, thought of the mystery play.  “Mary is resting with the mother
Moon, and after a time, she will come back again.”

“Where
will we find her then?” 

She
looked down at his face, those trusting eyes.  At his feet was a small
delicate flower.  She picked the tiny thing and handed it to him.

“In
something small and lovely.
 
Something
that is beautiful and comes back year after year.
 
Something that is not destroyed.” 

Chapter 12

The
campus of Michigan State University was a kaleidoscope of color as Alice drove
past the old Botany building looking for a place to park.  Every available
space declared, “University Vehicles Only.”  Disappointed, she took the
winding drive past Forestry and Horticulture, then past Administration and
around again. 

She
finally found a spot next to the old music building.  A mile from where I
need to be, she thought.  She slowly walked past the figure of a
Sparticus, trailing a robe behind him. Nicknamed Sparty, the university mascot,
he stood in the middle of one of the campus’s many traffic circles. 

She
followed the curving drive lined with ancient maples to the old part of campus
and found the Horticultural building.  Alice opened the heavy wooden doors
and checked the office numbers listed on the wall, looking for an Anita
Bernadino.  She found the office in back, nested tightly in the corner
with two other offices on either side.  She knocked, reading the cartoons
on the door – mainly Far Side comics concerning plants.

 “It’s
open.”

Alice
walked inside.  The girl who sat at a desk looked about twenty, had short
blond hair, and wore thick glasses.  A smear of acne was on her
forehead. 

 “Anita?”

 “It’s
me.” 

 “I’m
Alice Petrovka.”  She stuck out her hand which Anita grabbed and pumped
enthusiastically. 

 “The
rose woman.  This is great, just great.  I haven’t had an ID in
awhile, been bogged down in all of this professorial research.  Well, you
know how it is, huh?  Didn’t you say you were a teacher?  I hope you
treat your grad students better than this, my major professor works me to
death.”  She smiled, rolling her eyes.

 “Actually,
I’m a high school English teacher.”

 “Oh.” 
Anita looked dismayed.

 “But
I understand completely.  My husband was in research for awhile at the
university before he branched off into his own business.  He always
treated his grad students well.” 

 “Really?
What is his field?”

“Psychology.”

 “Oh.” 
Anita looked disappointed and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her
nose. 

Alice
had a feeling that if they didn’t talk about botany there wouldn’t be much to
talk about.  She pulled the baggy out of her purse.

 “Ah…The
treasure.”  Anita reached for a pair of tweezers and opened the bag.

Do
you mind?”

“Of
course not.”

She
carefully pulled the flower from the bag.  “I’m really glad you
called.  I have a real fondness for roses.  Do you ever walk the MSU
gardens?”

Alice
nodded.  “There must be at least twenty different types of roses there.”

 “Twenty
two to be exact.”

The
flower dangled between them.

“Wow. 
Where did you get this?”

 “In
the garden in back of the library.”

Anita
frowned.  “On campus?”

 “Oh
no, sorry, at the public library.”        “I
could see you getting it, maybe, just maybe, around here.  But not over at
the public library.”

 “Why
do you say that?”

 “I
don’t think someone would be toting this little beauty around behind that
library.”

 “I’m
sorry Anita, but will you tell me what it
is
?”

Anita
had been staring intently at the rose; reached for a book.  “I think what
you have here hasn’t been around for at least three hundred years.  Maybe
four.”

Alice
felt her heart begin to pound.  “What are you saying?”

 “Just
that.  No one has seen this type of rose for a very long time.  Well,
maybe in someone’s special collection.  We have people here who do that
sort of thing.  Have special collections they’ve developed from rare
plants.  But other than us hort nerds, I just can’t see anyone running around
with sort of thing.”

Alice
felt as though all the oxygen was being sucked from the room.  Her face
began to flush and she started to feel dizzy.  She sat in a chair next to
Anita.

 “What’s
wrong?  You don’t look so hot.  Or maybe you do, your face is all
red.”

 “I’m
alright, it’s just that…”  She debated telling Anita any more.

 “So,
you just found this thing lying on the ground you said?”

 “Yes. 
Well, a young man had dropped it, and I…Picked it up. I felt that it was
different somehow, so I called you.”  Alice wondered if the story sounded
plausible, or if she sounded like a complete idiot

 “Maybe
the young man was four hundred years old.”  Anita smiled.

Alice
swallowed.  Anita had no idea how close to the truth she actually was.

 “This
much I do know:  this type of rose was cultivated in England around three
to four hundred years ago.  Of course, it isn’t just any old flower, only
the English aristocracy would have such things.  But I’d like to keep this
little thing and confer with a professor here who, believe it or not, knows
more than I do.”  Anita dropped the flower back in the bag. 

 “Sure. 
Keep it and let me know.” 

 “It
shouldn’t take very long.  I’ll give you a call later.”

 “Alright,
thanks for your time.”  Alice opened the door as Anita placed the flower
in a small fridge by her desk. 

 “What
we can’t ID, we eat.”  Anita laughed.  “Just kidding.  I will
take good care of your flower.”