by Nick Falk
‘Find him,’ says the Mighty Professor Skeletron, ‘and ask him not to.’
‘Is that man Shaky Spear?’ asks Wendy, pointing at the man in the yellow tights. He’s currently scratching his bottom with a twig. I hope he isn’t Shakespeare. He doesn’t look like the greatest writer in history.
‘No,’ replies the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘That man can’t be Shakespeare. It’s 1576. Shakespeare was born in 1564. So he’ll only be 12 years old.’
‘How do we find him then?’ I ask. I hope the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s got a decent plan. I’ve got to get home quickly. I’m in desperate need of a bath.
The Mighty Professor Skeletron thinks for a moment. ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea,’ he admits.
‘Do you know Shaky Spear?’ Wendy asks a man carrying a pig. He doesn’t answer. ‘Do you know Shaky Spear?’ she asks the man next to him, who’s trying to buy the pig. He doesn’t answer, either.
‘Do you know Shaky Spear?’ persists Wendy, asking every single person we meet.
We’re walking through a bustling market. People are selling animals, vegetables, wool, clothes, needles and wigs. All around us there’s shouting, arguing, muddy puddles and terrible smells. We’re in Stratford-upon-Avon. We know that because it says so on a wooden sign. This is where Shakespeare lived. But we’ve got no idea who Shakespeare is. There are quite a few kids running around, but I don’t think any of them are Shakespeare. Most of them are even dirtier than me. They keep ducking into the crowd and trying to pick people’s pockets. One of them took a snotty tissue out of mine. I hope he likes it. I certainly don’t need it anymore.
‘Do you know Shaky Spear?’ Wendy asks an enormous bearded man whacking horseshoes with a hammer. He’s a blacksmith. We learnt about blacksmiths at school. They heat metal in a fire until it’s bendy and then shape it with a hammer before it cools.
‘Be off with thee, thou smelly young urchin,’ barks the blacksmith, waving his hammer in the air.
People certainly talk oddly around here. The Mighty Professor Skeletron says it’s ‘Elizabethan English.’ Everyone spoke it 400 years ago. But it sounds pretty silly to me.
‘Bridge Street, that’s it,’ says the Mighty Professor Skeletron, pointing at another wooden sign.
There’s a dusty pathway leading off from the market. The wooden houses on either side are leaning into the middle of the street. Some of them have little jetties poking out near the roof. That’s where people tip out their poo pots. Yuck. Mum would have a fit.
‘Bridge Street leads down to the river Avon,’ continues the Mighty Professor Skeletron, ‘and that’s where Shakespeare lived. In a big house near the river. His father was quite an important man.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron knows everything. He’s read pretty much every book that’s ever been written. That’s why his head is so big. It’s stuffed full of facts.
We turn down Bridge Street and wander towards the river. People are giving us very strange looks. Particularly Wendy. She’s wearing the type of sneakers that light up every time she takes a step. Passers-by are looking a bit nervous. I reckon they’re worried she’s a witch.
‘I’m still cold,’ mutters Yesterday Sid, trudging along beside us. ‘How long is this going to take?’
‘As long as it needs to,’ I snap. ‘What do you want us to do? Send Shakespeare a text message?’
‘An email would be quicker,’ grunts Yesterday Sid, booting a pebble with his slipper.
‘You’re an idiot,’ I mutter at him.
‘Yeah, well, you’ll be me tomorrow,’ says Yesterday Sid.
I grit my teeth. Yesterday Me is really starting to get on my nerves.
‘Do you think they know Shaky Spear?’ asks Wendy. She points to the end of the street.
A group of big kids are standing in a circle. They’re laughing at something. We walk a bit closer.
Oh. That’s what they’re laughing at. There’s a kid like me in the middle of them. A weedy kid. The big kids are pushing him back and forth. It’s just like the bullies in my school.
‘Cometh, little Willy,’ jeers a spotty kid. ‘Tell us a tale!’
‘B-B-B …’ stutters the weedy kid, staggering around the circle.
‘He cannot speaketh,’ sneers a snotty kid, shoving the weedy kid in the back. ‘The cat hath got his tongue.’
‘G-G-G …’ splutters the weedy kid, desperately trying to say something.
‘Fie, he is nothing but a pig-faced loon,’ cackles a grotty kid. ‘See how he jibbers when he talks?’
The weedy kid is getting redder and redder in the face. But, try as he might, the words just won’t come out. And the more he stammers, the more the bullies laugh.
‘That’s not fair,’ says Wendy. ‘Those boys are being mean.’
‘At least they’re not picking on us,’ wheedles Yesterday Sid. ‘C’mon, let’s turn around before they notice us.’
Clearly Yesterday Sid has never met my sister. Wendy marches straight up to the bullies, hands on her hips.
‘Leave him alone!’ she shouts.
The snotty kid turns around. ‘Looketh hither,’ he cackles. ‘What manner of urchin is this?’
‘I’m not an urchin,’ snaps Wendy. ‘And you’re just a silly great poo.’ She swings her leg back and kicks him soundly in the shins.
CRACK!
‘Foul vixen!’ shrieks Snotty, hopping up and down. ‘I shalt teach thee and thy friends some manners!’ He picks up a large stick.
‘I think,’ pipes up the Mighty Professor Skeletron, ‘it might be wise to run away.’
An excellent suggestion. I race forward, grab Wendy by the arm and we all leg it towards the river.
‘W-W-Wait for me!’ squeaks the weedy kid, bringing up the rear.
We sprint down an alley, skip past some geese and race across an old stone bridge. The bullies are right behind us.
‘Th-this way,’ stutters the weedy kid. ‘I kn-knoweth a place we can hide.’
We veer left through a gate. Behind it are some wooden barrels. We duck down behind them and hold our breaths.
Spotty reaches the gate, stops and scratches his head. ‘Where did they goeth?’ he says out loud.
I’m amazed he can’t see us. We’re only about a metre away from him.
‘They must hath gone the other way,’ replies Snotty, catching up with Spotty.
The bullies hang around for a few more seconds, and then they lope off around the corner. Ha! Idiots. Good to see bullies were just as stupid back in Elizabethan times.
WHACK!
A rock flies over the gate and thwacks me smack bang on the forehead. I just have time to hear the laughing bullies run off before my legs give way and I hit the ground with a thud.
‘Sidney. Wake up!’
A voice is calling me. I’ve just had the most awful nightmare. I dreamt I’d travelled back in time and I was covered in poo and big scary bullies were chasing me over a bridge.
‘Wake up!’
I open my eyes. I blink.
I’m in a small wooden room with an open fire burning in the corner. I’m lying on a scratchy straw mattress and I’ve got an enormous lump on my head. GAH! It was all true!
‘How are you feeling?’ asks Wendy.
I blink again. My sister is standing next to the bed, the Mighty Professor Skeletron beside her. I stifle a giggle.
‘What are you wearing?’ I ask.
Wendy is wearing a dress. A pink frilly dress. I’ve never seen her in a dress before. She looks silly. And I would be laughing at her, if it wasn’t for the fact that the Mighty Professor Skeletron looks ABSOLUTELY ridiculous.
‘It wasn’t my choice,’ he remarks.
He’s got stockings on. Purple stockings. And he’s wearing underpants OUTSIDE his stockings. At least they look like underpants. They’re puffy little pant-like things with ribbons on them. He looks like a really rubbish Superman. On his top half he’s wearing a tight buttoned-up jacket. And around his
neck – haha! – it’s so silly I can hardly even describe it … around his neckhe’s wearing some sort of tutu. It’s like a frilly ballerina skirt that sticks out past his shoulders. He looks like a complete and utter idi–
‘There’s yours,’ he says, pointing to the bottom of the bed.
Oh. There’s a pile of clothes near my feet. Stockings, Superman pants, jacket and ballerina skirt.
‘It’s called a ruff,’ says the Mighty Professor Skeletron, pointing at the tutu.
‘What? Like a dog?’ I ask.
‘Yes, like a dog,’ he agrees.
‘Ruff, ruff, ruff!’ Wendy grins, waiting for me to get dressed.
I’m jealous now. Why didn’t I get to wear the dress?
‘Where’s Yesterday Sid?’ I ask.
‘There,’ replies the Mighty Professor Skeletron, pointing to the other side of the bed. Yesterday Sid is sprawled face-first on the mattress, snoring like a buffalo.
‘What happened to him?’ I ask.
‘He got knocked out too,’ says Wendy. ‘He got scared when the bullies threw the rock and ran into a wall.’
Dearie me. I really am a disgrace. Moody. Weedy. Malcoordinated. I’ve got to sort myself out.
‘Aha! The little sir is awake!’
A woman comes into the room. She’s wearing a flowery dress and a white cloth hat on her head. ‘I hope my children’s clothing fitteth thou,’ she says. ‘It hast proved a fine fit for thy friends.’
I smile weakly at her as she puts a cup of warm milk on the bed stand.
‘Well,’ she says, beaming at each of us in turn. ‘Dinner will be ready ’ere long. Hopefully thy twin will awaketh by then.’
My twin? Oh right. She means Yesterday Sid. I nod, still fake-smiling, and watch as she leaves the room.
‘Who was she?’ I ask, taking a sip of warm milk.
‘Shaky Spear’s mum,’ replies Wendy.
‘PFFFFFTT!’ I spit warm milk all over the bedspread.
‘What did you say?’ I splutter.
‘Exactly what you heard,’ replies the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘That boy we rescued from the bullies was Shakespeare. He brought us back to his house after you two got knocked out. You’re wearing his spare pyjamas.’
He’s right. I’m wearing a frilly night shirt, which certainly doesn’t belong to me.
‘So what do we do now?’ I ask.
‘Stay for tea, I hope.’ The Mighty Professor Skeletron grins. ‘We’re having pig trotter broth. It smells delicious.’
It looks disgusting. I watch as half a hoof floats to the top of my bowl. A gurgling sound escapes my throat.
‘Eateth up, young sir,’ says the teenage girl across the table. ‘Thou wilt be hungry aft’r such an eventful day.’
That’s Shakespeare’s older sister, Joan. She smiles encouragingly.
I take a deep breath and pick up my spoon. I may as well get it over with.
‘So, tell me, what are your views on Copernicus’ theory of interplanetary orbits?’ asks the Mighty Professor Skeletron, who is having a brilliant time. He’s tucking into the food, marvelling aloud at its ‘primitive splendour’ and quizzing Shakespeare’s dad about 16th-century science. Fortunately, no-one can understand a word he’s saying.
‘Mine thanks for aiding wee William today,’ says Shakespeare’s mum, leaning towards me. ‘He hath been bullied by those scallywags for months.’
‘They were mean,’ interjects Wendy, sucking juice off her trotter. ‘So I kicked one and called him a poo.’
‘I knoweth not what that means,’ says Shakespeare’s mum politely, ‘but I’m sure ’twas well deserved.’
‘Deserved or not,’ pipes up Shakespeare’s dad, doing his best to ignore the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s questions, ‘why can’t the boy standeth up for himself? He hath pass’d twelve years this spring! He cannot fighteth. He cannot rideth. He’s a disgrace to the Shakepeare name!’
‘Now now, John,’ says Shakespeare’s mum, placating him. ‘Hath patience with the boy. He’ll discovereth his talent in time.’
‘Talent,’ mutters Shakespeare’s dad, shaking his head, ‘the boy hath none. His brain’s as dry as yonder biscuit.’
Throughout this, William Shakespeare sits in silence. He hasn’t said a word all meal. He’s a skinny boy, a bit smaller than me, with a pointy nose and spots on his chin. He’s looking down at his food, poking at it with his spoon.
‘Didst thou have a bad day at school, Will?’ asks Joan. ‘Didst Mr Haddock pick on thee again?’
William nods, his lower lip wobbling.
‘Is it to do with the scribing contest?’ prompts Joan.
William nods again. ‘I hast to scribe a story,’ he whimpers. ‘Otherwise, he’s going to put me in the stocks.’ A single tear runs down his cheek. His father grunts and shakes his head again in disapproval.
‘William hath struggles with his schoolwork,’ Shakespeare’s mum explains. ‘He finds it hard to thinketh of what to scribe.’
‘EUREKA!’ shrieks the Mighty Professor Skeletron, leaping to his feet. He’s had another light-bulb moment. He looks at me and indicates the other side of the room with his thumb.
‘Er, would you excuse us,’ I say, standing up. ‘My friend and I just need to … um … have a quick word about something.’
Shakespeare’s mum smiles and stands up. ‘Taketh thy time,’ she says, smoothing out her dress. ‘I shalt fetch our main course from the stove.’ I wait for her to walk into the kitchen and then I cross the room to talk to the Mighty Professor Skeletron.
‘What’s got into you?’ I hiss at him. ‘You made me spill soup on my stockings.’
‘That was it! That was the answer!’ he whispers excitedly.
‘What was it? What was the answer?’ I whisper back.
‘The scribing contest! Shakespeare being put in the stocks!’
‘What? Why is that the answer to anything?’
‘Because that’s where it starts, don’t you see? The experience is so humiliating Shakespeare decides he can never let it happen again. That’s what sets him off. That’s what starts him writing. That’s the thing we have to stop.’
I think for a moment. ‘What? So we have to stop him from writing the story?’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron rolls his eyes. ‘No, you idiot. We have to help him write the story. That way he won’t get humiliated. And that way he’ll stay as useless at writing as you!’
That’s a bit rude. But it does make sense, in a slightly insane sort of way.
‘Art thou all right?’ asks Shakespeare’s dad, a worried look on his face.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, ‘sorry about that. We just forgot we had –’
‘Nowhere else to sleep tonight,’ interrupts the Mighty Professor Skeletron, grinning broadly. He strides back to the table, sits down and tucks his napkin into his ruff. ‘So I’m afraid we’ll have to stay here.’
Shakespeare’s dad hesitates for a moment, looking a bit gobsmacked. ‘Er … yes. By all means,’ he stammers. ‘I’m sure that shalt be –’
‘WHERE AM I AND WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?’
Yesterday Sid barges into the room, eyes completely wild. He’s got his stockings on over his pyjamas and he’s wearing his ruff upside down. Clearly he got hit on the head harder than we thought.
‘Ah! Thou hast awoken.’ Shakespeare’s mum smiles as she carries a steaming dish into the room. ‘Thou art just in time for the Pigsnout Pie!’
Yesterday Sid turns around, takes one look at the pie and collapses in a dead faint on the floor.
‘Sorry about my brother,’ I say. ‘He’s not quite right in the head.’
‘THINKETH, THINKETH, THINKETH, THINKETH!’ Shakespeare is slumped over his desk. ‘Why does scribing vex me so?’ he moans. ‘Thinketh as I might, no words will come!’
‘Tell me about it,’ consoles Yesterday Sid, arm around Shakespeare’s shoulders. ‘You and me, we’re just the same. We’re cursed.’
It’s late eve
ning. Shakespeare’s parents have gone to bed, I’ve survived my trip to the outdoor toilet (Wendy almost fell in), and we’ve brushed our teeth with vinegar. But we can’t think of a story for Shakespeare. And that’s bad news. If his teacher humiliates him tomorrow, he’s going to end up becoming the most famous writer in history. And nobody wants that. It’ll end up causing an alien invasion and the end of all life on Earth.
‘What we need,’ mutters the Mighty Professor Skeletron, pacing up and down Shakespeare’s bedroom, ‘is a cat.’
I watch him as he paces. He’s still got his ruff on. He’s taken a fancy to it and says he wants to sleep in it. To be honest, he looks like an overgrown chicken.
‘What do we need a cat for?’ I ask.
The Mighty Professor Skeletron rolls his eyes. ‘For inspiration, of course. Why else would anybody need a cat?’
‘But Inspiration hasn’t been born yet,’ I reply. ‘It’s 1576.’
‘Of course Inspiration hasn’t been born yet,’ he says. ‘But we don’t need that much inspiration, we just need a bit of inspiration. And all cats can prognosticate a little. Anyway, where else are we going to get an idea from?’
‘I could try hitting Shaky Spear on the head with a hammer,’ suggests Wendy hopefully.
The Mighty Professor Skeletron shakes his head. ‘Sadly, we don’t have the right sort of hammer,’ he says. ‘Plastic won’t be invented until 1907.’
We leave Yesterday Sid consoling Shakespeare and sneak out of the house. It’s pitch black outside. There aren’t any streetlights in Elizabethan England. The stars look amazing. You can see the whole Milky Way spread across the sky.
‘HERE, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!’ Wendy calls, being careful not to wake up Shakespeare’s parents. ‘PSST, PSST, PSST,’ she purrs.
‘Art thou in the market for a moggy?’ croaks a voice in the darkness.
We creep closer. There’s a tramp in tattered rags lying in a puddle. His face is covered in bubbling boils. ‘I hath a moggy right here,’ he says, holding up a depressed-looking cat.
