For This Is Hell

by Steven Savile

  Then he stopped dead in his tracks and glowered at an imagined foe. “But Iarbas sees the lovesick sidelong glances the young queen receives her guardsman, and worse for him by far, like daggers to his own heart, he sees the return of those ardent looks. He begs the counselors to intercede on his behalf, hoping they might sway Elissa to his favor—but it is not love that motivates him now, now it is about power and shame. He warns of dire consequences if he does not win her. Frightened, the counselors forbid Elissa to wed Barcas and demand that she marry the wizard instead.” Marlowe turned and turned about before stepping back half a pace. He shook his head at the patch of ground he had just vacated. “But Elissa’s love has made her strong in ways none could have anticipated, and she finds it in her to defy the council, rising to true rulership at last and reminding them that they exist to serve at her pleasure, not she at theirs. It is true love. She and Barcas pledge their mutual devotion, and plan to wed.” Another skipping, giggling turn about the stage. This was his world.

  “When Iarbas learns of this, he is not merely vexed, he is furious. His anger knows no bounds,” Marlowe muttered, ceasing his cantering and capering in favor of a fearsome pose. The torches guttered, drawn to flicker toward him as he crossed his arms once more and glowered at his imaginary foe. The firelight gleamed within his dark eyes. “He vows that if he cannot have the queen, no one shall, and so blackened is his soul he resorts to the darkest of arts. He steals Elissa from the safety of her palace and spirits her away to his lair, there to take her life forever. But all is not lost! Barcas gives chase, mind set on saving his love with all haste, and bursts in upon them as Iarbas prepares to feed Elissa to the flames he has conjured for this black purpose!”

  The flames danced higher around the gallery, as if excited by this mention of their brethren—their glow cast long shadows across the full length of the stage, but Marlowe’s face was lit as though from within. On the planks at his feet, the shadows swept outward, much like the wings of a majestic bird.

  “Barcas leaps forward, love lending speed to his limbs. He pushes Elissa to safety, and hurls himself at the wizard. But Iarbas is too strong for him!” Marlowe mimed the conflict, swaying back and forth as though he too fought an overpowering foe. “Barcas knows he cannot hold his rival for long, and most certainly cannot win. And yet he cannot allow Iarbas to emerge victorious, for it will mean the death of Elissa! What is he to do? How can he save his love? In desperation, the young guard hurls himself backward into the very flames intended to consume the queen—and drags the wizard with him!”

  Marlowe hurled himself backward, echoing his words, and landed hard on his back, sprawled across the stage floor. The shadows scattered around him, skittering to the corners and leaving him a pool of reflected light from the torches, which now burned merrily, sensing their moment was at hand.

  “Iarbas dies screaming! His pain within the heat of the fire is all-consuming! Barcas burns as well, but there is salvation in the flames. His noble sacrifice is not the end for the young guard. Instead he is reborn!” Marlowe reached for the sky, mimicking the rising firebird climbing into the air. The torches burst apart, snapping and cackling dementedly as their flames consumed them. The gallery turned day-bright. The only remaining shadows gathered behind Marlowe’s back, taking refuge there from the lights that assailed them.

  “Barcas rises again, not as a man, no, not as a man but as the glorious Phoenix!” And now the playwright waved his arms like wings, and the shadows responded, forming a bird beneath him, etched against the light. “And love is triumphant, magnificent, and immortal!”

  Marlowe stayed that way for a moment, arms held high, the light blazing. But then the torches guttered and went out, spent, leaving the darkness to reclaim the theatre once more.

  “Now if only I could write the damned thing,” he muttered, pushing himself up and resting on his elbows. He sighed. “And if only wishes had wings, they might fly.”

  Damn it all to hell. The story was there, just waiting to be told. It was eager, even. He could feel it bursting up inside him like the firebird itself. So why, then, why why why were the words so resistant? It was as though something were holding them back, a block within him, and try as he might he could not force them to come, nor could he coax them, or beg or bully. They simply refused to emerge.

  “But I will persevere,” he vowed, clambering back to his feet. “I will master those ill-tempered words. For I am Marlowe, and my words will shine forth like the light of the Phoenix!”

  With that, the playwright strode from the stage, the words lingering behind him in the gloom, their promise hanging in the air even as the shadows consumed the space utterly.

  Scene Two

  As our hero is forced to defend himself against three fat men who would silence him forever

  “Come on, come on!” Marlowe struck his forehead with the side of his fist again and again as though trying to drive the point home. “Think, damn you! Think! Use that benighted brain of yours to make magic! Spew words! Let them spill forth in a froth of wit and wisdom! Let them entertain, draw laughter and gasps of shock, let them make grown men shiver and grown women too, men in fear and women in anticipation! Work your magic, Marlowe! Give me a glimpse of the language and imagery that makes you so bloody famous!”

  He held the quill poised, its tip hovering a scant whisper above the parchment. The ink pooled at its knife-sharpened point, waiting the opportunity to transform the page from blank sheet to finished scene.

  Yet nothing came.

  There was no inspiration. His muse had deserted him.

  Marlowe hurled the quill from him. It flew across the room and struck point-first the heavy curtains hanging round his bed, the tip embedding itself, quivering, in the velvet. He came near to tossing the parchment after it, or consigning it to the fire, but thought the better of it. Instead he kicked back the stool upon which he had supported his backside and stalked around the room, gesticulating like a man possessed as if he hoped to beat the air into submission and wring forth from its vapors the bloody words he lacked.

  “This cannot be,” he muttered, chewing his lips as he paced. “I am Marlowe! Expert at every turn of phrase, every cadence, every jest. Rich imagery is mine to conjure forth. Poignant cries are mine to elicit from gawpers. Words are my sword, and it is mine to make grown men weep with the thrust of my sharp blade! And yet, and yet—and yet I cannot write two bloody lines together that do not sound as though wrought by the feeble-mind of a moron. What is this damned fever dream I cannot awake from? Where are the sweats to accompany my delirium?”

  Anguished, he ground his fists into his eyes, pushing hard enough for light to explode behind his lids and fill the world with a sunburst of color that momentarily drove away the dismal reality of London. Alas, when he opened his eyes again, the mundane world and the blank broadsheet returned to haunt him.

  “Is this it? Is this what I have become? Am I reduced to this? A man with no redeeming features and no gift? Damned and double damned.” Marlowe stared down at his hands as though he might see something either etched into the skin, or absent, that would explain the loss of his talent. The well, it seemed, was not bottomless. And, now he was dry.

  “No!” he roared, slamming both hands down upon the table. It shivered and creaked beneath the impact, but did not crack. “No,” he said again, less certainly this time. Surely some talent yet remained to him? Yes. Of course it did. If he closed his eyes he could feel it tingling throughout his body. He could feel it prickling at his fingertips, and on the tip of his tongue. It was in his eyes and in his ears. It filled his head. The stories were there to be written down. There was still talent a-plenty. And why not? “I am Marlowe,” he reminded the otherwise empty room, but there was no force behind his words this time. And then the thought struck him and he breathed, “I am the Phoenix, fiery and free, guiding all toward a path of rebirth, imagination, and delight.”

  Yet for all his assertions the words still refused to come, and n
o spell nor incantation of self-belief could summon them.

  “Bah!” Marlowe snorted, pushing the parchment to one side. He leaned back against the table and sighed. He had been locked in this silent losing battle for hours. He had retired to his rooms from the Rose, convinced that now, this time, his sure, sharp visions of the play would be captured if he just sat himself at the table before they could fade. But, though he could still see portions of the play within his mind’s eye, there were no words this time, and a play without dialogue was no play at all. His inner ear had turned deaf just when he most required it. And without it, he was lost.

  “Enough of this,” he told himself. “Recriminations are for the courts, they are useless out here and serve only to sour already bitter dispositions.” He capped the inkpot, set aside the quill, and rolled the parchment, returning it to a stack which he then slid into its leather case. “If the muse refuses to visit me here and now, why then I will go forth—I will not sit here and plead for her return when there is good ale going sour. Tis far better to carouse with a band of brothers than to sit and mope alone.”

  Snatching up his hat, Marlowe made for the door. Enough worrying. He would find his friends, see whether Sam had in fact set aside a flagon for him, and drain it dry in a single swallow, then order two more for good measure. Maybe the muse would return if he drank enough to lose whatever self-consciousness held her back? It was possible, if not probable.

  With one last glance around the room, Marlowe pulled open the door and stepped through. The candle set upon his desk winked out obligingly as he tugged the door shut behind him and set forth in search of the Admiral’s Men.

  *

  He was nearly to the street when a voice called out behind him. “Ho! Marlowe!”

  Marlowe found himself facing three men of the most disconcerting demeanor. None of them were young, none of them fit or muscular—indeed their clothes all bore a similar cut and style that bespoke some money and a love of good food and, more worryingly, some authority. He looked them up and down openly, taking the measure of them. He knew their kind all too well. They were servants of the Queen, though what they did for Her Majesty, or at least in Her name, was anybody’s guess. But, given their presence at his door, and his name on their lips, he could take a reasonable stab that they wanted something from him.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, gentlemen. You turn up at my door knowing my name, where all I know about you is that you are both lickspittles and lackeys of those knaves, the Privy Council,” he said, closing the distance between them with purposeful strides. The fattest of them backed off. The other two stood their ground. “So tell me, what would the Council have of me today, gentlemen? Have they, perhaps, chosen to levy a new fine against all men, or merely thespians? Or would they have me partake upon a mission most deadly and dire and go murder some rotten baron? Tell me, is there a story in it? For if there isn’t, then I must say I am not interested in the slightest.”

  The thinnest of the men—and given the company that was not saying much—smiled at him. It was an expression that left a chill into the air around them. “Most droll,” he acknowledged in a voice dry as dust. “Yet surely you understand that scorning ourselves and disparaging our employers is unlikely to make us more amenable . . . so then one must conclude that you are merely an ass, Marlowe.”

  “I am renowned for it, I think you’ll find. Tis the curse of a quick mouth and quicker wit. So, pray tell, why should I be remotely interested in your favor?” Marlowe was close enough now to catch the smallest of details, such as the fleck of silver at the tips of the speaker’s hair and the matching buttons holding his cloak. These were no mere lackeys, he realized, but his anger at their ambush made him impudent. “And when have your paymasters ever been amenable to this playwright? When have they ever done anything for anyone that did not benefit them more?” He laughed, knowing full well the bitterness it conveyed. He struck the same pose he’d held on the stage while pretending at being Iarbas, jutting his chin out. “Hast thou not caused enough harm to me and mine?” he asked theatrically. “Must there be more of this never-ending barrage of blows and insults and movements that might be one or t’other but cannot stem the tide any more than a twig might dam a raging river?” He was enjoying himself now and could scarcely hide it.

  All three men’s scowls deepened, but Marlowe did not care one whit. They had sought to hinder his work in one way or another for years, but over the last few months their attempts had shifted from coercion to bully-boy threat, showing newfound boldness and increasing desperation. Something had stirred that damned nest of vipers, but clearly not enough to draw either the Queen’s ire or her censure, so still they continued to throw their ample weight about unchecked. They had attempted to shut the Rose Theatre more than once, usually spouting preposterous claims of “unsafe business practices” and “unclean work conditions” and “indecent subject matter.” Thus far Marlowe, along with Philip Henslowe, the Rose’s owner, had managed to fend off any such accusations and keep the theater open. But it was only a matter of time before threats were followed with action and the Rose burned to the ground or suffered some other ill fate.

  Especially in a year such as this. 1592 had seen the return of the Plague. It was no secret that many had died and that disease and sickness were rampant. Months past the new year, 1593 was proving no better. The sickly sweet scent of charred bodies still lingered over great swathes of London town. Many a good establishment had closed or been closed, their staff now too ill to cook or clean or keep shop. Many more had fled to the countryside, gambling on the protective nature of the clean country air, and streets that had once bustled now echoed with each footstep. But against all expectation the Rose remained open. Henslowe had made it abundantly clear how he felt: people needed an outlet in such troubled times. They needed a bright spot against the darkness. They needed to be distracted and entertained. And thus far, the crowds had proved him right.

  Those thoughts brought Marlowe’s mind back to his present dilemma, and the half-smile he could feel tugging at his lips vanished. “So what insult do you have to heap upon me now? Be done with it and begone,” he ordered, turning his back to the men. “I have no patience for the sport, and less inclination to hear you out.”

  “Be that as it may, Marlowe, best you listen,” the middle man urged, speaking for the first time. “Unless a stay within one of our city’s finest gaols takes your fancy?”

  “Ha, is that old chestnut the best you have, boys? Frankly, I am disappointed. I laugh in the face of your empty threats.” Marlowe walked to the nearest of the men. “I would have thought that by now you had realized—gaol and me, we are old friends, her cells as warm and comforting as any maiden I’ve bedded.”

  “Which says plenty about the company you choose to keep, Marlowe.”

  “Indeed it does,” Marlowe replied, “Your not-so-good selves, for instance. Worse than any whore I’ve ever taken to the mattress, for you’re a damned sight more expensive and without the pleasure.”

  There was truth behind the humor. Marlowe had been detained on all manner of charges, some trumped up, some oh so dreadfully true—the most recent mere months ago—and had found the gaol cells pleasant enough. They offered solitude if not quiet in which to contemplate the scene taking shape in his head. His contentment never failed to rattle the guards, who invariably hauled him out of the clink with warnings to “mend his evil ways.” But he was an inveterate . . . well . . . everything: gambler, womanizer, and drunkard. It was ingrained into the very fabric of his being. Might as well teach a three-legged mutt new tricks.

  “This new play—” the middle man began.

  “The play indeed. What of it?”

  “The Privy Council would see it,” he continued, finding his voice. “They would judge it for what it is—that is, upon its own merits—and determine whether it is acceptable for general performance, or whether it must be closeted away like some dark poison.”

  “Let me consider my
answer a moment,” Marlowe declared, appearing to mull it over with all due gravity. Inside he was seething. He felt the urge to scream rising up through his craw. He wanted to yell in their pox-scarred faces that there would be no play for them to see and that their masters could loosen their girdles because the damned thing would never be finished, much less performed. But he did not. Better to make them sweat on it a while. Instead he donned his cheekiest grin.

  “There is little time, Marlowe. They should see it with all due haste.”

  “Then let them buy tickets,” he told the three fat men, forcing a laugh to follow the statement despite his foul humor. “They can then watch to their heart’s content and make my coffers bulge at the same time. That, mine friends, is what is known as a winning situation all the way round.” He bowed low, sweeping his arm before him in a grandiose gesture, then turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Marlowe, you whoreson!” one of the men yelled at his back, “come back here! You do not walk away from us!” But Marlowe didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning or looking back. Let them spit and curse him. They were too fat and comfortable in their equally fat lives to actually give chase. He was well beyond the reach of their sticks and stones, and soon enough he would be clear of their words, too.

  The Privy Council! A gathering of evils, both lesser and greater, more like. And to say that they had never liked him was to use the poet’s gift for understatement. It was more than that—they actively disliked him, though as to why Marlowe was at a loss to say. There were other young playwrights in this not so fair city, and some even feigned at rebelliousness, though none, he liked to think, had quite his flair for pissing in the face of authority, and every now and then, whence the moon was blue, one of them would be called before the council to face an accusation that his writing did not meet the council’s expectations. But rather than the curse of the blue moon, this sort of meddling was Marlowe’s everyday. And now the bastards weren’t content to wait for the plays to be staged before trying to close them down. Damn them, they weren’t even content to wait for the ink to dry before throwing their weight around, and fat bastards they were, to a man, either of belly or head. Mayhap he should decry them for witchcraft and see the Church burn them, for surely this most recent turn for the absurd spoke of some mad gift of prescience? Had they seen into the future and observed the play? If they had, then for once he was actually jealous of them—it was a gift he would have killed for right now, plagued as he was. How much easier then would it be to finish the play as it should be finished, knowing already what words were spoken because he had seen them performed, perfect?