‘Of course you must save the child,’ she had insisted. ‘Your life and mine are of no importance. That poor misguided fool will come to his senses and then what if you had followed orders whose footing stands in nothing more than insanity? You will be an accessory to murder – and very likely implicated in the death of the Queen, may the gods keep her blessed soul.’
Antigonus’ sleep, like Mamillius’, had been fitful but without the rewarding moth breath on his cheeks or the comfort of soft little limbs lying in his arms. Only the ravages of night sweats and cold anxieties.
Then there came a night of terrible storm and terrible sickness. Never a good sailor at best, Antigonus fell victim to the very disorder he had feared for his young companion. In the middle of the seemingly relentless torment he fell into a disturbing dream.
He woke, sick and exhausted, the following morning to a memory of the Queen’s voice. ‘You must leave my daughter in Bohemia.’
Bohemia was where the ship was already heading, since this was where Polixenes was King, and where he and Leontes’ right-hand man, Camillo, had left for, once Leontes’ madness had made itself known. Antigonus had hoped for their counsel. But the apparition he had seen in his dream now troubled him. If the Queen wanted her child left in Bohemia, maybe the baby was Polixenes’ child and not her husband’s after all.
As he puzzled over this, there was a shout of ‘Land ahead!’ and hurrying up on deck he saw the misty outlines of Bohemia’s coast. Mamillius, the baby as always in his arms, appeared up the cabin stairs and stood beside him.
‘I dreamt of our mother last night,’ he confided.
Antigonus stared down, torn between fear and pity. ‘I too.’
‘She told me my sister’s name. Perdita, the lost one. It’s a pretty name, don’t you think?’
Antigonus looked down at the little face; the colour of her made him think of ripe apricots. ‘Pretty enough.’
‘I am going to take her to my Uncle Polixenes’ court,’ the boy continued. ‘She’ll be cared for there and he will know how I can send a message to our mother.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why do you say “maybe”?’
‘Mamillius, I –’ but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by another glad cry of ‘Land ahead!’
Mountains had lost their cloudy form and were clearly solid. Already a boat was being lowered, ready to take them ashore. Mamillius swung down a rope ladder and received his sister in his arms, handed down by the carpenter, who handed after her a wooden bird on a stick he’d carved from a piece of driftwood.
‘Look, Perdita. A dove. Like the doves in our mother’s cot at home.’
The bottom of the small boat rasped against pebbles and Mamillius, the baby in his arms, and Antigonus clambered out, leaving the sailor who had rowed them to pull back to the main ship.
‘How shall we find our way to the palace?’ Mamillius was eager now.
Antigonus put his hands to his head. He was lost. He was at a loss. He had no idea how he should proceed or what he should do with the children. He could not abandon the young prince; and it followed that he couldn’t abandon the girl, bastard or not.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Let us find a place for you and the baby to rest while I get our bearings.’
‘We shall need milk for Perdita soon,’ Mamillius warned him.
In the room of justice in the palace the Queen stood. Denied a place to sit, she showed no sign of emotion other than the extremity of her pallor and the exacting straightness of her spine. She had been brought to hear the verdict of the oracle at Delphi. It had pronounced in her favour; yet still the mania gripped her husband.
‘There is no truth in the oracle,’ he had bellowed and around the court fear had rippled. To denounce the oracle was a blasphemy.
But, as these impious words resounded in the shocked ears of the onlookers, the doors opened and a servant entered.
‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’
‘My lord, the Prince your son –’
‘Yes?’
‘Is gone.’
‘Gone?’
The question hung in the still air. Behind the servant, the tall form of Paulina loomed. ‘Dead, my lord.’
‘Dead? How dead?’
‘Dead of a broken heart.’
The Queen swayed and crumpled to the ground. And, long after, those who were present recalled the King’s fearful cry. ‘Apollo’s angry and the heavens themselves strike at my injustice.’
The leather flask of Bella’s milk was nearly gone and Perdita was asleep, snug beneath the fur of his bearskin coat. But she wouldn’t sleep for much longer.
Mamillius looked yet again for any sign of Antigonus. He could no longer see the ship, which had been anchored in the bay, because the light was fading fast. It was growing colder and without the protection of his fur coat he shivered.
And then he heard a sound. Someone, up over the hillock, was whistling. There was a pause and then a raucous voice began to sing.
Antigonus? Surely not. But at least it was a human being. Mamillius looked down at the sleeping Perdita, tucked the fur more closely round her and walked upwards in the direction of the singing voice. Reaching the top of the hillock he crouched behind a furze of juniper.
A man. A man dressed in bright-coloured ragged clothes and leading a bear. A scruffy man and an even scruffier bear. Mamillius, with his quick feeling for all creatures, felt his heart go out to the sad-looking animal.
The man stopped as if he had some kind of sixth sense and turned about. ‘Hey there,’ he called over towards Mamillius.
‘Hello.’ Mamillius, uncertainly, stepped out from the bush.
‘Would you like to buy a ballad?’ the man asked.
Mamillius was well brought up. ‘I should be glad to,’ he said. ‘But I have no money with me at present.’ The man began to turn away again, so, hastily, he added, ‘But my father has money.’
The man turned back. ‘Your father is –’
‘Oh, he’s King of Sicily,’ Mamillius said. He waited for the man to be impressed.
‘And I’m the King of China,’ the man said. ‘So long.’
‘No, wait,’ Mamillius said hurriedly. ‘He really is the King, I promise. And the King of here is his friend.’
‘Yeah?’ said the man.
‘Truly,’ said Mamillius, desperate now. ‘I, we, my friend and I were going to find him, the King here, I mean, but he’s been gone a long time, my friend, and my sister’s going to need food soon.’
At that moment a thin cry reached them from below.
‘That’s her,’ Mamillius said. ‘Please come with me. We need help.’
‘Very well,’ said the man. ‘Tell you what. You stay here and mind the bear and I’ll go and fetch your sister. I can’t leave the bear and I don’t want to drag it downhill. It’s a sulky beast at best and it’s in a mood today.’
‘I could fetch her up,’ Mamillius suggested, though he was tickled at the idea of looking after the bear.
‘I’ll get her,’ said the man. ‘Royal, you say. I suppose she’s got something to show for it? Grand toys and so forth.’
‘She’s got a dove,’ Mamillius said. ‘It was made for her specially.’
‘Ah,’ said the man. ‘Precious, I’ll be bound.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mamillius said. ‘Very precious. She’s right by the hawthorn brake at the bottom there.’
‘Good,’ said the man. ‘I’ll fetch her up here, then.’
Mamillius waited, holding the bear. He heard Perdita’s cries abate. The man had obviously picked her up and it seemed that she was not afraid. He would help them to find the way to Uncle Polixenes and Uncle Polixenes would write to his mother and father and they would come to fetch him and Perdita home and all would be well again. Whatever had happened to make his father so angry must be over by now.
Minutes passed and the man didn’t appear. The bear, which was sitting back on its haunches, as if relieved to be
taking a rest, now lumbered to its feet and pulled at the leash. Uncertain what to do, Mamillius allowed himself to be led a few paces forwards. The bear moved its head ponderously on its great neck as if to check on this new constraint. Slowly it began to defecate. Partly out of a sense of tact and partly to escape the stench, Mamillius walked a little way down the slope of the hillock. A heather root tripped him and he fell, losing his grip on the rope.
Behind him he heard a great roar, and, turning sharply, he saw the bear lumbering away, its hindquarters still foul, towards a man coming from the opposite direction.
‘Hey, there,’ Mamillius called. ‘Stop him. Stop the bear.’
To his intense horror he saw the bear rear up at the man, who cried terribly before his head was gripped by the great jaws. For a moment Mamillius stood frozen, not knowing what on earth to do. Then, putting his hands over his ears, he fled down the hillside towards where he had left the baby.
‘He’s not dead, my lady,’ Paulina urged. ‘He left a note. I found it in his bed. He went off with my husband and the baby.’
‘But you said –’
‘Your husband, forgive me, my lady’ – Paulina did not look as if she felt herself in need of forgiveness – ‘deserved a damn good scare. You saw how it brought him to his senses, madam,’ she added, as an afterthought.
‘But my poor husband.’
‘Poor husband, my eye. My own husband had instructions to put your babe to death. But don’t you fret. He’s taken both children to Bohemia till the King comes to his senses. Let him stew in his own juice and you come with me awhile.’
Mamillius was sitting on the pebbled shore, crying. He cried harder, if less noisily, than the baby he had lost. He had watched a man die. Not merely die but being eaten alive. Antigonus, whom he had known all his life. Who had been only kind to him. Kind and brave. And he had lost his precious sister, his mother’s newborn child. He had done terrible wrongs. He could never now go back to his mother.
Behind him the pebbles crunched.
‘So you lost my bear?’ It was the strange tattered man.
‘I tripped,’ Mamillius explained, still sobbing. ‘I tripped and dropped the rope and he got away. And he ate my friend.’
‘Well, he would. Ugly brute. The bear I’m talking about. I’m sorry about your friend but we’re quits because I lost your baby.’
‘Why did you?’ Mamillius hit out wildly, too hurt, too heart-stricken, to care that his eight-year-old fist was no match for this hard-handed man of the road.
‘Now then, steady on. Someone got to the infant first. I saw an old boy carry her off and then I heard the bear carrying on so I came back to try to catch him. No good. He’d scarpered. He’ll have had a taste of living flesh now and once they’ve had that there’s no managing them again. He’ll be off after someone’s sheep or worse. Be thankful he didn’t get your babe. I’d say it’s the gods doing, her being taken like that. She’ll be fine. Take my word for it.’
‘You saw where my sister went?’
‘No. I saw her being taken, that’s all.’
‘Can we go after her?’
‘You know what?’ said the man. ‘I think best I take you back to that ship I saw anchored out there in the bay. If you’re who you say you are, there’ll be a prize for returning you.’
‘Oh, no,’ Mamillius said. ‘I can’t go back. Not yet. I must find my sister.’
‘I reckon we’ll do that better with help,’ the man said. ‘Reinforcements. See?’
Alone in his private chamber the King sat, as he always did these days, drowned in dark despair. No wife. No child. No friends. Only his boy’s hound to keep him company, and even the dog appeared merely to suffer his presence. The dog was pining, as he was, for the lost boy. But at least the creature was some bulwark against that terrible daily scourge to his conscience, Paulina. She had grown even more scathing now that it seemed her husband had died, along with his daughter. What further ill could life throw at him?
A servant entered, bowing low. These days, the servants were wary of him, not knowing when another bout of madness might strike. He had had his daughter put to death, thereby killing his beloved son and his wife, who was always, in the servants’ view, by far the more approachable of the royal couple. ‘My lord.’ This was going to be tricky.
‘Yes?’
‘My lord, there is a man, a man come.’
‘Yes?’
‘He says, my lord, he says he has brought back your son.’
The King rose from his seat.
‘Scoundrel,’ he bellowed. ‘Monster. Villain. Abomination. I have no son. My son is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Tell this piece of crooked vileness to go and never come near this palace again or I swear I will have him strung up and his corpse thrown to the wolves.’
‘Well,’ the tattered man said to the boy, ‘I am sorry to tell you this, but it’s best you know that your mother is dead and your father doesn’t want you. Since you’ve lost me my bear, you’d better come along with me. I’ll teach you tricks. We’ll scratch out a living.’
The boy nodded. The ship in which he had sailed to Bohemia had vanished, and it had been a long, wearisome trek back to Sicily. Grief had worked a deep change in him and he had grown, on the journey, finally mute.
‘I can’t say as it’s an easy life,’ the tattered man went on. ‘But I was talking to the fellow who was told to send me packing and from what I heard from him about your court life it was pretty dismal. Dangerous too. The life of a vagabond isn’t beer and skittles, but it isn’t all hard graft either, and at least there’s some jollity along the way. Are you game?’
Mamillius nodded.
‘That’s as well, as I wouldn’t say you had much choice. But, see, spring’s around the corner,’ the tattered man said. ‘I smell it in the air. And then there’s summer and harvest festivals and sheep-shearing and ballad-selling and fairs. You can call me Autolycus, by the way. It’s one of my names. We’ll have a grand time together, you and me. You’ll see.’
At twenty-four, Mamillius had long parted from Autolycus. He had learnt to be an accomplished juggler, fortune-teller, card-sharper and occasional pickpocket. But his true gift proved to be in storytelling. On days when ballad-sheets were in short supply he had composed brand-new ones for his master, who, having an eye for a good commercial enterprise, had set him to write stories to sell to those who could read and to perform for those who could not. One evening, they fell into company with a troupe of travelling players who, on hearing of the boy’s gifts, which Autolycus was boasting of, invited this piece of proven talent to join them. Autolycus had raised objections but the actor-manager was a forceful man and Autolycus, who was at heart a loner, soon abandoned his objections – which, based on principle rather than desire, were flimsy anyway – and, quite civilly, let his young apprentice go.
Since then, Mamillius, now known as ‘Mouse’ (a corruption of ‘Muse’, which was the teasing nickname awarded him by one of the admiring company), had become a writer of renown. The plays he wrote attracted audiences wherever they travelled and he had come to relish the life: the camaraderie of colleagues, the excitement of shows and appreciative audiences, the deeper thrill of writing the plays, conjuring words from the recesses of his unknown mind as once he had conjured doves out of handkerchiefs.
Now they had come to Sicily, where it seemed some great event was occurring. He was in the inn, enjoying a pot of local wine, when Flavio, their manager, came in.
‘Mouse, get your best quill out and sharpen it. We’re summoned to put on one of your blessed plays at court.’
‘Why so?’
‘Seems there’s some big celebration afoot. The lost daughter of the King’s returned and his wife’s back from the grave. Hey, what’s up, Mouse?’ For his colleague, closing his eyes, had turned whey pale.
‘It was like a blush in reverse, if you get my meaning,’ Flavio said later, when he was describing this to another member of the company. ‘As if snow had ente
red his veins. I didn’t hardly recognize him.’
As this conversation was taking place, Mouse was walking feverishly about the town. Everywhere was abuzz with the news. Perdita, their lost Princess, had arrived with the Crown Prince of Bohemia, whom she was to marry; and, more miraculous still, her mother, also supposed dead, had reappeared. No one, he couldn’t help observing, spoke of the one member of the royal household who had not come back from the dead. Did his mother ever wonder if he might be alive? But maybe when the news came that Antigonus had perished on his unholy mission, the boy he had taken with him was also believed lost for all time.
All night he walked through the town. He had been a stranger to that life for so long – sixteen years, it must be, during which everything he’d been born to had been lost – that when Flavio suggested Sicily as their next port of call, really on a whim, as sometimes took him, Mouse almost failed to register its significance. The life of a playwright had so engaged him that the life of a young prince at court had dwindled in his mind to nothing more substantial than a dream. Nightmare, more truly, he thought, passing through an alley where he had once gone with his mother to visit a sick subject for whom his mother had conceived a characteristic concern: the dreadful doings that night in the palace, the devoured Antigonus, his lost baby sister.
Could he bear it, he pondered, noting in passing the unintended word play that his perpetually riddling mind couldn’t resist throwing in. And did he anyway want to be drawn back into that life? He had the life he’d made for himself, a life that, for all its perilousness, had its own riches, which would be incompatible with a return to that other, more material wealth that must accompany royal status.
But then, to see his mother again. And his baby sister, grown to graceful womanhood. For all the likely exaggeration, the word on the street was that she was unusually lovely.
Well, he would write them a play and it would be such a play as he’d never written before and he would, as always, perform one of the minor roles. That way he would at least have sight of his lost family.
The Boy Who Could See Death Page 11
