Too well did he remember his first love, a girl his age, named Katherine Hamlet.
Will had been sixteen and mad in love. His mother and father had warned him about her, told him she went with other men and boys, though remaining chaste with Will. But he’d not believed them, never believed them until she drowned herself, pregnant by one of the local gentry.
Like his mother’s and his father’s pleas, would any warning he gave the girl be heard? For it was true that one’s first love was often a disease that must run its course, the poison spreading through the body and ruling it wholly before it subsided and diminished its influence upon the afflicted limbs and presently retreated to a memory that made one smile or cry and nothing more.
So Will leaned his head and spoke, in the voice of a man who knows his own limitations. “And fare you well, kind lady. Flocks of angels watch over your progress and keep you ever free from harm.”
She shot him a curious look, but she smiled and nodded — and she walked away.
Was her gait slower? Was her gracefulness somewhat more controlled? Had the episode to which her impetuous good will had led her put some more thought into her actions? Having learned the evil of centaurs, was she now on guard?
Will couldn’t tell. As with any child, he could only hope that she’d learned a lesson and would not do it again.
And then he realized, with a shock, that he was thinking of Miranda as one of his own children. Remembering his dream, he grinned at the foolishness of it all.
But the rage he had felt in his dream no longer haunted him. Miranda was like one of his own daughters. Elf, perhaps, but no longer fearsome.
He shook his head and, taking the twig out of his shirt,allowed it to tug him onto the right path.
How foolish could a man be who adopted an elf?
He remembered how Nan had told him that she’d once considered doing just that — leaving fairyland with both babes and raising them together as sisters.
He wondered what Miranda would be like if she’d been raised in Henley street, in Stratford upon Avon, as the daughter of a struggling playwright.
Humbler, he thought, as his feet found the true path and his stick pulled him on and on. As graceful, as beautiful as she now was, but humbler and quieter. More modest. Not that the princess of elvenland was boastful, but even while crying on Will’s shoulder, she had been regal.
Regal, he thought, seizing upon the word. That was how Hamnet had looked in that image of him upon the pond.
Thus Will thought of what he didn’t want to think: Hamnet much older, standing on the ramparts of the white castle.
Had it been an illusion? He remembered what Quicksilver had said about the different rates of time in the crux.
Had Hamnet truly grown that fast in a few days? Had years passed for him? And who had raised Hamnet those years?
How could Will take Hamnet back to Stratford and explain how he had grown in just a few days? Who would believe him?
Worse, if they did, would he be tried for witchcraft? Would enough magic remain to Will, from his use of magic in the crux that all would believe him a dark mage?
Oh, let it not be so.
And what about Hamnet? Would Hamnet be magic?
Who was this son that Will was trying to rescue? He recalled the haughty air, the impeccable clothing.
A son of Will’s? By whose fiat?
Who was this prince that, having originated in Will’s humble loins, in a night of passion with Nan in Stratford upon Avon, had now become quite something else?
He didn’t know and he couldn’t think on it, or on how he would explain his son’s sudden growth and superior demeanor to Nan, to the neighbors, to the family in Stratford.
But he did know this land was dangerous. Already once, the sun had set on their stay here. Much longer and they’d be absorbed here forever. And this, also, was no place for Hamnet.
Only let Will get to the castle where Hamnet was captive, and ransom him, and take him safe to the Earth from whence they came.
All the rest would solve itself upon the ripeness of time.
For the sake of the son he could no longer call his, Will held onto his stick and wearily walked the path.
Scene Thirty One
Quicksilver, lying on the ground, is covered in the magical net that steals his powers. Proteus stands nearby, and a terrified Caliban, a few feet off, covers his lipless mouth with his trembling paws.
Quicksilver hurt. His chest hurt where Hylas had kicked him, and his shoulder, where the wound from Proteus's blade still smarted and where the cruel hooves had brought forth blood anew.
Something about the crux made Quicksilver less than invulnerable and slower to heal. Or perhaps something about his separation from Silver, Quicksilver thought.
And, thinking it, he felt the now familiar pain of the separation.
Hylas laughed, an easy laugh. He stood beside Quicksilver and laughed at Quicksilver’s helplessness or perhaps at his look of pain. He trotted in place, giving his movement the look of a victory dance.
“Now is the king of fairyland brought low,” he said and laughed again.
Aching, bleeding, his face in the dirt, breathing in the bracken scent of moldy leaf and old moss, his power sapped by the cruel net, Quicksilver found voice to whisper. What he whispered surprised himself.
“Why do you hate me?” he asked.
His voice, raspy and pained, barely rose above the rustling of wind upon the trees.
But it was heard by all and hung upon the cool air of the crux and upon Quicksilver’s mind.
For it was a mad question. Rebellious centaurs had always hated the elven kings.
There was nothing to know.
Hylas stopped his dance and was silent a moment. Then, in a voice that rose aggressively, he said, “Why do I hate you? Oh, I hate you as I hate death and pain and all elves. Your infant race — like the race of men — clambered upon our ancient, ordered world and took it from us.
“With your ideas of a proper life, of right government, you sullied our nation-states. You destroyed our loves, our rhymes, our heroic wars, our hunting bands, our academies.
“You took the meadows where we ran free and fenced them in parcels so small there was scarcely space to get up to a trot. Our forests you turned into plowed fields, where the hoof can catch and the ankle break. In our sacred glades you built haughty palaces, from which we — half-animal, you said — were excluded.” He spat in Quicksilver’s face.
His spit, warm and smelling of wine, landed on Quicksilver’s eyelid, making Quicksilver’s eye smart.
“All this we withstood, in patient calm, till humanity invented wine. Tasting it unlocked our rage and our hurt. Then, over a private brawl and minor damage — such as humans do daily to each other — did the Lapithae almost destroy our race.
“And when the sad remnants of that race asked for asylum and help in your land, were we told we had to surrender all our power and magic to the king of elves.
“In return we got nothing, not even that magic that all other subjects of the hill can access. Rather we were kept at bay and kept down, feared and despised at once.”
Hylas pawed at the ground with irate hoof. “For the lack of healing magic, our young foals die. Because we lack the use of our own magic, let alone the magic of the hill, we’re unable to catch animals in the depopulated woods and amid the houses of mankind. Our people starve, O king, while you dance in your palace.
“Again and again have our people rebelled and tried to improve their lot and have use, at least, of their own magic. Time and again, elves have killed our best stallions on the field of battle — and given us nothing.”
Hylas stopped talking.
For a while, only the sound of wind on the trees, the sound of the centaurs’ breathing — all three of them, in unison — broke the perfect silence of the crux.
“And you ask why I hate you?” Hylas said.
“But I have not done this myself,” Quicksilver
said. “I’ve only reigned for fourteen years. How can you accuse me of centuries of injustice?”
“You knew of it,” Hylas said. “You perpetuated the injustice, and so all the injustice is yours.”
“But Proteus would be no better king than I,” Quicksilver said.
Hylas laughed. “Did I say we want Proteus for our king?” Turning half away from Quicksilver, Hylas grinned at Caliban. “You, beast, serve me true, or you shall be our meal. Watch this king while we go hunting. Something in this land must be edible, and I’ve seen some deer over yonder.”
Together, the centaurs galloped out of the clearing.
Caliban lowered his hands, slowly, and looked at Quicksilver -- an unreadable look.
Lying on the ground, cold, empty of magic and trembling in fear, Quicksilver boiled with rage that he’d been unable to express. Why was he blamed for the evils of all his race? How could he defend himself from such, all-encompassing charges?
As soon as he judged safe — hooves sounded nowhere, and the voices of the centaurs had receded in the distance, he spoke, “Caliban, remove the net from me.”
Quicksilver must go rescue Miranda. He must go back to the hill and surround himself with those who didn’t accuse him of crimes he could not ever mend.
Caliban looked at him. His eyes were dark and reflected nothing. If eyes were the mirror of the soul, then Caliban’s soul remained unreflected.
Perhaps he had no soul.
Caliban shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ll not risk my life for your sake.”
“Remove the net,” Quicksilver said. “And then I’ll be able to do magic and I’ll set it all to rights. And then, when we return to fairyland shall I make you a courtier, one of my honored ministers.
“Your cave in the mountains shall be transformed by my might and magic to a palace, and your mother shall be honored above all mothers in elvenland.”
Now did Caliban stare harder at Quicksilver. He squinted, his eyes narrowing, without showing any more expression than before.
“He’s told me the truth,” Caliban said. “Hylas has. When they caught me again, they said I must help them, and they told me the truth. Trolls fought on his side in the great elven war. And your side killed countless trolls.
“Hylas told me how, once, you and your servants blocked the entrance of a cave with burning branches, and there suffocated a whole clan of trolls, male and female, infants and children.”
His eyes looked, if possible, more opaque and more expressionless. “That might have been my clan.”
Quicksilver swallowed. What he’d been afraid the monster would find out, the monster had indeed found out.
Lying on the ground, staring at the creature’s great, gnarled feet, with their huge, hard claws like horns, Quicksilver wondered what would happen if Caliban kicked him.
He could imagine the claws rending him, tearing into him. He remembered the feel of troll claws, of troll teeth, of the immense strength of trolls holding him pinned while they gnawed on his shoulder.
Had Malachite not come then, Quicksilver would have been dead. Dead and eaten by trolls.
But how could Quicksilver explain this to the creature who, in many ways, whether he believed it or not, was as innocent as the little fairy princess?
“It was a war,” he said and, to himself, his voice sounded tinny and false. “When the gods cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, what can elf or man -- or troll— do, but fight and do his duty till his duty is done and victory or defeat reaped from the bitter harvest of fighting?”
Caliban shook his head. “That might have been my clan,” he said. “And man and elf can think. So can troll.”
“And yet,” Quicksilver said. “I could still make it all better. I could give you honors, riches. I could protect your mistress, whom you prize.” Quicksilver strained against the threads of the net, fine as spiderweb, that seemed to cut into him and freeze him to the heart.
Caliban glared at him, out of the corner of his black eyes. “Even you, O king, cannot restore life to the dead, nor can you undo your injustice with honors.” He grinned at Quicksilver, showing his sharp fangs, his yellowed teeth. A smell of putrefaction floated from his breath. “The net remains, till the centaurs come back. And till they finish their job and kill you. And you’ll kill no more trolls, O king of elves.”
Scene Thirty Two
Miranda, walking through the forest, meets Proteus. They run towards each other.
Oh, how Miranda had missed Proteus.
Seeing him now, amid the swaying greenery, was like seeing an old friend among strangers, like knowing your home from a long distance, looking through sheets of dreary rain.
“Proteus,” she said.
“Miranda,” he said, and ran towards her, graceful and swift, skipping over roots of trees and jumping over low branches, till he met her with open arms and encircled her and twirled her. “Miranda. I was worried — I feared— the gods know what I’ve feared. But you’re here. You’re well. You’re well, my love.” Thus speaking, he set her down and ran his hands up and down her arms, caressing her. “My love, my Miranda.”
She smiled and cried, and crying she smiled through her tears, like a spring day when rain dims sunshine and sun shines through rain.
Her voice came out, high, strangled, telling him of the centaurs, how the centaurs had tormented Caliban and how they’d insulted her and how the little mortal — the ugly little mortal whom she’d assumed was evil because he was ugly — had come to her rescue.
Proteus held her in his arms and exclaimed at her tale, and kissed her tears as they fell, sparkling and hot, down her face.
She cried, and, her breath coming in gasps, she said, “And he was so kind. So kind, Proteus, and he says you have it all wrong. He says that my father was a villain and taken by the Hunter as the Hunter’s own dog and that it was when the Hunter took him that my father, craven and heartless, delivered me to the Hunter also.
“What father would do that, Proteus? How could you think him good when he did that?”
Proteus's kisses stopped. His arms still around her, he straightened. “How can I explain the mortal’s delusions, Miranda? How would I know what he thinks? Faith, they think little at all, being but little more intelligent than your pet monster, your Caliban.”
Miranda opened her mouth. She looked up and into Proteus's eyes. In them she found uncaring amusement.
How could he speak like that of the mortal who had saved her? How could he speak like that of the troll whom his erstwhile allies had so frightfully tormented?
How could Proteus smile thus at her, so unconcerned after all she’d revealed to him? Why was he not exclaiming over her hurt? Why was he not hurt on her behalf? Why did he not vow to hunt down the centaurs and avenge their offense towards her?
Through her mind, the mortal’s words echoed: a man may smile and smile and be a villain.
She’d been about to tell him of the flag on the castle, the emblem of the Hunter upon it. She’d been about to tell him of the boy, Hamnet, and the strange feelings he awakened in her.
For it was as though she’d met the boy long ago, or in a dream. She knew his golden falcon eyes, his features, his regal bearing. It was as though she’d waited all her life to meet him.
She’d never felt this way about anyone.
All this she was going to tell Proteus, all this reveal and in all this ask for her love’s comfort and his wisdom.
But that bright, uncaring smile, that disdainful of way of referring to the creature who’d saved her, it seemed to stop every thought within her head, every word upon her lips.
“But you’re well,” Proteus said and grinned. “And that’s what counts. All these questions of guilt, all these ancient, blood-soaked feuds can wait. For now, we’ll go to the castle, along the true path, and there find the boy and restore him to his father.” He winked at her. “And then the two of us will go to fairyland, where all might meet you and admire your beauty. And ther
e, by peaceful means or not, I’ll crown you queen.”
Miranda looked at him, at his blithely happy face. By peaceful means or not?
Something there was behind his smile, his easy-going expression, like a shadow behind a curtain, hiding the window that would let in the blessed day.
Like a shadow, this patch of darkness hid who knew what. What thoughts did Proteus have and not share? If he loved Miranda, why hide his mind and heart from her?
Oh, Miranda hated suspecting her lord so, but she did. The words of the mortal came back to haunt her. If ugliness did not mean evil, indeed, why should beauty mean goodness?
What a fool she’d been, what a besotted fool!
All of a sudden, Proteus felt wrong, different, separate from her.
It was as though, both being in love, they’d lain side by side in the same bed but, upon waking, didn’t recognize each other. When they’d lain together they’d been lovers, but the ringing, pale morn found them strangers to each other.
“From fairyland I’ll conjure us food and water, for this water is not safe to drink. And then we’ll set out,” Proteus said. “Soon, my lady, soon, all this strife will be over. We’ll be married, and you’ll be my queen.”
Miranda nodded and forced herself to smile.
Why did his words put a shiver down her spine?
Scene Thirty Three
Will, walking along the true path alone. He looks ready to drop — the color of tallow, bedraggled, with dark circles round his golden eyes.
How tired Will was. How far he’d come, with no food or drink.
Nothing but his longing for Hamnet could have got him to do it, his love for his son, his love for wife, his daughters — his need to restore his family to what it had been.
He walked along the winding path, while branches flogged him and leaves tugged at his coat like beggars attempting to detain him.
The stick in his hand pulled on while, tired and confused, Will kept holding on to it.
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