Marlowe looked at Will amazed, awe in his one remaining eye.
Far in the distance, a Hunter’s horn sounded.
Scene 49
Never Land seems to stabilize and freeze in dark, dreary outlines, with towering trees from which hangs moss like winding sheets. From the grey sky marred by wisps of black cloud, the Hunter’s dogs, and horse, and the Hunter himself appear.
Strange how one’s idea of fear changed.
The first time Will had seen the Hunter, in the forest so many years ago, he’d thought him a dread being, full of majestic menace.
Now, standing amid a magical land that shouldn’t—that in a greater sense didn’t—exist, his hands tinged with the blood of a magical creature, Will found the Hunter reassuring. The Hunter was something of forest and glade and the more rational world of Fairyland. A lord of justice, justice that could not be averted.
Will sheathed his dagger, and stood beside the corpse of the Hunter’s dog, while the dread gigantic horse of shadow galloped down from the sky, and while the pack of the Hunter’s dogs approached, growling, threatening, fangs bared, menace in every limb.
Did the Hunter mean to take revenge for his dog?
Will couldn’t credit it.
The man who’d been afraid of approaching a theater owner, the man who’d let everyone cozen him and fool him, for once stood his ground, proud and sure of his actions.
The Hunter descended from his horse, and whistled his dogs to heel.
The creatures crowded around him, silent, menacing.
“How so now?” the Hunter asked Will. “How so now, mortal? You dare kill my dog?”
The Hunter’s voice was like icy daggers, his eyes—a blue burning within the perfect, immortal features—transfixed Will.
But Will gathered his voice, and threw his head back. “I did what I must do, to protect myself and those who depend on me for protection.”
Something like laughter rumbled from the Hunter.
What could laughter mean from such a creature?
“Did you now?” the Hunter asked. “Did you now? Then no more can be asked of you. I, too, do what I do for the same reason.” The darkness that was the Hunter’s face shifted and changed. Somehow it looked friendly, calmer. “And the dog’s death has healed me, and restored the world.”
The Hunter looked, Will thought, knowing it was insane, approving and benevolent. “None of you should be in Never Land.” He looked at Will, then at the other three. “None of you.”
He frowned at Quicksilver and Ariel. “You—you, sovereigns of the ancient hill. For what you’ve done to me, oh King, you’ve paid well. Since all is returned to its proper aspect, you’ll evade my vengeance. Get thee hence, before you die of it. Both of you will be well as soon as you return to the world of living. All your wounds will be healed. All your power restored.” The Hunter’s gigantic arm made a gesture, and in the air, glimmering, a bridge of golden light appeared. The other end of it fetched within the golden throne room of Fairyland, for the moment deserted. “Go,” the Hunter said, gesturing at Quicksilver and Ariel. “The blight is gone from your hill and evil from the land. Those who died are gone, but those wounded and ill are hereby cured by this restoring of the natural order. Go and reign justly.”
Slowly, incredulously, Ariel, still nursing her arm, helped Quicksilver up.
By the bridge, Quicksilver turned to Will and bowed, and smiled, a small, hesitant smile at Kit Marlowe’s ghost. “Good night, sweet prince,” he said softly. “And flights of angels sing you to thy rest. Forgive me, Kit.”
Kit bowed and averted his face, tears sparkling in his one remaining eye.
Slowly, haltingly, Ariel and Quicksilver turned and walked arm in arm across the bridge.
The bridge, the throne room of Fairyland, all remained visible, till Ariel and Quicksilver arrived there and set foot on the pristine marble floor.
Then they turned to look at those left behind.
Quicksilver looked strong, perfect. Ariel’s arm was whole. Then the bridge and the view of the Elvenland vanished.
The Hunter said, “Now you, Master Marlowe, to that judgment you’ve evaded too long.” With a wave of his arm, Marlowe also vanished.
“And you, my good Will,” the Hunter said. The smilelike something sparked in the Hunter’s majestic, thunderous face.
But Will had remembered something.
“Wait, my good lord,” he said. “Wait. For in Deptford, in that room, we left three men with the Queen of England.”
“And?” the Hunter asked. “What fear you? Fear not. None of them will hurt the Queen—none of them—once the wolf’s magic was gone. The Queen has returned to her palace. Her spies have arranged a tale, that says Marlowe was killed in self-defense. The gears of deception shall grind on, and soon everyone will believe the deception.” Something like a gigantic sigh escaped the Hunter. “Few men can believe the fantastic and many often prefer more work-a-day lies.
“However, perhaps the Queen will remember you, Master Shakespeare. Perhaps she’ll remember you defended her. Who knows what benefit might not come to you thereby?”
The Hunter waved his hand. “Go back to your room, Will, and sleep well. You shall find the money you spent on your horse multiplied, safe beneath your mattress. You have saved the worlds, Will. Now go and be a poet.”
Again the rushing wind, this time warm, and Will lay in his bed, wondering if it were not all a dream.
But he got up and found, beneath his mattress, that the lord’s purse was full again, fuller than it had ever been, with ancient coins and glittering golden jewels. A thousand pounds, perhaps. A fantastical sum, enough to buy a share in a theater company, if Will should decide to do that.
Epilogue
The primeval forest of Arden, as it once was, with large trees, crowded close. Upon the ground the three spinners sit, working the threads of life. Amid the trees, Marlowe’s ghost appears and solidifies.
The three Fates spin beneath the trees of a forest, outside time and space. “
So the king has got his crown,” the youngest one says.
“And the queen’s web is spun,” the middle one says.
“And the traitor’s round is done,” says the oldest one.
She holds in her hand a dark thread, through which a vein of pure gold runs, and holds her scissors poised over it. A sigh makes her tremble. “And yet it is a pity to waste such thread. This stuff is hard to come by in this debased age. And a magic thread thus bequeathed by an ancestor full of power . . . .”
“It is illusion,” the middle one said. “Merlin never was.”
The younger one fingers the thread. “And yet, here’s the gold, here’s the vein of truth and the power and the word.”
“What would you do with it?” the oldest one asks, lifting her head.
A little ways away, amid the trees, Marlowe’s ghost stands, immaterial, and yet possessed of Marlowe’s charm as we first saw it—his clothes are impeccably clean and the best cut, and he looks like a man on his way to a fashionable assembly. His ghost has both his eyes, both full of myrth.
A slow smile molds to his lips, and expands, into something like mischievous intent. He walks forward, charming, confident, his mincing step all that could be expected of such a London dandy, a protégé of noblemen, the toast of theatergoers.
“Give the words to the poet,” he says. “Let my words live on, even if another must write them. I bequeath my poetry and the power in it to William Shakespeare of Stratford. Let anyone find fault with that.”
On those words, the old woman cuts through the thread with her sheers.
Marlowe laughs. A small ghost appears beside his—a child who looks much like Marlowe, and who wears a miniature version of Marlowe’s velvet suit.
“Will you tell me a story now, Kit?” the child asks.
“Of course, Imp.” Marlowe extends his hand to the small boy, who takes it. “I have eternity to tell you stories.” Together, they walk away, growing fa
inter as they walk.
Marlowe’s voice comes from a long ways away. “There was once a King, and he had an only son . . . .”
“Humans,” the maiden mutters to herself, and joins the spun gold to a white thread. “The livelong day I’ll never understand them. Treacherous as the serpent and kind as the dove, full of bitter hatred and sudden, mild love.”
“Humans are as they must be,” the matron says. “And we as we are, that from their minds are born and control their fate only in this small degree.”
“Everything that was will be again.”
“Humans are all that is, and their heart our reign,” the crone completes. The thread measured out upon her lap is now white, but through it shines a single strand of pure gold.
Curtain Call
Within the too-solid city of London, in a shabby room in Southwark, close to the playhouses, Will Shakespeare sits and writes. Words flow from his pen, easy and clear.
Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face, he writes, Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase; Hunting he loved, but love he laugh’d to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-faced suitor ’gins to woo him.
Though not sure whence these words came, Will remembered that Marlowe had died, and feared he’d simply inherited the great poet’s genius by some magical transference.
He thought of Kit’s too-brief life, his squandered genius, the son Kit had never dared own.
As soon as Will finished this poem, as it ever was, Will would go visit Stratford, and see Hamnet and Judith, and Susannah. Aye, and his sweet Nan again.
He smiled at the thought of his wife. She would soon live like a lady, if his money could buy it.
Will wasn’t quite sure why, but all of a sudden he knew he could finish the poem, too. Finish it well, and it would be good.
It would be admired and great, and live through the ages, long after Will himself had died.
In that space, neither asleep nor awake, where sometimes men know truths otherwise unknowable, Will thought he’d got something from Marlowe, some legacy bequeathed with the poet’s last breath.
And though Will needed not the money, he’d go on writing. The poetry itself—Marlowe’s or his own—called to him. And if it were Marlowe’s, it was as well—for when a man’s verses could no longer be read nor a man’s good wit heard, it struck a man more dead than a great reckoning in a small room.
Outside, in the shabby street of Southwark, life ground on, the bawds went to bed, and the artificers woke and manned their workshops. The threat of evil and dark death had been lifted from the neck of humanity, where it had rested like a naked sword. The spheres spun on, as they’d been meant to do for eternity. In his palace the King of Fairyland made ardent love to his joyful wife.
And the one man who’d known about the threat and done what must be done to lift it from the unaware orb of the great world wrote poetry and thought with mingled gratitude and grief of the flawed genius who’d bequeathed him such a rare gift.
Author’s Note
In writing All Night Awake, I took certain liberties with history, sins of omission and commission which I should confess.
The fire in Stratford-upon-Avon took place three years earlier and not at the time at which I had it happen. It is true, though, that many houses were destroyed and the houses on Henley street were saved.
And while it is true that the plague tormented London through the summer of 1593, it is not true that it only started then. Rather, it was a continuation of the plague that had—unnaturally—persisted over the winter. And I’m afraid it did not stop, conveniently, when Kit Marlowe died. His death, in fact, was often ascribed to the plague. A fit end—so the Puritans thought—to his riotous living.
Also, although several of Queen Elizabeth’s biographers portray her as a borderline paranoid who trusted neither advisors, nor spies, nor even her ladies-in-waiting, yet it is unlikely she ever roamed the streets disguised as a commoner. But the legend of it persists and it was too charming to resist.
I committed what any student of Shakespeare will consider a more serious offense when I postponed to 1593 the poet’s arrival in London. This so called “late arrival” theory was extant through the beginning of the twentieth century. However, now we have too much evidence—albeit circumstantial—of his presence in London earlier. And we believe that by 1593 many of his historical plays, The Merchant of Venice, and Titus Andronicus (the greatest play Marlowe never wrote) were already in existence. I have no excuse for choosing the outmoded theory, save that it served my own work best.
Perhaps my greatest offenses against history pertain to Christopher Marlowe. The worst of these might seem to be that I gave him an entirely spurious son. Imp is my creation and there is no evidence for him. In fact, it might be considered that there is negative evidence. Such an egregious offense as Marlowe’s siring of a bastard son would surely have been written about.
Also, what we think we know of Marlowe’s sexuality would make the siring of a son highly unlikely. But renaissance sexuality doesn’t easily fit into our twenty-first-century mold. From Marlowe’s plays alone, it seems hard to deny that he had an interest in “boys” (which in this context doubtless means men). However, what one is interested in and even what one writes about sometimes has precious little to do with one’s private life, as any writer can tell you.
On that, as on other issues surrounding Marlowe’s life and death—his character, his supposed atheism, his supposed involvement in the secret service—for lack of space to address them all, I refer those interested to Charles Nicholl’s excellent (and deserving of more recognition than it has had) The Reckoning, the murder of Christopher Marlowe (Harcourt Brace, 1992).
I’m sure I’ve done Marlowe as much disservice as most of his other biographers.
Whatever he was as a human being, as a poet he was great and his death at twenty-nine was an injury done to the English language, a loss of what might have been its greatest riches. So, go forth and read because, to quote Shakespeare, “When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room.”
On another note—to those who will resent my implication that Will Shakespeare inherited Marlowe’s words—fear not. This is not—yet—the last explanation I’ll advance. As unable to explain Shakespeare’s genius as all others before me, I can do no more than advance all the same theories others have advanced and, by advancing them all preempt them all.
The truth is William Shakespeare’s genius is beyond our ken and far beyond our attempts at explanation. On that, I’ll let Kit Marlowe have the last word: “The reason for it all, no man knows. Let it suffice that what we behold is censured by our eyes” and by our insufficient imagination . . .
Sarah A. Hoyt
March, 2002
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Bibliography
These are some of the books used in researching for All Night Awake. I have also resorted again to all the books used to research Ill Met by Moonlight, as well as a few others. A more complete bibliographical list will be posted on my website at www.sarahahoyt.com. However, for now, here are the essential ones, in no particular order:
Nicholl, Charles. The Reckoning, The Murder of Christopher Marlowe. Harcourt & Brace, 1992.
Haynes, Alan. The Elizabethan Secret Services. Sutton Publishing Ltd., 1992.
Rowse, A. L. Christopher Marlowe: His Life and Work. Grosset and Dunlap, 1964.
Christopher Marlowe. Edited and introduced by Richard Wilson. Addison Wesley Longman, Ltd., 1999.
Bakeless, John. Christopher Marlowe. Haskell House Pub., 1938.
Weir, Alison. The Life of Elizabeth I. Ballantine Books, 1998.
Hibbert, Christopher. The Virgin Queen: Elizabeth I, Genius of the Golden Age. Perseus Books, 1991.
Salgado, Gamini. The Eliza
bethan Underworld. Sutton Pub. Ltd., 1992.
All Night Awake (Original Version)
Sarah A. Hoyt
One of the frequent questions I’m asked is about how a novel changes from the time the first glimmering of an idea is formed to when it finally appears in print. So, to give everyone an idea of just what can happen, here is the version of All Night Awake as I first submitted it. There are, as you will see, a number of changes – some of which I made kicking and screaming and tearing my hair out – between this and the final version.
Sarah
Prologue
Scene: The curtain opens upon a dense forest. Beneath the overspreading trees, three women sit spinning. The first one, a fresh-faced maiden in a pastel green dress, spins the wool. The middle aged one, a buxom matron in stronger green, winds the thread. The oldest one, dressed all in black, leans forward, and, over the white spun thread, holds a pair of glimmering golden sheers, poised to cut.
The first spinner, whose sparkling blond hair half covers a body wrapped only in a gauzy gown, speaks while bent over the spinning wheel. “When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning or in rain?”
The second spinner, her hair confined by her bonnet, her rounded body within a sturdy dress, rolls the thread between her work-calloused fingers and looks not at the speaker, but at the foggy air as she answers, “When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won. When the poet’s got his crown, when the traitor’s web is spun, when the king’s got his throne.” While her fingers work, she smiles, revealing sharp teeth, with which fate has ever mauled every mortal between cradle and grave. “When the threat of evil is gone.”
All Night Awake Page 29
