by Rich Horton
“You can do whatever you want,” I said. “Sit here and scream at each other, maybe for a century or two. Or you can settle your differences and accomplish something enormous in the aftermath. Which, by the way, is the same conundrum waiting for every other entity.”
They stared, and the fear was rising.
Then the smart, worldly businessman clapped a big hand on my shoulder, asking, “And what are you going to do, Bradley?”
“I told you. My brain is going to help maintain the memescape.”
“I mean with that sliver, the part of your brain that’s still you.”
“Oh.” I needed a moment, which surprised me. “It’s a nice day, and I want to snowboard. I’m going outside now and become a kid again, and once I’m done with a good long run, a careless driver is going to run me down in the parking lot, and I’ll be dead.”
Mother gave a low miserable shout.
I said, “This way, all of my wits and humor can focus on what matters, which is keeping this madhouse alive.”
Lucee’s pretty nose was leaking a slippery mess, but bless her, she handed my mother the first spare tissue that she found in her pocket.
Then, grumpy as hell, Grandpa said, “Bradley. That sounds like a coward’s trick to me.”
“You know,” I said, looking hard at him. “All those words about the whale, and still you never figured it out.”
Rosary and Goldenstar
Geoff Ryman
The room was wood—floor, walls, ceiling.
The doorbell clanged a second time. The servant girl Bessie finally answered it; she had been lost in the kitchen amid all the pans. She slid across the floor on slippers, not lifting her feet; she had a notion that she polished as she walked. The front door opened directly onto the night: snow. The only light was from the embers in the fireplace.
Three huge men jammed her doorway. “This be the house of Squire Digges?” the smallest of them asked; and Bessie, melting in shyness, said something like, “Cmn gud zurs.”
They crowded in, stomping snow off their boots, and Bessie knelt immediately to try to mop it up with her apron. “Shoo! Shoo!” said the smaller guest, waving her away.
The Master roared; the other door creaked like boots and in streamed Squire Digges, both arms held high. “Welcome! Good Count Vesuvius! Guests! Hah hah!” Unintroduced, he began to pump their hands.
Vesuvius, the smaller man, announced in Danish that this was Squire Digges, son of Leonard and author of the lenses, then turned back and said in English that these two fine fellows were Frederik Rosenkrantz and Knud Gyldenstierne.
“We have corresponded!” said Squire Digges, still smiling and pumping. To him, the two Danes looked huge and golden-red with bronze beards and bobbed noses, and he’d already lost control of who was who. He looked sideways in pain at the Count. “You must pardon me, sirs?”
“For what?”
The Squire looked harassed and turned on the servant. “Bessie! Bessie, their coats! The door. Leave off the floor, girl!”
Vesuvius said in Danish, “The gentleman has asked you to remove your coats at long last. For this he is sorry.”
One of the Danes smiled, his face crinkling up like a piecrust, and he unburdened himself of what must have been a whole seal hide. He dumped it on Bessie, who could not have been more than sixteen and was small for her years. Shaking his head, Digges slammed shut the front door. Bessie, buried under furs, began to slip across the gleaming floor as if on ice.
“Bessie,” said Digges in despair then looked over his shoulder. “Be careful of the floors, Messires, she polishes them so. Good girl, not very bright.” He touched Bessie’s elbow and guided her toward the right door.
“He warns us that floors are dangerous.”
Rosenkrantz and Gyldenstierne eyed each other. “Perhaps we fall through?” They began to tiptoe.
Digges guided Bessie through the door, and closed it behind her. He smiled and then unsmiled when there was a loud whoop and a falling crash within.
“All’s well, Bessie?”
“Aye, zur.”
“We’ll wait here for a moment. Uh, before we go in. The gentlemen will excuse me but I did not hear your names.”
“He’s forgotten your names. These English cannot speak.” Vesuvius smiled. “Is so easy to remember in English. This be noble Rosary and Goldenstar.”
“Sirs, we are honored. Honored beyond measure!”
Mr. Goldenstar sniffed. “The whole place sags and creaks. Haven’t the English heard of bricks?”
Mr. Rosary beamed and gestured at the panelling and the turd-brown floor. “House. Beautiful. Beautiful!”
Squire Digges began to talk to them as if they were children. “In. Warm!” He beat his own arms. “Warrrrrrrrrrm.”
Goldenstar was a military man, and when he saw the room beyond, he gave a cry and leapt back in alarm.
It was not a dining hall but a dungeon. It had rough blocks, chains, and ankle irons that hung from the wall. “It’s a trap!” he yelped, and clasped young Rosary to pull him back.
From behind the table a tall, lean man rose up, all in black with a skull cap and lace around his neck. Inquisitor.
“Oh!” laughed the Squire and touched his forehead. “No, no, no, no alarms, I beg. Hah hah! The house once belonged to Philip Henslowe; he owns the theater out back; this is like a set from a play.”
Vesuvius blinked in fury. “This is his idea of a joke.”
“You should see the upstairs; it is full of naked Venuses!”
“I think he just said upstairs is a brothel.”
Goldenstar ran his fingers over the walls. The rough stones, the iron rings and the chains had all been frescoed onto plaster. He blurted out a laugh. “They’re all mad.”
“They are all strolling players. They do nothing but go to the theater. They pose and declaim and roar.”
Digges flung out a hand toward the man in black. “Now to the business at hand. Sirs! May . . . I . . . introduce . . . Doctor John DEE!”
For the Doctor, Vesuvius had a glittery smile; but he said through his teeth, “They mime everything.”
“Ah!” Mr. Rosary sprang forward to shake the old man’s hand. He was in love, eyes alight. “Queen Elisabetta. Magus!”
Dr. John Dee rumbled, “I am called Mage, yes, but I am in fact the Advisor Philosophical to her Majesty.”
Digges beamed. “His Parallaticae commentationis and my own Alae seu scalae mathematicae were printed as a pair.”
Someone else attended, pale skinned, pink cheeked, and glossy from nose to balding scalp, with black eyes like currants in a bun and an expression like a barber welcoming you to his shop.
“And this example,” growled Digges, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “will not be known to you, but we hold him in high esteem, a family friend. This is Guillermus Shakespere.”
The young man presented himself. “A Rosary and a Goldenstar. These are names for poetry. Especially should one wish to contrast Religion and Philosophy.”
Vesuvius’s lip curled. “You mock names?”
“No no, of course not. I beg! Not that construction. It is but poetic . . . convenience. My own poor name summons up dragooned peasants shaking weapons. Or, or, an actor whose only roles are those of soldiers.” The young man looked back and forth between the men, expecting laughter. They blinked and stood with their hands folded not quite into fists.
“My young friend is a reformed Papist and so thinks much on issues of religion and philosophy. As do we.” Digges paused, also waiting. “Please sit, gentlemen.”
Cushions, food, and wine all beckoned. Digges busied himself pouring far too much wine into tankards. Mr. Rosary hunkered down with pleasure next to Dr. Dee, and even took his hand. He then began to speak, sometimes closing his eyes. “My dear Squire Digges and honorabled Doctor Dee. My relative Tycho Brahe sends his greatest respects and has entrusted us to give you this, his latest work.”
He sighed and chuckled,
relieved to be rid of both a small gray printed pamphlet, and his speech. Digges howled his gratitude, and read a passage aloud from the pamphlet and passed it to Dr. Dee, and pressed Rosary to pass on his thanks.
Rosary began to recite again. “I am asked by Tycho Brahe to say how impress-ed with your work. Sir. To describe the universe as infinite with mathematical argument!” His English sputtered and died. “Is a big thing. We are all so amuzed.”
“Forgive me,” said the young man. “Is it the universe or the argument that is infinite?”
“Guy,” warned Digges in a sing-song voice. He pronounced it with a hard “G” and a long eeee.
“And is it the universe or the numbers that are amusing?”
Mr. Rosary paused, understood, and grinned. “The two. Both.”
“We disagree on matters of orbitals,” said Squire Digges.
Vesuvius leaned back, steepling his fingers; his nails were clean and filed. “A sun that is the circumference of Terra.” He sketched with his finger a huge circle and shook his head.
Almost under his breath the young man said, “A sonne can be larger than his father.”
Digges explained. “My young friend is a poet.”
Vesuvius smiled. “I look forward to him entertaining us later.” Then he ventriloquized in Danish, “And until then, he might eat with the servants.”
Mr. Rosary looked too pleased to care and beamed at Digges. “You . . . have . . . lens.”
Digges boomed. “Yes! Yes! On roof.” He pointed. “Stierne. Stierne.”
Rosary laughed and nodded. “Yes! Stierne! Star.”
“Roof. We go to roof.” Squire Digges mimed walking with his two fingers. Blank looks, so he wiped out his gesture with a wave.
Vesuvius translated with confidence. “No stars tonight, too cloudy.”
“No stars,” said Mr. Rosary, as if someone’s cat had died.
“Yes.” Digges looked confused. “Stierne. On roof.”
Everything stalled: words, hands, mouths and feet. Nobody understood.
Young Guy made a sound like bells, many of them, as if bluebells rang. His fingers tinkled across an arch that was meant to be the Firmament. Then his two flat hands became lenses and his arms mechanical supports that squeedled as they lined up his palms.
Goldenstar gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. “What the hell is he doing?”
Vesuvius: “I told you they have to mime everything.”
“No wonder that they are good with numbers. They can’t use words!”
“It’s why there will never be a great poet in English.”
Rosary suddenly rocked in recognition. He too mimed the mechanical device with its lenses. He twinkled at young Guy. Young Guy twinkled back.
“Act-or,” explained Digges. “Tra-la! Stage. But poet. Oh! Such good poet. New poem. Venus and Adonis!” He kissed the tips of his fingers. Vesuvius’s eyes, heavy and unmoved, rested on his host.
“Poet. Awww,” Rosary said in sympathy. “No numbers.”
John Dee, back erect, sipped his wine.
Bessie entered, rattling plates and knives in terror. Goldenstar growled, and his hands rounded in the air the curvature of her buttocks. She noticed and fled, soles flapping, polishing no more.
The Squire poured more wine. “Now. I want to hear more of your great relation, Lord Tycho. I yearn to visit him. He lives on an island? Devoted to philosophy!” He pronounced the name as “Tie-koh.”
Vesuvius corrected him. “Teej-hhho.”
“Yes yes yes, Tycho.”
“The island is called Hven. You should be able to remember it as it is the same word as ‘haven.’ It is called in Greek Uraniborg. Urania means study of stars. Perhaps you know that?”
Digges’s face stiffened. “I do read Greek.”
Rosary beamed at Guy. “Your name Gee. In Greek is Earth.”
Guy laughed. “Is it? Heaven and Earth. And I was born Taurus.” He waited for a response. “Earth sign?” He looked at them all in turn. “You are all astrologers?”
Dr. Dee said, “No.”
“And your name,” said Guy, turning suddenly on the translator as if pulling a blade. “You are called Vesuvius?”
“A pseudonym, Guy,” said Digges. “Something to hide. A nom de plume.”
“What’s that?”
“French,” growled Vesuvius. “A language.”
Rosary thought that was a signal to change languages, and certainly the subject. “Mon cousin a un nez d’or.”
Squire Digges jumped in to translate ahead of Vesuvius. “Your cousin has a . . . ” He faltered. “A golden nose.”
Rosary pointed to his own nose. “Oui. Il l’a perdu ça par se battre en duel.”
“In . . . a . . . duel.”
Goldenstar thumped the table. “Over matematica!”
Squire Digges leaned back. “Now that is a good reason to lose your nose.”
“Ja! Ja!” Goldenstar laughed. “Principiis mathematicis.”
“I trust we will not come to swords,” said Digges, half-laughing.
Rosary continued. “De temps en temp il port un nez de cuivre.”
Vesuvius translated. “Sometimes the nose is made of copper.”
Guy’s mouth crept sideways. “He changes noses for special occasions?”
Vesuvius glared; Goldenstar prickled. “Tycho Brahe great man!”
“Evidently. To be able to afford such a handsome array of noses.”
Squire Digges hummed “no” twice.
Rosary pressed on. “Mon cousin maintain comme un animal de familier un élan.”
Vesuvius snapped back, “He also has a pet moose.”
Digges coughed. “I think you’ll find he means elk.”
“L’élan peut danser!” Rosary looked so pleased.
Digges rattled off a translation. “The elk can dance.” He paused. “I might have that wrong.”
Goldenstar thought German might work better. “Der elch ist tot.”
Digges. “The elk is dead.”
“Did it die in the duel as well?” Guy’s face was bland. “To lose at a stroke both your nose and your moose.”
Rosary rocked with laughter. “Ja-ha-ha. Ja! Der elch gesoffenwar von die treppen gefallen hat.”
Sweat tricked down Digges’s forehead. “The elk drank too much and fell down stairs.”
Guy nodded slightly to himself. “And you good men believe that the Earth goes around the sun.” His smile was a grimace of incredulity and embarrassment.
Dr. Dee tapped the table. “No. Your friend Squire Digges believes the Earth goes around the sun. Our guests believe that the sun goes around the Earth, but that all the other planets revolve around those two central objects. They believe this on the evidence of measurements and numbers. This evening is a conference on numbers and their application to the ancient study of stars. Astronomy. But the term is muddled.”
Guy’s face folded in on itself.
“Language fails you. Thomas Digges is described as a designer of arms and an almanacker. Our Danish friends are called astrologers, I am called a mage. I call us philosophers, but our language is numbers. Numbers describe, sirrah, with more precision than all your poetry.”
Shakespere bowed.
“The Queen herself believes this and thus so should you.” Dee turned away from him.
“But the numbers disagree,” said Shakespere.
Bessie labored into the room backwards, bearing on a trencher a whole roast lamb. It was burnt black and smelled of soot. The company applauded nonetheless. The parsnips and turnips about it were cinders shining with fat.
Digges continued explaining. “Now, this great Tycho saw suddenly appear in the heavens . . . ”
Goldenstar punched the air and shouted over the last few words, “By eye! By eye!”
“Yes, by eye. He saw a new light in the heavens, a comet he thought, only it could not be one.”
“Numbers by eye!”
“Yes, he calculated the paralla
x and proved it was not a comet. It was beyond the moon. A new star, he thought.”
“Nova!” exclaimed Goldenstar.
“More likely to be a dying one, actually. But it was a change to the immutable sphere of the stars!”
“Oh. Interesting,” said Shakespere. “Should . . . someone carve?”
“You’re as slow as gravy! Guy! The sphere of the stars is supposed to be unchanging and perfect.”
“Spheres, you mean the music of the spheres?”
Goldenstar bellowed. “Ja. It move!”
“I rather like the idea of the stars singing.”
Digges’s hand moved as if to music. “It means Ptolemy is wrong. It means the Church is wrong, though why Ptolemy matters to the Church I don’t know. But there it was. A new light in the heavens!”
Guy’s voice rose in panic. “When did this happen?”
John Dee answered him. “1572.”
Shakespere began to count the years on his fingers.
John Dee’s mouth twitched and he squeezed shut Shakespere’s hand. “Twenty. Years. And evidently the world did not end, so it was not a portent.” As he spoke, Vesuvius translated in an undertone.
Squire Digges grinned like a wolf. “There are no spheres. The planets revolve around the sun, and we are just another planet.”
“Noooooooooo ho-ho!” wailed Rosary and Goldenstar.
Digges bounced up and down in his chair, still smiling. “The stars are so far away we cannot conceive the distance. All of them are bigger than the sun. The universe is infinitely large. It never ends.”
The Danes laughed and waved him away. Goldenstar said, “Terra heavy. Sit in center. Fire light. Sun go around Terra!”
“Could we begin eating?” suggested Guy.
“Terra like table. Table fly like bird? No!” One of Goldenstar’s fists was matter, the other fire and spirit.
“I’ll carve. Shall I carve?” No one noticed Shakespere. He stood up and sharpened the knife while the philosophers teased and bellowed. He sawed the blackened hide. “I like a nice bit of crackling.” He leaned down hard on the knife and pushed; the scab broke open and a gout of blood spun out of it like a tennis ball and down Guy’s doublet. The meat was raw. He regained his poise. “Shall we fall upon it with lupine grace?”
