“No. The words — these words, scattered about through these simple verses — are in no human tongue. At least not one still spoken. They are something old and foul, I fear, though I cannot be certain.” Dee looked at him. “Who is this Will?”
“Shakespeare. A playwright, sometimes actor. But I cannot see him being involved in something like this. What do these words say?” Sly asked, gripping the hilt of his sword.
“I do not know. I only know what they represent, and that we must stop whatever performance they are a part of,” Dee said. He turned to Burbage, who’d been listening in puzzlement. “Where did this company of yours go?” he demanded, hoping, praying that the answer was not somewhere out of London.
“The – The Rose, I think,” Burbage said, shrinking back from Dee.
“I know the place. It’s near The Clink, just over the bridge on the southern bank,” Sly said. Dee’s heart fell. Across the river. It might as well be across the Channel. He shook his head.
“We must get there. And swiftly,” Dee said, crushing the pages in his fist. “Else I fear the Chattering Plague will be the least of our worries this eve.”
“A coach, Burbage.” Sly looked at his friend. “I know you had one off the Widow Brayne in your last counter-suit.” Burbage hesitated, glancing nervously at the unconscious man on the ground. Sly’s hand fell to the hilt of his knife. “It’s royal business we’re on, Master Cuthbert.” Burbage swallowed audibly and nodded.
“In the back.”
Long minutes later, the coach burst out of the yard and onto the darkening street, Sly standing behind the horses’ tails, lash in hand. Dee crouched in the coach, holding on for dear life. Rattling, rowling, rumbling, the coach wheels raced along, its driver filling the air with curse-laden shouts of warning. Sly controlled the reins with the skill of a born hack, narrowly avoiding a man with a basket on his arm. Sheep bawled and scattered as the coach sped towards London Bridge, along ancient paths between unchanging, ever-changing buildings.
As they hit the bridge, Sly shouted something. Dee barely heard him, but he understood well enough. They were not alone in their journey. Swarms of the Afflicted stumbled, lurched and ran through the crowds, wailing and moaning. Dee sat back, fingers pressed to his temples. He could feel something in the air, as he had in Shoreditch. An eerie resonance, as of the beating of a thousand wings or the stamping of a thousand hooves, faint, but growing stronger. “William — do you hear it? Something is coming. We must go faster — faster!”
Sly urged the horses on to greater speed. The bridge had been built and rebuilt a dozen times over the centuries. Over two hundred buildings, some nearly seven stories high, clung to its edges, overhanging the Thames or the road. The latter formed dark tunnels through which they had to pass. Dee thanked whatever spirits were listening that the bridge wasn’t as congested as it usually was. He hoped they would be in time.
The coach slewed slightly as they left the bridge. Imprecations flew from pedestrians as they scrambled out of the way of the rearing horses. Sly laughed wildly as the coach rattled on towards its destination. The sky had gone dark. Night was falling, fast and true.
When it at last came into sight, Dee realized that The Rose was well-named. It resembled nothing so much as a bulging tulip, lit by torches and lanterns. He counted at least fourteen sides to the structure, each one a petal of timber and plaster.
Sly brought the coach to an abrupt halt. “We walk from here, Master,” he said, hopping down. Dee gathered his robes and clambered out of the coach, somewhat shakily. He could still feel the reverberations of the ride in his bones.
The crowd waiting to get in was larger than he’d expected. There were groups of working men, householder’s wives and their servants, even beggars, all flowing as one towards the single entrance. And among them, isolated by bubbles of empty space, the Afflicted. They stood swaying amidst the human tide, or else were carried along with it, mouthing incomprehensible words. More of them arrived with every minute, in dribs and drabs, all but unnoticed by the crowd at large. He could not say how they were getting into the playhouse, but they were. No one stopped them, or even seemed to see them. A chill ran through him, and he looked to the sky again. Were the clouds thickening? Was something moving, just behind them, in the dark reaches of the sky, among the flickering stars?
Shivering, Dee tore his eyes from the heavens. He was tempted to find the nearest watchman and have the Afflicted rounded up, but he knew that at best, it would be a waste of time. At worst, it might cause a riot.
“We need to get inside, William. And now,” Dee hissed.
Sly nodded and led him through the press of bodies, opening a path with discrete kicks and shoves, or indiscrete and indiscriminate cursing. They circled around the side of the theatre, heading for an area behind the stage. Horses grazed there, and actors sat, reading lines or sleeping.
No one challenged them, though a few shouted greetings to Sly. Sly waved half-heartedly in reply. “In all honestly, Master, I don’t know who they’re talking to,” he said.
“Whoever it is, I should like to thank him,” Dee said. “Without him, we would be stuck outside. We must find this playwright of yours.”
The backstage area was crowded with crates of clothing, tables, stools and men hard at their work. The noise from the yard and the galleries swept over the stage and into the wings. Beneath the voice of the crowd, Dee could just make out the insect-drone of the Afflicted. The sound of it pulled him in — if only he could decipher it...
“Doctor? Master Dee? Is that you?”
A hand fell on Dee’s shoulder, startling him. He turned so swiftly that the speaker stepped back, hands raised. “It’s me, sir... Ferdinando Stanley. We met at Oxford.” Lord Strange was dressed handsomely, in pearls and lace. He carried a cane in one hand. “Have you come to see the show?”
“Not as such, Lord Strange,” Dee said. “We are here on the Queen’s business.”
Stanley’s face hardened. There were few in Elizabeth’s court who did not have some idea of what services Dee performed for the Queen. And fewer still who would refuse to help him, if he asked. “What do you require, Doctor?”
“Shakespeare,” Dee said.
Stanley blinked. “You mean Will? Easy enough.” He raised his cane. “Will? Will Shakespeare — attend me!” The crowd of actors and stagehands grew still.
“Yes?” a quiet voice answered, after a moment.
Dee gestured. “William.” Sly shot forward. The crowd parted. Sly vaulted the casks and tackled the playwright as he was revealed. Both men careened through a silk screen and crashed into the crates of costumes. Shakespeare was shouting for help, as was Sly. Stanley waved the onlookers aside and led Dee towards them.
Shakespeare staggered to his feet, collar askew, eyes wild. Stanley extended his cane and caught him in the chest. Sly was up a moment later, lip bleeding. He dabbed at his face and grinned at Dee. “Fie, but he has a tiger’s heart in his player’s hide and no mistake.”
“What is the meaning of this?” Shakespeare protested, looking at Sly. “I told you I would pay you back anon. I’m a man of my word!” He was younger than Dee had expected. Black hair, pale features. Fingers stained with ink — every inch the scrivener. But there was something about him... A snap, a spark. Edward Kelley had it, and Sly did as well. There was more to William Shakespeare than met the eye.
“I’m not one to tackle over pennies, Will,” Sly said. “And you can address yourself to these gentles, rather than me.” He caught hold of Shakespeare’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “And I’ll warn you to speak true, else you’ll be scribbling with your other hand.”
“Ow — fine! Speak,” Shakespeare said. Dee shoved the papers Burbage had given him under the playwright’s nose.
“You wrote this?”
Shakespeare craned his head. “Yes?”
“Where is the rest of it?”
“That work is under revision,” Shakespeare said.
; “You’re performing it tonight,” Stanley said.
“There’s always time for revisions,” Shakespeare said. “Sebastian asked me to add in a few lines. He thought it could do with some punching up.”
“Sebastian?”
“Melmoth,” Stanley said. “A member of the company. An actor.” He looked around. “I don’t see him.”
Dee gestured for Sly to release Shakespeare. “Where is the rest of the play?”
With some prodding from Sly, Shakespeare led them towards a table and stool in the corner, out of the way of foot traffic. It was blanketed in loose pages, each covered in Shakespeare’s scrawling hand. Dee noted the revisions, and felt a surge of disgust. He placed a hand over the papers, as if to hide them from sight. “Where did you get these words from? This Melmoth?”
“He — he gave me a book,” Shakespeare said. He licked his lips.
His eyes flickered towards the table. Dee’s hand shot forward, scattering pages as he retrieved a slim, green volume. Its cover was of badly cracked Moroccan leather and it was amateurishly bound. But when he touched it, he felt a heat in his fingers, as if he’d drawn too close to a lit candle.
“Witchcraft,” Stanley breathed. He looked at the playwright.
“What have you done?”
“Not I! Melmoth. He paid my debts, asked only this in return.
What was I to do?” Shakespeare said helplessly. “I saw no harm in it... It was only a little thing.”
“And that is how it begins. One thing always leads to another,”
Dee said.
“What is it, Master? It looks like no grimoire I’ve ever seen,”
Sly said.
“It is not a book of spells. More a... Guide,” Dee said, softly.
The pages felt damp to the touch, though they crackled as if dry.
Words, diagrams, images, all swam before his eyes. Not in one language, but many. “The Aklo letters...”
He snapped the book shut and glared at Shakespeare. Even as he did so, he felt a twinge of admiration. Other men had gone insane reading such things. Shakespeare not only appeared to have retained his sanity, but managed to make some of them rhyme. “Where is Melmoth?”
“I don’t know,” Shakespeare said.
“And did he read these revisions of yours at The Theatre, and The Curtain?”
“Melmoth has done me a good turn. I wished to give him something in return,” Shakespeare said. Dee held up the book.
“And would you do the same for the Devil, if he paid your way? Fool.” He looked at Stanley. “We must find this Melmoth and put him to the question. This fool of a scrivener has, all unknowing, set something in motion. And we must find out what.”
“He’ll be here somewhere. He’s playing the Earl of Warwick,” Stanley said.
Dee gestured to Sly. “Go with Lord Strange. Find our actor. And do so before the show begins.”
“Should I not cancel the performance?” Stanley said.
Dee shook his head. “There is no time. Can’t you feel it? It has already begun. We must know what he has done, and put it right if we can.”
As Stanley and Sly left, he turned to Shakespeare. “Do you understand these words? Or do you merely copy them?”
“In truth, I thought they were Turkish,” Shakespeare said. Drums began to thump. “That’s the signal for the actors to take their places.” He looked at Dee. “I meant no harm.”
“Playwrights rarely do, in my experience.”
Dee tensed. He felt something, like a trickle of cold water running suddenly down his back.
He turned. The area was empty of all save props and costumes and screens, and yet he could feel eyes upon him. The droning of the Afflicted was audible from the yard, rising in volume with the growing crowd.
“You hear them, then,” Shakespeare said, his voice soft. Dee looked at him in surprise. “I hear them too, now. I do not understand...
But they say my words. Like actors reciting a line.”
“Not your words,” Dee said.
“No. Mine.”
Dee and Shakespeare turned. A gaunt figure sat atop the table, legs crossed, pages in hand. How long it had been there, Dee couldn’t say. It unfolded, stood and hopped to the ground with boneless ease. “You’ve fallen in with bad company, Master Shakespeare. Whatever will I do with you?”
“Sebastian,” Shakespeare said.
Sebastian Melmoth smiled genially. “Allow me to announce myself. I am Melmoth, and Melmoth is me. Sebastian Melmoth, late of Wessex and other sundry and diverse regions.” White teeth flashed within a carefully clipped black beard as he bowed mockingly to Dee.
“And you’d be the high cony in the garden, unless I’m much mistaken.”
“I am Dr. John Dee,” Dee said. “And by the authority vested in me by Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland, I charge you to cease your witchery.”
“Cease? Why I’ve hardly begun, sir…”
Melmoth motioned. Dee heard the creak of boards, and realized at once that Melmoth was not alone. Strong hands gripped his arms and shoulders, and a foot caught the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. Shakespeare sank down beside him, a scowl on his face. Two men, stagehands by their dress. Both were hollow-eyed and with the look of men gripping hell’s edge by their fingers.
“What is this, Sebastian?” Shakespeare said. “What are you doing? He’s here on the orders of the Queen. Would you see us all for the Tyburn jig?”
“All? No. You? Most certainly, good Will. I confess, I find you tedious. A good stretch will do wonders for your personality,” Melmoth said, tapping his neck for emphasis. His hand fell to his sword. “Though your scribblings have helped me, I will admit. A quick death, then.”
“You will not kill him,” Dee said, quickly.
“No?” Melmoth looked at him curiously.
“No,” Dee said. “I will not let you.”
Melmoth stared at him for a moment before laughing uproariously. “Upon my word, sir, you do indeed put one in mind of an old hen, clucking away. I shall have to tell friend Edward he was right.” His men laughed as well, but in strained fashion.
“Edward? Edward Kelley?” Dee said, momentarily at a loss. “How do you know him?” he demanded, wondering what part his old apprentice played in these matters. Melmoth slapped his knee, as if in jest.
“How else? Desperate men find company where they can.” He peered at Dee and smirked. “Though it availed him little enough, in the end. The stars are right, old man. The beasts are at the gate, and the birds fall silent.” He spread his hands. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. Thomas, Sackerson, hold them.” He reached again for his sword.
Trumpets sounded from the yard. Melmoth turned. “Well, fate plays its tune. The show begins, and you earn a brief reprieve. Enjoy your seats, gentles all. And do not be afraid to applaud, should the mood so strike you.”
Dee struggled to rise, but his captor forced him down. “He has damned you,” he said. The man grunted in reply. From the stage, Melmoth’s voice rolled out across the yard, and stretched upwards to the galleries. The Afflicted spoke with him, though not his words. “Before I see thine countenance iot-sot-ot seated in that throne, which now the House of Man usurps, I vow by hell these eyes shall ne’er close. This is the palace of the fearful queen, and this... This the regal seat,” he shouted, flinging out his hands. “Possess it, iot-sot-ot; for this is thine and not Adam’s heirs’!”
“He’s changed my lines,” Shakespeare said. “I did not write it that way!”
Dee understood it fully now. Melmoth was opening a door. But for that, he needed help. Minds and voices joined to his own. The afflicted were his chorus and his tools, the weight of their madness weakening the substance of one reality and reinforcing another, more terrible one. The words he’d had Shakespeare add were part of the rite, and they had burned themselves into susceptible minds – minds opened by the rhyme and rhythm of Shakespeare’s play. And now, as with disparate embers gathered together
, a monstrous flame was being kindled. A signal-fire, to light the way... But for what?
He had his answer a moment later. The world shook. Birds rose screaming from the roof. In the courtyard, horses shrieked. Men and women screamed. Something stepped from the stars, descending, its every step a peal of thunder. He could see nothing past the edge of the stage. Melmoth was laughing now, all pretence forgotten. The crowd was surging back, panicked, leaving the Afflicted swaying in place, their faces turned to the crawling sky.
“What is it?” Shakespeare croaked.
“The Devil,” Dee said, flatly. The weight on his shoulders suddenly vanished. His captor sank down with a groan. The one holding Shakespeare whirled about, but too late as a Turkish dirk caught him in the belly. The man folded with a whimper and fell. Sly helped Dee to his feet. “I found Melmoth,” he said, wiping his knife on his sleeve.
“So did I,” Dee said.
“Stanley is trying to get the punters to leave without trampling one another,” Sly said. “What has Melmoth done?”
“Opened a door,” Dee said.
“How do we stop it?”
Dee started forward. “We close it, William.” He began to speak in Adamical, the Holy Language. The words were old, and the syllables liquid. It was the language used in the world’s creation, and by Adam and all the angels. Or so Kelley had insisted. Dee knew only that it had some power. He hoped it would be enough to send what was coming back into the void. He could feel the terrible weight of the thing bearing down on his soul and mind. In the crowd, men and women were going mad, their brains split by the force of its approach.
He walked onto the stage, words spilling from his lips, softly at first and then more loudly, as he drew strength from them. The aether churned like a storm. Scraps of cloth and backdrop whirled about him. Melmoth turned, mid-line. “What?”
Dee flung out a hand. He spat words, and the world turned red and gold at the edges. The sky was on fire, and the boards trembled beneath his feet. He did not look up.
Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu Page 12
