I Got Some Bad Muse For You

by Michael Angel

  Shakespeare let out a sneeze that turned into a growl.

  “If one baits the tiger, I shall strike their crown into the hazard!”

  He threw a flurry of punches at Callidora, which she expertly blocked. She jabbed back as many as she got. Shakespeare bobbed and weaved, striking back where he could. Callidora’s eyes shone brightly as their movements made an odd, irregular dance about the confines of the room.

  “Why can’t Romeo be with Zelda?” the muse asked, as she faked to one side and blocked an incoming punch.

  “Because...” he panted, as he jabbed, “Their families harbor dislike for each other. Dislike...no, hatred! I’ll craft it so the entire city of Verona is ablaze with their feud!”

  “Now we’re talking. But they can’t just live apart at the end.”

  “Why not?”

  “Conflict!” Callidora lunged forward, swinging left, then right. “It’s what drives us! Compels us to watch! If they can live apart, there’s nothing at stake!”

  Shakespeare ducked the swings and stepped back. “Nothing? They belike only to courtly love, never to touch. T’was the best my poor brain could fathom!”

  “Not enough! I want more! More drama! More action!”

  The bard snarled and started punching, this time forcing Callidora to retreat a step. “Then I can drench the floor with their blood at the end! Is that what you want, muse? Why push me for so much?”

  “Because there can be no growth without strife. No advance without pain. Nothing worth winning without struggle! And you writers...you’re too lazy!”

  Shakespeare dropped his gloves. His forehead glittered with moistened sequins of sweat. “Are we? As a class, is our mettle so bred out?”

  “Only the mediocre ones,” Callidora stuck a hand under an armpit and pulled one glove off, then the other. “The great writers, the ones who listen to their muse, they try harder than the others. They realize that in some ways, it’s not about talent so much as discipline.”

  “That is a familiar path for you, one you seem to know your way about.”

  “It is. The last fellow I worked with before you, guy by the name of ‘Dickens’. He did a play about a fellow who didn’t like Christmas. Get this. He tried to carry the entire play with only one ghost visiting the protagonist. Only one! I made him put in three!”

  “Then...I must become the bellows and the fan,” the bard said, determinedly. “To stoke the fire that will burn through all my work. To risk more than I could bear, once-upon-a-time.”

  Callidora watched, curious, as Shakespeare pulled off his gloves and set them nearby, on his writing table. He turned on his heel, knelt to scoop up the pages that had fallen from the bookshelf, and then pulled out a few tattered, dog-eared pages. He set his chair back upright from where it had tipped over during their boxing, and then indicated it to her with a genteel sweep of his arm.

  “I would read to you, milady Callidora. I would read words that I’d crafted for you. Words I put aside, out of shame and fear as that unmanned me.”

  The muse nodded and took her seat. Shakespeare’s voice came out in the same theatrical, rich tones, but softly, with the slightest quaver. The sound of a man who’d reached the boundaries of his craft. One who knew not how the audience would take this journey to a new, undiscovered country.

  “Of my lady, I say this: that two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!” Shakespeare paused, looked down, and lay a palm on one of Callidora’s bright red boxing gloves. “Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand. The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp.”

  Callidora blushed. “You...wrote that...for me?”

  “Indeed,” They were silent together, for a moment. Shakespeare smiled, then added, “You are not discomforted overmuch, I hope. Mind you, I did not mean to imply country matters betwixt us!”

  “Surely you did not.” She stood, brushed the back of a hand to one eye, then the other. With a flick of one wrist, the gloves and blue bag vanished. “Our lesson is done for the night. Tomorrow shall be another day. Another after that. We have quite the road to follow, Will.”

  “There is no road, no object that can make me tremble. Not anymore,” Shakespeare stated plainly.

  “Then I shall see thee. You, I mean. On the morrow?”

  “Anon it shall be, and not a moment too soon for my flights of fancy and imagination, dear muse.”

  Callidora blushed further, her cheeks reddening to scarlet. With a second crude, unpracticed curtsey, she left the room, eyes not leaving Shakespeare’s, and disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  The roar of the audience, complete with ‘Huzzahs’ and calls for ‘More’, echoed deafeningly from the wooden rafters of the theatre. Shakespeare put the curtain aside, looked out over the cheering multitudes, and waited for the crowd to quiet. The scent of sweat and sawdust hung in the air, as exciting and charged as gunpowder. But quiet they did, enough for him to speak.

  “Thank you, gentles all, for enjoying our play. But I must first of all give thanks to my muse, for none are so dumb that cannot write, when she herself gives invention light. For a new muse is ten times more in worth, than those old nine which tale-tellers speak of. The pain be mine, but for her shall be the praise!”

  And with that, Shakespeare bowed and disappeared behind the curtain. The crowd began to chant again, while the stage manager hurriedly arranged the players to come out by pairs. The bard slipped away and into his private room backstage. He closed the door, and smiled as he saw Callidora standing before him. Her noble expression took on elements both proud and sad, made all the more regal by her return to the Greek robes she’d first arrived in.

  “I’d hoped upon the morning star that you would bestir yourself to join me upon opening day,” the bard said. “Did you not see? Did you not hear? The words were music in the player’s mouths. Together, we worked a miracle, both you and I.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “It was you. It always was, you know. And it shall always be, from now to ever-on.”

  Shakespeare looked at her strangely. “You speak as one who must embark for lands far beyond.”

  “My work is done,” she said simply. “I have a new assignment, and we muses don’t shirk responsibility lightly. Leading by example and all that.”

  “But...mayhap...”

  “Hush, now,” She stepped forward, placed her hands upon his shoulders, then forced herself to let the bard go. “You know that I’m not really leaving. That I’m with you, every step of the way. Every time you pick up that pen, that’s me working with you, through you.”

  “That I do realize. It is a bitter fruit you bear, nonetheless.” Shakespeare’s eyes glittered with moisture. “But hear me out. Hear me, and damn me with faint praise if you must.”

  “It seems that I must,” she said, and her own eyes had grown wet.

  “Milady, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, why you have undone me. Before God, I cannot gasp out my eloquence, only downright oaths. I speak to thee plainly, for I have fallen in love.”

  Callidora swallowed, hard, and nodded.

  “If thou would have such a mortal, take me, for you of all beings know my constancy,” Shakespeare continued, his voice dropping to just below a whisper. “An actor is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fail, a straight back will stoop, a fair face will wither. But a good heart is like the sun, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps its course truly. Take me, Callidora. Take me, take a playwright. Take a poet, take a king.”

  “Will...” she gasped, her eyes finally brimming over. Callidora let him draw her in, meeting his passionate kiss with one of her own, each savoring the other’s warmth and touch.

  But she broke the kiss, shaking, and held him at arm’s length. When she spoke, her voice broke like waves on sharp rocks.

/>   “There are times...that it is difficult to do this job. Where it is difficult not to fall in love with the artist, when it is the art that must come before all. I’m sorry, Will, I’m so very sorry that I can’t...”

  He touched a finger to her lips, quieting her.

  “My lady Callidora. You have taught me too well, and that is your undoing. Saying ‘nay’ to me today matters not. For like my writing, I shall keep my offer in an outstretched hand...however long it may be...until you take it.”

  “Then it is possible...just possible...that I have indeed met my match. That my student has learned to master the mistress, as you might say.”

  “Indeed!” Shakespeare caressed her face, then mused aloud, “What urgency takes you from me, calls you to a different time?”

  “You really want to know?” She raised an eyebrow, and he nodded. “A woman this time, one a few hundred years ahead of you. Her name’s ‘Rowling’.”

  “A playwright?”

  “Novelist. An even tougher case to crack than you, from what I can tell.”

  They shared a gentle laugh together. “S’wounds, is that possible?”

  “It may very well be,” Callidora grinned. “But when I’m done with her, she’ll be the richest woman in all of England.”

  “May God help her, then.”

  A pounding on the door. The stage manager’s voice sounded muffled by the thick wood. “My good playwright! The crowd wishes one more call to the curtain! Do join the cast for one last bow!”

  “Anon!” Shakespeare called.

  “Go on,” she said, with a sigh. “Remember, this world’s a stage. We’re all players, each with our own exits and entrances. And this entrance is yours, Will. Take it! Seize it!”

  He bowed to her one last time. “I shall, my lady Callidora.”

  And with that, Shakespeare strode back across the stage boards.

  Into glory.

  Into history.

  # # #

  New Book Preview

  Enter the World of Michael Angel:

  Shards – The Darkfell Saga.

  When the Caranthine Empire invades the peaceful land of Melusia, the wizard of Darkfell stands ready to repel the attacking hordes.

  Ready, that is, until a terrible accident knocks him out of action. Muriel, the wizard’s younger sister, sends a desperate call for help to a selfless, immensely powerful heroine she’s read about via her magical scrying mirror: Leetah, the legendary Mage of the Rose.

  But Leetah exists in only one place: between the ears of California-based fiction writer Jason Summer. Jason’s based Leetah on his longtime girlfriend, Sonja – a woman who harbors a secret that she’s kept safe, ever since she first laid eyes on Jason.

  How can Jason Summer bring back the wizard of Melusia? If he fails, how can one man stand against an army of thousands? Even with Sonja’s special talents and the help of a wizard’s kid sister, it’s going to be one bumpy ride.

  SHARDS – THE DARKFELL SAGA

  by Michael Angel

  Chapter One

  Muriel knew that launching the skyboat into the storm-tossed night was madness. Triple forks of lightning shattered the darkness. Thunder boomed a warning that echoed off the stone walls.

  And yet here she was, helping her brother take off into the maelstrom.

  She lit the lanterns mounted along the walls with a long tapered candle of bayberry wax. The light from the wicks flickered as it illuminated the circular chamber at the top of the three-story tower that Muriel shared with Zander. The bulk of his skyboat took up the center of the room. Shelves stuffed with vellum books and glassy bell jars ringed the walls. Overhead, the ceiling was hinged with a system of doors that could open into the night like an unfurling flower.

  “I know you’re not a thick-wit, Zander,” Muriel said irritably. “So I’ve concluded that your mind has slipped a cog. It’s the Maker’s own cauldron up there right now. Why must you take the ship up tonight?”

  “Because I’m not strong enough to keep the invaders at bay this time,” Zander replied. He flexed his legs and scooted out from under the ship’s wooden hull. “We need stronger sources of magical power. Or would you prefer to wait until we’re hip deep in Lord-Captain Arakan’s soldiers?”

  He nodded at the scene outside the tower’s window. The land sloped away from their tower and ended abruptly in a gray shingle beach. A gulf of dark water stretched almost to the horizon. Just beyond the edge of the storm, the opposite shore was dotted with a vast host of campfires that gleamed like a hearth full of red embers.

  Warmth for the Caranthine soldiers that had quartered themselves on their side of the border with Melusia.

  At least for the present.

  “We need other options, Muriel,” Zander continued. “Slide wrench, please.”

  Muriel slapped the tool into her brother’s calloused hand without thinking twice. “We need to know, we need to know. You say that about everything. Every. Single. Thing.”

  Zander finished his adjustment and jammed the tool into the leather belt that circled his waist. He got to his feet, and then placed his hands on Muriel’s slender shoulders.

  “Only because I speak the truth.”

  “You do...but as they say, a windy day is not the time to be fixing your roof.”

  “That would be true, were I thatching someone’s roof,” Zander replied, as he stepped aboard his skyboat. With deft fingers, he touched each of the brass, crystal, and wooden devices arrayed along the deck as he took a final mental inventory. “But when a storm’s lightning is so charged with energy, that’s when I can discover the keys to more magical power. So the center of that tempest is where I need to journey.”

  “If our mother could have foreseen this day, she’d never have let you study magic. She’d have thrown you at the nearest flock to work as a shepherd.”

  “Then I’m doubly lucky that I have you to watch over me now, instead of her.” Zander completed his survey, and then leaned forward. He carefully grasped the sleeping feline curled up in one of the vessel’s cubbyholes and placed her in Muriel’s arms. “Here, now. It looks like Breena tried to play stowaway.”

  The splashcat yawned lazily and stretched out her webbed paws. Muriel ruffled Breena’s sleek fur affectionately and put her down on a nearby shelf. Thunder rumbled overhead again, but Breena studiously ignored the noise.

  “A pet crate, that’s all this fecking thing is useful for now,” Muriel complained, “That useless mayor of ours can’t even give us the funds to buy you a proper skyboat.”

  “Enough,” Zander said. “The less we have to deal with him, the better. Especially when it comes to you. Don't bother with that beggar’s son and he won't bother with you.”

  “But without the right tools, how are you going to—”

  “Muriel, we make do with what tools we have. Otherwise, one might as well rage against the tide.”

  “Or the coming of winter,” she agreed.

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Zander took his station at the center of the craft, by the stoutly set boat’s wheel. He pulled on his rain slicker, raised the garment’s waterproof hood, and then made a loose circle in the air with a pair of upraised fingers. “Time to take her up.”

  Muriel grasped a massive lever set into the stone wall and jerked down with all her might. The doors that made up the observatory’s dome roof creaked open with a clatter that made Breena clamp her ears down in disgust. The water-powered gear assemblies squeaked piteously as they turned. Muriel shivered as the wind swirled through the opening, carrying a spray of sleet.

  Directly above the tower’s launching platform, a swirling mass took up a chunk of the sky twice the size of the moon’s face. The mass was a deep purple, laced with nightmarish strands of ochre and scarlet. Clouds scudded beneath it like clumps of dirty wool. When lightning flashed, it didn’t vanish in the wink of an eye. Instead, the bolts persisted for up to a solid minute, twisting themselves into terrible rounded or star-pointe
d shapes.

  On the deck of the skyboat lay a coil of ironwood rope, as thick around as a man’s wrist. Zander touched it and murmured a complex incantation under his breath. The coil began to glow.

  In one smooth motion, the end of the rope slipped off deck to lace itself around the massive anchor stone laid into the tower floor. The line went tight and the boat’s leaf-shaped hull moved out of its slips. The skyboat rose steadily into the turbulent sky above.

  The vessel was perhaps two hundred yards up when Muriel heard a buzzing sound, as if from a swarm of locusts. Her eyes widened as she saw a trio of spinning lightning rings break off from separate forks. The rings started to draw together as if pulled by a magnet. Their meeting point was a mere stone’s throw from Zander’s stern.

  She dove for the tie line to tug on it, to sound the alarm. But the rings drew together with hellish speed.

  A sizzling crackle like bacon dropped in the fire.

  Then a skin-rippling boom!

  Muriel looked up to see a ten-foot section of rudder from Zander’s boat come loose. The mass of wood plunged through the open roof like a titan’s javelin. It shattered upon the anchor stone. She ducked as splinters showered the room.

  Breena yowled and plunged into the shelter of one of the room’s open cabinets. Muriel winced and pulled out a few slivers that had worked themselves into her cheek. Driblets of blood fell to her hand, but she ignored them and shouted into the sky.

  “Zander!” she cried, “Are you all right? Answer me!”

  The wind carried her voice away. The crippled skyboat strained against its mooring as the storm picked up strength. The vessel was charred along one side but still intact. But there was no movement or sign of life from her brother.

  Muriel heard a sharp, piercing crack! A hairline fissure appeared at the top of the anchor stone. Then more lines spread outwards from the crack in a web of green fire.

  “Oh, by the Maker’s foul fecking breath!”