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.