Scene Fifty
Will and the Hunter, before the castle.
“And you, O poet,” the Hunter said. “What shall we do with you? The witch warned you that to leave the crux mortal man must pay in forfeit a part of himself.”
From far off in the crux came the snarling of dogs the screams of centaurs.
Will shivered. “I have lost my son,” he said.
The Hunter chuckled. “Part of yourself? Poet, I think not. You scarce saw him from year to year, him in Stratford-upon-Avon and you in London.”
Will shivered and hugged himself. Must he, indeed, lose even more to the crux? What could he give? His son was already leaving.
But no, it had to be something closer: some quality of mind, or sight or hearing, breath from the body or else years of life.
Quality of mind? Will thought and thought on the poetry that Marlowe had bequeathed him. He could leave that behind, and then Marlowe would be free and Will himself free also.
But Will had made his fame, and not inconsiderable fortune, from Marlowe’s words. What if alone Will could not write at all?
He felt his throat close in panic.
Did he want, truly, to be forever beautified with another’s feathers? But did he, otherwise, wish to starve?
If he let it go, what of the people who depended on him? Ned Alleyn and Lord Chamberlain’s men depended on Will’s plays.
Could he let them down?
He felt the fog close about him. His throat constricted. Yet he must leave something behind.
Oh, let Marlowe’s poetry stay here in the crux. Let it go. Will would succeed on his own words or not at all. And if Ned starved until he found another playwright Will would gladly divest his purse to keep his fellows alive.
And go back to Stratford and gladly be a glover, if that were what fate of him demanded.
Let him pay the price alone and let Marlowe go to his reward.
He felt as though something invisible but attached to him broke off.
Suddenly, he breathed more freely. It was as though he’d carried a weight for years that was suddenly lifted from his back.
“You chose well, poet,” the Hunter said. “Now let me return you to your work. Now that my plans are all overthrown and that strength I have is mine own — it is most strong. Be free, and fare you well.”
On those words, Will found himself in his bare room in London. What strange events he had witnessed. He could hardly compass losing his son.
As for the words, well... he might never write again.
Yet, letting go of Marlowe had been worth it. The ghost was gone, and it seemed to Will he remembered scenes and voices in a fog, as though something had happened in that heartbeat when Will had forsworn Marlowe’s words. Something too quick for the human eye to perceive and yet crystal clear to Will’s heart.
He remembered a fog, and a small boy running through a featureless landscape -- a boy with auburn hair and wide gray eyes.
“Father, father,” the boy said.
“Imp,” Marlowe cried out, and, his ghost looking whole and unblemished, reached for the small ghost, and lifted him high, whirling him around in a rapture of joy. “Imp, I’m here at last.”
“And now we’ll truly be together forever?” Imp asked, as Marlowe set him down. Imp raised his hand to meet his father’s.
“Forever,” Marlowe said.
Together they walked off, towards some bliss only they could see.
But all this seemed too metaphysical for Will’s small, tidy, homey room. So did all of the crux.
It all seemed a dream.
Yet there was an idea Will had for a tragedy.
What was it now?
Ah, yes, young love and adverse houses. A parent who refused to let his child change and therefore would create a tragedy.
He sat himself down and began to write.