The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman
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It wouldn’t take long before another coney was caught. Aye, lots of money to be made this night. Mudd leaned against the building, a smirk on his lips.
And he waited.
The stink of tallow.
Shakespeare’s head felt leaden, his body thick with sleep. Unsure of the hour, he wondered if dawn had awakened from her cyclical slumber. Was he dreaming?
He drifted back into sleep, dreamt of demons prancing around the maypole. They had piggish bodies, forked tails, black eyes, and wore black hoods. Fire sparked from their mouths and nostrils as they hissed like snakes.
But Mayday had passed a week ago with no such demons at all. Bonfires all night. London’s revels lasting until dawn.
No black demons.
Or had they been there without him noticing?
Again the stench of burning fat assaulted Shakespeare’s nostrils.
He opened his eyes.
Dark, damp, and cold.
Slumped over his writing table, his folded arms a pillow for his cheeks, he realized he had fallen asleep while working, as he had so many times in the past. Had he been asleep for a minute? An hour?
He raised his head, saw sparkling points of golden light. He stared at the flickering wick, at the shadows leaping off of the walls as if engaged in his dream’s ritual maypole dance. Nocturnal creatures. His quill lay atop the foul papers of his latest playbook, bleeding ink over the stage directions.
Damn his carelessness! Now he’d have to rewrite the page.
The garlic mutton he’d eaten for supper that night lay like stone in his stomach. His mouth felt dry and numb. He ran his tongue over his lips and stared at the goblet of sack resting a foot away from his hand. Slowly, he extended his arm and clasped the stem of the cup. Raising his lips to the edge of the vessel, he took a small sip; the act of drinking seemed to tire him further. He lowered his head back into the cradle of his arms, but kept his eyes open.
The room suddenly became dark. But not dark.
Shakespeare felt his heart beat rapidly, his body wet with icy sweat.
Another shadow—much bigger and darker. It seemed to blacken the room. It loomed over him, then was silhouetted by the glow of candlelight in witches’ colors.
Shakespeare’s mind was a swarm of loose thoughts.
Black and orange. Orange and black.
Incarnate of evil from doggish pack.
What wolfish scheme hast thou conspired
that pricks my skin and sets it afire?
“Who are you?” he asked.
No answer.
“Are you touchable?” He extended his hand outward and sliced through air. “Surely I am dreaming. My eyes deceive my wits.”
“We have met,” said a voice. Deep, guttural. A voice like none he’d ever heard. Or had he?
Shakespeare began to tremble.
“I ask you again, sir. Who are you?”
The voice answered:
“The specter that is to thee nearest
is one thou holds so very dearest.
He comes to give thee counsel wise
to rid thee of the filthy lies
that thou hast heard with thine own ears,
inflicting wounds unto thy peer.”
“Harry?” Shakespeare asked in a whisper.
The apparition said:
“My love for thee was never ending,
not as a sapling, ever bending
in a tempest of rumors thick and deep
that makest me moan, alas, cry and weep.”
“Harry,” Shakespeare repeated. “Thou art an illusion. I hear, yet I hear nothing. Thou art whirls of imagination brought upon by overwrought nights of too much toil.”
“Nay, tis not so,” the voice protested. “I am the ghost of thy mentor—thy fellow—Harry Whitman.”
Shakespeare shook fiercely.
“Tis true,” the apparition insisted.
Shakespeare shivered violently. His closet had turned so cold. He asked, “What counsel doth thou offer me?”
“Let the buried rest in peace.”
“My inquiries into thy death—”
“They are false! Lies! They cut me savagely!”
“The innkeeper Chambers spake that—”
“Chambers! A sinner! A cozener! A rogue! Believe him not.”
“Dear Harry,” Shakespeare said. “If thou desireth me to stop my inquiries, thou must confess to me. Who murdered thee? And why?”
The voice answered:
“It matters not the way I leave,
tis ’nough that thy pure heart doth grieve
for a hapless life ended, etched in blood.
And chewed and spat like vomitous cud.
Be kind, dear Will, spare me sorrow,
Erase thy revenge come the morrow.”
The waning flame began to sputter.
“Don’t leave me, Harry,” Shakespeare whispered.
The light dimmed, then finally died. Shakespeare felt a sharp rap on the back of his neck, then found himself floating in total blackness.
A serpent had wrapped around his arm, squeezing the blood from the limb. Shakespeare tried to cry out but no sound issued from his throat. As he attempted further cries, he felt his windpipe tighten, constricting his breath. He began to panic. The snake winked at him, an evil look glowing in its eyes. It hissed and clamped more tightly around his arm, its slithery body taut with muscular ripples.
The snake began to speak, but the words were unintelligible.
Louder and louder, until it screamed.
“Wake up, Willy!”
At last Shakespeare understood.
Still panting, he barely opened his eyes, opened them enough to see Cuthbert Burbage yanking on his lifeless arms.
“It’s already past daybreak, Willy! There’s work to be done!” Cuthbert tugged at him mercilessly. “Wake up, you besotted swine!”
“I’m up,” Shakespeare croaked.
“You speak but you’ve not awakened.”
In sooth, Shakespeare thought. He said nothing, and suddenly realized that his head was throbbing with pain. Too much drink? Impossible. He’d drunk very little last night. Or so it had seemed to him. His mind was a gale of confusion. He wished that Cuthbert would let go of his arm.
“My apologies in advance,” Cuthbert said, releasing him at last.
Shakespeare began to doze off. A minute later