All Night Awake (68 page)

So, he spoke softly, to himself, like a neighbor to a brain-addled fool. “Have mercy, Jesu!--Soft! I did but dream.”

And yet, was his dream so unlikely? He remembered the dark power that had taken him, its strength dragging him to commit murder and prey like a dog upon dead bodies. Was it so unlikely a power would do that? When Kit Marlowe’s hands were full tainted already, with the blood of innocents?

How many people had Kit turned in? How many had died under torture. How many hanged? “Oh coward conscience, how do you afflict me! Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.”

He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, then shuddered thinking of the red trail his sleeve had left behind. Fresh sweat sprang from his forehead, and red-tinged beads trembled before his eyes.

His heart beat so fast it might break and he wanted to run, run, run, away from himself, his tainted soul, his crimes, old and new. “What do I fear--myself? There's none else by: Kit loves Kit; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.”

He shook, and trembling walked to the basin, and, trembling, dabbed the bloody water at hands and cuffs, at face and arms, and, like a maniac possessed of fire and driven by his madness, like a horse inflamed by spurs or like a fanatic by religious mania that makes him dance upon the street he grabbed the basin in both hands, threw the blood-red water out the window, to further screaming from the passerby. Then back again, and he filled the basin anew from the tall jar. “Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why: Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?”

He rubbed his hands in this new water, which anew was made red by his touch, while his mouth spoke on, and on, in fearful rant. “Alack. I love myself. Wherefore? For any good that I myself have done unto myself? O, no! alas, I rather hate myself for hateful deeds committed by myself! I am a villain: yet I lie. I am not.” He poured the now red water out, filled the basin anew.

“Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury in the highest degree.”

The water ran out and, running to the door, he opened it. Upon first touching the iron doorknob, Kit flinched, because the thing felt red-hot, burning his palm. Why and how had this knob got hot?

He shook his head. No matter. Grabbing his blanket from the bed, he dragged it to the door, and used a tip of it to protect his hand as he opened the door.

With the door open, Kit hollered to the cool, dark interior of the house, for more water to be brought and, while waiting, paced back and forth the narrow confines of his room.

“Murder, stem murder, in the direst degree; all several sins, all used in each degree, throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty! guilty!' I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; and if I die, no soul shall pity me: Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself find in myself no pity to myself?”

He heard steps upon the stairs and, pacing still, tried to still his tongue that would not be stilled. Clenching his teeth upon his own, fearful words, yet he could hear his muffled rant, the words echoing inside his head like accusations.

“Methought the souls of all that I had murdered came to my room; and every one did threat tomorrow's vengeance on the head of Marlowe.”

The buxom goodwife appeared on the door, attired in white kirtle, white cap, and shrank fearfully, staring at Kit, but still came within, with both hands carrying her bucket of fresh water.

And Kit bowed, wondering how fearful his countenance might be, and said, “I thank you, I thank you. I got fearfully spattered. A dog run over by a cart and I was near and suffered the blemish. A dog. A dog. Thanks good Mistress, thank you for the water.”

But the woman, as if warned by presentiment that all was darker than Kit would have it be, hastened from the room, walking backwards and never once turning her back on him.

Kit followed her and closed the door. He must go to Will, right away, and assure himself Will was still alive. As for these dark coils he’d fallen into: madness or possession, guilt or anger, he’d uncoil them yet, and he would run from death, to Scotland or France or some far distant land and there live, in fearful isolation like cloistered nun, till his sins were expiated and his guilt stilled.

But first he must get clean. He removed his clothes, and, scooping clear water with his hands, threw it at his face, only to see it fall, again, as red as crimson blood.

Looking at his bespattered hands still filled him with nausea.

Deep from within the house, he heard steps and noises, and stopped, imagining it the constables, come for to arrest him of capital murder that yet he didn’t fully know if he’d committed.

He thought he heard a knock upon the door, but listening heard not more. “Whence is that knocking?” he said, and startled upon saying it, and, chuckling in his throat, he trembled at the sound. “How is it with me?” he said. “When every noise appalls me? What hands are here?” He lifted his hands from the basin and stared at the red stains in amazement. “Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine, making the green one red.”

Talking to himself, he knew himself already mad. And yet he must hence and make madness sane or else die, and thus end all reeling thought.

Scene Twenty Three

Will’s room. Will is asleep on the bed on his stomach, with Silver’s glimmering blanket sideways over him. Through the window come the pale light of morning and the sounds of a wakening street: metal banging on metal, from the forges and workshops, peddlers and merchants calling clientele and extolling the virtues of their services, carts rumbling slowly along the rutted street.

W
ill dreamed and knew he dreamed, but a disturbing, bottomless dream, a falling into darkness, a sleeping oppression like a scream never uttered, like the breath that, fugitive, leaves the sleeper’s mouth, and makes him gasp and beg for air and life.

In this bottomless darkness, he saw Silver, and Silver smiled at him, red, soft lips poised for grace and life and joy, white skin flushed with just a hint of pink, arms held open, in welcoming gesture.

Around Will’s shoulders her arms she wrapped, and in his ears, what sweet whisperings -- her breath against his neck, her lilac smell making him dizzy.

Silver was sweet, and Will would fain listen to her. Her body felt gentle and warm in his arms, and it had been so long since Will had held anyone like this. Even Nan.... It had been too long.

That Will hesitated, and, chaste in seduction’s arms, would hold back his love and his yielding, that had to do with Will’s true love.

What he had with Nan, now there was love. Though Nan’s skin be coarser than this silk, though Nan’s whispers never be as soft, Will knew Nan’s goodness, the soft caring of her heart.

He and Nan, like a tree well planted, had grown branches that, over their head, extended a canopy of love. If the trunk be slender or thick, what matter it, when the tree has born fruit, and the fruit is sweet?

He felt Silver’s temptation and his body rushed with the sap of spring and the desire to give in to this lady’s wooing.

And it was all a dream. Will knew he dreamed. Why not let his dream give him what his waking hours so denied him?

Yet, what would he win if he gained this thing his body sought? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.

And wherewithal would his true love with Nan be marred. Even if she never knew of his transgression. For Will had promised there would never be another.

Will turned in bed, his mind preoccupied, his dreaming arms hanging beside his body, while Silver hugged him tight and spoke of joy.

Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, would with the scepter straight be stricken down?

Will shook his head and, in his dream, pushed Silver away with his sleeping arms, and said, “Lady, no.”

She was taken from him. A dark whirlwind sprang out of nowhere, and sucked her away into grey blankness, into nothing.

Her face from pale turned waxen white, her body stiffened with unyielding death. Her lips opened and through them she screamed, “It was loving Will that has undone me.”

A scream echoed from outside Will’s room, a cry like the fresh discovery of life’s short span.

A woman’s scream, sharp, inconsolable.

The scream on the heels of Silver’s wail intertwined into Will’s nightmare, making him start. He woke up. Trembling he sat, shaking in his bed, sweat springing, fearful, from every pore.

What a dream he’d had. What a guilty dream. And following up close behind, this wailing, brought the fresh spring of his fear.

Was Silver gone? Had she died for Will’s ill-considered refusal of her?

And yet, how could Will not refuse her? And who was she, how far did she presume, that she presumed so far on Will’s love?

This creature that was neither male nor female, neither human nor mortal, neither breathing nor ethereal?

How could Will love such a thing, even had he not Nan -- real, true Nan -- to keep with him the span of his days? How could Will love light, immaterial light and cold magic?

He could not. She was a dream he’d dreamed when young enough not to know the true from the false.

But now the dream was gone and he, awakened, knew the real worth of wakening love.

And yet he wished Silver not dead. And he’d not have the guilt of her death on his conscience.

Outside the screams went on, pouring onto Will’s mind like blood fresh-sprung from a wound.

This was no dream. This broad daylight should have dispelled the nightly terrors. And though Southwark was known for brawls and bawds, screaming like this meant a fresh death, and that was rare, least of all in daytime.

Half-dazed and trembling, Will grabbed his clothes which he had thrown over the back of the chair. He pulled them on with clumsy hands.

    
He opened his door to the warm morning air and ran perilously fast down his unguarded stairs.

Outside on the streets, people ran like ants whose anthill the careless boot has ripped open. Men abandoned their forges, women abandoned thei r homes, ill-awakened bawds ran out in their nightclothes with tattered shawls ill-wrapped around their shoulders.

They all ran in the direction of the screams and Will ran with them.

As he ran, his mind whispered a disordered prayer.

Only but let this mean a cutthroat had attacked a victim. Only but let this be a woman outraged in a dark alley. Let it be any crime, any crime at all, but not Will’s, and nothing to do with a wolf. Will remembered Silver’s talk of Sylvanus. He remembered his own dream of Sylvanus as a wolf.

At the end of the street, pushing through the disordered crowd that milled there, Will beheld a corpse: a corpse torn, and mauled into shapelessness.

He backed away through the crowd, gagging, feeling nauseous and dizzy.

A woman sat by the bloodied corpse, a young woman that, doubtless, in other circumstances would have been comely. She cradled the shattered head upon her dark skirt, and cried freely.

From the crowd Will heard comments, words that with some thinking assembled into meaning.

“It’s a bear,” one of them said. “Some bear escaped from a baiting ring.”

“Or one of the dogs,” said another.

“Looks like a wolf’s ravaging of a sheep,” said an old man. “I was once a shepherd. I should know.”

Will backed and backed, and backed, till he could hear no more.

Something must be done about it.

And Will knew not what to do. Silver had spoken of a wolf, and behold a wolf’s fresh kill.

Will had turned Silver from his room, from the safe haven of his protection, such as it had been.

Oh, the fool Will, the criminal fool.

Cringing and sick at heart, he backed clear away from the press of people and leaned against a wall, his heart beating fast.

He closed his eyes. Only let this be a dream, a mad dream.

But opening his eyes he saw the same, the crowd gathering, the pungent smell of fresh death augmenting the normal reek of the street.

“Ay me, for pity!” he whispered to himself. “What a dream was here! I do quake with fear: Silver said the wolf prowled the streets of London and behold, the fresh kill. Methought I was damned and behold, already, demons torment my heart.”

Screams came from two other directions. More deaths?

He thought of Silver who had come to town and warned him of just such dangers. He’d thought her to be lying for her own interests, and now, for his mistrust, was he undone, was she undone.

Was Silver dead, who just yesterday had been alive and hopeful and confident in Will’s room?

Or was Will’s dream one of those premonitory dreams he’d had sometimes, that warned him of impending danger?

If so, then he must find Silver. Silver would know how to curtail the wolf. Silver would know how to make the world clean.