Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  Licking her lips, Sive ventured a word. “Puck?”

  He didn’t move from the spot, or answer, but he raised his head and looked past her, to where the crouched form of Will was rocking backwards and forwards.

  With his face averted, no sound came from him. Sive was more afraid that she had hurt Will than any chance that she might have damaged his Art. She’d never expected such power. And at that very moment she could not quite decide if that was good or bad. Those creatures had very nearly torn her apart, and yet he had destroyed them so not even their stench remained.

  So the survivors of that moment waited, frozen for a time by what they had seen. Will was the first to break free of it. Pushing back his hair, he staggered to his feet. His eyes when they met hers were almost a Fey violet, but glazed with bitter tears.

  Sive was alone in that gaze, an alien and ugly creature. His voice when he spoke was thick with resignation. “It’s done, Sive, and you have made me what you wanted. But it will not do you any good.”

  Puck too had got to his feet, but was unable to decide where to go. He swayed on the doorstep, looking between his cousin and his charge; perhaps hoping one of them would reach out. But Sive had fallen back to old habits, and in a burst of impatience had covered the ground to him. In that one stride she had the silver haired Fey by the elbow, and half dragged him back towards the Three Crowns.

  Fighting down the strange hard lump that had taken up residence in her throat, she barked at Will. “It’s enough for the moment,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Now I must tend to my cousin.”

  Will’s eyes flickered between them, and only then did she realize that he knew nothing of White Cat and Puck. The pale child on the doorstep was a stranger to him.

  However at the moment Sive hadn’t the strength to tell him, to reveal what he would think of as further evidence of her scheming. Frustration and fear battled within her, and yet he wanted even more.

  Even that dreadful time by the river, he had looked more kindly at her than now. Surely he could see that she wouldn’t have harmed him if at all possible? But what had he expected from her? Did Will expect her to drop to her knees and beg forgiveness from him? Sive was sorry she had broken into his Art like that, but not sorry that they were all alive as a consequence. Foolish mortals—always concerned with themselves.

  Anyone could have seen it, the desire to ask more, but he too had reached the end of his tether. Will’s face was a still and death white mask of anger. Shutting his mouth with a snap, he spun on his heel and strode away.

  Sive stood at the doorway, undecided and uncertain, almost letting him get away before making up her mind. “We will still need to speak, William. This will not go away like last time.” She tried to keep all contrition from her voice.

  He paused at the edge of the darkness, and for a moment she thought he might object, but then he nodded, “At dawn then, in the usual place.” The foolish man made it almost sound like a command.

  She tried her best to mimic Will’s anger; turning away from him with what she hoped was as much ease as he showed in leaving. She went in to Puck. He sat silent and quiescent as she tended his wounds and pumped him full of what power she could spare. He told her in a hushed voice how Will’s burst of power had freed him from the feline form, and when he was denied his Art how terrifying it had been. Sive heard with one ear, nodding at all the right places, but her thoughts ranged far ahead and chased after William.

  She’d never been so aware of the changes in herself. But how could she tell her cousin that when all he wanted to hear was she could make it better? He had fled to her across the Between, had battled his way to her side, and it was not in her to tell him that she had no idea what next to do. The creature she had once been was a distant memory. Only she knew how well she was playing the part.

  So Sive hid behind the steely mask, developed over many mortal years. Puck insisted on going with her to talk to Will, and something frail but determined lurked in his eyes. The Trickster was forever altered.

  Nothing more remained; the cousins went to the Avon. The sun had just slid over the rooftops as they left the Three Crowns, shutting the door behind them. Puck kept his favoured form, and indeed with head bowed, eyes trailing along the ground, he could have well been a beaten child. Together, clothed in glamour and hand in hand, they walked through the town. Despite the hour, people had come to their doors and peered out. They had the look of dreamers woken. Bemused and befuddled, they had felt the touch of magic, but had no idea of how close they had come to it. In such a place it was not a word to be mentioned, so they stood at their doorsteps, waiting for an answer to find them, when in fact it was passing them by. Sive and Puck walked through the village like ghosts, and if anyone noticed the child with Goodwife Hardy, none stopped to ask about it. Now and then he would look up to Sive, but he said nothing, weariness and bitterness welling in his eyes. She clenched her cousin’s hand tighter.

  How strange it was, Sive thought as they drew near the river, that now she was coming as the penitent to a mortal. Even stranger was how emotional she was about it. Mordant would have laughed to see her walking in human shoes, to meet a man who had her fate in the palm of his hand.

  Seeing the spot where they had been happy made her wince, and an odd little pain swell in her breast. The water, the trees all reminded Sive of better times. Here, she now realized she had lost her heart to the foolish young Bard.

  William was not here yet though. Was that good or bad? Puck slumped down in the shade of the willow that had once been very dear to her. Sive could see the tucked up forms of the still sleeping swans by the water’s edge, their tiny minds filled with only the thoughts of the river and their next meal. She however was not so lucky. Images of the horrors Mordant could already be inflicting on her home danced in the recesses of her mind.

  Puck was murmuring to himself, long Fey fingers laced about his knees. His voice was so low Sive draw nearer, and only then realized he was in fact singing. It was a foolish rhyme, one sung to children to draw back the fear of the dark. She knew who she’d last heard singing it too. “Brigit?”

  “Yes, I’m quite dead,” the cadence changed, becoming familiar.

  Sive’s heart leapt, with hope or terror she could not say. Puck’s mind could not have snapped in the Between, but he could not think Brigit lived within him. But she could not be sure of either possibility, so Sive asked. “What happened, aunt?”

  “It was Mordant—he has gone too far...”

  “Wait, Brigit,” Sive could see Will’s tall dark form walking down the bank towards them. “He does not need to know our woes—not yet, anyway.”

  Brigit in Puck’s body turned her head, and whispered, “There is so much more for you to know, but for now all you need to understand is that Will is our hope.” He pulled her a little closer. “So for the sake of us all, Sive, choose your words with care.”

  Will had twigs and leaves as well as dew in his hair. The hours she’d spent healing Puck, he must have spent walking through the dark woods. He had a troubled brow, but the unmistakable air of power still about his shoulders. She could not undo what was woken, and now he was in as much peril as Sive. It was easy to tell by looking at him, that he knew it too.

  Sive brushed away tears—now was not the time to let him see weakness, so when she faced him, it was as an ancient Fey and not the frail creature he might be able to move. Will’s fingers clenched, but he did not flinch.

  Noticing the dejected form of Puck beneath the tree, he was seeing as he never had before. For now woken Art told Will the truth, he was able to see the Fey ethereal shapes that hung about the Trickster. One was a white cat. “So you were her creature all along,” Will said.

  Puck’s eyes were brimming with hope and pain, neither of which he’d had much experience with. He bit his lip, “I hope you can forgive me not telling you, Will,” pausing, finding a spark of his old self somewhere. “Think of all the mice I forced myself to eat on your behalf.”
>
  Will's sharp laugh broke the short, but tense silence. Older heads than his had tried to stay mad at Puck, and failed, “I guess that explains why you were always getting me into trouble then.”

  “But we did have fun, didn’t we?” Puck’s quicksilver smile flashed.

  “Yes, indeed we did.”

  Sive’s heart flared. Why was it so easy for him to forgive Puck, accept him, and yet he could not look at her as kindly? Was the love she had seen in him only her imagination? Whatever the truth, Sive the Shining would never plead with him.

  Still, even while angry, Will couldn’t be anything but fair, something she admired about him. Turning he nodded in her direction. “I want to thank you for saving my village, Lady. I know you must have had your own reasons for doing it, but the outcome was the same.”

  Sweet Mother, how well the man could turn words to advantage! “Well at least you know the truth, William, and you can no longer run from it either. You’re a beacon in the night now, all magics and dangers you’ll draw to yourself. You endanger all that are around you.... just like me.”

  Will’s back stiffened at that—but he knew Sive was right. He might dismiss her motives as manipulation, but he couldn't ignore the changes inside himself.

  His eyes darkened, and his determined brow knitted together. “Lady, I think you know more of this trouble than I do—and I would appreciate you telling it. I have a family and loved ones to think of.”

  Sive stared at him, hearing the formality in his words, and recalling with some sadness the closeness once between them. Could they even be the same people that had laughed and smiled in this very spot?

  Taking her pause for denial, Will stepped closer, until they were toe to toe, “Even you could not withhold information that threatens my family—my children, for God’s sake!”

  “What good would it do you to know?” Sive replied. “What would you do against my dread husband? Gather all your foolish villagers and storm his Hall with your pitchforks? Would your god protect you from his wrath—I think not.”

  “I will defend what is mine.”

  “He doesn’t want anything you have—except your life! He will not rest until both you and I are ground beneath his heel—and if you do not take up your heritage, he will have his way!”

  Bard and Dark goddess stared at each other for a long time, uncertain feelings passing between them. The air was warm; the sleeping swans stirred, and the willow bent and moaned, hoping that lightning would not come. Even Puck got to his feet, his hair an erect mane of silver, but uncertain which way to run should chaos come.

  “Lady,” Will replied, “Once, I prized you above all things—before I knew the deception in your soul. And yet in this I know you speak the truth.”

  A spark of hope lit in Sive. “Unite with me then, Will—together we may defeat Mordant, save your family and my world.” She was straining towards him, hands out in almost-supplication. But as always she could not understand, not appreciating that part of William that was human. “It is your only choice.” She whispered desperately, and by doing so lost him.

  Puck shook his head and turned his face to the weeping willow.

  Will’s whole body stiffened. “It is not the only way. You forget, Sive, that I am not one of your slaves. I am a free man, and will make my own choices.”

  Then he swirled his cloak about him, turned on his heel, and strode back up the hill into the morning mist.

  Rage and sorrow choked Sive for a moment as unbelieving she let him go. But her nature was such that she could not help it. “Your own grave be it then, Will—and mine too.” She called after, her voice thickening into a howl of outrage. The river slapped in its banks, and the disturbed swans woke, breaking into horrified flight at the Fey’s scream. She knew an omen when she saw one.

  11

  He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

  Sive’s words chased Will all the way back to Stratford. How one woman could arouse such contrary feelings was a mystery. Anne was a placid lake in which he might drown while Sive was a tempest-beaten sea that could crush him. The Fey still riled him to fever pitch so that he could not decide whether to throttle or make love to her. She was incapable of love, being twisted by her own demons. If he gave into his own temptations and followed her path, he knew the story would end badly for him.

  So Will returned home. He slipped into the kitchen where Anne was preparing meat for luncheon. She knew he was there, he could see it in the utter stillness of her back to him, but she did not speak. Will opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it with a snap. Instead, he went outside and, sitting down on the bench, watched his father’s apprentices about their chores.

  He knew that he had always been alone in a sense, but it had never been this bad before. Susanna found him and demanded to sit on his lap. He dawdled her there, singing nonsense rhymes into her ear. Words and images were bounding through his head; a madman capered, a villain plotted, a magician gave up his power. Sive was right. Once stifled beneath the weight of living, his gifts now sprung forth. His fingers itched for paper, and behind his eyes the curtains were being pulled aside. A singular thought struck him.

  Perhaps today wasn’t the worst day of his life—perhaps it was only the beginning. It couldn’t be mere coincidence that his Art, as Sive called it, awakened today of all days, when the players were in town. Those dreams he had...could it be that now was their time to blossom?

  Kissing his daughter on the forehead with a smile, he raced into the house. The chest at the foot of his bed had all his papers stuffed in it. a chest at the foot of their bed. Anne called to him, but he was already out of the door and running down to the Three Crowns. He looked up at the inn sign swinging in the breeze and listened to the early morning but still drunken laughter within. For a second doubt assailed him, but then the voices of the stories rose up in a chorus.

  This was one of those moments when Will could feel the crossroads of life shifting beneath his feet. He had to choose a path—run back to Sive, or take what she had awakened in him and do something with it. It was a murky, dangerous path, with no guarantee of success, and yet the possibilities...

  With a grin, Will thrust the door open. Giggling milkmaids clustered around the traveling players within, enraptured by the tales of the open road and the marvels of London. The atmosphere was thick with alcohol. Apart from milk, which was the sustenance of the ill, beer was the only liquid a sane man drank. Water could kill you. The players seemed to be enjoying the morning medicine.

  But Will’s eyes fixed on the man standing by the door. Tarlton held court, much as he had last time Stratford had hosted the players, probably as he did in every village and town. William had stood close to the player before, listening and hoping, but never daring to speak the words. This time however the Art in his head spurred him on.

  The famous actor had his head thrown back, laughing at one of his own jokes, when the young Shakespeare appeared. This time his sheaves of paper refused to remain hidden.

  “Mr. Tarlton.” God, how his words echoed in the suddenly still tavern, and everyone turned in his direction. “I would be pleased if you would look at these.”

  He was looking into startlingly intelligent eyes. Whatever japes and tricks Tarlton offered to the crowd, they were on his own terms, and for his own reasons. So he should have perhaps pushed the dog-eared pages away; undoubtedly others had made such a suit to him along the road, along the years. Something stopped him though, his brows knitted, but he ruffled through the scraps.

  His eyes widened after only a few moments. He raised them from the paper, with an appraising look. The moment seemed very long until at last he smiled. “Due to a slight... disagreement, we are actually short of a player at the now.”

  In the scheme of all things, it was a small enough choice. However Will was fully aware that the fate of his young family rested on his shoulders, and in London, there would be no one
to catch him if he were to fall. How long his parents could afford to support themselves, and his brothers and sister, let alone Anne and the children, was the question that troubled him. Yet the Art knew nothing of such trivial concerns—it had its own needs. It demanded more of him than Stratford could give.

  London was where he could let his gift take flight, and Talton was the person to teach him how. He introduced Will to the little band of players and explained their next job. He would join them after they had put on their play at Richard Lucy’s manor. Then, he would be Shakespeare of the Queen’s Men, making his money by wit and luck.

  Will’s paths all converged, driven by his awakened Art and the need to protect his family. He would have to find a way to tell them that he was leaving—that was the hardest thing. Anne turned away before the words were even out of his mouth, and if she had any emotion at all, he could not tell. The rest of his family smiled and nodded, his mother cried. But they understood. Anne could not. "You might as well go,” she snapped when he cornered her, and demanded to know what she was thinking, “You’ve never really been here, anyway.”

  That one bit deep. For once Will couldn’t find the right words. “I’m sorry, Anne,” was the best he could manage.

  She shook her head. “I tried, Will, I really did, but since that day when I found you on the road, you weren’t the same. You never tell me what you are thinking—you never share. You’re just like my father.”

  Will couldn’t offer anything to that—it was all painfully truthful. He thought he’d blocked himself from Sive, but maybe in reality he’d blocked himself from everyone else as well. The sad fact was that there was no going back. No one could make love bloom by sheer force of will, but he had sense enough not to share those hurtful words with Anne.