Where The Bee Sucks

by William Stafford

  Ariel laid the costume on the desk. How peculiar to see those vestments again, after all these centuries! The production design’s realism had captured his former master’s habiliments perfectly. The full-length gown, roughly botched with animal hides from the island. Milanese finery of the period, grubby with dirt. And there, attached to the hanger, a facsimile of his old master’s beard. What an age, Ariel marvelled! When men wear false hairpieces on their faces rather than go to the trouble of growing their own!

  “Of course, you could get this get-up on me in a flash,” said Jeremy, getting out of his clothes. “But it’s part of the process, part of the preparation. For an actor, I mean. Getting into the costume is part of the becoming.”

  He put on a conical hat with a fur trim and a glittering star.

  “Very becoming,” muttered Ariel.

  ***

  The house was filling up. Tourists and school parties found their seats. The air was abuzz with eager chatter. On the upper circle, Harry got to his feet. He could see the prof’s white head in the stalls below - one of the most expensive seats. He looked around, trying to spot Brownlow.

  “Hey, Harry!” the American’s voice boomed out. Harry scoured all around, trying to locate the source of the greeting. At last he spotted him, standing on his chair and waving a programme like a semaphore flag. Harry flushed red with embarrassment. He waved back, unobtrusively. Sit down, you berk. Don’t draw attention to yourself - to me!

  Brownlow gave him a double thumbs-up and sat down like a civilised person. Harry also sat down. From their three separate vantage points, they ought to be able to spot anything untoward, unusual or otherwise dodgy. The prof seemed confident it would be perfectly obvious when de Vere made his move. It would be a grand theatrical moment - otherwise he would have done it before now.

  Harry could only assume the prof was right.

  “Excuse me, dear boy,” an old geezer loomed with an apologetic smile. Harry stood up to allow the old man to get by. The seat next to Harry’s was empty. The old man lowered himself into it, making an exhalation of relief when his bum hit the seat.

  Harry did a doubletake. He looked at the old man’s profile. Yes, it was him! It was Sir Neville Cribbins! Harry was puzzled. Sir Neville was slated to play Prospero, wasn’t he? Olly had hardly stopped wittering about what an honour it was to tread the same boards as the old luvvie.

  Harry tried to catch Brownlow’s eye. It took several attempts. Harry had to wave more and more broadly until the American noticed. Harry pointed sideways at the old man and then tried to convey through dumb show that Brownlow should consult his playbill and see that the face beside Harry had star billing in the cast list.

  Brownlow frowned, trying to decipher Harry’s cryptic gestures. At last, he cottoned on. He glanced from programme to Sir Neville and to the programme again. He held up the page and pointed at the headshot. Harry signalled YES, relieved the message had got through.

  “Now look here,” Sir Neville turned to him. “I do hope you’re going to sit still through the show, my dear fellow.”

  “Um, yes. Sorry.” Harry shrank into his seat, embarrassed to be admonished by a national treasure.

  He tried, with smaller gestures, to communicate to Brownlow that they should inform the professor who was sitting below them both.

  “Do stop fidgeting, old sausage,” Sir Neville Cribbins sighed. “I shall have to arouse the ushers.”

  Of course! The ushers!

  “Don’t worry, love,” Harry gave the actor’s tweed-clad thigh a pat. “I’ll arouse them myself.”

  He stood up and squeezed past the knees of the other people in the row. He approached a volunteer who was cradling a stack of programmes in her arms.

  “Four pounds,” she announced, displaying her wares like a nursing baby.

  “No, not that -”

  “Gents is through there,” she nodded. “Although they’ve just given the one-minute call so you’d better be back in two shakes or we shan’t readmit you until a suitable break in the performance.”

  “Ha, ‘two shakes’! Very funny. No, I was wondering if you could convey an urgent message to a gentleman in the stalls.”

  The usher opened her mouth to announce the impossibility of such a feat but her voice was cut off by the public address system.

  “In this afternoon’s performance of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, the role of Prospero will be played by Jeremy de Vere. Please ensure all mobile phones, digital watches and pagers are switched off.”

  “That should do it,” Harry beamed. He made his way back to his seat, treading on toes and uttering apologies as he went.

  He sat just as the houselights dimmed. Sound effects of wind and rain sprang up.

  The prow of a ship appeared in a flash of lightning.

  The play began.

  ***

  “Cakes for the actor!” Alicia brandished her paper bag.

  “Come through, love,” said Johnny at the stage door. “Know where to go? Olly’s got his own room this time.”

  “I know!” Alicia enthused. “I’m very proud of Oliver.”

  She hurried along the corridor, passing several cast members in full costume.

  “All right, Al,” someone dressed as a 17th century sailor greeted her.

  “Alicia!” Alicia trilled, waving but not bothering to stop.

  She reached the door at the end. The nameplate read OLIVER ROCK. She stroked it affectionately and went indoors.

  “Don’t worry,” she began. “I won’t stay long. I know you’ve got work to do. I just wanted to say I forgive you. For last night, I mean. I’m sure you won’t want to repeat that little escapade. And look! The world hasn’t ended, has it? Now, I know you want your friends and I want you to have friends, I really do. Although sometimes I wish it was just you and me, on an island somewhere. Our own piece of paradise! We can talk about that later. I shall make one of my pasta specials and you can bring some wine back with you. Anyway, here’s a cream cake as a special treat. An energy boost before you go on.” She pouted in the mirror, tipped her head to one side and adopted a babyish, sing-song voice. “Are we fwends again, Oliver? Pwease say we are fwends.”

  She made eye contact with the reflection. My word, but that make-up was astounding!

  A hairy hand reached for the paper bag.

  A fishy eye looked her up and down.

  “Friends!” enthused Caliban.

  Alicia became aware of what a long way it was to the door...

  ***

  He’s not bad, Harry was forced to admit. Jeremy hadn’t turned out to be the scenery-chomper he’d expected. The Ariel, though, was lumpish and leaden in comparison, and nothing like the real one. Where was he, Harry wondered? And whose side would he be on when it came to the crunch?

  The scene changed to some drunkards arsing around. There was Olly, scampering around as Caliban, hiding under a cloak. Harry felt a surge of pride to see his friend up there and, he searched his heart, there was no hint of professional envy. People were actually laughing at Caliban’s antics. Harry wished he could relax and enjoy the performance but he must remain alert. It could all kick off at any second.

  Beside him there was a gentle purring. Sir Neville had nodded off and was snoring into his shoulder.

  “All right for some,” Harry muttered. He looked across to Brownlow who appeared to be enjoying the show - unless he’s also in role as ‘appreciative audience member’. You better be ready, Harry thought, for when what happens happens.

  On stage, Jeremy was sticking to the script. The action ticked along as it should. When the interval came, Harry and Brownlow headed down to the stalls bar where Professor Cheese was buying drinks.

  “What do you reckon, Professor?” The American accepted a shot of whisky with a nod of gratitude. He scan
ned the room, taking in all the people bustling for drinks and chatting about the production. It could not be long, he thought, before someone came up to him for an autograph.

  “Excuse me,” an elbow nudged him.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to.” Brownlow spun around with a marker pen at the ready. But the woman with the elbow was only reaching past him for a leaflet about the town’s butterfly farm. Brownlow was crestfallen.

  “You Brits,” he griped. “Why are we having an intermission at all? What kind of dastardly plot is this?”

  “Oh, we must have an interval, dear boy. That’s how the theatres make their money. The cold hand of commerce has a stranglehold on the arts. ’Twas ever thus.”

  “It’s bonkers, that’s what it is. This de Vere guy must be crazy.”

  “I think that’s the point,” said Harry.

  “Well,” Professor Cheese raised his glass in toast, “So far, so quiet. I fear it is the calm before the tempest, so to speak. We still have Iris, Ceres and all the bloody nymphs to come.”

  Harry nodded. It seemed a likely place for Jeremy to do something that deviated from Shakespeare’s plot, with all the dancing and prancing around.

  “I’m sorry,” Brownlow said, “I’m from the colonies. I didn’t have this stuff rammed down my throat from the moment of my conception like you guys. What part are we talking about?”

  “Or,” Harry ignored the American, “there’s the bit where Prospero describes a circle on the ground.” Harry looked to the professor for confirmation. The old man nodded: the boy knew his stuff after all!

  “Circles, eh...” Brownlow drained his glass. “I saw a lot of circles up at Birmingham library. The walls, the carpets...”

  “Fascinating!” Professor Cheese’s sarcasm was lost on the American.

  “Could be a good motif for the show...” Brownlow was thinking ahead. “Get people thinking. Every time they see a circle, they’ll think it’s linked to the conspiracy...”

  “What conspiracy?” Harry was alarmed.

  “There’s always a conspiracy,” said Brownlow. “And if there isn’t, we chuck one in anyway. Those guys in the robes, for example. They even sat in a circle!”

  “People in robes?” It was the professor’s turn to ask questions. “What’s all this?”

  Harry filled him in. “We stumbled across this secret society in the old chapel. Only they didn’t seem to know what they were doing. They thought it was some kind of convoluted audition process for his history programmes.” He nodded to Brownlow.

  “And was it?” said Cheese.

  “No, it wasn’t. Those wackjobs were going to kill me. It was all de Vere’s doing. He’d lured them there with the promise of a secret audition in order to carry out some kind of blood ritual. Instead of me, some poor schlub gets his throat cut. And then my p.a. turns out to be the Monkey from the Black Lagoon and de Vere gets himself a new fairy slave.”

  “Goodness me!” said Cheese. “I bet you can’t wait to get all that on the telly.”

  An announcement told them to resume their seats; the performance was due to continue in a couple of minutes.

  “Courage, gentlemen!” Cheese’s eyes twinkled. “I believe the time is upon us.”

  He shuffled back to the stalls. Harry and Brownlow pressed through the throng and climbed the stairs to the balcony.

  “Do you think the old guy knows more than he’s letting on?” Brownlow put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

  “I bloody well hope so,” said Harry. “Because I haven’t a clue.”

  They went back to their separate seats. Sir Neville Cribbins was tucking into a tub of ice cream.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Strawberry,” said Harry. “Good choice.”

  “I mean the play, you oaf,” Sir Neville chuckled. “Bit pedestrian, I find. You should come back and see my Prospero. That’ll get your blood pumping.”

  Harry nodded. Before he could formulate a response, the houselights dimmed. A spot lit the centre of the stage.

  A circle! Harry gaped. I’m as bad as the yank, he thought. Hardly an arcane symbol, is it?

  But Brownlow’s complaint came back as well. Why have a break in the performance when you’re going to end the world anyway? Why make sure the bar takings and the ice-cream sales are unaffected? It did seem crazy... Was there a method in Jeremy’s madness?

  Prospero rose up through the stage. A trapdoor, of course, concealed by wisps of dry ice. He traced the perimeter of the spotlight with the tip of his staff.

  “Come, Ariel!” he bellowed.

  Grunts of bemusement went around the auditorium. This wasn’t the right bit. Damn these directors! Always buggering about with the text and being all post-modern and shit.

  In the wings, the DSM scoured the Book. Jeremy was way off. She grabbed the actor playing Ariel and flung him onto the stage, hissing “Improvise!”

  The actor skidded to a halt, rebounding off Jeremy’s back and landing on his buttocks.

  “Not you!” Jeremy was dismayed. He waved the staff. The actor rose off the floor and was thrown through the air to land face down in a woman’s lap. The audience gasped and applauded. The special effects were taking a turn for the better.

  Ariel - the real one - descended from the flies like a glittering shower. He solidified at Jeremy’s feet, bowing low.

  “Marvellous what they can do these days,” muttered Sir Neville Cribbins. “But of course, if your diction’s no good, all this bollocks is for naught.”

  “Hast thou brought my book, o spirit?”

  “Aye,” said Ariel, “verily. Here ’tis.”

  He produced, out of thin air and sleight of hand, a hefty tome. This was not the prop previously used as Prospero’s bumper book of magic spells. Harry sat forward on the edge of his seat. The book Jeremy was holding to his chest looked familiar, very familiar indeed.

  “Behold!” Jeremy announced. “The First Folio. One of the rarest, most expensive books in the world.”

  The audience was all a-murmur at this. For one thing, it was a deviation from the play. For another, they wondered if it was indeed the precious volume.

  “It’s real enough,” Jeremy nodded, as though reading the hive mind. “Liberated only moments ago from the Birthplace itself up the road.”

  “It’ll be some kind of stunt,” said Sir Neville. “There’ll be charity buckets after this, I warrant you.”

  “I think that’s the least of our worries,” said Harry.

  “Behold!” Jeremy repeated, holding the book aloft. It was heavier and more cumbersome than he expected and so he had to tuck the staff under his arm in order to manage the book with both hands. “The holy grail of English literature. The book of books! The collected works of one William Shakespeare, Stratford’s most beloved son. Bah, I say; bah!”

  He threw the book to his feet. He spat on it.

  He glanced around. The audience was stunned into silence, he thought. Where are their gasps of outrage? I’ve just mistreated and spat on their sacred text. He decided they must all be too shocked to react audibly and pressed on with his display.

  “I have assembled three of the four parts of Prospero’s staff,” Jeremy brandished the object in question as proof. “It will endow me with power enough to change the world forevermore. One quick tap and Shakespeare vanishes forever. His name will be expunged from the record. The works will be attributed to the rightful author, the man ignored and overlooked by history for hundreds of years: the Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere!”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Some people were shifting in their seats. They were not enjoying this interpolated scene.

  “Bollocks!” called a voice from the stalls. Harry recognised it as the professor’s.

  “I s
ay!” said Sir Neville Cribbins. “Is it audience participation?”

  “Ariel, silence that sceptic!”

  “Um...” Ariel dithered.

  “Silence him, I say!” Jeremy threatened the spirit with the staff.

  “I don’t feel like it,” said Ariel.

  “You defy me?” Jeremy turned puce.

  “Good for you, spirit!” called Auberon Cheese. Harry could see the professor’s snowy head - the old man was on his feet. In the aisle, a couple of ushers were hesitating: should they chuck the old man out? Or, seeing it was the professor and probably knew what he was doing, should they let him get on with it?

  “You will find,” Professor Cheese continued, edging his way along the row and then approaching the stage, “you have only two pieces of the staff. My friend in the balcony has the other two. Any power you try to exert will be cancelled out. I believe this is a stalemate, mate.”

  “What is this bullshit?” Jeremy scoffed. “What friend, where?”

  He shielded his eyes, trying to squint past the spotlight and onto the balcony.

  “Can we have the houselights up, please?”

  Mike the lighting operator knew better than to resist the orders of the company’s artistic director. The auditorium was illuminated in all corners. People strained to see who it was on the balcony with the other half of the staff.

  Harry felt in his pocket. He still had the piece wrapped in Brownlow’s handkerchief, but that was only a quarter of the staff. Where the other piece was, he didn’t know. He believed Jeremy to have it, down there, in his hand. He looked across to Brownlow who was shrugging expansively - with open and empty hands.

  Harry took out the parcel.

  “I’ve got this, if this is what you mean.”

  “Fools!” said Jeremy. “You have delayed me long enough. Drum roll, please, as I delete the Bard of Avon from history and establish Edward de Vere, my ancestor, in his place!”

  No drums rolled. Everyone’s attention was instead on Ariel who was flitting around the auditorium like Tinkerbell. He flew up until he was face-to-face with Harry. He pulled faces, trying to communicate with Harry to look under his seat.