Hell and Earth pa-4

by Elizabeth Bear

  «They are both true,» the Devil answered. «A11 stories are true. But this story is becoming more true than the other. Look thee; there is thine earth.»

  Kit blinked through watering eyes. The soft blue‑and‑white sphere spun like a top far beneath them. He could see the hurtling globe of the moon arcing about it, and a smaller body sharing Earth’s path that seemed to play a flirtatious dance, approaching and retreating. “What is that?”

  «Ah,» Lucifer answered. «She’ll not be discovered for four hundred years. They shall name her Cruithne when they do. A moonlet, a captured wanderer fallen into the orbit of some greater, brighter thing.»

  “Strange,” said Kit, “that such a thing should have a name, when I myself do not.”

  «Dost mourn thy namelessness, who was Christofer Marley?»

  And Kit blinked, hanging there among the stars, watching the world spin like a top with his fantastically powerful vision. And thought of Will saying that he had never had time to tell Amaranth about the oaks.

  «I could protect thee. Take thee from that place where they have thee so sorely imprisoned. Save thy life.»

  “Aye,” Kit said, tugging his aching fingers firmly out of Lucifer’s grip. He floated, hugging himself, and took a miraculous breath of nothingness. “I’ve been lucky at the brink of death before–”

  Lucifer chuckled like breaking glass. «So say you.»

  “Thou sayest otherwise?”

  It was a spectacular thing, to see an angel shrug. «The blade entered your brain, who was Christofer Marley. It broke through bone and severed the great artery above and behind the eye. You died.»

  “But I–”

  «You died.»

  He would not let Lucifer see him tremble. “The Devil asks me to believe him.”

  The Devil… winked. «The Lord works in mysterious ways. When he works at all.»

  And Kit, quite suddenly, saw through him. He swallowed. How have I been so blind so long?“But couldst protect me, Lightbringer?”

  «Lightborn, aye. I never liked that role so well as the others thou didst grant me.» Lucifer smiled, that glorious expression that turned his crown of shadows into the gentle darkness of a moonlit night.

  Kit looked up, regarding the serpent for a long, long moment before he answered. “What sort of apples are you peddling this time, old snake?”

  “The same old apples every time,” Amaranth answered, her hair twining out of the shadows around her face, her heavenly blue eyes gone the flat color of steel. Kit forced himself to watch the transformation, clenching his fists until blood broke around his rings. The image lasted only a moment, and then the twisting tail was wings, the crown of snakes become a crown of shadows once again, and Kit’s breast ached with the beauty of the angel who reached to take his crimsoned hands.

  “Oh, yes. Thou always wert the teacher, wert thou not? The seducer with truths, the bestower of knowledge and power. The rebel condemned to torment. Mankind’s scourge and seducer, warden and guiding star,” Kit said. “The serpent and the apple. The gift of terrible knowledge. The light‑bringer, the fire‑bringer. I know thy name, my lord.”

  «I have many names, my love.»

  Kit drew a breath that hurt. “Prometheus.”

  «A11 stories are one story.» Lucifer said, and drew Kit–unresisting–close, and kissed him with a lover’s passion. «Come now love, and I shall free thee from thy prison, and thou shalt dwell with me.»

  The kiss was a brand on Kit’s mouth before he pulled away, and he felt the wild tumult of Mehiel, within. He reached for poetry, and could not find his own, but there was other verse would serve. Kit drew breath and quoted his old friend Sir Walter Raleigh into Satan’s face– “If all the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd’s tongue, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love. ”

  And the devil laughed. «Doth thy shepherd lie to thee, Sir Poet? It is the way of shepherds. Lying creatures, the more so when they talk of God.»

  “Father of lies,” Kit answered, with a shrug.

  «But all my lies are Truth. Dost love me, Kit?»

  Kit edged away from the angel, and found his back scraping the rough damp wall of the oubliette. Dirt moved under Kit’s feet, a transformation sudden enough to dizzy him. Lucifer’s halo filled the grim little room with light, and he seemed suddenly more beautiful than ever. Something fragile and almost mortal, unreal, outlined against the sweating stone.

  “How could I ever love anything else, once having been loved of thee? I can’t comprehend thy logic, Father of lies. Both ends against the middle. Like a two‑headed serpent devouring itself. Christ. What canst thou hope to obtain?”

  Lucifer smiled only, and in the sadness of that smile Kit knew the answer. “Oh. For the love of God.” Oh, he if right: we are more alike than not, my lord Morningstar and I.

  «For the love of God. One way or another. Dost judge me? Begrudge me?.» Lucifer beckoned, cupping feathers brushing the stone.

  Kit shook his head, and did not come closer. “What would I not give for the same?”

  «Mortals are everso clever. And you tell stories. Sooner or later one of you will tell the story that will set me free. That will make Him to love me again, for He cannot forgive me my trespasses as He is, and I cannot be content without Him.» The angel sighed and looked away. «Why should such as I care what story that is?.»

  “A lover’s quarrel, Lucifer? That’s all?”

  «What is more divine than love?»

  Kit hadn’t an answer. He balled his fists again, freshening the drip of blood, and came to the center of his prison. “Forgiveness,” he said, and smiled. “Forgiveness is more divine than love, my lord Lucifer. That was Faustus’ fatal flaw too, thou knowest. I’m always startled how few understood.”

  «That Faustus could not be forgiven? Mustn’t the fatal flaw come from within and not without?»

  “No,” Kit answered. “He could have been forgiven. Anyone can be forgiven, who repents. Faustus had opportunity, time, and chance to repent, again and again and again. But he never meant to. Never meant to repent, my lord Prometheus.”

  «Then what was his fatal flaw, Sir Poet?» Lucifer’s eyes sparkled. He tilted his head aside, lovelocks drifting against the exquisite curve of his neck. Enjoying the game.

  “‘But Faustus’ offence can ne’er be pardoned,’” Kit quoted. “‘The serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.’ Faustus’ flaw was the sin of Judas, who deemed his transgression too great to repent of, and thereby diminished the love of God, who can forgive any offense, so long as the sinner wishes forgiveness. Faustus sinned by hubris. I for one had always thought it plain, but they say the playmaker is the last to see the truth in any play–”

  «Hubris, my love? And is that thy sin as well?»

  Kit laughed. “No, not my sin. My sin is not hubris. My sin is love, in that I love my sin too well to wish to repent of it. I am not Faustus.” He looked up into Lucifer’s cerulean eyes. Read my mind now, Lucifer Morningstar.

  The angel blinked once, considering, and the barest part of a frown creased the corners of his mouth. His wings expanded on a breath, a slight wind stirring. He nodded once. «Wilt come with me, then, Christopher Marlowe? And comfort one another in our exile, until the world shall change?»

  Kit’s laugh hurt, sharp edges that cut the tender inside of his throat. “Even thou–”

  «Even I?»

  “Even thou hast forgotten my name.”

  «Come with me. Let me be thy shepherd, and bring thee from this dismal place.»

  Kit turned in the open circle of Lucifer’s wings and let his eyes rove over the seeping stone walls of the abandoned well, the rough round shape of the scold’s bridle kicked into the corner, the dank and odorous earth under his feet. “No,” he said thoughtfully.

  «Kit?»

  No.” He couldn’t quite manage the defiant glance over his shoulder and the lift of his chin he would have liked, but his vo
ice stayed steady and that was a victory in itself. “No, my love. Thank thee. I’ll do it on my own.” And then he turned away again, blood oozing from his fingers and the flutter of Mehiel’s approval like a heartbeat in his breast, and waited for the light to fade around him.

  The first touch of returning agony came as the darkness told Kit he was alone. Golden wings, golden eyes, a dream of memory and warmth as Kit dropped to his knees, body clenched around a scream he was still too proud to give voice. «God loves a martyr, Sir Poet.»

  God’s welcome to get himself fucked too.

  Act V, scene xii

  Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,

  Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

  And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,

  By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

  Can chase away the first‑conceived sound?

  –William Shakespeare, King Henry VI Part II,Act III, scene ii

  Ben and Tom were shuffled back to Tom’s study – over predictable protests, for which Will felt a great deal of sympathy. But he would not permit them to stay in Faerie without the assurances that he held, when any amount of time might pass them by in the mortal realm.

  Once they had parted company and Murchaud had brought Will through to the Mebd’s palace, Will slumped to the floor of Murchaud’s night‑shadowed chamber and buried his face in his hands while the Prince went about, lighting candles that failed to lift the gloom. Murchaud unlaced his outer sleeves and drew them off. He tossed them carelessly across the foot of the bed and began unbuttoning his doublet with fingers he stopped to massage now and again, as if they ached. Will watched in fascination a Prince–still moving like an old man–playing his own body servant. “Your Highness, are you well?”

  “Iron‑sick,” he said, in a tone that brooked no more questioning. “London is full of the stuff.”

  Will nodded. “What do we now?”

  The Prince shrugged on a woolen jerkin in deep blue, with golden knotwork. He leaned back against the wall. “We beg my mother for help.”

  The white tree on the bluff over the ocean was hung with icicles like curtains of glass, creaking faintly in the wind. Morgan’s cottage, once they passed through the icy, snowless beech wood, was white as bone and black as aged oak among the weathered stems of the garden. The gnarled canes of ancient roses twisted about the crimson door, woven tight as the withy hurdles the farmers of Will’s youth used to keep sheep properly divided in the pastures.

  Despite the biting cold, the door stood open and a big, shaggy copper‑colored dog lay across the threshold, the crochet‑hooked tip of his tail flipping deliberately. He rose as Will and Murchaud approached and ambled into the cottage, turning once to glance over his shoulder and prick alert, shaggy ears covered in the same luxurious coat that swayed about him when he moved. A moment later, Morgan stood framed in the doorway, the dog leaning his cheek against her hip and watching with gaze bright through a fall of hair. She shaded her eyes with her hand against the wintry sunlight and called out. “I was not expecting thee this morning, O son. And in such company.”

  “We have a bit of problem, Mother,” Murchaud interrupted. “Master Shakespeare has witnessed Sir Christopher taken captive by the Prometheans. We must find him – ”

  “ – quickly, if he is to live. Thou didst try with seeking‑motes? And consult the Darkling Glass?”

  Murchaud pursed his lips at her, one eyebrow rising. Will made himself meet Morgan’s eyes past the Prince’s shoulder. “Thank you your tisanes and tinctures, madam, “he said. “They have made a difference.”

  She met the gaze for a moment, then snorted and dropped a restraining hand to the dog’s neck. “Come in. Come in.”

  Will followed Murchaud through the doorway and was most thoroughly inspected by a canine nose along the way. Inside the cottage it was warm as summer, despite the open door –another touch of Morgan’s homely magic – and sweet‑smelling cakes were baking on the hearthstone, their crusts just golden‑brown on the side closest the coals.

  Morgan crouched to turn them, moving quickly to keep her fingers from scorching, and stayed crouched by the fire long enough to fill a kettle and hang it on the kettle‑arm. She stood and turned around. The dog observed her from his post by the door, whining a little.

  Murchaud rattled down three mugs and set them out on a bench while Morgan measured herbs into them. “Scrying by water, do you think? Or by the cards?”

  ‘If the Glass won’t show it, water won’t,” Morgan answered, measuring herbs into the mugs. “And the cards are not suited for questions with – definite –answers. So I fear we will have to find someone to ask.”

  “Ask?” Will said. The trickle of steam from the kettle’s spout became a jet that stood out eighteen inches. He moved forward, taking a square of toweling from a wall peg to shield his hand, and poured for all three of them, ignoring the twinge from his bruises.

  “Aye,” she said, as Will hung the kettle up again. She stirred honey into each mug, and handed him one. He cupped his aching hands around the warmth and cradled it to his chest.

  “Whom do we ask, my Queen?”

  She smiled at Will over the rim of her mug, flecks of mint dappling her upper lip. “The things that listen in the crevices and quiet places, of course. And the things that listen to the things that listen there.”

  Morgan led them speedily over frost‑rimed beech leaves, to the edge of a talking brook that trickled between glassy walls of ice. She turned at the frozen bank and followed it upstream; Murchaud steadied Will as they scrambled in her wake. Despite his worry, Will straightened his spine and breathed the cold scent of crunching leaves, drank deep the welcome air of Faerie and felt its strength fill him up.

  They came up to a little plank bridge with darkness beneath. The icy brook chattered louder there, echoing from the underside of the arch. Ridiculous in the season, but Will could have sworn he heard a frog chirp. Morgan stopped short where the slick silver boles of the beech trees still broke the line of sight into slices. “Go on ahead, sweet William,” she said, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder.

  “There’s something across the bridge?”

  “Perhaps,” she answered. “But thy business is with the one who lives under it.”

  With one doubtful glance at Morgan, and ignoring the low, uncertain noise that issued from Murchaud’s throat, Will shuffled down the bank. The slope was rocky and slick with frost. He clung to flexing twigs and underbrush to steady his uncertain descent, his bruised hip aching when he slipped.

  And faintly, over the singing of the brook, he heard other singing: “For thy delight each May‑morning, hurm, If these delights thy mind may move, harm …”

  “Come live with me and be my love,” Will finished, under his breath. Strange he–it?–should be dinging that.“Hello, the bridge!” he called, feeling silly. Icy silt crunched under his boots.

  “Hurm, harm,” a slow voice answered. Something shifted in the dark archway. It might have been mottled a greeny‑brown like weedy water, shining with healthy, slick highlights in the reflected light. “Master Poet,” it said, in reedy tones of slow delight, “have you also come to offer me a poem for passage?”

  “No,” Will said. A bridge‑troll. What else could it have been?“What would you take in trade for the answer to a question?”

  “Ask me the question and I will tell you the price.”

  “Tell me the price and I will tell you if I wish the question answered,” Will said, having some little idea of how such bargains worked.

  “Hurm,” the troll said. “Very well. ‘Twill serve, ‘twill serve. Quest your question, then.”

  Will drew a breath. “Where is Sir Christofer Marley, that I may find and rescue him?”

  “Ah. Harm. No charge for that one, Master Poet. No charge. For knolls troll what trolls know, and I know I cannot answer it: there is no person by that name.”

  Will let his head fall back upon his shoulders. “T
oo late,” he said. “Kit’s dead.”

  The troll coughed, and Will got a glimpse of long fingers as it demurely covered its gaping, froggy mouth. “Perhaps a different way of phrasing the question, hurm?”

  Will blinked. Never ask me,Kit had said, and now Will thought he understood. “Where is – ” my lover?But that was a question “with too many answers to serve Will’s purpose, to his sudden chagrin. “Where is the poet whose song you were just now singing, Master Troll?”

  The troll chuckled, seeming pleased at his care, and trailed long fingers crooked as alder in the water. “And on to the matter of payment, froggily froggily. Would give me a song?”

  “Any song I have,” Will said without hesitation.

  “A bauble?”

  “Nothing could be as precious to me as Kit’s life, Master Troll.” Will thought of Hell, and a quiet garden, and tried not to let the troll see the cold sweat that dewed his forehead. An animal was picking its way cautiously through the brush not too far away. Leaves crackled while Will waited.

  “Hurm, harm.” The troll lifted a crooked finger and pointed. Give me the ring in your ear.

  Automatically, Will reached up and let his fingers brush the warm, weighty gold. “It’s magic,” he said, though he was already fumbling with the clasp.

  “Trolls know what trolls know.”

  “It lets me stay in Faerie without being trapped here.”

  “Then you’d better hurry home, hurm.”

  Farther upstream, beyond the bridge, a stag crashed out or the underbrush and paused at the top of the bank. It gave Will a wild look, then bounded through the stream.

  “Stag,” the troll said, following his gaze. “Good eating. The earring, harm?”

  Will tossed it gently, underhand. The troll picked it out of the air like a flycatcher after gnats and popped it into his mouth. He belched a moment later –a toadlike, bubbling sound–and croaked: “Look down wells and look in the dark wet places. Look in forgetful places, and for forgotten things. Ask those that know the secrets whispered under earth and between stones.”