I Got Some Bad Muse For You

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I Got Some Bad Muse For You Page 2

by Michael Angel


  Callidora changed her stance slightly, dropping her knees slightly and sliding one foot to the fore. With one hand, she beckoned his attack.

  Shakespeare threw one punch, then another. Callidora slapped the first away to one side with ease. The second, she let whistle past her ear. Her left hand came up and grasped the bard’s arm in a vise-like grip.

  With a cry, she drove her shoulder up against his chest. She reached down with her free hand, grasped his inner thigh. A flex of her muscles. She pivoted, wheeling Shakespeare over her shoulder in a martial arts throw.

  His breath whooshed out as he landed atop his writing desk. The wood made a piteous squeal, split and gave way. Shakespeare tumbled to the floor amidst the clatter of breaking bottles and a rain of loose parchment pages.

  Callidora knelt next to him as he let out a groan, trying to force air back into his lungs.

  “There are rules for our partnership, Will. They must be followed if I’m going to help you. And I am going to help you, even if we have to keep ending our get-togethers like this.”

  Shakespeare coughed. He sighed in defeat. “You need but name your...‘rules’ for the fairness of your words, my fine muse.”

  “First, I need you to keep writing. Got that? Next, you need to finish what you’re writing. Finally, stop ‘revising’. Write the damned thing and don’t suffer another goose’s wingtips to be plucked for your pens unless the theatre owner demands it.”

  “And those are your rules, in complete and conclusion?”

  “For tonight, yeah. We’ll pick it up tomorrow. If you don’t have three plays to show me, at least do one. And no more booze. Period. If you can't get through a weekend without a drink, you need AA more than you need me.”

  Shakespeare sat up with another groan. “Ayy-Ayy?”

  “I’ll explain another time, Will.” Callidora got up to leave. As she passed the wrecked hulk of the door, she added, “Time’s wasting. Go find some other flat surface to write on and get to work.”

  * * *

  A sliver of moon cast white light over Shakespeare’s house. The brand new door, stoutly made and backed by an iron portcullis, muffled the sound of snoring within.

  The snores that did justice to a two-man timber saw came from Bertram, who slept sprawled across the remains of Shakespeare’s writing desk. A worn blanket swaddled around his skinny form. Devoid of crumpled paper or bottles (empty or full), the downstairs room remained dark and quiet.

  Upstairs in the servant’s quarters, candles burned fitfully in the draft from the shuttered window. Shakespeare shifted uncomfortably in Bertram’s chair. Shivering, he got up and grabbed the bronze head of the fireplace poker. Bending his knees, he stirred the coals in the hearth and returned to his makeshift desk.

  Pen in hand, he moved to complete the last sentence of the page when he heard a distant cry.

  “Gerrrr-onimo!”

  With a WHAM! the thin wooden slats of the shutters turned to kindling as Callidora swung through the window, feet first. Shakespeare instinctively ducked as pieces of wood went flying. His quill pen skittered off the edge of the page and snapped against the side of the table.

  He leapt to his feet as Callidora calmly stood and brushed off stray splinters. This time, his muse had decided to show up wearing trousers made of denim, thick-soled boots, and a short-sleeved tee shirt emblazoned in neon pink with three short words. Shakespeare paused, then ran to the now-opened window and craned his neck outside.

  “Speechless, huh?” Callidora grinned. “Bet you thought you could evade Olympus’ best by moving to the second-floor bedroom, hmm? I can’t complain, though. That whole ‘swinging through the window’ thing – it’s fun. Haven’t done that in quite a while.”

  “What you do, and I dare say, do with such alacrity – it confounds the mind!” Shakespeare shook his head as he looked outside once more. “That proof is call'd impossibility. For there is not a single tree in the environs! At least none that t’would let one swing through a second story window!”

  “You’re the writer here – you should know that there’s always a way for a character to do the impossible. At least if they’re determined enough.” She shrugged, then pointed to her boots. “Me, I was more worried about cutting my feet on broken glass. I forgot that this time period doesn’t seem to go in for putting glass panes in the windows.”

  Shakespeare came away from the window and resumed his seat at Bertram’s diminutive writing table. For the first time in a long while, the bard’s ire, confusion, and apprehension gave way to curiosity. “Your statement mystifies me. How is it that you have set aside the power of time itself? For time is the conqueror of kings, the ravager of fair looks!”

  “Time works differently for a muse. We don’t travel its corridors in a straight, linear manner. I’ve been to times ahead of yours, Will, and far in the past.” Callidora looked pensive for a moment. “Especially before my assignment here. When I advised men who wielded swords, not pens.”

  “I cannot give less, or suffer the slings of ingratitude. But how can one familiar with those who unleash the war-hounds...help a playwright?”

  “I’m still working that part out,” she admitted. “But my track record is the best of all my sisters, I’ll tell you that. For example, have you ever heard of a guy from ancient Greece called ‘Alexander the Pretty-Good’?”

  “So please you, I have never heard that name spoken.”

  “That’s right!” Callidora snapped her fingers, her eyes bright. “You never did. Because when I was done with him, he was great.”

  “You propose to do that...with my slender reed of talent?”

  “If it kills me, yes! Well...maybe you, instead of me, but you get the idea.”

  “I see,” Shakespeare said. His eyes glinted coldly for a split second, and then the frigid glare was quickly veiled.

  Callidora gestured to Shakespeare’s chair. “Mind if I take that for a little while, review what you’ve composed for the evening?”

  “I am but your humble servant, lady,” Shakespeare stood and with a theatrical wave of his arm, beckoned her to sit. She did so, and he pushed a sheaf of parchment into her waiting hands.

  “Hm. At least this appears to be some real work, this time,” she said.

  “Mayhap I wished to avoid a second encounter with the well.”

  Callidora mumbled agreement as her eyes continued to skim the text.

  Shakespeare began to inch his way along the wall behind the muse. He mastered his breath. Watched carefully as Callidora turned the pages of his play, praying that the creak of a floorboard did not give him away.

  The rough texture of the wall scraped along his back as he bent his knees. He reached out and sought the object he most desired at that moment.

  His left hand closed around the bronze haft of the poker. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crept up behind Callidora. He raised the poker over his head. The blackened rod dribbled a trace of steel-gray ash.

  The bard made a triumphant cry. He swung the improvised weapon down at his target. The iron staff whistled through the air.

  A paff! as the fire poker came to a halt in Callidora’s upraised palm.

  Shakespeare’s complexion turned the same color as the ash in the fireplace. The muse’s movement had been a blur. She still sat, half-turned, one arm raised above her head and grasping the poker just below the pointed end. Her palm appeared undamaged, save for the splotch of ash that Shakespeare’s swing had put there.

  Callidora turned her wrist, forcing Shakespeare to release his grip on the poker. She let it fall to the floor with a clatter. She absentmindedly swiped her hand clean on her denim trousers. Then she stood, her other hand still clutching the bard’s papers.

  Shakespeare blinked. To his astonishment, Callidora’s face had broken out in a wide, sunny grin.

  “That’s the closest anyone has ever come to actually defeating me,” she said. “You were actually able to sneak up on me. You were actually able to attack me. Because I
was distracted. Do you know why?”

  Shakespeare, not trusting his voice, simply shook his head.

  “Because of what you wrote.” Callidora held up the parchment, holding the pages in her fingers as if they were made of spun silk. “Because...this is good.”

  “You...I...”

  “I mean it, Will. This is damned good.” She cleared her throat and read, in her clear, husky voice, “Proclaim it through my host that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. Be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.”

  “These words...these lay siege to your mind, and took all captive?”

  “Yes.” Her expression grew wistful as she added, “Not even great Alexander who lived such moments, could have written so well.”

  Shakespeare let out a shuddering, pent-up breath. He leaned against the wall to his side. He raised his hands, stared at them as if examining them anew for the first time. As if contemplating a never-before-seen instrument, one bright and shiny and full of promise.

  “Scarce that one as I could believe,” he whispered. “I am undone, my muse. That I should contain in these unworthy maniples a bright star; for it is above me.”

  “It’s not above you, trust me,” Callidora reached out, squeezed the bard’s arm affectionately, warmly. “But you still need to work. You need to practice, and you need to produce.”

  “All’s bounded within my head, fair Callidora!”

  “Easy to say. You need to put your butt in this chair. Remember the rules I gave you. This must be finished. Shall we say, four more days?”

  The bard hesitated. “A hard taskmaster lies in your lineage, my lady. A muse you may be on the surface, a dogged editor resides within.”

  “Come on. If you ever get stuck, remember the slogan on my shirt.” The bard squinted at the pink letters, and then looked at her, puzzled.

  “Just...do it?”

  “Yeah. Hand it to the Americans, they get right to the point.”

  “What is an Ameri–”

  “Another time, Will. So. Four days?”

  “It shall be done,” Shakespeare said, resignedly. “Though I know not how, I shall pluck my brains for the labors to deliver to my muse, she of fairness and wit.”

  * * *

  A fat lunar crescent hung high in the night sky, casting more luminescence upon the farms around Stratford-on-Avon. This time, the beams had competition. Light streamed through the narrow ground-floor windows of Shakespeare’s house.

  With a quiet, well-oiled click, Callidora opened the front door and stepped inside. She gave a tiny gasp of surprise as she saw a brand new table, laid out with skewers of roasted game hens, bowls heaped with braised vegetables, and platters of fruit. Propped up on a stand at the fore lay a neat stack of parchment.

  Shakespeare stood off to one side, decked out in doublet, hose, and a frilly collar of lace. He regarded her otherworldly trousers and tank top with only a moment’s gaze; then he made a sweeping bow.

  “I grant, sweet muse, thy lovely argument deserves the travail of a worthier pen. Yet I shall hang my hopes high that I have not left all in disappointment.”

  “I doubt you will.”

  “So I pray, earnestly. And as you partake of my work, in all fairness one must partake of food and liquid.” He pulled out a cushioned chair for her, which she gratefully took. Her eyebrow raised as he lifted a pitcher to pour her a drink. Reassuringly, he added, “My lady, ‘tis honest cider from honest apples, which ne'er left man in the mire.”

  Shakespeare retreated to his own chair and nibbled at a piece of fruit as the muse read over his work. Strangely, his appetite had refused to kick in the entire day. But whatever fluttered within his stomach calmed instantly as Callidora put the last page down and looked up with a smile.

  “You’re a marvel, Will. I don’t know how you captured the feeling of friendship, war, treachery, and love all in one work, but you did. I wanted to join up with King Henry and invade France myself!” She picked up the goblet of cider he’d poured for her and sipped it with relish. “Now, when do you get paid?”

  A pause. “The matter lies yet unresolv’d.”

  Callidora shot him a look which sent his stomach fluttering anew. She set her cup down on the table with an apple-tinged slosh.

  “Haven’t you sent it to the theatres? You need the money, last I looked.”

  “I had not fail'd to pester the owner of London’s Curtain with message,” Shakespeare protested. “The reply was, alas, not to my liking.”

  “Fine. The ‘Curtain’ is one. Who’s looking at it now?”

  “Milady, the situation is...well, as slippery as the Gordian knot!”

  “As slippery as the famous knot that ‘no one could untie’?” Callidora reached for a roasted leg of game hen and chewed it thoughtfully. “No dice. I was there, remember? Alexander simply slashed it in two with his sword.”

  “Another message shall be sent. But if the answer is also in the negative?”

  “Two more rules for you,” She gestured forcefully with the chicken’s leg. “Whatever you write, it’s got to go out. You’re not scribbling by candlelight to amuse me. Or your friends. And especially not yourself. This is business.”

  “But...what if ‘nay’ makes up the body of replies? T’would make a receiver’s stones shrivel up to behold such a parcel of disappointment.”

  “Never you mind that. Here’s the last rule. Whatever you send out, you damn well keep it out until someone buys it.”

  “Milady–”

  Callidora got up. She placed her free hand atop one of Shakespeare’s. He gasped at the warmth that radiated from her palm.

  “No more excuses, Will. You writers are all this way. It’s the curse of a creative brain. It’ll work for you – put a whole universe inside your skull, each and every day. And it’ll sabotage you by telling you the lies you want to hear. In the most persuasive voice that anyone has ever known.”

  “None but their own,” Shakespeare breathed, understanding.

  “You’re getting it,” Callidora said. She held up a trio of fingers. “I’ll be back in three more days. Have Bertram rush the script between the theatre companies tomorrow morning. Insist to have it read, insist on a yes-or-no, or you’ll take it to their competition. And have something new written for me!”

  * * *

  The crescent moon had waxed slightly greater on the night Shakespeare met his muse at the door. Proudly, he held out a sheet of parchment in one hand. At the bottom, Callidora made out the signature of the theatre owner’s agreement to run the play.

  She gasped. “Is this...what I think?”

  In answer, Shakespeare raised his other hand. The full coin purse jingled in his palm. Callidora let out a whoop of delight. She all but dragged Shakespeare inside after her.

  In the well-lit interior, the bard took notice for the first time of the muse’s strange outfit. This time, she wore a set of shorts, well-scuffed gym sneakers, and a black tank top labeled EVERLAST. She carried a gym bag of robin’s-egg blue, which she set down carefully on the floor as she regarded him.

  “Now we’re on the right track. This is what I want to see – product on the market! And we need to keep feeding it. What do you have to read to me?”

  Shakespeare grinned even wider. “To ease the sharp constraint of your hunger, I have a new bundle of parchment for you to peruse.”

  “Oh, really? Well, I didn’t say that I was going to sit and read anything, now did I? I said, ‘what do you have to read to me’?”

  The bard stared in disbelief. “You wish for me to recount the work to you? In its three-act entirety? The play is the thing, my lady, but a long one, at that!”

  “Good point. Tell you what. Just give me the pitch.”

  “What, praytell, is that?”

  “The sales
proposition.”

  Shakespeare hesitated. “Why should I take up the role of town crier, street haggler? This is but advertisement. Much ado about nothing much, I dare say!”

  “Look, no one’s going to walk in and put their money down...just because some guy named ‘William Shakespeare’ wrote it. Sell it to me. Tell me what it’s about. Make me want to see it.”

  “Well met, then.” Shakespeare cleared his throat and began. “Romeo and Zelda shall surely steal one’s heart. Cast your imagination in flight with me: two households of fair Verona, where we lay our scene. A pair of star-cross'd lovers meet, and meet parental disapproval most foul. Must they take to the hills and crave passage abroad? Nay! In the end, they heed the cooler advice of friends, and live tragically apart, to suffer the woes of unmet love!”

  Shakespeare paused. Callidora sat silently. Her jaw worked, as if she were chewing on something that tasted unpleasant.

  “Yeah. Well. That’s okay...but...”

  “Mayhap it is the title?”

  “In part. ‘Romeo’ has got a certain panache. ‘Zelda’ I can take or leave. But that’s not the real problem. And I think you know it.”

  “It fires neither the one’s mind, nor one’s loins,” Shakespeare admitted.

  “Time for another lesson.” Callidora went to her bag and pulled out two pairs of red boxing gloves. With well-practiced movements, she slipped one pair of gloves on him, then followed suit with her own pair. “Come on – see if you can come close to hitting me again.”

  “My lady muse,” Shakespeare protested, “My temper has cooled towards you, and I no longer wish you even a farthing, a pittance of ill fortune.”

  “Then I have to heat you up again.”

  And with that, Callidora decked Shakespeare with a right hook.

  The bard staggered backwards into his bookcase, senses reeling. Loose parchments tumbled down his shoulders and knocked over a silver case of snuff. The case sprang open, and the smell of dried, powdered tobacco filled the room.

 

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