Any Man So Daring by Sarah A. Hoyt Page A

illusions into fairyland snares.
    She looked at the boy’s wide, golden eyes and felt an odd sense of identity — as if the boy were a part of her and she, herself, were thus being tricked into some unimaginable trap.
    A shiver ran up her spine.
    Pixie-led.

Scene Eight

    The Witch’s cottage, where Shakespeare stands, his hand — which trembles — holding his knife at the witch’s throat. Nearby stands Marlowe’s ghost looking like a live man save for the gore and blood that drip, continuous and seemingly unnoticed, from his eye.

    C ould Will cut the woman? Kill the woman?
    He looked to the cradle in the corner, moving still in tiny movements. From it a mewling sound emerged, as of a young baby starting to waken.
    Could Will kill the baby’s mother?
    Faith, Will did not know and hence his hand trembled. But he commanded his voice to be firm and in as false a firm voice as had ever rang across stage, he said, “Give me some potion, woman. Or perform some spell, as will from hence take me to my son’s side, not passing mortal land or ever covering the lengthy distance weary mortal feet must walk. For I must go to him, in all haste.”
    “You fool,” Marlowe’s ghost wailed. “You poor wretched fool. You know not what you do. Put up your knife.”
    But Will shook his head. “What know you, Marlowe? What know you, spirit that was Marlowe’s soul? What know you of a father’s care?
    “Your fathering of a boy was only of such kind as any may do, late one night, gorged with drink, at a tavern.
    “What know you of a father’s heart?”
    The ghost of Marlowe wavered, going gray and dim, then reappearing in full firmness. The effect was that of a mortal staggering under a harsh blow and then recovering. “I know I saw my son grow through the whole seven years of his life, and held him in my lap and told him stories, and marked daily the changes in his countenance as he waxed in wisdom and size,” he said, and smiled. “When last did you hold your son upon your knee, Will? You, who labor in London, so far from your family — what do you know of that son so far away? Know you that often, tired of his house where women prevail, he runs into the forest and there finds solace in solitude? Know you how much he misses you? How he pines for you? And yet you live in London and there pursue your fame. How dare you compare your fatherly love to mine?”
    “All I do is in care of him,” Will said. Marlowe’s comparison hurt him more than he dare acknowledge, even to himself. When had he last held Hamnet upon his knee? “I make money that he might wax prosperous. I labor far from him that he might lack for nothing. He is my only son.”
    Marlowe raised skeptical eyebrows, made all the more ironical for one being raised above a wounded orbit. “Faith, you have two daughters.” His voice dripped with something like envy. “You have two daughters that, yet, were your son taken up, would remain behind to light your days. How can you say, 'He is my only son, ' and thus make it sound like he is your only child?”
    “Daughters,” Will said. His hand that held the knife trembled. “Daughters are their mother’s mirror, her rightful company. My son, him I can guide in the way of men, in the road of learning, in a profession worthy of the name.
    “My son wears my surname and he shall crown with pride my waning years. The fairyhill shall not have him.” He turned his attention to the witch once more. “You will transport me wherever he is, that I might protect him.”
    “Your heir and not your son you love,” Marlowe said.
    “The both are one,” Will said. “The two of them are one, conjoined. My only son is my only true heir.” Will’s head hurt and his eyes stung with tears that he refused to shed before Marlowe’s dead and mocking eye. He pushed the knife closer to the woman’s neck. “Therefore, send me to him.”
    He did not see the woman move, but felt as though the air trembled all around him. His eyes