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CHAPTER VIII

A woman walked up behind Guttorm and he moved aside for her. She stood in the doorway and gazed at Will.

Will returned her gaze, pulling the cloak tighter around him. She was a handsome middle-aged woman dressed in a long pleated dress with a sort of wraparound apron over it, held up at the shoulders by brooches shaped like tortoise shells. She covered her hair with an intricately folded white linen headdress, and she wore a lot of gold and silver jewelry. She had a rather long face, but it was a lovely one, and she carried herself with a grace Will had seldom seen. He mentally cast Greta Garbo—but softer. She looked in his eyes, as if searching for something there.

"Do you not know me, my son?" she asked.

Will went with the script. "Mother?"

She took a step forward, then hesitated. "You wouldn't hurt your mother would you, Amlodd?"

"I may speak knives, but will use none," he said. There was no word for "dagger" in the Danish tongue.

She took another step, uncertainty on her face. Her gaze dropped to Will's hands.

"You've hurt yourself, my son," she said, forgetting her fear and rushing forward. She took his hand and pulled it out to examine it, not caring that the blanket came open. Will pulled the hand from her and turned away.

"Why do you turn your back on me, Amlodd?"

" 'Tis nothing. A scratch."

"You always let me see to your wounds. Don't you remember the time you took the Saxon arrow in your chest? Or that axe blow that broke your wrist?"

Will could actually feel the shadow of an ache in his left wrist.

"There's no need," he said. "The hand is well."

He felt her hand on his shoulder and moved further off.

"Will you not bear to let me touch you? Do you hate me so?"

"I do not hate you. But I . . . I do not care to be touched just now."

"Will you put on clothing and come to the feast tonight, my son?

"Of course. I meant to ask for clothing."

"And will you—will you try to stay inside your skin? Act as you did while your father yet lived?"

Will was still looking away from her. "I shall try."

A short-haired girl in a light-colored, undyed dress appeared with folded garments, a belt and shoes. "Take these and put them on, then," said Amlodd's mother.

Will took the clothing from the girl. "This is a wonderful shirt," he said, examining the garment. It was rust-colored wool, edged with braiding at the neck and cuffs. There was ornate embroidery on the sleeves and across the chest—writhing and intertwined forms of what (he remembered) historians called "gripping beasts."

" 'Tis just a shirt," said the woman. "I've made you dozens such."

"You made this?" He faced her, holding the shirt before him for modesty.

"Of course. I'd not let thralls sew shirts for my son."

"You made this for me?"

"Why do you wonder at that?"

Will's eyes went wet and he had to blink. "No one ever did such a thing for me."

"Oh, my son, you only forget because your mind's unwell."

Will shook his head to clear it. "Yes, my mind's unwell. That must be the reason. Please go and I'll dress myself."

"Do you want help?"

"Perhaps at the end, if there's something I've . . . forgotten. But I can don trousers and shirt on my own."

"I'll be without then."

As she turned, he said, "Mother?"

She turned back, smiling. "Yes?"

"You're a—" He groped for a word. There was no word for "artist" in this language. "You're like a poet with a needle." The word for poet was Danish—skald.

Her eyes widened and a blush brightened her cheeks. "What a sweet thing to say, Amlodd. Your mother thanks you."

The door was closed and, before dressing, Will sat on the bench and wept into his hands.

He remembered an evening after school one October, coming home to find his mother had gone to bed with one of her headaches. He had been afraid to ask, but had felt he had to.

He had pushed the bedroom door open a crack and, seeing that she responded to the noise, had asked, "Did you make my Halloween costume?"

His mother had moaned and said, "What costume?"

"You said you'd sew me a pirate costume for trick or treating tonight."

"Can't you wear what you wore last year?"

"The ghost mask?"

"Yeah, right, the ghost mask."

"It's just a mask. It's not really a costume."

Suddenly his mother lurched out of bed and rushed to the door. She grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"Do you know how hard I work?" she shouted. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.

Will opened his mouth, but thought better of answering, knowing it would only make her angrier.

"I work my fingers to the bone to make a home for you! I come home with a stinking headache, and want just a little rest before I have to make your damn supper, and do I get to rest? Do I get to rest?"

Will stood with his mouth open.

"Answer me! Do I get to rest?"

"No?"

"No! No, because my selfish little boy can't think about anything but a stupid Halloween costume! A stupid Halloween costume! Do you know what 'selfish' means?"

Will didn't want to answer.

"Answer me!"

"Someone who only thinks about himself?"

"Who do you think is selfish? Who's the most selfish little boy in the whole damn world?"

He had to answer. "Me?"

Then she had started hitting him.

The linen undertrews and wool trousers tied with drawstrings. There was a linen undershirt and he pulled on the embroidered rust one over it. He had a single-edged knife in a peculiar tooled sheath with two loops so that it hung horizontally on the belt, along with a purse which also had two loops. He checked inside the purse and found a carved horn spoon and several bits of silver rings, hacked up.

He pulled on wool socks and leather shoes. There was no right or left shoe—they were interchangeable, except that they fastened with a triangular flap that crossed the instep and buttoned on the side with a bone fastener. He assumed it would be best to wear the buttons on the outside.

There were no furry leggings as seen in movies. There were woven puttees such as Guttorm wore. He remembered with amusement that it had been traditional for stage Hamlets to wear cross-garters up through the nineteeth century. Well, why not? He cross-gartered the puttees.

It felt good to have clothes on. He wished there was such a thing as a mirror in this time and place. He felt a confidence in his appearance he'd never known before. He wanted to take his new body out for a spin.

He pushed the door open and stepped out. Everyone in the yard looked at him. He rather enjoyed it, but hoped he'd put everything on right.

"Mother," said "How fine you look, Amlodd," and adjusted the shirt here and there. Then she called the girl to re-wrap the puttees in the same fashion as Guttorm's. She fastened them with little silver hooks.

Guttorm came striding up. "My lord Amlodd," he said. "Word just came. A whale has washed up on the strand. Will you come see this thing with us?"

Will said, "Aye."

More short-haired people in undyed clothing brought horses. Will reckoned they were slaves—"thralls" would be the word. The horses were smallish, more like ponies, dun-colored with their manes trimmed to stand up straight. He looked at the saddle of the one brought to him. He seemed to recall that the Vikings had possessed the technology of stirrups, but this was before the Vikings. After hesitating a moment, he tried to mount by jumping, and slid over the other side, landing awkwardly on one foot. There was laughter, and he felt his face burn.

The horse thrall quickly knelt down on the horse's left side, making a stirrup with his two hands, fingers interlaced. Confused, Will came around again, put his right foot in the hands and swung up. It was the wrong foot. He found himself seated backwards in the saddle, facing the horse's rump. The laughter erupted again.

Mortified, Will remembered a passage from Saxo's Gesta Danorum: "When he was told to mount his horse he sat on purpose with his back to the creature's mane, facing the tail. . . ."

"I suppose you're all wondering why I've asked you here," said Sean the next morning when he and Diane appeared in what seemed by general consensus to be the dining hall.

"You haven't asked us here; we've all been here for hours," said Bess. "There's still some breakfast if you don't mind cold generic."

" 'Twas a manner of speaking. I'm not hungry myself, but I could profit from the hair of the dog, as Jason Robards used to say." He clapped his hands. "Servants! Wine for the king!"

"And something hot for the queen to eat," said Diane.

"And how did you all sleep?" asked Sean.

"The sleeping wasn't too bad," said Rosey. "The bathroom arrangements could have been better."

"The antic charm of the chamber pot," said Sean with a smile. "At least we can tell the servants to empty them for us. And thank God this isn't the Middle Ages. We'd have to use oubliettes."

"The best I can figure the rules out," said Peter, "is that we can have anything we ask for—as long as it existed in Shakespeare's England." Peter's face was red and his speech a little slurred. The others noticed that he was drinking what they drank, but no one said anything.

"Which means, I suppose," said Sean, "that there's no such thing as a morning cup of coffee—not even for the king." Peter looked at him sadly.

"When was coffee introduced in England?" asked Bess.

"Hold on. Hold on. I think we need to talk about this right now," said Howie, who had been sitting with his head on his hands at the far end of the table.

"Talk about what? Coffee?" asked Sean.

"Not coffee, you imbecile. This king and queen thing. A, we're Americans and we're not supposed to believe in monarchy. B, I thought we'd agreed we'd do our best not to live out our parts. I thought we weren't going to allow the Hamlet thing to happen, because that would mean that all of you except me would be dead by the end of the play."

"Most succinctly put," said Sean. "Your concern for us does you credit. However, you have to look at things from my point of view. This is the only chance I'll ever have to king it, and frankly I think I have a gift for autocracy. I've never made a great success of my life—you probably all know that—but I've come to believe that perhaps it's only because I've had no outlet for my true gifts. Perhaps I'm a man born to be king."

"Don't get too excited, Sean," said Peter. "Everybody feels the same way. It's human nature."

"I don't want to be a king," said Howie. "The whole idea offends me."

"I think you're jumping the gun, Sean," said Bess. "So far the only orders you've given have been for meals."

"Has there been any sign of your son, Howie?" asked Diane.

Howie dropped his chin on his arms. "No. I don't care whether it's dangerous or not—I'm going out to look for him if he doesn't show up soon. I don't know what's outside the castle in this universe, but as far as I can tell, it's daylight now."

The dark servants came and set wine and warm mush before Sean and Diane. Peter suddenly leaped from his bench and tried to catch one of them, a male, by the arm, but the servant slipped from his grasp and sped away down the corridor. Peter fell onto his hands and knees. "Did you notice what he was wearing?" he asked the group as he got back to his feet.

"Pretty much the same as last night," said Diane. "Vaguely Elizabethan in basic black."

"There's more detail today," said Peter. "He was wearing hops and slows—slops and hose. I'm sure the men only had hose last night. And up close there was embroidery. And look at this wall—"

He went to the wall. He put his hand on it. "There's squared stones and mortar here. I'll swear that last night it was just flat stone. It's as if this place is . . . defining itself."

"Like a living thing?" asked Rosemary.

"Yeah. Like an embryo. Or a work of art. The artist starts with a general outline, then refines it and adds detail as he goes along."

"And who would the artist of this be?" asked Randy.

"God maybe. Or maybe us. Maybe it's drawing images from our minds—our imaginations of what Elsinore was like."

"Mr. Data, please report to the holodeck," said Del, who was sitting apart from the others as usual. "You know what? I'm sick of this charade."

He got up and turned to face Bess. "Ms. Borglum—that's your name, right? Ms. Borglum, when are you going to tell these people what's really at stake here?"

Bess scowled. "You think I know something the rest of you don't?"

"Yeah. You know it and I know it, and maybe one other. I'm talkin' about the book."

Bess looked down at her folded hands. "I don't think the book has anything to do with all this."

"Oh, you don't, huh? Then why don't you tell everybody and let them decide for themselves?"

"What's he talking about?" asked Howie. Everyone leaned in at the table.

Bess shrugged. "I guess there's no harm talking about it, though I still don't think it has anything to do with our situation." She told them the story of Will and the Kyd Hamlet.

"I'm with Bess," said Sean when she was done. "I don't see how it relates to our predicament."

"Look at it from the alternate universe point of view—everything the ghost told us," said Del. "Suppose fully realized works of art create their own separate universes. What if the great work of art stops being great? Does its universe go on, or is it destroyed? Suppose it's destroyed, or emptied. Wouldn't that create a kind of vacuum? Kyd's book is gonna destroy Hamlet. Maybe the vacuum of a universe collapsing was what pulled us here. Maybe this universe needs us to fill the roles to keep its existence going."

"That doesn't sound like very good news," said Randy. "If we don't become the roles, we'll only create a greater vacuum that will keep us here forever. If we do become the roles, we die."

"Unless the ghost was right," said Del. "He said that if we broke the play, we'd just go home."

"Maybe the play is worth our lives," said Sean, stroking his chin.

"You're missing my point, people. The point is, the play isn't great. It never was great. It's not worth dying for, and it's not worth staying here for. Let's all do our best to unwrite it. It's our only chance of getting out alive."

Amlodd rose from his seat. "I do not understand all you people say. But it seems you hold that my saga is not a great saga."

"Not your fault, son," said Del. "You fell into the hands of rotten writers."

"A man's saga is his only wealth in the end. Would you take that from me?"

"Oh, can it, Sverdrup. Do you think I really think you're Amlodd?"

Amlodd's face went white. "What mean you?"

"Can the corny diction too, kid. You're a good actor—probably the best actor in this bush league troupe. You made us swallow your little game for a while. But if you expect me to believe that Amlodd Orvendilsson was a real historical person, and not a character from an old myth, well, find somebody else to sell your swamp land to."

Amlodd started to move toward Del, and Peter and Howie restrained him with hands on his shoulders.

"The whole thing's a myth," said Del. "Historians have proved it. All these stories about war and revenge in ancient times—they're all frauds."

"What are you talking about?" asked Bess.

"It was all invented by the Christian conspiracy. Scholars know now that there was never any violence of any kind in the world before the appearance of Christianity. All the atrocity stories were invented by Christian historians, so they could justify their aggression against their peaceful neighbors."

"Wait," said Sean. "Let me get this straight. You're saying there was never an Assyrian empire; never a Roman empire; never an Aztec empire—"

"They existed, but they were purely voluntary, peaceful arrangements. War, murder, revenge, slavery—they were all invented by the Christians, who then projected them back on history by forging the records."

"That's B.S.," said Bess.

"There's nothing I can do about your closed minds. The very fact that you disagree with me proves you're bigots. But take my word for it—there was never a Hamlet; never an Orvendil; never a murder and never a revenge—"

Amlodd pulled free and leaped the table like a flying hawk. Del ran out just ahead of him. Amlodd stopped and let him go, spitting at his back. " 'Tis a waste of breath to chase cowards," he said.

He turned back. "You—" he said to Howie. "Did you say you meant to search for your troll son?"

"My son, yes," said Howie.

"Then I'll bear you company. I'd see what world we're in."

"Will you attack my son again?"

"Your son attacked me. In any case, you saw how it turned out. I'm unarmed, and he is stronger than I."

"I suppose two is better than one, not knowing what's out there," said Howie, getting up. "Anybody want to come along?"

"I'll go," said Randy.

"Yeah, why not?" said Peter.

"Might as well take the whole scout troop," said Sean. They all got up and followed Amlodd down the corridor.

The three women were left alone at the table. Diane immediately got out of her seat at the head and moved down beside Rosey. "Tell me all about it," she said.

"About what?" asked Rosey, with a smile.

"Will—Amlodd—whatever the hell you call him. What was it like with a real barbarian?"

Rosey half-lowered her eyelids. "He was all right."

"All right? Just all right?"

Rosey laughed. "He was wonderful. He was so . . . enthusiastic. Didn't you hear him? And he kept telling me what he could have done if he'd had his own equipment—frankly I'm glad he didn't. He might have killed me."

They laughed and Bess laughed with them.

They stopped laughing when the men came back and they got a look at their faces.

"What's wrong?" asked Bess.

"We found this in the corridor," said Peter. He held out a pack of cigarettes.

"Cigarettes—the only cigarettes here belong to—"

"To Del. He wouldn't have left behind the only cigarettes in the world."

"And there was blood there," said Sean. "Quite a lot of blood."

Rosey sought the chamber where she and Amlodd had slept. She had hardly known Del, and hadn't liked what she'd seen of him. But she'd never come so close to death before.

The room was large and high-ceilinged. There was a huge four-poster bed there, draped with curtains, and the walls were hung with dark tapestries on which embroidery could be dimly made out.

She lay on the bed with her knees under her chin. The strangeness of the whole situation sifted down on her like a century of dust. She thought about the family she might not see again, the friends and familiar places that might be lost to her.

She wept until a hand on her shoulder startled her.

"The nearness of death always rouses a need for life in me," Amlodd said, letting his hand wander.

She pulled away and fled to a corner of the room. "I'm not in the mood," she said, hugging herself.

"Then I must give you a gift, I suppose." He dug awkwardly in Will's trousers pockets and came out with a few coins. "I don't know what these are worth, but some of them seem to be part silver—"

She stalked forward, fists at her sides. "Let's get one thing straight, Melancholy Baby. I'm not a whore. I slept with you because I wanted to, and I'm beginning to think I made a big mistake."

"Then why did you come here to bed?"

"To be alone and cry."

"You weep over that . . . nobody?"

"He was a human being."

"And so?"

"Every human being is important."

"Who told you a thing like that?"

"It's something we believe."

"Then you're fools."

" 'No man is an island, apart of himself . . . ,' " she quoted. " 'Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved with all mankind.' "

"A death like that? He was a little man, without strength or courage. He had no honor and died like a slug. He might as well have never lived."

Rosey sat on the bed cross-legged. "Have I told you yet what a horse's ass you are?"

"You take offense because I can tell the difference between a man of honor and a thrall? If you think all men of equal worth, what do you honor? How do you choose between right and wrong? How do you choose who will lead and who will serve?"

"It's complicated. Look—a man died and I'm upset. Do I have your permission to be upset? Didn't you ever weep for a pet—an animal that died? Even though it wasn't human?"

Amlodd fell silent for a moment.

"You've touched his heart," said Randy, who had walked in without either of them noticing.

"Doesn't anybody knock in this universe?" asked Rosey.

"A fascinating conversation," said Randy. "You're right, Rosey. Every death does matter."

"Thanks for your support."

Randy came in and sat on the bed with them. Rosey thought it was like the Mad Hatter's slumber party. "Imagine if you will a world—this one, perhaps—where no one died. How does that sound to you?"

"Wonderful," said Rosey.

"Dull," said Amlodd.

"One for Amlodd. It would be dreadfully dull. Do you know why?"

"No shoot-em-up Westerns?" asked Rosey.

"No courage. Did you ever play poker for no money? It's as boring as radio static. People's lives are the stakes they play for in the great game. Without something at stake, nothing matters much."

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Framed

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CHAPTER VIII

A woman walked up behind Guttorm and he moved aside for her. She stood in the doorway and gazed at Will.

Will returned her gaze, pulling the cloak tighter around him. She was a handsome middle-aged woman dressed in a long pleated dress with a sort of wraparound apron over it, held up at the shoulders by brooches shaped like tortoise shells. She covered her hair with an intricately folded white linen headdress, and she wore a lot of gold and silver jewelry. She had a rather long face, but it was a lovely one, and she carried herself with a grace Will had seldom seen. He mentally cast Greta Garbo—but softer. She looked in his eyes, as if searching for something there.

"Do you not know me, my son?" she asked.

Will went with the script. "Mother?"

She took a step forward, then hesitated. "You wouldn't hurt your mother would you, Amlodd?"

"I may speak knives, but will use none," he said. There was no word for "dagger" in the Danish tongue.

She took another step, uncertainty on her face. Her gaze dropped to Will's hands.

"You've hurt yourself, my son," she said, forgetting her fear and rushing forward. She took his hand and pulled it out to examine it, not caring that the blanket came open. Will pulled the hand from her and turned away.

"Why do you turn your back on me, Amlodd?"

" 'Tis nothing. A scratch."

"You always let me see to your wounds. Don't you remember the time you took the Saxon arrow in your chest? Or that axe blow that broke your wrist?"

Will could actually feel the shadow of an ache in his left wrist.

"There's no need," he said. "The hand is well."

He felt her hand on his shoulder and moved further off.

"Will you not bear to let me touch you? Do you hate me so?"

"I do not hate you. But I . . . I do not care to be touched just now."

"Will you put on clothing and come to the feast tonight, my son?

"Of course. I meant to ask for clothing."

"And will you—will you try to stay inside your skin? Act as you did while your father yet lived?"

Will was still looking away from her. "I shall try."

A short-haired girl in a light-colored, undyed dress appeared with folded garments, a belt and shoes. "Take these and put them on, then," said Amlodd's mother.

Will took the clothing from the girl. "This is a wonderful shirt," he said, examining the garment. It was rust-colored wool, edged with braiding at the neck and cuffs. There was ornate embroidery on the sleeves and across the chest—writhing and intertwined forms of what (he remembered) historians called "gripping beasts."

" 'Tis just a shirt," said the woman. "I've made you dozens such."

"You made this?" He faced her, holding the shirt before him for modesty.

"Of course. I'd not let thralls sew shirts for my son."

"You made this for me?"

"Why do you wonder at that?"

Will's eyes went wet and he had to blink. "No one ever did such a thing for me."

"Oh, my son, you only forget because your mind's unwell."

Will shook his head to clear it. "Yes, my mind's unwell. That must be the reason. Please go and I'll dress myself."

"Do you want help?"

"Perhaps at the end, if there's something I've . . . forgotten. But I can don trousers and shirt on my own."

"I'll be without then."

As she turned, he said, "Mother?"

She turned back, smiling. "Yes?"

"You're a—" He groped for a word. There was no word for "artist" in this language. "You're like a poet with a needle." The word for poet was Danish—skald.

Her eyes widened and a blush brightened her cheeks. "What a sweet thing to say, Amlodd. Your mother thanks you."

The door was closed and, before dressing, Will sat on the bench and wept into his hands.

He remembered an evening after school one October, coming home to find his mother had gone to bed with one of her headaches. He had been afraid to ask, but had felt he had to.

He had pushed the bedroom door open a crack and, seeing that she responded to the noise, had asked, "Did you make my Halloween costume?"

His mother had moaned and said, "What costume?"

"You said you'd sew me a pirate costume for trick or treating tonight."

"Can't you wear what you wore last year?"

"The ghost mask?"

"Yeah, right, the ghost mask."

"It's just a mask. It's not really a costume."

Suddenly his mother lurched out of bed and rushed to the door. She grabbed him by the shirt collar.

"Do you know how hard I work?" she shouted. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.

Will opened his mouth, but thought better of answering, knowing it would only make her angrier.

"I work my fingers to the bone to make a home for you! I come home with a stinking headache, and want just a little rest before I have to make your damn supper, and do I get to rest? Do I get to rest?"

Will stood with his mouth open.

"Answer me! Do I get to rest?"

"No?"

"No! No, because my selfish little boy can't think about anything but a stupid Halloween costume! A stupid Halloween costume! Do you know what 'selfish' means?"

Will didn't want to answer.

"Answer me!"

"Someone who only thinks about himself?"

"Who do you think is selfish? Who's the most selfish little boy in the whole damn world?"

He had to answer. "Me?"

Then she had started hitting him.

The linen undertrews and wool trousers tied with drawstrings. There was a linen undershirt and he pulled on the embroidered rust one over it. He had a single-edged knife in a peculiar tooled sheath with two loops so that it hung horizontally on the belt, along with a purse which also had two loops. He checked inside the purse and found a carved horn spoon and several bits of silver rings, hacked up.

He pulled on wool socks and leather shoes. There was no right or left shoe—they were interchangeable, except that they fastened with a triangular flap that crossed the instep and buttoned on the side with a bone fastener. He assumed it would be best to wear the buttons on the outside.

There were no furry leggings as seen in movies. There were woven puttees such as Guttorm wore. He remembered with amusement that it had been traditional for stage Hamlets to wear cross-garters up through the nineteeth century. Well, why not? He cross-gartered the puttees.

It felt good to have clothes on. He wished there was such a thing as a mirror in this time and place. He felt a confidence in his appearance he'd never known before. He wanted to take his new body out for a spin.

He pushed the door open and stepped out. Everyone in the yard looked at him. He rather enjoyed it, but hoped he'd put everything on right.

"Mother," said "How fine you look, Amlodd," and adjusted the shirt here and there. Then she called the girl to re-wrap the puttees in the same fashion as Guttorm's. She fastened them with little silver hooks.

Guttorm came striding up. "My lord Amlodd," he said. "Word just came. A whale has washed up on the strand. Will you come see this thing with us?"

Will said, "Aye."

More short-haired people in undyed clothing brought horses. Will reckoned they were slaves—"thralls" would be the word. The horses were smallish, more like ponies, dun-colored with their manes trimmed to stand up straight. He looked at the saddle of the one brought to him. He seemed to recall that the Vikings had possessed the technology of stirrups, but this was before the Vikings. After hesitating a moment, he tried to mount by jumping, and slid over the other side, landing awkwardly on one foot. There was laughter, and he felt his face burn.

The horse thrall quickly knelt down on the horse's left side, making a stirrup with his two hands, fingers interlaced. Confused, Will came around again, put his right foot in the hands and swung up. It was the wrong foot. He found himself seated backwards in the saddle, facing the horse's rump. The laughter erupted again.

Mortified, Will remembered a passage from Saxo's Gesta Danorum: "When he was told to mount his horse he sat on purpose with his back to the creature's mane, facing the tail. . . ."

"I suppose you're all wondering why I've asked you here," said Sean the next morning when he and Diane appeared in what seemed by general consensus to be the dining hall.

"You haven't asked us here; we've all been here for hours," said Bess. "There's still some breakfast if you don't mind cold generic."

" 'Twas a manner of speaking. I'm not hungry myself, but I could profit from the hair of the dog, as Jason Robards used to say." He clapped his hands. "Servants! Wine for the king!"

"And something hot for the queen to eat," said Diane.

"And how did you all sleep?" asked Sean.

"The sleeping wasn't too bad," said Rosey. "The bathroom arrangements could have been better."

"The antic charm of the chamber pot," said Sean with a smile. "At least we can tell the servants to empty them for us. And thank God this isn't the Middle Ages. We'd have to use oubliettes."

"The best I can figure the rules out," said Peter, "is that we can have anything we ask for—as long as it existed in Shakespeare's England." Peter's face was red and his speech a little slurred. The others noticed that he was drinking what they drank, but no one said anything.

"Which means, I suppose," said Sean, "that there's no such thing as a morning cup of coffee—not even for the king." Peter looked at him sadly.

"When was coffee introduced in England?" asked Bess.

"Hold on. Hold on. I think we need to talk about this right now," said Howie, who had been sitting with his head on his hands at the far end of the table.

"Talk about what? Coffee?" asked Sean.

"Not coffee, you imbecile. This king and queen thing. A, we're Americans and we're not supposed to believe in monarchy. B, I thought we'd agreed we'd do our best not to live out our parts. I thought we weren't going to allow the Hamlet thing to happen, because that would mean that all of you except me would be dead by the end of the play."

"Most succinctly put," said Sean. "Your concern for us does you credit. However, you have to look at things from my point of view. This is the only chance I'll ever have to king it, and frankly I think I have a gift for autocracy. I've never made a great success of my life—you probably all know that—but I've come to believe that perhaps it's only because I've had no outlet for my true gifts. Perhaps I'm a man born to be king."

"Don't get too excited, Sean," said Peter. "Everybody feels the same way. It's human nature."

"I don't want to be a king," said Howie. "The whole idea offends me."

"I think you're jumping the gun, Sean," said Bess. "So far the only orders you've given have been for meals."

"Has there been any sign of your son, Howie?" asked Diane.

Howie dropped his chin on his arms. "No. I don't care whether it's dangerous or not—I'm going out to look for him if he doesn't show up soon. I don't know what's outside the castle in this universe, but as far as I can tell, it's daylight now."

The dark servants came and set wine and warm mush before Sean and Diane. Peter suddenly leaped from his bench and tried to catch one of them, a male, by the arm, but the servant slipped from his grasp and sped away down the corridor. Peter fell onto his hands and knees. "Did you notice what he was wearing?" he asked the group as he got back to his feet.

"Pretty much the same as last night," said Diane. "Vaguely Elizabethan in basic black."

"There's more detail today," said Peter. "He was wearing hops and slows—slops and hose. I'm sure the men only had hose last night. And up close there was embroidery. And look at this wall—"

He went to the wall. He put his hand on it. "There's squared stones and mortar here. I'll swear that last night it was just flat stone. It's as if this place is . . . defining itself."

"Like a living thing?" asked Rosemary.

"Yeah. Like an embryo. Or a work of art. The artist starts with a general outline, then refines it and adds detail as he goes along."

"And who would the artist of this be?" asked Randy.

"God maybe. Or maybe us. Maybe it's drawing images from our minds—our imaginations of what Elsinore was like."

"Mr. Data, please report to the holodeck," said Del, who was sitting apart from the others as usual. "You know what? I'm sick of this charade."

He got up and turned to face Bess. "Ms. Borglum—that's your name, right? Ms. Borglum, when are you going to tell these people what's really at stake here?"

Bess scowled. "You think I know something the rest of you don't?"

"Yeah. You know it and I know it, and maybe one other. I'm talkin' about the book."

Bess looked down at her folded hands. "I don't think the book has anything to do with all this."

"Oh, you don't, huh? Then why don't you tell everybody and let them decide for themselves?"

"What's he talking about?" asked Howie. Everyone leaned in at the table.

Bess shrugged. "I guess there's no harm talking about it, though I still don't think it has anything to do with our situation." She told them the story of Will and the Kyd Hamlet.

"I'm with Bess," said Sean when she was done. "I don't see how it relates to our predicament."

"Look at it from the alternate universe point of view—everything the ghost told us," said Del. "Suppose fully realized works of art create their own separate universes. What if the great work of art stops being great? Does its universe go on, or is it destroyed? Suppose it's destroyed, or emptied. Wouldn't that create a kind of vacuum? Kyd's book is gonna destroy Hamlet. Maybe the vacuum of a universe collapsing was what pulled us here. Maybe this universe needs us to fill the roles to keep its existence going."

"That doesn't sound like very good news," said Randy. "If we don't become the roles, we'll only create a greater vacuum that will keep us here forever. If we do become the roles, we die."

"Unless the ghost was right," said Del. "He said that if we broke the play, we'd just go home."

"Maybe the play is worth our lives," said Sean, stroking his chin.

"You're missing my point, people. The point is, the play isn't great. It never was great. It's not worth dying for, and it's not worth staying here for. Let's all do our best to unwrite it. It's our only chance of getting out alive."

Amlodd rose from his seat. "I do not understand all you people say. But it seems you hold that my saga is not a great saga."

"Not your fault, son," said Del. "You fell into the hands of rotten writers."

"A man's saga is his only wealth in the end. Would you take that from me?"

"Oh, can it, Sverdrup. Do you think I really think you're Amlodd?"

Amlodd's face went white. "What mean you?"

"Can the corny diction too, kid. You're a good actor—probably the best actor in this bush league troupe. You made us swallow your little game for a while. But if you expect me to believe that Amlodd Orvendilsson was a real historical person, and not a character from an old myth, well, find somebody else to sell your swamp land to."

Amlodd started to move toward Del, and Peter and Howie restrained him with hands on his shoulders.

"The whole thing's a myth," said Del. "Historians have proved it. All these stories about war and revenge in ancient times—they're all frauds."

"What are you talking about?" asked Bess.

"It was all invented by the Christian conspiracy. Scholars know now that there was never any violence of any kind in the world before the appearance of Christianity. All the atrocity stories were invented by Christian historians, so they could justify their aggression against their peaceful neighbors."

"Wait," said Sean. "Let me get this straight. You're saying there was never an Assyrian empire; never a Roman empire; never an Aztec empire—"

"They existed, but they were purely voluntary, peaceful arrangements. War, murder, revenge, slavery—they were all invented by the Christians, who then projected them back on history by forging the records."

"That's B.S.," said Bess.

"There's nothing I can do about your closed minds. The very fact that you disagree with me proves you're bigots. But take my word for it—there was never a Hamlet; never an Orvendil; never a murder and never a revenge—"

Amlodd pulled free and leaped the table like a flying hawk. Del ran out just ahead of him. Amlodd stopped and let him go, spitting at his back. " 'Tis a waste of breath to chase cowards," he said.

He turned back. "You—" he said to Howie. "Did you say you meant to search for your troll son?"

"My son, yes," said Howie.

"Then I'll bear you company. I'd see what world we're in."

"Will you attack my son again?"

"Your son attacked me. In any case, you saw how it turned out. I'm unarmed, and he is stronger than I."

"I suppose two is better than one, not knowing what's out there," said Howie, getting up. "Anybody want to come along?"

"I'll go," said Randy.

"Yeah, why not?" said Peter.

"Might as well take the whole scout troop," said Sean. They all got up and followed Amlodd down the corridor.

The three women were left alone at the table. Diane immediately got out of her seat at the head and moved down beside Rosey. "Tell me all about it," she said.

"About what?" asked Rosey, with a smile.

"Will—Amlodd—whatever the hell you call him. What was it like with a real barbarian?"

Rosey half-lowered her eyelids. "He was all right."

"All right? Just all right?"

Rosey laughed. "He was wonderful. He was so . . . enthusiastic. Didn't you hear him? And he kept telling me what he could have done if he'd had his own equipment—frankly I'm glad he didn't. He might have killed me."

They laughed and Bess laughed with them.

They stopped laughing when the men came back and they got a look at their faces.

"What's wrong?" asked Bess.

"We found this in the corridor," said Peter. He held out a pack of cigarettes.

"Cigarettes—the only cigarettes here belong to—"

"To Del. He wouldn't have left behind the only cigarettes in the world."

"And there was blood there," said Sean. "Quite a lot of blood."

Rosey sought the chamber where she and Amlodd had slept. She had hardly known Del, and hadn't liked what she'd seen of him. But she'd never come so close to death before.

The room was large and high-ceilinged. There was a huge four-poster bed there, draped with curtains, and the walls were hung with dark tapestries on which embroidery could be dimly made out.

She lay on the bed with her knees under her chin. The strangeness of the whole situation sifted down on her like a century of dust. She thought about the family she might not see again, the friends and familiar places that might be lost to her.

She wept until a hand on her shoulder startled her.

"The nearness of death always rouses a need for life in me," Amlodd said, letting his hand wander.

She pulled away and fled to a corner of the room. "I'm not in the mood," she said, hugging herself.

"Then I must give you a gift, I suppose." He dug awkwardly in Will's trousers pockets and came out with a few coins. "I don't know what these are worth, but some of them seem to be part silver—"

She stalked forward, fists at her sides. "Let's get one thing straight, Melancholy Baby. I'm not a whore. I slept with you because I wanted to, and I'm beginning to think I made a big mistake."

"Then why did you come here to bed?"

"To be alone and cry."

"You weep over that . . . nobody?"

"He was a human being."

"And so?"

"Every human being is important."

"Who told you a thing like that?"

"It's something we believe."

"Then you're fools."

" 'No man is an island, apart of himself . . . ,' " she quoted. " 'Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved with all mankind.' "

"A death like that? He was a little man, without strength or courage. He had no honor and died like a slug. He might as well have never lived."

Rosey sat on the bed cross-legged. "Have I told you yet what a horse's ass you are?"

"You take offense because I can tell the difference between a man of honor and a thrall? If you think all men of equal worth, what do you honor? How do you choose between right and wrong? How do you choose who will lead and who will serve?"

"It's complicated. Look—a man died and I'm upset. Do I have your permission to be upset? Didn't you ever weep for a pet—an animal that died? Even though it wasn't human?"

Amlodd fell silent for a moment.

"You've touched his heart," said Randy, who had walked in without either of them noticing.

"Doesn't anybody knock in this universe?" asked Rosey.

"A fascinating conversation," said Randy. "You're right, Rosey. Every death does matter."

"Thanks for your support."

Randy came in and sat on the bed with them. Rosey thought it was like the Mad Hatter's slumber party. "Imagine if you will a world—this one, perhaps—where no one died. How does that sound to you?"

"Wonderful," said Rosey.

"Dull," said Amlodd.

"One for Amlodd. It would be dreadfully dull. Do you know why?"

"No shoot-em-up Westerns?" asked Rosey.

"No courage. Did you ever play poker for no money? It's as boring as radio static. People's lives are the stakes they play for in the great game. Without something at stake, nothing matters much."

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Framed