In Hell, everyone’s pants are on fire. Liars in Hell A Heroes in Hell Anthology by Janet Morris ➱ Book Tour with Guest Post and giveaway
In Hell, everyone’s pants are on fire.
Liars in Hell
A Heroes in Hell Anthology
by Janet Morris
Genre: Dark Fantasy Anthology
In Hell, everyone’s pants are on fire.
Hell
is a real place. Anyone who has broken a commandment winds up there.
That's pretty much everybody.
Satan is the boss. You're
okay until you're not. But never fear, all your friends are here. As
well as everyone you've ever heard of.
For what they have
been up to lately, be sure to check in. Thrill to new stories by
Hell's damnedest: Janet Morris, Andrew P Weston, Michael H. Hanson,
S. E. Lindberg, Joe Bonadonna, Chris Morris, and Richard Groller.
The Seven Degrees of Lying - Janet Morris & Chris Morris
The Liar, the Witch, and the Ward Robes - Andrew P. Weston
Bait and Switch - S.E. Lindberg
Fibbers in Hell - Michael H. Hanson
The Münchhausen Trilemma - Richard Groller
Hell’s Bells - Joe Bonadonna
School of Night - Janet Morris & Chris Morris
**On Sale for Only $2.99 until the end of the month!**
School of Night
Janet Morris and
Chris Morris
“Black
is the badge of hell/ The hue of dungeons and the school of night.”
– William Shakespeare, Love’s Labours Lost
“Who knows you’re
here?”
“No one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Give ear, then.
And tell no one.”
“Business as
usual. Say on.”
“Something you
have done has attracted attention from Above, and I want you to tell me what
that is.”
Christopher
Marlowe took a deep breath and stared through the gloom at Francis Walsingham. “Above? Something I did?” Kit knew better than to doubt Queen Elizabeth’s principal
secretary, the connective tissue of all hell’s intriguers, so harken he must .
. .
“You are known to
have been a party to it. Because of it, some call you ‘darling of the Muses.’
Speak the truth of your escapade with Lord Byron and his cabal.” Impatience
colored Walsingham’s words, as did this rendezvous the spymaster had chosen, a
chamber in the Tower from which a soul could confess his lies or concoct his
sins or spend infernity in a stone cell with only bats and rats for company.
“‘Cabal?’ Hardly
that. More like coterie. Lord Byron and the Bard and I saved Percy Bysshe
Shelley from drowning yet again. Shelley now resides under Byron’s protection,
and his wife Mary visits him at Byron’s Burgage Manor.” Kit rubbed folded arms
as he listened to his words bounce around the cell and out its single arrow
loop.
“And?” said
Francis Walsingham.
“And what?”
“And what part in
this circus did J the Merciful play?” Walsingham rose and paced the cell as if
its shadows were trained to his service.
“Play?” Kit would
shield J from any difficulty he could. “She helped us save Shelley. It was
during the kickoff of the Liars War, really. Many died. Will and I entertained
the troops. So what?”
“So, at whose
bidding did you and the bible writer interfere with the devil’s plans for
Shelley? What contact did you personally have with Diabolos? Erra and I are
concerned that whatever has occurred be not at cross-purposes with other
goings-on.”
Only a player and
playwright of Kit Marlowe’s caliber could sift purpose from purport in
Walsingham’s queries. In so doing, he must also manage to interrogate his
inquisitor. Kit’s mind raced, sorting lies yet unspoken and options yet
unchosen:
“As to who bade
me, ’twas myself, in your service, as you well know. And with some success,
you’ll agree. I’m back in Will’s confidence and have his ear—hence, the
Destroyer’s ear. As to the contact that I’ve personally had with Abaddon, we
shared a few delicate moments behind the bleachers. In his guise as a woman, he
found me suddenly appealing. And when Byron rode up on that steed, His Infernal
Majesty flew into an obscene reverie and asked if the horse was ‘intact’.
Perforce, I think our devil wants to have the beast, but the horse is real and
therefore falls into the domain of ‘special dispensations from Above,’ wouldn’t
you say? As to what motivates J, I have no idea, except to say that she passed
her hands over Shelley, administering some sort of benediction to him as he lay
recovering from his latest encounter with the deeps. Finally, as to
‘goings-on’, it’s you must tell me or decide for yourself what to make of all.”
“Sometimes I think
you my best pupil, Kit. I can tell you only this: Shelley need no longer worry
about midnight sailing, due to your rescue efforts. And those efforts have
repercussed below and Above. In toto,
boundaries have been challenged, and neither realm is comfy with that. I need
to know things from J, yet when I approach her, she politely eludes me, saying
something about a colored sack of words I may have misplaced. So, you shall go
to her in my stead, and divine with whom she corresponds and by what means.”
Kit’s brows knit.
“If ever she gave a sack unto your care, it contains words for you alone. If
lost, find it, and be increased; or say you love truth not a whit. It is of
great moment, but only to the one for whom it is meant.”
*
Not for the first
time, John Milton huffed and puffed up the stairs to Tearsday evening’s
Inklings meeting in the sitting room of Noxford’s Bird and Baby public house. He resented the academic pall of the
place, environs of those who in life had presumed to censor his polemics and
burn his poetry. Unceremoniously the Cantabrigian pushed open the door of the
conclave to be met by in-taken breaths and rushes of papers hastily sheaved and
tucked into portfolios.
“Grand poet of the
sublime, John Milton, you honor us with your presence,” announced C.S. Lewis.
“Do please sit. And where is your newest amanuensis, the 6th Lord
Byron?”
Chairs scraped as
a score of academics craned their necks.
“Satan has
restored my sight, Master Lewis, so I need no scribe. As for Byron, His
Lordship plows far different fields these days.”
“How might we
please you this evening?” asked J. R. R. Tolkien. “Shall I read you my most
recent revisions of The Lord of the Rings?”
“Or I, from The Chronicles of Narnia? suggested
Lewis. “Let’s close the doors and—”
“Or I from
criticism overdue for both?” suggested Charles Williams.
The oak door shut
of its own accord with mysterious finality.
John Milton
squinted around and spoke quietly: “As your special guest, I took the liberty
of inviting my patron, who is familiar with all your works and, of course,
still serves today as the archetype for Satan in Paradise Lost, widely
known as my masterpiece and one of the greatest works in all of literature.”
Hearing this, all
the Inklings stood and clapped loud as the greatest fallen angel stepped into
the light.
Thereupon the
ovation ceased. The audience sat. Satan looked slowly over the crowd: “You are
gathered to learn how my magnum opus led
to your presence here, and how you may yet serve the causes of free speech and
freedom of the press with your writings.”
Again, came
applause for lies well told.
Satan beamed over
his audience of writers and raised his arms to them. His stature grew. Wings
sprouted from his back. “Freedom is but a moment away! Seize that moment while
ye may!” The devil giggled at his own rhyme. His voice grew loud, then louder
still. “Life and death are yours for the taking!”
The wings of the
Father of Lies now bated before the assemblage. Milton bade the Inklings rise
anew in response. To a soul they did so, raising arms and chanting, “Freedom!
Freedom!”
“If the cost is
yet more death to your ideals, then happy will you die.” Satan’s eyes and mouth
seemed to grow larger than the room could hold. “We are now engaged in the
Liars War, one of the greatest struggles of our times; a struggle against those
Above who care nothing for the damned. We must free both thought and action,
set new goals and share them, and make an end to those who revere nothing but
themselves. We must fight for the great productions of the human mind. In this
Liars War, you may be rewarded for your adherence to our cause and words that
advance it.” As he spoke, Satan’s presence grew vivid, livid and immense,
filling the room.
What utter tripe! Milton edged away to the far end of the table in hopes no one
would note his mounting disdain for these proceedings. How could this archfiend ever have enjoyed a place on high, let
alone deserved the fruits of Milton’s labors? Moments such as these (and there had been many) were tortures of
regrets, since Satan habitually refused to follow the scripts Milton
painstakingly prepared for the Abomination to deliver. Truly the Beast had no
conception of rhetoric. And flaunted his ignorance before this audience of
literati, no less.
He must curtail
his own humiliation, this absurdity, this infernal farce.
Without delay,
Milton pulled a package of pamphlets from his jacket to distribute to the
scribblers on his right and left. Eagerly, they shared them about the table
like a delicacy.
Waiting no longer,
Milton delivered his closing statement: “Our Lord Satan can give you all you
were denied in life: you will have riches and power and glory in His name! His
Infernal Majesty will set you free! Now to your quills!”
Milton brandished
the copies he yet held and, as he waved them about, he and Satan disappeared
from view.
*
Finding J the
bible writer would be more a matter of meditation than exploration. J wasn’t
strictly of a place, but of a dispensation.
Nevertheless, with
one backward look Kit deserted his precious Rose and the bear- and bull-baiting
sheds of Bankside where, at the last high tide, bears had escaped and run amuck
until cornered and killed.
Up the swollen
River Thames, Marlowe spied black smoke on the horizon. He could hear artillery
and feel increasing tremors underfoot as the Liars War continued its southward
push through New Hell’s suburbs. He smelled death from plague and combat and
flood and the occasional corpses propped too long in doorways.
Determined that no
magicks would keep him from finding J the Merciful—if indeed she were where
Shakespeare swore she was known to be—Kit hailed a ferry to his destination,
stepped aboard and rediscovered his sea legs.
At length Marlowe
debarked on the south bank of the river, a locale with which he was long
familiar. Its private gardens, with their pergolas, gates and cloisters, pulled
clouds down over themselves that made Paradise weep. Some considered this
neighborhood the home of anarchy; some, a den of atheists; others, an
experiment worth your afterlife to enter uninvited. Kit knew exactly where he
was going and why coming here was worth the risk.
For Christopher
Marlowe was a member of a secret society, variously called the School of Night,
or the Suit of Night, or the Scowl of Night. Kit’s enemies swore he had “read
the Atheist lecture to Sir Walter Raleigh and others” there. The School of
Night’s fellows routinely dismissed all claims of impropriety, simply insisting
that “black is the school where night learns to be black.”
These days the
School hosted studies of ritual magick, science and other intellectual
pursuits, secure in the embrace of its patrons and their power. As well as
Marlowe himself, members included poets and scientists such as Walter Raleigh
and the affluent “Wizard” Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland,
historically a long-term occupant of the Tower of London’s well-appointed
Martin wing.
After Raleigh’s
beheading and Northumberland’s release from the Tower, the School of Night
reconvened in hell. Over time, both men resumed their patronage of the School’s
ventures in literature, magick, astronomy, alchemy, and other mischiefs here at
its opulent estate.
Kit’s name got him
past the guarded entryway. His memory got him to the correct suite, down the
hallway from where he’d slept on many a troubled night. Knocking on the
half-open door of Raleigh’s study, Kit mused that Sir Walter alone might answer
all his queries if he so chose.
Raleigh looked
surprised to see him. “Ye gods, can it be? Young Marlowe, back in our fold? How
good to see our former firebrand.” Raleigh rose, displaying the finery of his
silvery doublet and hose, his garters, the Elizabethan ruff collar hiding the
marks of beheading on his neck, and his square-toed slippers. Holding upright a
man-length tobacco pipe, he observed, “O, I see by your courtly jacket that
this is a business call, not a social one. Are you here to assist me as I
devise a maritime strategy for our side in the Liars War?”
“And which side
would that be?” asked Marlowe, smoothing his gold-buttoned sleeves and running
a hand through his tawny mane. “Don’t tell me. I can guess. But no, I am here
on another matter. I’m told our School hosts J the bible writer upon occasion.
I need to see her.”
“That . . .woman?” Raleigh sucked on his pipe, then
gestured with it toward Kit’s lips. “She’s not here today, or often. Don’t tell
me you’re repenting. Will you have some tobacco?” He brandished the pipe,
writing in the air with its smoke. “I seldom see her, really. She’s not my sort
of thing. Many think she’s a virago. But in my estimation, a harridan. We’ve no
women lodging here these days, nor have we boys hanging about this early, but
we can summon some if you like?”
“Thanks, no.”
A sigh and brief
apology later, disappointment followed Marlowe out Raleigh’s door and down the
hallway.
And then: “Psst. Kit?”
Kit froze, halfway
to safety outdoors.
“Step in, Master
Marlowe,” lisped Henry Percy, 9th Earl of Northumberland, ‘The
Wizard Earl,’ and one of hell’s wealthiest peers both before and after his
sixteen years confined with his books in the Tower.
Kit slid that way
and into the demesne of this noble, who’d been first to map the moon and chart
the travel of sunspots.
Henry was visibly
stimulated. “As your dear Shakespeare oft says, ‘The game’s afoot.’ So what are
we hunting? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” stage-whispered Henry, a bit deaf,
tongue between his teeth. “The School has been too too dull, due to your absence.
You mustn’t maroon me here. Wheresoever you’re going, let us get started.” The
Wizard Earl’s cataracted eyes widened. “You lead, and I’ll follow.” The earl
tugged Kit by the codpiece and hurried him into the peer’s capacious rooms. “Or
do we need a stop at my library? I didn’t bring most of my books from the
Martin Tower when I left it. Who can say when we’ll want those books again,
with this frightful Liars War in full swing and never knowing what estate might
be ravaged next?” With a nimble wriggle and a push of his ample butt, the
Wizard Earl shut the door to his rooms. “There. That’s better. Now, what are we
doing? I yet have all my charts, if you need them. I’m over ready for a bit of
fun.”
Henry Percy was
among the School’s most influential literary patrons, so Kit adopted a
conspiratorial air: “You’ve heard of J the Merciful? Raleigh says she’s not
been here; Shakespeare says she has. In any case, I need to find her, and I’m
at a loss for where to look next. Have you seen her? Do you have any news of
her?”
“A female? There’s
none of those hereabouts—one of the deficiencies that we didn’t have during my
sixteen years in the Tower. And what, may I ask, is your sudden interest in the
fairer sex?”
Kit expelled a
careful breath. “My interest? As I wrote in Hero
and Leander ‘Like untuned golden strings all women are, which long time lie
untouched . . .’ And I yet mean those words today. To no avail I came to ask
Raleigh more about her, since Will said she might be cloistered here.”
“Sorry, old son.
No woman shelters here. But I’ll happily seek her out with you. Any female who
has your attention is worth at least a glance from me. And as for the Bard,
I’ve not seen him since the last time he and Burbage needed a penny or two for
renovating the Globe after it went up in flames.”
“Alas, then,
Henry, you cannot help me find her, even though you’re a member of the Privy
Council, since I’ve asked there already.” Only
a little lie, but a dangerous one, even to mention the Council in this context.
Mustn’t cross paths with Walsingham until I’m ready.
“So perhaps on
another day we can get up to another mischief, Kit? My door is always open to
you. And should you need a place to stay, consider stopping here longer. Let me
know when and how, and I’ll give you what help I can.”
“Yes, of course.
Now I must fly, Henry. Thanks for your kindness.” Kit nearly ran through the
doorway from The Wizard Earl’s apartments.
So much for Will’s advice. Kit had departed
the enclave without indulging in a puff of smoke or entanglement for his
trouble. As his boat neared Bankside, he recalled Walsingham’s demand: “. . . go to her in my stead, and divine with whom
she corresponds and by what means.”
But how? Kit still
had no answers for Francis. Or anyone else.
Flopping onto a
couch in the dressing-room of his moribund Rose, he muttered to a single
candle: “Where are you, J?”
No answer came
forth from the candle or the rafters of the Rose. How could he ask J such
intrusive questions as would satisfy Walsingham? And how could he not ask, with
all his hopes at risk?
When distraught,
Marlowe always wrote or found a brawl or a lover for the nonce. After too long
counting the boards in the Rose’s floor, he threw open his cedar chest and
rummaged there. He needed to touch the sack J once had given him, to feel the
power of the words therein.
Indeed, there it
was. But under his fingers, he felt something else. Another sack. This one felt
empty but, as he touched it, it expanded. Bringing it into the room’s dim light
confirmed his first impression;
This was not Kit’s
original gift from the bible writer, but a gold-colored sack, filled to
overflowing. His hands shook as he examined it more closely.
He’d seen J’s
sacks before, but this was none of those: not the white sack J had bestowed
upon Milton, or the green sack she’d given to Byron, or Sappho’s blue sack, or
Homer’s red one.
Christopher
Marlowe sat back on his haunches, holding the bulging gold sack in his
trembling fingers. And he smiled, for he suspected what such a sack might do .
. .
He smelled
sunshine, a gust of joy, and heard, “Dearest Kit, where have you been? And what
have you gotten us into?”
As now, J often
appeared when he was in extremis. The golden sack slipped from his fingers and
hit the boards before he could reclaim it. He swept it up. “Been? I’ve been
looking for you.” Flustered, he told her a half-truth, far better than none.
She tossed back
auburn curls from the coral clasps he’d given her and said, “Certainly I am not
too hard to find, Kit Marlowe, for such as you. Think you I do not know what
Walsingham and Erra seek? Or why? Let me put you at ease while we answer what
questions may come.”
*
Rumors about the
bible writer had abounded after Kit and Will traveled with Byron to help save
Shelley.
Despite
Walsingham’s demands, Shakespeare’s passion, and Satan’s plans, the brief
appearance of J in the loft of the Rose proved once again to Kit that J the
Merciful was all the help he needed.
He confronted Will
backstage at the Globe where reconstruction of the roof had begun, saying,
“‘…if a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have,’”
from the Bard’s own Henry IV. “But
you have played me fouler than a lie can fix, Will. J the Merciful was nowhere
you had me look, and your devil becomes increasingly noisy that I satisfy him.”
Shakespeare rubbed
his new earring. “Then satisfy him. Diabolos never asks for more than a soul
can give. And you know that, Kit. ‘O God! That one might read the book of
fate.’” Will’s eyes glistened, whether with umbrage or regret, Kit couldn’t
tell.
“Will, I have
nothing to give him. I’ve told him so, and you, before. As you writ memorably
in All’s Well That Ends Well, ‘Love
all, trust a few, do wrong to none.’ Why can’t you trust J, who brings so many
words alive? Why hurt someone so?”
From high above
their heads, a timber came loose and tumbled down to clatter at their feet.
The two men jumped
back, away from the board that could have killed one or both.
“Recall you this
moment, Kit, when Diabolos saved us. Now, you must show good faith. What more
can I do for you?”
“Do for me? Tell
your devil lover that the bible writer is not his enemy. Nor mine. Nor yours.”
High above, a
scaffold’s rope swung loose, banging back and forth as if it would fall in its
turn.
Will Shakespeare
grabbed Kit hard by the arm. “Be my friend, Marley, for all time and all
reasons. Even you can envision such a thing, when hearts know their places and
we two know ours.”
“My heart knows
its place, Will. But show me, O mighty Bard, how deeply the devil cares for
you; deep enough that Abaddon will hear truth from me should I dare speak it
before him? Deep enough that I can give straight words to Francis Walsingham to
deliver on high, while your master devil affronts all the heavens and nature
below? Deep enough that you or I or any soul may pray to those who can end the
ills of all the damned? Think of it! All onus ended! All battlefields quiet!
All sick healed! And to prove that what I ask applies, get your canny devil to
allow J the Merciful to prospect as she wills among the vilest of the damned.”
J had told Kit
exactly what to say to Shakespeare—and through Will even now to the Prince of
Lies, listening inside Kit’s dearest friend—that she asked nothing for herself,
no clemency, no way to improve her lot. Nor Kit’s.
Marlowe’s heart
was pounding. Not since his earthly death had he dared so much, never faced so
great a fall from underworldly grace, never risked all on such arguments as
these.
The Bard let go
Kit’s right arm, which at first went numb, then ached from wrist to shoulder.
Kit rubbed it.
And as he did,
another timber shook loose on the roof of the Globe and crashed to the ground
by their feet.
This time, only
Shakespeare jumped back. “Kit! Be you careful,” warned Will.
“‘Careful,’
answers no need of mine this day, Will. I need things that neither heaven nor
hell can provide. And now, vouchsafe me a trip to the deepest hell and back,
since your Destroyer claims that your own power grants you all measure of
bestowal.”
“Kit, what
foolishness is this? That woman can give you only all manner of misery.”
Lest he say
anything more, Kit was already walking toward the river with both hands balled
in his pockets. In his right pocket, a gold-colored sack nestled. The time to
use it, as he’d promised J, had not yet come.
*
Walsingham and
Northumberland were both members of the Privy Council, but Raleigh, who was
not, had the Council’s ear when Erra and his Sibitti materialized in Henry’s
chambers uninvited at the School of Night.
“Mighty Erra,” said the Earl of
Northumberland, blinking hard, “what brings you to our humble School?”
Erra’s raiment
shimmered in the air like a rainbow as he waved his personified weapons to the
sides of Henry Percy’s rooms. The Seven safed their armaments and threw back
their cowls to stand rampant and mute before their master. “You don’t know?”
asked the plague god, incredulous. “How can that be? You do know that I have
been sent here from On High to make the hells more hellish, not to coddle the
precious affectations of you who claim to serve those Above. In that capacity,
my mission is clear.” With a flick of his wrist, the bearded Babylonian waved
his Sibitti back and through the walls of Henry Percy’s rooms as if those walls
had no substance.
Erra continued:
“We can bring devastation in all its forms, wars and storms and cold and fire
and suffering. In the face of this option, I have waited for answers to my
questions, answers which you have not provided. I am the bringer of mayhem and
pestilence, and my Sibitti can turn your little hells upside down. Fear me, or
I will strip your holdings to naught.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated
what he would obliterate. “My Seven shall not hear what is said by us in this
room. So now, I put it to you: tell me why your Liars War lays waste multitudes
without regret, and yet you few indolent souls thrive here, and in no way bow
down before the wrath of all the ages.”
“Mighty Erra, how
can we satisfy you?” asked Raleigh. “Your servants are most impressive, these
Sibitti that are your instruments. If, as you imply, we also serve a higher
power, you must not make an end to souls who merely beg divine forgiveness. In
doing so, you rip aside the mystery that is your power, not mindful that
humanity always fights to the last . . .”
The plague god
boomed: “You appear to fear nothing, yet you send me a woman to speak for you,
a lamb to supplicate a lion. You are but souls with impossible dreams of
freedom. We Above have sent you the Trickster; this devil and his lieutenants
fill the evening vault. Our fallen angels, one third of heaven’s complement,
dwell here with you. Which of you is Francis Walsingham, who plots against me
and the magnificent Above?”
Walsingham exhaled
a rattling breath. “I am Walsingham, Lord Erra. And I have no excuses for my
behavior; indeed, need none. You would catch us in the cogs of gears opposed
but never seen. Mayhap you miss the fact that humanity, on Earth and in hell,
has one great talent: we do whatever we must to survive. And while you play to
win, we play not to lose. Man and woman strive beyond the ability of any to
predict. We souls are as brutal with one another as are any demons or fallen
angels. We enslave one another, surmount torture, and destroy ourselves with
more gusto than can any from Above or below. Not even death deters us, for we
care not. We try to manage, nothing more.”
The Wizard Earl,
Henry Percy, cleared his throat. “Mighty Erra, what do you suggest we do?”
“I have told you
what to do, Northumberland. Destroy the good in them, the brave in them, and
requisite evil will soon follow.”
“They plot,”
complained the earl. “They scheme. And they love one another more than they
fear death, since love, not death, is forever . . .”
Raleigh scoffed.
“I feel no pity for them. I have seen the weak and the meek and the primitive.
They desire to rise above themselves. Their passions, not us, rule them.
Plagues don’t stop them, for they care nothing for the welfare of their own
kind. However, they do fear themselves, and with good reason.”
“Walter, let me,”
said Walsingham, raising a forfending hand. “Mighty Erra, I—”
“Alibis,”
interrupted the god of mayhem. “You weren’t listening to me just now. I’ll
repeat: You sent this woman to plead my clemency for the murdering infestation
of souls you call humanity—a woman who lied to the Destroyer and now ministers
among the damnedest. And you dismiss her, cannot so much as divine with whom
she corresponds and by what means she heals sorrows and eases pain. And she
wants only to continue to do so. Does it not shame you, when a creature who
risked a lie to Satan can heal the most ignoble and unfortunate? Do you truly
see her not, hear her not, heed her not?”
Francis Walsingham
said, “You are a mighty lord of heaven. We are simple soldiers of righteousness
among the damned. I have ways to deal with traitors. Tell me who among the
souls of hell most offends thee, and we three will find a way to fit
punishments.”
“You will? You
think you can? I think not. I think you have already failed in that regard. It
is you who offend me. I have in my
employ souls who destroy each other for gold or pleasure. Some work their wills
among you, such as my bible writer and those who pray to me. This ‘School’ of
yours has begun. As easily can it perish. Atheism? When you question the
existence of a higher power, do you not know you also peel the skin from Satan?
Can you fathom the agony of one caught between those poles? I don’t think so.
However, I can arrange for you to savor it, right now if you wish. Listen: If
you persist in challenging the existence of the One, the Other comes to meet.
And that is a place not even I wish to visit. Do you take my meaning?”
Before any of them
could answer, the plague god’s rainbow raiment again swirled about him. The
seven Sibitti burst through the walls, unsheathed their swords, made of them a
platform, caught up their lord in their arms and carried him away.
“Gadzooks! That
was close.” Walsingham yelped, then collected himself. “Gentlemen, I think the
expression is ‘School’s out.’ But take heart. I have spies everywhere, and they
yet do my bidding. Through them, the School, and our Privy Council, I can moderate
what displeases us and limit what threats those Above and below can make good.”
*
Marlowe found
Shakespeare as Will and Lord Byron were preparing a stall in the Globe’s
cellarage. Byron had loaned his horse to Shakespeare for the next staging of Richard III. In the confined space, the aroma of the stallion waxed heady.
Bundles of fresh hay added to the perfume.
“Kit, how good of
you to stop by. Isn’t he magnificent?” Shakespeare ran his hand from the black
horse’s poll, down the arch of its neck to the withers, and scratched there.
The horse rolled back its lips in pleasure and pointed heavenward with its
muzzle. “A king’s mount for certain. And Byron’s been kind enough to help with
his grooming.”
“He’s marvelous,
Will; and you look elegant upon him,” said Kit. “He’ll light up your Richard. But I’m here for another
reason. When last we spoke, we parted without resolution, and I wish to revisit
that.”
Recalling the
falling timbers from their last meeting, apprehension clouded Will’s eyes.
“That’s fine, Marley, but might we adjourn—?”
“Kit! Will! Byron!
Thank the Fates!” Breathless, Walsingham stooped to avoid bumping his head on a
support beam as he entered the cellarage. “I’ve good news, Marley. I found my
missing sack. It is gray and it is full of the most amazing things. Words, yes,
but more. Of course, you three know all about them . . .”
Shakespeare
clapped his hands to his ears. “Marry, not sacks from the bible writer again .
. .”
“Will, haven’t you
one? Surely—” said Walsingham.
Shakespeare
groaned theatrically. “Surely not. Haven’t you heard? I’m not exactly deficient
in words, and when I need a new one, I invent two! I certainly needn’t borrow
any.”
“And are words
alone enough?” asked J the Merciful. None were surprised by her sudden
appearance at the stallion’s head, feeding it hay, her cloak clasped over one
shoulder.
“Ah, now are we
complete. Welcome, milady,” said Shakespeare, and bowed as if at court. “You
ask if words are enough. In what possible sense are they not enough?”
“You honor me with
your question. But will your words teach music to my breath? Do sorrows fly
before your metaphors or eagles loft upon your meters or carry you as nobly as
this horse, a beast of Nature’s finest design? O, King of Words, where is thy
domain, in which words rule more than two opposing thumbs set one to a quill,
another to a sheet?”
Never before had
Kit seen the expression now on Will’s face. The Bard simply stared. This was
the moment Kit and J had known must come. He reached into his pocket, withdrew
the golden sack, and pressed it into Will’s right hand.
When Walsingham
made as if to whisper to Byron, the lord stayed him.
So did they stand
there for what seemed an eternity: the spymaster; the lord; the playwright; the
poet; and the prophetess, listening to all their hearts beat as one.
Ready for rancor
from Will, Kit Marlowe found himself rewarded with its opposite. As Kit
watched, Shakespeare tugged at the strings of the golden sack, opening it at
the throat.
Will poured the
contents, intangible to all but him, from palm to palm, then refilled the sack
and clutched it to his breast. Turning to Kit with tears in his eyes, Will
said, “If there is a particle of love left between us, let it fill this sack
forever.”
Then, facing J,
Will adopted a deeper tone: “My error cast you as hegemon to my love for Kit.
Plainly, this is not so, and I would sue for peace between us. Is that to be?”
J said, “It is.”
And Shakespeare
murmured low to her, “I must know what magick waits in this sack.”
Only then did the
others crowd around Shakespeare, to hear what she might say:
“There is no magick for thee but thee, Will
Shakespeare. As close to where you are as I can, I have come—no more. Only you
can close what distance remains.”
What is
something unique/quirky about you?
We breed Morgan horses. We consult with Morgan breeders to
help them choose breeding combinations to achieve a desired result.
We are also song writers; Janet plays bass guitar and Chris
sings and plays guitar. We have an album on MCA records. Look for Christopher
Crosby Morris on Soundcloud or N1M.com
Can
you, for those who don't know you already, tell something about yourself and
how you became an author?
Janet wrote her first book in 1975 and Chris was the first
one to read and comment on it. Their marriage survived. A routine emerged where
Chris would read aloud all the new drafts and we would make edits on the spot.
After a few books Chris’ ideas became frequent enough that we agreed he should
have credit for writing, whereas before we had kept separate Janet’s
storytelling and Chris’ songwriting. The rest, as they say is history.
Who is your
hero and why?
Heraclitus of Ephesus, a pre-socratic philosopher, whose Cosmic
Fragments foreshadow our knowledge of reality and how to perceive it.
Among his precepts is the statement that change alone is unchanging. We’ve
worked Heraclitus’ fragments in here and there throughout our books.
Which of
your novels can you imagine being made into a movie?
All of them. We write cinematically, our books are vivid adventures
undertaken without knowing the destination. I, the Sun, The Sacred
Band, Outpassage and M.E.D.U.S.A. are
particularly suited to film. The Threshold Series is a feast of
opportunities for today’s special effects creators.
What
inspired you, to write School of Night?
We are trying to
change what many people think hell is. In other words, we don’t believe in a
hell below when people right here and now are struggling to address all sorts
of social ills. So in a way, we’re just showing in our stories that no matter
where you are in life, you have to learn to deal with people and situations
that are very different from your expectations. Of course people are suffering torments,
many of which are self-generated from failing or refusing to understand what’s
going on. What inspires us is the notion that even the devil needs
rehabilitation, perhaps more than any of the damned souls. In our last story in
Liars in Hell, the spymaster Frances Walsingham is forced to explain to
a plague god that human souls are totally misunderstood by the likes of angels,
demons, and that that misunderstanding is the root of all suffering.
Convince us
why you feel Liars in Hell is a must read.
Liars in Hell is a
collection of stories by different authors expressing different viewpoints
about handling difficulties which at times seem to threaten everything we hold
dear. Amazingly, writers from different backgrounds converge on main themes
that are sure to strike a chord with readers who simply love a good tale.
Who
designed your book covers?
Most of our covers, including Liars in Hell,
are realized by Roy Mauritsen, a gifted graphic artist.
Advice to
writers?
As for advice to writers, here is all we know: write the
story you want to read. Start at the beginning, go to the end, and stop.
Seriously. From start to finish you must inhabit the construct in a manner that
makes the reader choose to continue; if you, as the writer, can’t feel what
it’s like being there, your readers can’t either. So close your eyes, look at
your feet where they are standing on the story’s ground; tell me what you see.
Tell me what you hear. Ask at the end of each paragraph ‘what happens next?’. If
you lose touch with it, wait until you’re back inside it. Tell the story that comes
to you, and from you, to me.
Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and has since published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.
Christopher Crosby Morris (born 1946) is an American author of fiction and non-fiction, as well as a lyricist, musical composer, and singer-songwriter. He is married to author Janet Morris. He is a defense policy and strategy analyst and a principal in M2 Technologies, Inc. He writes primarily as Chris Morris, but occasionally uses pseudonyms.
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I like the excerpt. Sounds like a good anthology.
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