Part 21 (2/2)
The Mariners shrank away from her. ”Wummin aboard's bad luck!” As one, they jumped out, shouting, ”Splas.h.!.+”
Without anyone to row, the boat shuddered to a halt. After a series of ominous creaks, it fell thoroughly apart, disgorging its two remaining pa.s.sengers onto the stage. Bertie landed hard on her backside, but Prospero somehow managed to leap clear of the wreckage with a dexterous swirl of pale blue robes.
”What sort of foul spell was that?” he demanded.
”It wasn't me!” Bertie stood with a wince, though she had more to worry about than a few bruises on her elbows and b.u.m. ”Ariel's tearing out the pages, and it's destroying everything. A sandbag already tried to kill me.”
”The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.” Prospero stroked his beard, trying to look wise.
”Try telling Ariel that,” Mustardseed said.
”Never mind that vengeance is more satisfying,” Moth muttered.
”Tearing the pages out, you say?” Prospero asked.
The walls shuddered again. Dust sifted over them as ancient boards s.h.i.+fted and settled.
”He's trying to free himself.” Goose b.u.mps crawled down Bertie's arms. ”He was penned as your servant. Your slave. Maybe he can't get his page out because you need to set him free?”
”Pah!” Prospero's exclamation involved quite a bit of spit. ”You speak folly, girl-child. I set Ariel free every performance.”
”It's not enough for him.” Bertie wanted to scream and stamp her foot at him, but with her shoes off, there wasn't really a point. ”He wants the freedom to come and go as he pleases.”
”Mostly to go,” Peaseblossom said.
”Ah.” The word rolled out of the wizard like an incantation. ”Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”
”Please,” Bertie implored, ”just use whatever magic you have to release him.”
Prospero held up his hand in a gesture intended to command the attention of the audience, to halt the breath in every chest. ”Graves, at my command, have waked their sleepers, opened, and let them forth!”
”Big deal,” Cobweb said. ”Everyone in a grave here is a Player!”
”Then I shall raise the dead elsewhere.” Prospero marched to the edge of the stage and took a suicidal leap into the orchestra pit.
”Wait!” Bertie called. ”Where are you going?”
He strode up the red-carpeted runner. ”I would see the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself!”
”No, no, no!” Bertie shrieked. ”You're taking that line out of context!”
”Yeah!” yelled Moth. ”The next bit is about it all being an insubstantial pageant!”
”And such stuff dreams are made on!” Peaseblossom said. ”The outside world isn't about dreams!”
”Not good ones, at least,” Cobweb said.
But Prospero didn't mark them as he shoved open the door under the green Exit sign. Blinding white light cut through the semi-gloom, and everyone blinked at it as the outer doors revolved with whispers. The lobby door slammed shut, and Prospero was gone.
Bertie closed her eyes and shuddered. ”How far do you think Ariel's gotten? Tearing out the pages, I mean.”
”I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first!” screamed an offstage voice. The words were followed by one of Bertie's shoes, launched at the head of a laughing man in a shabby crimson doublet.
”The Taming of the Shrew, I think,” said Peaseblossom.
Petruchio kissed his fist and waved it at the disembodied voice screaming epithets at him in Italian. ”Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own!” When he turned to Bertie, his expression altered not a whit. After an elaborate bow, he grasped her by the hand and pulled her close. ”But ho, what a comely la.s.s waits here. Perhaps you are a flower waiting to be plucked.”
Bertie turned thirty shades of red and wondered just what he would do if she slapped him a good one across his florid cheek. She tried to withdraw her imprisoned hand. ”I think perhaps your attention is misplaced.”
Petruchio only leered harder, if that were possible, and leaned close, ruddy whiskers all abristle and breath reeking of cheap wine. ”Kiss me, little flower, and let me sup of your sweet nectar.”
Two great, beefy lips headed for Bertie's cheek. Recalling the Mistress of Revels and her jujitsu skills, Bertie screamed, ”Kee-yaw!” and drove her foot sideways into his kneecap. Petruchio's leg, unappreciative of the onslaught, went out from underneath him at what appeared to be a most uncomfortable angle. The fairies cheered while Bertie stared at the writhing Player, both appalled and impressed by the outcome of her defensive maneuver.
”Let that serve as a reminder to you,” she said, ”to mind your d.a.m.n manners.”
”Strumpet!” Petruchio cried, struggling back to his feet. ”Spongy milk-livered canker blossom! Jarring dog-hearted flirt-gill!”
”Wow,” Moth said in appreciation.
Encouraged by the feedback, Petruchio added, ”Currish rude-growing baggage!”
Bertie towered over him when she stood up straight. ”That's enough name-calling from you, pipsqueak.”
Still muttering all manner of ill-natured insults, Petruchio hobbled from the stage, down the runner, and jerked open the Exit door. He, too, disappeared into the blinding light, no doubt in search of a blossom more amenable to sharing her nectar.
Another shudder underfoot. The fountain pen, forgotten in the interim, rolled onstage and came to rest by Bertie's stocking-clad toes. She bent to pick it up, her mind fuzzy with shock, adrenaline, and despair, but then an idea flared like a white-hot spotlight. ”I need more paper.”
”Another note?” Moth said with a groan.
”No,” Bertie said as her thoughts tumbled over each other like drunken acrobats. ”Another script. I can't change what's been done, but if I write down what I want to happen, it might come true!”
”The Players do what's in the script.” Peaseblossom sucked in her breath.
Bertie paced the length of the stage, unable to keep still. ”I'll do it the same as I did for my own play. It really isn't any different from How Bertie Came to the Theater, right?”
”Sure!” Moth said, covering his head. ”Well, except where the bits of the ceiling keep falling on us.”
”No need to add the potholes this time,” Cobweb said. ”I think Ariel's got the destruction angle covered.”
”Just try to do better than you did on the script for the tango scene,” Moth said, ”because that didn't work out very well for anyone.”
Bertie staggered to a halt. Caught up in the chase, she'd banished the horror of Sedna's appearance and Nate's kidnapping to the farthest recesses of her brain. Pain flared up at the memory, and for a moment Bertie thought that she might be sick all over the stage. ”Nate-”
”Focus!” Peaseblossom smacked her lightly on the cheek. ”Recover The Book, then we'll think of a way to get Nate back. You'll have to keep your wits about you. This will be a sword fight, but with words.”
”Even if Ariel doesn't show up for the duel,” Bertie said, her pen at the ready, ”I have to try to guide what happens next, without plague, pestilence, or potholes.”
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