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The Gaining of the Light

Title:The Gaining of the Light

Author: Eglantine_br

Kyd/Marlowe

Word Count 979

Rating G

The Gaining of the Light



I left the prison and stepped into the light. It poured like kindness from the sharp blue sky. I took deep breaths of it, shuddering. Aware of my cantering heart.






I had paid off the turnkey, as best I could. Marlowe and Watson would be better housed, at least. They had not let me see Tom Watson until the very end. I had made my departure fumbling and slow, I had turned back hand on the door, to say a last word. I had stopped to tighten my shoe. By these devices I had been able to glimpse him. Of course they had marched him up from the oubliette without telling him anything. That is their way, their pleasure in power. He was clumsy with chill, numbed to a stumble. I had seen the set of his jaw dusted red, and his shoulders shivering beneath his thin and dirty shirt. He did not know where they were leading him. He was trying to be ready for death, or worse. My poor friend.


I had left the food with Marlowe to give to him. I had no doubt now that Marlowe would see he got it. Sitting where I had, free to leave at the completion of my errand, I had seen little enough. I had not seen the rats. I had not seen the rooms for confessions and accusations, for screams. I had not seen the unfortunates with no one to intercede for them. Still I hurried as I left the place, like a child running home in the dark.


Outside the clean day had moved on without me. My city. People move here like schooling fish, like skeins of birds. They dart across streets, stopping sudden, to impede the way. A man of the city learns to walk in a crowd. I walked easy. The plague sputtered here still, some houses were abandoned, boarded. But commerce did not stop, not even to nod to the dead. Here all was self regard, alive and raucous with bright things for sale. I stopped to buy a sausage on a stick. The woman selling them was deft and clean. Her boy, on a high stool, still wore his smock. He was missing his two first teeth. His bare toes gripped the rungs of his perch. But he watched the till unblinkingly for his mother..


Another child went by, dragged through the rubbish on the street. He was weeping,his face was swollen and smeared with tears. His mother had him by one arm, half off of the ground.“Don't ever do that again!” Her voice was fierce. I wondered what he had done. So my own mother had spoken to me, not that it had helped.


I pushed back the tears that clutched my throat. I had not been there for them at the end. But I would not think of it now. There would be the rest of my life, I reasoned, to think of my parents. I had all the memories of them. There would, after all, be no more.


My stair to my rooms was close and dusty. My hearth had gone cold. The chimney never did draw right. The fire needed almost constant tending. I knelt on the gritty hearth to lay a new fire and feed it up again. I told myself, often, that I would move out. But I did not move. The little rooms were otherwise pleasant, and I had a window where the sun came and striped my little bed in the mornings. The old woman downstairs took my money, and never complained of my odd hours. Her sons were grown to manhood and long gone. She fed me, often as not, saying she cooked too much out of habit. On occasion I had brought a girl to my rooms. The old woman made no remark, of this. But I had brought no one home for a long while now.


I had a trestle table in the bright corner of the room. Here were my inks, and pen knives and my precious stack of paper. And I could not pick up a pen without thinking of my father.


My father had been a scrivener. I had seen him writing every day. He smelled of ink. His letters were deep black, and as graceful as the flight of geese. I had been tiny when he lifted me to stand on the bench where he sat. He had taken a tail of waste paper, no good for anything else, and he had guided my clenched little hand. I had learned to write before I ever saw a horn-book. He led me through the letters, over and over. As I struggled to write them, they unlocked for me, and I had the sounds, words, meanings. Learning was easy after that. I could not get enough. I had gone to school eager. Petty school pleased me, and later, at Merchant Taylors, Master Mulcaster kept me late, gave me extra work to think on. I was beaten at school, of course. But never for my work, only for tardiness, for unseemly laughter, for pushing and shoving. These are the sins of all boys, I think. But my work was good.


So, it was, and so it is. Thinking this I turned to it. I could not afford to waste the good day-light. I had some new thoughts about the Danish play. They were still at the ticklish stage. If I turned the mind's gaze from them they might step out to be grasped. Other men's words, copied fair, would buy me the time to write my own. I filled my pipe, placed it in my teeth, and turned to work.


After some time, the pup toddled forth to chew on my boot. So we passed the rest of the day.




Comments

( 7 comments — Leave a comment )
anteros_lmc
Nov. 4th, 2012 12:49 am (UTC)
I read this first thing this morning but only have a chance to comment now. I got so caught up in the atmosphere when I read this that it rather caught my by surprise when it ended.

A man of the city learns to walk in a crowd.
I love that, it's so true.

I also love the description of learning to write and read and make sense of words. It's a kind of magic we so easily forget once it's within our power.
eglantine_br
Nov. 4th, 2012 01:13 am (UTC)
Oh, I am relieved. I was worried that maybe this one did not work.

I was basing the city kind of on Brooklyn-- the whole noisy in-your-face, unsanitary publicness. (For example, last summer I saw two men on the sidewalk arc-welding. They were wearing running shorts-- that is all. No shoes, no gloves, no shirts. Certainly they had nothing to protect eyes or hands.) And of course you can get sausage on a stick. Also, my summer favorite corn on the cob with mayo and powdered cheese. It sounds horribel tastes really good.

City people use a different gait, don't they? You cannot really step out in the city. You are always weaving so you don't collide with anyone.
anteros_lmc
Nov. 6th, 2012 10:29 pm (UTC)
City people use a different gait, don't they? You cannot really step out in the city. You are always weaving so you don't collide with anyone.
You're absolutely right, but of course you only know that if you weren't brought up in the city and had to learn that gait ;)

And of course this worked! I really did come back to reality with a thump when I finished reading it!
bauhiniakapok
Sep. 28th, 2016 05:52 am (UTC)
So true. That's how we walk in Hong Kong and Guangzhou. If you have large bags on your arm, you twist them fore and aft, or for a few steps you just walk sideways. If you have a stroller, it helps if your partner walks in front of you to clear a path. Children must hold your hips and walk in a train behind you, or if you are hand in hand you hold one hand to the front and one to the back so you are still single file. (We make train noises sometimes, or pretend we are a flock of ducks. Mommy Duck says quack quack and Baby Ducklings say peep peep.) You would never dream of getting a side-by-side stroller for your baby and toddler. It must be front-and-back, and even then sometimes you have to go down into the street to get it around vendors, or heave it up steps to get to escalators, or beg help from strangers to carry it down to the subway/metro. And of course you never carry your backpack on your back - you keep it on your front in case of pickpockets.
rikibeth
Nov. 4th, 2012 01:45 am (UTC)
This is beautiful. He observes so keenly, and even in his shock and sorrow he's not really detached. The little details -- city crowd, stripes of sunlight, cold hearth, the stubble on Watson's jaw. The memories of his father. Lovely.
eglantine_br
Nov. 4th, 2012 03:56 am (UTC)
I am just so pleased that it worked. I am getting to know Kyd. So much of his life is a blank. He did go to Merchant Taylors school. His dad was a scrivener. He probably worked as one too. And he was a city boy, he lived in London all his life.

This was one of those 'here to there' filler bits. But I wanted to use it to get to know Kyd a little better.
rikibeth
Nov. 4th, 2012 03:58 am (UTC)
Observed detail like that is meat and drink to me, so of course I think it worked!
( 7 comments — Leave a comment )