Ghost Writer

Having died, the bard found himself in Avernus. His throat was dry like the sands of the Sahara, and, generally speaking, he suffered an unspeakable warmth in his bones. He walked along a long road filled with dread trees; dead, devastated and dramatic. Fortunately, after a short walk in the most horrid country a man could dream, he found a tavern, a tiny little spot of sense in a senseless reality. The sign on the door of the tavern read: “The Bard’s Tail”, and it showed an image of Shakespeare himself, albeit with a tail behind his back, one ending, curiously, in the shape of a heart. 

He fished for change inside his purse, found a few coins and decided he deserved an ale. So he went in and found a barkeep, a proud Scotsman by his looks, with withered kilt and red-bearded smile. His language was coarse and ill, a thing typical of his race. 

“Get thee to a nunnery, bard. I have no poisons worthy of thine poisoned words.” He said. 

“Thy name, dear fellow? Would you please allow and mellow?” William Shakespere replied. 

“McBeth, of course. McBeth, trice damned and trice harmed. Thou doest not recognize me? Thou should well remember, thou wrote my play in December to pay for thine stinking drinks.” 

“McBeth, good Sir? Good, good and good again, now fetch me a drink, barkeep, thine fame my debt, my coin is thine to spend.” 

The bard plopped himself on a stool, and no ordinary stool, but an Avernus stool. It all stank of brimstone. The bard thought it might be an accusation of the hygiene of the the tavern’s visitors. 

McBeth shrugged his broad shoulders and set down a dour looking wooden mug on the counter. His ever present Scottish smile was more mockery than friendliness, but to his relief, Shakespeare found the ale refreshing and cool. 

Next a skinny man in a bloodied robe approached him. 

“I thank thee for all thine service to Rome, citizen.” 

“Dear God, man, thou areth badly wounded. Thou needest a healer.” 

“These wounds are nothing but badges of honor for the greater glory of Roma, citizen, and thou with thine wise words have made me as honorable as these badges. Each one, carried, painfully, for all eternity, to remind me of the sacrifice one must pay for a true Democracy!” 

“Julius?” 

“The same. Cesar. And now, that thou recognized the damage in my loins, I take my leave bard. I have bleeding to do.” 

“I bid thee well.” 

William Shakespeare thought he might be dreaming, and that soon, he would wake and find himself once again in his quarters, surely fastened to his bed from the delirium of a fever. But the blood of the wounded man remained on the floor. Soon another man, this one dressed in dark clothes and holding fast to a skull came forth to greet the Englishman. 

“Villain. Were you not dead, I would slay thee myself. What did thou thinkest to do to me is so unspeakable, so evil that it has no forgiveness here in Avernus or even in the very hallowed halls of Valhalla. Come, Horatio, this word-spewing-goblin deserves no more our valuable time.” 

It was impossible not to recognize Hamlet, because after all, he had come exactly in the form in which Shakespare had dreamed of him, so many years previous. Now utterly amused, and most unperturbed, Shakespeare finished his ale with gusto. 

He was about to ask for a second serving when Sir Walter Raleigh came over and sat next to him. The handsome pirate also had a smile on his face, but unlike McBeth’s this was a warm, pleasant smile. 

“Greetings and salutations, old friend. How art thou pleased by thy death?”

“Death?” 

“Is it not obvious, bard? The hellish landscape, the tavern, McBeth, Cesar and Hamlet. Thou art dead, Dear William. Dead and buried.” 

“Am I now, Walter? And buried no less. Tell me, pirate, how would thou knowest?”

“Because I came here two years after thine own arrival, bard. I was at thine funeral. Time works differently here, in Avernus. And what might be the time it takes thee to drink two ales, might be two years upstairs, where the real living live.” 

“Profound, Walter. And what guarantee do I have that this is not a fever dream of mine?” Shakespeare questioned. 

“None whatsoever, I fear. But come, don’t sit alone, man. See yonder table? There sit some of thine best friends, waiting for thee.”

Shakespeare turned his head and found Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, and Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford. For the first time since entering into this strange dream, William Shakespeare smiled out of true joy and went over to join the committee. After many cordial and friendly greetings, and a few much ado about nothing bits of conversation, ales and other refreshments, the assembled persons began in earnest a discussion about the most important thing in this tavern: ghosts.  

“William, thou doest seem to believe thyself honestly alive. Let me ask thee the most crucial question: what day is this?” Walter Raleigh smiled. 

“By the heat outside and the fact that I am arrived, sequestered and no doubt quartered undeservedly in Spain, where the sun burns all things, April 23, 1616, year of our Queen, Elizabeth.” 

“Ridiculous. It is clearly autumn, which explains the leafless trees outside. October 29 of 1618, year of our Lord.” Sir Walter exclaimed.

“It is the 9th of April of 1626, and all of these gentlemen are dead.” Said Sir Francis Bacon. “All these are naught but ghosts of my past.” 

“May 30, 1953.” Said Marlowe. 

“24th of June of 1604.” Insisted the Earl of Oxford.

 “See? All of you think it is a date previous, but I have further proof!” Said Bacon, and proceeded to take out a hand-mirror out of his baggins. “Please, look at yourselves in the mirror…

The first to take the mirror was Raleigh, who made a pose. 

“Why, I look 20 years younger today! Wonderful! Wonderful!”

Next was Marlowe. He said nothing but smiled. Edward de Vere looked at himself and began to cry. Finally, it was Willam’s turn, and when he looked into the mirror, he had to pause. Indeed, he looked in the prime of his youth. His now white beard was as orange as it was before age took its toll, and there was not a wrinkle, not a line. He was perfectly youthful and fit. 

“A miracle.” He said.

“No, just death. Now please, consider dear William thine surroundings. What doest thou remember last?” Sir Francis.

“I was in a tavern, with Drayton, and Ben Jonson. We had a merry meeting and I drank too hard. I retired to my quarters later that evening, and then woke up here, in Spain.” 

“Thou art not in Spain, bard.” Said Sir Francis. “Thou didst die on April the 23, 1616. I was at thine funeral.” 

Shakespeare looked around and then looked out a window at the dreary, red-tinged world upon which he stood. 

“Then it all makes perfect sense, Sir Francis. We here on this table are gathered to give credit where credit is due, and yes, I have died. Now I am sure of it. And this, this is nothing if not hell self, and I belong here as much as every one of you gentlemen. You see, I was never a good Church of Englander, but I was an even worse Catholic, so if I find myself sitting with thee, in hell, gentlemen, it is only so the truth can be told. I am, or not, a ghost? This only God knows. But certainly, if all you fine persons are all ghosts as I am, then you are also ghostwriters, are you not?.”