With an audience of stars above my head, I danced across the stage. In my mind, I was the young prince of Denmark, plotting revenge in a stitched waistcoat. I wrote letters of love to Ophelia while dodging stones thrown by dozens of rowdy peasants at my feet, and told quick-witted jokes to King James I, on his throne. I battled Laertes with poison surging through my veins, taking one last gasp of air and sealing my fate with a bow.
Clapping echoed throughout The Globe. My heart stopped. I found myself paralyzed --my feet glued where they stood. My eyes searched the empty balconies in desperation, and a figure emerged from the darkness.
To my surprise, instead of an angry constable, I was met with the Ghost of Hamlet himself: he was much taller up close than he had been on stage, though I’d watched him from such distance and in such secrecy that it was difficult to pinpoint any notable features other than his booming voice. He towered over me, but he wasn’t angry-- no, his gaze reflected some sort of intrigue, perhaps even amusement, like I was the first boy he’d ever seen.
At last I gathered the courage to speak:
“M-Mister Shakespeare, sir, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to--”
With a wave of his hand he silenced me, then clasped his hands behind his back and floated across the stage; each board had been designed just for him. Mr. Shakespeare spoke to me softly, as if there were someone he was trying not to wake. “It is my understanding that you have memorized the entirety of Hamlet?”
“Yes sir, all of your plays: Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet… I know them all by heart. I write them down every night.”
“Have you any family?”
“No sir, they succumbed to the plague.”
Mr. Shakespeare nodded wisely. “I see. Then you will travel with us.”
My jaw dropped in disbelief. “With you? Lord Chamberlain's Men?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank you sir. It would be an honour, sir.”
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