Judging by the creases in the paper, this one had been thrown at the wall particularly hard. Hwel had once explained to Tomjon his theory about inspirations, and by the look of it a whole shower had fallen last night.
Fascinated by this insight into the creative processes, however, Tomjon tried a third discarded attempt:
QUEEN: Faith, there is a sound without! Mayhap it is my husband returning! Quick, into the garderobe, and wait not upon the order of your going!
MURDERER: Marry, but your maid still has my pantoufles!
MAID (opening door): The Archbishop, your majesty.
PRIEST (under bed): Bless my soul!
(Divers alarums)
Tomjon wondered vaguely what divers alarums, which Hwel always included somewhere in the stage directions, actually were. Hwel always refused to say. Perhaps they referred to dangerous depths, or lack of air pressure.
He sidled towards the table and, with great care, pulled the sheaf of paper from under the sleeping dwarfs head, lowering it gently on to a cushion.
The top sheet read:
Verence Felmet Small God's Eve A Night Of Knives Daggers Kings, by, Hwel of Vitoller's Men. A Comedy Tragedy in Eight Five Six Three Nine Acts.
Characters: Felmet, A Good King.
Verence, A Bad King.
Wethewacs, Ane Evil Witch
Hogg, Ane Likewise Evil Witch
Magerat, Ane Sirene . . .
Tomjon flicked over the page.
Scene: A Drawing Room Ship at See Street in Pseudopolis Blasted Moor. Enter Three Witches . . .
The boy read for a while and then turned to the last page.
Gentles, leave us dance and sing, and wish good health unto the king (Exeunt all, singing falala, etc. Shower of rose petals. Ringing of bells. Gods descend from heaven, demons rise from hell, much ado with turntable, etc.) The End.
Hwel snored.
In his dreams gods rose and fell, ships moved with cunning and art across canvas oceans, pictures jumped and ran together and became flickering images; men flew on wires, flew without wires, great ships of illusion fought against one another in imaginary skies, seas opened, ladies were sawn in half, a thousand special effects men giggled and gibbered. Through it all he ran with his arms open in desperation, knowing that none of this really existed or ever would exist and all he really had was a few square yards of planking, some canvas and some paint on which to trap the beckoning images that invaded his head.
Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.
'It's a good play,' said Vitoller, 'apart from the ghost.'
'The ghost stays,' said Hwel sullenly.
'But people always jeer and throw things. Anyway, you know how hard it is to get all the chalk dust out of the clothes.'
'The ghost stays. It's a dramatic necessity.'
'You said it was a dramatic necessity in the last play.'
'Well, it was.'
'And in Please Yourself, and in A Wizard of Ankh, and all the rest of them.'