Ring of Fire III (15 page)

“It’s coming along. It is difficult to refute oneself, especially when one has been so eloquent. It presents unique challenges.”

Wentworth nodded and began to look at the other books collected in the cell. “You have everything? All of your works?”

“Near as I can ascertain. I am frankly embarrassed by some of the early works. But there they are, for the entire world to read.”

“One should be cautious about what one writes, John. You never know how it can be interpreted in the future.” Wentworth pulled one of the books from a makeshift shelf and looked at it with a wry smile. “Or the past, for that matter.” He slid the book back, and turned to Milton, looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you know why you are still alive, John?”

“To refute these two articles.”

“More than that, John. I want you on my side. The king’s side.”

Milton’s face remained impassive. “Go on.”

“I would rather have your powers of persuasion and writing on my side, than have them wasted by removing your head. It would seem such a loss. A manageable loss, yes. But still a loss.” Wentworth paused, his focus burning into Milton’s brain.

Milton was quiet for a moment. He looked past Wentworth, staring at the lock on the cell door. He had come to the conclusion that he had achieved his goals. He had written the definitive poems of the English language. He had said all that needed to be said. He had soared to heights unimagined, even by him, with his poetry. What other works could he possibly write? What else could he do?

It was grossly unfair, he felt.

On the other hand, how many men know their work will live for hundreds of years? He sighed a long heavy sigh, and finally made his decision. His father would not be pleased, nor would his mother. But he was his own man, and understood the consequences. He took a deep breath, broke his stare at the lock, and looked Wentworth in the eye. “I—I cannot refute them. I will not refute them. My life is already written.” He broke eye contact and laughed. “What a dilemma, eh, Wentworth? A real Calvinist dilemma. It will have theologians arguing for centuries as to what predestination really means.” He stopped his laughing, and a smile lingered as he again looked at Wentworth. “I strove for great things, and I achieved them. That was my destiny. The proof is all around you, in these volumes. But what am I to do now? My destiny is achieved. Should I continue to live? Am I an anomaly of God? And you ask me to go against everything I have done, every word I have written, and every argument I made? You want me to ignore my life’s work, as if nothing had happened? How can you—”

“You are a
coward
, Milton. More of a coward than I thought. Disgusting.” Wentworth turned to the door and raised his hand to knock.

“What do you mean, a coward? I am not a—”

“But you are, Milton. Why did you think I gave you all of your works to read?”

John stopped for a moment to think. He shook his head as if to clear a fog. “I thought it a mistake on your part; you were being over generous to me for some reason.”

Wentworth’s mask broke slightly and he looked exasperated. “You must give me more credit than that, Milton. Really.”

“Then why?”

“If you just refuted this book...” He picked up the first volume of the arguments and waved. “...then what would have happened when you were allowed out into the world, and discovered the presence of all of this writing?” He swept his hand around the small cell. “It is simple, Milton. You would have failed me. Publicly.” His tone changed from that of a chastising father, to a seemingly loving one. “I need
all
of you, John, not just part of you. I need a
tower
of literary strength.” He shrugged and continued. “I am not that sort of a man. I am efficient, I serve my king well, I have my mind—a political mind, that keeps me in power. But I lack—what do the Americans call it? Ah, yes. P.R. I lack P.R., Public Relations. Good press.”

John looked at the older man incredulously. “I will not do it. I cannot do it.”

“You disappoint me with your cowardice.”

“Cowardice! How can you call me a coward, I have just walked into certain death in an act of defiance. How can that be cowardice? You are a fool, old man.”

“No, John Milton. You are fleeing from your future. You think you cannot match these works. So you choose to become a martyr. A coward. You cannot face what you might become. A mediocre poet.”

There was a pause as John stared. Wentworth met his gaze with unfathomable confidence.

John’s eyes wavered under the fierce stare, hesitated, and finally looked at the ground. “Get out,” he whispered. “Just get out.”

Wentworth changed to a softer tone. “You have three days until the deadline, John. Use your time wisely. You have a choice. What will it be? Cowardice?” Wentworth gestured with the original volume towards the bookcase. “Or will you be a Milton who achieves more than this one dreamed of?” He paused a moment then spoke softly. “The Puritans tend to look at the world in two colors, John, like their clothing. Black and white. Right and wrong. Our earthly existence is not that simple. The world has many shades and colors to it. Messy. Unpredictable. Marvelous.” He turned and rapped on the cell door, and then looked back. “I hope you do not choose to be a coward, John. It would sadden me.” Wentworth tossed the volume onto the end of the pallet. The door creaked open, Wilson ushered Wentworth into the passage, and the cell door closed.

* * *

John slept little that night. He finally nodded off for what seemed like a short blink of the eyes, before waking again. Faint light streamed into the slit near the stone ceiling. He lay on his pallet and looked around, staring at the volumes on the makeshift bookcases. The work in the volumes was impressive. The poetry soaring. His pride at what he had done filled him with tears in the semi-darkness. The books around him told of a life, a life of unhappiness, pain, self satisfaction, insight, brilliant radical thought, deep religious beliefs, blindness, and marriages. What a life it was—
would
have been—
might
have been—
could
have been—
should
have been. He buried his face in his hands and mumbled to himself.

“The question is: can you do better, John?”

He rolled over and sat up, feet on the floor. The dry straw rustled beneath him. “This man was a giant,” he whispered. “Do you really believe you could do better? Is it possible?” He spent the next hours praying, hoping that God would give him some sign. Point him in a direction.

But God was silent that morning, as He had been since the Ring of Fire. There was no message from Him, other than the miracle itself. The miracle that put a young man in this place, with this knowledge. He looked at the books again, and felt empty inside. Blank, like an unwritten story.

His eyes then fell on the book from Wentworth. Impulsively, he picked it up. He held it closed, between the palms of his hands, as if praying. He set it down on the floor in front of him, stood, and walked away from it, nervously. He turned toward it, took a step, and then stopped. “You are a man whose heart Anubis is weighing, only you are alive,” he whispered. “What an amazing thing.” He crouched down closer to the book. “Alive. There is the heart of the matter. Refute this, and you live. Live to become...someone.” John continued to look at the book.

“Are you afraid of death, John Milton? Are you as afraid as poor Sir Gregory? Is that why you are even considering writing for Wentworth?” He slowly eased his hand forward, as if the thin book were a poisonous snake. He snatched it up suddenly. Standing, he opened it to he first page, started to read, and then quickly slammed it shut. “Damn that man!

“That John Milton will never live! No matter what I choose, he is dead!” He used the book in his hands to point to others in succession. “I am a different person than this one. Different from this one too. At each age, I wrote in a different tone, a different timbre, with a different mind.”

He sat heavily onto the pallet. “The second question is: can you live with who you may become? Who you
will
become.
What
you will become.” Bile rose in his throat. “Traitor.” He coughed the word, and his throat burned. He swallowed and cursed silently to himself for a while.

He then stood and looked defiantly at the bookshelf, as if it were another man in the room. “Will I be a traitor to you? To me?” He paused as if listening to the answer from the shelves. “You cannot judge me, old man. Not now, not ever. Great works. Epic works. Can I do it again?”

He stopped, puzzled. “What was it that Wentworth said? Shades. Colors. A man who can see different colors?” He noticed he was still holding the book and had an impulse to throw the cheaply bound folio against the wall with all his might. He could almost see it splashing against the stone, pages flying.

But something held him back, stayed his arm.

His frustration flowed out of him like a river, leaving him dry.

He eased himself to a seat on his pallet.

Perhaps, one day he would be able to define what it was that stayed his hand. Define the moment when he decided he should live. Perhaps he could write a great work, discussing the nuances of human thought and rationality, fear of death. Yes. He would do that, some day, when he was older.

But for now, with his quill in hand, John Milton began to write.

To End the Evening

Bradley H. Sinor

Barnabas Marcoli gingerly ran his fingers up along the side of his head. Dried blood had already matted his hair into clumps, around a lump half the size of a small goose egg.

This was definitely not the way he had planned to end his first evening free in nearly two weeks.

Barnabas sagged back against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes. From the far end of the room he could hear voices speaking a variety of languages—Italian, mixed in with a flurry of German and something that sounded vaguely eastern European—the sort of mixture that could be found in most places like this in Venice.

Someone pressed a mug into Barnabas’s left hand; his fingers closed around the pewter surface automatically. He hesitated for a moment, and then downed the contents in two quick swallows. The wine was sharp and bitter, not the kind that he normally preferred to drink, but at that moment he didn’t care.

“Easy lad; take a few deep breaths and see if you can get your wits about you before you tear into any more of this miserable excuse for wine.”

Barnabas found himself looking at a tall, lanky man, several years his elder, dressed in plain, slightly worn clothing with a sword hanging at his waist. The stranger had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair. From his accent there was no doubt that he was French; his Italian was good but not quite good enough to hide his origins.

“Can I ask a stupid question?” said Barnabas. “What in the hell happened to me?”

“Oh, that.” His companion chuckled. “Seems a pair of ruffians wanted to relieve you of your purse and weren’t too picky in the way they did it. I’m glad I happened along at the right time.”

Barnabas nodded. He remembered how he had been cutting through a narrow alley just east of the American embassy when a man had appeared in front of him and demanded money. Before Barnabas could react, someone else struck him from behind. Everything after that, until this stranger had guided him into the tavern, remained something of a blur.

“Damn,” Barnabas muttered as he reached inside of his shirt but found nothing there.

“Would this be what you might be looking for?” A small burgundy coin bag slid across the table.

Barnabas let out a long sigh. It was true that there wasn’t much money in it, apprentice metal workers weren’t rich, but it was
his
money. Not to mention the fact that Barnabas knew full well that his cousins would not let him forget it if they discovered that he had been robbed.

“I thank you, sir. My name is Marcoli, Barnabas Marcoli. I owe you not only my life, but my dignity. I will pray for you at mass,” he said. “And who might I name as my Good Samaritan?”

“D’Artagnan, Charles D’Artagnan.”

Barnabas stared at the man for a time.

“I have the feeling that I know of you, sir.” Something about that name was familiar, but the throbbing in Barnabas’s head didn’t help his concentration. He repeated it over and over in his mind; the memory was there, and close, infuriatingly close, but he could not bring it to the surface.

“I think not. I am new come to Venice. Before the little altercation with those ruffians, had you dined?” When Barnabas shook his head, D’Artagnan smiled and motioned for the tavern girl. “Good. Neither have I.”

A few minutes later they had plates of chicken, cheese and bread set in front of them.

“I hope you ordered enough for three.”

Barnabas turned with a start and found a small man dressed in brown sitting next to him. The newcomer looked like he could only be five foot one or two. He had an ordinary looking face with nothing on it that would have distinguished him from anyone else on the streets of Venice.

“I wondered when you were going to show up,” said D’Artagnan.

The small man shrugged, motioning for the serving girl to bring him something to drink. “I was working. After all, we do have a reason for being here besides wenching and drinking.”

“Pity,” laughed D’Artagnan. “Barnabas, let me introduce you to my traveling companion, Aramis.”

“Aramis? D’Artagnan?” Barnabas cocked his head at both men; suddenly feeling very pleased with himself. “So where are the other two?”

“Other two?” said D’Artagnan.

“Obviously, he’s read the book,” said the small man called Aramis, switching from Italian to English.

“Indeed I have,” Barnabas responded, somewhat unsure of his English, but wanting to use it now, nonetheless. “
The Three Musketeers
was only one of several novels that Frank Stone, that young man my cousin Giovanna has been making eyes at, lent me. He said they would help me learn American faster. So are you really the one in the book?”