Free The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood

let’s have at it.”
    We spent the next hour sweeping the heavy mat of soiled and soggy rushes onto the ground, spreading a fresh supply from a wagon over the boards, then loading the old ones on the wagon. By the time we finished, I was as limp and wet as the rushes. I sank down on the edge of the stage. “No one told me a player’s life would be like this.”
    Sander gave another good-humored laugh. How could he be so cheerful in the face of such drudgery? “We don’t do this every day. Some days we clean out the jakes and pile it on the dung heap.”
    I shook my head wearily and silently prayed that I might find the missing table-book very soon. “When does a wight get to be a hired man?”
    â€œWhen your voice changes. If you’re a good prentice, meantime.” Sander picked up his broom. “Come. Time for lessons.”
    â€œI already ken how to read and write,” I pointed out as we climbed the narrow stairs I had scrambled down the day before. Even as I spoke, my eyes were casting about for some sign of my table-book.
    â€œThat will be useful,” Sander said, “but these are lessons of a different sort.”
    Behind us as we came up the stairs was a large room in which a group of players were rehearsing some scene. We proceeded past the drapes on which I had snagged myself; I saw no table-book there, either. I would have to return later and search more carefully.
    We stopped outside the door to another room. From within the room came the sound of blows, and an occasional cry. I felt a wrenching in my stomach. Whatever lessons lay ahead, they were obviously being driven home with the aid of a willow switch. First hard labor, now beatings. I should have known the theatre would prove to be as heartless and harsh as any other institution.

12
    I hung back, very nearly resolved to flee and take my chances with Falconer—had I known where he was—or even on my own in that unknown city.
    But just then Sander turned and beckoned to me with such a cheerful and friendly countenance that I swallowed my misgivings and followed him inside the lesson room.
    The scene within was not at all what I had expected. There were no sullen students lined up on benches with slates in their hands. Nor was there any sign of anyone being beaten. The sounds had apparently come from two boys mock sword fighting with wooden singlesticks. One was Nick, the fellow who had been the butt of the players’ jokes the day before, and who had played the queen in Hamlet . The other was the play’s Ophelia, a slender boy no taller than I, and far better suited to playing girls’ parts than the swaggering Nick, who seemed too husky in voice and in build to portray anything but older women.
    On the other side of the room, two players were dancing a jig to a tune played on an hautboy. Nearby, Samuel and James, the two hopefuls, were turning somersets atop a row of rush mats, under the eye of a small, athletic-looking man.
    â€œMr. Phillips,” Sander informed me. “He’s our stage manager, among other things. Mr. Armin you already know.” He gestured toward the man who had run afoul of Falconer, and who had stood up for me before the other players. He was demonstrating sword positions to Nick and his partner. He nodded in our direction, and Sander approached him. “Where shall I start our new boy?”
    â€œStramazone!” Mr. Armin shouted, and I shrank back, believing we were being cursed in some foreign tongue. The two students made slicing motions with their sticks. “He may as well begin here,” Mr. Armin said, in a perfectly civil tone. Then he shouted, “Riversa!” The two boys cut with their sticks from the other side. “Get him a singlestick.”
    For the next hour I stood in a rank with Sander and the others, facing Mr. Armin and attempting to duplicate his stance and movements. I had never had anything to do with weapons,