WHAT’S NAT DOING IN SHAKESPEARE’S TIME?
Only in the world of the theater can Nat Field find an escape from the tragedies that have shadowed his young life. So he is thrilled when he is chosen to join an American drama troupe traveling to London to perform A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a new replica of the famous Globe theater.
Shortly after arriving in England, Nat goes to bed ill and awakens transported back in time four hundred years—to another London, and another production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Amid the bustle and excitement of an Elizabethan theatrical production, Nat finds the warm, nurturing father figure missing from his life—in none other than William Shakespeare himself. Does Nat have to remain trapped in the past forever, or give up the friendship he’s so longed for in his own time?
BOSTON GLOBE–HORN BOOK HONOR BOOK ALA BEST BOOK FOR YOUNG ADULTS ABA PICK OF THE LISTS PUBLISHERS WEEKLY BEST BOOK OF 1999
* “Part historical fiction, part fantasy, wholly entertaining.”
—Booklist, starred review
* “The interior drama of the story is compelling . . . and the overall shape of the novel . . . is superb. Readers of King of Shadows aren’t likely to forget Nat.”
—Horn Book, starred review
* “Readers . . . will revel in the hurly-burly of rehearsals and the performance before the queen, the near discoveries, the company rivalries, and some neatly drawn parallels.”
—School Library Journal, starred review
“A dramatic and sensory feast.”
—Kirkus Reviews
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KIDS.SimonandSchuster.com
Cover design by Sammy Yuen, Jr.
Cover illustration copyright © 2009
by Oliver Burston
Margaret K. McElderry Books
Simon & Schuster
New York
Ages 10–14
0601
Praise for King of Shadows
* “Readers will be swept up in Nat’s detailed,
sensory-filled observations of life.”
—Horn Book, starred review
* “Few writers have used historical characters
in fiction with such conviction and grace.”
—Booklist, starred review
“This fine historical novel celebrates the magic of
theater while telling a compelling story.”
—Book Summit
“A wonderful supplemental text for literature,
drama, European history, and related courses.”
—VOYA
“Recreates the sights, sounds, and smells
of Elizabethan England in a way that brings it
to vivid life.”
—Arizona Republic
“Forgive me while I gush. I couldn’t put down this
enthralling book by Newbery Medalist Susan Cooper.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“’Tis the stuff that dreams are made of.”
—Orlando Sentinel
ALSO BY SUSAN COOPER
The Dark Is Rising Sequence
Over Sea, Under Stone
The Dark Is Rising
Newbery Honor
Greenwitch
The Grey King
Newbery Medal
Silver on the Tree
Victory
The Boggart
The Boggart and the Monster
Dawn of Fear
Seaward
The Magician’s Boy
illustrated by Serena Riglietti
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1999 by Susan Cooper
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Also available in a hardcover edition.
Book design by Ann Bobco The text for this book is set in Berkeley.
First paperback edition June 2001
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Cooper, Susan, 1935–
King of shadows / Susan Cooper.
p. cm.
Summary: While in London as part of an all-boy acting company preparing to perform in a replica of the famous Globe Theater, Nat Field suddenly finds himself transported back to 1599 and performing in the original theater under the tutelage of Shakespeare himself.
ISBN 978-0-689-82817-1 (hc)
[1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Actors and actresses—Fiction. 3. Globe Theater (Southwark, London, England)—Fiction. 4. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C7878Ki 1999
[Fic]—dc21
98-51127
ISBN 978-0-689-84445-4 (pbk)
eISBN 978-0-6898-4578-9
For my actor
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
ONE
Tag. The little kids’ game, plain ordinary old tag, that’s what he had us playing. Even though none of us was younger than eleven, and the older ones were big as men. Gil Warmun even had a triangle of beard on his chin. Warmun was “it” for now, the tagger, chasing us; suddenly he swung around at me before I could dodge, and hit me on the shoulder.
“Nat!”
“Nat’s it!”
“Go, go, go!”
Run around the big echoing space, sneakers squealing on the shiny floor; try to catch someone, anyone, any of the bodies twisting and diving out of my way. I paused in the middle, all of them dancing around me ready to dodge, breathless, laughing.
“Go, Nat! Keep it moving, don’t let it drop! Tag, tag!”
That huge voice was ringing out from the end of the room, Arby’s voice, deep as the sound of a big gong. You did whatever that voice said, now; you moved quick as lightning. For the Company of Boys, Arby was director, actor, teacher, boss man. I dashed across the room toward a swirling group of them, saw the carroty red head of little Eric Sawyer from Maine, chased him in and out and finally tagged him when he cannoned into a slower boy.
“Go, Eric, go—keep the energy up—”
The voice again, as Eric’s scrawny legs scurried desperately through the noisy crowd; then suddenly a change, abrupt, commanding.
“O-kay! Stop! That’s it! Now we’re going to turn that energy inside, inside us—get in groups of five, all of you, anywhere in the room. I want small boys with small, bigger guys together, each group matching.”
We milled about uncertainly. Small to medium, that was me.
I linked up with two other boys from someplace in the South, a cheerful, wiry New York kid named Ferdie, and redheaded Eric, sticking to me as usual like a little shadow. Arby’s big hand came down and removed Eric straightaway.
“Pick guys your own size, Sawyer.” He replaced him with a bigger boy in unlaced high-tops and baggy jeans, with an odd face like a squishy pudding. I’d seen him around, but I didn’t know him. Now there were four groups of five, and Eric left over. Arby put a consoling hand on his shoulder, and faced us all.
“Now cool it!” The voice boomed out, deep and hypnotic. He was holding Eric like a walking stick, like a prop; Arby was so completely an actor that sometimes you couldn’t tell where the division was between performance and real life.
“This company is a family, a big family,” he said. “Always remember that. We shall be performing in a foreign country, we shall be absolutely dependent on one another, we must each be totally trustworthy.” He patted Eric absently on the shoulder, and Eric looked at his feet, embarrassed. But we were all listening, waiting.
Arby said, “The game you’re going to play now is an exercise in trust. Trust. In each group I want one boy in the middle, the other four close round him.”
The squishy-faced boy nudged me into the center of our group. I looked at him in surprise and he gave me an amiable, toothy grin.
“Each of you in the middle,” Arby said, “shut your eyes, straighten your spine, turn yourself into a broomstick. Then fall, stiff, like a stick. Those of you round him, save him when he falls toward you, catch him gently, and gently push him toward someone else. Fall . . . and catch . . . fall . . . and catch . . . This is all about trust. The one falling must trust the catcher, the catcher must be trusted to catch. Go!”
I wasn’t too sure I liked this game, but I shut my eyes and leaned to one side, falling stiff as a rail. I found myself against someone’s chest, his hands touching my shoulders. For an instant my cheek was against his face, and then he was pushing me—I thought: Stiff, stay stiff, Nat—and like a pendulum I slanted toward the other side. And again hands stopped me, and gently shoved me back again.
So it went, like music in its rhythm, and it was fun. The feeling of giving yourself to other people, people you couldn’t even see, flicked me back to being a very little kid, when my mother was still alive. I couldn’t remember much about her, but I did remember how safe she made me feel.
The room was quiet; there was only the soft sound of hands brushing clothes, and feet shuffling a little, and a murmur of pleased surprise sometimes that must have come from the boys in the middle. Maybe from me. Arby’s deep voice was a soothing background: “Fall . . . and catch . . . fall . . . and catch . . . Good, that’s the way. Feel the trust . . .”
Then, falling, waiting for the reassuring hands to save me, I found myself not saved but still falling, and I shouted in alarm and stumbled, clutching for support, opening my eyes. I caught a look of mischievous glee on the face of the pudgy boy, as he grabbed me up just before I could hit the floor.
“Wow, sorry!” he said, grinning, mocking—and then his face crumpled into shock as a thunderbolt hit him.
“Out!” Arby was shouting. “You—out of this company! Go home!”
“It was just a joke,” said Pudding-face, appalled. “I didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you did—playing your own little trick. We don’t play tricks here, feller. Nothing is more important than the company, nothing is more important than the play. You betrayed a trust and I don’t want you here. Out! Go pack your things!”
Pudding-face shambled out of the room, without a word. Someone told me afterwards that he was a wonderful actor; Arby had recruited him from a school in Cleveland, specially to play Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But back to Cleveland he went, the very next day. We never saw him again.
“Trust,” Arby said softly, into the startled silence of the room. “Remember it. Someone else in the center, now. Keep going.”
He pushed small Eric gently into the center of our group, in spite of his size, and Eric gulped, closed his eyes and stiffened his back. The game went on.
There were twenty-four of us in the company altogether, if you counted Arby, his partner Julia, Maisie the stage manager, and Rachel the voice coach. The rest were all boys. The Company of Boys, chosen by Arby and his committee from schools and youth theaters all over the United States. We were all shapes and sizes and ages, up to eighteen. The only thing we had in common was that by accident or experience or both, we all knew how to act. Supposedly we were the best young stage actors in the country.
We had one other thing in common, too. Most of us were pretty weird. When you think about it, a normal kid wants to watch TV or movies, videos or computer games: there’s something odd about him if instead he’s more interested in the stage. And we were all crazy about it; crazy, and confident that we had talent. Arby had made sure of that when he first interviewed each of us, last winter.
Now it was summer. By bus or train or airplane, we’d all been brought to this school in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to rehearse two plays by Shakespeare together. Some rich theater nut had left money in his will to have Shakespeare’s plays performed the way they were four hundred years ago, when he first wrote them. There were no actresses in the theater in those days; the women’s parts were all played by boys whose voices hadn’t broken yet. Some of the theater companies were made up of men and boys, some just of boys. Like ours.
And when we’d rehearsed for three weeks, the rich man’s money was going to fly us across the Atlantic to London, to perform at the new Globe, a theater that was an exact copy of the one the plays were first acted in, four centuries ago. We were going into a kind of time warp. My dad would have thought that was really cool: he was a big Star Trek fan. But I try not to think about my dad.
Arby called a break for lunch. That meant going down to the cafeteria of the school where we were working. Ferdie walked with me—not that he ever really walked, off-stage; it was more a sort of spastic bouncing jive. He draped one arm briefly over my shoulders.
“That was severe, man. If he chops guys for little things like that, he’s gonna have my ass in a week.”
“I feel bad about it.” I was remembering the horror on the pudgy boy’s face, as Arby banished him.
“He could’ve hurt you,” said little Eric self-righteously, shadowing me. “Could’ve broken your back, if you’d hit the ground.”
“But he didn’t let me hit the ground, he caught me. Just a bit late.”
“Late is too late,” said Gil Warmun, behind us. He towered over our heads as we all went down the stairs. “The old man was right—nobody can mess with trusting. You kids remember that.”
“Okay, Dad,” said Ferdie cheerfully.
“I mean it. You feel bad about that guy, Nat? That’s dumb. He’s history and he deserved it. Grow up.”
“Grow up yourself,” I said, stung.
Arby’s big voice rang down the stairwell from above. The man was everywhere, like God.
“Read-through of the Dream in forty-five minutes, gentlemen,” the voice said. “And just bear in mind—this is going to be the most sublime six weeks of your lives, and the shittiest. In the theater, they go together.”
The first weeks were certainly that kind of mixture. Even that first day. It wasn’t literally the first day, because we’d had a rather muddled week of “orientation,” but it was the beginning of serious rehearsal.
For the reading, Arby went on with his game pattern. He had us all sit cross-legged on the floor in a big circle, with our scripts, and he sat in the middle with a soccer ball in his hands. He threw his ball at each of us in turn, and when you caught it you had to say in a loud clear voice the name of the characters you were playing, then your own name and where you came from. Then everyone said hi to you. Then you threw the ball back. We’d been through this whole exercise once already, on the day we arrived, but I have to admit it was helpful to do it again.
>
The ball came at me, stinging my hand as I caught it.
“I’m Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Pindarus in Julius Caesar. Nat Field, from Greenville, South Carolina.”
It was Eric’s turn.
“Eric Sawyer. From Camden, Maine. I’m Mustardseed in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Cinna the Poet in Julius Caesar.”
We chorused, “Hi, Eric!”
“Character names first,” Arby said. “They’re more important than you are.” Little Eric flushed. Arby threw the ball at the next boy, a tall, brawny character in a black tank top and black jeans.
“Duke Theseus in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Brutus in Julius Caesar.” He had a voice as strong as Arby’s. “I’m Ray Danza from Chicago.”
“Hi, Ray!”
The boy next to him was tall too, but chubbier, with a mop of curly black hair like a floppy Afro.
“Starveling in the Dream, Caesar in Julius Caesar. Hy Schwartz from Los Angeles.”
“Hi, Hy—” and we all broke up, it sounded so silly. Everyone laughed except Arby.
“Get a haircut, Hy,” he said, and he went on throwing the ball.
I was having a good time all afternoon until the middle of the read-through, when Arby lit into me for going too fast. He’d already told me twice to slow down, and I’d tried, but I guess I was nervous. We all were, of course. Everyone had a crystal-clear memory of the sudden end of Pudding-face’s career.
It was in Act Three, when Puck has a long speech telling Oberon how his queen, Titania, has fallen in love with a donkey. Oberon is pissed at Titania because she’s refused to let him have one of her servants, so while she’s sleeping in a wood, he squeezes the juice of a magic plant on her eyes that’ll make her totally obsessed with whatever person or creature she sees when she wakes up. (Oberon and Titania aren’t human, they’re the king and queen of the fairies—and if that makes you go “Haw-haw-haw,” you might as well stop reading my story right now.)
I started out:
“My mistress with a monster is in love!
Near to her close and consecrated bower,
While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals—”