Young William Shakespeare sits perched upon a stool, slate board in hand, quill poised above the gray surface. His hound, Toby, curls contentedly at his feet, snoring softly, untroubled by the world's woes.
"If I can be rebirthed nearth Stratford on Avon hue skies, I live here to I shall die, the river that run through its breeze of sewage and all manner of mans shite. My bones will never be touched by man and neither by all."
His words flutter into the hearth-smoke, mingling with the scent of breakfast and the faint dread of plague.
Mary Shakespeare[/@ch_3], William's mother, bustles between hearth and table, her hands deft and strong, her presence a quiet anchor against the storm outside. Sunlight glints off copper pans; the broth simmers, sending up fragrant clouds.]
"Mother," calls William, voice bright but trembling with curiosity and unease.
"Wats up, dearest William, have you thee fever, eyes run, nose drip, skin dryer than dust, mother knows best, drink a pint of red Rum or a warm beer in a big mug!"
"No mother, I am not sick nor am I shiver in feverish hot skin nor cold. I wrote thee greatest poem thee world have never to be known. Its feelings of warmth and soul, my words thy flow, oh health and death, tragedy and love. Read this one."
William[/@ch_1] with a fond smile. She squints at the scrawled poem, smoothing the roughest words, her finger tracing lines of burgeoning genius. The kitchen's warmth envelopes them, the fire crackling in gentle counterpoint to their exchange.]
"Mother my darling, a dictionary, thesaurus and Encyclopaedia, a Bible, a page, but a book of my love, What is the word for our place before earth born."
"Before birth came cherubs, after long life dies Angels we become," she murmurs, chalking the word 'Cradle' on the slate, her eyes distant with memory and myth. Mary returns to her pot, the spoon swirling as if stirring secrets into the morning air.
John Shakespeare[/@ch_4], William’s father. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold; his eyes twinkle with both fatigue and affection as he greets his family. He sets aside a battered hat and leans in to kiss his wife’s brow, his presence filling the room.]
"Eat up, you must stay warm dearest William," Mary insists, ladling soup into a bowl.
"A good breakfast is the way to man's heart and the love of a good woman will conquer the world far more," John proclaims, sitting and beckoning his son to join.
Toby[/@ch_2] lifts his head, tail thumping, as if sensing the rare peace.]
"Put down your chalk board William, look at all mother has done, putting her love in your stew and eat with the big spoon!"
William obeys, savoring the warmth of the broth and the comfort of kin, his thoughts straying to worlds both real and imagined.
William[/@ch_1] gazes into the fire, dreams flickering in his young eyes—dreams of stages, sonnets, and the shape his life might take. The world outside is fraught with peril, but here, in the heart of home, hope is kindled.]
"It’s thee days like these, a loving peace. That the world and its plague outdoors at our feet seems furthest away... I, William Shakespeare, my name ringing proud, not bleak nor weak but stood out from the crowds. Young whilst ageing wise with wisdom, and still more time to growing."
