God cannot effect that anything which is
past should not have been.
It is more impossible than rising the dead.
--Summa Theologica
The moment I was out of sight of the audience I broke away from Sid
and ran to the dressing room. I flopped down on the first chair I saw,
my head and arms trailed over its back, and I almost passed out. It
wasn't a mind-wavery fit. Just normal faint.
I couldn't have been there long--well, not very long, though the
battle-rattle and alarums of the last scene were echoing tinnily from
the stage--when Bruce and Beau and Mark (who was playing Malcolm,
Martin's usual main part) came in wearing their last-act stage-armor
and carrying between them Queen Elizabeth flaccid as a sack. Martin
came after them, stripping off his white wool nightgown so fast that
buttons flew. I thought automatically, _I'll have to sew those._
They laid her down on three chairs set side by side and hurried out.
Unpinning the folded towel, which had fallen around his waist, Martin
walked over and looked down at her. He yanked off his wig by a braid
and tossed it at me.
I let it hit me and fall on the floor. I was looking at that white
queenly face, eyes open and staring sightless at the ceiling, mouth
open a little too with a thread of foam trailing from the corner, and
at that ice-cream-cone bodice that never stirred. The blue fly came
buzzing over my head and circled down toward her face.
"Martin," I said with difficulty, "I don't think I'm going to like
what we're doing."
He turned on me, his short hair elfed, his fists planted high on his
hips at the edge of his black tights, which now were all his clothes.
"You knew!" he said impatiently. "You knew you were signing up for
more than acting when you said, 'Count me in the company.'"
Like a legged sapphire the blue fly walked across her upper lip and
stopped by the thread of foam.
"But Martin ... changing the past ... dipping back and killing the
real queen ... replacing her with a double--"
His dark brows shot up. "The real--You think this is the real Queen
Elizabeth?" He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the nearest
table, gushed some on a towel stained with grease-paint and, holding
the dead head by its red hair (no, wig--the real one wore a wig too)
scrubbed the forehead.
The white cosmetic came away, showing sallow skin and on it a faint
tattoo in the form of an "S" styled like a yin-yang symbol left a
little open.
* * * * *
"Snake!" he hissed. "Destroyer! The arch-enemy, the eternal opponent!
God knows how many times people like Queen Elizabeth have been dug out
of the past, first by Snakes, then by Spiders, and kidnapped or killed
and replaced in the course of our war. This is the first big operation
I've been on, Greta. But I know that much."
My head began to ache. I asked, "If she's an enemy double, why didn't
she know a performance of Macbeth in her lifetime was an anachronism?"
"Foxholed in the past, only trying to hold a position, they get
dulled. They turn half zombie. Even the Snakes. Even our people.
Besides, she almost did catch on, twice when she spoke to Leicester."
"Martin," I said dully, "if there've been all these replacements,
first by them, then by us, what's happened to the _real_ Elizabeth?"