A glowing hazy light erupted to pierce the deep darkness of space—and then suddenly and soundlessly exploded into a brilliant light, quickly illuminating the whole fabric of the vast universe.
As bright as one hundred billion suns, this fantastic light struck the Earth—and cast an ethereal pearlescent glow in the nighttime sky over England.
The people of Stratford-Upon-Avon, at the heart of the country, opened their doors and windows, to peek outside. Some were brave enough to emerge from their houses, and to step into the light at once. Others were more cautious, and were afraid of crossing their own thresholds.
But everyone looked upward and outward, to witness this new light, and to marvel at how it illuminated the trees, the fields, and houses—and each other. This abundant light did not seem to cast any shadows. The whole land had turned from night to day.
The air around the people shimmered magically. Incredibly small and infinitely numerous particles floated and swirled all around them. Some people reached out to touch the glittering powdery stuff. Their eyes opened wider and their mouths fell open as what was once invisible was now visible. Their real world had become something other than real.
Some of the people looked dazed, not entirely certain if they were awake or asleep. Some looked confused and mystified. Some of them even shed some tears, entirely charmed and pleased by what they saw. Some began to pray aloud, in pleasurable awe. They were eager to believe that there was some divine meaning.
Some of them looked afraid, as if a bright new star portended immediate danger, or dark days in the near future.
But as this glorious light washed over an eight-year-old boy named William Shakespeare, the more he had a sense of falling—not downwards, but rather upwards. He could not tell if he was growing faint or if he was awakening.
As he walked, he could no longer feel his feet touching the ground.
He stopped to stare at the firmament of the heavens, but nothing seemed settled or fixed or solid. Every last thing around him moved in a peculiar flow.
A strange rhythmic sound thrummed as it flowed into his ears—but then it entered his whole body, making his internal organs vibrate. He smiled, enjoying the sound of this peculiar music—which played on him, and played with him.
The pressure in the air increased around him. His hands were tickled by an intensifying charge of energy. The hair on his head stood up. His scalp tingled. He shivered, as if something was writhing inside and outside of his head in a circular motion.
He had a peaceful feeling as if he were floating weightlessly, like a ship on an open tranquil sea. A most blissful sensation spread across his back, as if he were resting on a sheepskin of the softest wool.
When he turned to look at it, he saw the wool curled and shining, like golden rings. He reached out to touch it, to take it in his hands—but suddenly the light in the sky, and all of the people around him faded from view.
The sky darkened, wind struck his face, and the ground crumbled underfoot. Water sprouted and surged upward, until everything began to swirl around him, heaving him in a chaotic howling torrent.
A large boat appeared in the distance. He swam towards it, but as soon as he reached out to grasp the boat, a fierce wind tore the boat into parts as small as black ashes. His eyes turned upward as the rolling billowing waves rose up high above him, towering over his head—and he bobbled helplessly as the tempest tossed him about.
He watched as even more ships appeared, but they tumbled over a wave as high as a great cliff—and then smashed into tumbling tons of foam, all of them turning turtle, until they broke up into countless pieces and vanished from sight.
The ocean swelled so much, it even rolled over the coastline, and it swept over the highest mountains—swallowing the whole of the British Isles!
Suddenly—Shakespeare awoke. Panting and sweating, he struggled to come out of his dream. Sitting motionless in his bed, he had a nausea as if he was a sick sailor who was not yet accustomed to the sea. He covered his mouth, to keep himself from vomiting.
“Are you all right?” his wife Anne asked. She looked more than a little worried and alarmed. She had awakened minutes ago, but she knew better than to awaken her husband when he was dreaming with such intensity.
Rubbing his eyes, he nodded reassuringly to her. But he did not want to look her in the eye. He glanced at his youngest children, the twins Judith and Hamlet, who were still asleep together in their nearby bed.
Anne took his hand, as he collected himself.
He thought of how unusually strong this dream was, as he tried to come back to the real world. He reminded himself that he was no longer eight years old. He was twenty-two years old, a grown man now. He was not dreaming anymore. He was home. He was safe.
Anne touched his face, “Was it that dream again… that bottomless dream?”
He nodded, a little ashamed, and more than a little confused by that dream. He tried to remember how long it had been since he had that bottomless dream—that same exact dream which was not like any other dream he ever had. He had small dreams all the time, but what he saw and heard in them was always fleeting and seemingly unimportant. He usually forgot them as soon as he awakened. He never tried to make any sense of them. He let go of them, and never tried to keep them.
But this dream is different, he thought. This is a dream that won’t let go of me.
“You haven’t had that bottomless dream in some time,” she said, as she wondered what could have caused it now.
He nodded. She was right. He had not had that same dream since before their children were born. He had come to think that this odd dream was almost gone for good, never to return. He had come to think that the mystical flowing music would never return.
I was wrong, he thought. It was not gone. Will it ever go, never to return?
Anne saw that he did not want to talk about this dream. It obviously upset him. He usually enjoyed talking, about everything and anything. But this dream had always worried him. She was the only person who knew about it. He dared not speak of it to anyone else.
She gently took his hand in hers, and closed her eyes, to encourage him to fall asleep again. He nodded, and laid his head down again.
Anne said, “You were sleeping on your left side. Maybe that is why you had that dream. You know you should sleep on your right side.”
He nodded. As everyone knew, it was better to sleep on the right side of your body, at least for the first part of the night—and to sleep on your left side, for the second part of the night.
She said, “Turn over now, on your left side.”
He nodded, and did as she suggested. He closed his eyes and tried to forget about his dream.
He thought, Is it a dream… or is it instead a nightmare?
And he was even more troubled by the question, Why has it returned now?
He pushed all of it away. He fought to dismiss any thoughts about the water, the earthquake, and the flood in his dream. For some reason, those things didn’t trouble him.
But as hard as he tried, he could not banish the memory of that light in the sky. In all the years since it appeared, he was no closer to understanding it than the very first night it arrived. The light had always perplexed him.
Even now he could not stop his mind from drifting back to that dreamlike night when the light in the sky first arrived. People took to calling it a “blazing star.” He later learned that astronomers called it nova stella—a “new star.”
His mind raced.
Star. New star. Blazing star.
The words echoed in his mind, bouncing across his consciousness.
He inhaled sharply, as he realized for the first time—No, they have never been gone from my mind. Not once. They never stopped reverberating in my head, ever since I first saw that star. That new star. That blazing star. That bright particular star.
The star had appeared in 1572, fourteen years ago. In all of that time, the star was a mystery to him. To his knowledge, no one had discovered what the star meant, why it had lasted for so many months, or why it shone so brightly. Even during the day, it created a glow that was unusually bright. Night after night, day after day—for sixteen whole months—that star had cast a supernatural light over England, and no one knew why.
He hoped that someone, or some people would figure it out one day in the future. But he also worried that the star might never be solved. He sometimes feared that it would be forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. It made him wonder, How much of history is forgotten, ignored, or dismissed? Is what we are told only a small fraction of what has happened?
He often thought of how that new star was perhaps too incredible to be believed or described. He thought, Perhaps so much of history is untold because it can not be put into words. Perhaps so much of history is untold because it beggars belief.
Over the years, he sometimes asked himself, How is a new star created? Why? For what purpose? What in the world did it mean?
Everyone he knew had seen the occasional shooting star and eclipses of the Moon and the Sun. Some people had even seen a comet. However, the light of that new star was different. It was brighter than any other star in the sky, and as bright as the luminous Moon. It was almost as bright as the “Dawn-Bringer”—the Morning Star. However, the Morning Star, as everyone knew, comes and goes regularly with each passing day. The new star of 1572 had never been seen before or since.
Shakespeare could still now see the star in his memory, as if it was yesterday. He thought, It was very close in the sky to the immovable North Star—also known as the Guiding Star, Stella Polaris, the Star of the Sea, and the Ship-Star.
He thought of how merchant-sailors, like Hesiod’s father, had used the North Star to guide them on their trade-routes. He chuckled as he thought, Francis Drake could not have sailed around the world without the North Star. Nor could he bedevil King Philip of Spain’s ships, without that star to guide him.
Shakespeare remembered how, back in 1572, he had a strange notion that the star had arrived in the sky solely for him. The idea was silly to him now, as an adult. But as a boy back then, he believed it with all of his heart. He thought now, I could be forgiven for thinking such a foolish thought. After all, that star was sitting in the sky right over the Cassiopeia constellation—which is formed like the letter “W”—the first letter of my name William.
Even now, many years later, he still got a tingle of pleasure at the mere idea that the star held some personal significance for him.
He remembered how some people said the light was a sign from God. They said that the only one who could have shone such a light on them was the Father of Lights. Some people said it could have been the Star of Bethlehem, or that it heralded the imminent return of Jesus Christ, and the End of Days. Some people said that it was like when God caused the Sun to stand still.
Some people said they saw the figure of Christ within the radiance—an appearance similar to the Transfiguration over Mount Tabor, when Christ shone like the Sun. As they looked at the light with their eyes, they said that they could feel Him in their hearts.
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Shakespeare remembered how—over the days and weeks, as the new star continued to shine—increasingly he began to believe that something triumphant, glorious, and majestic was about to occur. He began to believe that anything was possible. Every night that he went to bed, as the night sky continued to glow, he believed that he might awaken to witness the return of Christ.
With a boyish eagerness, he came to the conclusion that in a mysterious way, God was moving something in him, or that God sent this star to move him—away from England, and around the world.
He came to believe that this star-blasting was some sort of blessing from God, and that his entire life depended on it—that whatever he would accomplish in his life, and whatever heights he would climb, he had to depend on this star, if he were to reach his zenith.
The star inspired him to think that he could go anywhere and everywhere in the world. He began to believe that the new star was delivering a message to him. The star was guiding him to sail away from England, to navigate new seas, to explore new worlds, and to discover parts of the world where no one else had ever ventured.
When he went to school, he read and heard stories about sea-faring heroes. He sometimes thought, Why else would a blazing star appear for the first time, if not to light a path forward for me—or someone like me—to blaze a new trail on Earth?
He had daydreams of becoming as great as any of the great sea-faring heroes—like Aeneas, Jason, Odysseus, Cabot, or Magellan. He remembered when he first read The Aeneid by Virgil—and how his jaw dropped open when he read about how the journey of Aeneas was divinely ordained by a star that also made the night look like day.
He wanted to go in search of a Golden Fleece, like Jason. He wanted his own ship, like The Argo. He wanted to join forces with the brave men, like the heroic Argonauts from Boeotia, for a historic enterprise.
The more he dreamed about it, the more he wanted to live a life of adventure. He wanted to go on the most daring voyages. He wanted to fight in the greatest of wars, and in the greatest of battles—like the incredible victory, in 1571, at the port of Lepanto, against a much larger Turkish fleet.
Since he was such a small and skinny boy, Shakespeare did not want to become like just any man. He wanted to become a tall, strong and brave man—a real “Man of Iron”—like Odysseus. As a boy, he often dreamed of Odysseus, the King of Ithaca, who was as famous for his courage as he was for his cunning intelligence.
He also dreamed of living a very long time—so he could go on many adventures. He wanted to grow old and wise, like the eloquent Nestor—whose advanced age didn’t stop him from fighting the centaurs and hunting the Calydonian Boar, with his fellow Argonauts.
As a boy, living in the heart of England, Shakespeare had a special desire, deep in his own heart, to serve his monarch. He sometimes hoped to sail off to find new lands for the Queen. He imagined that he could serve her like Christopher Columbus had served his patrons, the Spanish monarchs, who sponsored his expedition to discover the New World in 1492. He thought of serving her like the Englishman John Cabot had served King Henry VII, when he discovered Newfoundland in 1497.
He thought of how sailors had recently seen a monstrous beast sliding upon the water near Newfoundland. It had long and ugly teeth, and glaring eyes, and it had the hair, the color, and the shape of a lion—and it could even bellow a horrible roar much like a lion. As terrifying as such a monster seemed, it only made Shakespeare even more eager to see it with his own eyes.
Reading of such adventures, it made him eager to sail around the world, like Ferdinand Magellan—who discovered a vast ocean which he named the Pacific, in 1520.
Even now, Shakespeare still thought that his was the greatest age of discovery in the entire history of the world—and that it had only just begun.
There was no greater example than Sir Francis Drake, who had sailed around the world only recently. Shakespeare could still remember the overwhelming pride he and every last Englishman had felt when Drake returned, in 1580. There were celebrations for days—with bells ringing, blazing bonfires, public feasts of thanksgiving. It still made Shakespeare’s head light, to think about how extraordinary that moment was—and how fortunate he was to live during such a glorious period in England’s history. His heart beat faster at the thought of all the history that was just waiting to be made.
A Spanish Franciscan friar, Martín Ignacio de Loyola, also recently sailed around the world, returning to Spain in 1584. He then departed again in 1585 for a second such voyage, and had not yet returned.
Shakespeare, like most men and women he knew, eagerly awaited any news of these kinds of voyages. They prayed for the success and safe return of the Englishmen who were engaged in this race with Spain to explore and claim the world. The fact that there was a bitter war with Spain only made the matter even more urgent.
Some people he knew said hateful things about Loyola and cursed his name, just because he was Spanish. Shakespeare could not find it in his heart to hate him. He thought that any man who was brave enough to sail around the world must be a good man. He never said it aloud, but Shakespeare prayed for Loyola, too.
Every Englishman’s heart swelled with pride to know that men like Richard Grenville, Martin Frobisher, Thomas Cavendish, John Davis, and others, were exploring the world for the glory of England, Queen Elizabeth, and Almighty God.
Shakespeare was often distracted by thoughts of the New World. The first Englishmen had just arrived there—to establish England’s first overseas settlement—not even three years ago, on the fourth day of July, 1584. Every day since then, all of England eagerly awaited any news from that English settlement, at Roanoke.
John Davis had just set sail in 1585, in search of the Northwest Passage. Thomas Cavendish set sail, from Plymouth, just a few months ago, in 1586.
So much was happening all at once, it was hard to keep track of it all. But Shakespeare was a keen student of these worldwide voyages. Even if he could not himself go on one of them, he made sure he knew all about these seafaring adventures. He kept up with the news by asking anyone traveling through Stratford, especially anyone who was from the coastal ports, like Plymouth, Portsmouth, and Southampton.
When he was a boy, Shakespeare had many dreams of being a knight on a perilous quest. When he first became aware of the importance of religion and the Church, he grew eager to go on a quest that was sacred, too. It occurred to him that to serve the Queen was to serve God, since she was anointed by God.
He dreamed of becoming another Percival, a Knight of the Round Table whom King Arthur trusted enough to send on a quest for the Holy Grail. Shakespeare longed to have and wield a magical weapon, like Arthur’s sword Excalibur, or Sir Bedivere’s magical lance.
Like a knight in service to King Arthur long ago, Shakespeare desperately wanted to swear an oath to, and be bound by a Code of Chivalry. He wanted to be renowned, as a knight, as much for his integrity and compassion as for his martial bravery.
Since Shakespeare was born on Saint George’s Day, he often dreamed of riding a white horse, and picking up a lance, to slay a dragon.
But unlike most boys, whose interests changed from day to day, and who seemed to care for little, Shakespeare’s passion did not fade. His desire to go on important adventures had even sometimes burned like a fever in his body, and gave him feverish dreams.
John Shakespeare, his father, had never sailed anywhere, and had never even seen the coast. His father had never even traveled beyond London, which was only a two-day ride away. He sometimes thought of his father, For such a pious man, my father has not even made a pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral—or to Halifax, to pay homage to Saint John the Baptist, whose head is buried there. He often wished that his father was more like Hesiod’s father, who was not afraid of setting sail, and going to sea.
As a boy, Shakespeare often wanted to go places where his father had never been, and sail beyond the horizon. He remembered how he sometimes thought, What if the Father of Lights sent this new blazing star to tell me to obey Him, and travel the world—even if it means disobeying my own father?
In school he later learned how Alexander the Great, who was never defeated in battle, accomplished so much.
It fed his boyish dreams of sailing every last sea, and to the ends of the Earth, as Alexander once did.
As a boy he wanted to sail away, even if it meant being shipwrecked. He found many such stories, and each story helped him to overcome any fear of going to sea. When he learned how Saint Paul was shipwrecked on his way to Rome to face Caesar, only to be tortured and finally executed—Shakespeare believed himself capable of making such a voyage, even if it meant making that ultimate sacrifice.
He once read about an oracle who told an ancient Greek explorer to sail away in search of a new land where the rain falls from a sky without any clouds. It made Shakespeare so eager, to sail in search of such a wondrous place, he once spoke a vow to spend his whole life on the seas to find that paradise.
Now in his bed, beside his wife, and near his children, Shakespeare smiled. His love for her warmed his heart. They shared so many worries—about their family, their business, the threat of war, the religious turmoil in the country, and about the future. But just by looking at her, his worries vanished. She radiated so much joy and love, she herself was like a cloudless sky from which no rain falls.
He was a mature and sober-minded young man now. He was no longer that head-in-the-clouds boy he had been. He sometimes missed being that boy he once was. But he was quite glad that he was not that boy anymore. He liked being a man—and being a husband. He especially enjoyed being a father.
As a boy, he often thought that the blazing star was a beacon, beckoning him onward across the seas, to explore the whole world. He once looked towards the horizon for his future. Now, he was a man, a husband, and a father. He had only to look at them to know where he belonged. He could not imagine a love greater than the love he had for them. His future was always going to be with them. He now had responsibilities to his entire family, and to his community in Stratford-Upon-Avon.
He smiled at the memory of the foolish boy he once was, a boy who should have known better. He thought, I know better now. I was a boy, who had boyhood dreams, inspired by that new star. There was nothing wrong with that. But now, as a man, I must know better.
He remembered how the new star eventually faded and disappeared as mysteriously as it appeared. He thought of how he had more important things to worry about. He thought of how he should let that new star fade from his memory.
There was a time, when he was much younger, when he thought that his life was forever changed by the star. He was so convinced he would live a life of great adventure, he had never even stopped to think that he could possibly ever live a normal humdrum life. That thought never entered his head.
But now I am a man. I don’t need to be a man of the world to be a man. If this is a mundane life, then so be it. In this world I must live the life that I have, and not the one I dreamt of.
He sometimes told himself that the power the star previously had on him was now lost, and gone forever. But he found himself telling it to himself more than once. Even now he had to tell himself that the star meant nothing to him.
I just wish that I could put that star out of my memory—and put it all away, all of it, and remove those distant memories. Why must I remember such juvenile dreams, and such immature beliefs? Why won’t it leave me alone now, and leave me be?
As strange as it seemed, there were even times over the years when he sometimes doubted that the new star had actually appeared. Especially in moments like now, as he struggled to sleep in bed, somewhere in between being fully awake and in a deep slumber, he was unsure of what it was he actually saw—or if he really saw anything at all, back in November, 1572.
Many of his other boyhood memories had faded. He could not remember fully some of his fondest memories. Even now, as his mind softened, craving some sleep, he could not be sure of what he knew and did not know—Did I really see a new star back then?
Was that glittering in the air and in the sky at all real?
Were my senses deceived?
What if it was just a dream of a star that I had at the time?
What if my memories of the star are just memories of a dream I had once as a boy?
Is it possible that what I remember can be false?
Why can’t I know anything for sure?
Why can’t I know the truth—and know it to be true beyond any doubt forever and without any further misgivings?
Why must I doubt what I believe I saw?
Why can’t I know for sure what I believe I saw?
Why can’t I know what I know?
He became quickly sick to his stomach, as if he had fallen overboard.
This is no way to live—doubting what is real, and being tempted to believe what is not real.
He suddenly realized that hours had passed. It was time for him to rise, and begin the day. He was incredibly tired, and lacked any will to work.
The bottomless dream, and his thoughts and memories, had robbed him of his much-needed rest. He pulled himself out of bed anyway, and forced himself to prepare for his day’s work, which began long before sunrise.
He hoped that he would not be bothered by the bottomless dream again. He worked so hard. He could not afford to lose precious sleep. It would be difficult to stay awake and alert all day.
This is no way to live—half awake during the night, and half asleep during the day.
He was so distracted by these doubts and worries, he almost forgot to kneel in prayer, as was his custom first thing in the morning after waking up. But he stopped, and got on his knees.
As he prayed, with his eyes closed, he often saw himself all alone in an extraordinarily deep cavernous pit. He could not see the top of the pit, nor could he see the bottom.
He stood against steep rocky walls, on a narrow rock cleft, inside this pit which seemed as large as a canyon gorge.
He sometimes thought he could see birds around him. He sometimes imagined that he himself was a bird, perched high on the rocky walls of that pit.
Anne opened her eyes. She saw the troubled look on his face, as he prayed fervently with his eyes closed. Many times, more often than not, she thought that he looked as if he was hearing a voice calling him, as he prayed.
She knew that no matter how much older and more mature she was than her husband, there were depths within him that she could never fathom. At times like this, she knew that he had to work through it mostly by himself. She stayed quiet, and pretended to be asleep.
She reminded herself to refill his bedpillow later with fresh linden tree leaves. She thought, Perhaps that will give him the restful sleep that he so sorely needs.
After he finished his prayer, he got up, and exited the room. He was careful not to wake his three younger brothers, as he passed through their room, which was next to his own. He stopped at the door to the room where his sister shared the same bed as his oldest daughter. He saw Susanna’s face, which seemed to shine from within. He smiled, and then quietly walked down the nearby stairs.
An unsettling question nagged at him, If my dreams as a boy were indeed real—about the new star and the mystical musical flowing song—then why did I have them at all, if I have no use for them now as a man?
Why even have such a boyhood, if nothing from it benefits me now?
Why have a past, a prologue, if nothing follows after it, and there is no foreseeable future?
Manhood should be built on a firmer foundation, and not on unreliable fantasies from my youth.
It made him want to pray again, immediately.
Why do I always feel as if my life is one perpetual overture or prelude—why do I feel like I am imprisoned in an eternal beginning?
He heard birds singing outside. He smiled to himself, and thought, It is a good thing that I did not leave Stratford to travel the world.
Because wherever I went, I would never have been able to stop thinking about my beloved family whom I love so much—and my home which I treasure so much.
I should shine as a light in the world today, and stop worrying about that shining star from years ago—that is still aglow hazily in my mind.