Blood & Curses: Dark Sanctuary Book One

Chapter 20: The Rebirth of Montague Kerr

By the time I was reborn into the blood, it was 1599 and I was a man of fifty-eight years gone, and a doctor no less, having followed in my father's footsteps, albeit quite reluctantly.

In my youth, I was something of a passionate soul, you see, who sought solace and enjoyment in art and performance, and it was towards that theatrical world I naturally gravitated, much to my father's displeasure. I yearned greatly for words, for sweet song and strong emotion to fill my senses, but my father insisted that I learn medicine and heal people, not debase myself in false employment and so-called debauchery. He was not a cruel man, you understand, but I always knew that his opinion and his insistence I become a doctor was greatly influenced by his determination that I would not mix with fellows who, let's say, were slightly more encouraging of a more fluid lifestyle so common in the arts.

And so, a doctor I became and surprisingly did not regret it, despite any dreams that might have lingered on. I found a natural affinity for healing and caring for the sick, perhaps why I have returned to a life of such purpose now at Hexton House.

In addition to my profession, I sought other ways to obtain my father's approval – or maybe, attempt to divert his attention away from my affairs - and so I married a young lady called Millicent, the daughter of a long-term family friend.

Millicent was a quiet, shy girl but sharp as a button, mind you. She soon realised why my father was so keen for me to live the life he set out for me, but she had no desire to consummate our marriage any more than I did, and we lived together, more as friends and companions than husband and wife, for many years, despite both knowing full well it was a charade. A charade it may have been, but it kept both our fathers happy and mine died thinking I had shunned that side of me he detested so much.

By the time he passed, Millicent had already sadly said farewell to this world just five years before, and by then I was in my fifties. Far from feeling the release of the burden my father had placed upon me, I found myself instead, quite aggrieved at it all. Just when I was given the chance to live my life the way in which I had always dream, it seemed I was far too old to do so. I am sure that fifty-eight seems like nothing in these modern days, but back then, life expectancies were much reduced and reaching your fifties was considered quite old indeed.

Despite this, there was one thing my age did not prevent, and that was attending the theatre! It was as if I had rediscovered my love for it all over again.

When the Globe was built in 1599, I felt energised watching that structure slowly begin to take form, rising from the ground in Southwark and looking to me like some beautiful oasis in the desert and I could not wait to go there and be hydrated by the words. Ah, you have no notion of how breath-taking it was to witness some of the greatest works by the world's most remarkable playwright being performed in a place like The Globe! I truly feel sorry for all those who never had the great honour to be alive during those times. Just imagine! To actually see the actors moving about that stage, reciting those great lines, watched by the jostling, eager audiences – the groundlings all packed into the pit area, the more fortunate of us seated in the tiers. It was truly something!