“Can you see the characters’ breath in cold weather?” he asked.
“Yes, in their worlds. But I doubt whether I could see ghosts’ breath.”
“You’ve seen ghosts, too?” Arnie’s tone showed no signs of skepticism.
“Yes. In Renaissance England. Ghosts like Shakespeare’s sister.”
“Awesome. I wish I could see them.” Arnie walked around a patch of snow that no one had cleared from the sidewalk. “Sometimes in my dreams I see Shakespeare’s plays, and I wish I could enter those worlds as you can. I wish drinking orange juice with you would give me your powers.”
Beth shook her head. “Be glad you don’t have them.”
“If you’re going through troubles, I wish I could go through them with you,” he said.
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” Beth frowned. Did he care too much about her? She didn’t want to turn him down.
“I thought of a question,” Arnie said. “If Richard wants to change the endings of Shakespeare’s plays, who could he find to write the new endings? It couldn’t be just anyone.”
Beth closed her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said. The answer came to her all too quickly. “Marlowe. I guess I need to visit his ghost. But I don’t like him.”
“Marlowe!” Arnie’s eyes widened. He paused for a moment. “That’s logical. But can a ghost write plays?”
“No, but Richard is probably trying to find a way around that.” She decided not to tell Arnie that Marlowe hated Shakespeare, because that would be too close to revealing Shakespeare’s secret. Only she and Merlin knew that Shakespeare had killed Marlowe because Marlowe had seduced his sister, Judith Shakespeare, and she had gotten pregnant and drowned herself in the Thames. “Thanks, Arnie. For believing me and helping me.”
“I wish I could do more.” He looked into her eyes.
“Not now,” she said. “I’d like to go home now. It’s too cold to keep walking.”
“I don’t mind the cold,” he said, “but if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”
He left Beth at her door. She said a quick hello to her mother, who was working on lesson plans, and hurried upstairs. Arnie was a better companion than Marlowe, but Beth felt she needed to visit the playwright’s ghost. She had never met the living Marlowe.
Though Beth didn’t like the ghostly banks of the Thames where Marlowe dwelled, she closed her eyes and tried to go there.
She stood enveloped in fog. The temperature was not as cold as it had been in Bethesda, but the air was damper. Dense mists blinded her. Even the fog on the witches’ heath had felt more wholesome.
She was dressed as Ben. But she was still a girl, with her own hands and feet. Her many identities began to confuse her. Being a boy had been fun at first, but she wasn’t sure it still was. Marlowe could see through her disguise, so what was the point? But she couldn’t order a costume change for herself.
She began to walk, though she didn’t know where she was going. The banks of the river were steep enough to keep her from walking into the water by accident.
She wondered whether she had made a mistake in coming here. She couldn’t ask Marlowe directly about her concerns, because she didn’t want to give him ideas for harming Shakespeare.
Beth trudged on. This gray world of the dead chilled her more than the snow. The fog sank like sorrow into her bones. If she was killed as Mercutio, would some part of her go to a world like this? She knew this was the world of ghosts who had been real people, unlike Mercutio, but where was Mercutio now? Could he be in some world like this? At least Hamlet’s father had told Hamlet where he was, but she hadn’t heard from Mercutio. Maybe he wasn’t suffering.
Mercutio, she called out, wishing for an answer. Maybe there was some special place for dead characters. Maybe Hamlet’s father knew where Mercutio was. She abandoned her quest for Marlowe’s ghost.
“Royal Dane!” she called out. “King Hamlet!”
Beth moved to a different fog, this time on a rocky coast rather than the bank of the Thames. The fog was darker, because the hour was deep in the night, but it wasn’t as creepy as the fog in the world of dead human beings. She still looked like Ben, perhaps because she was looking for Mercutio.
A tall ghost in armor appeared out of the fog. Maybe she had made a mistake in diverting herself from her mission. She remembered that this ghost had talked only to Hamlet.
“Please speak, your majesty,” she begged the ghost. “I am not your son, but I am trying to help Shakespeare.”
The ghost beckoned her to follow him. She wasn’t eager to do so, but that was the only way to get him to talk. They moved some distance through the fog. Then the ghost said, “Mark me.”
“I will,” Beth said.
“Revenge,” the ghost intoned in a deep voice. “Murder most foul.”
“I know.” She tried not to flinch at the harshness of his tone. “It’s terrible that you were murdered, but your son avenged you. I want to ask whether you have seen Mercutio in the place where you dwell. He is also a character who was killed, and he is my friend.”
The ghost paused, and she feared he would not answer.
“Please, your majesty. Have you seen Mercutio?”
“Mercutio? No.” The ghost spoke slowly. “He is not condemned to walk the night nor confined in fast fires in the day. Or at least, I have not seen him.”
“Thank you.” Beth breathed a sigh of relief.
“Swear to revenge me,” the ghost demanded. “Swear.”
“Your son has already done that,” Beth repeated. “I’m not sure why you are still walking in the night. I hope you find rest.”
She thought of her bedroom, and whirled through fog back to her own room.
She had failed at her mission. She hadn’t found Marlowe or talked with him. But at least she knew that Mercutio wasn’t in Purgatory. Probably. But he hadn’t committed foul crimes, as Hamlet’s father had.
I’m going to go nuts, caring this much about characters, she thought.
She could have asked the ghost about other characters. She wondered why Lady Macbeth wasn’t in Purgatory for her sins. Maybe characters were in Purgatory only if Shakespeare had put them there. Beth was glad she was involved in Shakespeare’s works, not Dante’s. She wouldn’t want to see a lot of characters suffering in hell.
What about Richard? Well, maybe him. But she was afraid that, even there, he would exert power over her.
Time for homework. Could geometry heal a mind troubled by Shakespeare? But should she have looked for Bottom in Denmark? No, she had to focus on geometry.
TRIANGLES AND QUADRANGLES. LOVE triangles and quadrangles. Drama was a class just as much as geometry. If she saw the “real” Viola and Olivia, that would constitute homework, wouldn’t it?
Water engulfed Beth. She gasped for breath. Was she in the Thames again? She grabbed onto something. A piece of wood. She pulled herself up for air. The smell of saltwater filled her nostrils, as water filled her lungs. She tried to spit it out. She was treading water in a sea, where she saw nothing but pieces of wreckage. She was Viola. A sea captain would rescue her and take her to Illyria. But he hadn’t appeared yet. Beth clung to the wood. She had a brother who was missing and maybe dead, but since she had never seen him, it was hard to care too much about him. As Beth, she knew that Viola’s brother Sebastian was doing well.
No, she didn’t want to be Viola. She wanted to see Viola.
A wave engulfed her. She spluttered.
Then she stood on dry land, in Mercutio’s clothes. What a relief. The scent of wildflowers filled the air. She approached the gate to a mansion.
There stood Viola, willowy and handsome in her male attire. Viola’s face was long, and her fair hair was shoulder-length. Her hands moved gracefully as she gestured to Olivia on the other side. Beth’s Mercutio hands were much thicker.
Oli
via’s skin was olive-toned. Black hair, impossibly sleek, streamed almost to her waist. Her features were Mediterranean, and well-shaped. Her brown eyes gazed at Viola.
Neither of them noticed Mercutio.
Beth felt Mercutio-like irritation that they ignored her. After all, she was one of the handsomest young men in Verona, or at least she looked like him. She supposed she should look at Amelia the way Viola looked at Olivia. Viola was pulling back just slightly, but she maintained her disguise better than some actresses who played Viola and had to keep showing how feminine they were.
Mercutio would surely interrupt them.
“Hail, Lady Olivia! Hail, Cesario!” Beth strode over to them.
Cesario/Viola frowned, as if Mercutio were competition.
In a fit of jealousy that Beth knew was absurd, she wanted to compete with Viola for Olivia’s attentions.
“What lady is this?” Beth exclaimed. “Are you the Lady Olivia? No wonder Duke Orsino pines for lack of your love. Anyone would do the same. If I cannot kiss your hand, you will break my heart.”
Finally noticing Beth, Olivia extended her hand.
Beth kissed Olivia’s hand. It was soft. Well, of course a woman’s hand would be, especially the hand of a woman who had never had to work. And it was nice that Olivia’s hand had never been stained with guilty blood. Olivia’s perfume excited Beth’s admiration. Maybe she would try to find something like it at Macy’s.
“Who are you, fair stranger?” Olivia asked. “I am surrounded by fair strangers.”
Viola looked daggers at Beth.
“I am Mercutio, cousin of the Prince of Verona.” Beth looked into Olivia’s eyes as if they were the most beautiful in the world, though they weren’t as huge as Romeo’s eyes, which really were the most beautiful. “I have never seen a lady so lovely, neither in Verona nor any other place.”
“You are most courteous.” Olivia gazed at her.
“What are you doing here, Mercutio?” Viola asked in a tone that was not her sweetest.
Beth remembered that she needed Viola’s cooperation, not her enmity. “I am here because Richard III is trying to change the endings of Shakespeare’s plays. He is gathering a host of characters, mostly villains, who want to force a change. But of course those of you in comedies, with happy endings, won’t want a change and will join with me in opposing Richard.”
“Not want a change? I am uncertain about that.” Olivia smiled at Mercutio, then at Viola. “Sebastian wasn’t my first choice, after all.”
“Orsino was mine.” Viola’s voice was sharp enough to slice bread. “I don’t want a change. But how are we supposed to resist Richard? I may be wearing men’s clothes, but I don’t know how to fight.”
“True, but if you join our band of brothers and sisters, we may be able defeat him,” Beth said. “Perhaps Queen Mab will bring us a dream that shows us the way. Won’t you stand with us, dear Lady Olivia?”
“If you speak so courteously, how can I refuse?” Olivia’s voice was warm, maybe too warm.
“Thank you, my friends. I had best go and leave you to your play. I shall return anon, when we have a plan.”
Beth bowed and backed off. Darn, she might have done more harm than good. She shouldn’t have tried to compete with Viola.
Beth found her way back to her room and returned to geometry. It was simpler dealing with numbers than with people—or with characters.
Chapter 14
BETH LAY ACROSS HER bed and fell into a deep sleep. She woke in the atrium of a villa with marble pillars. The atrium’s floor was paved with tiles depicting waves and dolphins. A statue of Romulus and Remus with their lupine mother stood in the center.
Beth could smell bread baking in some nearby kitchen. She heard the cries of crows flying overhead.
Two men in gleaming white togas stood near the statue. They did not see her, and she did not see herself. Was she dreaming?
“I care about nothing but honor,” said a man she had never seen before. He had black hair and, not surprisingly, a Roman nose. “I will enter into no more plots.”
“I know that you are an honorable man,” said the other. “You are the most honorable Shakespearean character of them all. You love your country as much as honor; indeed, loving your country is your honor.”
Beth immediately recognized the second speaker as Cassius, and the first undoubtedly was Brutus. No matter how honorable he thought he was, she shuddered at the thought of a man who would stab a friend.
“The honor of Rome is not at stake.” Brutus had a rolling voice, an orator’s voice, though he had failed to be as fine an orator as Mark Antony.
“Your other country is Shakespeare’s world. The honor of our play is at stake.” Cassius moved towards Brutus. “If Caesar was a tyrant—and he was—then Richard III is a far greater one. He even kills his allies. He killed innocuous little Mercutio.”
Beth bristled at the description.
“There is a movement to change Shakespeare’s plays,” Cassius continued. “That is, to persuade him to make revisions. Richard III is leading that movement. Can we allow him to control our lives? What honor will we have if he rewrites our play? We are the ones who should rewrite it. I beg you to join with me in opposing Richard’s tyranny.”
Brutus shook his head. “Why should our play be rewritten? It is based on history. We cannot rewrite history. We must stand by what we have done.”
Cassius’s voice rose. “Richard’s plan is much developed. He has strong powers on his side. The only thing to do is slay him and replace him with honorable men.”
“More plotting I cannot bear.” Brutus began to pace around the room. “Great Caesar haunts me.”
“He haunts us all.” Cassius beat his breast. “I still grieve over his death, tyrant though he was. But Richard has no greatness except great villainy. Opposing him is a virtue. I know what my duty is, as a Roman and as a Shakespearean character. We must keep our history true and sacred. If we replace Richard, we can ensure that. The other plays are fictions and lies. They do not matter so much. But our Roman play must stay pure.”
“Cassius, you weary me.” Brutus continued to pace. “How much of you is honor, and how much is ambition?”
If you don’t know the answer to that by now, you’re a fool, Beth thought. So Cassius was conspiring against Richard. Of course he would be. Conspiracy was in Cassius’s blood. Would he be a less frightening opponent than Richard? But why? Cassius was no less treacherous.
She drifted away to Richard’s great hall. She shuddered. She still couldn’t see herself in the scene and hoped that Richard couldn’t see her either.
As usual, Richard sat alone on his throne. Incense still filled his hall. It almost made Beth sneeze, but she held back the sneeze that would have betrayed her presence.
“Come, Mephistopheles!” Richard chanted, waving his hands over a stream of incense. “I call upon the powers of darkness. Join with me, and we will be doubly strong.”
A dark cloud passed through the hall. Thunder rumbled.
Beth covered her ears. A stench permeated the air and made her hold her nose. The odor must be brimstone.
A handsome being in flowing red robes flew into the room through one of the many mirrors. His features were chiseled into perfection, but his eyes were like blocks of ice. An arctic cold, far deeper than the cold of ghosts, emanated from him.
“Hail, great Mephistopheles, prince of many worlds!” Richard said, inclining his head. His face glowed in triumph at summoning a devil.
“Prince?” Mephistopheles laughed. The room shook. “Not a king? So you believe that I am less than you are?”
Richard smiled. “Less well known, I think, for you are Marlowe’s character, not Goethe’s, and Marlowe is less well known than Shakespeare.”
Mephistopheles scowled. “That ranking is a travesty of literature.�
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“Indeed.” Richard’s voice resembled a leopard’s purr. “I long to communicate with your Marlowe. Could you help me?”
The devil shrugged. “You know that characters cannot summon their creators.”
“True, they cannot.” Richard smirked. “But you are the most powerful character of all, aren’t you? Or Lucifer is. I think you or your master could communicate with Christopher Marlowe, or at least his ghost, if you tried.”
“And what would I gain?” Mephistopheles asked.
“More power. And that’s most important commodity, isn’t it?” Richard made his voice seductive. “I seek to increase Marlowe’s power and prestige, and that would surely increase yours. You might become as powerful as your master.”
“An appealing prospect.” The devil smiled. His smile was as frightening as a blow to the chest.
Beth woke. Great. That was a restful night. What rotten dreams. And the worst thing about them was that when she dreamed about Shakespeare’s characters, the dreams usually were true visions. She hoped these weren’t, but she was afraid they were.
She turned on her computer and saw that it was five o’clock in the morning. Her room was dark, except for the gleaming screen. She went downstairs and drank a glass of orange juice, though she didn’t believe it would protect her. Well, maybe there was a chance it would.
Cassius was a compulsive traitor, she thought, but she doubted that he could defeat Richard. She wondered whether she should visit Brutus and try to win him to her side.
Or would it be better to enlist Mark Antony? Antony was the victor in Julius Caesar, but he was defeated in Antony and Cleopatra. The ultimate victor was Octavian, who became Augustus Caesar. Maybe she should appeal to him, though she didn’t like him much.
She also was afraid that none of the Romans would have much use for Mercutio. Even though he might be their descendant, he wasn’t their style.
She remembered that Adam was playing a part in Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s London. If she could bring him with her, he might be able to persuade one of the Romans to join her side.
The Mercutio Problem Page 11
