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The Mercutio Problem

Page 14

by Carol Anne Douglas


  “You wouldn’t. You mustn’t.” Beth scarcely knew whether to use an angry voice or a courteous one. “As a playwright yourself, you should believe the written word is sacred.”

  “Ha! Sacred! Did Will believe that?” Marlowe clenched his fists.

  Beth stared at him. “Of course he did.”

  “Sacred.” His voice mimicked hers. “You believe that anything can be sacred. I lost such childish beliefs in my time. I cannot imagine anyone from the future having such quaint ideas.”

  “Shakespeare did.”

  “Shakespeare did not,” Marlowe snarled. “Your loathesome cur of a Shakespeare destroyed my works, and I will destroy his, play by play, verse by verse.” Blood oozed from his eye socket.

  Beth averted her eyes from the blood. “No one destroyed your works. They still exist.”

  “You lie, Shakespeare’s lickspittle.” Marlowe’s icy hand grabbed her arm.

  Beth winced and tried to pull away, but the ghost gripped her. Her body chilled. Every part of her felt as if it would dissolve. Her guts revolted. “He didn’t hurt your work,” she insisted in an enfeebled voice.

  Marlowe pushed her to the ground. “He mangled my plays. He gave them foolish, happy endings. He redeemed every character. He added jests. He ruined my life’s work.”

  Beth sucked in her breath. Lying on the ground felt better than being in Marlowe’s clutches. “Your plays don’t have happy endings. No one has changed them. Someone is lying to you. It must be Richard III.”

  “Why should I believe you?” More blood poured out of the ghost’s eye socket.

  “Because I live in the future. Your plays are dark. They made me shudder.”

  “So they should. Life is dark. Death is darker.” Marlowe’s voice sounded more despairing than Hamlet’s father’s ghost’s. “Shakespeare sent my Faust to heaven. I’ll send his fairies to hell!”

  “No, you mustn’t!” Beth leapt up and confronted him. “You have no right to tamper with his plays. He didn’t change yours. Your view of life is so bleak that you believe every lie you hear.”

  “Hear me, little girl!” Marlowe bellowed. “His heroes will hang themselves. Every one of them!”

  “No!” Beth screamed.

  “Beth!” Ms. Capulet shook her. They were in the drama classroom. “What happened to you?”

  “Marlowe.” Beth’s voice shook. “Richard has gotten to Marlowe’s ghost. He believes that Shakespeare has changed his plays, so he will try to ruin Shakespeare’s. Could Marlowe’s ghost do that?”

  “If anyone could, he could.” Ms. Capulet clutched Beth’s shoulder. “You must stop him.”

  “That’s a great homework assignment. Thank you so much.” Beth pulled away from her teacher. “How am I supposed to do that? For Arthur’s sake, Merlin, appear and listen to me.”

  As if he were an ordinary human being, Merlin walked in through the classroom door. He was dressed in a wool turtleneck and wool pants, as if he were a teacher.

  “Arthur, indeed!” He frowned at Beth. “Summon me properly. Say ‘For King Arthur’s sake.’ ”

  “I’m so sorry that I was too informal.” Beth summoned up her every bit of rebellious teen sarcasm. “I’ve just seen Marlowe’s ghost, and he swore he would change the endings of Shakespeare’s plays because Richard has told him that Shakespeare changed the endings of Marlowe’s own plays.”

  Merlin trembled. The sight made Beth lose hope. The wizard so rarely displayed fear.

  “Marlowe?” Merlin’s voice cracked. “The one being who might be able to do it? If he weren’t already dead, I’d say we should kill him.”

  “I’m not killing anyone.” The word “kill” disgusted Beth. “We have to convince him that his plays are intact. Can’t I bring the latest editions of them to his world?”

  “No, you cannot, you foolish girl.” Merlin frowned at her. “How can you imagine that a book could travel to the land of the dead?”

  “If I can, why not a book?” Beth frowned back at him. She was fed up with being called foolish.

  “If you can find a book made of flesh, certainly you can take it.” Merlin glared at her. “Only fleshly beings can move to that world.”

  The thought of a book made of flesh made Beth gag. “Then what can I do?”

  “Tell Shakespeare,” Merlin said. “Perhaps he can communicate with his fellow playwright.”

  “Are you kidding?” Beth scoffed. “Marlowe would carve him up and eat him for dinner if he could. We must protect Shakespeare from Marlowe. I’d never suggest that Shakespeare talk to him.”

  “You may have a point,” Merlin conceded. “I wonder whether you could communicate with any of Marlowe’s characters.”

  “No, thanks. I once saw Tamburlaine, and he ordered me killed, and tried to kill Adam. But Richard saved us.”

  “Richard did what?” Merlin screamed. “So you’re the one who introduced Richard to Marlowe’s plays. That’s why Richard was able to communicate with his characters, and ultimately with him. You’ve tampered with the worlds.”

  “You’re the one who sent me traveling in the first place, and you didn’t save Adam when Tamburlaine was trying to kill him.” Beth spat out the words. “Stop blaming me. I can’t control everything that happens to me.”

  Ms. Capulet spoke up. “This argument is getting us nowhere. Calm down, both of you.” She dared to speak to Merlin as if he were one of her students. She had never used that tone with him before.

  Merlin stared at the teacher as if she had gone mad. “You mortals have no sense of awe. You use the word ‘awesome,’ but when you meet a being who is awesome, you become over-familiar.” He shook his head. “Beth, remember who killed Richard the last time. You should visit Lady Macbeth.”

  “He didn’t stay dead,” Beth complained. “I’ll speak with her, but remember that she killed him only for a moment. Why didn’t he stay dead?” She paused. “Because Lady Macbeth only killed Richard, not Mordred. Mordred brought Richard back to life.”

  Merlin paled. “Mordred.” He intoned the name as if he spoke of a devil. “You realize that Lady Macbeth could not kill him.” He made a sign to ward off evil.

  The door to the prop closet opened, and Sita emerged. “That’s brilliant,” she said. “Someone has to kill Mordred.”

  Merlin whirled around and glared at Sita. “No one can do that! How dare you sneak around and listen to my words! Leave the room this instant!”

  “If you have so much power, you should have known I was present.” Sita spoke in a voice that lacked not only awe but also respect. “You can’t kill him, or you would have done it long ago,” she said. “You must have tried and failed.”

  “Yes.” Merlin’s voice hollowed. “I have tried and failed. No one knows how to kill Mordred.”

  “Didn’t King Arthur do it?” Sita asked. “Or almost do it? But you can’t summon him, can you? Or you would have.”

  “No. I can’t summon Arthur.” Merlin’s voice broke. His face turned gray. He put his hands to his head and moaned.

  “So who can kill Mordred?” Sita asked.

  “I can’t.” Beth shuddered. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “Arthur,” Merlin groaned.

  “It’s cruel to remind Merlin of his broken heart,” Beth said.

  “Get over it, Beth.” Sita’s voice was harsh. “We can’t always be kind if we’re going to defeat Richard.”

  “Sad but true,” Ms. Capulet said. “Now we know what must be done.”

  “Don’t talk about killing that way.” Beth sucked in her breath. “Not even about Mordred.”

  “Beth, do you feel strong enough to visit Lady Macbeth?” the teacher asked.

  “Why? Because she’s willing to kill?” Beth sighed. “That’s one skill I don’t want her to teach me.” She paused. “I won’t ask her how to bec
ome a killer, but visiting her isn’t too upsetting.”

  Beth’s head spun. She stood in the Macbeths’ bare garden. The weather was good, at least for that place. Of course the sun didn’t shine, but the breeze was mild. The garden smelled as if someone had done spring cleaning and taken away the odor of mold and replaced it with the scent of new grass. Yes, there was a patch of green grass. Beth sat on a stone bench with legs carved in designs of wolves and bears.

  Lady Macbeth entered through the garden gate. “Good day, Mercutio,” she said. “You bring the balm of Verona’s air with you.”

  Beth forced herself to rise and kiss the queen’s hand. She escorted Lady Macbeth to the bench, and waited until she seated herself. Then, when the lady inclined her head, Beth sat beside her.

  Beth felt tired of being Mercutio. Who would want to wear a sword all the time? she thought, as she made sure it was out of the way. And it was tedious to always have to kiss ladies’ hands.

  “Thank you for giving me leave to sit, lovely lady,” she said. “It is your beauty that brightens this garden.”

  “You must be weary of these courtesies, but you must keep up your part.” The queen smiled at Beth. “Please don’t feel that you have to jest or mention Queen Mab unless someone else joins us.”

  “Thank you.” Beth rejoiced at being released from the burden of thinking up jests. She would tell some of what she had learned. “Richard has enlisted the aid of Christopher Marlowe’s ghost. Marlowe believes that Shakespeare has altered his plays, and he’s willing—no, eager—to mutilate Shakespeare’s.”

  Lady Macbeth sucked in her breath. “Marlowe? I don’t want to learn how much darker he could make our play. It’s quite dark enough.”

  Beth silently agreed.

  “We must act with even more speed than I imagined,” the queen said. “Screw your courage to the sticking place.”

  “If I’m Mercutio, I suppose I have more than enough courage, if not sense,” Beth said. “But what can I do?”

  “Kill Richard.” Lady Macbeth used the tone she had used in the play when she urged her husband to kill King Duncan.

  “What good is that?” Beth objected. “You’ve killed him already, but he didn’t stay dead. What about killing Mordred? You know more about killing than I do. Could you do that?”

  Lady Macbeth rubbed her hands and moaned. “I cannot slay him. I do not have the power.” She shivered and pulled her sleeves over her hands. “You have not yet found Bottom, or you would have told me you had. I tell you that you must find Bottom.”

  Beth sighed. Not another mission. “I suppose you’re right. I’m not used to visiting so many worlds in one human day. And I can’t believe I’m talking about killing someone. I don’t believe in killing. I don’t even eat meat.”

  “Are you a man?” Lady Macbeth demanded.

  “You know I’m not.” Beth refused to be intimidated by Lady Macbeth’s tone.

  “Then unsex yourself. Put a little dire cruelty in your heart, at least toward Richard. And find Bottom the weaver.” Lady Macbeth rose and walked away.

  Beth didn’t even try to kiss her hand in parting.

  She bade farewell to Scotland and thought of the Midsummer world.

  Beth traveled through a storm. She arrived in a downpour. No, maybe a hurricane. Blinding rain drenched the ground, turning it to soupy mud. Winds battered and bent the trees. There was no light in the fairy world. It was far darker than Lady Macbeth’s garden.

  Beth almost wept at the sight of sodden fairies hiding under bushes. Only Queen Titania stood in the open. Her wings were folded, but her smile was brave.

  “Greetings, dear Beth,” she said, though Beth still wore Mercutio’s form.

  “Can’t you stop the rain?” Beth asked, ducking under a tree, even though she knew that might not be the smartest thing to do in a hurricane.

  “Not always.” Titania sighed. “Sometimes it is too much for me.”

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t found Bottom yet.” Beth’s spirits were damper than the weather. Her wet clothes clung to her. Her boots squished.

  Titania touched her hand, which gave it a little warmth.

  “I know it’s a difficult task, dear.” Titania’s voice was heartbreakingly brave.

  “Weren’t there any clues about where he might have been taken?” Beth asked.

  Titania shook her head. “I suppose any clues would have been washed away. But you might ask the mechanicals who were his fellow players.”

  “Thank you. I should have thought of that.” Beth wandered off through the woods. Lightning hit trees, and they fell, just missing her. The wind howled. At least, she hoped the howling came from the wind, and not from anything worse.

  She was Mercutio, so she waved her sword at the wind. “I laugh at you, wind and rain,” she said. “For you are only a dream sent by Queen Mab.” The rain continued. She felt more like King Lear than Mercutio.

  She stumbled over a root.

  “Ouch,” it said.

  No, it was the foot of someone hiding under a bush.

  Beth peered to see who it was. No fairy had a foot that big.

  “Master Quince?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately,” he moaned.

  A chorus of moans from other players hidden in neighboring bushes answered him.

  “I’m so sorry that you’re stuck in this rain,” Beth told them. “Do you have any clues about where Nick Bottom might be? I’m hoping that I can help you if I find him. Was he an ass when he disappeared?”

  “No more of an ass than usual,” Quince replied. “We were rehearsing a woeful comedy about fairies when he left. He exited pursued by a bear.”

  “What!” Beth exclaimed “Why didn’t anyone say that before?”

  “I didn’t want to be suspected,” Snug the joiner cried. “A lion didn’t eat him! If anyone did, it was a bear. When I played the part of a lion, I only roared! I was monstrous fierce, but I didn’t eat anyone.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Beth said. “I don’t believe he was eaten by a lion.”

  “It wasn’t a bear, it was a boar,” Starveling the tailor said.

  “It was a boar with terrible tusks,” Snug said. “It wasn’t a lion.”

  “Yes. I believe he was pursued by a boar,” Beth said. Richard again. Where did he hide Bottom? She didn’t believe Bottom was dead. “Why don’t you keep on rehearsing through the rain? You can say your lines under the bushes. That might keep up your spirits.” She didn’t think that was a particularly good solution, but she couldn’t think of any others.

  Could Bottom have been taken to A Winter’s Tale, where one character exited pursued by a bear, and was never heard from again? She had read that play only once. She suspected that Bottom’s exit was only a red herring—or a red bear—and he wasn’t in that play after all.

  She thought of her warm, dry classroom, and spun back out of the rain.

  She opened her eyes and saw Sita and Ms. Capulet waiting expectantly. “Don’t ask,” Beth warned them. “No, I didn’t find anything that could help us. But I’m desperately tired. Isn’t it time to go home?”

  “It’s time for geometry,” Sita said.

  Beth moaned. Maybe a little wind and rain wasn’t so bad after all.

  Chapter 17

  AT HOME AFTER SCHOOL, Beth peeled carrots and washed broccoli to sauté when her mother came home. That would be a nice surprise for her mother.

  Then Beth went upstairs. She had time for a journey to London. She hoped she wouldn’t wind up in the Thames.

  She almost smashed against a tall building, and wound up on London Bridge. She could scarcely see the river from the bridge because there were so many tall buildings on it. The sun was setting, but the buildings obscured her view.

  She was Ben again. Sometimes changing roles so fast dizzied her. Her vision
blurred.

  “Honey cakes! Fresh baked honey cakes,” an old woman called. “Honey cakes with cinnamon. Only a penny, but worth more.”

  Beth had bought one of the woman’s honey cakes once before, and it had tasted good. She had paid tuppence then. The woman had lowered her prices. Beth thought a snack before dinner wouldn’t hurt her.

  “I’ll take one,” she said, reaching into her pocket for a penny.

  “A growing lad like you needs two,” the old woman coaxed her. “Do you have tuppence?”

  “Not now, thank you,” Beth said. She paid and took a bite out of the honey cake.

  Someone grabbed the cake out of her hand and knocked her down.

  She saw a grubby boy her age or a little older. They recognized each other. He was the boy who a few months earlier had tried to get her arrested for a theft his gang had committed.

  “You!” they both exclaimed.

  He kicked her, and she fell.

  “This is the turd what left us holding the bag,” he said to another boy.

  The other boy moved to kick her. She grabbed his leg and threw him off balance.

  The first boy was about to kick her when someone gave him a roundhouse kick, knocking him to the ground. Someone in Renaissance London knew karate.

  Hands pulled Beth up. “Run,” a familiar voice said.

  Beth needed no urging. They both ran down London Bridge to Southwark. They barely managed to avoid vendors’ stalls and carts drawn by horses and oxen. They had done nothing wrong, but escaping was the safest move since the boys were bigger than they were.

  When they passed huge Nonsuch House with its heads of executed prisoners stuck on pikes, Beth and her rescuer stopped to catch their breath.

  Beth looked at the face of her rescuer. “How did you get here?” she asked Sita. Sita was also dressed like a boy—like Beth, a well-to-do boy with a fine linen jacket.

  “I’m not here.” Sita darted away. She ran among passers-by and was lost in the crowd.

  Beth hoped that Sita wouldn’t be in danger because of her brown skin. It was a good thing that Sita was dressed as a boy.

  Beth saw a cluster of large birds near the river bank. She moved closer to get a better look. The reddish birds were sinking their beaks into a man’s dead body. She gagged and turned away.

 

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