by Lisa Fiedler
She meets my gaze again. “And what wouldst thou advise?”
“Anything but that! ’Tis suicide you speak of. A mortal sin!” I take her chin firmly in my hand. “And the most cowardly of acts, be sure of it.”
“Is it?” she asks, defiant now. “I hold no other power. My sire decides to whom I shall be married and when. And should I recoil from his choice, he will decide that I am no longer welcome in this home. Were I to lodge a knife in my breast, now, that is no one’s choice but my own.”
I cannot help myself. I slap her, hard, across her face … so hard, my palm stings.
The force of the clout turns Juliet’s face away from me. For a moment she is still, her chin upon her shoulder. Then, slowly she lifts her head. Her cheek is stained red from the impact of my hand. Good. I surely hope it smarts.
“Do not await my apology,” I tell her. “For ’tis not about to come.”
Her voice comes evenly, strangely calm, as though she has not heard me. “I went to the friar’s cell to ask his counsel, and ‘twas this liquid he gave me. I am to drink it tonight. When the day of my marriage dawns I will be found here under its magical spell. Dead they will call me, and who is to know if my lord and lady will grieve? Mayhap they will be glad to be done with me, disobedient wretch that I am. Of course, my demise shall deprive my father of the superior son for whom he so desperately wishes, and my mother will be near inconsolable o’er the fine food that shall go to waste when the wedding feast is called off. Although I suppose it will just as sufficiently feed the mourners who come to see me buried.”
I cannot believe this that I hear. My mouth has fallen open. She goes on.
“The good friar has already sent a Franciscan brother to deliver a missive to Romeo exiled in Mantua. The dispatch tells him to come for me in the tomb, where he shall find me seemingly deceased, but in truth, I shall be on the verge of waking. Hence we shall away, together, to Mantua, to live happily as man and wife.”
“Pray, cousin, what will you do if the potion be faulty, if you do not appear dead on the morrow? Wilt thou accept it as fate’s decision and get thyself up and to the church to marry a second husband?”
“Never.”
Juliet withdraws from beneath her pillow a most lethal-looking blade.
“You may slap me again, if you must,” she says in that same flat tone. “But if I be forced to choose betwixt marriage to Paris and true death, I will put my faith in this knife. And in my only power, which is to die at my own hand.”
0, she is so very, very young, and so afraid. There is no wonder she has lost all trust. I snatch her weapon away.
“There are other daggers,” she whispers.
I scowl at her. “Odd, but just days ago you feared having e’en one blade about your person.”
“I have aged a lifetime since then.”
“You have aged not at all. You are still every bit a child!”
She rolls her eyes petulantly.
“Shame on thee, Juliet. Shame! What you describe is not power; nay, ’tis the very opposite of power. It is weakness and stupidity and indolence and defeat. Mark me, cousin, there is nothing mighty in quitting life. The only victory is summoning the audacity to stay. If you truly wish to exert power in the face of your father’s cruelty, there is only one thing for you to do.”
“And what is that?” she asks.
“Live. No daggers, no potions. Live, and tell your lord that you cannot marry for you have already married.”
“He will turn me out, I told thee.”
“Let him. Romeo will return for you, and rather than spirit you away in secret from a crypt he can collect you at your own front door. You will have naught to fear from old Capulet after that.”
Juliet lowers her eyes to the vial. “’Tis easier this way.”
“Aye. ’Tis why I so dislike the plan.”
And having said so, I take the blade and march from her chamber, slamming the door as I go.
TYBALT
One advantage of this almost-death is that I can be everywhere and see everything.
The disadvantage, of course, is that I can do nothing to influence what I see.
I have remained here, a ghost in Juliet’s chamber, since her return from the friar’s cell. I heard her tell Rosaline of a strange sleeping poison, I saw her reveal a dagger, and I witnessed the desperate moment in which Rosaline was driven to slap her hard. Relieved was I when Roz claimed Juliet’s weapon, but still I was compelled to stay and watch over my beloved, confused young cousin.
“Ah, well,” she whispers, as though she feels me here, “there are other daggers. I’ve one stashed here in the darkest corner of my wardrobe cabinet, beneath my satin undergarment. Rosaline is welcome to the blade she took; I am fortunate the nurse did not detect it when she dug through this soft finery in search of bridal attire. I’ve hidden yet another blade beneath an ivy-filled urn upon the balcony. Rosaline, you’re welcome to the dagger, for the one on the balcony is longer, and this one concealed in the folds of my pale pink chemise be the sharpest of the three. I shall pray awhile before I drink. And then, a toast to my beloved I shall make.”
I watch as she uncorks the demon bottle. If the friar is true, tomorrow she shall be borne to the Capulet tomb, where she will stay dead but awhile, then awaken to kiss her husband, Romeo, the ghost of the flavor of this mysterious liquor still present on her lips.
“How shall it taste, I wonder?” she asks aloud.
And so she prays, then drinks her sleeping potion, not knowing if it is to be trusted. Mayhap she believes herself courageous for tempting Providence so boldly, but I see her action is more cowardly than brave. So childish is Juliet that the prospect of having to fight for what her heart desires frightens her enough to provoke a deed so dangerous.
I watch through the night.
And pray myself that the friar’s draught keeps its promise.
Daylight comes and with it the girl’s nurse. She calls out, but no answer does Juliet make. The nurse draws back the bed curtains and sees the dismal scene. Juliet, her skin gone gray as a winter’s sunset, the gown she was to wear at her wedding still hung upon a peg beside the bed.
“Lady, lady, lady!” she cries, and reaches ’neath the cover to find that Juliet’s flesh is cold. “Help, help! My lady’s dead!”
Juliet’s mother comes now, and when she sees the pretty corpse, she falls to her knees by her daughter’s bed wailing, “O, me, my child, my only life.”
And here is my uncle, Juliet’s father, coming to collect the bride-to-be but finding instead a pretty corpse. His wife sobs, “She’s dead, she’s dead … .”
Capulet’s misery comes in a keening howl.
I long for a voice, for with it I would remind the man that ’twas only yesterday he called her baggage and threatened to toss her out of his house.
Well, she will be out of his house now, won’t she?
He loved her only when she took commands, and her lady mother was equally unreliable with her affections.
I would damn them both to hell, but as they huddle beside their dead child, I realize they are already there.
ROSALINE
How many living cousins is one girl expected to mourn? And in the course of a single week! For there lies Juliet, believed dead, and all those who grieved so recently for Tybalt have gathered here again to pay their last respects.
I have come with the others to the tomb and bow my head and ask God’s blessing, but ’tis fraud, all of it. Mayhap they wonder why I shed no tears. Mayhap they think me in some manner of shock, or denial. 0, how I tire of these false funerals for the living.
As we enter the tomb, the nurse corners me beside an urn of withering roses. Her ruddy cheeks are damp with tears.
“’Twas I who found her, you know.”
“Yes, nurse. I know.”
Now the cleric begins his ritual:
In nomine Patris,
et Filii,
et Spiritus Sancti …
&nb
sp; The candles are lit, the psalms are sung. The tomb is a shadowy place that smells of long-dead flesh and brittle bones, yet I am pleased that my cousin hath found a way to come here. For when her love collects her, she will leave this place enjoying high spirits. Whereas all others who have come here dead have left here, well, as spirits.
’Tis a comical thought. O, I will laugh. I know it, I will laugh at my own musings and clever wordplay, and if I laugh they will not think me shocked, but mad! I feel the giggle bubbling in my throat … I clench my teeth against the happy sound …
And of a sudden, it occurs to me that after tonight, when Romeo carries his bride off to Mantua, much time will pass ere I am able to see her again. Or perhaps all time. Perhaps they will embrace their exile so thoroughly that they will abscond to someplace e’en farther than Mantua and cut all ties with their quarreling kin.
Juliet, my darling cousin, my dearest friend, will be gone from me.
I shall miss her. I shall miss her deeply.
Good-bye, sweet Juliet. May God keep you well in Mantua.
I pray you’ll travel safe and find yourself welcome. And
above all else, I pray that your Romeo will prove
himself worth the trouble.
ROMEO
My man, Balthasar, did bring me news of the end of the world.
O, ’tis not the end of earth, nor sky, nor heaven nor hell—nay, those worlds go on, eternal, unaltered. ’Tis only my world that ends here, now, today.
The beginning of the end of it is Juliet’s death; the end of the end shall be my own, and to that end I have coerced a needy apothecary to disregard the edicts of Mantua by selling to me a potion bent for death. He at first denied me, then saw my gold. And so he sold the draught, and having convinced him to defy the law, I have enabled myself to defy the stars.
For if I cannot live with Juliet, I will surely die with her!
No matter the things I shall be missing. I shall not think on them. I shall not wonder about all the games of billiards and pall-mall I shall miss, or the nights playing hands of basset with my fellows, wagering wisely on the turn of the cards and gladly relieving them of their ducats and silver. I will not think of the untasted sips of well-aged wine, nor of all the dances that will go undanced, the duels unduelled, the books I shall ne‘er read nor all the good trouble I will not be round to cause. I suppose I do not care that I will never again best Benvolio in a bocce match. Nay. ’Tis better to die, than to drink wine or play cards or dance or duel or bowl in a world where there is no Juliet.
’Tis the end of Juliet, and in the end, she is the only world that matters.
Balthasar complains that the march from Mantua is a taxing one. I speak not at all, clutching my vial of poison. When we reach the boundary of Verona, I lead him direct to the churchyard.
“Hold, take this letter,” I tell him. “Early in the morning see thou deliver it to my lord and father. Upon thy life, I charge thee, whate’er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof and do not interrupt me in my course.”
“I will be gone, sir,” Balthasar assures me, “and not trouble you.”
As he takes his leave, methinks I hear him whisper that he will hide nearby, but I am too intent upon my purpose to pay him any heed.
TYBALT
I find myself hovering above the cemetery. Earlier this day was Juliet borne to the family tomb and fraudulently laid to rest. I could not bring myself to watch it.
But I am here now. I’ve come to my family’s tomb like a petal upon the wind, blown here without consent. Mayhap the universe knew what I would find.
’Tis Romeo, working a mattock upon the tomb’s heavy gate; and in the shadows, Paris. The count believes that Romeo will commit some further misdeed (ha, what worse could be done?) upon the Capulet dead. Bravely, Paris shows himself and apprehends Romeo, whom he thinks to be a villain.
“Good gentle youth,” says Romeo, “tempt not a desp’rate man.” There is a wild calm in his eyes, a bitter serenity that smacks of danger and madness. “I beseech thee, put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. I come hither arm’d against myself.”
So Romeo means to take his own life here at the mouth of the Capulet tomb! But Paris marks not Romeo’s despair. He draws his blade.
Romeo too produces a weapon. The fine steel gleams in the crystalline glow of a hot moon. Paris is worthy, but Romeo is both skillful and hopeless, a deadly blend. The swords collide and echo only once. Paris falls, wounded upon the point of the same sword that made a ghost of me. I can see that Romeo relishes this victory not at all. He hangs his head, dropping his weapon upon the tomb’s threshold.
Paris has a single breath remaining and uses it to request a boon of his killer. “If thou be merciful,” the count appeals, “open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.”
Odd it seems to me, but Romeo complies. Mayhap he recognizes the truth of Paris’s feelings. Mayhap in his misery he has lost the capacity for spite and jealousy. He brings his rival into the tomb and does deposit him near to Juliet.
It is grim inside. My own body would have lain here these many hours had Rosaline not seen to it that a counterfeit corpse be placed in my stead upon the bier.
When Paris, the unwed groom, is settled dead in the tomb, Romeo makes to Juliet. Would that I could inform him, would that I could make it known that in time she will awaken.
“Eyes, look your last!” he cries, his words ringing off the walls of the crypt like handfuls of broken glass. “Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips …”
Romeo leans o’er Juliet and kisses her cool lips, then uncorks a small bottle and drinks from it. I would dash it from his grasp, but I am only a shimmer; I am air and regret.
“O, true apothecary!” invokes Romeo. “Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”
’Tis not long ere Friar Laurence comes; he enters the tomb to first find the bloodied sword. Now he spies he who did wield it—Romeo—and then the victim—Paris—upon whom the wrath was wrought.
“Romeo,” cries the friar. “O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep’d in blood?”
I see the fear upon the cleric’s countenance, a tightness that looks not unlike guilt.
Suddenly, upon the stony slab Juliet does stir. God, how it distresses me to see the hope in her eyes, the smile of pure confidence she gives to him. She is life itself, and all the happy anticipation and trust it holds. The friar turns to her as she rises.
“Where is my lord?” sweet Juliet inquires of her confessor. “I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?”
The friar delivers to her the horrific facts. Her eyes fall to where Romeo lies, a true and loyal bridegroom. Her hopeful aura does falter now. Tears like melted diamonds glisten in her eyes.
Now sounds from without frighten the friar, and he beseeches Juliet join him in his escape, but the child resists with an impassioned shake of her head.
“Go, get thee hence,” she tells him, “for I will not away.”
The friar makes a hasty exit, leaving Juliet alone among the dead. How small she looks, and how abandoned. 0, if only I could go to her and urge her not to act imprudently. But pain usurps reason, and she reaches toward the vial still clutched in Romeo’s hand. She tilts it, but no poison does it yield.
“O, churl, drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips, haply some poison yet doth hang on them. Thy lips are warm.” Juliet takes her kiss from Romeo, e’en as outside the guards approach. To my great relief, she remains alive.
In one graceful motion she removes Romeo’s dagger from its sheath. All that I am wills her not to do it, but all that I am is nothing. Without trepidation, Juliet lifts the weapon.
“This is thy sheath,” she whispers to the blade, then plunges it into her breast. “There rust, and let me die.”
I watch, helpless, as my young cousin drops in a heap upon the chest of her beloved, blood seeping through her gown’s bodice like a blooming rose.
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br /> Though I expect to see Juliet’s ghost rise hand-in-hand with Romeo’s to join me in this limbo, no spirits ascend. Death defers. Their dying, like mine own, is delayed. I can feel Juliet’s spirit lingering there inside her corporeal self. For a moment, I pray that she will find the strength to heal, to live, but I can see the wound is deep, and already her blood is pooling on the floor. A voice that is the Universe tells me that it is, indeed, her time to die. But this child’s soul refuses.
Wordlessly, I call out to her, angel to angel, ghost to ghost.
Surrender, sweet cousin. Let go.
Her spirit shudders. I sense she is afraid. Her soul regrets what her hand hath done, and the tomb is filled with the force of her self-censure. Shame darkens her spirit; she prays that it all be undone.
But there is nothing for it. ’Tis irreversible. She is angry and ashamed, and because she willingly embraced that blade, she doubts that heaven will have her.
She is wrong, but I am not dead enough to tell her so.
Mayhap she needs a champion. A champion who long ago did teach her to turn cartwheels and encouraged her to climb the tall trees in her father’s orchard.
Aye. I shall escort the child. Who better than I, her cousin and friend, to see her safely to eternity?
I waver, flicker, and now I spiral, up and out above the cemetery, drifting like smoke through Verona’s sky, toward the place where my body waits.
I return to myself to die.
ROSALINE
I sense the precise moment my cousin dies.
Here in the Healer’s cottage, Benvolio looks on from a chair whilst I sit on the floor teaching Viola to inscribe the characters of her name. Of a sudden, a feeling of awesome dread swells up within me.
I spring to my feet and hurry ’cross the room to Tybalt, sprawled before the fire. ’Tis as though, for just a heartbeat’s breadth, the magnitude of his spirit surrounds me in an ethereal embrace, in waves of warmth and affection, Tybalt’s voice in soundless song comes to mine ear:
