by Lisa Fiedler
Farewell, my precious cousin, and mourn me not, for in your heart I shall outlive myself.
The disappointment is nearly too intense to bear. It lasts a mere moment, and in its wake there comes a gentle peace, a quiet kind of contentment that is not quite joy, but close. I recognize it to be acceptance. One moment, Tybalt lived, and the next, he ceased to be. Whatever ghostly part of him remained in our midst is now undeniably absent forever from this world.
“He is gone,” I tell the Healer.
She presses her finger to his throat and nods.
I turn to Benvolio, who is already on his feet, preparing to assist me in bearing Tybalt’s body to the Capulet tomb.
A knock sounds on the door. The Healer opens it to reveal Friar John. A quaking dread erupts in me. This is the brother whom Friar Laurence sent to Mantua to inform Romeo of Juliet’s temporary death and that he should come tonight to claim her in the tomb. But if he is here, then clearly, Romeo has not received his instructions.
“Good friar, what happened?”
The elderly brother explains that, indeed, some unlucky confusion did prohibit him from bringing Friar Laurence’s message to Romeo earlier.
I grasp the old friar’s shoulders. “When is Juliet due to awaken?”
“Friar Laurence calculates that her sleeping potion will wear off within the half hour. Not to worry, for he has already gone to the Capulet tomb. He shall be there when the lady doth awaken.”
His reply is made in a voice so rasping that I am compelled to pull over a chair and guide him into it.
“Aye, I must sit,” he gasps. “But just for a bit. ’Tis still my task to reach Mantua and beckon Romeo home to claim his bride.” He breaks off, in a fit of coughing. He smiles weakly and promises, “All will be well, all will be—” but more coughing cuts him short.
The Healer brings the friar a horn cup of cool water, which he drinks in grateful gulps. I study the old cleric, taking in his drawn face, his gaunt form. If this short jaunt from Friar Laurence’s cell to the Healer’s cottage has left him weak and breathless, he surely will not make it to Mantua without incident.
Still, Romeo must be told. But, hell’s teeth, by whom? I must go to the tomb to whisper the prayers of interment o’er Tybalt’s soul, so I cannot hie to Mantua. And Benvolio’s strength is required to carry Tybalt in stealth to the cemetery.
Now Viola tugs upon my sleeve. As though the child has read my mind, she looks up at me with a most determined expression. “I know the way to Mantua,” she says. “I will find Romeo and tell him all.”
I shake my head firmly. “No. ’Tis too dangerous for a child to walk alone at night. There may be bandits—”
“I am fast,” she assures me. “And small. If I keep to the trees, no thief will e’en notice me.” Her pretty face is serious when she adds, “Please, Lady Rosaline.”
I turn to Benvolio. He considers a moment, then nods. “This little one is brave and capable.” He grins. “Rather like thee, my love.”
I remove a lantern from a hook beside the door and hand it to the child, then kiss her soundly on the top of her head as Benvolio reverently lifts Tybalt into his arms.
“Go ye forth quickly, Rosaline,” says Friar John, “and tell Friar Laurence we’ve enlisted a valiant angel to carry out my part in this plan.” He pauses to smile at Viola, tracing the sign of the cross with his thumb upon her brow. “Encumbered as he is, Benvolio will follow you at a slower pace. Viola can walk with him as far as the cemetery and aid his progress with her lantern.”
Viola holds the lamp while I light it. Once the flame has sprung to life, she dips a quick curtsy to Friar John. I do the same.
With lifeless Tybalt in Benvolio’s arms, we three depart into the night.
Verona sleeps in heat and silence. Once beyond the square, I break away from my companions, hastening toward the graveyard. Behind me, I hear Benvolio and Viola singing soft and sweetly together as they traverse the quiet night. Their voices fade away as I put more distance between us.
Minutes later, I arrive at the churchyard and enter the long passage into the Capulet tomb. The friar is within, but—damnation—he is far from alone. I conceal myself in the shadows of the dim passageway and peer into the crypt. In this way I learn that Viola’s brave excursion shall be for naught, as Romeo has already returned to Verona.
He lies dead.
Paris, with the life bled out of him, is also present.
And Juliet, who was expected to awaken from her potion-induced demise, is here as well. She too is dead. She is dead again. And this time, I fear, ’tis real. For there is a knife in her chest. And that, I imagine, would be a difficult thing to fake.
I remain near the tomb’s entrance unseen and make a quick accounting of those others present and alive: the prince. Romeo’s man, Balthasar. Paris’s page (I believe ‘twas he who wisely summoned the guards) and several members of the watch, holding spades and bloody weaponry discovered on these holy premises. Juliet’s parents, along with Montague, sire to Romeo, who announces that his wife is dead. He blames her demise on grief o’er Romeo’s exile and weeps first for his deceased wife, then his dead son.
In the pale light of funeral candles, Friar Laurence tells the tragic tale of the secret wedding, the sleeping potion, the undelivered letter, and Juliet waking to find Romeo dead. He can only guess that, after he’d gone, Juliet could not bear to live without her Romeo and so used her husband’s blade to do violence upon herself
My uncle and aunt, having already accepted their daughter’s death once, are twice tortured now to learn she lived but lives no more.
Now Balthasar produces for the prince a letter Romeo had bid him deliver to Montague, and the contents of that missive confirm the friar’s report. Paris’s page informs all that Paris came only to strew flowers o’er Juliet’s deathbed, but Romeo interrupted him and a swift battle ensued.
I have heard enough. My sadness is second only to my frustration o’er the frailty of these many strategies, all of which were contrived to bring about happiness, all of which brought grief instead.
I make to leave in secret, and begin backing toward the passageway. A hand alights upon my shoulder. ’Twould shock me not at all were I to turn and see a ghost, for this place is afire with phantom energies this night. But it is not a spirit, rather a young servant of the prince. He must have been left to wait outside.
“Lady Rosaline,” he whispers, “Benvolio sends me from the churchyard to give thee word of his arrival.” His voice trembles a soft echo in the musty hall.
“Where does Benvolio hide himself?”
“In the shadow of the tallest gravestone,” the boy answers. “There is a woman as well, bearing a satchel. She conceals herself near the trunk of the yew tree.”
“I thank thee for bringing me this news.”
The boy turns to go, then glances back. “0, and Lady, noble Benvolio doth carry a dead man in his arms.”
I nod, showing no surprise, which surprises the boy indeed. “Is there also a comely child with him?”
The boy nods. “Carrying a lamp.”
I instruct the lad to explain to Viola that she need not set out for Mantua.
When he has gone, I look once more to the sight inside the crypt. Romeo’s father is promising a golden sculpture of fair Juliet, who bleeds before us. Capulet vows to mirror the gesture, by bestowing a statute of his own in the likeness of Romeo, his lost son-in-law Now the prince speaks a swift and eloquent eulogy, which ends with the names of these spent angels resounding in the flickering gloom of the burial vault:
“For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”
I shiver in the stony tomb and whisper, “Jules,” but the word is lost in the noise of grief Juliet’s mother and father shudder in each other’s arms, their tears as warm as their newly dead daughter’s blood. The prince indicates his desire to go, and the others follow.
I press myself further into the gloom, ducking into a shado
wy niche that holds a great crucifix to keep from being seen as the procession passes. Lady Capulet cries, her husband bellows his anguish, and old Montague staggers by, mute with mourning.
When they are gone, I step into the heart of the burial chamber and gaze upon the shared stillness of the newlyweds.
Now Benvolio, carrying Tybalt’s body, ducks into the darkness to join me. At the sight of the deceased lovers, his eyes grow misted, but his steady hold does not falter. He cradles the lifeless Tybalt in his arms as though they had been friends. Viola stands at his heel, looking sadly from Romeo to Juliet.
The Healer comes as well, her tools and remedies safe inside her satchel. A beggar brought her news of some commotion in the churchyard only moments after I left her cottage.
The four of us stand in the musty silence, our eyes fixed on the dead lovers. And then …
Intuition draws me closer.
There is something wrong, more wrong than just that which appears to be wrong—or is it something right? My soul goes cold, then, as suddenly, it warms. Hope demands I force myself to recognize what eludes me. I lean down and summon all my courage so that I may more closely scrutinize these pretty corpses.
And …
Yes!
Hope has not mocked me! For Juliet’s fingers round the dagger’s handle are not yet gnarled with death’s rigor, and Romeo’s lips are a ways from blue enough.
Instinct guides me. Trembling, I place my fingertips to Juliet’s throat. I sense only a whisper of a pulse, but mayhap it will be enough.
Now, Romeo …
I touch his wrist. ’Tis clammy, cold, but he too lives. 0, God save the apothecary whose poison is so poor! And now do I recall the words I felt when Tybalt died: Mourn me not, for in your heart I shall outlive myself.
And whispered in harmony with those are the prophetic words I myself did speak to Juliet on the night of Capulet’s feast.
A change of heart, I’d said then. I repeat it now, aloud. “A change of heart …”
The phrase seems to tremble on the air. I turn to the Healer—she knows what I am thinking.
A girl can pray for a miracle. Or she can perform one.
“You think to replace Juliet’s ruined heart with Tybalt’s healthy one,” the Healer says evenly, but her eyes are dark with trepidation.
“I do.”
Benvolio consigns Tybalt’s body to the nearest bier so that he can place his hands upon my shoulders. “Rosaline, you play God in such an act,” he says softly.
“Mayhap, but then ’twas God who gave me these steady hands, this worthy mind.”
“I fear Tybalt has been dead too long, and Juliet has already lost a great amount of blood,” the Healer warns. “’Tis an immeasurable risk.”
“What greater risk is there than doing nothing?” I demand, my voice low and laced with frenzy.
“We can remove the dagger,” the healer says sensibly. “And stitch the wound. Perhaps—”
“She has punched a hole in her heart!” I cry, sensing hysteria bearing down on me. “Such a thing cannot be mended with mere knotted string! Tybalt’s heart is our only hope.” In one swift motion, I reach for the knife in Juliet’s chest and pull it free. A thick spray of blood spatters my face in crimson droplets, which I ignore. I begin to pace round the tomb in long, fast strides, propelled by the force of the need I have to heal.
“Here is what I will do. First I will crack Juliet’s breastbone in twain! Benvolio, I will require your assistance in this, as I am not strong enough to do it alone. I shall slice into her skin and open her chest cavity. She will bleed profusely, but if I can cinch the most prolific artery …” I pause, scanning the dank room. “With what? What might I use to fashion a clamp … :” My gaze falls on the ring Romeo wears, the very one Juliet herself did bestow on him. “Aye, this ring will do for a clamp.”
“Rosaline, no—” Benvolio comes over to wrap his arms around me, but I jerk free and continue to stamp across the stony floor.
“Of course, we must also open Tybalt. Healer, you will have to reach inside to massage the organ, I think, while it is still attached. Yes.” I close my eyes and imagine. The surgery unfolds in my mind’s eye—I am watching myself save Juliet.
“I will sever Juliet’s heart from the tangle of veins and vessels that feed it. ’Twill be slick, I think, slippery, but I will mind my grip and cut cautiously so as not to damage any other organs.” I open my eyes and turn to Benvolio. He only gapes at me, his skin has gone ashen.
I hold up Romeo’s dagger, stained with his wife’s warm blood, and examine it. “’Tis sharp and sufficiently pointy,” I observe. “Mean enough to kill her. Therefore, it will surely be sweet enough to save her.”
“Child,” the Healer appeals. “Please. Hear thyself. ’Tis madness you speak.”
“Madness?” I shout. “O speak not to me of madness! Madness would be allowing these two beautiful, impetuous … idiots … to die without attempting to make things right.” I raise my arms and shout to the low ceiling so that my words fall back on me like fiery meteors. “I must do something. I must heal them!”
Frantic, hopeful, terrified, and confident, I whirl around so that I am standing above Juliet’s dying body with the knife poised, preparing to plunge it into her chest.
BENVOLIO
I do not know for sure how long Rosaline stood with Romeo’s knife poised above Juliet’s chest. But in the end, she made no cut. She broke no bone. She simply placed the dagger carefully alongside her cousin’s body and knelt beside the bier, in the bloody puddle on the floor.
And now I recognize that, along with the odor of bodies long dead, the airless tomb reeks also of fresh blood. A sound comes from my belly, then from my throat.
O, I will not swoon. Nay, I will not faint. I will not …
… O, ’tis no use.
Last I recall is Rosaline looking at me o’er her shoulder—does she smile? Aye, she does, just a bit, a smile filled with heartache, and then …
Darkness.
ROSALINE
The Healer likely assumes that I have chosen not to gift Juliet with Tybalt’s heart for reasons that are medical in nature. I would wager she thinks that my good sense has triumphed and that I lowered the knife in deference to divine Providence and my own inexperience. But this is not so. Here is why I stayed my hand:
For e’en if my brave procedure did somehow keep my beloved cousin alive, I was not sure that Juliet would be capable of loving Romeo with Tybalt’s heart.
And Romeo, I am certain, will live. I rise from the floor, feeling the heaviness of my blood-soaked skirt as I move toward Romeo, bidding the Healer to bring me her satchel.
From within it I choose a small flask in which there is a thick syrup. ’Tis a precious but unpalatable concoction derived from the ipecacuanha shrub; the plant is unknown in Italy, and this small quantity is all that remains of some given to the Healer by a stranger who traveled here from a place he called Brazil.
I take hold of Romeo’s chin and force his mouth open to pour a stream of the syrup onto his tongue, then I tilt his head farther backward. When I am satisfied that the liquid has reached his stomach, I quickly shift him to his side, careful to aim him away from the place on the floor where Benvolio has landed.
The syrup is effective. In moments, Romeo begins to gag, then heave, then vomit violently, purging his system of the poison he’s ingested. I apply pressure to his forehead as he upchucks and try to ignore the unpleasant smells and sounds that emanate from him.
When at last Romeo has finished emptying his guts onto the floor I use a clean rag to wipe his mouth. He breathes normally now, and the blue tint has vanished from his lips.
I turn my attention to Benvolio, who is just now coming awake.
“Rosaline?”
“Aye, Benvolio, I am here.” I extend my hand to him as he rises unsteadily. “Watch thy step,” I caution. “There is blood and vomit everywhere.”
“Ah, such a sweet talker is my lady,” Be
nvolio says, an attempt at levity which, surprisingly, I much appreciate. Viola draws near to me and takes my hand. She nods her chin in Juliet’s direction.
“She is dead?”
“Dying,” I say. “But not dead yet.”
Romeo stirs, letting out a ragged groan.
“He is well?” Benvolio asks anxiously.
I then lean close to Romeo’s face. “Romeo? Romeo, dost thou hear me?”
Another groan, and then his eyes open. For a moment, he simply stares, then, with a jolt, he sits upright, flinging his arms around me.
“Rosaline! My darling.”
Benvolio frowns. “Darling?”
I squirm fervently in Romeo’s grasp, but he will not release me.
“Rosaline, o, angelic one, I had the most peculiar dream—”
He begins to press urgent kisses onto my neck.
With a grunt, Benvolio takes hold of Romeo’s collar and gives a mighty tug.
“Collect thy wits,” Benvolio advises. “Then see if thou canst remember who thou shouldst be calling darling.”
Romeo’s face is blank.
“Think hard, Romeo,” Benvolio counsels. “The feast … the girl … the balcony.”
Romeo’s eyes widen. “Juliet! O, my Juliet. Then ’twas not a dream? The wedding? The murders? My exile? The poison?”
Romeo’s skin turns pale. “Juliet. My lady wife, my love … I found her here, dead—”
“Not dead,” I say softly. “She merely appeared thus.”
“Then she is alive!”
“For the moment,” I reply softly.
“’Tis a most complicated tale,” Benvolio offers. “I shall tell thee all, but let us first away from this rank place—”
“No!”
I start at the fierceness of Romeo’s refusal.
Benvolio looks to me; I nod. Wordlessly, he takes Viola’s hand and leads her out of the tomb while the Healer gathers her paraphernalia. She too makes a silent exit.
