by Lisa Fiedler
My soul does lurch within me. I had nearly forgotten! England!
“I waited,” Anne concludes, “until Hamlet lugged the guts of Polonius away. In his absence, Gertrude dissolved into tears, providing me a safe egress to the secret door.”
“You did not continue after Hamlet?” I ask.
“Not directly. I discovered in our passage a second passage, winding off to the left, which I took, and through which I found myself lost and wandering in darkness for near an hour! Time enough, I would soon learn, for the King to hear of Polonius’s unnatural demise. When at last I saw light, I headed for it. It was a small grate near the ceiling of a room from which came voices—Claudius’s and Hamlet’s. Claudius was demanding the whereabouts of Polonius’s body, and Hamlet was being exceptionally cagey, telling nothing. He was, in fact, rather funny!”
For a moment Anne smiles, but then her eyes go cold, her mouth sets in a serious line. “He told where the corpse was stashed, and then the conversation turned abruptly to the subject of his immediate departure for England.”
“Immediate?” My head bows of its own accord, as a most profound loneliness begins to pound within me. “He has gone already?”
“Aye,” whispers Anne.
Gone. He is gone.
Without the vindication of revenge, without so much as a kiss from me. Oh, we had not the time to discuss his exile—or how or if he would return! He, there; I, here—an eternity of ocean between us, and no hope at all to bridge it. Unless …
“I must go!”
“Go?” repeat my friend and father as one.
“To England!”
Yes! I leap to my feet, enthusiasm building with every fervent step I take round the small cottage.
“I shall sail for England by myself at the earliest occasion. I will secure passage on another ship bound for that destination, and once on English soil, it will be nothing to find Hamlet.”
“It will be too late,” says Anne, her voice alarmingly flat.
“What do you mean, too late?”
“He will be dead, Lia, before you even reach English waters.”
Dead? I shiver … try to speak … cannot.
Tears bloom in Anne’s eyes. “Claudius has decreed it, ordered it in letters sealed and sent along with Hamlet, in the hands of his escorts. He has charged England by royal command to see to the death of Hamlet. ‘Do it, England,’ those were Claudius’s own and ugly words. He sends Hamlet there to face his execution. And, Lia, even upon the swiftest ship, even in the chariot of Apollo himself, you nor anyone would arrive in time to save him. By the devil’s pointy tail, Lia, Claudius in his iniquity has won. Again.”
Hamlet.
Dead?
Before my tears begin in earnest, I manage this: “Oh, but he has not won, Anne. For he has not yet fought with me!”
And now I hear a wailing sound—a bellow, a cry, a roar—and am remotely aware that the sound escapes from me. The wail fades to weeping. I am in my father’s arms, and Anne’s, and the night goes on in a slow, cold current around me.
Allow me but one night to weep, then alone shall I avenge the crown But God, dear God, the tide of this despair is deep. Do not let me drown.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I SEND WORD TO MY BROTHER.
Anne delivers my letter to Horatio this very night, asking that he forward it to France.
From the doorway, I watch as she sets out across the darkness. So black a night I’ve never seen, nor felt, as I feel this one in my heart.
My father gives me more steeped herbs, and I fall into an almost-slumber, shivering and racked with the memory of my loss.
In the icy light of dawn, I return to the castle Elsinore. There is a stench in my room; the chamber all but echoes with Barnardo’s retching. I send for a maid to replace the rushes, and notice that she eyes me cautiously as she cleans. I know why. Anne has begun the rumor. She has whispered among the servants that since last night I have been afflicted with a most peculiar manner.
At noon, I hide on the stairs to overhear the conversation at dinner. As expected, the courtiers discuss my condition at great lengths. None will dispute it. My father killed at the hand of my love, my love banished to a foreign land—naturally I’ve gone mad!
It is all, of course, merely the continuation of the plan contrived for Hamlet.
Hamlet who is gone to England to be killed.
The pain, the grief, consumes me—an ache so thorough, an agony so severe! Mayhap madness will come for me like a wave crashing o’er the fathomless flood of dread emotion to pull me under, carry me away.
I cannot say that I would mind it. Anything to elude this misery.
Oh, to have stayed before the crackling fire upon the hearth within my father’s cottage. But I have resigned myself to live in the gloom of Elsinore until the business of destroying Claudius is done. While I hate with all my heart each particle of sediment in every stone of this castle, I cannot leave here yet. I must stalk the fiend and do so closely. Claudius is the villain, yet it is I who am in prison. Only Anne and my garden are left to comfort me.
Yet I wish to remember as much as to forget, and so, on a parchment scroll, I set to work painstakingly recording the details of Claudius’s wicked deed. Who knows how long ’twill be before I may officially accuse him before a court of justice? I would have nothing o’erlooked. As well, there is the possibility that some ungodly violence could occur—some danger visited upon me, inflicted perhaps by a vindictive Barnardo, or the King himself, should he suspect. And so I write.
I would much rather slit the King’s throat but will not do this for two reasons. One, it is a sin. Two, I do not own a sharp enough knife.
There is a knock on my door; Anne enters.
“Since you did not come to dinner, I have brought you …”
Before she can set the trencher down, a shadow falls across the floor. I look to see Claudius in my doorway. Anne takes a step backward. I simply stare, too shocked by this unusual and ill-timed visit even to think to conceal the written denunciation before me.
“Lovely Ophelia,” he begins, approaching me. “I wish to offer thee condolences on the death of your honored father.”
He takes my hand to kiss, slivers of something sordid in his eyes, and I realize of a sudden the damning parchment is in plain sight! My only hope is to divert him, and so I answer:
“My father, sir, is alive. I saw him but an hour past.”
A flicker of something—is it pleasure?—contorts the forged King’s face. Ah, so he has come to test the allegations of my madness; I do believe he hopes to find them true!
“He was here?” challenges the King. “Polonius? Alive!”
“Alive enough to borrow my russet gown.” I giggle. “’Tis a poor color on him, and it makes him appear plump round the middle. But ’tis his favorite.”
“Your father,” he stammers, “wore your gown?”
He turns to Anne for confirmation. She effects a look of great pity, shaking her head.
“Polonius dons my garments often,” I assure the King. “But shhh! He prefers that no one know of it, sire. He would beat me if I told. I am also to keep secret the fact that he can fly.”
At this nonsense he is truly aghast. “Say you, Ophelia, that Polonius flies? That is to say, he makes himself airborne?”
“Aye, my lord. Airborne. Like a stallion.”
“But stallions cannot fly, lady.”
“Perhaps not those with whom you are acquainted, sire.”
Claudius blinks, confounded.
“And now,” I say blithely, “I must rest.”With that, I drop to my pallet and commence to snore.
“What make thee of this?” Claudius barks, shaking his finger at Anne.
She glances down at me, then shrugs. “She is tired.”
“No!” booms Claudius. “What make thee of her madness?!”
“She’s lost her father, sire,” says Anne, in a respectful tone. “I expect it has driven her to an unbalanced st
ate.”
“Will it last?”
“That is hard to say, my lord. Madness has been known to linger.”
For a moment, the King stands mutely by my bed; I feel him staring down at me.
Then there comes the sound of his footsteps, the slam of the door, and Anne’s great sigh.
“Old Polonius in your gown!” She plants her hands on her hips. “I believe the King to be sufficiently convinced.”
“Aye. The unfortunate thing now is that, following flying stallions, I will need work very hard to maintain such a level of insanity!”
Anne rolls her eyes. “You are surely up to it.”
I want so to laugh at her expression. But there is no laughter left within me.
And it, like Hamlet, is not likely to return.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NIGHTS AT ELSINORE ARE LONGER THAN ANYWHERE else.
I have stayed awake these many weeks, which has aided me greatly in my portrayal of one who has gone daft. For my skin is pale as fresh daisy petals, and my eyes sink inward, rimmed by bruiselike swells of purple. The servants and courtiers whisper that, surely, Ophelia—most beautified Ophelia—has lost touch.
I sleep not, which is nothing new, though in days past ’twas joy or wonder kept me up. But this is wakefulness born of fear. Who will come for me should I close my eyes to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream … ? What criminal hand will curl round my throat while I doze, defenseless and unaware? Or, worse, will bring to me its chill, unwanted caress?
Of late, the King has taken to imposing his presence upon me. He corners me in the chapel, or stops me on the stairs, and makes intimate advances, which cause my skin to crawl. I fear the day draws nigh when he will realize his licentious purpose.
’Tis winter’s end. Constellations shift, and earth’s frosty crust commences to thaw, yet still no sign of Laertes. In daylight, I gather buds of unborn blossoms and visit with my father, where I am allowed a brief respite. But at Elsinore, I make the most inappropriate remarks to the Queen and dance as a wanton might, often upon the table at supper.
Barnardo perceives such performances with great interest; at night, I bolt the door.
And still I do not sleep.
I have counted every crack in the ashlar stones that make my walls and have listened to the manic music of mice fighting in far corners of the chamber and have burned things just for the company of smoke.
But I do not sleep. Sleep is spent, and what remains is something numb and wasted within me. In the place where rest once was, there is only longing, a yearning that slumber cannot overcome.
I call out to Hamlet and dream with eyes wide open of shared kisses and words, words, words … .
Once, I held a dagger to my wrist and counted to eight thousand and six.
No. Be gone! The madness sweeps down, a foul fairy, wielding a wand carved of bone and dressed in rags dyed with blood. I swat at it, and spit, and the fairy gets tangled in my hair.
My hair, how Hamlet loved to wrap his fingers in it! Dirty now, flat and slick against my scalp. Anne begs to wash it. But why? The fairy will just come again and …
No. Be gone!
I make to the shelf and lose myself in the herbs there, pushing back the madness, whose dearest friend is fatigue—pressing my nose into the blooms of something sweet. Restore me! Let me breathe in the perfect purity of that which springs from good rich soil. And name it!
Goldenrod and juniper!
Jack-in-the-pulpit.
Ginseng, Solomon’s seal.
And nettles! Nettles, with their toothed leaves and prickly hairs—see you how they bristle up from the stem, see you, Hamlet?
Hamlet … look, there’s rosemary for remembrance, and pansies, that’s for thoughts.
No! ’Tis an ugly dream that comes without the benefit of sleep! Damn the sport of madness that forgets itself! I am not mad. Will not be mad.
Deep breath. Small sigh. I call upon the moon to mother me, but of late she has been still. No longer can she bear to share with me her silvery secrets, offer counsel or caution, as she did when Hamlet lived.
I must shake off this state that tempts me—for there is no freedom in true madness.
Only freedom in the game of it.
Deep breath, a prayer.
I am tired, only tired.
From somewhere near to heaven, arms encircle me. Soft. Gentle. And a song, sung in a voice like breeze and rain. I drop my head back and find it resting on first a shoulder, unseen … now a pillow—I have come, somehow, to lay upon my bed.
The arms hold me still, and the lullaby is a whisper, coaxing me to sleep, to close my eyes.
“Sleep, Ophelia.”
She sings. And I sleep.
Oh, at last, I sleep.
In a heartbeat, it is morning.
CHAPTER TEN
A FORTNIGHT, PERHAPS TWO. SPRING HAS KEPT ITS promise in a froth of buds upon the branches.
’Tis twilight, and the air is powder soft. Anne and I are walking near the stables, for I do so miss the horses. (I am not allowed to ride, as I am feeble-minded now.) The rhythm of their switching tails, the familiar sound of a satisfied whinny, the faint smell of hay and leather provide solace to my heart.
“For you,” I say to Anne, gifting her with a sprig of delicate white flowers.
“Pretty.”
“’Tis called yarrow. The healthy blooms signify love eternal.”
“I will be sure to show Horatio.” She brushes the flowers against her palm. “He worries greatly after thee, you know, as a brother would. Are you certain we cannot confide in him?”
“’Twould be at his own peril,” I remind her. “Any who knows of our deceit becomes the instantaneous enemy of the King. ’Twas different when he conspired with Hamlet, for that was expected. Now his distance is his deliverance.”
Anne frowns. “I do not wish to endanger him.”
“Of course you don’t. He is well to be removed from this, Anne. Trust me.”
“’Tis a hazardous game we’re about,” she agrees. “And you are right; I rest easier knowing he is not a part of it.”
“I am moved to know he cares, though. Perhaps, one day, I will be able to thank him for his concern.”
Anne tucks the yarrow sprig behind her ear, then enters the stable; she has promised the stablemaster’s son to bring sugar for a mare who is soon to foal.
The moon is rising slowly; it is not yet full dark. Something about the hour troubles me, this not-quite-one-still-not-another space where darkness hovers, threatening. I shiver and call to Anne.
“We should go back … ,” I begin. But a hand across my mouth stops me.
“Pretty Ophelia.”
The voice comes thickly, and with it the stink of ale. The body pressed to mine is too soft to be Barnardo’s.
Claudius!
“I have daily thanked heaven for this plague that has o’ertaken thee. For now I can do as I wish—as long I’ve dreamed to do! Do you know, lady, how I would see the with jealousy when I’d watch my nephew close to thee, knowing that in private he was free to savor the perfections of your youth. No doubt the blackhearted boy’s deprived me of your maidenly virtue.”
He removes his hand to grab at the bodice of my gown; he tears it away, then does the same to the slender straps of my silk chemise, until I am revealed to him in the moonlight.
The demon’s eyes glint, like the fires of hell.
“In madness, thou art still beautiful, and better—for accusations made in madness are not to be believed!”
I cross my arms to cover myself but can seem to do naught else. I will my legs to run, my throat to scream, but neither happens. I recoil in anticipation of his touch. But no touch comes.
“Just a glimpse is wanted now,” he hisses, “as I shall make this process long and slow. Each day, a slight, sweet torture upon myself I shall inflict, to whet my need, until at last—”
A noise. He spins to see a shadow rounding the corner of the stable, arme
d with a pitchfork.
“I will come for thee,” he swears, then vanishes into the gathering darkness, his footsteps slapping in the muddy earth.
“Lia!”
I fall to my knees in the muck. Anne drops the pitchfork, hurries to remove her cloak, and bundles it round me.
“I did not fight,” I whisper, the taste of shame and disbelief bitter on my tongue. “Why, Anne, could I not fight?”
“You were wise not to resist,” she tells me. “You are weak from lack of rest and too much grief Who knows how he would have harmed thee!”
“And next time … will I be too frail then, as well?”
Anne looks at me; she has no answer.
“I would sooner die than have Claudius touch me, Anne! Yet the offense of his intention is so powerful that I am helpless to defend against it.”
Anne assists me to my feet, and we head slowly toward the castle. “What wilt thou do?” she inquires in a whisper.
“’Tis simple,” I say softly. “I must die.”
At dawn, I hear the clatter of hooves, a commotion below in the bailey.
A guard’s voice thunders on the mild air to reach my room: “What, ho! ’Tis Laertes, returned from France!”
Laertes! Merciful saints, praise thee for seeing to his safe passage! I rush to the window and see him reining to a halt, congenially accosted by his fellows!
“How do you, Laertes? How fared thee, in France?”
“Give news of the women there! ’Tis true that they … ?”
“Soft, fellows,” scolds one. “Dost thou forget he comes home to mourn his father?”
“Aye, and the lady Ophelia.”
Laertes dismounts; flinging the reins to his groom, he whirls to take hold of him who’s mentioned me.
“What of my sister?” he demands. “Why dost thou speak her name in so grave a tone?”
Horatio steps in to drag my brother aside. “Restrain thyself, friend, I beseech thee. Grim revelations are imminent, which will require on your part much strength to endure.”
