Dating Hamlet

by Lisa Fiedler

  “And will he not come again?

  And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead,

  Go to thy deathbed.

  He never will come again.”

  Waltzing gaily to the morbid words, I do not allow myself to think on them.

  To think that he is gone. No triumph can restore him!

  “He is gone …”

  Hamlet.

  He is gone. “ … He is gone.”

  My cover cracks, a cleft in the charade that invites true grief to creep beneath it. The words remind me … . He never will come again.

  Bereavement breaks my strength, and I stumble. The Queen gasps; Laertes hastens to assist me, but I swipe at him, and he retreats.

  I stand in the center of the hall. Alone.

  There is no sound but for the ringing echo of my words, taunting me. He. Is. Gone.

  Gone.

  Gone …

  Oh, I am cold. And yet my palms perspire. I struggle to recall the closing lines of the song. When I do, I manage only a whispered whimper; ’tis not part of this game, ’tis all I’ve the strength to utter:

  “ … God ha’mercy on his soul.”

  A silence falls like autumn leaves around me. ’Tis as though I can reach out and catch pieces of it. Mayhap I shall stand here, shivering, forever.

  But no. The song is done.

  I give a graceless bow, then exit, calling weakly over my shoulder, “God be wi’ you.”

  To my great relief, no one follows.

  I find Anne in her room and tell her I am off to the brook.

  “Wait one hour; at that time, you shall go to Gertrude, sobbing profusely, to tell her that you’ve found me drowned. Send someone to collect me—I will be lying sprawled on the bank, and very wet, at the first bend before the willow, where once I taught you to dive for coins.”

  Anne nods.

  “Do not be overlong, as I do not wish to freeze to death.”

  “Someone will come for you in half an hour.”

  “Then you will meet me with Laertes.”

  She nods again.

  “You do remember where, don’t you?”

  “Aye, Lia. I remember.”

  “Then say it, Anne. ’Tis crucial that we are clear on all points.” I frown. “Where will you meet me?”

  She mumbles a reply.

  “Say it, Anne.”

  She draws a quivering breath. “One hour from now, as per our strategy, I will come for you, my friend … and find you in the morgue.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  NO ONE THINKS TO DRY A DEAD GIRL.

  For this reason, I wait in my wet gown, shivering in a room I’ve only visited once before—’tis the morgue, far below stairs, beside the dungeon. Most fortunate ’tis that no one else has died of late. I’ve the place to myself

  The slab upon which I lie is cold and hard against my spine, the room is shadowy and dim, but my eyes have adjusted; I can make out a shelf which holds a collection of jars, no doubt containing the liquids and powders necessary to the practices and rites of burial. The alchemist in me longs to examine them.

  At last there comes the rusty squeal of old hinges, then Anne’s voice, whispering, “Lia! We have come!”

  I sit up quickly on the slab, noting with an irreverent giggle that I am surely the only tenant of these chambers ever to have done so. “Here!” I announce.

  They shuffle through the darkness. Finding me soaked, Laertes unfastens his jupon and removes it; I take it thankfully, slipping my arms into the sleeves.

  “Ophelia,” he cries, “I have most miraculous news!”

  “I’ve spent an hour in this morbid cell,” I inform him, “and have yet to see a single rat! No miracle may surpass that!”

  “No? Would you feel thus were I to tell you that your Hamlet lives?”

  His words reverberate in the darkness.

  I shake my head, afraid even to half-believe. For half belief is hope, and I have worn out what little hope I had.

  Laertes takes my face in his hands. “He is alive, sister!”

  “Alive?”

  “Alive!”

  Upon my soul, it is as though I can feel the stars halt their expeditions! The universe stills, awaits a word from me, but no word comes. Perhaps I have ceased to think, to breathe, to be.

  Laertes shakes me. “Hear, Ophelia, let belief take hold. I have seen the proof. A letter, written in the Prince’s character. England, it seems, has failed. Or else not tried. It matters not, except for this—your Hamlet lives! He comes! I cannot say for certain when, but he is bound for thee.”

  Oh, by the sweet breath of Saint Valentine, I am saved! Jubilant and prodigious truth! Suffering eludes me, now and forever, his life spared is mine regained. “Hamlet is alive!”

  “Aye, sister!” Laertes hugs me. “And I would give the world to know your thoughts this moment!”

  “This moment …” I begin, “this moment, I am thinking …”

  “Yes?”

  “Thinking that I shall need to wash my hair!”

  At that, Anne lets out a snort of agreement.

  “There is more to tell,” Laertes says. “Even as he approaches, the King makes plans to kill him.”

  “Again?” I spring to my feet, throwing my arms wide in frustration. “Can that ass think of nothing other than murdering the Prince?”

  “He has requested my assistance.” Laertes smiles. “Which is a good thing.”

  I blink in amazement. “How so, pray tell?”

  “The King hath schemed to arrange, upon the Prince’s return, a game of swordplay between Hamlet and myself, citing the Prince’s envy of my excellence at the sport as the bait to lure him to the match. Claudius will place a wager on the outcome, to increase the temptation.”

  “But such contests are conducted with blunted weaponry,” I remind him. “How wouldst thou kill him with a bated blade?”

  “Claudius depends upon the fact that Hamlet believes me a gentleman of honor, and will trust me to engage in sport according to the rules.”

  I frown a moment; then understanding dawns. “Hamlet will therefore neglect to inspect the foils, freeing you to choose a keen one. Or so imagines Claudius.”

  Laertes leans against the wall with a smug look. “Surely the King will not quit his treachery till he sees with his own eyes Hamlet good and dead. It occurred to me that we could show him that very thing!”

  My eyes brighten. “The poison!”

  “Aye! I remembered the remarkable abilities you described of it, and the notion availed itself to me, even as Claudius did make his cruel proposal. I told him it would be unnecessary for me to run Hamlet through, for I’d purchased in my travels an unction so lethal that, should I anoint my rapier with it, I need only deliver Hamlet the scantest nick in order to take his life!”

  “Did the King agree to it?”

  “He did. But the fiend is cunning, and thought to support my plan with a contingency. On the chance I am unable to glance Hamlet with my blade, the King will have added the same poison to a chalice full with wine from which Hamlet will be invited to drink.”

  “’Tis perfect,” I cry, clapping my hands. “Whether he be lanced or liquored, the aspect of death will come upon him just the same!” I turn to Anne. “And here is where Horatio may re-enter the campaign. After Hamlet’s body has been deposited here, you will disclose all to Horatio, who shall then steal into this place and remove Hamlet to my father’s cottage, where I will await him with the antidote.”

  “You forget,” says Anne. “Hamlet’s purpose remains to kill the King!”

  “And he shall. For the King will think him dead, and what better camouflage can there be than that? He can attack at will; the King will be defenseless. ’Tis a perfect strategy!”

  But in some righteous place inside my heart, I know there is no perfection in murder.

  Now my friend and brother take their leave.

  I am alone, but for the echoes of a thousand final breaths drawn in this
same darkness. Sinking to my knees, silent beside the slab, I offer a solemn prayer for the absolution of sins to be committed.

  And I wait.

  One full day has passed since my drowning; this morning, a procession shall see me to my grave. Anne has come to ready me for my final journey; the coroner did argue heatedly at the outset, but Anne put forth such a fit of crying and pleading that at last he consented.

  Round my neck hangs a heavy wooden cross, Hamlet’s necklace and pendant hidden beneath. We have stowed a vial containing the antidote, which my father prepared using purpureum gathered from my mother’s grave, inside the charm. The flask which holds the poison sits ready beside me on the slab. My father has surmised (though shakily at best) that the potion allows less than a quarter-day’s sleep before giving over to pure death. Four hours only in which to conduct my fraudulent funeral, bear me off to his cottage near the croft, and administer the draft which shall—we most fervently hope—awaken life within me.

  Anne has a second dose of the poison hidden in her reticule to be given to Laertes after the funeral. I wear a gown of lavender silk chosen by her. Presently, she is fussing with my hair.

  “It need not be flawless, Anne.” I sigh. “I am going to my grave, not to the altar to be wed!”

  “Hush,” she scolds. “I will not have it said that I sent thee to meet your maker with poorly done hair!”

  I roll my eyes and endure the primping. “I do hope that in my falsified sleep I will retain the capacity to listen and comprehend. ’Twould be interesting to hear how I am mourned.”

  “Sick,” snaps Anne, as she sets to arranging flowers in my hair. “I swear it, Lia, at times you are quite sick.”

  “Do you remember what you are to do when we reach the cemetery?”

  “Aye. I am to make a most emotional scene, begging a moment alone with thee, before you are laid into the earth. I shall demand the others give me privacy to bid my friend farewell.”

  “Yes. And when they are gone …”

  “Your father will carry you back to his cottage, to feed you the precious draft you carry in Hamlet’s locket.”

  “Excellent.” I squeeze her shoulder. “And you …”

  She wrinkles her dainty nose. “I will remain beside your empty grave and use your father’s spade to fill it up with dirt.” She folds her arms. “Why must that grim task fall to me when it is his profession?”

  “My father will need to be near me in the cottage,” I remind her, “should anything with the antidote go awry.”

  “I do not relish the thought of filling in your grave,” she grumbles.

  “’Tis not as if I’ll be in it!”

  “Still …”

  I interrupt her by opening the flask. It makes a small popping sound, then a hiss, as slim ribbons of silver smoke release themselves from within.

  Anne bites her lip. “Strong stuff.”

  “Let us hope.” I sniff the contents, then smile at her. “And now, a toast to my—what shall I call it?—impending near-death experience.”

  Anne shakes her head. “Thou art sick.”

  Raising the flask, I give Anne a most somber look. “To justice …” I grin. “I would ‘justice’ soon not die!”

  “Witty.”

  “I thought so.”

  Without further discourse, I lift the flask to my lips. The flavor is nothing, mixed with air—not a taste but a sensation, rather like no sensation at all.

  Oh, but ’tis a most potent nothing! Of a sudden, my eyelids grow impossibly heavy, my limbs leaden. A chill creeps upon my skin.

  “Lia?”

  “’Tis working!” I yawn, hugely. “I feel it. Oh, Anne, my heart—it beats; surely, but softly, softly, so softly … .”

  “God save us!” Anne falls to her knees and makes the sign of the cross.

  It is as though an invisible shroud’s been wrapped around me. I recline with the weight of it, though it weighs less than light itself The rhythm of my breath, though constant, is barely to be heard. I close my eyes. Sparks of darkness and a twinkling of twilight stars. I will my eyes to open, but they will not.

  For one mad second I am gripped by panic! By the soul of Saint Vitus, on what fool’s quest have I embarked, summoning death to my own device? What if my father’s calculations prove faulty, and ’tis not four hours but four minutes before death?

  I fear as I have never feared before, and the sleep enfolds me like fire.

  But, soft …

  Now comes a peace so perfect, so calm, and so complete, I can do no other than accept it. My hands, folded at my breast, cannot move, but I’ve no wish to move them. I feel the blood cooling in my veins.

  Anne calls out to me. I hear her plainly but can make no answer. The poison perseveres, compressing me to a mere pinprick of awareness.

  Stillness engulfs me; ’tis pure and plentiful. I am aware of Anne near me, a vibration, a warmth, an energy. ’Tis like swimming in a dream.

  From somewhere close comes knocking. Anne gasps and stammers, “Who’s there?” The response is muffled. She opens the door. “What news?”

  ’Tis my father who responds. “He’s been seen! The Prince.”

  Hamlet is near? And I—dead, mostly! Seeing me thus will surely break him! Even in this unholy slumber, I shudder. But there is no help for it, the plan must remain unaltered.

  “How shall we proceed?” cries Anne.

  “As planned,” says my father. “There is no other.”

  “Mayhap you can intercept him to explain?”

  No! My brain all but explodes with the wish to express itself It is not yet time to apprise him of this plan. In truth, I fear he’d see fit to alter it, and that would be most disastrous. Hamlet must fence before the King! He must receive Laertes’ thrust! So much hangs upon it!

  “’Twould not be wise,” my father replies. “Ophelia’s scheme is sound; it does not allow for Hamlet knowing in advance, and so he shall not. His genuine grief at learning she is gone will only add reality to this drama.” I sense a chuckle from him. “Perhaps I will revert to my old ways, draw upon my former profession, and do some playing of my own when he comes upon me at the grave.”

  “What mean you?” asks Anne, confused.

  “Only that I shall entertain him a spell with silliness, detain him as I play the clown. ’Tis the least I can do.” He pauses to press a kiss to my cold forehead. “I am near to sobbing myself, seeing her so still.”

  “But her hair …” offers Anne. “’Tis lovely, is it not?”

  My father laughs warmly, and then he is gone. Mere moments pass, and there comes a second knock.

  Anne gasps, then whispers, “Lia … it is time!”

  I feel Anne step aside to allow the pallbearers access. Now—motion, as they remove me from my stony berth and bear me away.

  Mayhap there is sunshine. Difficult to tell, I sense only the sway of shadow and light across my eyelids. Music, a hymn, a tempo most macabre.

  The procession has begun.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ’TIS NEAR A MILE FROM THE OUTER CURTAIN OF the castle to the hallowed ground.

  The mourners come behind me: I imagine Laertes first, beside the doctor of divinity, then Claudius and Gertrude, Anne, Horatio, and all the rest—courtiers, retainers, and servants who knew me while I lived. (Barnardo has most likely not come. Mayhap he fears my spirit will haunt him; were I a spirit, I would indeed.)

  The pallbearers halt now, and the clergyman from his book recites a line or two on my behalf toward heaven. His speech is markedly shorter than those I remember from burials which I’ve attended. I hear the papery thud of the closing book, followed by Laertes’ voice, demanding a lengthier ceremony.

  The cleric gives a windy sigh and explains to my brother that he has said all he can, indeed, more, my death being “doubtful.”

  Doubtful? As in suspect? Hell’s eyes, this is news to me! Think they that I died at my own hand? That was not the illusion I wished to create. How dare they e’en
suggest that I would indulge in such a cowardly act! Me, Ophelia—so weak as to willingly abandon life? ’Tis unjust and wrong I be remembered thus. I drowned! ’Twas the river’s doing, the work of the undertow (at least, ’tis how it was meant to appear)! A fie on’t!

  Someone kneels beside me. Even with my diminished breath I recognize the leathery-clean scent of my brother. “Lay her i’ th’ earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!”

  Well, now, that is quite lyrical. When I awaken, I will remember to thank him for his tribute.

  The Queen approaches; her heavy gown rustles, and there is a clanking of bracelets as she scatters petals o’er me. “Sweets to the sweet, farewell. I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave.”

  Good it is that I am unable to form tears, or surely I would cry at so heartfelt an avowal.

  Then Laertes shouts in a quavering voice, “Hold off the earth awhile”—next I know, my lifeless body is pulled against his strong chest—“till I have caught her once more in my arms.”

  Suddenly there comes the sound of hard footsteps advancing in the dirt, another voice, tight with unshed tears, deafening with despair. “What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis?”

  Hamlet! Here! At my funeral. Cursed timing! ’Tis not good, not good at all.

  I am aware of scuffling around me, a grunt, a growl, the hollow thump of a punch well landed. Could it be? Heaven save me, it is! These boys are fighting! At my funeral!

  The truth of it dawns on me harshly. Laertes is acting, aye, but Hamlet—he does not know that this be staged! His grief, his heartache, his anger—all genuine! God help him.

  There are shouts from the procession as the King orders them separated.

  A sliver of one second and Hamlet is there beside me, his hands gentle in my hair, a tear spilling from his eye to drop upon my lips; I can taste the salt of it.

  From the bottom of his soul he brings forth a roar. “I loved Ophelia!”