The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

A shrewd chill seized the murky landscape where I now trod upon, but I remained impervious to the cruel elements. Even still, I found other causes to smear the goose bumps back into my skin while attempting to negotiate my current position. One point was irrefutable: I had once again traversed toward a medieval milieu. A prodigious stone castle erected upon an inlet like an ill-omened relic. With only a crescent moon wedged amidst the roiling clouds, I progressed toward this star fortress’s battlements, almost expecting to be accosted by some harrowing force. I didn’t need to wait long for the first evidence of ancient warriors to materialize.

  A band of soldiers on horseback emerged from a fog that blurred the encompassing strait’s ridges. These steely men appeared disposed for battle with armor and accoutrements for mass slaughter in tow. The cavalry’s stallions winnowed and pivoted in formation. I noticed coursers and rounceys anxiously pressing to gallop onward, only to be bridled by the regimented handlers. One man, more distinguished from the ranks, rode atop a destrier. Those who surrounded him waited on his command.

  From the midst of this army, one additional man traveled as a pedestrian. It soon became clear that his purpose on this field was not the same as the others. In fact, he strode away from the rider on the broadest warhorse, resolute in his mannerisms to separate himself from their lines. Minus a horse, I wondered how far he might’ve ventured on foot across the unknown country, but since my position was aligned directly with his movement, we seemed fated to come together.

  The angular fellow skulked like a shadow in the gloomy light. He wore clothing from collar to boot that was as colorless as the space within a sepulcher. And his face, though youthful and unwrinkled, cast a pallid sheen. It was as though he had endured an inexplicable malady that fluttered his heartbeat with dismay. The forlorn stranger walked with his chin dipped against his chest, as if contemplating the course of anguish yet to come. If I had not stood like a rampart in his path, he might’ve overlooked me entirely.

  When our glances finally clashed through the darkness, I watched his eyes narrow with vigilance, almost as how a falcon surveys its prey in flight. Then, with no advance warning, he drew forth a bodkin from a sheath concealed within his cloak. “What parlous patchery doth thou aim at mine eyne?” he asked.

  “None, sir,” I said, hoping not to curdle his already spoiled temperament.

  “Be thou a knave or a ninny, I shalt brand thee as a villain if you moves’t hither.”

  This man’s angst was no longer just an invented product of my reservation, for he was a neurotic character that seemed no more certain of my intentions than he did of his own. I assumed a posture that forecast no threat toward him. My arms remained akimbo while he progressed close enough for me to inspect his stormy eyes.

  “I’m lost in my travels,” I said. “I hope I’m not intruding, but it seems that I’ve already done so.”

  “’Tis a mark of a lither’d sot unbolt’d in his gait to confess as much,” he said. He then maneuvered closer to me, waving his dagger in such a manner that he could’ve plunged the blade through my throat with a simple reflex. His eyes flitted wildly in their sockets, before trailing away from me to examine the dreary horizon. The nipping air had a contentious grip on his disposition, and he scrutinized the shadows as if searching for an apparition that I couldn’t perceive. “A bugbear doth cometh anight,” he whispered. “Though not yet colour’d by the welkin so bright.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” I told him, while assessing the size of the army stationed before us beyond the sound. “But I’m not a foreign fighter for any country east or west. As you can plainly see, I don’t even carry a weapon to defend myself. I mean to cause no foul play here.”

  “Ay, but hobgoblins and perturbed spirits hast naught to cower from.”

  “You think of me as a ghost? But I am just a misguided wanderer, nothing more or less.”

  “I see thou as a cut-purse.”

  “But you’re wrong, sir. My name is Corbin Cobbs and I haven’t come to this land to snatch anything other than a few minutes of your time.”

  “’Haply so, but methinks thy livery speaks louder than your tongue.”

  My clothing, of course, must have made me appear as though I trekked from at least the other side of the continent in this man’s estimations. I couldn’t hide the obviousness of this point. “My homeland is a long way from this place. Truly, I’m a stranger here,” I confessed.

  “Merrily, I could’st not see thee as a Danster, sir. But only a peevish geck or mome wilt gambol in such furnishings. The eager wind doth knap at thy flesh even as we station hither.”

  “Well, if I had a proper bearing on my whereabouts, I might be able to escape this cold very soon.” I then drew the man’s attention toward the army; they still stirred in the darkness like a regiment of phantom fighters. “I noticed you talking to that man on the large stallion,” I mentioned. “It looks as though warfare is inevitable for those young soldiers.”

  “Ay, the Pollacks hast envenom’d young Fortinbras’ mood. “Alas, ’tis more a league in quest of land than one for honor.”

  With this admission, this man had inadvertently revealed his identity to me. I now realized that I had ventured upon the outskirts of Elsinore Castle, and the brooding figure standing before me could’ve only been the Prince of Denmark. This son of a murdered king seemed as melancholic as I might’ve imagined anyone who had endured his level of anguish. Judging by his present position, I assumed he was already exiled from his home and in route to England. The Danish prince’s false friends appointed to escort him on this journey, however, were not within my line of sight.

  “You are Hamlet,” I uttered aloud. My face now must’ve looked as chalky as the prince’s visage. Hamlet leered at me with indecision. But after evaluating my intentions, he returned his bodkin to its sheath and motioned for me to move onward in my path. “I’m free to pass?”

  “Sessa!” He then motioned brazenly toward the immense stronghold of Elsinore. Plumes of fog funneled in smoky drifts off the strait leading into the Baltic Sea. “But be prudent by this tarriance; a woodcock shall find an enshield’d cage within this prison.”

  At the moment, I had to fake my ignorance to this kingdom’s misconduct, which lingered like a rotten stench in the frigid air. But I also realized that I had no cause to depart Hamlet’s company now. Whether he understood the purpose of our encounter didn’t matter. I felt there was something indispensable to be learnt from this conflicted procrastinator.

  “If it’s no trouble to you, Prince Hamlet, I’d like to stay with you for awhile,” I proposed.

  “To be or not to be hither is now thy privilege,” he remarked solemnly. “But I prithee, how doth thou knowst my name?”

  “You must’ve told me,” I fibbed, realizing that I spoken prematurely.

  “Nay, I say naught.”

  “Well, then it must be that I’ve heard your name mentioned at some stage in my journey.”

  If I hoped to fool Hamlet with falsehood, than my plight would’ve been no more prudent than Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s ill-fated mission. Since Hamlet perceived no malice in my intent, he simply clasped my face with both his palms pressed firmly on my cheeks. He held my head straight so that our eyes couldn’t diverge from one another.

  “Thou art pregnant with your ciphering, sir,” he said warily. “What hath been whist to others is now traded by a foreigner. Fie, thou must be a setter.”

  I should’ve surmised Hamlet’s incredulous nature. He then examined my eyes more keenly, studying the pupils that must’ve widened into tiny pearls. I decided to remain silent for a moment rather than persuade this prince to believe that I wasn’t in cahoots with a squad of bandits. The evening’s fogginess suddenly enfolded us as I waited for Hamlet’s next action.

  “Speak roundly, sir, and unclew thy mind of all hugger mugger,” he advised.

  “I will tell you once again that I have no secrets to share, Hamlet.” My earnest reply softened the prince’s gaz
e, and so I continued. “It is my belief that I’ve come here guided by my own fear. You may be able to help me overcome this emotional hardship.”

  For the first time since I set eyes upon this man’s icy face, a smile almost thawed into his expression, but I had no ability to measure the meaning behind it until he spoke again. “Thy tongue flaps so trippingly,” he said. “In sooth, I am as green as a spring laund with such tidings.”

  “But I haven’t yet confessed my problem, Prince Hamlet. You asked me to speak openly, and now I beg you to let me honor your request.”

  “Chapfallen cullions hast fewer fardels than I,” said Hamlet despondently.

  “That is precisely why I need your advice. Who else but a man as tormented as you could handle strife more patiently?”

  “Ay, you tax and frush me with thy words, Cobbs. “But I beteem thee to parle further on this acture.”

  “It may be difficult for you to understand what I’m going to say,” I proceeded, “but we may be more similar in thought than we are different. We both measure our deeds too closely, sometimes to a degree where we become paralyzed by our own motivations.”

  Hamlet’s slight smile faded as I spoke. He then removed his hands from my cheeks and paced a few steps away from me, almost as if hunting for a shadow that couldn’t be found in this mottled moonlight.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him.

  “You pash mine ears with thy conceit. Dost thou presume to spial upon the tickings within me? Could’st thou be another jack-a-lent sent for by my fulsome uncle? What say you?”

  “I’ve come to Denmark by my own preference and power,” I replied. “Claudius has no stranglehold on my intentions. Do you still wish for me to continue?”

  Hamlet paused briefly, pivoting in his stance to check the progress of Fortinbras’ army. The sound of hoofs clopping against the frozen earth verified the cavalry’s movement toward Poland. With their fates yet unwritten, Hamlet swayed back toward me and now clasped my shoulder with one hand. I interpreted this gesture as neither a reaction of animosity nor amity. Perhaps the prince simply sought to confirm my physical composition by touching me again. Giving credence to his recent history with spectral images, I couldn’t fault him for this reassurance.

  “Whether a man is young or old, the choices he makes determines his fate,” I continued. “But the margin between success and failure for those decisions is sometimes no thicker than a single strand of hair. Is there ever a right time to act when trying to uncover the truth, Hamlet?”

  “Words most dulcet, sir, but ’tis poor weight. Wherefore dost thou mell in this treacherous trade?”

  “Is it wrong to search for the answers that may hurt me the most?”

  “Nay, but ’tis a reechy trick to coax it from my tongue.”

  “Then let me tell you more about my sorrow,” I insisted. “If you find my predicament irrelevant, then please make haste to England. I will delay you no longer than necessary.”

  “England shalt do fine sans mine company, Cobbs, but the gallows wilt latch two lobs in place of me.” As the prince spoke these words, two insignificant men emerged from the fog. They walked abreast, stride for stride, with nothing in their eyes to suggest the faintest inclination of worry or wit. Since Hamlet’s false friends approached, I knew my time with him was now limited.

  “I’ve come to a point where I must make the most important decision of my life,” I revealed. “But if I’m wrong with my accusation, I’ll lose my wife and best friend forever.”

  Hamlet’s eyes brightened with the same intensity as if he had just spotted a troupe of actors. “Gadooks! Thou art a pilgrim distempered. You cleave to your bafflement well, sir. Speak further on this matter.”

  “I think she’s been unfaithful, Hamlet.”

  “For aught I see, the kicksy wicksy hath turn’d thee into a meacock sot. Didst thou charge her as dishonest?”

  “Not directly. My suspicions aren’t confirmed yet. But I know if I accuse her without tangible evidence, she’ll just blame me for being jealous and irrational.”

  “Ay, ’tis a saucy she-fox,” said Hamlet, “who nibbles on chicks and faults the cock. But mark me, Cobbs: a ronvon doth flourish like a weed in a garden unchecked. Look to it.”

  Hamlet’s quick judgment on this quandary startled me. Maybe I expected him to vacillate with his offering, perhaps even justify the procrastination that prevented me from confronting my wife. But then again: was this prince merely applying his own brand of deception to undo me? His motivations perplexed mostly everyone he encountered. Despite my uncertainty, I sought to pick his brain more heartily on the subject.

  “We both know where rash choices lead,” I declared. As I spoke these words, I recalled the incident that ushered Hamlet to this moment. If only he checked behind the arras before running his rapier through Polonius in his mother’s chamber, his circumstances would’ve certainly bent in another direction. I needed to act with more discipline. “I don’t want to be thought of as a man who lost faith in his wife without a good reason. Until recently, I’ve always trusted her.”

  “And doth thy giglot extend such courtesy to thee?”

  “She’s never had any reason to doubt me. Since we met, I haven’t been intimate with another woman,” I said.

  “Zounds! Ne’er a leman to wax thy cravings?”

  “I wouldn’t cheat on my wife. Even if I thought about it on a whim once or twice, I couldn’t go through with it. I care about her too much.”

  “And thou still houses a hackney,” he mused crossly. “List, my chuck, a fair baggage doth cloud the brain of a beetle-headed man. Marry, carnal deeds art oft daub’d.”

  “What do you think I should do now? I still might be wrong about her.”

  “Thou art not a bisson’d lym on a false scent, Cobbs.”

  “But even if she is having an affair,” I resumed, “is that enough to walk away from my marriage without at least trying to make it better?”

  “That you must tender for thyself.”

  I must’ve appeared pathetically mawkish in the eyes of the prince when I declared, “I think I still love her, Hamlet. In fact, I’ve never really loved anyone else.”

  “O,’ gull, thy yellowness hath made you brainsickly. To pet a riggish woman is akin to taming an asp. Her fangs shalt make worm food of thee.”

  Hamlet’s words tolled like a church bell in my ear. I recognized that the prince’s state of affairs had subjected him to a misery that was even greater than my own. The black bile boiled in the pit of his stomach. Our indecision had cost us much of our dignity. The hesitation in accusing my wife of adultery served as my biggest detriment now. Guilt had shackled me to the ground as if iron fetters were in place, while she hovered above the earth like a sprite too bright to gaze upon.

  By now, even those vaguely familiar with Hamlet knew that he was a furtive character. His inconsistencies boggled my mind, but then I remembered Polonius’s precepts and knew that those who often imparted the wisest advice were least likely to follow it. Maybe I didn’t even want to know anything more from this crestfallen prince. Unlike a spouse’s philandering expeditions, some notions were better kept shrouded beneath an inky cloak of secrecy.

  “’Tis the witching hour anon,” said Hamlet as he scanned a purple vein of light pulsating into the low horizon. He then settled his oscillating eyes on me one last time before saying, “Get thee to a respite where a willow tree meshes on the wharf. And let not a craven claw thy eyne twain.”

  I knew where Hamlet wanted me to go, and it was a journey that required me to break away from Denmark and all of its characters’ debauchery. I still couldn’t leave the prince without wondering if we’d ever cross paths again.

  “I’d like to believe that we might talk in the future,” I said. “I think there’s much more I can learn from you, Prince Hamlet. You’re a man not easily forgotten.”

  “I pray you, sir, not to glose so expedient with thy praise. In sooth, thou art to me what am I
to thee. Naught more, Naught less.”

  And with those words, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern marched mechanically through the fog and took their fated positions on either side of the wily prince. I almost felt pity for these two fools, but not nearly enough to change the course of this tragedy. I stood motionless as the swirling air enveloped the land for as far as it stretched outward toward the sea. Hamlet nodded his chin at me wryly, as if we were the only two men in all of Denmark who had privilege to the events yet to befall this doomed monarchy. I watched this grim-faced enigma gradually dissolve into the crisp darkness, but it was already verified that he would’ve never faded from my recollections.

  Chapter 21

  8:41 A.M.