A Wounded Name (Fiction - Young Adult)

by Hutchison, Dot

  If I close my eyes, will I hear the bells of all those lost cities resonating in my veins?

  But this, this mass of marks and color, this souvenir of fury and loss, this is what I am.

  I am a bruise in the moonlight, a fragile-skinned creature with shadows under my eyes, drowning in the whispers of night-purple hair. I am a living wound upon the soul.

  I’m a ghost without the sense to leave the body to its eternal rest.

  I am a bruise, and Dane is the one who inflicts me.

  The pain is there in the guilt in my father’s eyes, in the horror of Dane’s. He wields me as a weapon against himself, because I at least am a pain he understands. There isn’t a thing in the world that can make sense of a murder, of the loss of a father, but a bruise … a bruise is such a simple thing to understand. It’s science. It’s fact.

  It’s me.

  I tug the sleeves down to hide my wrists and turn the overhead lights back on.

  The door opens and doesn’t quite close, and shapes pass by me in the sudden brightness. It takes a moment to recognize Messrs. Voltemand and Cornelius, from Monticello Academy and Reggie Fortin’s progressive education project. I suppose it makes sense that the Fortins wouldn’t give up. What pretty words did Claudius send them away with this time? What empty promises of friendship?

  Then I hear a sound that makes me sit up and pay attention to that sliver of open air between me and the office. It’s the sound of a throat clearing, but it’s delicate. Feminine.

  Gertrude never goes into the Headmaster’s office. The closest she ever went before was this room, to soothe nervous parents or comfort a child called to the house for whatever reason. She always said her work was outside of the office, that she had no business there, and yet there she is.

  “Welcome, Mr. Rosencrantz, Mr. Guildenstern. Thank you very much for responding to our request, especially so quickly.”

  Rosencrantz? Guildenstern?

  Why has Claudius brought the Toms back to Elsinore?

  In their time at the Academy, Tom Rosencrantz and Tom Guildenstern were simply a pair, just Ros and Guil, or sometimes the Toms. They never had much use for me, and they didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with Horatio or Laertes, but they’d put up with us to spend time with Dane.

  In my nicer moments, I could call them awkward friends.

  More realistically, I could acknowledge that they wanted the advantage of being friends with the Headmaster’s son. Ros, nervous and fluttering, and Guil, with his endless flattery and smug overconfidence, they don’t know Dane, either of them, and I think we were all privately relieved when they graduated two years ago.

  Dane gets e-mails from them occasionally, usually stories of parties and conquests that sound half fabricated. They’re supposed to be in college, learning business so they can one day step into their fathers’ places.

  I stand and silently swing the door the rest of the way open, leaning against the frame.

  “You mentioned a mystery, Headmaster?”

  That’s Guil, always the first to speak, the first to barge in, with a nervous little laugh that follows everything he says even when it isn’t a joke.

  “Rumors being what they are, I know you’ve heard something of Dane’s recent behavior,” Claudius says grimly. Ice clinks against a glass, followed by the delicate chime of crystal and a splash. “We might well call it a transformation, for certainly he in no way resembles the boy he was. There must be something more than his father’s death that has unhinged him, something more to create this behavior, but what that stress could be, I can’t imagine. You two are his friends of long duration and know him well, so I would ask you a favor.”

  “A favor?” Guil scratches at his ear with a high-pitched titter. “What sort of favor?”

  “I would ask that you stay with us awhile in one of the guesthouses and put your energies to spending time with him, to discovering just what afflicts him so we may find its cure.”

  Ice clinks again in the short pause; his throat works convulsively to swallow.

  “I am, of course, grateful that you have taken time from your courses to assist us in this and will be personally speaking with your dean to ensure that this doesn’t speak against your academic records in any way.”

  Gertrude’s heels tap on the hardwood floor of the office. “He has often spoken of you, even after your graduation,” she lies gently. “I’m sure there are none to whom he is quite so attached.”

  Because it’s the duty of a wife to assist her husband with judicious flattery where appropriate.

  “If there is any way you can help us with this, we would not be remiss with our gratitude,” she continues. “For your time, for your sacrifice, we wish to give you a living stipend while you’re with us.”

  Ros coughs anxiously, a half-born sound that trails into a true cough and a gasp for breath. Gertrude discreetly hands him a handkerchief, and he thanks her with a weak smile. He’s never sure of what he’s saying, doesn’t like to speak in front of people. “We owe a duty to the school; you could just—”

  “But we are glad to assist in any way we can,” Guil quickly says over him. Fabric rustles, followed by a muffled ow. “It’s a privilege to give you any service you ask of us.”

  “Thank you, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.”

  “Thank you, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz,” Gertrude corrects Claudius with a wry laugh. “And if this does not come too soon upon your arrival, please, go and seek my son at once.”

  “God make our company healthful to him,” Guil replies pompously.

  Chairs scuffle and scrape against the floor. The two young men stand to stroll out of the room without even a glance in my direction. Ros gnaws on a fingernail, a muscle tic making his left eye twitch constantly. Coarse caramel hair curls tightly against his scalp and his skin, normally the color of milky coffee, has a sallow, unhealthy cast, like someone without enough fresh air. His clothing is just a little bit too big, always close to the right brands but not quite. Beside him, Guil’s clothing is always just a little too tight, meant to complement a physique that he thinks is better than it is. He’s darker than Ros, much darker, with a shaved head and a very narrow line of hair along his jaw that pretends to be a beard. A gold stud gleams in his left ear. They leave the door open behind them, and before they’ve even left the waiting room, Guil is already full of plans to make Dane spill all his secrets.

  Poor Dane.

  But Father’s plan for Reynaldo and Laertes starts to make a little more sense. It still won’t work, just as it won’t work here, but Father and Claudius have broken their stalemates in very nearly the same way. Neither of them can ask their questions directly with any hope of an honest answer, so they call for others to do it for them.

  There’s nothing overtly malicious about what Claudius is doing; it could even spring from genuine concern. Certainly Gertrude seems relieved at the possibility of a breakthrough, of a cure.

  But how can it help to bring in those who have only ever looked for the rewards of being connected to him? They don’t know him; they don’t know anything of what’s happened this summer.

  They don’t know that by playing mad, he’s becoming it.

  Dane knows, though, or at least suspects. Perhaps he only fears. But he knows there’s a strong possibility that his promises are forcing a disconnect between thought and reason, between reason and impulse.

  I can see it in his eyes when he looks at my bruises.

  I can hear it in how his voice trembles when he speaks of promises.

  The Hamlet that Dane sees, the Hamlet he makes his promises to, is the ghost born of madness and rage and fury. That Hamlet is the one who was murdered; the Hamlet who sits with the angels is the one who died. But Dane doesn’t know that, doesn’t know there’s more than one, and I can’t tell him because it doesn’t change the promises he’s already made.

  Because knowing he made his promises to the wrong one might make him shatter further.


  Sometimes I tell myself that if I play at being a good daughter for long enough, I’ll eventually become one. Like it’s just a matter of practice. One day, after so many rehearsals and attempts, I’ll just wake up and be the daughter my father wants to see. It’s never worked, and I know it never will.

  It wasn’t the theory that was wrong, just the application.

  The Dane that came to my room wasn’t an act. He wasn’t performing for anyone, couldn’t have counted that I would scream and have to tell my father part of what happened.

  He came to me because he’s scared, because the madness he plays with becomes more and more a part of him, the part that singes my body to a tight point of pain and shatters me. The part that’s scared the wonder he sees so rarely may not exist.

  I never thought I would envy my own madness, but I wish I could give this breed to Dane. There’s no pain in my mother’s madness, only wonder. Whatever suffering comes from others, not from the madness.

  But Dane …

  Oh, Dane.

  I cross my bruised wrists over my heart and push until the pain and the circling star become one. He gives me the pain he can’t bear.

  How much more pain will he find to give?

  CHAPTER 24

  My father clears his throat to finally claim his share of attention. “Headmaster, I know it’s very late, but could I impose? I believe it will be worth any inconvenience.”

  “It’s time for rounds; can this conversation be held while walking?”

  “Ah … it can, if you so wish, but it might perhaps be best saved for a more private venue such as—”

  “Excellent. Follow along, Polonius.” Chair legs scrape against polished wood. “The exercise will do you good, confined behind a desk as you always are!” Claudius laughs at his own observation. After a moment, Gertrude’s light, soft laugh weaves through in a delicate harmony.

  It’s a wife’s duty to support her husband by laughing at his jokes, even when they aren’t particularly funny.

  Claudius walks past me without noticing me. I don’t think he’s ever looked directly at me. I don’t think he’s ever had a reason to. Gertrude smiles when she sees me, but the faint line of a concerned frown is permanently carved between her eyes these weeks past. Father gives me a concerned glance and closes his hand around my wrist as he passes, tugging me to my feet. His fingers press against the shadows of Dane’s, and I bite my lip against the hiss that wants to snake through. Blood blossoms in a copper splash against my tongue, a reopened wound I don’t remember receiving the first time around.

  I obediently stumble along behind them until Gertrude frowns at my father and frees my wrist from his grasp. She tucks my hand into the crook of her elbow so we walk a few steps behind the men. We could be on a Sunday-after-Mass stroll, except Father and Claudius walk too briskly, too business like, men with things to do and places to be. Twice a week Claudius takes his turn at rounds with the professors, making a full circuit of the inside of the school to make sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be. At this hour, everyone should be in their dormitories, though the common rooms and attached study spaces are still acceptable.

  It isn’t until we’re actually in the school, our steps ringing on wood and tile, that Claudius seems to remember why he has three extra shadows. “Now, you were saying, Polonius?”

  Father clears his throat, a little winded from the speed of our journey from the house. Perhaps Claudius was right, and he should leave his desk more often. “Brevity being the soul of wit, I will be brief: Dane is insane. Well, I call him insane, but to define true insanity, where there are so many breeds and variations, such distinctions as to render the term nearly incomprehensible, but yet, what can his behavior be but insane?”

  Gertrude shakes her head with a fond half smile. “My dear Polonius, we are not all such complicated minds. Your words are lovely, but perhaps you could speak less artfully?”

  “Madam, I swear I use no art at all!” he protests. If he were a chicken, all the feathers around his neck would be ruffled with his indignation. “He has succumbed to just such a breed of insanity, but it is one with a cause that I have recently—just this very evening—discovered. Ophelia, being an obedient daughter and a good girl, just gave me this.” He pulls the crinkled note from his pocket and holds it up. The heavyweight cream paper was folded in smooth, flawless lines when I reluctantly gave it to him in my room, but like everything else about my father, it has become somewhat rumpled. Dane’s writing, tall and precise, marches in uniform lines across the page. The letters used to be private, a way to circumvent the e-mail for which my father chose the password. He unfolds it, clears his throat again, and begins to read aloud. “‘My dearest, loveliest Ophelia’—what a ridiculous greeting, that, a vile way to begin anything—‘In a night of such interminable, unrelieved darkness, you are the one star in my Heaven, the only point of light and hope and goodness. The compass needle spins and spins with no direction for there is nothing to lay claim to it, nothing that pulls through the Earth to render direction, so I set my sights on you and follow you through the night, and only by gazing at you do I avoid the obstacles and terrors that plague every other path.’”

  “Dane wrote this?” Gertrude asks with understandable amazement.

  Claudius gives me a swift, penetrating look. “How did your daughter receive these letters?”

  Father puffs up, his spine straight with the offense. I’m hardly hurt by the slight; Claudius is a man half blinded by glitter. Why would he notice a shadow? But there’s Father, sputtering as he tries to find the right words, and I love him a little more for his indignation.

  “Now, now, I mean no offense,” Claudius soothes quickly, one hand extended in a placating gesture.

  But it isn’t enough to remove the fault entirely. Father tugs irritably at his unbuttoned blazer, an adjustment without discernible effect. “I would certainly hope so, but whatever you might think, as soon as I saw the heat of his feelings for her—as I perceived them, I must tell you that, before any word passed my daughter’s lips—well, what might you think of me had I kept my silence or offered to ignore it in any fashion or even, God forbid, to have assisted it in some way! What might you think of me! But no, I bent immediately to the unpleasant, necessary task, and impressed upon my daughter the importance of severing this affection. ‘Dane is a prince out of your star,’ I told her. This must not be.”

  But Dane is the star, spinning and burning and keeping the lake at bay.

  “I told her then that she was not to be around him without either myself or Gertrude present, that she should encourage him in no way, and as she is a good girl, she obeyed; she repelled his advances and kept her distance. As any young man rebuffed must, he fell into sadness, even into sulking, but where a young man who felt less might have soon returned to a customary lightness, Dane declined further into his present madness.” Father seems pleased with the case he’s pled.

  Claudius leads us up a set of stairs and into the mathematics hall. In the dim night lighting, I can barely see the smirk that twists up his lips. “And you believe this?”

  “It may be,” says Gertrude, the words slow and reluctant. There’s hope there, too, some fragile chance of an explanation to excuse her son’s behavior. She reaches out to touch her husband’s arm, light and delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “He is very fond of Ophelia.”

  “And has there ever been a time, I would ask you now, that I have ever positively said a thing was so when it proved otherwise?” Father demands.

  I look away to hide my smile. Poor Father, all prickly and unappreciated. Claudius is wise to know how important my father is to keeping the school running smoothly, but he hasn’t yet learned how to keep him unruffled. Hamlet had a great deal of skill in that arena. I wonder if Father misses him or if it’s the school he serves, regardless of who runs it. If you count when he was a student here, Claudius is his fourth headmaster.

  The smirk abruptly vanishes; Claudius has realized his mist
ake. And yet, he is still not as careful as he should be. “Not that I know,” he allows cautiously.

  “Strike my head from my shoulders should I lie even by mistake. If circumstances will allow, I will find the truth of this no matter how it may be hidden.”

  “What do you propose?”

  Now Father is in his element. Make a plan, implement it, something that should always be as easy as reciting steps off the blackboard. Paperwork always proceeds exactly as you expect it to. There’s so much he’s never learned about people.

  “You know that Dane sometimes paces here in the school after hours, especially in the portraits hall.”

  “So he does,” murmurs Gertrude, “for hours on end.”

  “We’ll arrange for Ophelia to already be present, seemingly by herself, and we may observe the encounter for ourselves from the security office. If he does not love her, if this is not the reason for his disconsolate and bizarre behavior, you may expect my resignation to follow.”

  Father never offers to leave his job unless he is very, very certain he’s right. It’s his promise, his guarantee that what he says is the truth, and always that has played out like a check-mate seen from five moves away.

  But he’s wrong this time. Dane isn’t mad for love of me. His madness comes from madness, from playing too close to a deadly truth until he can’t discern the act from the fact.

  And Father can’t know. I could tell him now, tell all of them, and finally be free of this terrible truth. I could tell them about the poison, produce the syringe from the clothespress at the foot of the bed.

  Gertrude and Father slip into easy and meaningless parental prattle—hormones and phases and other nonsense I can hardly bear. And I could silence them so easily. I could tell them how Claudius murdered his sleeping brother, stole from his corpse all life, love, and position. I could tell them of the ghost that mourns and the ghost that rages, could tell them that Dane lulls them into complacency, because what I’ve finally begun to understand is that madness allows for an appalling honesty.