Authors: Lisa Fiedler

Dating Hamlet (9 page)

BOOK: Dating Hamlet

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“WHERE IS THE BEAUTEOUS MAJESTY OF DENMARK?”

I tiptoe into the hall, looking verily disturbed. My filthy hair is strewn with dead flowers, and I have smudged my nose with dirt. My gown I wear with its back in front; the coarseness of the stone floor bites the soles of my bare feet.

Gertrude trembles as I make across the space in her direction, first skipping, then stomping, then again on tiptoe. Horatio stands beside her. (Moments ago, Anne reported that he'd gone to seek out the Queen for the purpose of begging her to speak with me.)

“How now, Ophelia?” asks the Queen most nervously.

In answer, I begin to sing.

“He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

“Oh, ho!”

She makes to interrupt, but again I demand she listen, scampering away to avoid her outstretched arms. 'Tis pity she offers? Or comfort? God's truth, should she attempt to soothe me, I know not what I'd do. For I did love her once! 'Twas her motherly hands which softly stroked my forehead on the day my mother died. And Hamlet! How certain we both were that she taught the stars to shine! But to forgive her now?

The Queen's ladies whisper their horror as I twirl and gallop and chant. Horatio waves them out; as they take their leave, the King appears. Upon spying me, he halts his stride and makes no other move.

I pause before him, meet him toe to toe, and fire a hateful look at him.

He flinches! Aye, and flinch he should, for what he's done to me. Perhaps now he fears my unruly condition. His voice is tremulous when he inquires, “How do you, pretty lady?”

I bare my teeth and bark at him. He steps backward in alarm, and I grin, calming my demeanor to speak nonsense.

“They say the owl was a baker's daughter.” I thrust myself toward him, so that my nose near meets his chin,
and change my light tone to loathing. “Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be!”

And what you are,
I am thinking,
is a heathen swine, who made the grave mistake of wronging me!

The color drains from his face. I smile, tilt my head in a careless gesture, and finish sweetly, “God be at your table!”

Gathering up my skirts, I dance away, humming, giggling, and wailing in turn. I slow my pace when I reach Horatio; I reach out a sisterly hand and touch his cheek, hoping somehow he will see beyond this make-believe and know that I am well.

The Queen arrives at the King's side. He presumes aloud that I am thinking of my father. His erroneous judgment angers meâdoes it not occur to him that it is the loss of Hamlet, and not the soulless simpkin Polonius, which torments me? I drop to the floor and slither toward them as a serpent. The Queen shrieks and covers her face, while the King makes to shield himself behind her.

I roll a somersault and spring to my feet. “Pray you, let's have no words of this,” I hiss, “but when they ask you what it means, say you this:

“Tomorrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donned his clothes,
And dupped the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.”

“Pretty Opheliaâ”

Damn, but I wish he'd stop calling me that! I cram myself between the King and Queen to drape my arm companionably round her shoulder, as though we were lads just finished downing tankards of ale, and sing a bawdy rhyme.

“How long has she been thus?” the King asks.

Before the Queen can answer, I wriggle out of the space, turn, and make a deep, deep curtsy.

“I hope all will be well,” I whisper, then adopt a cheery tone as I beckon an invisible entourage. “Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night” Bowing and waving, I take my leave of them.

Anne is waiting without, eyes wide with amazement.

“Well?” I prompt.

“I best liked the slithering part!”

I pull a moldy stem from my hair and giggle. “Thank you, I quite agree.”

“Soft, Horatio comes!”

“Ladies â¦”

“That is a matter of opinion,” I coo, spinning a small pirouette.

Anne gives me a quelling look. Horatio positions himself between us; with his back to me, he speaks in a low voice.

“The King suggests I keep an eye on her,” Horatio tells Anne. “What think you?” She looks o'er his shoulder for a clue from me. I shake my head.

“Let me,” she tells him. “I will see that she rests.”

At this moment, a gentleman appears to beg a word with Horatio.

“Good Horatio, there are strangers arrived wishing to meet with thee.”

Horatio frowns. “Strangers?” He and Anne exchange glances; he turns back to the gentleman. “I'll be with them straight” When the gentleman exits, Horatio turns a furrowed brow to Anne. “I cannot imagine who's come, nor what news they bring.”

“Fortinbras?” I blurt, forgetting for a moment I am meant to be irrational. “Could it be word of his impending crusade to regain lands won of his father by our deceased King?”

Horatio bends me a queer look; I recover and slip back into my charade, turning to engage in conversation with the wall behind me.

“See to them,” says Anne. “But I beg of thee, be safe.”

“And thee,” he whispers, touching her hair.

I watch Anne's gaze follow his departure, a violent ache surging up within me. Many times did I look after Hamlet in the same fashion. I envy her, even as I rejoice for her. And then, through a nearby window, comes a tremendous clamor.
I smile. “That would be Laertes. Right on time.”

Anne and I are obliged to flatten ourselves against the wall as a messenger hurries in. “Know you the whereabouts of His Majesty?” he demands.

Anne points. “There, in yond chamber, with his Queen. What is the matter?”

(As if we did not know.)

“'Tis her brother.” The messenger indicates me with a jerk of his head, then resumes his rush, shouting, “Save yourself, my lord!”

“Such theatrics!” I roll my eyes and sigh.

Anne giggles. Now Laertes, with his battalion, appears, and a noisier bunch of unwashed rabble I have never seen!

“Hello, Ophelia,” he whispers.

“My dear brother,” I reply, dipping my chin.

Now he roars: “Where is the King?”

I cover my ears, cast a glance at his band of rowdies. “Cavorting with the wrong crowd again, are we?” I tease.

“Not my usual fellows, sister. But well suited to this errand.” He grins. “And they call me âlord.'”

I giggle as he turns to address his partisans, ordering them to remain outside.

Some oppose the order, but Laertes insists. He pauses to snap me a wink, then draws his sword and bursts in upon Claudius. When the time is ripe, I shall intrude upon them to again make merry madness before the King. Laertes will play as though he is shocked to find me thus. Indeed, we do approach the climax of this fiction.

“I've one question,” whispers Anne, as Laertes' followers withdraw “While you are away from the castle, before I am to make my tragic announcement, your absence may be noticed. What am I to say, should anyone inquire after thee?”

“The truth,” I suggest, bending her a shrewd smile.

“The truth?”

“Aye. Tell them I've gone for a swim.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

I KNEW NOT HOW DIVINE A PLAYER MY BROTHER could be. Sword swinging, he interrogates the King, shouting that he cares not about consequence. Gertrude is quite a wreck, but the evil King holds his calm; he does not shrink before the fury of his hunter, as he shriveled before me.

“Why, now,” says Claudius, cloyingly, “you speak like a good child and a true gentleman â¦ . I am guiltless of your father's death, and am most sensibly in grief for it”

At this, I sound a loud, wet raspberry!

The King hears me and motions to an attendant. “Let her come in.”

“How now,” stammers Laertes, “what noise is that?”

In answer, the attendant brings me forth, then steps away quickly, probably because I am picking at imaginary nits I pretend to spy in his hair. He leaves me in the center
of the room, where I set to chewing my nails. My hair is more wild than before; I've tied wide sections into fat knots, which protrude from my scalp like furry growths. I begin to whistle.

“Oh heat, dry up my brains!” Laertes gasps. “Tears seven times salt, burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!”

At the sound of his voice, I start, then wildly peruse the room. When at last I allow my eyes to meet his, I let out a squawkâpart laugh, part chokeâthen genuflect as though methinks I see a saint. Laertes lets his sword fall to his side and gapes in disbelief Tears grip his voice as he moves slowly toward me.

“Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! Is't possible a young maid's wits should be as mortal as an old man's life?”

Once more I break into a song of death.

The Queen is crying. I wish not to dwell on that, and so I delve into the deep pockets of my skirts and withdraw. . nothing! But to their eyes, it seems I've found a precious bundle. A bouquet, of course, which I hold as might a bride. I bury my face in the air where blooms, were there blooms, would be. I breathe deeply, then pluck an invisible offering from the bunch and hold my empty hand out to my brother.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.”

Slowly, dully, Laertes accepts the absence of rosemary from me.

“Pray you, love,” I whisper loudly, “remember.” I rise on tiptoe to kiss his chin, then laugh daintily, handing him another ghost. “And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.”

His forlorn expression so amuses me that I must hurry off to keep from laughing. Gliding toward the King I go and wrinkle my nose at him. “There's fennel for you, and columbines.”

He stares at me until I snatch his hand and slap the unseen flowers into it.

Now I sweep toward Gertrude and pretend to tuck a weedy ornament behind her ear. “There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o'Sundays. You must wear your rue with a difference.” Wrapping my arms around her neck, I whisper in her ear, “I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.” I pull back and smooth my skirts to add in a matter-of-fact tone, “They say he made a good end.”

I lift my hands in a musical gesture as though asking them to join my song.

“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.”

Laertes clutches his breast, howling. (Perhaps he does not like that the attention is all mine.) I sing, more loudly:

“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 â¦”

Hamlet.

He is gone.
“ â¦ He is gone.”

My cover cracks, a cleft in the charade that invites true grief to creep beneath it. The words remind me â¦ .
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 â¦

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:

“ â¦ 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 meâI 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 â¦ and find you in the morgue.”

BOOK: Dating Hamlet