Hamlet (19 page)

Claudius trembled to see him coming. “Guards,” he called feebly. “Guards, seize him.”

“Let no one move!” bellowed Horatio. He held a rapier in each hand. Feet apart, he faced the guards. “Move, and I’ll skewer you.”

No one moved, and Claudius watched the terrible specter come at him. Hamlet’s face appeared to be all stubble and eyes, not gray anymore, but white, with no discernible pupils. He was relentless. A rapier appeared as if by magic in his hand, and Claudius found enough spirit to stand. The sword ran him through. A cold line went through him from front to back, and the king understood that nothing would ever be the same again. The line ignited and turned to fire inside him, an awful fire that burned everywhere and could not be put out. “Guards,” he whispered, “guards, I am not yet dead. I might yet live. Put a stop to this. Stop him.”

No one responded.

“Not yet dead?” the ghastly apparition screeched at him. “Then try this.” The prince’s hand was at his face; the back of the hand hit him and it hurt; how it hurt; didn’t the prince realize he was hurting him? He should stop. Claudius’s mouth was forced open and cold wine was splashing inside him. Perhaps it could put out the fire. Perhaps this was love. The king drank eagerly. Yes, it was working. The fire was going out; the furnace in his stomach was becoming cold. The wine turned into a snake and crawled down into its hole and wrapped itself around the hot bear that now lived in his bowels; it was a desert and ice rolled across it and all turned to ice it became a cave the blackest cave Claudius had ever been in too black nothing could be this black or this cold and the king’s eyes rolled back in his head and he died.

But by then Hamlet was lying on the floor, his head cradled in Horatio’s lap, his face beginning to contort as death went to work on him. “May heaven take care of Laertes,” he said. “I will follow him soon enough. Oh, Horatio, I feel I have everything to say, and I know there is no time to say any of it. At least be sure to tell the world what you know. Tell my story fully and frankly, but try to find some virtue in me when you do.”

A spasm shook him; he clenched his eyes and teeth, but soon it passed. He hardly seemed to hear Horatio’s staunch statement: “I will follow you, beloved friend. There is wine in the glass yet.”

But when Horatio reached for the fatal dregs, Hamlet pushed his arm away.

“Give me the cup,” he begged. “Do not take that easy path. Stay in the world instead, and speak for me. I fear the reputation I will leave.” He half sat up, racked by pain. “Horatio, I beg of you, forget your own pain awhile and defend my good name.”

Horatio marveled that the bright and beautiful prince had come to this, caught up so intensely in his fear for the regard of history. But no sooner had the thought crept into his brain than Hamlet lay down again, whispering, “I suppose I am king of Denmark for these few brief moments. Let the crown pass to Fortinbras, Horatio.” He raised his voice and shouted through the great hall, “I am Hamlet, King of the Danes, and I say the crown shall pass to Fortinbras.”

“Your Majesty,” Horatio murmured to him, “it shall be as you say. Fortinbras.”

Hamlet coughed and cramped and coughed again, then whispered to Horatio, “The rest is silence.”

Horatio held him for some minutes more. He could not tell when life left his friend. In time Voltimand tapped him kindly on the shoulder. “My lord,” said the older man, “we have much to do. Our duties lie elsewhere now. It is over. We must prepare the kingdom for the news, send urgent messages to Fortinbras, and begin the funeral rites. My lord, come away.”

Horatio sat there another long minute. A servant handed him a cushion, and he placed it under Hamlet’s head. He climbed awkwardly to his feet. He looked down at his friend’s body. “Good night, sweet prince,” he said. “May flights of angels sing you to your rest.”

John Marsden
is the author of more than thirty popular and acclaimed novels, including the classic Tomorrow series and the Ellie Chronicles. About
Hamlet,
he says, “What a guy! What a play! Hamlet’s father makes a mean enough ghost, but Hamlet’s done a good job of haunting my life. I read the play when I was sixteen, saw a film of it when I was seventeen, and haven’t been able to shake the story since. I loved writing this novel as a way of getting to know the mysterious Hamlet just a little better.” John Marsden lives in Australia.