The Mercutio Problem

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Wind blew in every time the door opened. Beth sneezed, but she persisted.

  Finally, Sita approached, moving fast.

  Beth matched her pace. They walked into the wind. It blew so hard that it messed even Sita’s perfect hairdo.

  “What were you doing in England?” Beth demanded.

  “Having a spot of tea and a crumpet.” Sita grinned at her.

  “Be serious. How did you get there?” It hurt that Sita didn’t open up.

  “I can’t believe it.” Sita didn’t slow her pace. “After all the secrets you’ve kept from me, you flip if I have a few secrets of my own. You’ll find out in good time.”

  Beth bit her lip. “Did you get there on your own power, on Merlin’s, or on someone else’s?”

  “It’s hard to be on the other side, isn’t it?” Sita didn’t smile. “I helped you. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I guess it has to be. Thank you.” Beth fought back tears. “But whatever you do, don’t listen to Richard.”

  “I’m not a fool like Kevin. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sita turned to go down her street.

  A few tears dripped from Beth’s eyes. It was too cold for her to linger, so she hurried home.

  Chapter 19

  BETH FOUND A CROISSANT in the breadbox and wolfed it down. Tea and crumpets, indeed.

  She went to her room. She felt alone, but she must be brave. Facing Richard was bad enough, but facing coldness in someone she loved was worse. She had faced it with Sita, so she might as well face Shakespeare.

  She whirled through a wind full of ink-covered pages that hit her in the face. She tried to grasp them but could not.

  She stood outside a door that she thought might be Shakespeare’s. He had moved since she last saw him. Lingering wouldn’t make her any more welcome. She knocked.

  “Who disturbs my peace this evening?” Shakespeare opened the door. When he saw Beth dressed as Ben, Shakespeare paled. “Why have you come?” he asked. “What more is there to say?”

  She steeled herself to bear his dislike. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but there is more. Richard III is causing great trouble in many worlds.”

  Shakespeare walked heavily to the lone chair and sat down. He indicated that she should sit on a stool. Though this room had a view of a tree, which was an improvement, Shakespeare had the same simple table, chair, bed, and stool that he’d had earlier. Books, parchment, and a pen lay on the table. So did a candle and a mug of something that smelled like ale.

  She sat. The room had a musty odor, as if whoever cleaned it had not visited for a long time.

  “Is this madness?” Shakespeare’s voice shook. “How can my characters act on their own devices? Or girls from the future appear? Has someone drugged my ale?” He put his hands to his head. “Please don’t trouble me.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must. Richard III is gathering together a band of characters who want to force a change in the endings of their plays.” She colored because she guessed that Shakespeare wouldn’t believe her.

  “Do you know that madmen approach me in the street and tell me that Hamlet’s father’s ghost will kill me or that I shall be damned for letting Romeo and Juliet die?” He shook his head. “How do your words differ from their ranting?”

  She realized that, though Shakespeare’s ghost had seen Richard kill Mercutio and menace her, the living Shakespeare had never seen Richard outside his own play. Richard, as Shakespeare’s character, did not have the power to summon his creator. Most of Richard’s harassment of her had been because he believed she had the power to bring them together, but for Shakespeare’s sake she had resisted Richard.

  Tears formed in her eyes. “I don’t know how to persuade you to believe me. You seem to believe that I came from another time. I don’t want to tell you too much about that because I don’t want to violate the bounds of time. If you can believe that Merlin sent me here, can’t you also believe that he has sent me to the worlds of your plays and that I have seen the characters living on in those worlds after the plays have ended?”

  The playmaker stared at her. “There are no such worlds. Merlin is deceiving you. Perhaps he has given you hallucinations, as he showed me battles and court intrigue. If you see such strange visions, use them as stories for your own writing, but do not believe them.”

  The tears that had been threatening to fall poured from her eyes. “Please believe me. Richard is dangerous. He wants to injure you. If you have any dreams or visions telling you to make your plays darker, please resist that message.”

  Shakespeare averted his gaze. “I have had such dreams, terrible dreams of my characters changed into monsters, so that even the good and gentle ones injure one another. I now drink little ale and less wine to ward off those nightmares.” He groaned. “Can you see into my very soul? Must you strip the flesh from my head and peer into my skull? A man cannot exist without some private space to call his own.”

  Beth sobbed. “I’m not trying to look into your soul. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Perhaps you are my nightmare,” Shakespeare said. “You may be a curse brought on by my sins.”

  “No!” Beth screamed at him. She felt as if her own soul was shrinking. “I’m not a nightmare. I love you, because I love your work. Please, please believe me. Merlin, please tell him to believe me!”

  Merlin did not appear.

  “Not Merlin again!” Shakespeare shook his head violently. “He has harrowed my soul too often. Seeing you is terrible enough, if you are indeed a real being.”

  Beth trembled. She covered her eyes. “You hate me.” Her voice became shrill. “I love you, but you hate me and call me a nightmare. I’ve studied your plays, I’ve acted in them, I’ve dreamed of becoming a famous actor. I want to preserve your plays. You can’t understand, but I’m risking my life to preserve them.”

  She felt a touch on her shoulder.

  “Your flesh seems real.” Shakespeare stood next to her, but he pulled back. “Do not sob. Would you truly risk your life to preserve my plays?”

  Beth took her hands from her eyes, and looked into his. She knew how tear-stained and miserable her face must be. “Yes,” she said. Perhaps it was better to say no more.

  “I do not want to wrong you.” Shakespeare handed her a linen handkerchief. “Please dry your tears. I shall try to listen.”

  Beth wiped her face with his handkerchief. She wished she could take it back to Maryland with her. “I have seen many things that are beyond imagining,” she told him. “Please believe that Richard exists somewhere and is your deadliest enemy. Merlin told me that you based Richard on Mordred. Is that true?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “That much is true. You could not have guessed that if Merlin had not told you.”

  “That was a terrible mistake,” Beth said. “Is there any way that you could take Mordred out of Richard’s character? Then Richard might be an ordinary villain, with no unique powers.”

  “Are you asking me to rewrite the play?” Shakespeare began to pace around the room. “I wrote it years ago and have not thought much about it since. I have written better.”

  “Was there magic involved in the writing of it?” Beth asked. “Could you simply hold the manuscript and wish the magic out of it?”

  He shook his head. “I no longer have the original manuscript. It was burned in a small fire at the theater. But the folio has been published. I don’t know how I can release whatever devil there might be in it.”

  Beth wondered who had been behind the burning of the manuscript. Was it an accident?

  Shakespeare paced. “I cannot call a priest to exorcise the folio, for summoning a priest would land me in the Tower.” He shuddered. “I cannot bear the thought of the rack.”

  “Of course not!” Beth exclaimed. “I wasn’t asking for you to do that. I don’t believe in exorcisms anyway. You are the aut
hor. If anyone could remove Mordred’s presence, it would be you, not a priest. Perhaps Merlin could help you time travel back to the time when you wrote it.”

  “No!” Shakespeare shouted. “I am wary of the supernatural, and weary of it.”

  Beth thought of the witches on the heath. They no longer seemed horrible to her. She wanted to say that the witches might have useful suggestions, but she understood that telling Shakespeare that would agitate him further.

  “I know this may sound strange since I just asked you whether you could make changes in a play,” Beth said, “but please be wary of suggestions that you should change them, especially of suggestions that you should make them darker.”

  “I have had enough of the dark,” Shakespeare told her. “I already regret writing Titus Andronicus. I was younger then. I was trying to shock audiences, but I do not want to whet their taste for too much blood, at least not for blood-letting without thought of the toll it takes. If I write more plays, many of the evil deeds will be reversed, and the deaths may not be true deaths.”

  That fit what Beth had learned about Shakespeare’s later plays, but she refrained from saying so.

  She hesitated. “I don’t know whether I should tell you this, but Richard is trying to find a way to enable Marlowe to rewrite your plays and make them darker.”

  Shakespeare let out a terrible cry. He sank into his chair. “Not Marlowe! He would if he could. But how could he? He died so early.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.” The sight of his sorrow hit Beth like a blow to the stomach. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could communicate with him and reason with him?”

  “Marlowe!” Shakespeare sounded like Macbeth seeing Banquo’s ghost. “I killed him. That was my greatest sin. No, no, I could never face him, or, God preserve me, his ghost.” He shuddered. “He must hate me now, and would never heed my wishes.”

  That was true, Beth thought. “I’m sorry to distress you,” she said. “Please be calm. Many people love your work. It must be preserved. I can’t believe it could be changed, even if someone tries to change it. Maybe all my fears are exaggerated. Just believe this: People love your plays.”

  “I hope that love will sustain the plays,” Shakespeare said. He strove to calm his voice. “I must believe that, or I could write no more.”

  “Believe it!” Beth put all her fervor into her voice.

  “I will.” Shakespeare sighed. He glanced in the direction of his chamber pot. “Would you mind leaving? After so much agitation, I must answer the call of nature.” He laughed. It was a weak laugh, but a laugh nevertheless.

  Beth smiled. How like Shakespeare to turn from agony to a jest.

  “I will exit,” she said, and walked out of his door.

  She flew through a volley of papers and returned to her room. She lay on her bed and went to sleep without taking off her clothes.

  Chapter 20

  BETH WOKE UP WHEN her mother came home, and sleepily ate a vegetarian chili dinner. The chili warmed Beth, but she worried that the beans would make sounds in school the next day.

  “It’s not like to you to be so tired at dinner,” her mother asked the third time Beth yawned. “Are you coming down with a cold? Are you working too hard?”

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Beth endeavored to make her voice sound cheerful. Why did she have to have such a solicitous mother? Heroines were supposed to be orphans or have cruel stepmothers. Her mother was too exemplary. She never even got drunk or yelled. Your mother should give you some justification for being annoyed at her.

  “Would you take some Vitamin C? And maybe some B-12? I think you might be coming down with something.” Her mother looked ready to rush out of the room to bring vitamins.

  “Sure,” Beth said. “I’m not sick, but those won’t hurt me.” She smiled to hide her resentment at being scrutinized. She noticed that her mother was twisting her napkin. “You’re the one who looks worried.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. I probably shouldn’t even tell you.” Her mother’s face was covered with guilt as if a dose of real-life problems would scar her daughter for life. “The college has a budget shortfall, and I won’t get a raise this year. But we’ll be fine,” she reassured Beth.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. That’s not fair. You’re the one who works hard.” Beth got up and hugged her. “We’ll be okay.”

  “I’m not sure we can take a vacation this summer.” Her mother bit her lip. “Except for a few days at the beach. I had hoped to take you to see some national parks.”

  “The beach is great. I love the beach. No worries, Mom.” Beth went back to her chili. She knew her mother desperately wanted to give her a perfect youth. She couldn’t tell her mother that she was traveling a lot as it was.

  “You’re a wonderful daughter.” Her mother beamed at her.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re pretty nice yourself.” A wonderful daughter who was as full of secrets as a cake was of sugar, Beth thought.

  When she went back upstairs to do her homework, Beth spent a little time on French. She didn’t have to spend much time on history because she had already researched Renaissance England thoroughly. Her class was going to finish discussing Henry V the next day. She wondered what that king was doing to oppose Richard.

  She spun through air that was chilly but fortunately dry and found herself on a battlefield that was so close to a field full of sheep that she believed it was in England. She could hear the sheep bleating as shepherds drove them away from the army.

  King Henry V paced in front of his tent. Pennants waved from it. His army stood at the ready. Soldiers tested the sharpness of their swords and drank from their flagons. Some prayed.

  Heavy, white-bearded Falstaff, sweating though the air was cold, stood beside the king. In the plays, Falstaff died, scorned by the king, shortly after Henry came to the throne, but in this world they both lived again and Falstaff apparently could talk with Henry.

  “I have challenged Richard to single combat,” Henry proclaimed.

  “No, Hal, you mustn’t!” the old man warned him. “Just pull some trick on him. Let me sneak up on him with a band of our old friends. You can come if you want, in disguise.”

  “A dishonorable plan.” Henry gave his old friend a look of disgust. “I shall never be Prince Hal again. Take your foolery and go.”

  “I can’t leave you, Hal. Your arm could be broken. You could no longer lift a goblet of sec. Your teeth could be shattered so that you could no longer chew a leg of mutton.” Falstaff wiped his brow. “For the love of life, Hal, don’t fight him in single combat,” Falstaff pleaded. “You could be wounded in any of your parts. You could be killed.”

  “A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once,” Henry said stiffly, adjusting his armor.

  “Not so! A brave character can be killed again and again,” Beth said. “I know that.”

  “Don’t become a coward, Mercutio,” Henry said scornfully. “Don’t listen to this pathetic old tosspot. I don’t listen to him anymore.”

  “You should,” Beth said. “He is giving you good advice. There must be some way other than single combat. Richard is fuller of tricks than a dog is full of ticks.”

  “The Eye-talian is right,” Falstaff said, nodding his head. “Don’t believe that Richard will fight you fair. You’d defeat him if he did.”

  “I shall listen no more.” Henry donned his helmet. “For England and Saint George!” he cried, striding forward. “I challenge Richard of York to fight me.”

  Beth could see a man in armor striding towards Henry. The man carried Richard’s boar shield. His helmet was closed. He looked taller than Richard, with broader shoulders. Her heart sank.

  “Don’t do it, King Henry!” she called out. “I’m not sure this is really Richard.”

  “Honor won’t save you or m
end you!” Falstaff exclaimed. His voice choked.

  Henry reached his opponent and raised his sword. A mighty blow knocked Henry’s head, helmet and all, from his shoulders. It fell on the ground and rolled several feet.

  “Hal! My king! My friend!” Falstaff sobbed.

  The opponent took off his helmet. He was Othello.

  “General Othello!” Beth cried. “How could you stoop to impersonating Richard? How could you kill a man who didn’t even know whom he was fighting?”

  Othello wiped his brow. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. He picked up Henry’s head.

  “Poor, noble king. It grieves me to kill you,” he wept. “I am a wretch. But this is the only way I can undo a worse murder, killing my innocent Desdemona. At least Henry was armed and stood a chance against me.” He carried the head to Falstaff, who cradled it and sobbed.

  Beth gagged. Blood poured from the head and soaked Falstaff. Her stomach heaved.

  “Oh, Othello, you are on the wrong side. You are making more mistakes, not amending the ones you’ve already made,” she said. She felt compassion as well as anger toward him.

  Othello shook his head. “I must make amends to my poor Desdemona. Please tell Henry’s wife that I regret having to kill him.”

  Falstaff would have to do that, because all Beth wanted was to be gone. She bowed to the unfortunate Othello and spun back to her room.

  Chapter 21

  BETH ASKED SITA TO come for a sleepover, but Sita agreed only to go out after school. They sat in the deli, where Sita ordered a turkey burger and Beth ordered a veggie burger.

  The deli was decorated with hearts because Valentine’s Day was coming soon. Hearts always made Beth feel a little sad that she didn’t have a boyfriend. Did loving Mercutio count?