Hamlet by John Marsden Read Free Book Online

remember where it landed.”
    “Near that alder, no?”
    They combed through the grass with their racquets. Hamlet, however, did not seem to have his mind on the job. “And,” he said, “it is also possible that the ghost has come from nowhere, because he has not yet gone anywhere. Suppose he is condemned to walk the earth’s mantle for a time? He is under the influence of neither divinity nor Satan.”
    “Is that what he told you?” Horatio asked boldly, meeting the prince’s eye.
    Hamlet blushed but did not answer. Instead he pressed Horatio harder. “If it were so, would you believe such a ghost?”
    “I might. If I were convinced that the thing meant me no harm.”
    “Hmmm. So it comes down to that. It always comes down to that.”
    “To what?”
    “Oh, to oneself, always to oneself. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio, or in mine, but somehow we are expected to make it all intelligible, to carve statues from air and make books from bark. It is too much. This is the proper work of gods, and we are not gods; indeed, all our human errors come from the vain belief that we are.”
    “Here’s your ball,” Horatio said.

Hamlet dreamed of Ophelia. He had hard dreams of her, and soft ones. He dreamed in prepositions: beside, with, on top of, under, in, out. The dreams were unbearable sometimes; they sent him crazy, but he could not stop them, nor did he want to. There were times when he went to the corridor that ran to her room, but it always seemed something thwarted him, or conditions were not right, and on more than one occasion he bumped into her father. It was as though Polonius lurked near her bedroom, ubiquitous, insidious, and obsequious. “Why, Highness, taking the night air? Such a fragrant night, is it not? Would you care to share a sherry?”
    On these occasions, Hamlet, struggling not to blush, as anxious to repudiate the sherry as he was to obscure his greed for the beautiful Ophelia, tried to pretend it was mere coincidence that found him in this part of the castle, and he went away furious at his loss of dignity. Behind him he left the old man, triumphant, rampant, smug with the knowledge that once more he had chased away the cocky young invader. The fortress remained inviolate. Behind her door Ophelia tossed and turned and moaned, not hearing the stubborn men outside.
    But the night came when Hamlet went right to the door of her bedroom, penetrated the outermost chamber and stood with hand upon the knob, knowing that if he opened this, the final door . . . what? He realized that he knew nothing of what would happen. Breathing painfully, he tried to imagine Ophelia starting up from her bed, with pale fingers to her throat, frightened but perhaps also . . . what? If she cried for help, if she screamed, if she flung accusations at him, if she complained of him the next day, if she ran from him in fear, if she fainted, if she coldly told him to leave, if she became ill with loathing at the sight of him . . .
    Feeling faint himself, he turned the knob but somehow could not push against the reluctant door to open it. He gripped tightly, disgusted at his lack of resolve. Polonius was not the problem this time. The old man was nowhere to be seen. The problem had to be in himself. He knew what he wanted, but he could not take it. Then he heard the noise of someone coming down the corridor.
Ark.
He made a sound like a crow. Letting go of the knob, he slunk back and hid behind a harpsichord, like a thief. Laertes entered the chamber, soft but sure. Leaving at dawn to return to London, he had come to say good-bye. He went straight to the bedroom door, opened it, and, with the complete confidence that only a brother can possess toward a sister, went inside.
    Hamlet groaned and writhed and wailed and gnashed his teeth. He wanted the insouciance of a brother and the ardor of a lover. He crept away down the long, lonely, empty corridor, climbed back up to his