Hamlet Kills (short story)
by Pierrick Simon (1 255 words)
A hound startled by its own prey. This was Hamlet’s countenance upon passing through the secret doorway. In stupor, he forgot where he was off to and, in that place, what he was meaning to do. There was no discretion in the way he stumbled into the chamber; with a long noble sword by his side and shaky hands. So, looking at himself in the mirror as if at a stranger, how was he to know the lengths he was ready to go to? But there, silent, in the dark, was another man. Perhaps not who Hamlet was meant to meet now, but certainly he who had occupied the prince’s every unsleeping thought for a while – and dismantled his sense of space – and dismantled his sense of time – and who by chance, providence, or something darker, had found himself there without guards.
King Claudius had killed Hamlet’s father. Of that Hamlet was nearly absolutely sure.
King Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, had hidden the deed under a shroud of lies, woven with the delicate fingers of hypocrisy. But no more! In the dark there, he was not greeting his young guest with a warm voice and a false smile. He seemed rather unaware of him; if truly the way he was kneeling alone was uncalculated.
Not completely silent, Claudius was mumbling. What was he saying? “my alleged offence”, “my place of repentance”… Was this a prayer or contract law! He was indeed on his knees, with folded hands. He was next to, almost beneath, a desk, it seemed. Why? An innocent child’s hiding spot? The lair of a hunted fox, maw still bloody from stealing a chicken? Maybe an improvised temple for one last ritual: hands joined as a pledge of fealty to himself and himself alone? Or something greater, truer, divine? He looked rather naked like this. This was no chapel or bedchamber and yet here he was, a would-be king, as low as the floor.
Rage swelled in Hamlet’s heart. Now might I strike! Now that he is alone, his back turned, kneeling, praying!
Yes!
Now must I strike!
Hamlet drew his sword and heard not the sound of its steel cutting through the air, so was he deafened by his own heartbeats shouting in his ears.
But again, doubt assailed him. Did this pathetic man, now almost crawling beneath a desk, really kill his father? Really? In actual observable deed and not just in envious thought?
All evidence said so. The ghost of the victim himself had testified, and his etherealness was well and truly outweighed by many considerations: not just the number of times the spirit had diligently appeared on the castle walls, but also the number, sobriety, and good character of various witnesses who confirmed that the apparition was no mere figment of the son’s imagination.
One would also be remiss not to mention that, paradoxically, the outlandishness of a testimony adds to its credibility. For indeed, it might seem prima facie that the tale of a spirit should be suspected to deal with the demonic, but careful and considered thought, on the contrary, finds the flavour of truth in the grotesque itself. That Hamlet the Father, a good man and a good king, should be sent to a hellish purgatory upon his assassination is a scandalous fate akin to that of Job or Christ. The ghost, upon freely confessing this incomprehensible embarrassment, only confirms that no one, not even the cleverest liar, could have had enough imagination to invent such a strange tale. It must be taken as truth.
And finally, and obviously, the spirit revealed the manner of the murder, the poison that penetrated the ear hole of the good king and burned off the marrow of his brain. With this information, Hamlet the Son was able to hire a troupe to put on a great theatrical performance that mimicked the events of the murder gruesomely enough. Claudius, in the audience, reacted so strongly to it that it was almost an explicit admission of guilt. Again, the furrow of his brow was seen not just by a young man thirsty for justice, but by many a witness of excellent repute and good enough eyesight, working for Hamlet. Thus, during this play, almost puking, Claudius ran to his study – or was it a study? I mean there was a desk there, let’s not get lost in the details – and Hamlet, oh good faithful Hamlet, followed. He followed and followed and found by mistake the secret passage which was to seal his uncle’s fate. A passage that was always there. Seldom used, and only for shameful deeds.
And now must he strike! Twice rather than once! Three times if it was what it took!
Hamlet seized on the collar of cowering Claudius (or maybe it was his skin directly; his scruff, you understand). The old man shouted but barely. He did not seem exceedingly surprised that an intruder was there all along, but who’s to say how even you or I might have reacted under similar circumstances? It is conceivable that his bladder was already empty, and that its dryness then should not count as evidence of a purely performative prayer.
Hamlet, like a drunkard, began the insolent arc of the sword towards his neck but did not complete the gesture.
Doubt, again.
If Claudius’ prayer was not for show... If this trembling frame in Hamlet’s clutch meant true remorse... If Claudius had reacted to the play like a man with a heart, not like a king in court... If ghosts had been nothing but ghosts and friends nothing but friends… If heaven did not care for proof gathered with a dark heart anyway… If Hamlet had always meant to stalk him through the twisted corridors of the palace, guilty or not… If this desk in the shadows was in fact a bed, not a hiding place, but a place of intimate prayer, righteous sleep, and tender love, where Hamlet’s mother – the Queen – might lay unaware or paralyzed by terror even now. If people did not get the fate they deserved but the fate that most resembled their secret acts... If in the dark it was easy to mistake a random servant for a king, or a man for every other man who scoffed at your grief… And what is more, if every man, at bottom, was nothing but a scared animal… Then, upon his death, Claudius’ praying soul, even half-hearted, would go to heaven, as surely as Hamlet the Father and Hamlet the Son would go to hell.
Nonsense! To hell with holy scruple! Material evidence renders null and void the unwritten laws of the gods!
Hamlet drove his blade through King Claudius as if piercing and emptying a barrel of wine.
The old man shouted weakly as blood poured forth. Hamlet thought: A rat! A rat! Nothing but a rat, he was! But it was hard to convince oneself even of that.
Hamlet stabbed his uncle again, and again. Three times altogether. Throwing blood all over the lightless room that he could not quite place. A study, it had to be.
Hamlet and Claudius together screamed. A powerful cry this time. A joint scream of rage, madness, and fear. For both of them did not truly know what they had done, and how, and why.
They knew only the following (insights that came with each stab): one, that it was wrong, two, that they had cut through the very matter of heaven, and three, that it could not be repaired.
Comments
Post a Comment