The Mercutio Problem Read online

  But what she noticed above all was that she was Mercutio, judging the garden because it was nothing like Verona.

  “Greetings, Mercutio,” said Lady Macbeth, stepping along the garden’s flagstones. She was as beautiful as ever, with gleaming red hair, dark eyes that looked right through you, and dainty hands. Dainty everything. She wore a black velvet gown and a dark brown fur cloak. Maybe the fur was marten. She looked much calmer than the last time Beth had seen her, when the queen had just stabbed Richard III in the back and then had been deeply affected by the sight of his blood on her dagger and on her hand.

  Beth bowed, trying to copy Mercutio’s bow. “Greetings, your grace.” She moved to kiss Lady Macbeth’s hand, because Mercutio had done that. It was unnerving kissing a hand that she had seen stabbing a man to death, then covered with blood, but at the moment it was clean. It smelled of lavender soap, not blood.

  When Beth raised her eyes, Lady Macbeth laughed briefly. “I know that you are Beth acting as Mercutio. I am on your side.”

  Beth gasped.

  “Truly, I am,” the queen continued. “I hate Richard. And now he will hate me. If he succeeds in his plots, he will no doubt kill me. Far worse, he will do anything he can to destroy the plays. He could even eliminate characters he does not like. Extinguish them. Can you imagine Macbeth without me?”

  Beth closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’m sure he’d do horrible things. Does Merlin know that you want to be on our side?”

  “Of course. That is why he sent you to me, so you can practice as Mercutio with someone who will help you.”

  “Thank you.” Mercutio hadn’t been frightened of Lady Macbeth, but Beth was, and she was sure it showed.

  “One of the first things you must do is learn how to draw Mercutio’s sword. You can begin now.”

  “But how can I draw a sword on a queen? Won’t your guards rush to stop me?”

  “An intelligent response.” The queen nodded her approval. “I am glad that you are thinking. But I have already told the guards that you will be practicing and to disregard it.”

  “But what about King Macbeth?” Beth shivered at the thought of him. He would annihilate anyone whom he believed was trying to hurt his beloved wife.

  “Never fear. I can handle everything.”

  Beth had no doubt that Lady Macbeth could manage many things, if not everything.

  Beth drew Mercutio’s sword. She found that she had only a little difficulty flourishing it, though it was heavy. She must have some of his muscle memories, she thought. But she doubted that she could fight as well as he could have. She hoped she wouldn’t have to.

  “I suppose that is all you can do for today,” the queen said. Her face showed that she was underwhelmed by Beth’s fighting ability. “You might as well travel to another time and place. But do not engage in fighting unless necessary.”

  Beth bowed and said, “Farewell.”

  She spun to warmer air.

  Beth landed on the shore of a blue sea. She drank in the smell of saltwater, which reminded her of trips to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Ships sailed in the distance. Small fishing boats worked the coast closer to shore, and shrieking gulls followed them. A large rock formation stood near the water, and cliffs loomed in the distance. The beach was rocky, not sandy. The tide was low, so tidal pools and seaweed stood between her and the waves.

  She saw a thin man in draped clothes standing on the rocky beach. Perhaps he was Roman or Greek. He had a quiet, pleasant face, bland as an insurance agent’s.

  “This is the place where Aphrodite rose from the sea,” he said in a mellifluous tone. “If one believes the legends.” He inclined his head. “And now you have come to this shore, though not in your own lovely form. Beth Owens?” he asked.

  She stared at him, then looked at her hand. Yes, she still wore Mercutio’s body, but this man could see through it.

  The man smiled like a crocodile.

  At his smile, Beth felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He smelled of blood. Most characters had no scent.

  “Are you Cassius?” she asked.

  “I am not that noble Roman.” His voice sounded so plausible, as if he were about to try to sell her some stocks that were a sure thing. “I am Venetian. I am honest Iago. This is Cyprus, not Italy.”

  Beth shivered. Iago had persuaded Othello that his wife, Desdemona, was unfaithful because another man had her handkerchief. Othello then killed his innocent wife. “Then you need no introduction,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  “Nor do you, Girl Who Speaks with Shakespeare.” He bowed again. “You have many admirers. But that puts you in a difficult position. You don’t know whom you can trust.”

  “I do know who I can’t trust.”

  Iago raised his eyebrows. “You put your faith in Mercutio, and he betrayed you.”

  She choked. “Don’t say anything bad about Mercutio.”

  “I understand that the subject is painful. You obviously identify with him. But he did betray you. And now you trust Lady Macbeth, of all people.”

  Beth pulled away. “Who I speak to is my own business.”

  “Yes, of course.” His voice was still bland, horribly sincere. Even his brown eyes smiled with his lips. “I won’t lie to you. It’s always best to tell the truth. I am allied with King Richard III.”

  She gagged. “Good for you.” That made sense. Iago and Richard were both villains. But the thought of Richard having Iago on his side struck her like a blow. How many other villains would work with Richard? How powerful would they be together?

  Iago nodded to show he understood her. “I know that my news disconcerts you. Would you like a peppermint? Or perhaps a chocolate?” He reached into a pouch.

  “No, thank you.” That would make a great band name, she thought. Iago’s Poisoned Peppermints. She could imagine an ad for Iago’s chocolates: You can’t believe how good they taste.

  “Please relax. I know that you’re under a strain.” He sounded like a dentist getting ready to fill a cavity. “There are two sides to every story, and William Shakespeare was not fair to everyone. Perhaps I did try to make a foolish general jealous, but how could I know that he would brutally murder his wife? Why should you believe the inference that it was my fault? And does Shakespeare say it was, or is that merely directors’ interpretations?”

  A gull landing near them made Beth jump. Speaking with Iago strained her nerves.

  “What do you want?” Beth asked. “Why are you working with Richard? Why should you care if he can find a play about King Arthur?”

  Iago shook his head. “Unlike King Richard, I do not enjoy baring my soul. I do not tell my reasons for anything I do. I just want you to consider carefully what you are doing. What makes you think that Lady Macbeth is trustworthy? The fact that she stabbed King Richard in the back? That’s hardly a recommendation.”

  Iago had a point, but Beth believed that listening to him was dangerous. “You aren’t any more credible than she is.”

  “I understand,” Iago said, as if he weren’t offended. “Many of Shakespeare’s characters are dangerous. Why would you want to take sides? Wouldn’t it be safer for you to at least be neutral?”

  Beth’s muscles tensed. “How can I be neutral about a man who had my friend Mercutio killed? That’s impossible.”

  “True. How can you be neutral about William Shakespeare?”

  She choked. She had meant Richard III, but of course Shakespeare was the first one who had killed off Mercutio. “I know how you twist everything. It’s foolish to listen to you.”

  “Can it possibly be wrong to listen to opinions you disagree with?” Iago sounded as if he spoke more in sorrow than in anger.

  “You could persuade a robin to break its own eggs,” Beth said. “I won’t listen to you.” She turned away.

  “I understand your p
rejudice.” Iago’s shoulders slumped. “I must curb my pride so I do not shut you out. I will always be willing to listen to you. Think about whether I might know things that would be useful for you to hear. Have a good day.”

  After talking with him, Beth wanted to wash her hands. That thought reminded her of Lady Macbeth. Beth wished herself back to the castle in Scotland.

  The drastic change in temperatures made her sneeze. She hoped she wouldn’t catch a cold.

  Lady Macbeth inclined her head in welcome.

  “Iago is working for Richard!” Beth exclaimed. “I just met pure evil.”

  “Iago impressed you with his purity?” the queen asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “His evil is pure because he doesn’t even have a specific goal in mind,” Beth said. “Or that’s what some Shakespearean critics say.”

  “I am glad to hear that lust for a crown is less evil than revenge,” the lady retorted. “If Richard has such a clever ally, we need soldiers on our side. Great warriors.”

  Beth shivered. “Real fighting over a play?” she asked.

  “There can be battles over objects. Consider the relics in the Holy Land.”

  Beth didn’t think the Holy Land was a major concern of Lady Macbeth’s. But yes, Beth guessed where she should begin looking for a warrior.

  She spun south again. So much traveling was making her dizzy.

  Beth saw a black man in armor who was so muscular and majestic that she wondered who would ever dare to fight him. He sat under an olive tree. But the sparkling sunlight did not make him smile. He held his head in his hands.

  It wasn’t difficult to guess who he was.

  Beth sat down beside him and bowed her head in the best Mercutio style. “Greetings, noble general. Would you honor me by drinking wine with me and telling me of your battles?”

  Othello’s somber face lightened. “That is kind of you, signor. You are a Venetian?”

  “A neighbor. I am Mercutio of Verona, cousin to the prince.”

  “I am honored to meet you. Thank you for your gracious offer. I would be only too glad to tell you of my battles. If only I had died in one of them.” Othello heaved a sigh.

  Beth offered him Mercutio’s wine flask. Doubtless Merlin had arranged for it to be filled with the finest wine.

  Othello pulled from his pouch a battered pewter cup and let her fill it. “This cup saved my life when I battled a dragon. I kept the cup over my heart because my mother gave it to me. My sword pierced the dragon’s heart, but he sent forth a final blast of fire that would have incinerated my heart, but it damaged only the winecup.”

  “Wonderful,” Beth said. “What an adventure.” She poured herself a few drops and pretended to drink.

  Othello drank a healthy portion. “But the dragon was not nearly as powerful as a basilisk. I slew not just one basilisk but a dozen, all hissing together and trying to kill me. After that, I was tired, I can tell you.”

  “You are very brave.”

  Othello downed the rest of his wine, and she poured him more. Tears formed in his eyes. “But do you know who was the worst monster I ever slew? Myself. Never, never can I forgive myself.”

  His self-hatred was contagious. Beth began to hate herself for using Othello’s tragedy as a way to get his support. But, remembering that she had to protect Shakespeare, she proceeded. “Iago deceived you.”

  “I should not have let myself be deceived.”

  Beth nodded. “True.” She paused. “Iago is now working with Richard III in a plot against Shakespeare.”

  “Iago.” Othello’s face contorted with rage. He crushed the pewter cup in his hand, making another dent in it.

  “Some other characters are joining together to oppose Richard.”

  “I am with you. Against Iago.” Othello’s hand stroked the hilt of his sword.

  “Very good. Thank you.” She tried to keep her voice calm though his anger made her tremble. She wouldn’t want it to be directed against her.

  Beth spun over the Mediterranean and marveled at its blue color. She wandered into another olive grove. Maybe she was in Verona. The warm sunlight reminded her of Italy. She soaked in the warmth, which was a welcome change from the chilly weather in Maryland. She was glad that olives on the trees didn’t smell like olives on a plate, because that smell nauseated her and she refused to eat them.

  Magpies scolded her for intruding in their world.

  She turned down a path and saw a thin man in a gleaming white toga approaching her. His military bearing was as conspicuous as Othello’s, though he was built like a reed, whereas Othello was built like a tree. The man’s face was lined with wrinkles, accentuated by a frown. The chief plotter of Caesar’s assassination probably never smiled.

  “Hail, Cassius,” Beth said, bowing her head to him. “I hope I have the honor of addressing the praetor Gaius Cassius Longinus. I am Mercutio, cousin to the Prince of Verona.”

  “Prince is a title deriving from birth, not won through merit.” Cassius remained unsmiling. “I am praetor peregrinus only. I was supposed to be honored by being sent to govern the province of Syria. Scarcely the honor I deserved.”

  “Of course you deserved more honors, noble Cassius,” Beth said. Cassius smelled far more like blood than Iago did. She realized that as a character she could smell other characters, though as a human she had not been able to smell most of them.

  “Assassinating so vile a thing as Caesar should have brought me more honor.” Cassius sounded aggrieved, as if he deserved a medal for killing his leader. “I was no bondsman, no sheep submitting to a dictator.”

  “True, Cassius,” Beth said, keeping her disgust at the assassination out of her voice. “You were never meant to be a bondsman. But you died with honor, after valiant battle. When you died by your own sword, the sun of Rome set.”

  “That sun could rise again.” Cassius looked into the distance, as if the olive grove had become the Capitol. “Our plan must not fail this time. If you are an honorable man, Mercutio, join with us in our plan to overthrow the tyrant Shakespeare.”

  Beth managed not to gasp. “Shakespeare was no tyrant, but a scribe who used Plutarch’s history in telling your story.”

  “Shakespeare was a mere scribe.” Cassius nodded. “And he has secured undeserved fame. But his words have shaped minds, and if they were undone, history might change.”

  “That can’t be true!” Beth exclaimed. “Has Richard III told you that? Perhaps the lives of invented characters like me can be changed, but surely not history. Richard, not Shakespeare, is the tyrant.”

  “If Richard is a tyrant, he will be overthrown by and by, but Shakespeare is a far viler thing than Caesar. The tyranny of words is greater than the tyranny of dictators.” Cassius’s frown deepened. “You are a noble-minded man. If you wish to die a more honorable death than you died in Romeo and Juliet, you should join us.”

  “You are indeed noble, Cassius, but even you cannot defeat history itself,” Beth told him.

  “I am armed, and indifferent to danger.” Cassius touched his breast, where he must have hidden a dagger. “And you? I have heard of your courage. Join with us, in a nobler cause than family feuds.”

  “Richard is the one I fear,” Beth said. “I joined with him, and he betrayed me and had me killed. He kills even those who work for him. Do not align yourself with that ignoble monarch, for you are a champion of republicanism.”

  “I am firm in my resolution. I can make alliances, and I can break them. I have changed the course of history once, in killing Caesar, and I can change it again.” Cassius strode away, marching as if the olive groves were legions bowing to him.

  Beth shook her head. The word “hubris” came to mind. She willed herself away from Rome, and back in Maryland.

  Her room was colder than Rome, but she felt safer. She huddled under a blanket.

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nbsp; DID SHE STILL HAVE strength enough to travel? She closed her eyes. This time she felt a blast of wind and landed in a colder place. Yew trees sheltered her from the frigid gusts.

  Beth saw a white-haired man who was gaunt but far from frail. Even though he stooped, he towered over her. The man’s eyes were as wild as a tiger’s. His fine but tattered robes were scant protection from the wind. He smelled as if he had been out all night in the rain. Actually, many nights.

  She tried not to breathe too deeply. She bowed. “Good day, your grace.”

  He glared at her. “Who are you to ‘good day’ me, boy?” Age had not diminished the power of his voice.

  A shiver went up her spine. “Sir, I am Mercutio, cousin to the prince of Verona.”

  “What is a prince of a hill town in a fragmented land? I am king of all Britain.”

  You were, but you no longer are, Beth thought. She had no trouble guessing who he was. “King Lear,” she said. She bowed even lower.

  “I am he. King of the wind and rain. Dare you speak to me, prattling fool who was killed in a brawl?”

  “I do know pain, my lord.”

  “No!” he yelled. “You know nothing of pain. Your pain at its greatest was not a nutshell’s worth compared with mine.”

  “Evil was done to you,” Beth ventured.

  “By vipers.” His voice echoed. “Vipers.”

  “As one so injured, would you condescend to work with other characters against villains? Who knows what evil they might do next.”

  Lear bellowed at her. “You garlic-eating coxcomb! I know of Richard’s plan. I have joined him. Do you think I would hesitate to give my soul to change the end of my play and save my precious Cordelia, my only loving daughter?”

  Beth choked. Oh no, there were characters who would give anything to change the endings of their plays, no matter how much that hurt Shakespeare. Of course, King Lear would be one of them.

  Nevertheless, she said, “But to ally with . . . .”