Hamlet by John Marsden

Author:John Marsden [Marsden, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 978-0-7636-5433-7
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2008-07-15T16:00:00+00:00

Hamlet went down the stairs uneasily, still consumed by the memory ten minutes earlier of the king at prayer. He had found a lavatory and sat on it, emptying his bowels in an exhausted rush. Perhaps he should have struck the king as he knelt, and left it to God to do the rest. But when it came to carrying out the duties his father had set him, Hamlet knew there must be no mistake. His father had been a hard taskmaster. Critical whenever the boy had acted rashly or shown poor judgment, he would never forgive any error in this, the greatest challenge he had ever set his son, the greatest challenge any man could set his child.

As Hamlet walked along the corridor, his feet slowed. He had the sense that he was walking toward feathers, and they would not be the comforting feathers contained within a mattress but rather they would be loose and uncontrolled. The air would be full of them, and he would get them in his lungs every time he breathed. He had experienced this before, down in the poultry yard, and the memories slowed him further, until, about ten meters from his mother’s door, he stopped and leaned against the wall, hugging himself with both hands under his armpits. His hands felt sticky with blood, and yet they were clean and pale.

He could hear his mother talking and a man’s voice replying. The king! His uncle! Now the hotness of his thoughts just minutes earlier was cooling and starting to confuse him. He began to regret this trip down the cold corridor. He could not bear to face both of them in her suite. He would not! His uncle had no business there, no right. He was the usurper. The son had more right than the husband. The prince’s hand went to his sword again. Was this the right moment? Was it time? Could he do it in front of his mother?

The voices were quiet.

Trembling, Hamlet called out, “Mother!” He wanted to warn the pair of them that he was coming. He wanted to avoid any scene that would disturb him further. He called again, “Mother! Mother!” Even to himself he sounded querulous.

He opened the door and walked in. There she stood, one hand to her throat. Only four candles were lit in the great chandelier. The room was dim, the gold furniture glowed, the vases on the shelves were empty. She looked flushed. Hamlet was enraged by the sight of her but kept his face icy.

“Why did you send for me?” he asked. He looked around the room. No sign of the king, who must have gone through the other door into the boudoir, the innermost chamber. Hamlet was blackened by rage. He was staggered by his own rage. That the uncle should be in there, while the mother talked to her son as though she had no thoughts of the usurper, as though she were pretending she did not know what was going on.

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