T
he child speaks true.
Tybalt breathes!
I crouch beside him, withdraw my dagger, and place the shining steel blade beneath his nose; a slight exhalation fogs the reflective metal.
He bleeds, but aye, he is breathing yet.
Rosaline examines Tybalt's wound with deft skill. 'Tis not nearly as deep as it looks,” she tells me, “and he was not struck in a critical place. Romeo's sword did merely pierce my cousin's flesh. E'en had it penetrated farther, 'twould have missed his organs completely.”
“Why then does he not move?” I ask.
“I am not certain,” she admits. “But the Healer will
know.” She turns to Viola. “Sweet child, wilt thou do something for me? Something important.”
Viola nods determinedly.
“Know you where to find the Healer's cottage?” Rosaline asks.
Again, the child nods.
“Get thee there at once.” She gives Viola a serious look to communicate the gravity of the task. “Tell the Healer that we are bringing to her a patient and that she must make ready for his arrival.”
“I shall run all the way!” With that, Viola turns and bolts, running as swiftly as her little legs can carry her.
I stand, lifting Tybalt and slinging him as carefully as possible o'er my shoulder. We set out for the Healer's cottage.
“Know you what this means?” Rosaline asks. “Romeo can no longer be charged as a murderer! The prince will be obligated to recant his exile.”
“There is truth in that, however ⦔ I sigh, unwilling to trample on her optimism. “That surely will not be the end of it. Should Tybalt recover, I am sure the Montagues will only demand his prompt execution for having killed Mercutio.”
Rosaline thinks on this. Deep in contemplation, her brilliant mind turning, she is even more beautiful to me.
“Then I myself shall appeal to his Majesty on the issue,” she says at last. “Surely God has not kept Tybalt alive only to allow him to be executed! But you are rightâthe
Montagues will demand satisfaction, so for now we must not reveal that Tybalt remains among the living. The Healer can hide him in her cottage and tend to him there.”
“But the undertaker is on his way. He will have been told to expect two corpses.”
Again, Rosaline works the problem in her mind. “I am fairly certain the mortician has ne'er seen my cousin up close. Therefore, he will accept whatever dead body he finds beside Mercutio's to be that of Tybalt of the house of Capulet.”
“How is that helpful?” I ask her, motioning to where Mercutio lies alone. “The undertaker will still find himself short one cadaver.”
“No, he will not,” Rosaline tells me.
“And your kinsmen, won't they wonderâ”
“Leave it all to me,” she says. “You bring Tybalt to the Healer. I shall meet you at the cottage as soon as I am able.”
“As you wish.”
“0, and after the Healer has seen to Tybalt, please have Viola describe to her Sebastian's symptoms. Mayhap she can prepare a tonic for the child.”
For a moment, I just stare at her, forgetting the weight of Tybalt upon me, ignoring the sadness I feel oâer the loss of Mercutio. For all I can think upon is the fact e'en in the face of such dire circumstance, my angel Rosaline remembers a poor, sick child.
I cannot help myself
I kiss her soundly on the mouth.
I
follow the stench to the dead man.
In this neighborhood, such a feat requires great concentration, for these mean environs do reek malodorously even when there is not a decaying corpse in the vicinity.
I find him in the alley. Crab, Lord love him, did inflict a most thorough wound upon the villain's throat. But clearly the punishment did not cease there. The condition of his visage indicates that the rats did find him in the night and made a feast of his features. His lips have been torn clear off his face. His skin has been pocked and blistered by the rodents' teeth. His nose is shredded to the bone, and his eye sockets are empty but for a viscous, bloody ooze.
Yet I feel no pang of pity. In truth, my initial impulse
is to kick him squarely in the gut and spit upon his fouled remains. Instead, I do what is right and make the sign of the cross o'er him, asking God's forgiveness for his considerable sins and offering a prayer to commend his soul to the perpetual light of heaven (though in my heart, I believe his rightful place is beside Beelzebub in hell).
Having done that, I take hold of him by the armpits, hoist him halfway up, and drag him to the place where Tybalt did not die.
Â
The mortician is too tall, too thin, too pale, and just obtuse enough for my purposes.
His arrival finds me crying, first over Mercutio then crawling on mine hands and knees to weep before the corpse of the faceless imposter. The mortician watches me awhile as I scuttle betwixt the dead.
At last he clears his throat. “Calm thyself, lady,” he says in a voice like stone. “So that I may beg information from thee. Know you the names of these dead?”
I look up at him and sob e'en more robustly.
He releases a windy sigh. “This display of oscillating grief much bewilders me. I was made to understand that I would here find two lads of great enmity, each hailing from one of the feuding houses. Tell me, lady, for whom dost thou weep?”
“For both,” I wail. “For all.”
His brow wrinkles in confusion. “Pray, wouldst thou indicate which of these fallen foes is your brethren?”
“Which one?” I rise from my knees, still sobbing, my fists clenched, my eyes wild. “Which one, you ask? Zounds, sir, I reply to thee that one as well as the other belongs to me, and as well belongs to thee.”
His anger flares. “You addlepated girl! 'Tis not possible!”
“Is it not?” I shake my head despairingly. “O, you sorry soul! The doctrine of our blessed church doth teach us well that we are all God's children. Ergo, I do in my most devoted heart believe that both these boys are now in death as ever they were in life my own dear kith and kin.”
The undertaker glares at me, biting down hard on his crooked teeth. “Then tell me this: Of these two here dead, which one is Tybalt, claimed in life by the house of Capulet?”
I point to the body I so recently dragged hither. “He there was Tybalt once.”
The undertaker looks to the pilfered corpse. “I was told 'twas a sword that killed him. What has happened to wreak such havoc upon his countenance?”
I bite my lip, summoning some plausible falsehood. 'Tis then I notice a sleek, black raven's feather (which I recognize as having once adorned Tybalt's favorite cap) lying upon the dirt beside the anonymous replacement.
“Birds,” I answer.
I snatch the feather from the ground and wave it dramatically. “A swarm of them, aye, black ones, and large, swooping down from the sun-bright sky, with talons bared
and bills as sharp as the point of Satan's tail. 'Twas swift and sickening to see, sir. They devoured my cousin's face, then as quickly ascended again to the sky like a dark and writhing cloud of purest evil, squawking and cawing, batting their broad wings.”
Now I fall toward the mortician. He flinches as he catches me, and I cling to him. The flinch, I expect, is due to the stink of the corpse that lingers upon me. “Good sir, I implore thee, do not allow Tybalt's relations to see him as I have! He was a vainglorious rascal in life, exceedingly proud of his rugged beauty and elegant form. 'Twas one of the things we loved best about him. On my oath, sir, this boy would prefer to suffer evermore in purgatory than be seen in such an unsightly state.”
The undertaker considers this, kneeling beside the corpse to examine the mutilated face. “I cannot repair such as this,” he mutters.
“Nay, but you can conceal it, can you not? A simple slip of silk, laid softly upon his ruined faceâoh, but be sure that the fabric does complement his shroud, for Tybalt was much concerned with fashion.”
The mortician nods. “Aye, 'twill be the kind thing, to cover this mess.” He rises, brushing the dust from his knees. “With your leave, lady, I shall bear now this boy to my mortuary, to prepare him for his interment. My apprentice will be along by and by with a box in which to collect the other and transport him to the cemetery, as his family has requested no pomp or pageantry.”
A shiver passes o'er me. “Say you that Mercutio will merely be stuffed in an ugly coffin and tossed into a hole in the ground?”
“âTis not fancy,” the man allows with an icy expression that is a perverse imitation of a smile, “but 'tis usually effective.”
“No!” I stamp my foot. “Call the clergyman immediately so that he may administer the rites. And bring hither your finest casketâsatinâlined and trimmed with gilt. I shall myself accept the cost! And see that not one single clot of earth be dropped upon Mercutio until all of the customary prayers have been offered!”
After a moment, he consents with a curt nod of his long head. “Done.” With that, the undertaker hoists the nameless corpse from the ground and departs.
When he is gone, I lean down and brush a lock of hair from Mercutio's forehead. “Please endeavor to behave in heaven,” I whisper, as a tear escapes my eye. “Flirt not with God's angels! And smile down whene'er you can upon Benvolio, for he shall miss you deeply.” I lean closer and place a kiss upon his cheek. “As will I.”
Tybalt's raven feather becomes heavy in my hand. At home I will keep it protected within the pages of my Bible. For now, I tuck it into the waistband of my skirt, then rise and hurry away to the Healer's cottage.
T
he Healer sees to Tybalt; she is swift and serious.
Viola watches in fascination as the old woman listens to Tybalt's slight breathing, tugs up one eyelid, then the other, to peer into his sightless eyes. I too am amazed at the scope of her knowledge, the breadth of her compassion.
“Indeed, his body lives,” she pronounces gravely. “His lungs do inspire, his heart doth beat. The blood still runs warm in his veins.”
“'Tis possible to save him, then?”
The Healer glances at Viola. “Child, prithee, to the garden with thee, and bring me a swath of leafy greens, a stalk of fennel, and the spikey leaves of four dandelion weeds.”
Pleased, Viola helps herself to a splintered bushel basket and exits through the back door into the Healer's garden.
“Fennel and dandelion?” I ask. “Ingredients for some manner of medicine?”
The Healer shakes her head. “Ingredients for some salad. The little girl requires her dinner.”
“And Tybalt?” I ask quietly. “What doth he require?”
She runs a leathery hand o'er Tybalt's brow and answers, “A miracle.”
Â
Rosaline arrives and confers with her mentor.
“So 'twas not Romeo's blade that left good Tybalt in such condition?”
The Healer shakes her head, indicating the gash. “The cut yielded an inconsequential loss of blood.” She turns to me. “Thou sayst he fell?”
“Aye,” I confirm. “And hard.”
“Hard, indeed. For his skull suffered a most acute impact. The damage to his brain is complete and permanent.”
“I'd have thought our headstrong Tybalt's skull too thick to incur such an injury.” Rosaline bites her lower lip searching for comprehension. “If his brain is ruined, how is it he continues to draw breath?”
“The brain is near as wondrous a mystery as the immortal soul,” the Healer explains. “Eâen when all capacity for thought has fled, nature and impulse can remain. Tybalt
is dead of mind, but his corporeal being still functions. He is here and gone at once, as though he is lost in the deepest of sleeps, a sleep from which he shall ne'er awaken.”
I clear my throat. “What, then, are we to do with him?” A chill creeps oâer my flesh, as I consider our various courses. “We cannot bury him alive; 'twould be murder.”
“We shall do what we can to nurture what is left,” the Healer whispers, “while we wait for the Lord to collect him.”
“'Twill not be long, will it?” Rosaline asks in a whisper of her own.
“That is mostly up to God Almighty,” the Healer replies, “but partly up to Tybalt's ghost. All depends upon how soon his spirit tires of this strange purgatory. His mind cannot choose, but his soul will decide when 'tis ready to drift away.”
I take Rosaline's hand, kiss her cheek. “Mayhap his soul will discover something worthy for which to live.”
But from the Healer's pitying expression I understand 'twould be much better were good Tybalt's soul to find something else ⦠something worth his death.