I
find myself hovering above the cemetery. Earlier this day was Juliet borne to the family tomb and fraudulently laid to rest. I could not bring myself to watch it.
But I am here now. I've come to my family's tomb like a petal upon the wind, blown here without consent. Mayhap the universe knew what I would find.
'Tis Romeo, working a mattock upon the tomb's heavy gate; and in the shadows, Paris. The count believes that Romeo will commit some further misdeed (ha, what worse could be done?) upon the Capulet dead. Bravely, Paris shows himself and apprehends Romeo, whom he thinks to be a villain.
“Good gentle youth,”
says Romeo,
“tempt not a desp'
rate man.”
There is a wild calm in his eyes, a bitter serenity that
smacks of danger and madness.
“I beseech thee, put not another sin upon my head by urging me to fury. I come hither arm'd against myself.”
So Romeo means to take his own life here at the mouth of the Capulet tomb! But Paris marks not Romeo's despair. He draws his blade.
Romeo too produces a weapon. The fine steel gleams in the crystalline glow of a hot moon. Paris is worthy, but Romeo is both skillful and hopeless, a deadly blend. The swords collide and echo only once. Paris falls, wounded upon the point of the same sword that made a ghost of me. I can see that Romeo relishes this victory not at all. He hangs his head, dropping his weapon upon the tomb's threshold.
Paris has a single breath remaining and uses it to request a boon of his killer.
“If thou be merciful,”
the count appeals,
“open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.”
Odd it seems to me, but Romeo complies. Mayhap he recognizes the truth of Paris's feelings. Mayhap in his misery he has lost the capacity for spite and jealousy. He brings his rival into the tomb and does deposit him near to Juliet.
It is grim inside. My own body would have lain here these many hours had Rosaline not seen to it that a counterfeit corpse be placed in my stead upon the bier.
When Paris, the unwed groom, is settled dead in the tomb, Romeo makes to Juliet. Would that I could inform
him, would that I could make it known that in time she will awaken.
“Eyes, look your last!”
he cries, his words ringing off the walls of the crypt like handfuls of broken glass.
“Arms, take your last embrace! And, lips ⦔
Romeo leans o'er Juliet and kisses her cool lips, then uncorks a small bottle and drinks from it. I would dash it from his grasp, but I am only a shimmer; I am air and regret.
“O, true apothecary!”
invokes Romeo.
“Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”
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'Tis not long ere Friar Laurence comes; he enters the tomb to first find the bloodied sword. Now he spies he who did wield itâRomeoâand then the victimâParisâupon whom the wrath was wrought.
“Romeo,”
cries the friar.
“O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep'd in blood?”
I see the fear upon the cleric's countenance, a tightness that looks not unlike guilt.
Suddenly, upon the stony slab Juliet does stir. God, how it distresses me to see the hope in her eyes, the smile of pure confidence she gives to him. She is life itself, and all the happy anticipation and trust it holds. The friar turns to her as she rises.
“Where is my lord?”
sweet Juliet inquires of her confessor.
“I do remember well where I should be, and there I am. Where is my Romeo?”
The friar delivers to her the horrific facts. Her eyes fall to where Romeo lies, a true and loyal bridegroom. Her hopeful aura does falter now. Tears like melted diamonds glisten in her eyes.
Now sounds from without frighten the friar, and he beseeches Juliet join him in his escape, but the child resists with an impassioned shake of her head.
“Go, get thee hence,”
she tells him,
“for I will not away.”
The friar makes a hasty exit, leaving Juliet alone among the dead. How small she looks, and how abandoned. 0, if only I could go to her and urge her not to act imprudently. But pain usurps reason, and she reaches toward the vial still clutched in Romeo's hand. She tilts it, but no poison does it yield.
“O, churl, drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips, haply some poison yet doth hang on them. Thy lips are warm.”
Juliet takes her kiss from Romeo, e'en as outside the guards approach. To my great relief, she remains alive.
In one graceful motion she removes Romeo's dagger from its sheath. All that I am wills her not to do it, but all that I am is nothing. Without trepidation, Juliet lifts the weapon.
“This is thy sheath,”
she whispers to the blade, then plunges it into her breast.
“There rust, and let me die.”
I watch, helpless, as my young cousin drops in a heap upon the chest of her beloved, blood seeping through her gown's bodice like a blooming rose.
Though I expect to see Juliet's ghost rise hand-in-hand with Romeo's to join me in this limbo, no spirits ascend. Death defers. Their dying, like mine own, is delayed. I can feel Juliet's spirit lingering there inside her corporeal self. For a moment, I pray that she will find the strength to heal, to live, but I can see the wound is deep, and already her blood is pooling on the floor. A voice that is the Universe tells me that it is, indeed, her time to die. But this child's soul refuses.
Wordlessly, I call out to her, angel to angel, ghost to ghost.
Surrender, sweet cousin. Let go.
Her spirit shudders. I sense she is afraid. Her soul regrets what her hand hath done, and the tomb is filled with the force of her self-censure. Shame darkens her spirit; she prays that it all be undone.
But there is nothing for it. 'Tis irreversible. She is angry and ashamed, and because she willingly embraced that blade, she doubts that heaven will have her.
She is wrong, but I am not dead enough to tell her so.
Mayhap she needs a champion. A champion who long ago did teach her to turn cartwheels and encouraged her to climb the tall trees in her father's orchard.
Aye. I shall escort the child. Who better than I, her cousin and friend, to see her safely to eternity?
I waver, flicker, and now I spiral, up and out above the cemetery, drifting like smoke through Verona's sky, toward the place where my body waits.
I return to myself to die.
I
sense the precise moment my cousin dies.
Here in the Healer's cottage, Benvolio looks on from a chair whilst I sit on the floor teaching Viola to inscribe the characters of her name. Of a sudden, a feeling of awesome dread swells up within me.
I spring to my feet and hurry 'cross the room to Tybalt, sprawled before the fire. 'Tis as though, for just a heartbeat's breadth, the magnitude of his spirit surrounds me in an ethereal embrace, in waves of warmth and affection, Tybalt's voice in soundless song comes to mine ear:
Farewell, my precious cousin, and mourn me not, for in your heart I shall outlive myself.
The disappointment is nearly too intense to bear. It
lasts a mere moment, and in its wake there comes a gentle peace, a quiet kind of contentment that is not quite joy, but close. I recognize it to be acceptance. One moment, Tybalt lived, and the next, he ceased to be. Whatever ghostly part of him remained in our midst is now undeniably absent forever from this world.
“He is gone,” I tell the Healer.
She presses her finger to his throat and nods.
I turn to Benvolio, who is already on his feet, preparing to assist me in bearing Tybalt's body to the Capulet tomb.
A knock sounds on the door. The Healer opens it to reveal Friar John. A quaking dread erupts in me. This is the brother whom Friar Laurence sent to Mantua to inform Romeo of Juliet's temporary death and that he should come tonight to claim her in the tomb. But if he is here, then clearly, Romeo has not received his instructions.
“Good friar, what happened?”
The elderly brother explains that, indeed, some unlucky confusion did prohibit him from bringing Friar Laurence's message to Romeo earlier.
I grasp the old friar's shoulders. “When is Juliet due to awaken?”
“Friar Laurence calculates that her sleeping potion will wear off within the half hour. Not to worry, for he has already gone to the Capulet tomb. He shall be there when the lady doth awaken.”
His reply is made in a voice so rasping that I am compelled to pull over a chair and guide him into it.
“Aye, I must sit,” he gasps. “But just for a bit. 'Tis still my task to reach Mantua and beckon Romeo home to claim his bride.” He breaks off, in a fit of coughing. He smiles weakly and promises, “All will be well, all will beâ” but more coughing cuts him short.
The Healer brings the friar a horn cup of cool water, which he drinks in grateful gulps. I study the old cleric, taking in his drawn face, his gaunt form. If this short jaunt from Friar Laurence's cell to the Healer's cottage has left him weak and breathless, he surely will not make it to Mantua without incident.
Still, Romeo must be told. But, hell's teeth, by whom? I must go to the tomb to whisper the prayers of interment o'er Tybalt's soul, so
I
cannot hie to Mantua. And Benvolio's strength is required to carry Tybalt in stealth to the cemetery.
Now Viola tugs upon my sleeve. As though the child has read my mind, she looks up at me with a most determined expression. “I know the way to Mantua,” she says. “I will find Romeo and tell him all.”
I shake my head firmly. “No. 'Tis too dangerous for a child to walk alone at night. There may be banditsâ”
“I am fast,” she assures me. “And small. If I keep to the trees, no thief will e'en notice me.” Her pretty face is serious when she adds, “Please, Lady Rosaline.”
I turn to Benvolio. He considers a moment, then nods.
“This little one is brave and capable.” He grins. “Rather like thee, my love.”
I remove a lantern from a hook beside the door and hand it to the child, then kiss her soundly on the top of her head as Benvolio reverently lifts Tybalt into his arms.
“Go ye forth quickly, Rosaline,” says Friar John, “and tell Friar Laurence we've enlisted a valiant angel to carry out my part in this plan.” He pauses to smile at Viola, tracing the sign of the cross with his thumb upon her brow. “Encumbered as he is, Benvolio will follow you at a slower pace. Viola can walk with him as far as the cemetery and aid his progress with her lantern.”
Viola holds the lamp while I light it. Once the flame has sprung to life, she dips a quick curtsy to Friar John. I do the same.
With lifeless Tybalt in Benvolio's arms, we three depart into the night.
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Verona sleeps in heat and silence. Once beyond the square, I break away from my companions, hastening toward the graveyard. Behind me, I hear Benvolio and Viola singing soft and sweetly together as they traverse the quiet night. Their voices fade away as I put more distance between us.
Minutes later, I arrive at the churchyard and enter the long passage into the Capulet tomb. The friar is within, butâdamnationâhe is far from alone. I conceal myself in the shadows of the dim passageway and peer into the crypt. In this way I learn that Viola's brave excursion
shall be for naught, as Romeo has already returned to Verona.
He lies dead.
Paris, with the life bled out of him, is also present.
And Juliet, who was expected to awaken from her potion-induced demise, is here as well. She too is dead. She is dead again. And this time, I fear, 'tis real. For there is a knife in her chest. And that, I imagine, would be a difficult thing to fake.
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I remain near the tomb's entrance unseen and make a quick accounting of those others present and alive: the prince. Romeo's man, Balthasar. Paris's page (I believe âtwas he who wisely summoned the guards) and several members of the watch, holding spades and bloody weaponry discovered on these holy premises. Juliet's parents, along with Montague, sire to Romeo, who announces that his wife is dead. He blames her demise on grief o'er Romeo's exile and weeps first for his deceased wife, then his dead son.
In the pale light of funeral candles, Friar Laurence tells the tragic tale of the secret wedding, the sleeping potion, the undelivered letter, and Juliet waking to find Romeo dead. He can only guess that, after he'd gone, Juliet could not bear to live without her Romeo and so used her husband's blade to do violence upon herself
My uncle and aunt, having already accepted their daughter's death once, are twice tortured now to learn she lived but lives no more.
Now Balthasar produces for the prince a letter Romeo had bid him deliver to Montague, and the contents of that missive confirm the friar's report. Paris's page informs all that Paris came only to strew flowers o'er Juliet's deathbed, but Romeo interrupted him and a swift battle ensued.
I have heard enough. My sadness is second only to my frustration o'er the frailty of these many strategies, all of which were contrived to bring about happiness, all of which brought grief instead.
I make to leave in secret, and begin backing toward the passageway. A hand alights upon my shoulder. 'Twould shock me not at all were I to turn and see a ghost, for this place is afire with phantom energies this night. But it is not a spirit, rather a young servant of the prince. He must have been left to wait outside.
“Lady Rosaline,” he whispers, “Benvolio sends me from the churchyard to give thee word of his arrival.” His voice trembles a soft echo in the musty hall.
“Where does Benvolio hide himself?”
“In the shadow of the tallest gravestone,” the boy answers. “There is a woman as well, bearing a satchel. She conceals herself near the trunk of the yew tree.”
“I thank thee for bringing me this news.”
The boy turns to go, then glances back. “0, and Lady, noble Benvolio doth carry a dead man in his arms.”
I nod, showing no surprise, which surprises the boy indeed. “Is there also a comely child with him?”
The boy nods. “Carrying a lamp.”
I instruct the lad to explain to Viola that she need not set out for Mantua.
When he has gone, I look once more to the sight inside the crypt. Romeo's father is promising a golden sculpture of fair Juliet, who bleeds before us. Capulet vows to mirror the gesture, by bestowing a statute of his own in the likeness of Romeo, his lost son-in-law Now the prince speaks a swift and eloquent eulogy, which ends with the names of these spent angels resounding in the flickering gloom of the burial vault:
“For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”
I shiver in the stony tomb and whisper, “Jules,” but the word is lost in the noise of grief Juliet's mother and father shudder in each other's arms, their tears as warm as their newly dead daughter's blood. The prince indicates his desire to go, and the others follow.
I press myself further into the gloom, ducking into a shadowy niche that holds a great crucifix to keep from being seen as the procession passes. Lady Capulet cries, her husband bellows his anguish, and old Montague staggers by, mute with mourning.
When they are gone, I step into the heart of the burial chamber and gaze upon the shared stillness of the newlyweds.
Now Benvolio, carrying Tybalt's body, ducks into the darkness to join me. At the sight of the deceased lovers,
his eyes grow misted, but his steady hold does not falter. He cradles the lifeless Tybalt in his arms as though they had been friends. Viola stands at his heel, looking sadly from Romeo to Juliet.
The Healer comes as well, her tools and remedies safe inside her satchel. A beggar brought her news of some commotion in the churchyard only moments after I left her cottage.
The four of us stand in the musty silence, our eyes fixed on the dead lovers. And then â¦
Intuition draws me closer.
There is something wrong, more wrong than just that which appears to be wrongâor is it something right? My soul goes cold, then, as suddenly, it warms. Hope demands I force myself to recognize what eludes me. I lean down and summon all my courage so that I may more closely scrutinize these pretty corpses.
And â¦
Yes!
Hope has not mocked me! For Juliet's fingers round the dagger's handle are not yet gnarled with death's rigor, and Romeo's lips are a ways from blue enough.
Instinct guides me. Trembling, I place my fingertips to Juliet's throat. I sense only a whisper of a pulse, but mayhap it will be enough.
Now, Romeo â¦
I touch his wrist. 'Tis clammy, cold, but he too lives.
0, God save the apothecary whose poison is so poor! And now do I recall the words I felt when Tybalt died:
Mourn me not, for in your heart I shall outlive myself.
And whispered in harmony with those are the prophetic words I myself did speak to Juliet on the night of Capulet's feast.
A change of heart
, I'd said then. I repeat it now, aloud. “A change of heart ⦔
The phrase seems to tremble on the air. I turn to the Healerâshe knows what I am thinking.
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A girl can pray for a miracle. Or she can perform one.
“You think to replace Juliet's ruined heart with Tybalt's healthy one,” the Healer says evenly, but her eyes are dark with trepidation.
“I do.”
Benvolio consigns Tybalt's body to the nearest bier so that he can place his hands upon my shoulders. “Rosaline, you play God in such an act,” he says softly.
“Mayhap, but then 'twas God who gave me these steady hands, this worthy mind.”
“I fear Tybalt has been dead too long, and Juliet has already lost a great amount of blood,” the Healer warns. “'Tis an immeasurable risk.”
“What greater risk is there than doing nothing?” I demand, my voice low and laced with frenzy.
“We can remove the dagger,” the healer says sensibly. “And stitch the wound. Perhapsâ”
“She has punched a hole in her heart!” I cry, sensing hysteria bearing down on me. “Such a thing cannot be mended with mere knotted string! Tybalt's heart is our only hope.” In one swift motion, I reach for the knife in Juliet's chest and pull it free. A thick spray of blood spatters my face in crimson droplets, which I ignore. I begin to pace round the tomb in long, fast strides, propelled by the force of the need I have to heal.
“Here is what I will do. First I will crack Juliet's breastbone in twain! Benvolio, I will require your assistance in this, as I am not strong enough to do it alone. I shall slice into her skin and open her chest cavity. She will bleed profusely, but if I can cinch the most prolific artery ⦔ I pause, scanning the dank room. “With what? What might I use to fashion a clamp ⦠:” My gaze falls on the ring Romeo wears, the very one Juliet herself did bestow on him. “Aye, this ring will do for a clamp.”
“Rosaline, noâ” Benvolio comes over to wrap his arms around me, but I jerk free and continue to stamp across the stony floor.