Hamlet Read Free Page A

to you one last time.”
    “I am listening.”
    “I am the spirit of your father.”
    Hamlet could not open his mouth, could not take his eyes from the emaciated face, could not even nod for fear his head would fall off.
    “By day I am condemned to twist in fire, until the sins of my life are burned away. And by night doomed to walk, for some short time yet.”
    “I’m sorry indeed, sir,” Hamlet gasped.
    “There is no need to pity me. I have not come here to torture you, to burn your ears with such stories. Indeed, it is forbidden for me to talk about these matters to one who is of the earth. I have returned for another reason.”
    “Then tell me.”
    “If you ever loved your father . . .”
    The man left the words hanging in the air, and this time Hamlet was not able to speak, just nodded dumbly.
    “If ever you did love your father, I call upon you now to take revenge.”
    “Revenge?”
    “I call upon you to avenge my foul and unnatural murder.”

The ghost growled the last word. Hamlet thought it the loudest sound he had ever heard.
    “Murder?”
    “Murder most foul.”
    In agitation the man began to walk away from the lions, as if he did not know where he was going.
    Hamlet stumbled after him. Behind him, Horatio too started to walk, and farther behind, Bernardo. The dog slunk away toward the eastern corner of the courtyard, then broke into a run, disappearing around the side of the library.
    Bernardo wished he could hear the conversation happening in front of him. What a story this would be to tell back in Gavatar. Perhaps Horatio could hear some of it and would tell him later. Bernardo did not expect Hamlet to confide in him. But the boy did not like to get any closer. After all, it was his cousin who was Hamlet’s friend, not him. Strange, though: you’d think you’d hear their voices on such a clear, still night. But so far, not a word.
    Hamlet had caught up with the figure of his father. In horror, desperate for details, he asked, “But if you were murdered . . . how did it happen? Who would do such a thing?”
    The ghost stopped and stared with his blank, blind eyes. “You know the story they tell of my death? That I was walking through the orchard and was bitten by a snake?”
    “Yes!”
    “The story has been believed from one end of the country to the other.”
    “Of course.”
    “I tell you, and mark the words well, it is a lie. A bloody and vicious lie, as bloody and vicious as the act of murder itself.”
    Hamlet tried to ignore the hectoring tone, to force back the memories of his father’s lectures in the past, to overcome the weakness that crept through his limbs when in the presence of his father alive.
    “Then who . . . ?”
    “Know this, Hamlet. Know it well. The snake that bit me now wears my crown.”
    The great voice that had once been a mighty roar was now a feeble wheeze. But the impact of the words was enough.
    “M-my uncle!” Hamlet stammered. “My uncle! Your brother!”
    “No other.”
    Hamlet, unable to continue in the presence of such drama, stared at his father, shaking his head. The man stared back for a few moments, then took another step, a half step, which brought him terribly close to his son. Struggling to hold his ground, Hamlet looked away, to the sky, to the castle.
    “It was not enough that he seduced your mother,” the ghostly figure whispered. “The woman I loved and trusted, and the man I shared my childhood with, the two people in the world who were closest to me! Betrayed by them both!”
    “My mother,” said Hamlet, thinking at the same time: Then I was not one of the people in the world closest to him?
    He did not know which betrayal hurt him most.
    His father showed no interest in how the fusillade of news was affecting his son.
    Hamlet noticed something new now about the figure before him. It seemed to have faded and moved away, even though Hamlet could swear the man was still standing in front of him.
    When the ghost spoke again, his voice