ACT ONE
Scene 1: The Ghost Walks
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Fransisco shifted uneasily. The dark tower always seemed to him hostile and unwelcoming; being posted sentry there was most undesirable. Though perhaps the many shadows that seemed to jump out unexpectedly at him were just products of his imagination; his nerves, after all, were already stretched tight. Not that a king's sentry should have anything but iron nerves. But he'd not been trained for anything like this – see what he'd had to deal with! Twice in the last week alone. Really, being confronted by things so unnatural, so intangible, was enough to set any man on edge. He was not afraid of anything he could strike with a sword, but ghosts, now...they were another matter. At least his time was nearly up for tonight. If that blasted newcomer would show up; he longed desperately for bed.
What was that? Fransisco stiffened. The spirit, returning? No; a definite footstep. He hoped it was the newcomer at last. What was his name? Barnardo, that was it. Laying his hand upon his sword hilt, Fransisco stepped swiftly forward.
A creeping shadow froze upon seeing him.
"Who's there?" stammered the shadow nervously.
'Who's there', thought Fransisco, irritably. What cheek! He answered sharply, making sure that Barnardo, if it were he, could hear his annoyance. "Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself."
The shadow hesitated, then climbed the last few steps. As he emerged from the darkness of the spiral staircase, the moonlight threw his features into sharp relief. Quietly, the man spoke the password.
"Long live the King."
"Barnardo?" checked Fransisco.
"He," Barnardo confirmed.
"You come most carefully upon your hour," said Fransisco reprovingly. Though he supposed Barnardo was not exactly late, he'd certainly arrived at the last possible minute. As he spoke, a great bell began to chime.
"'Tis now struck twelve," said Barnardo defensively. "Get thee to bed, Fransisco."
That was certainly a most welcome thought! Fransisco smiled, and made an effort to be friendlier. "For this relief much thanks," he said. "'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart."
Barnardo looked worried. "Have you had quiet guard?"
Fransisco knew Barnardo was enquiring about the strange spirit they had both seen.
"Not a mouse stirring," Francisco told the younger guard, who looked anxious. Evidently he was disappointed that the Ghost had not yet come and gone...perhaps it was just biding its time.
"Well...goodnight," said Barnardo, with a rather unsuccessful attempt at a brave smile. Fransisco raised his hand in a sign of farewell, and began to make his way down the stairs. Then Barnardo called after him. "If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, tell them make haste!"
Fransisco grinned. Barnardo wanted back-up in case the ghost arrived! Well, who could blame him...
The sound of footsteps – Horatio's and Marcellus'? – reached Fransisco's ears, and he shouted over his shoulder to Barnardo. "I think I hear them."
He leaned over the staircase rail. "Stand ho, who is there?" he cried.
Horatio's voice answered him calmly. "Friends to this ground."
"And liegemen to the Dane!" added another voice, Marcellus'.
Fransisco waved them upward with a smile, then took a few more steps down the stairs, towards bed, and warmth, and oh, most desirable dreamless sleep...
"Give you goodnight," he said to Horatio and Marcellus as they passed.
"Farewell, honest soldiers; who has relieved you?" Marcellus seemed to be assuming that both Barnardo and he were leaving.
"Barnardo has my place," Fransisco informed them shortly. Would he never get to bed? "Give you goodnight."
He hurried down the stairs before any other enquiry could be made of him, and was thankful to escape.
Marcellus watched Francisco's sturdy frame disappear with a smothered laugh; the old solider never had been keen on night-watching. "Hello, Barnardo," he greeted the young soldier as he reached him.
Barnardo shook his hand politely, then squinted over Marcellus' shoulder. "Say, what, is Horatio there?" the young soldier inquired.
Horatio climbed the last few steps and gave Barnardo a friendly smile. "A piece of him," he joked.
"Welcome, Horatio," said Barnardo, returning the smile.
Horatio was looking around them. "Has this thing appeared again tonight?"
Barnardo looked surprised. "I have seen nothing," he said slowly, giving Marcellus an enquiring glance.
"Horatio says it's only our imagination – he won't believe in this dreaded Ghost we have seen, twice seen!" Marcellus informed the younger soldier, confirming with a small nod that he had indeed told Horatio of the Ghost. "Therefore I have entreated him along with us to watch the minutes of this night. If the apparition should come again, he may confirm what we have seen, and speak to it."
"Tush, tush," said Horatio with an amused smile. "It will not appear!"
Marcellus rolled his eyes, and Barnardo had to smother a laugh. "Sit down awhile," he told Horatio. "And let us once again attack your incredulous ears with the tale of what we have both – two nights! – seen."
"Well, sit we down," said Horatio tolerantly. "And let us hear Barnardo speak of this."
They settled themselves more or less comfortably on the cold stone floor, then Barnardo began.
"Last night," he said, assuming his best story-telling manner, "when that star you can see over there had made its course to that part of the heavens where it now burns, the bell chimed one, and Marcellus and myself –"
But just then, Marcellus jumped up so suddenly that Barnardo dropped his sword. "Peace, break thee off," Marcellus hissed at him urgently. "Look – it comes again!"
A deathly cold had settled upon them, and Barnardo turned in slow dread towards what he knew he would see.
The Ghost, its grey form slightly blurred, was gliding sorrowfully towards them. Its face was etched with mournful pain and something much akin to grief, if ghosts indeed can grieve. The amazed Horatio spoke not a word, but gazed at the Ghost with troubled eyes.
"The same figure like the king that's dead..." whispered Barnardo in awe.
There was no doubt it was like the old, gracious King Hamlet, though none had seen him in life with such an agonised, angry expression etched in every line of his noble face.
Marcellus tore his eyes away from the spirit long enough to whisper urgently to Horatio: "You're a scholar – speak to it, Horatio."
But Horatio seemed as yet incapable of movement, let alone speech.
"He looks like the King, does he not? Look at it, Horatio," said Barnardo, rather unnecessarily.
Horatio found his voice. "Most like," he said croakily. "It harrows me with fear and wonder."
"It would be spoke to," hinted Barnardo.
"Speak to it, Horatio," Marcellus repeated. Throwing a slightly amused glance at his companions, Horatio nodded. The faint smile in his brown eyes faded, however, as he approached the sad grey form of the ghost. It was really terribly cold, thought Horatio, shivering.
"What are you that comes at this time of night in that fair and warlike form in which the buried King of Denmark did sometimes march?" he asked softly of the Ghost. But the grey spirit merely gazed down silently at him. "By heaven," Horatio added, his voice growing stronger, "I charge thee speak."
The Ghost retreated, its colourless eyes fixed on Horatio.
"It is offended..." Marcellus looked at Horatio reprovingly.
The Ghost retreated a little more. "See, it stalks away," commented Barnardo, unable to hide a note of relief.
Horatio ran a few steps after the Ghost's fading figure. "Stay!" he cried. "Speak, speak, I charge thee speak!"
But the ghost was no more to be seen.
"'Tis gone and will not answer," said Marcellus, as Horatio stood, brightly illuminated in the moonlight, staring after the Ghost. Then he turned slowly back to his friends, his eyes slightly wild.
"How now, Horatio, you tremble and look pale," Barnardo told him, reaching for Horatio's hand and pulling him away. But the young soldier could not hide a note of satisfaction from his voice. "Is this not something more than fantasy?" he asked the white-faced scholar. "What think you on't?"
Horatio did not speak for a while, and when he did, it was in hushed tones.
"Before my God," he said slowly. "I might not believe this without the confirmation of my own eyes..."
"Is it not like the King?" said Marcellus, eager for confirmation.
"As like as you are to yourself," nodded Horatio. "Such was the very armour he had on when he fought the King of Norway...and you noted his frown? He frowned just like that, once, when he smote the sledded Polacks on the ice...'tis strange..." he trailed off.
"Twice before, just at this midnight hour, he has gone by our watch," said Marcellus.
Horatio nodded slowly. "I think ... I do not know ... but I think this bodes some strange eruption to the state of Denmark; some political revolt or disturbance."
Marcellus turned to him with searching eyes. "You know why this spirit nightly walks the land?"
"I have a theory, no more," said Horatio. "I've heard rumours, which would make sense of it. You see, the late King Hamlet was once engaged in combat with King Fortinbras of Norway – he slew Fortinbras, and took his lands. Not the land of Norway itself, but its estates, which Fortinbras had won through combat."
"But why should this disturb King Hamlet's spirit?" asked Barnardo, confused.
"Well, now, sir," said Horatio, "young Fortinbras – the slain King's son – has resolved to take back the lands that his father lost. This, I take it, is the main reason why the Old King Hamlet has returned from the dead; he is agitated to think that the lands he won might be reclaimed."
Barnardo pondered this. "So you believe that this Ghost comes to warn?"
"Hush," said Horatio suddenly. "Behold, lo, it comes again!"
The Ghost had appeared silently but a few paces behind Barnardo, entering accompanied with the same blast of icy cold as before. The young soldier turned fearfully to face it.
"Stay, illusion," Horatio commanded of the apparition. "If you have a voice, speak to me! If you know the secret of your country's fate, speak to me...or," he added, as another thought occurred to him, "or did you hoard treasure in your life, that you obtained by foul means? For this reason, they say, spirits often walk in death – speak of it – stay, and speak!" The ghost's mouth opened – was he about to say something?
A harsh, ringing shriek cut suddenly through the air, and they all jumped. A cockerel was crowing, announcing the coming of day, and, like a started hare, the alarmed Ghost backed swiftly away, retreating to whence it came...it did not like the cock's crow.
"Stop it, Marcellus!" said Horatio frantically. "Do not let it leave!"
Marcellus seized his partisan – a long-handed spear. "Shall I strike it?" he cried, hastening forward.
"Do, if it will not stand!" Horatio ordered, as the Ghost drew ever further away. But then, a shimmer, and the Ghost was no longer there.
"'Tis here!" said Barnardo, pointing to where the fading figure could now be seen.
"No, 'tis here!" Horatio gestured; Marcellus ran from one spot to another, spear raised...but the ghost had escaped.
"'Tis gone," said Marcellus. He looked guiltily at his spear. "We did it wrong, offering it violence...it was too majestic to be treated so. Besides, it is invulnerable, like the air; our malicious blows are in vain."
Barnardo scratched his ear. "It was about to speak when the cock crowed," he said.
"And then it started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons," agreed Horatio. "I have heard that the cockerel's shrill cry awakes the god of day. At his warning, whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, any spirit that is beyond the bounds of death hastens back to its proper home."
Marcellus nodded. "It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that at Christmas-time this bird sings all night long, so that no spirit dare stir from its hellish home. And holy and gracious is that time, free of evil..."
"So I have heard and do in part believe it," said Horatio. "But look, the dawn arrives. Let us go from this place – and by my advice, tell what we have seen to Hamlet, son of the dead King. Upon my life, if not to us, this mute spirit will speak to him."
"Let's do it," said Marcellus decisively . "I know where to find him – come."
And so, as the morning cast its rosy blush over the dusty hills and fields, the three men made haste to find their friend and lord: young Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.
Pleeeease review! It's my first Shakespeare fanfic!