"The Bard's Bereaved Best Friends," A short story by Drew Rivers
After the ink was dry, after the cast had bowed, after the curtain dropped, Ned Poins found himself in some sort of tavern located in between the pages. Above the bar loomed the words "The Bard's Bar," but Poins felt as though he were in another world. Eastcheap, he thought bitterly, It reminds me of Eastcheap. Though that wasn't the Bard's Bar. That was the Boar's Head.
When the barkeep came around, he pondered what he would order. "Don't suppose you have sack wine?" He asked, thinking of Falstaff's old and drunken face. When the barkeep shook his head, he said "Whiskey, on the rocks." The words poured out of him, and he wasn't quite sure what they meant. Whiskey, of course, was the Irish libation. On the rocks? What on earth does that mean? Then the bartender brought whiskey in a small glass with chunks of ice floating in it. He lifted the glass, gesturing toward the bartender, and then took the sip, tasting the bittersweet sting of the whiskey.
The bartender, a middle-aged man with a goatee and a receding hairline, gave him an icy look. "Your story is over Ned, I'm sorry. Now you're here." There was a bit of a shrug on that last sentence. As the bartender turned away, Ned believed he caught a fleeting glimpse of an earing in hanging off the man's ear, but he didn't believe it was really there.
"My story?" Poins asked, foggily. The Barkeep nodded sadly.
Poins thought of his friends – Prince Hal and Sir John Falstaff. The three of them spent their nights gallivanting about Eastcheap, the ragged parts of London, getting drunk and carousing. That felt like a long time ago. That was before the civil war. Hal's father had died, and in turn, Hal had become king. And when Hal became king, Eastcheap – and all the memories with it – had disappeared. Falstaff and all his cronies – Bardolph, Peto, Pistol – had been carted off to prison.
Poins would have been imprisoned as well, but Hal bestowed some favor upon Poins that he had spared the rest of Eastcheap – a knighthood. Poins was sent north, in some administrative post. Allowed to live, but separate from the rest of them. He wasn't there when Falstaff finally expired. He wasn't there when Prince Hal – no, no, when King Henry the Fifth – rode south to conquer France. No, when Bardolph and Pistol looted French villages, he was Sir Ned Poins, an emissary of the King, in the cold of northern Britain.
But if that was that life, what is this? Poins sipped his whiskey on the rocks quietly.
"Ah," the man behind the bar raised his eyebrows, "Here comes another patron. If you look closely, you'll notice that he has a similar aspect as you had when you strolled in here, albeit, he is more sullen, more broken." The man had a young, almost boyish, look to him. He would have looked like a gleeful child, if he was not, as the bartender had said, sullen. He lackadaisically hung his coat on a hanger near the bar, and took a seat on one of the stools.
"A tankard of ale, or," the newcomer scowled in midsentence, "Whiskey on the rocks?"
The bartender smiled, nodded. He poured the drink and put it in front of the newcomer, who gave it a tentative sip, and considered it. Examining the whiskey glass in front of him, he looked over to Poins who lifted the glass in a gesture of friendship. "Where is it you're coming from?" Poins asked.
"A funeral, or something like that," the young man shrugged mournfully, "You?"
"Exile, or something like that," Poins offered wryly, "Name's Ned Poins, rather, I suppose it's Sir Ned Poins."
The stranger studied Poins for a second, and wondering what exile this sir was coming from. "I'm Benvolio, House of Montague."
"Whose funeral were you coming from, Benvolio, House of Montague?" As Poins asked the question, Benvolio tensed up noticeably, but did not entirely cease talking.
"I'll tell you if you tell me about your sort-of exile."
That seemed like a fair trade to Poins, so he told the story, in both its parts, from beginning to end. And he told of the little epilogue he had received – his knighthood, his administrative position, and being spared the imprisonment that Falstaff and his rogues underwent. Benvolio might have found the story sad, but his face did not convey any such sadness.
After Poins' story, Benvolio began telling the story in which he had played a part – of the warring houses of Capulet and Montague, of the lovers Romeo and Juliet, and of the death that came for the lovers and for Mercutio and for Paris. Benvolio smiled as best he could when he spoke of how he and Verona's Prince Escalus helped to bring together Capulet and Montague, settling a cooperative peace among the two houses. But, the smile was gilded, and Poins could easily spot the visceral grief that laid underneath. Benvolio had lost his kinsman, Benvolio had lost his friend. Relative to Benvolio's story, Poins' tale seemed decidedly less tragic.
No sooner had Benvolio's story finished than another man came strolling into the bar. He was distinctly older than Benvolio, more closely of an age with Poins. He had the look of a courtly diplomat, but the worn and weary face of a man whose life has been a calamity as of late. The man behind the bar looked to the recent arrival and asked, "What'll it be?"
The man's response was a wounded, bitter laugh, "Wine? Elderberry wine?" The bartender's mouth formed a smile, but his eyes were full of an exhausted understanding. "No, no, not after…" The patron looked from Poins to Benvolio to the bartender and came to the conclusion he was meant to, "Whiskey on the rocks." And soon a glass of whiskey was placed in front of him.
Poins was going to ask him what his story was, but Benvolio began by telling his own story. That makes sense, Poins realized, Asking him immediately what he's been through is too abrasive, but to share his own story opens up a discussion. And as soon as Benvolio and Poins had told their own stories, the new arrival began his own tragic yarn.
His name was Horatio. He had been Prince Hamlet's true friend – unlike Uncle Claudius' puppets – and had been there when Hamlet dipped into his sea of troubles and grew increasingly mad. Claudius had killed Hamlet's father, taking the throne and the queen for himself. When the True King's Ghost came to Prince Hamlet and told him he must seek justice for the dead, he did. Hamlet's love Ophelia had died, her father had died, and Claudius' puppets had died. But that was before the bloodbath at the end – Laertes died, the queen died, Uncle Claudius died, and worst of all – Hamlet died. "He – he – he did as the ghost told him," Horatio stammered with tears in his eyes, "but at what cost?"
"Horatio, my good man," Poins ventured quietly, "Did you ever see this ghost? Did you know him to be real?"
Horatio nodded grimly, "I was among the first to see it – to see him."
"And that's how that story ends?" Benvolio asked solemnly, "Piles of dead?"
Horatio's lips made a tight line. "No, no, I suppose it was not. The Norwegian, Prince Fortinbras came to Elsinore. I did as my friend told me to, I told his story. And when Fortinbras heard, he gave Hamlet a wondrous funeral. Now I've helped Fortinbras establish rule over Elsinore and Denmark, partly because I've accepted him as the new monarch of Elsinore, but partly because I don't know what else to do." And with that, Horatio gave another bitter laugh. He might have had more to say, but his sadness was interrupted by the sound of a cane tapping its way along the barroom floor.
And now, it was a man of a confusingly indeterminate age. In terms of complexion, he resembled Benvolio. That being said, he appeared to be simultaneous young and old at once – his age likely landing somewhere between Poins and the middle-aged bartender. He, too, after attempting to order a red wine, ordered whiskey on the rocks, and drank it with the thirst of someone trying to medicate a bodily pain. Within minutes, his story was pouring out of him.
The man, named Cassio, had been a high-ranking official in the Venetian Army. At that point, the trajectory of the story had some familiarity. Namely, it was a preventable tragedy. A series of misunderstandings that lead to violence. If only the Moorish general Othello had trusted his friend and his wife as much as he had trusted the deceiver's lies.
Poins decided that the deceiver was what set Cassio's story apart from the rest. Benvolio had mentioned Tybalt's belligerence, and Horatio had all but spat at each mention of Claudius. But neither of their stories had had anyone like the deceiver. Hearing Cassio describe him sent a shiver down the bar patron's spines.
"Iago," Cassio growled the name, "Iago… he tricked them all. Once I had seen the way he looked at Othello when the full scope of his scheming had been achieved… I knew I had never seen evil, true evil, before."
Cassio had inherited Othello's position as general, a thing so coveted it had sparked the unthinkable evil in Iago. But that didn't change what Cassio had seen – Othello had killed himself, there among his and Iago's dead wives. When Cassio returned to Venice, he could swear he heard a howling scream coming from some dark dungeon, but he did his best not to hear it.
And that was where Cassio saw fit to end his tale.
Simultaneously, the four lifted their drinks to their mouths and took a sip. This must have seemed laughably awkward to the group, because they staggered the lengths of their sips so that they all put their drinks down at different times. Poins looked at the four patrons, each of them tremendously bereaved. He was looking for some kind of mutual understanding amongst them, and he looked to the Bartender, who was polishing an empty, shimmering glass. The Barkeep must have sensed this desire for some kind of pearl of wisdom to be churned out of the sands of tragedy, offered up a measly truism: "There is life after calamity, I suppose. For some, at least." Poins had thought about how he would put the same thought into more profound words, but was interrupted by a gust of wind tearing its way through the Bard's Bar. The wind howled horrid words that seemed to plea with a world unknown.
The howl called to them: "I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; my master calls me, I must not say no."
Poins looked to the friends. It was plain on their faces that they had all heard the voice as well, and it had unsettled them all just as much as it had unsettled him. They were about to say something, but the Bartender was moving quickly, pulling some hefty bound book from underneath the bar. The Folio, it read, with the words in golden lettering along its cover. The barkeep opened to its table of contents, keeping the tome well out-of-sight from all of his patrons. When he found what he was looking for on the contents page and flipped pages quickly to some selection towards the middle of the book. He laid it on the bar, towards the middle of the four patrons and now they could clearly see the words printed at the top of the page – King Lear.
And Poins found himself filled with the same sensation he had been filled with he had arrived – as though he himself were in a book and could feel himself freefalling through the pages. Then, when the freefall was done, they found themselves in a battlefield, among a plethora of corpses. Crows and vultures flew around the sky, occasionally finding a choice cadaver to feast upon.
They knew the Lear story from first act to fifth – from abdication to death. His two eldest daughters fought over his throne, and his youngest – the only to truly care about him – was sent away. Edmund the Bastard pitted Regan and Goneril against each other, and Cordelia amassed an army as Lear's mind deteriorated. The four friends saw Lear, standing against the storm, with nobody but his fool and Kent, his loyal knight – disguised, but loyal still – right by his side.
And then, they saw the end. His daughters murdered, Lear's heart could not bear the strain. He expired. "Howl, howl, howl."
The Duke of Albany remained, and so did Edgar, the new Earl of Gloucester. But for Kent, this was certainly no victory. The king had died, the kingdom had fallen, the world had ended.
Albany begged Edgar and Kent, "Friends of my soul, you twain, rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain."
But Kent would not, and he spoke the words that the bereaved friends heard in their cups: "I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; my master calls me, I must not say no." And Kent began his mournful walk towards the White Cliffs of Dover. And when he arrived there, the four were waiting for him.
When Kent came face to face with the four, he postulated, "You all must be the four horsemen of Revelation?"
Poins smiled and shook his head, "No, we are just four men, like yourself." Kent found that hard to believe.
"Then what are you?" Kent challenged bitterly, "Angels, to make sure I don't follow my master to the great beyond?"
After considering in silence, Poins said, "I suppose that's what we are."
"I have no need of angels," Kent shook his head, "He's dead, my friend, my king. Without him, I have nothing. Step aside and let me die." His eyes held a frigid rage.
"We have, each of us, had a brush with tragedy," Horatio explained. "All of us, felt as though the world were going to end."
"We've buried friends, and had to redefine our lives after those burials," Cassio explained.
"Life does not end with the tragedy of a friend," Benvolio said.
Each of them told their stories in turn. The disowned ruffian who became a knight. The wingman who became a peacemaker. The humble friend who became a diplomat. And the captain who grew beyond the evil and an assassination attempt to become a general.
"Kent's story does not need to end with Lear's story," the four said in unison, with the power of a mystical chorus, "No matter what he said, you do more to honor his life by thriving beyond this calamity than you would by dying in it. Live, be strong, and help Edgar rule. You served one king well, now serve another."
"It is easy to simply give up and end your troubles," Poins offered, "But to laugh at your troubles and find new purpose beyond them is true strength."
"Your grief is trying to kill you," Benvolio commented quietly, "Better for you to kill it instead."
"Did any man alive know your king better than you did?" Horatio asked, "Create a kingdom in his memory, in his image."
"Your king's story ended today," Cassio said, "But yours can go on yet."
Water misted in Kent's eyes. His shoulders drooped under his Herculean grief. He looked to each of the men before him, nodded pensively, and turned around to leave. The four exhaled a collective sigh of relief. They could see the Bard. He looked at them with a slight and sly smile, with his earring shimmering, the look in his eyes thoughtful and kind. They all felt the freefalling, page-turning sensation, and returned to the epilogues – and prologues – which they had come from.