Shakespeare Vs Cthulhu Read online

“My apologies, lord, I merely wish to be of service.”

  “Go. I will visit you tomorrow with a list of items I require. Save that, our business is concluded.”

  And so it was that, by chance, I was well-placed to witness the next step in our unfolding tale. The next day, after my master had paid a visit to House Capulet and spoken with the Lord and Lady, I was accompanying him to the apothecary’s shop when I spied a young woman ahead of us.

  Though she was cloaked and moved from shadow to shadow, I recognised her immediately as Juliet, as did Count Paris.

  “She makes for the friary,” my master said, and spurred his horse on to greater speed. We passed Lady Juliet without a glance, and reached the friary before her.

  Inside, Friar Laurence tried to hide his displeasure upon seeing my master, and wore his mask of piety and respect with his usual grace.

  “I will be married to Juliet of House Capulet on Thursday,” Count Paris told him.

  “On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.”

  The count explained that Lord Capulet had agreed to hasten the marriage for Juliet’s sake, that she should have something to distract her from the grief of losing her beloved cousin Tybalt. In truth, Capulet feared for the future: with Tybalt in his tomb, the House no longer had a male heir.

  When Juliet entered the friary, she well masked her surprise at seeing the count, though she addressed her intended husband with a measured tone and scant enthusiasm.

  Inwardly enraged, Count Paris took his leave, and I followed. But as the door closed behind me he silently bade me to wait. He mounted his steed and departed noisily, taking my own mare by the reins.

  I approached the closed door and – having cast a glance around me for witnesses, and finding none – I pressed my ear against it.

  I heard Lady Juliet bemoan her lot to the friar, and from her very lips I learned that she and Romeo had been secretly wed. I quenched the urge to race after my master and inform him thus, for there was more to come.

  Friar Laurence expressed sympathy toward the girl’s plight, though he was shocked when she threatened to end her own life rather than marry Count Paris.

  And then, to my own shock, that wretched friar offered her a vial containing a potion that, when consumed, would place her in a death-like state. He would send Friar John with a letter to Romeo, informing him of the truth, then when Juliet had been laid to rest, Romeo would come for her and they could be together.

  I hastened after my master, and spied our horses outside the shop of the apothecary.

  Though he was occupied with business inside, and a good servant never interrupts his master, I plucked at the count’s sleeve until he gave me his attention, then I motioned that this was a matter of the utmost urgency, and he followed me back outside, where he glared at me in a fashion that – in other circumstances – would have had me fearing for my life.

  Out of earshot of the apothecary, I dispensed with the expected apology and quickly explained to my master what I had learned.

  “So I am betrayed by Juliet herself,” Count Paris said. “She is already a bride. Besides, she would choose exile with Romeo over marriage to me.”

  His scowl slowly became a thin-lipped smile, and he looked past me and said, “All is not yet lost. Now comes Friar John.”

  The young friar was hastening from the friary, and did not even see Count Paris until his way was blocked.

  “Good day to you, priest,” my master said.

  “Good day, my lord,” said Friar John. His gaze flickered to the road ahead. “If you will forgive me, I have an urgent matter that –”

  “I will take that letter, Friar John.”

  “I... I know of no letter, Count Paris.”

  “Come now. You are a man of God, so surely you know that dissemblance is a sin. You carry a letter intended for the exile Romeo, of House Montague. That letter will not reach its destination.”

  “I have been entrusted with a vital duty by Friar Laurence, and...” Already, the man was faltering. “I must carry out that duty.”

  Count Paris stepped closer to the man. “Must you? Perhaps you should not. The road is long and its dangers many. Perhaps you are waylaid somehow, and the letter never falls into Romeo’s hands.”

  “Sir, I... I...”

  The count leaned closer still, and whispered into the friar’s ear certain words in a tongue with which I was unfamiliar. In the course of my duties I had encountered many visitors from foreign lands, but I had never heard a language so coarse, so brutal, so laden with foul intent.

  Friar John’s eyes grew wide, and his breath became shallow. His body stiffened, and slowly he nodded, once, to my master, then turned and continued on his way with notably less haste than before.

  “Come,” Paris said to me. “Word must be sent to Romeo by other means.”

  I did not understand, but my station forbade me to seek elucidation.

  Upon return to the palace, my master waited in his study throughout the night, dismissing all visitors – and there were many, for it was believed that he would shortly be wed to Juliet and they came to wish him well – and instead lingered over his many ancient books.

  Even the appearance in his study of Prince Escalus – bearing good wishes and hearty, well-intended advice – did little to fracture my master’s composure, for he was now so mired in those archaic, unfathomable texts that I had to almost force him to eat a little bread and cheese, lest he collapse from hunger.

  The morning came, and with it the news of Juliet’s apparent passing.

  Grief surged through Verona like the evening tide through Venice, for Juliet was much loved by all.

  She was laid to rest in the Capulet crypt, and while Count Paris attended the ceremonies, I did not, for he had instructed me to make contact with the Montagues’ servant Balthasar, whom I knew to be close to Romeo.

  I found the man in the kitchens of the Montague home, along with his fellows. Though none present would have shed a single tear at the death of Capulet himself, nor any man in his household, the loss of the fair Juliet had shaken them, especially coming so soon after the exile of their beloved Romeo.

  I took Balthasar aside, and said to him, “You know of the connection between Juliet and your master. Do not deny it. Not now that she has passed.”

  “I will not deny that, but... what brings you here? Your own master was promised to Lady Juliet, was he not?”

  “He was. His loss is immeasurable, his heart is as a block of ice cast from atop the highest steeple onto stony ground. And surely he would despatch me to the wolves were he to discover that I had come to you. But... though I have not yet known true love, I have learned to recognise the shadow it casts. Fair Juliet and noble, headstrong Romeo had a lifetime’s love in a handful of days.”

  Balthasar nodded, and tears swelled in his eyes.

  “The Capulet tomb will be sealed on the morrow,” I informed him, “and my lord will be expected to sit in vigil until dawn, long after all other mourners away to their homes. But my lord Paris is not a man given to extended mourning. Do you understand, friend? Does my meaning alight on fertile soil?”

  Again, he nodded, but now the slightest smile crossed his face. “Count Paris will depart before dawn. And Juliet’s tomb will be empty, save for her.”

  “A wise man might seize such a chance to bid a last farewell to his love.”

  I left him then, knowing that within minutes he would be on his way to Romeo.

  And so the stage was set.

  I might make the argument that I was merely carrying out the instructions of my master, that I could not be held accountable for what followed, but that is a craven stance, and I am no coward.

  I returned to the churchyard, where Count Paris knelt in prayer with the other mourners, and I looked upon Lady Juliet and – though I knew the truth – I myself was almost moved to weep.

  The shadows grew long and the sky red, then black. As the night chill rose and shuddered through their bodies, Lord an
d Lady Capulet departed for home. They could give no more tears, for they had cried themselves dry. They turned to my master, the last remaining mourner, but their mouths, too, had run dry.

  It was clear to me that Lady Capulet blamed Count Paris for her daughter’s seeming death, but in truth the Lady herself should have borne a large portion of that blame, for it was she who had insisted that Juliet would marry Paris, against the girl’s objections.

  And then they were gone. The count asked of me, “Is all in place?”

  “It is, my lord. Romeo’s manservant has taken word to him, and I expect him to arrive before mid-night. But –” I stopped myself.

  “You have a question?”

  I almost did not answer. A page should not question his master, that is a simple and clear rule. But these were not simple or clear times, and so I spoke: “My lord, if you wished Romeo to come, wherefore did you stop Friar John from taking him the message that Lady Juliet truly lives?”

  “Because a man encumbered with sorrow will not be as alert as a man buoyed by joy and hope, and I do not wish Romeo to become aware of my presence too soon.” He patted my arm, the first time he had ever done so. “And that is something for which you, my loyal page, should be thankful.”

  I did not grasp his meaning at that moment, but it was to be clear enough before the night was out.

  We hid ourselves in the shadows of the Capulet tomb, I crouched and unmoving for so long that I thought my joints would lock forever, and my master nearby, quietly muttering prayers in that strange tongue as he carefully anointed his arms, face and chest with balms and potions, many of which I recognised as items acquired from the apothecary.

  With my cloak pulled tight around me, I succumbed to a cosy drowsiness and settled into that state for an interminable time, until it was shattered by approaching footsteps. Within the minute, Romeo of House Montague was at the tomb’s entrance, his head low, his hands trembling.

  My master burst forth from the shadows, his sword in hand, and – somehow – I saw then another piece of Count Paris’s plan: should Romeo escape alive, or someone else happen upon the scene, my lord would claim that he mistook Romeo for a grave-robber, or a vandal.

  But he had emerged too soon, giving Romeo time to leap back and draw his weapon. Sword clashed against sword with such ferocity I feared the noise would prematurely rouse Juliet from her slumber.

  I had hoped to remain in shadow, but Romeo saw me, and – through instinct – I shouted that I would call the Watch, and made to leave.

  I did not leave, because to inform the Watch would surely invoke the wrath of my lord, and such a thing could be fatal. I considered this as I watched him clash with Romeo, and that consideration led me to a new understanding, though I cannot speak to its exact source. The notion merely arrived, unbidden, in my head...

  My master wanted Romeo in the tomb because a human sacrifice was required to appease his own dark master.

  Had Romeo not returned to Verona that night, my lord would have had to choose another victim for the sacrifice. And I was the only other person present.

  My realisation of this almost spurred me to join in the fight against Romeo, but unarmed I would be no match for the young Montague’s flashing blade.

  Nor was Count Paris. Though skilled, Romeo was still but a boy, and it was clear that my lord was his superior... But Romeo’s anger and grief were fuels to his strength, and Count Paris had been sitting, unmoving, for hours.

  Romeo struck one final time, his blade passing beneath my master’s mis-timed swing, and cut him deep from loin to sternum.

  A fatal blow, I knew. No medic alive possessed the skill to stitch such a wound. Count Paris fell to his knees, staring down at the splash of his own blood on the dusty ground. He moved to clutch at the wound, but was too late: a length of bloodied intestine slipped out, and my master screamed in equal pain and anger.

  Through scarlet-flecked lips he said, “I am slain... I am finished.”

  Romeo cast his sword aside, and moved to Paris as one would rush to an injured friend. “My Lord Paris...” he began, but his words failed him.

  “If you have an ounce of mercy, Montague, lay me beside her,” Paris said. “So that we might be together in death, at least.”

  Paris collapsed once more, and Romeo honoured his last wish, lifting him onto death’s stone serving-platter, next to Juliet.

  I watched in shock from the shelter of a headstone, unsure as to the move I should next make. My lord Paris, dying... His killer only yards away, now with his back to me as he looked down at Juliet’s inert form.

  I am not a coward, as I have explained, but then I am not a fool. Besides, before I could act, Romeo removed something from within the folds of his clothing, and began to speak.

  “You are gone,” Romeo said, looking down at the inert body of his love. “Snatched from this world by grief that we could not be together, and by anger that your future was given against your will to this man dying at your side.”

  And now Romeo turned to my master. “Oh noble Paris. Perhaps you mistook me for a vandal, your own sorrow blinding you, for you could not have known that Juliet and I were already wed, and thus she could never be your bride.”

  From my hidden vantage point, I could see that the Count still lived, his limbs trembling.

  “Rest now, my lord,” Romeo said. “Allow the final slumber to take you, as it has taken this lady whom we both adored.”

  Romeo bit the stopper from the small glass vial in his hand, briefly turned to spit it aside, and I saw the grief on his face. In that moment the whole of my part in this wretched affair became clear to me.

  Paris was a monster, and I, his willing hand, no less guilty of his crimes. For my actions, I will spend eternity in dismal hell, and even that punishment would not be sufficient.

  Two lives already needlessly lost – Mercutio and Tybalt – and a third, my lord, moments away from joining them.

  Romeo raised the vial to his lips and I broke cover, screaming “No!” as I ran toward him. I could not allow a fourth life to be extinguished.

  I do not know – and will never know, I fear – whether the young Montague heard me or not. He quaffed the contents of the vial and instantly collapsed to his knees.

  For a brief moment, he remained there, swaying gently to and fro, then pulled himself toward Juliet’s static form. “Oh true apothecary... Thy drugs are quick.”

  He leaned close enough for his lips to give Juliet’s the slightest touch. “Thus with a kiss, I die.” Romeo of House Montague fell backward to the ground, forever still.

  Perhaps it was the noise of his collapse, though a more fanciful storyteller would have you believe that it was true love’s final kiss, but at that moment sweet Juliet awoke.

  She looked about her, confused at first and then in shock. “What now? What is this? The friar’s potion did as he promised, but... Oh lord, ‘tis Count Paris, dead at my side! And... no! No! Oh sweet Romeo, your eyes fixed in death! This cannot be!”

  I stepped closer. “My Lady Capulet...”

  She spun to face me. “Who...? Oh, I know you. Count Paris’s page. What wickedness transpired, page? Romeo returned as my letter begged, yet he is dead, and not from a wound as Paris.”

  “Poison, my lady. Acquired from the apothecary. Believing you gone, he extinguished himself.”

  “Then... then I would be truly gone! I will join my love in the next life! Hand me your dagger, page, or a sword!”

  “My lady, I cannot. This mad cycle of death must end, I beg you! It began with my master’s desire for you, let it not end with you dying by his side!”

  Juliet turned from me, and reached for Paris’s belt, seeking a weapon. And she found one.

  It was the item that he had me steal from the apothecary’s shop.

  A tiny fragile bone knife, scarcely the length of a man’s finger, its blade curved. For all the world it reminded me of a length of orange-rind, though bleached white. It was not orange-rind. I knew w
hat it was.

  “This, though small, will suffice!” Juliet said. “Away with you, page. I would not have you witness my suicide.”

  I was not fast enough to stop her. She stabbed the small curved knife into her breast, at an angle I knew had pierced her heart. She fell back, eyes wide with pain and fear and grief. In seconds, she was gone.

  It is done, I thought. All done. The young lovers, star-crossed to the end.

  I turned to leave, but was halted by a rasping breath behind me. It was my master, still not passed over into death’s realm.

  With great effort he beckoned me forward. “One final task, page. You are sworn to follow my orders while I still live... Lift me. Place me atop fair Juliet, that her sacred blood will mingle with mine.”

  “Lord... She has passed. Such an act would be a foul desecration!”

  “You are already damned far beyond blasphemy, boy. Do it!”

  I remained where I stood. I did not know the vile purpose of this, my master’s final act, but I would play no further role in it.

  With a last, Herculean surge of strength, Count Paris rolled Juliet’s body onto his, face down. It looked almost like a lovers’ embrace, but it was far from thus. Her blood spilled from her chest, and seeped into his mortal wound.

  The small bone knife fell from Juliet’s hand, and I moved forward to step on it, crushing it. A despicable thing, and although it had already done its business, I could not allow its existence to continue.

  I knew what it was. Oh, yes, I had known from the beginning, and it is to my shame that I blindly – no, willingly – followed my lord’s plans.

  Carved from the skull of an infant that had been poisoned by its mother, and inscribed with the markings of a language older than humanity itself, the knife – when lubricated by the blood of a woman untainted by motherhood – was sharp enough to slice a path from this realm to another. A darker realm.

  My master’s body shuddered one final time, and Juliet’s corpse slipped from him, falling to the ground to lie next to her beloved Romeo.

  Had I the presence of mind, I would have snatched up my master’s sword and hacked at his throat until his head fell clear of his body.