Dating Hamlet by Lisa Fiedler

Mayhap madness will come for me like a wave crashing o’er the fathomless flood of dread emotion to pull me under, carry me away.
    I cannot say that I would mind it. Anything to elude this misery.
    Oh, to have stayed before the crackling fire upon the hearth within my father’s cottage. But I have resigned myself to live in the gloom of Elsinore until the business of destroying Claudius is done. While I hate with all my heart each particle of sediment in every stone of this castle, I cannot leave here yet. I must stalk the fiend and do so closely. Claudius is the villain, yet it is I who am in prison. Only Anne and my garden are left to comfort me.

    Yet I wish to remember as much as to forget, and so, on a parchment scroll, I set to work painstakingly recording the details of Claudius’s wicked deed. Who knows how long ’twill be before I may officially accuse him before a court of justice? I would have nothing o’erlooked. As well, there is the possibility that some ungodly violence could occur—some danger visited upon me, inflicted perhaps by a vindictive Barnardo, or the King himself, should he suspect. And so I write.
    I would much rather slit the King’s throat but will not do this for two reasons. One, it is a sin. Two, I do not own a sharp enough knife.
    There is a knock on my door; Anne enters.
    â€œSince you did not come to dinner, I have brought you …”
    Before she can set the trencher down, a shadow falls across the floor. I look to see Claudius in my doorway. Anne takes a step backward. I simply stare, too shocked by this unusual and ill-timed visit even to think to conceal the written denunciation before me.
    â€œLovely Ophelia,” he begins, approaching me. “I wish to offer thee condolences on the death of your honored father.”
    He takes my hand to kiss, slivers of something sordid in his eyes, and I realize of a sudden the damning parchment is in plain sight! My only hope is to divert him, and so I answer:

    â€œMy father, sir, is alive. I saw him but an hour past.”
    A flicker of something—is it pleasure?—contorts the forged King’s face. Ah, so he has come to test the allegations of my madness; I do believe he hopes to find them true!
    â€œHe was here?” challenges the King. “Polonius? Alive!”
    â€œAlive enough to borrow my russet gown.” I giggle. “’Tis a poor color on him, and it makes him appear plump round the middle. But ’tis his favorite.”
    â€œYour father,” he stammers, “wore your gown?”
    He turns to Anne for confirmation. She effects a look of great pity, shaking her head.
    â€œPolonius dons my garments often,” I assure the King. “But shhh! He prefers that no one know of it, sire. He would beat me if I told. I am also to keep secret the fact that he can fly.”
    At this nonsense he is truly aghast. “Say you, Ophelia, that Polonius flies? That is to say, he makes himself airborne?”
    â€œAye, my lord. Airborne. Like a stallion.”
    â€œBut stallions cannot fly, lady.”
    â€œPerhaps not those with whom you are acquainted, sire.”
    Claudius blinks, confounded.
    â€œAnd now,” I say blithely, “I must rest.”With that, I drop to my pallet and commence to snore.
    â€œWhat make thee of this?” Claudius barks, shaking his finger at Anne.
    She glances down at me, then shrugs. “She is tired.”

    â€œNo!” booms Claudius. “What make thee of her madness?!”
    â€œShe’s lost her father, sire,” says Anne, in a respectful tone. “I expect it has driven her to an unbalanced state.”
    â€œWill it last?”
    â€œThat is hard to say, my lord. Madness has been known to linger.”
    For a moment, the King stands mutely by my bed; I feel him staring down at me.
    Then there comes the sound of his footsteps, the slam of the door, and Anne’s great sigh.
    â€œOld Polonius in