Fic: "Johannes and the Dane", aka The One With Hamlet Slash
So, Hamlet with overt gay sex is apparently A Thing at the moment. This review describes a book in which a famous author writes Hamlet-plus-gay-sex badly. (I admit I've not read the work in question, but it sounds dire, judging by the few quotes.) On the plus side, this is leading to discussion of Shakespearean slash that's actually good (and doesn't come with a side order of homophobic loathing). In particular, truepennyhas been pointing people to an intriguing Horatio-centered story she did back in 2009: Absent From Felicity.
Now is the time for me to step forward. I have written Hamlet slash. In fact, I did it at Viable Paradise in 2004. One of the instructors' plot bunnies inspired me, mid-week. The bunny went something like this:
"Hamlet, Horatio, Dr. Faustus, and Martin Luther all attended Wittenberg University at around the same time. Discuss."
I had a great time writing this, and cracked myself up, sitting on the couch in the lounge at one in the morning. I had an even better time reading it aloud to my peers the next day. Mind you, it's the kind of story you come up with at a writing workshop: all the characters are sleep-deprived, obsessed, and romantically frustrated. (The more things change...) And it's very old work now; seven years ago, my God. I can do better, these days. But I still find it funny and even endearing.
This story has been turned down by every magazine under the sun. For the past few years, I've sometimes thought of making it free on LJ, for a special occasion. Now that time has come.
I wondered about the wisdom of releasing this story into the wild. After all, the point is to have Shakespearean slash that's not written by bigots. The character of Dr. Faustus here could be seen as reinforcing the homophobic depraved-older-guy stereotype. It's hard for me to say whether that's so, because, well, Dr. Faustus here is basically me in disguise, so I identify with him too strongly to see what narrative he reinforces. (He's pretty one-dimensional but it was a fun dimension to write.) So I think I'll post this in any case. If it doesn't do what I mean it to, well, that was a long time ago, and I'll just have to write something better.
Title: Johannes and the Dane
Fandoms: Shakespeare, Marlowe, RL (the Protestant Reformation)
Pairings: Dr. Faustus/Hamlet, implied Hamlet/Horatio
Rating: PG-13 (there are dirtier Star Trek: TOS episodes)
Disclaimer: Not mine. In-jokes explained at the end.
“She never understood me, never, not from the day I was born. ‘Let not thy mother lose her prayers’! Hah. As if she gave a damn. Wonder what she’s up to right now. I wish I could just see her.”
By then it was past midnight, but Amleth was still happy to pour out his troubles. He was drunk, and he staggered a little, pacing up and down his professor’s room.
The professor, Dr. Faustus, sat with a cup of tea, nodding and making sympathetic sounds in the right places. He surveyed the Prince of Denmark with a sense of wonder. It was true that Amleth looked as if he’d cut his blond hair around the edge of a pudding basin, but still he was handsome. Fine-looking students did not generally show up at Faustus’s chambers, at the witching hour, looking for a shoulder to cry on. Well, young Amleth can bother me any time, thought Faustus. The Danish accent is so musical. The half-hour chimes rang from the chapel next door, and he shuddered.
He listened to Amleth’s flood of words, which contained the word “mother” at ten-second intervals. Finally the young man’s energy ran down. He groaned and leaned on the bookcase, tilting his head back to keep the tears from running over his cheeks.
Faustus patted his shoulder. “I don’t believe you’ve seen my stuffed reptile.”
They walked about the room together, making very small talk. Amleth surreptitiously wiped his nose on his sleeve while Faustus pulled the dust-sheet off the stuffed alligator.
Amleth admired it. He was merely perplexed by the chemistry apparatus, the rat cages and the shelves of ancient books. However, the little hand mirror fascinated him. His big hands turned it over, tracing the pattern carved in the back. “An eye with wings, looks like. What’s this for?”
Faustus, meanwhile, had been counting days in his head. He’d been virtuous for three months and two weeks, though not by choice. Now a remarkably well-set-up young prince of Denmark (1) had wandered in out of the night. For innocent reasons, of course, but Faustus could fix that. Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly.
He smiled to himself. He put his arm around Amleth’s shoulders. The young man didn’t flinch, so he pressed his advantage. “This is the vision-glass, my boy. Here, look into it with me.”
Faustus held up the mirror so that it showed his own unshaven and sunken-eyed countenance next to the red face of Amleth.
“That’s just us,” said Amleth, disappointed.
“It’s showing us a vision of the present,” said Faustus.
Amleth giggled. “Good one. Bloody clever old boy you are, Professor.”
“Call me Johannes. Dear boy, there is an ancient saying. It runs somewhat thus: Be careful what you wish for, you might get it. Do you truly wish to see your mother’s image?”
“Oh, Christ yeah.” Amleth pounded his fist on the table. “What time’s it? Past midnight. Catch ‘em in their enseaméd bed. Oh horrible oh horrible most horrible. What I’ve been through… You’re such a comfort, ol’ boy. Nobody understands me like you do. And I want you to know, I think it’s a lot of bull what the students say about you. Evil sorcerer, my bum! You’re a man of learning. Of course you’re all witchy and stuff, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” He punched Faustus’s arm. “If a regular good fella wants to do a couple fancy tricks, well, I say the more power to him. And I bet there’s more to you than you’re letting on. Right? You’re a deep old boy.” He tried to wink, shutting both eyes.
Faustus held back a sigh. He knew where this was leading.
Yes, Amleth was having a big idea. He waved his finger. “Can you, old man Johnny, you can send in a few little imps, give them an ill dream, stick them with pitchforks?”
Ah yes, I’ve heard this before. He thinks demons are a kind of trained hawk or parrot. But this was not the time for the “Magic is a high and sacred art form” lecture. “Hmm, we’ll think about it. Come and sit by me.”
He kept his arm around Amleth, and guided them both to sit on his bed. It was a hard straw pallet. He wished he’d thought to change the sheets; there were weeks of toast crumbs on the blanket, and it was the least seductive bed in the world. But he’d do what he could.
First, to give the boy what he wanted. Amleth was a strapping lad, but he obviously had a few toys in his attic.
“I shall reveal them to you,” said Faustus sternly. “Concentrate your mind’s eye on your mother and your stepfather.”
“Ha, no worries there, I never get ‘em out of my head.” Amleth threw back his head in a tragic attitude. “O woman vile, you are but mummy possessed. --Oh! Hey, that’s very good, didn’t intend that. Get it? Mummy possessed! Ha! Ha!” He hit his thigh a few times. “Did I make that up or is it a quote? I’ve been studying too much, I’m losing track. Might be Spenser. I should write it up in one of my monologues.”
Faustus chuckled politely. I can forgive a lot in such a man as you. But must you really say “Ha! Ha!” when you laugh?
“Then you’ll behold them here,” he said aloud. “Grip my hands tightly or the spell might fail.” He leaned closer, feeling the warmth of Amleth’s side. I should have shaved.
Amleth was getting excited. He glared at the mirror, his blue eyes icy. “Lechery!” he snarled. “Incest! Oh, I’ll show the both of you, see if I don’t.”
“Hmm, yes, that’s the spirit, dear boy, keep it up while I chant our spell.” Faustus shifted to his deepest voice. It was a soft, knowing purr, it was calculated to impress; it was a voice like chocolate mousse made audible. (2) “Sator,” he said. “Arepo. Sator, Arepo, Rotas…” He pressed his knee against Amleth’s.
Someone started hammering on the door, with, to judge by the noise, an actual hammer. The door jolted about on its hinges, and plaster dust sifted down from the ceiling.
Amleth shoved the mirror out of sight under the blankets. He looked as guilty as a little boy caught with his hands in the jam. “Oh no.” He turned on Faustus. “Who’s that? Don’t tell them what I was doing. They’ll laugh at me all over campus. Please. Don’t tell them I was spying on my mmm…” He trailed off.
“You’re drunk,” said Faustus shortly. “Shut up and let me handle this. You need not worry for your secrets; I shall be as the tomb.” He stalked towards the door. The hammering pained his ears and rattled his back teeth. Who could it be? One of the priests of St.Giles, come with bell, book and candle to make the vile Faustus repent? But I’ve done nothing of late! Well, except… Faustus’s lips moved, recalling. Better safe than sorry. He gritted his teeth and called one of his ugliest servants. It rose up at the back of his mind, waiting to become real.
“Who’s there?” he cried.
No answer but bam, bam, bam.
He slid back the bolt and flung open the door.
There stood a young man in an undergraduate’s robe. He had fanatical eyes and a self-righteous face. He brandished a hammer aloft like the club of some pagan god. “Down with the Pope!” he told Faustus, and the words came out on a gust of alcoholic fumes.
Faustus stared at him. “I’m not the Pope, you sot.”
“Same difference, bloody corrupt lying clergy.”
Faustus looked down at himself. He wore his old hooded dressing-gown with the college scarf for warmth; these might look like vestments, to one who was pie-eyed. He shook his head in contempt.
Then he saw the fat sheaf of paper, skewered to his door with a six-inch nail. Faustus was too outraged to speak. The pig, hog, vile plebeian. He read the first page of the transfixed manuscript:
Martin Luther
110 Bluchenstrasse
Wittenberg, Germany
Word Count: 393, 200
THESES
An Argument in 371 Heads. Firstly…
“It’s clear as the light of day,” said the drunk proudly. “You lot and your indulgences are over, done, kaput. You’re circling the drain, and we are of the future. We’re going to form the church anew in the bright new dawn of reason.” A little bit of unease reached him at last. “Hey, um, this is St. Giles’s, right? You’ve got long hair for a priest.” He stepped back and belched.
In Dr. Faustus’s left eye, in the depths of the pupil, a shadow was flapping its wings. It rushed out the tunnel of the iris, and blossomed into the real world like a black bat springing from the sorcerer’s face. It flew at the drunk, gnashing its fangs and screeching, “Yaaaaah! Godbotherer! Die, die, die!”
Faustus watched Martin Luther sprint down the stairs. For a drunk, he had a good turn of speed. The batlike spirit was close behind him, nipping his neck. The street door banged and the screams faded into the night. Faustus tore the pages from his door, and tossed them up in the air. They burst into flames and sprinkled to the ground as ash. Then he went back in and slammed the door.
His heart was still racing. Such tiny acts of sorcery always put him on edge, wound him up to do something magnificent.
Amleth was over in the corner, patting the alligator, and swigging from the bottle of good schnapps which Faustus had marked POISON. (3) He was too drunk for angst, or for anything but a big dumb grin that made him the finest sight Faustus had seen for months.
“ ‘Tis now the witching hour of night,” he sang between drinks,
“When ghosts begin to toddle;
I’ll keep my promise to the sprites
And punch my uncle’s noddle.
Oh what a row in Denmark! Oh oh heigh ho!” (4)
Faustus laughed. To Hell with finesse. He walked across the room and grabbed Amleth by the belt. “Come here, you big Danish galoot.” He leaned his skinny body against the young man.
Amleth’s fist came up between their faces. Faustus thought, He’ll hit me now. Ah, well. Still, he didn’t let go.
Then, after a breathless moment, Amleth giggled. He did another friendly-punch-to-the-arm. They were both laughing deep in their throats.
And anything might have happened, if footsteps had not stormed up to the door. A fist pounded. “Hammy! I say!” blared a voice. “Are you in here? What the hell’s going on, you idiot?”
The door slammed open and a man--no, a boy--stormed in. He was a hulking young giant, even more heavily muscled than Amleth. He wasn’t nearly as good-looking, but he had a sort of Viking appeal. In happier times, Faustus would have sat back and admired him too. On this occasion, he didn’t get the chance.
The newcomer took in the situation at a glance. With a cry of, “Get your paws off him, you goat-faced old sod!” the boy smacked Faustus on the head and threw him across the room, to land, with a crunch, on the alligator.
When Faustus regained his senses in a pile of reptile fragments, the two Danish boys were facing off.
“But Horatio! He’s a bloody nice old boy, there was nothing going on at all and we were being law-abiding citizens, piss off back home to bed why don’t you.”
“You’re coming too.”
“Here I stand and here I shay. Stay.” (5)
“Either come now, or I’ll call your bodyguards to fetch you back to the dorm. Your choice.”
“Why won’t you ever let me have any fun?”
“A professor, for Christ’s sake. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Don’t shag the faculty. You don’t know where they’ve been. And Faustus! Everyone knows about Faustus! Next thing you’ll be kissing the Devil’s arse!”
Faustus arose from the alligator crumbs and said, “Get out. Now. Or I’ll…” Threats failed him. He was too disappointed to work up a curse. “Get out.”
“Come, Amleth, we have no more business here,” said Horatio haughtily. He pointed to the door.
Amleth started to obey him. Then he turned back, stiff and embarrassed. He moved close to Faustus, brushing off stray crumbs of alligator. Faustus said nothing. Amleth did another friendly punch, without meeting Faustus’s eyes, and then headed out. Horatio swaggered out and slammed the door behind them.
One bell tolled in the chapel. Faustus shuddered. He flung himself down on the bed, in all his clothes, his head aching where Horatio had hit him. The mirror was a lump under his chest. “Would my soul could fly from me, and I be changed into some brutish beast,” he said into the pillow.
The spirit flew in the window. “I chased the Mad Hammerman for a mile and a half,” it said. “He’s hiding in a storm drain under the Blutwienerstrasse. Ain’t you proud of me?”
“Get me a piece of ice,” said Faustus.
The spirit hovered over him. “Hey, you don’t look so good. Want me to go bite those other two guys?”
“No. Just the ice.”
“You sure? Wow, that guy must have a punch on him like a mule’s kick.”
“Yes. Which is why I now request the ice. Get it for me or face the consequences.”
The spirit looked hurt. “Hey, you only have to ask.” It vanished, and came back at once with a pound of fine powder snow from Antarctica. It wrapped this in a cloth and held it to the lump on Faustus’s head. By and by the sorcerer dropped off to sleep.
THE END
Notes:
1. We read a lot of Edward Gorey at Viable Paradise, including The Unstrung Harp (aloud round the room, very cathartic for struggling writers). In Gorey's The Curious Sofa, there's a running gag about the titled, wealthy characters frolicking with "remarkably well-set-up young men from the village" and one of the instructors told me how she'd worked that phrase into a rewrite of a Very Famous Author's work, without anyone noticing.
2. I stole this joke from P.G. Wodehouse's description of a character whose voice is like "a good Burgundy made audible."
3. I stole this joke from John Bellairs's The Face in the Frost.
4. I Am Not Making This Up. I stole this from a Victorian spoof on Hamlet which was referenced in The Friendly Shakespeare, an anthology of criticism and interviews which I enjoyed as a child. I can't find the source, but this was the same spoof where Ophelia calls Hamlet "Hammy dearest."
5. This was a completely unintentional quote from (the real) Martin Luther. A character in Tove Jansson's Moomintroll books says this while being stubborn, and I used it here without realizing that the character was in turn quoting Luther.