“Do you believe ghosts?” Hamlet asked.

Horatio was back at Elsinore, after his first period of military service. He stood a lot taller but had lost weight; perhaps because of the poor food the soldiers were given, perhaps because he was growing so fast. With him was Laertes, cool and aloof now, patronizing to the younger men, and resentful that he was not still in London.

Hamlet was pleased to see Laertes, delighted to see Horatio. He eyed his friend affectionately, noting the new confidence in his posture, the easy way he wore his clothes. Horatio’s mushroom-brown hair was cut short, and he had the stubble of a beard, but his honest dark eyes held the same regard and loyalty for Hamlet as they always had.

The two of them went walking down a long wide strip of grass, each with a racquet. They had invented a game that all the young officers had picked up and now played with eager devotion. It was simple enough — hitting a hard little ball they’d made by binding a stone with thin cord. The aim was to get it into holes they’d drilled in the ground, five holes in all.

Horatio paused at his friend’s question. Staring down at the wet grass, he shook his head, puzzled. “Do I believe in ghosts? Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“No, not ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I said, ‘Do you believe ghosts?’”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You should, Horatio, you should. But my question is, if a ghost tells you something, can it be believed?”

“I don’t know.” Horatio had found his ball, and he lined up his next shot. He was getting more interested now. Perhaps Hamlet was about to talk about that extraordinary night on the battlements, the night that remained a dark spot between them. The night that had triggered a new Hamlet, a changed Hamlet.

Horatio hit his ball. It flew for a couple of long moments, then hit a tree and dropped to the ground. He turned back to Hamlet.

“I don’t know,” he said again, but slowly, now taking the question seriously. “Where are ghosts sent from? If from the devil, then it would be reasonable to disbelieve everything they say. I hope you’re not suggesting we should trust Satan’s emissaries.”

They walked on.

“Yes, but having escaped the devil’s clutches for a while,” Hamlet said, “they might speak the truth. Perhaps they slip away from the underworld in order to do so. After all, do they not generally encourage virtue in those to whom they appear?”

“The stories seem to have it that way,” Horatio admitted. “I’ve never heard of a ghost telling someone to do wrong. But what is the difference between a ghost and an evil spirit? Haven’t we gone past your ball?”

“Have we? I can’t remember where it landed.”

“Near that alder, no?”

They combed through the grass with their racquets. Hamlet, however, did not seem to have his mind on the job. “And,” he said, “it is also possible that the ghost has come from nowhere, because he has not yet gone anywhere. Suppose he is condemned to walk the earth’s mantle for a time? He is under the influence of neither divinity nor Satan.”

“Is that what he told you?” Horatio asked boldly, meeting the prince’s eye.

Hamlet blushed but did not answer. Instead he pressed Horatio harder. “If it were so, would you believe such a ghost?”

“I might. If I were convinced that the thing meant me no harm.”

“Hmmm. So it comes down to that. It always comes down to that.”

“To what?”

“Oh, to oneself, always to oneself. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio, or in mine, but somehow we are expected to make it all intelligible, to carve statues from air and make books from bark. It is too much. This is the proper work of gods, and we are not gods; indeed, all our human errors come from the vain belief that we are.”

“Here’s your ball,” Horatio said.