“It was a dream come true,” Riordan said. “Getting acting roles was difficult while working full time as a teacher. Even community theatre doesn’t give you much time to learn your part. Twelve weeks. A couple of hours’ rehearsal on two or three weeknights. A weekend if the space is available. You spend the first few performances tuning your part so that by closing night, you can put on a perfect show.
“Then a Hinton Valley community theatre group announced auditions for The Tragedy of Macbeth. All my life I had wanted to play Macduff—”
“Not Macbeth?” Paul asked.
“Macduff is the true hero of the play,” Riordan said. “A tragic hero. He’s not only true to proper rule but loses his family in the pursuit. He’s also the one who kills Macbeth in the final battle, even though the crown falls to Malcolm.
“Anyway, the audition went smoothly, but it also went well for other actors trying out for the part. My stomach was roiling with worry that I would be passed over, that the part would go to someone else. I needed to get out of the city.
“I drove. No idea where I was going. And found myself parked at a rest area, watching the most fantastic sunset I had ever seen. I realized, as the sun lowered itself over a grassy plain, that what I was seeing was a heath, straight out of Macbeth. I know the countryside is more rugged in northern Scotland, but even so, I let my imagination run wild. The soldiers of Cawdor clashed against the swords of Macbeth and Banquo. Blood flowed across the fields. And as the sun vanished below the horizon and a gibbous moon dominated the sky, three women trudged up the road.”
“The Weird Sisters,” Paul said.
Riordan nodded. “I didn’t know that at first, but that’s the role I cast them in. Imagine my surprise when they stopped and one said, ‘Hail, Macduff.’ Then the second cackled and said, ‘You misspeak, sister, for he is not yet Macduff.’ The third said, ‘Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so.’ It got confusing after that. One of the sisters said something about giving Douglas Adams a rest, and they got into some kind of argument. Anyway, they went on to say that it was my destiny to play the role of Thane Macduff and that I should be of good cheer.
“The Weird Sisters moved on down the road, and I drove back home. The next day I received a callback.”
“To play Macduff,” Paul said.
Riordan shook his head. “No, the director said someone else would play Macduff, but that I so impressed her with my audition that she’d like me to try out for the role of Banquo. I did and I got the part.
“First chance I got, I drove back out to the heath. And there I found the Weird Sisters waiting for me. They had another argument and then told me that I was impatient. My destiny awaited me and could not be changed.
“I was too caught up in achieving my dream to consider that the witches were frauds, that someone was yanking my chain. I had little time to think about it anyway.
“At our next rehearsal, I learned that the actor playing Macduff had dropped out along with his wife, who was playing one of the witches. We were already three weeks into rehearsal, and there wasn’t enough time for more auditions and casting, so the director elevated one of the murderers into Banquo’s role and crowned me the new Macduff. She wrote Hecate out of the script and made the woman playing her the third witch.
“I literally didn’t sleep for three days in an effort to learn my new lines and blocking. I got caught up with the new part, and two days before opening night, the director had nothing but praise. It was to be the role of a lifetime.
“And then it happened. Lady Macbeth—Scarlet—was walking the stage, rubbing her hands, calling, Out, damned spot! out, I say! when something fell from the rafters, striking her on the head. I rushed onto the stage, as did the director and the other actors. There was hardly any blood. Just a spot on her sleeve. But Scarlet was dead.“The show was cancelled, of course. The troupe disbanded. I sat in my apartment, the lights turned on day and night. I called the school and told them I was done. I didn’t think I could ever face a stage again. I haven’t. Until last week when I visited your school. Eventually I went out to the heath. But there was no sign of the witches. Their task was done. They’d told me my damned destiny. And indeed, I had played Macduff, through all of nine weeks of rehearsals. But I never had an audience.”
Paul sat stunned by what he had heard. It was like listening to someone read a fairy tale from a book. But with everything that had happened to him since the start of school, he had no trouble believing Riordan’s tale.
“That’s a grim story,” Paul said. “But I don’t understand. What was the deal you struck? Usually a deal involves a mutually beneficial exchange.”
Riordan took a second sip of water. “I’ve been pondering that question for twenty years. Here’s the best I’ve come up with. The witches offer you a destiny that happens to be your heart’s desire. You believe them. I suspect that if you don’t believe them, that they will then have no power over you. It may still come true, but the witches will have no involvement. But if you believe them, you have accepted their deal and they will meddle to ensure that your destiny technically happens but not in the way you want. And there is a cost. In my case, the cost was Scarlet’s life.”
“The witches killed Scarlet?”
Riordan nodded. “As good as. They caused her death. I’m sure they also created some tragedy that caused the original Macduff actor and his wife to drop out of the production.”
Paul sipped cola through a straw, the first time he touched his drink since he sat down. “What do the witches get out of it?”
“The witches?” Riordan pushed a heavy breath out through his nose. “I have no idea.”
Scene 13: And Question This Most Bloody Piece of Work
“Are we going to eat that pizza yet?” Netty asked. “It’s been sitting there for two days.”
“We’ll eat pizza when I say we eat pizza,” Agatha said.
Gertrude harrumphed. “Who died and made you Hecate?”
Agatha glared at her. “Don’t you dare mention that harpy’s name. She called The Bard’s Play a ‘skit’.”
“That’s not what’s got your bloomers tied in a knot,” Gertrude said. “You’re upset because Hecate called us vexatious and said that cursing the play is a punishment.”
“I always thought,” Agatha admitted, “that being the Weird Sisters was an honour. And now, hundreds of years later, I learn that we’re just a joke. A laughingstock. Assigned make-work projects to keep us out of the way of respectable witches.”
Gertrude snorted. “Hecate never said any of that.”
Agatha shook her head. “But she implied all of it.”
“Oh, look!” said Netty. “Our Samson has made an appearance.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Agatha said.
“And Simple Simon is with him again.”
“Still not in the mood.”
“What are they discussing this time?” asked Netty.
“Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “Our Banquo has been indiscreet. Seems he’s been chatting up the enemy.”
“I never trusted that little bugger,” said Netty.
Gertrude’s face turned dark. “He told them about us! I’m going to kill that pathetic little Scotsman.”
“You already killed him,” Netty said.
“Still not in the mood,” said Agatha.
“Simon’s telling our Samson to run and hide.”
“No place in Earth, Heaven, or Hell he can hide!” Netty said. “Though a chase could be amusing.”
“I’m not chasing anybody over a ‘skit’,” said Agatha.
“Oh, my,” Gertrude said again. “Now Simple Simon has admitted that he’s met with us.”
“What was that noise?” asked Netty, the bulbous witch’s eyes going round like plates, albeit filthy plates.
“Heh,” said Gertrude. “He’s thrown his water cup.”
“Oh,” said Netty. “That’s sort of anticlimactic.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Ag
atha asked. “A current curse getting a heads-up from a past curse?”
“I thought you weren’t in the mood,” said Gertrude.
“I have a short inattention span,” Agatha admitted.
“I can’t think of any time this has happened,” said Netty. “People say it’s a small world but it isn’t. Especially if you’re walking.”
Gertrude nodded her crooked head. “Times were simpler when we confined ourselves to the British Isles.”
“I had fewer corns in those days,” Netty agreed.
The other two witches sighed.
Then Agatha made a rude noise in her throat. “As much as I enjoy hearing about your corns, Netty, I’d rather hear about what Samson and Simon are discussing.”
Gertrude let out a lengthy yawn. “Oh, Simon’s just reliving his glory days when he played the role of Macduff. He’s at the part where he first met us out on the heath. His memory isn’t very good, however. He says the three of us were arguing.”
“We never argue!” Netty said. “We have enthusiastic conversations.”
“In that case,” said Gertrude, “his memory is spot on. He even remembers Douglas Adams.”
“Who?” asked Agatha.
“You know, that marvellous London writer whose line Netty stole for that first meeting.”
Netty grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Douglas Adams. His books are classics in the making.”
“He’s been dead for years,” Gertrude said. “So now his books are classics. I understand he left his last book unfinished. Heh. Heard it was about salmon fishing.”
Netty frowned. “I didn’t know he wrote those kinds of books. Now I’ve lost all respect.”
“As much as I’m amused by the concept of frivolous comedy being deemed as classic,” said Agatha, “I’d still like to know what else Simon is saying.”
“No,” said Gertrude, “you don’t.”
“And why, pray tell, not?”
“Because,” Gertrude said, “he’s claiming we cheated him. Telling him what he wanted to hear and then pulling the prize out from under him.”
Agatha scowled. “He’s calling us prigs?”
“Not in so few words, no.”
“I’ll prig him,” said Agatha. “Then he’ll know what a prig is.”
“I don’t think you can use prig as a verb,” Netty said.
“I’ll use prig however I please, thank you very much.”
Gertrude tsked. “Now he’s claiming that we killed Scarlet.”
“Who?” Netty asked.
“Lady Macbeth.”
“Which one?” asked Agatha, calmer now that the conversation was back in familiar territory. “There have been so many. I lose track.”
“The one from when he was Macduff,” said Gertrude. “Where that toolbox fell from the rafters and clocked her a good one.”
“Ah, yes,” said Agatha. “The toolbox. Funny how it suddenly slipped down from the rafters after resting there undisturbed for three years.”
“I have no idea why everyone always blames us,” Netty said. “Perhaps there was an earthquake.”
“An earthquake?” asked Gertrude.
“Just a small one,” suggested Netty. “Not so anyone would notice, but enough to dislodge a lost toolbox.”
The other two witches stared at her.
“What?” asked Netty.
Agatha shrugged her narrow shoulders. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had in the four hundred years since I’ve known you.”
“It is?” A rosy smile spread like a disease across Netty’s creased face.
Gertrude, however, was frowning.
“What?” asked Agatha.
“Our Samson just asked Simple Simon a telling question.”
“What question?” asked Netty.
“He asked Simon what we get out of all the cursing we do.”
“I’m curious as to Simon’s answer,” said Agatha.
“He says he hasn’t a clue,” Gertrude said.
Agatha harrumphed. “So Simple Simon isn’t as smart as he pretends to be.”
“Well, what do we get out of it?” Netty asked. “We’ve been cursing Macbeth for four hundred years, and I still haven’t figured that one out.”
“It’s obvious,” said Agatha.
“It is?” asked Netty.
“You tell her,” Agatha told Gertrude.
“It isn’t obvious to me,” Gertrude said, “so you’d better tell us.”
“Well.” Agatha fiddled with the corner of a pizza box. “It gets Hecate off our backs.”
“Not very well,” said Gertrude.
“She’s always riding us,” added Netty.
“And it’s what witches do,” said Agatha. She nodded her pointed chin, implying that was the final word.
“Is it?” asked Netty, ignoring the implication. “It’s what we do. But I’ve never heard of other witches cursing plays. Sure, the occasional opera or heavy metal concert gets cursed, but we’ve been cursing the same damned play for four hundred years.”
“Netty has a point,” Gertrude said.
Netty crowed with delight. “That’s two good ideas in the space of ten minutes!”
Agatha glared at her. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I think Agatha already told us what we get out of it,” Gertrude said.
“I have?” asked Agatha. “I mean, of course I have. When?”
“Just before Samson and Simon arrived. You said that Hecate was keeping us out of the way of respectable witches.”
“I don’t see how that gets us anything,” said Agatha.
“It doesn’t,” agreed Gertrude. “Hecate has us cursing The Bard’s Play for the sole purpose of benefiting other witches.”
“We’re the Weird Sisters!” Netty cried. “The unwanted stepsisters. Too ugly to be seen in certain company. Kept locked in the cellar, and made to shovel coal into the furnace.”
“Heh,” said Gertrude. “The imagery gets a D, but the sentiment is A material.
“I’m tired of shovelling coal,” said Agatha.
Netty grinned. “Agatha likes my imagery.”
“I think it’s time,” Gertrude said, “that Weirding was a reward rather than a reprimand. So what if we’re different? Different is good.”
“But not too different,” said Agatha. “We’re still witches.”
“Yes,” said Gertrude, “but we should be witches on our own terms.”
“Let’s cut Hecate’s puppet strings!” Netty said.
“Um,” said Agatha. She reached for her silver pendant and rubbed it with restless fingers. “Okay.”
“It’s settled, then,” Gertrude said. “From now on, we do what we like, when we like, and how we like. And Hecate can go curse herself.”
“Exactly!” crowed Netty. The rotund witch rubbed her pudgy hands together as a broad, gap-toothed smile crept across her face. “So what do we like right now?”
“I,” said Agatha, letting go of her pendant, “would like some pizza.” And with that, she ripped the lid off a two-day old box. The cheese-laden ingredients inside stared up at them, looking indecipherable.
“Are those bat’s ears?” asked Netty.
“I have dibs on the crust,” said Gertrude.
–Act V–
Scene 1: Confusion Now Hath Made His Masterpiece!
“The vultures begin to gather,” Agatha rasped. It was early Monday morning, and the tall witch was gazing out the booth window into the Dairy Queen parking lot. The Dairy Queen wasn’t open for business yet, but when had that ever stopped a witch?
Gertrude set down a pizza crust she had been nibbling. “You mean the hyenas begin to gather. You defame vultures.”
“Point to you,” said Agatha.
“Do you see that Cadwell woman yet?” Netty asked.
“First to arrive.” Agatha pushed a towering stack of pizza boxes across the table until they reached the end and crashed onto the floor.
“Hey!” Gertrude wore her most ind
ignant face. “I was still eating that.”
“Would you prefer to eat or be able to see outside?”
“Since you put it that way,” Gertrude said. “Oh, my, doesn’t the gorgon look smug this morning.”
Netty flexed her fingers. “I’m tempted to turn the gorgon lady into a real gorgon. See how she likes that.”
Agatha cackled. “She probably would like it. Make it that much easier for her to get her claws into things.”
“No need,” Gertrude said. “What we’ve already planned for her is much better.”
“Oh, look at the lovely sign!” said Netty. “I thought the gorgon told her minions to keep them out of sight until she gave the word.”
“What does the sign say?” asked Gertrude. “I can’t see it from here.”
“Something boring,” Netty said. “There, I’ve fixed it. Now it says, Shakespeare Is for Pussies. I don’t know what the gorgon has against cats, but she didn’t like the slogan, so I do.”
All three witches cackled, and Agatha said, “We should leave the signs alone for now. We don’t want to stop the show before it begins. Oh, and there’s the signal.”
“Not very flattering to witches,” Gertrude said as parents hauled signs out of backseats and trunks of their cars and marched across the street. “But I like that one. Witches are the Devil’s Playmates. Makes me want to sign up. What I wouldn’t give to be some Devil’s playmate.”
“Witches Eat Babies!” Netty almost leaped off the bench and ran outside. “I wouldn’t touch a baby! They’re all gamy and taste like squid!”
Agatha stared down her long nose at the shorter witch.
“Or so I’m told,” Netty said. “Never had the inclination myself.”
Gertrude remained conspicuously silent. The other two witches looked at her.
“What?” said Gertrude. “That was before I discovered pizza. And children taste nothing like babies.”
“Oh! Are we going to order more pizza?” Netty looked pointedly at Agatha. “You pushed Gertrude’s breakfast onto the floor.”
Much Ado about Macbeth Page 19