The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  Then I see Him, still standing in the corner, but the bear-man is gone. I ease my way over toward Him. Before I get there, His witchwife calls something to Him, and He raises his goblet.

  The room grows silent.

  “Welcome, friends!” His voice rings strong and sure throughout the hall. “It little befits our hospitality that our chief guest is tardy.” Several guests mutter in agreement. I am sickened by His hypocrisy. Not only did He order Lord Banquo’s death, but now He makes Lord Banquo himself the subject of blame.

  Then I get an idea as bright as the midsummer sun!

  In a few steps, I reach the high table on the dais. I move along it, pouring wine, until I reach His empty seat. Then I slide Lord Banquo’s cross out from under my shirt and hang it on the back of the one empty chair. Let Him recognize this cross. Let it startle Him so that He reveals His deceit to the whole gathering. Let Him understand that nearby there is a witness to His cruel murder. Let Him know that somewhere in this hall there is someone who has seen Lord Banquo’s slaughtered body and now comes for Him. I jiggle the chain so the cross hangs smoothly down the chair’s back. The sides of the chair’s back hide the sight of the cross from the view of His lady and from the lord who sits to the left of the chair, but surely He will recognize it when He goes to sit down. It will frighten Him, I think gleefully. He will wonder how that cross got there. He will wonder who is His enemy, who is the witness to the foul murder He ordered.

  Once again He silences the room. He raises His goblet higher. “Still, I drink to the general joy of the whole hall, and to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss. I wish he were here!”

  I step away from His chair, just as His lady rises.

  “Please take your seat, my lord.” Though her voice is soft, it is clear that she is giving Him a command.

  “The table’s full,” He says.

  The lord to the left of the empty seat rises to his feet. “Here’s your seat, my lord.” He gestures to the chair with the cross hanging down its back.

  I hold my breath. Let it work. For once, let my scheme work.

  And then I see His eyes spot the hanging cross. Almost immediately, His eyes jerk wide in horror.

  “Where?” He whispers.

  “Here,” says the lord. He gestures again to the chair with the cross.

  Then He screams.

  Joy leaps in me higher than a spawning salmon.

  From my place close by the dais, I see the startled faces of the guests.

  Gasping like a landed fish, He raises a shaky finger and points it toward the chair. “Who did this?” His voice is harsh and ragged, like a torn shriek.

  No one else seems to notice the cross. “What?”

  “Did what?”

  “What does your lordship mean?”

  The guests stare at Him, bewildered.

  Again He points at the chair. “You can’t say I did it!” His outstretched finger trembles. “Don’t shake your bloody head at me.”

  A lord at the end of the table calls out, “Rise, gentlemen, his highness is not well.”

  In fact He has fallen to His knees and shakes with fear.

  Never have I felt more delight. I have done it. I have injured Him. And, God willing, never will He be able to regain the respect of His people. Surely after this display of cowardice, they will snatch His kingship away.

  But His lady calls out, “Sit, worthy friends. My lord often suffers these fits and has done so since he was young. ’Twill pass quickly, and he will feel shame if you let him know you notice his suffering. And that will make his fit last longer. Please sit.” She signals Master Steward to begin serving the food. Then she moves to the end of the table where He cowers, gives an angry frown, and takes His arm. She leads Him to the same corner in which He talked with the bearman.

  I feel a sudden flash of fear. Don’t let her talk Him out of this terror.-She is skillful as the devil in coaxing men to do her will, no matter how difficult or outrageous. I cannot permit that to happen.I must do something to prolong His fit. I must not let Him recover from this fit.

  A fresh idea darts into my head. Holding the wine jug tight to my chest, I run out of the hall and clatter down the stairs. To my surprise, Pod, Lisette, and a few kitchen lads are standing there.

  Lisette says, “We heard shouts.”

  Pod asks, “Gilly, what is happening in—”

  “I cannot talk to you now!” I snatch up Lord Banquo’s cloak and pound it as compact as I can. I do my best to hide it between the wine jug and my tunic. It is an awkward fit, but if I stay in the shadows, I pray no one will notice. I race back up into the crowded hall, shoving my way back to the dais.

  Just as I fear, she has indeed calmed Him down. They are walking-back to the table, arm in arm. He walks right to the empty chair. For a moment He stares at it in contempt, then He stretches forth his arm and snags the cross with two fingers. He lifts it in the air and laughs. Then He tosses it to the ground and grinds it hard beneath His heel. Rubies pop out and scatter like wheat on a granary floor.

  There goes my chance to give a home to Pod and Lisette. But it was worth it. Surely it was worth it. I have made my life an arrow. . . .

  His lady nods her approval. “My worthy lord, your noble friends have missed you.”

  He pushes back His chair and stands at His place. He calls out, “Worthy friends, do not let my fit upset you. I have a strange illness that is nothing to those who know me well.”

  His fingers close around a fresh goblet on the table. To my surprise, He thrusts out His arm to me.

  “Boy! Give me some wine.” His glance is hard and cold, like a magic stone that turns everything to ice.

  As I move slowly toward Him, I ease the bundled cloak sideways till it is wedged awkwardly under my arm. My hand shakes as I pour the wine into His goblet, taking great care that the cloak does not fall. Some of the wine splashes onto the tablecloth, making a stain like spattered blood.

  Does He recognize me? Simultaneously my bones dissolve into water and my blood hardens to ice.

  I fill His goblet halfway so that I will spill no more on the white tablecloth. But He glances down at it, then thunders, “Fill full!”

  I manage to fill the goblet to the top. Then I step backward, behind His chair.

  “I drink to the general joy of the whole table.”

  His chair hides me from view. I must work quickly. I set the jug down on the floor.

  “And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss.”

  I shake out the cloak. The bloodstains have caused parts of it to stick together. Some of the stiffened folds poke out at unnatural angles like broken wings, but there is no time now to separate the stuck bits.

  “I wish he were here.”

  Now comes the tricky part. I have observed that no one seems to notice a servant if the servant is performing servant like acts. Let me be steady. Let me be true.

  “I drink to Banquo and to all of you.”

  It is time. In the few seconds that they drink, I whisk the striped cloak over the back of His chair. It falls from the top to puddle on the seat and then spill onto the floor. In the bright torchlight of the dais, the gold stripes glitter, except where they have been dyed dark by blood. The knife slashes can be plainly seen.

  I step back and wait.

  He sets His goblet down and turns back to the chair, preparing to sit down. I watch Him as He sees Banquo’s cloak.

  He recognizes it.

  The color drains from His face.

  Yes! Yes!

  T H I R T Y - S E V E N

  LIKE A MAN who has been suddenly struck blind, He backs away, His hand fumbling across the table, sweeping cups and serving platters to the floor. He is screaming.

  “Be off ! Quit my sight! Let the earth hide you! Your bones have no strength. Your blood is cold.”

  At the same time, His lady calls out, “ ’Tis just the fit again, dear friends, but it spoils our festivities.” Her voice is faint, like watered milk. I doubt anyo
ne can hear it above His screaming.

  “I am a man,” He screams, “and I dare do anything a man does. I can face any form but this one. Bring on a tiger, a bear, a rhinoceros. Come back to life and I will face you armed with anything you choose. If I tremble before any living creature, then call me a baby girl! But to face the dead—”

  Then His wife reaches out and tugs on the cloak. It catches on the chair and as she pulls harder and harder, the chair itself topples to the floor with a huge crash. The crash seems to bring Him to His senses. He begins to laugh, a loose gushing laugh like a nosebleed.

  “Why, being gone, I am a man again!” He laughs again, andmany in the hall put their hands over their ears at the sound of His mad loud laughter.

  Then the shaken guests begin to rush for the door. He turns to them, His face stiff with fury, and bellows, “Sit down!”

  Like in the game of grab-the-chair, the guests quickly plant their rumps in the nearest seat and stare in fascinated horror. He steps backward, knocking over the jug of wine behind His chair.

  A sick silence reigns.

  His wife raises her hand. She looks controlled, but I am close enough to see her other hand gripping the edge of the table, gripping so hard that her knuckles are white. Her voice seems to tremble. “You have distressed our guests with your fit.”

  She stares hard at her husband, but He is righting his chair. He flings himself into it. “Wine!” He shouts.

  Brude darts forward, but to my surprise, instead of serving Him himself, Brude thrusts another wine jug into my hand. I move forward nervously, looking for a goblet to fill, but He snatches the jug from my hand and takes a long drink right from the jug itself.

  “How can all of you sit quietly when these sights turn me pale with fear?”

  The guests’ faces twitch into deeper horror, as terrified by Him as He was by the sight of the stabbed cloak.

  All of this has fallen out even better than I could devise.

  “What sights, my lord?” asks a guest with a cheek crisscrossed by an old scar.

  “Do not speak,” His lady cries. She seems close to tears. “He grows worse and worse.”

  “My lord—” calls out the Master of Arms, but the queen interrupts.

  “Questions enrage him. Go. Please go. Go!”

  Had a dragon flown into the hall, the guests could not have scrambled more frantically to be gone. They hurry out as if His madness is contagious. Some almost knock each other over in theireagerness to be away from there and talk about the events of the evening. Even the other servants run away.

  I look out over the empty Great Hall. Tables and benches are overturned, and the floor is a trash heap of spilled food and drink, enough food to feed a village for a half a year. He and His lady look tiny in the midst of the huge, deserted hall.

  Hoping not to be noticed, I drop to the ground and pretend to be picking up trenchers and cups, but I peek out at the lord and lady. My heart rejoices to see them so broken. She is clearly bone-weary and He looks to be in a trance. She leans down and plucks up Lord Banquo’s cloak and then sinks down into her chair. She begins stroking the cloak as if it were a frightened cat.

  For a long time they sit in silence.

  When He finally speaks, His voice is thick as cold porridge. “ ’Twill have blood, they say. Blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.”

  Has He gone mad? Can I be that lucky? Let Him be mad, I pray frantically. Let Him be mad, and then this whole business will be well finished.

  His wife does not even turn to look at Him.

  Then they continue to sit silently.

  I squat in the shadows, moving slowly, pretending to tidy up but keeping them in my sight. No other servants return to the hall. They have all been well spooked.

  The fire burns out, and He takes no notice.

  My head begins to ache.

  They go on sitting there.

  “What is the time?”

  My head jerks up. I realize I have fallen asleep. Now I see that the nighttime blackness in the windows has faded to gray.

  She is still sitting in her chair, stroking the cloak.

  “Almost morning,” she says in a cold, dead voice.

  He nods like an old man, as if He expected that answer. “Did you say that Macduff refused to join our feast?” He asks.

  “Did you invite him?”

  “I have spies in every household,” He says, “and I hear He refuses to acknowledge me as the true and rightful king.” He stands, knocking over His chair. The empty hall echoes with the sound of its crash. “Tomorrow, I will seek out those three weird women who first foretold that I would be king. I must know more about what is to befall me. No matter what it takes, I will make them speak.”

  He throws a goblet across the hall. It clatters on the floor. His wife flinches at the sound.

  “From this moment forth,” He announces as if He were addressing a battlefield full of troops, “for my own good, all causes will give way. There are strange things in my mind, and I will no longer consider whether they are right or wrong. Whatever I think, I shall do. Nothing must thwart my desires or will.”

  At that she looks up at Him, her brow puckered with worry. “You lack sleep,” she says, and now her tone is gentle.

  He laughs His ugly nosebleed laugh. “Yes, my love, ’tis time to sleep.”

  He closes His fingers on the cloak in her lap and pulls. For a few heartbeats she holds on to it, and then she lets go. He then pulls her to her feet and wraps the bloodstained cloak around her shoulders.

  She draws her breath sharply and holds it.

  He laughs again and then kisses her, hard, as she stands stiffly wrapped in that cloak stiff with blood.

  “My love, we have only begun!”

  She flings the cloak off. It slides to the floor. He laughs again, His harsh, mocking laugh.

  She sweeps out of the hall.

  I seize my courage with both hands.

  “My lord,” I say, and I am pleased that my voice does not tremble.

  He turns to me, blinking with surprise.

  I must do it. “My lord, you speak of three weird women who can foretell the future.”

  His fingers flutter to the handle of His sword. I fall to one knee and try to look meek.

  “My lord, do you know that three such women who dabble in prophecy live in Birnam Wood, not two hours’ journey from here?”

  He strides across the floor and grabs my arm painfully.

  “Do you spy on me, whey-face?” His fingers tighten. There is such strength in His hand. He could rip me apart with His hands alone.

  It takes all my concentration to keep my voice steady.

  “My lord, I came to the hall to tidy up and I heard you speak of the three weird women. All of us know that just outside the village of Cree live three witch women who claim to have encountered you once on a misty moor. Ride to that village, and anyone there can tell you where the women are to be found.”

  Stay calm. Stay calm. Let Him take the bait.

  He stares at me hard for several heartbeats. I cannot read His intentions in His cold eyes. Then He flings me from Him like a broken toy and is gone from the hall.

  I must to Nettle and Mad Helga. Though I am weary to the very bottom of my soul, I must away tonight if I am to reach them before He does. The tide has finally turned my way! It would be false of me now to wade back to the shore.

  First I will run to the kitchen to bid farewell to Lisette and Pod. But immediately I push that notion away. It would only upset them. They might want to come with me, and they would slow me down. It will be the second time I left them with no word of leave-taking, but I must. After all, they are not my blood kin.

  I pick up Lord Banquo’s cloak from the floor. It is stiff with dried blood. But I harden my resolve and draw the cloak round my shoulders.

  My one dream is about to come true.

  I have made my life a trap . . . and now it is time for the fly to walk
into my web.

  T H I R T Y - E I G H T

  THROUGH THE THIN early morning light, I hasten back to Nettle’s hut. I ride Lord Banquo’s horse hard. I am determined to reach the women before He does.

  My body aches with every jounce, and I am so sleepy that I fear I will need to prop twigs in my eyes to hold them open.

  Just before the village of Cree, I slide off the horse’s back and head into the wood. I avoid looking at the leaves for too many of them are the color of blood. I lead the horse, making sure that the huge brute steps carefully over fallen branches and avoids snake holes. When I reach my old stream, I stop long enough to let the tired horse drink. He drinks for a long time. Although it is good to be back in my familiar wood, I hop from foot to foot, tired but impatient to reach Nettle’s.

  “We must hurry, horse,” I say, patting him. “Old fellow, I know you are tired”—and a yawn cracks my jaw—“but we must hurry. I must reach Nettle and Mad Helga before He does. They must be warned!”

  Then I pull his reins with one hand and push branches out of the way with the other as we make our way through the wood. Eventhough I urge the horse to go faster, faster, I am nonetheless a little anxious about how Nettle and Mad Helga will receive me. I am so very tired. I feel like the walking dead. I stumble a few times. Tiredness weighs me down like a heavy cloak, like Lord Banquo’s cloak that is my only protection against the autumn chill. I must reach the hut first. It will be disaster indeed should He find the women before I do. So I force myself to go on until we reach the clearing of Nettle’s hut.

  The place has hardly changed at all. A few chickens scratch at a patch of dirt, and a skinny goat raises his head to stare at me with his eyes as blank as a black stone, but there is no other sign of life. The hut looks just the same as it did when I left it back in the tail of spring.