The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  I fall to my knees and press my head to the ground, panting.

  “Usually ’tis the horse that does the grazing.” Nettle’s voice is as clean and biting as spring greens.

  Before I can stop it, a smile splits my face, but I am determined not to show Nettle how good it feels to be home, so I keep my voice gruff and douse my smile.

  “If you were not such a contrary old woman,” I say, “you would help me to my feet.”

  Nettle’s skinny hand closes around my elbow, and—none too gently—she hauls me to a standing position. She looks older and more tired, near as tired as I feel. Her fingernails are split, and dirt hides in the cracks.

  She pats my cheek, and her voice is as soft as ever I have heard it. “ ’Tis good to see you, Gillyflower. ’Tis empty here without you.”

  Then, as if she is shamed by her unusual gentleness, she says in a rough tone, “Though ’twould be even more a treat if you’d looked less like a charmbaby.”

  I rub my forehead with the back of my hand. “I must talk to you, Nettle, and Mad Helga, too. We have something important to do.”

  “You need to wash and sleep—”

  I blow out my breath impatiently. “There’s no time to wash, and I can sleep when I’m dead.”

  Nettle chuckles. “Oh ho! Oh ho! When I need you to hurry, yousneak off to duck yourself in the stream, but when you have need of me, no washing time—”

  “Hold your prattle, Nettle.”

  “Gilly, let me get you some food and—”

  “I have no need of food at this moment. What I need is to talk with you and—”

  Nettle continues as if I had not interrupted. “There’s last night’s onion stew that needs only a bit of a warm-up—”

  Home not a hundred heartbeats, and already I want to shake the skinny crone. “For once in your life, Nettle, be more Mary than Martha.”

  “Gilly—”

  “Or if you must bustle, then find a bucket and give some water to this poor horse.”

  I brush past her and start for the house. “Is Mad Helga stirring?”

  There is a flat-topped stone in the clearing. Its surface is half-covered with herbs left to dry in the sun. Nettle squats beside it, her knees making a kind of creak when she goes down. She carefully picks the herbs out of the cloth she carries and lays them flat on the stone. “I mistrust the glitter of your eye, child. There is a wildness in you that will not—”

  I glare at her. “Come inside, quickly.”

  But she will not come until she has laid down every leaf and sprig of her herbs, even though I jiggle from foot to foot in impatience.

  Mad Helga shows no surprise at seeing me. I wonder if she even realizes that I have been gone a long time. Quickly I tell them about His approach and what we must do.

  “No,” says Nettle.

  “No?” My voice slides upward. “What means this no? ’Tis a simple-enough plan.”

  Nettle presses her palms against her thighs. “ ‘Help me this once,’ you said, when we met him before in the wood. ‘I shall not ask you again,’ you said.”

  “I was wrong,” I say.

  Mad Helga says nothing. She rocks back and forth, making a humming noise like a drunken bee.

  Nettle lets her breath out in a little angry puff. “Do you not see, Gillyflower? ’Tis not safe for us to pose as witches. Herb craft and woodlore are dangerous enough, but to set ourselves up as seers and spell weavers—Gilly, ’twould be the same as strolling into the dragon’s mouth.”

  “We are witches,” I snap.

  Nettle rolls her eyes.

  “The villagers see us as witches,” I say.

  “You could call a haddock a horse,” Nettle says, “but woe betide you should you try to saddle it and ride to market.”

  “The king will be here any minute, old woman, yet you prattle proverbs like a granny in the sun. Stop your nonsense, Nettle, and—”

  “ ’Tis you, Gilly, that prattles nonsense. As you well know, calling a thing by a name does not mean that the thing is that named thing.”

  “You have the double sight,” I shout, “and I have witnessed your conjuring up the Old Ones. You know herb lore and woodcraft—”

  Then Mad Helga begins to add words to her buzzing little tune.

  A dragon came to Dunisferne,

  Sing ho, my lads, sing ho.

  And there it wed a lady fair—

  Hey nonny, hey nonny, hey—

  I kneel in front of Mad Helga and take her leathery hands in mine. “Please. Please, Mad Helga. Please pull your wits out of the fog, gather them, please be clear. I know I owe my life to you and Nettle and therefore have no right to ask more of you, but I do ask. I will pay you in any coin you wish. Do me this one last favor, and I will sign over to you my freedom, live as your slave for the rest of my life. Do me this last favor and I will steal for you, kill for you. I willtake to the roads as an outlaw. I will wrestle a field from the wood. I will peel my skin from my arms and feet and cure it to make you slippers. Whatever you wish is yours if you will but grant me this one wish.”

  She seems to fumble to gather her wits together. Her eyes meet mine. As long as I can remember, she has looked old, but now she looks more ancient than the world. “What you ask will lead to death,” Mad Helga says. “Nettle has told you that before, yet—”

  “I know. His death is what I seek.”

  “ ’Tis not of His death that we speak.”

  Nettle breaks in. “Would you sacrifice someone you love, Gilly, just to bring him down? Death demands death—death is the blood coin needed for what you ask.”

  For a moment I hesitate. This does not feel right. Then I say, “I do not love anyone. There has been death already and I’m owed His life. ’Tis my due.”

  Mad Helga says, “Those past deaths are stale. A blood spell needs a fresh death.”

  “Then I will be the one taken,” I say. “I will give my life to cut off His. No one else need fear.” Fine words, but inside myself I do fear. Inside myself I have pulled apart as if I were tied to two horses and they were whipped to gallop in different directions. One part of me urges, Forward, plunge forward, while a deeper part screams, Turn back, turn back.

  Nettle says, “ ’Tis not so simple to—”

  Mad Helga holds up her hand and silences her. Then she leans close to me. She smells of old clothes and the dark, damp smell that many ancient people have. “Child, if you are wise, you will step away from all this.”

  I make my choice. “I do not wish to be wise or safe or loved!” I shout. “There is one thing I want, and you have the power to give it to me. Help me. I beg you, help me once more.”

  Mad Helga and Nettle look at each other.

  “Just once more,” I plead. As we sit and mumble here, time slidesaway. “He will be here any moment.” I tune my ears to catch the notes of His arrival.

  “Not till dusk,” Nettle says in a reluctant tone. “He will not arrive until dusk. And ’tis not here that he will find us. At dusk we will find him at the ring of old stones that lies halfway to the village.”

  “Did you see His coming, Nettle?” I ask.

  Nettle turns away.

  “He seeks us out,” I tell them. “We have the power to destroy Him.”

  Nettle sighs. “I can mix a potion, Gilly. We can drug him with herbs. As soon as he drinks, his mind will be troubled with strange fancies. For a pace, his wits and reason will go begging. He will see strange and troubling visions. Anything we say to him will gnaw out a home deep within his mind and haunt him as long as he lives.”

  Joy floods through me. This is my right path. “Make me that potion, and I will carry it to Him, Nettle.”

  Nettle drums her fingers against her lip in a worried gesture. “ ’Tis a misuse of the herb craft.”

  “Who cares a thorn for that?” I ask.

  “Some minds stay damaged,” Nettle says. “I cannot predict how he will respond. ’Tis a potion that could send a madness that will not fade.”<
br />
  I force a laugh. “He is mad already, Nettle. He sucks the blood of the country like some monster in a granny tale. He kills like a raging beast, slaughtering powerful and innocent alike. ’Twill be best for our country if we bring Him down. Poison is as good a weapon as any.”

  “ ’Tis not for our country you wish him destroyed, Gilly,” Nettle says.

  “No.” I smile. “Now make me the potion.”

  “Make the potion,” Mad Helga says.

  I add, “And teach me to make it.”

  Nettle shakes her head. “It demands too many ingredients, Gilly. You would never hold it in your mind. But slice a beet root and boilit in the pot with a hand’s worth of water till ’tis red and thick as baboon’s blood.

  “Work quickly,” I say.

  And yet a part of me, like a demented raven, screams, Turn back, turn back.

  FOR THE LENGTH OF THE AFTERNOON, Nettle works, blending dozens of herbs together: lizard eye, cockscomb, frog toe, blindworm thorn, dragon leaf, hemlock, tiger guts, ladyslipper, and many others, including some I’ve never seen her use before. The broth smells like a cesspool in the underworld, and, as it cools, it thickens into a porridge. Nettle looks flushed and exhausted. Finally she presses the smelly mess through a cloth, squeezing out a thin liquid, which she pours into a vial. She wedges a whittled peg into the neck of the little bottle and hands it to me.

  “Here. ’Twill be up to you, child, to find a way to make him drink it.”

  She lowers herself onto a stool. I tuck the vial into the drawstring pouch under my tunic. “Now, Nettle, there’s no time to sit and ponder. We have the potion—now we must be off.”

  “Gilly, I am faint with weariness—”

  “You can sleep when you’re dead. Let’s be off to the ring of stones.”

  I pull Mad Helga up from the hearth, and then I pull Nettle to her feet.

  “Come on!”

  T H I R T Y - N I N E

  HE’S NOT THERE.

  With an impatient hand I slap one of the stones. These stones are smaller than the ones in the heath to the north, more like sheep than giants, but there are seven of them spaced around a circle. All the villagers avoid this place, calling it haunted. This is a fitting place to meet Him.

  Only He is not here.

  Nettle frowns. “I told you that he would not be here till dusk.”

  Angrily I plop down on the ground.

  The late afternoon creeps along like a lame snail. Nettle and Mad Helga doze, each leaning against one of the fat stones. I sit there, staring, wondering if it is true that the stones were put there by Merlin the Wizard. I decide it cannot be the case. There is no reason for Merlin to visit this out-of-the-way nubkin of the world. Sometimes I think God himself does not wander deep into these wild places.

  Still He does not come.

  I begin to pace. I feel blurred with weariness, but at the same time, prickly with anger. Nettle takes no notice. After a while I say, “Why doesn’t He come? ’Twill soon be dark.”

  Nettle does not even bother to open her eyes. “ ’Tis better for us in the dark. ’Tis easier then to put fancies deep into his mind.”

  I call to Him with my mind. “Come—rot your soul—come! Come now to me!” I fret and fight back my weariness that lays siege to my intentions.

  At last it is dark. The stones feel cold, yet I curl next to the biggest one, Lord Banquo’s stiff cloak wrapped around me as a blanket. Suddenly Nettle jerks awake. Her body tightens like a drawn bowstring. She looks at me and nods.

  “ ’Tis He?” I ask. I feel more anxious than triumphant. Can we do this indeed? Will He recognize me? Now that it is too late, I realize I should have left Lord Banquo’s cloak back at the hut and found some other wrap. I quickly consider tossing it aside, but I decide the risk is greater that He recognize me without the cloak than that He recognize the cloak in the dark. Perhaps if He does recognize it, He will think it part and parcel of the witchcraft. Then with a shock, I realize I have not yet thought of a way to make Him drink the potion. Think, girl, think!

  Nettle nods again, this nod sharper and more insistent.

  I rummage in the drawstring sack I have brought and take out a small cup hollowed from smooth white stone, one of Nettle’s greatest treasures. I pull out a small leather bottle of ale and empty it into the goblet. Then I add the contents of the vial. It bubbles for a few moments and then it is quiet. I set the goblet on the lowest stone, the one with the flattest top. I pull the hood of Lord Banquo’s cloak low across my face. Do not let Him recognize either me or it in this smudge-edged darkness. I hear several horses gallop up and then stop nearby, just out of sight.

  Then I hear His voice. “Stand back. I will face them alone.”

  How did He know to stop here? Then I catch sight of Nettle’s face, rigid with concentration. In a flash I understand— she summoned Him here. I do not know how she did it, but her mind called to Him and He came.

  He strides into the clearing, standing in the center of the ring of stones. For a moment He blinks at all three of us, seemingly unsurewhich of us He should address. The arrogance of the man—assuming that we have nothing better to do than to wait here for Him to show up.

  Only—that’s just what we did.

  I keep the cloak low over my face. Surely He will not recognize a servant so far from the castle. My heart pounds so loudly that I fear He will hear.

  Finally He selects Nettle as our leader. He points His finger at her and raises His voice. “I will have information! Speak to me.”

  I step nervously into the ring of stones to stand next to Him. I raise my chalice. “You are weary, your majesty. Drink first.”

  He whirls to me. “Damn you, I want no drink! Tell me—”

  “We will see into your heart more clearly if you drink.”

  I hold my breath, waiting. I have staked everything on this moment. Oh, how I wish I had asked Nettle to poison Him instead. Although death alone would not be enough. I do not want Him to have an easy death. I want Him to see His death coming. It is only fitting.

  For a long, hard moment He stares at me. Then he scoops up my goblet and drinks the contents at one go. He flings it to the ground and stands defiantly. All at once, one cramp seizes Him, then another. He reaches for His sword, then falls to the ground and begins to jerk in convulsions like a landed carp.

  “I conjure you,” He screams, “by that evil art which you profess, however you come to know it, answer me! Though you untie the winds and let them fight against the churches, though the foaming waves drown all the ships, though the grasses be blown flat and the trees blown down, though all castles topple on top of their dwellers, though disaster howls until even destruction itself grows sick— answer me! Answer me!” His speech trails off in an unearthly howl.

  “Speak!” Nettle says.

  “Demand!” Mad Helga says.

  I sink to my knees beside Him. “We’ll answer.”

  He gives another howl of pain. “Damn you!” He paws at the air. “Stand back! Or fight like a man!”

  I should enjoy the sight of Him thrashing about on the ground,but I feel uneasy. The sight disturbs me. Nevertheless, I fall to my knees beside Him. I ask greedily, “What do you see?”

  “A warrior,” He gasps, his empty fingers paddling wildly. “A helmet—a head only—no body, just a head. What does it mean? Tell me!”

  Nettle and Mad Helga wait silently. I must say something. “Macbeth, Macbeth—beware—” What, what can I say? Suddenly I recall His conversation with His wife back at the castle. Frighten Him. Name an enemy. I see Mad Helga watching. Speak like Mad Helga. That should put Him into fear. “Beware Macduff!” I croak in my best Mad Helga voice. “Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough!”

  “One word more—” He begins.

  “We will not be commanded,” I thunder. I clap my hands, right in His face, and He scoots away in terror. “Here’s another more powerful than the first!” I flap my hands at Nettle. Let her take over. S
he will know what to do.

  She understands, and she moves forward and kneels by Him. She strokes His forehead with her fingers. He gives a whimper and pulls His knees to His chest.

  “What do you see now?” asks Nettle, her voice as soothing as a nurse gentling a dream-spooked babe.

  He points a finger toward the invisible air. “A child! There’s a child covered in blood.”

  Mad Helga steps forward and lowers herself on His other side. She rests her dry, wrinkled hand on the top of His head. In her age-cracked voice she croons,

  Be bloody, bold, and resolute.

  Laugh to scorn

  The power of man

  For none of woman born

  Shall harm Macbeth.

  He laughs and rolls onto His back. “Then live, Macduff. I need not fear you!”

  I am confused. Did Mad Helga just countermand my own spell?

  Nettle strokes her bony hand across His eyes as if she is shutting the eyes of the dead. “What see you now?”

  “Another child,” He whispers. He reaches up and squeezes her hand. “A child holding a tree.”

  This stumps us. Nettle looks at me, but I bite my lip. How can we work this vision into our warnings? Then Nettle says, “Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill shall come against him.”

  What a foolish thing to say! How can a wood come to the castle? But I cannot blame her. She had little time to think of aught to say, and I myself could think of nothing better.

  Then Nettle begins to snap her fingers over and over in front of His eyes until he focuses on them. He squeezes her hand again. “Tell me—tell me—” And he begs like a castaway child—

  “Yes?” Nettle asks.

  “Will Banquo’s descendants ever reign in my kingdom?”

  Nettle stares deep into His eyes. Her gaze doesn’t waver until He screams and scoots away. He flings His hands up like a shield.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  Again He points at the empty air. “Look! Look! Don’t tell me you fail to see it.”

  “What?” I ask.