The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  “Look! There are a line of kings, all with looking glasses in their hands—and Banquo brings up the rear! Never!” He pulls Himself up to His knees. “Never! I have not done all this for Banquo’s brats! This is my kingdom, mine. It does not belong to his children. It belongs to—”

  “To whom?” I demand. How dare He prattle of kingdoms unjustly stolen, usurper and master murderer that He be. I shriek, “You have no children!”

  He screams again, covers His ears, and cowers, rocking back and forth and sobbing. He is a revolting sight. My mouth turns down in disgust. I turn to Nettle.

  “He sickens me.”

  “ ’Tis the potion, Gilly,” she says. “No one would be brave and strong—”

  “No! This is His real self! The body of a bully and the soul of a terrified child.”

  He continues to sob. Nettle crouches by Him and strokes His hair.

  “Sleep! Sleep! You have need of sleep.”

  “No!” I say. I kneel in front of Him and pull His head up to look at me. My fingers dig into His cheek. “You will not sleep! Sleep will desert you. You will become a ghost of the night, roaming your castle like a specter. You have murdered sleep itself!”

  Nettle shakes her head at me. “What you say to him in this state, that he will believe.”

  “Good.”

  “This is soul murder that you do to him, Gilly.”

  “Good.” I let go of His face and again He collapses to the ground.

  For a long time, He sobs. Finally His sobs fade to little whimpers, no louder than the squeaking of a mouse. For the space of a hundred heartbeats, He lies sniffling on the ground. Then Nettle motions to Mad Helga and me to withdraw. We fade back among the trees, just out of sight.

  We watch as He lies there, whimpering and sniffling. Then Nettle flings out a warning hand, and we hold very still.

  There is the sound of horses clattering up and then stopping just out of sight. We hear a rumble of voices, and then the horses gallop away again.

  Night spreads across the sky as smoothly as melting goose grease. Finally He raises His head. He looks drained by His experience.

  “Where are you?” He calls. “Damn you, where are you?”

  We do not move.

  A young lord runs into the clearing. I remember seeing him at the feast for Lord Banquo, but I do not know his name. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Where did they go?” He asks. His voice is still a little hoarse, but it has regained much of its strength.

  “Who, my lord?” asks the young lord.

  “The witch women?” He grabs the top of one of the stones and pulls Himself to his feet, hunched like a humpback hag and holding tight to the stone for support. “Did they go past you?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “I heard voices.”

  “Messengers, my lord. They bring news that—” He stops and takes a deep breath. Even though he is little more than a shadow in the shadows of night, it is clear he does not wish to give this news to his lord. He swallows hard and then says, “—news that Macduff has escaped to England!”

  For several heartbeats, He stands in startled silence. Then He cracks the night air with his curses. “Damnation seize him! The devil himself dye him black! Let him hang, burn, freeze, starve! Damn him and all his brood to the deepest bowels of hell for all eternity!” Then He puts a hand out, and the young lord helps Him to stand upright.

  “From this moment forth,” He shouts, “anything that comes into my mind will be put into action. Nothing will stop my will.” He shakes back His bright red hair. “I have learned this night that Macduff is a danger to my throne. Therefore I order you, gather a group of soldiers together and leave immediately to attack Macduff ’s castle. Kill everyone you find there—his wife, his servants, his children—all! Tear the castle to the ground!”

  No! No! I whisper to Nettle, “Your potion has made Him worse.”

  “I told you that it might,” she whispers back.

  His scream shatters the quiet of the wood. “If I cannot hold this land forever, then I will drown it in blood.”

  I begin to run back to Nettle’s hut.

  The horse is there. I have need of it.

  Before His men reach Fife, I must warn Lady Macduff.

  F O R T Y

  I AM RUNNING AND RUNNING through the wood with an ache in my side. My breathing is like a rusty saw. When I can run no more, I stumble along until I catch my breath, then I run again. Branches whip at my face, vines catch at my feet, and still I run.

  Lord Banquo’s horse is waiting at Nettle’s hut. I fling myself onto his broad back.

  “Run!” I croak through a throat sore from panting. “You could not save your master, but now you can redeem your failure. Now you have the chance to save an entire family. Run!”

  I dig my heels into his sides, and he takes off.

  I am not sure whether I am talking to the horse or to myself.

  ALMOST IMMEDIATELY we must slow to a walk. It is no easy matter to wend my way through a wood in the dark. There is an orange moon, but the branches play catch-as-catch-can with the light. Before we reach the stream, I must slide off the horse and lead him along, all the way to the road.

  THE FULL MOON IS HIGH when we reach the road, and it gives good light. Tiredness has nearly dissolved my bones. It is my second nightwithout sleep. I remember the directions the lady gave me, and I know I must ride south and east. I scrabble back onto the horse’s back.

  “Go,” I say. And he does.

  It is almost as if he is glad to race. I jounce along, his pace pounding my sitting bones hard against my shoulders. Let me be in time, let me be in time, I will ask nothing else from life if only this once I may be in time. Shadows loom across the road like ancient creatures risen from the grave to snatch at me, but we gallop past them, almost flying. Trees and fields swishing past, always moving. My head rattles with hoofbeats pounding, my breath pounding, the voice inside me pounding, Go, go, go, go. After hours of this, I hear the lady talk to me.

  Come to Fife. We will find you a fine lad for a husband.

  I hear her silvery laugh.

  Then I am jerked awake, still pounding through the night.

  A little while later, I jerk awake again. Mama? I call. Mama, have you come back for me?

  Sometimes I get confused and wonder if all this is the dream, if I only imagined Him in the wood and His prattling about the bloody babe and such. The earth pounds and pounds about my ears and bones, the way a dead soul might pound on the gates of Heaven. The night swoops about my ears, and there is only the riding. . . .

  THEN DAYLIGHT SLAPS ME in the face.

  I am lying in a field. The grasses are sharp and stiff beneath me.

  I squint and sit up.

  “Nettle?” I call out. “Pod? I have had the strangest dream—”

  Then I see the horse nosing among the grasses.

  “Oh, no!” I do not know how long I have slept. I jump to my feet.

  How could I sleep? How long did I sleep? Pray God that it will take Him some time to gather His army together—

  A yawn cracks my jaws.

  “No!” I scream. “You hound of hell, you will not get this one!”

  I am on the back of the horse, a back warm from the sun, and we are moving fast, fast, faster. . . .

  • • •

  TWICE I ASK FOR DIRECTIONS, and then the castle itself stretches above me. It is a homey-looking place, perched on a hump of ground next to a fast-rushing river. It suffered damage in the recent war, for scaffolds girdle its walls. There is no sign of immediate danger. In a nearby field, peasants hack at the hay with curved sickles. All looks peaceful.

  Thank God I am in time.

  I see a richly dressed noble ride from out of the gates. A crossshaped scar mars his cheek. He looks familiar, and then I remember seeing him at the banquet for Lord Banquo. This man sat at the high table. I wonder if he is one of His agents, but this man does not seem to be uneasy or wishing to hide.r />
  Nonetheless, I wait behind a stand of birches for him to pass. Then I gallop full speed to the courtyard.

  A grimy gooseherd stands in the courtyard, scattering grain among his greedy, squawking fowl.

  I slide off the horse, my sweaty legs sliding easily along the sweaty flanks. “The lady of the castle—I must see her.”

  The gooseherd eyes me doubtfully.

  I stamp my foot. “You fool! Take me to the lady at once. She will not thank you for making her wait.”

  I do not know whether it is my anger or my wild eyes that cow him, but he bobs his head, pulls his forelock, and motions me to follow him. He leads me to a light-filled room. I did not know that it is possible to have so much light in a castle. Then I see the lady, clean and dainty in a fragile gown the color of primroses and as airy as a spider’s web. She is playing catch-ball with young Ninian. He is as bouncy as a pup, but she looks very frail and small. It is clear from her flat belly that she has given birth since I met her by the sea. Then I see a Moses basket on the seat by the window. Inside is a tiny babe fast asleep.

  Lady Macduff and Ninian are calling jokes back and forth and do not notice me.

  I drop to a knee. “My good lady!”

  Lady Macduff whirls around, startled. “Who are you?”

  “My name is not known to you, my lady, but you gave me mutton stew and invited me to your castle.”

  Then I hear horses approaching—a large company. I run to the window and look out. Up the hill rides a large group of armed men.

  The lady pays them no mind. Instead she clasps her hands together, her face bright with joy. “Oh, then you have come, my little girl who dresses as a boy! What fun!”

  Ninian jumps up and down, clapping his hands. “You will teach me to fight with sticks!”

  I shake my head. I hear the horses gallop through the gates. “My lady, you must be gone. You and all your little ones. Danger approaches. Go!”

  She blinks at me with a bewildered look on her pretty face. “But who would want to harm me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  I tug her sleeve, trying to pull her toward the door. “We must be gone! Come, lady!”

  She pulls away, and I eye her doubtfully. She looks too delicate to survive much rough travel.

  I hear the voices of men in the courtyard. “Where’s the bitch who rules this castle?”

  A woman screams in the courtyard. A dog begins to bark. Then it squeals once and is silent.

  “Come!” I whisper.

  Color drains from Lady Macduff ’s face. “This cannot be happening,” she whispers, her eyes large and murky with fear. She sinks to the ground in a froth of pale silk.

  “Lady, come,” I beg. “I dare not stay.”

  She buries her face in two small hands. “Oh, I am in this cruel world in which to do good is no defense against evil.” She holds out her arms, and Ninian runs into them. She hugs him tightly. In the Moses basket, the wee babe awakens and begins to cry. She looks over at it helplessly.

  I hear the sound of boots on the stairs.

  “Come, lady!” I command.

  “There is not time. But I have done nothing. Surely that counts for something.” She buries her face against Ninian’s head, rocking him back and forth and whispering, “Shh, shh, shh.” The sound of the boots grows closer. I see that the lady will not come, and now we have no more time. She does not let go of Ninian. I remember there are other children in the castle. I make my decision. Quick as a flash, I grab the Moses basket and hang it from my arm. Then I run to the far end of the hall. An elderly maidservant is cowering against the wall, her eyes wild, fingering her rosary beads and fluttering her lips in silent prayer.

  “The nursery! Where is the nursery?”

  The servant is speechless with terror. She stares at me with terrified eyes. I shake her.

  “The nursery!”

  She points a shaking hand up the winding stairway. I run up the stairs. Behind me I hear the men explode into the hall.

  A rough voice demands, “Where’s your husband?”

  The lady answers, “In a place where none like you can find him.”

  “He’s a traitor!” says the first voice.

  I hear Ninian cry out, “You lie!”

  At the top of the stairs, the passageway divides into two. The men’s voices grow indistinct. I look back and forth. Which way is the nursery?

  Behind me I hear Ninian scream.

  I decide to go left.

  Then I hear the lady scream, over and over.

  I dart through several rooms until I find what I seek. Ninian’s little brother and sister huddle together on a small bed, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. In a nearby trundle a toddler is crying.

  I hold out my hand to the older children. “Come with me. Quickly.”

  From below come the sounds of screaming and the men shouting as if they are cheering on a race. The lady’s screams grow fainter, like milk poured into a stream.

  The children do not move.

  Then the little girl knuckles her eyes and whispers, “Mama!”

  “Come on!” I say.

  Roughly I pull the children to their feet. Even though the Moses basket hangs from one arm, I scoop up the toddler and tuck him under the other arm like a new-baked loaf. With my basketed arm I shove the two older ones across the floor. The Moses basket swings back and forth. The little boy stumbles, so I kneel down and say to him, “Climb on my back.”

  He stares at me, confused.

  “Your mama said for you to come with me.”

  He glances at his sister, and the little girl nods. He climbs onto my back. With the back of the arm I’ve wrapped around the toddler, I press his leg against my side. I feel as unwieldy as someone trying to carry a cow and two chickens to market. I say to the little girl, “Grab hold of my robe.” Then we hurry out of the room.

  I hear furniture crashing and the screams of women. I shift the toddler around to my front so he can cling to my neck, making it a little easier to carry him. I run down the passage away from the screams. Then we reach the end, a solid wall. There is nowhere else to go.

  The noise behind us grows louder. I glance from side to side. There must be some way out. I am an arrow, an arrow—

  Then I remember passing a ladder up to the roof.

  I turn around and start back the way I came. The toddler and the baby are both crying, but I have no time to shush them. My arms are beginning to ache. We go back three rooms, and there is the ladder! I tell the little girl, “Climb up!”

  She looks at me, her face puckered with worry and looking strangely like her mother.

  “Go!” I shout at her. “Climb, rot you! Climb!”

  Then the little girl bursts into tears and begins to climb. I start after her.

  I am very slow, since I can use but one of my hands. I must set both feet on a rung before I can go up another. Still, I make it to thetop. I consider whether ’twould be best to try to pull the ladder up after us, but I decide not to set the two little ones down. Instead I grab the little girl’s hand and run to the far end of the roof. I have no clear plan. All I can think of is to get as far away as possible.

  At the end of the roof, there is no place to go. Think! Think!

  I hear cries below, and I glance down. I see a scene of horror. All is chaos. There are several rough-garbed men, running their swords into cornered servants who are begging for their lives. The murderers are laughing as if they play at a game.

  Then a voice behind me calls out, “Stop!”

  I glance back. One of the attackers is climbing through the roof. He is followed by several others—one of whom has Lady Macduff ’s veil wrapped around his neck like a trophy of war.

  I look around wildly for a place to run.

  “You are cornered!” the man calls out. I see another man climbing up behind him. “Give me the children and you can go free.”

  Down below in the courtyard I see a pile of straw. I bite my lip, wondering if it
is deep enough for me to drop the children in, but I do not think it is fat enough to break their fall. Like a wild thing, I run to the far wall. Below is the river. I have no choice! I lean forward to pick up the little girl to toss her into the stream. Dear God, let the water be deep enough. But someone grabs me from behind. The little boy screams. He clings to me like a baby squirrel, but he is pulled from my back screaming and kicking. I scream too and twist around. Then someone else yanks the little girl away. She screams.

  A man dangles her over the edge of the roof.

  “Little bird, can you fly?” he demands.

  Then a third man lunges toward me and grabs at the toddler. I pull him away, but someone else seizes him, and someone else is pulling on the Moses basket, and I am jerked backward by the neckband of my tunic, and then I am falling. . . .

  Falling over the ramparts!

  F O R T Y - O N E

  THE CHILD KEEPS RUNNING to the window to peer down into the castle courtyard. She is too excited to stand still.

  “Nutkin, never will I get your hair plaited, and your lady mother will skin me alive if you are not ready on time. Stand still, do, my little rosebud, my little millikin.”

  “I want to, Nurse, but my feet will not stand still. They’re too excited. My papa’s coming home!”

  “ Your mama wants you to look nice for your papa, my blossom.”

  “Papa will be riding up any moment, Nurse. Hurry, do!”

  “ Yes, lovey, but do stand still!”

  And then she hears the clatter of horses down in the courtyard. The child breaks free of her nurse and runs back to the window. Down below a dark-haired soldier, tall and strong, leans down and takes a mug held out by a servant. He takes a long, deep drink. Then he lowers the mug and laughs.

  “Papa!” the child cries.

  She starts to run out of the room. The nurse grabs at her skirt, but the child shakes herself free and runs down, her hair half undone.

  She runs across the courtyard, holding her arms up.

  “Papa! Papa!”

  The dark rider sweeps her up in his arms, his horse rearing and the little girl squealing with delight.