Titania traipsed along the bank. Her quick, nimble steps carried her following the winding path of the river. The waters flowed unceasing, drawing her on. She was looking for the easiest path to leave the realm of Faerie to frolic and fornicate on the mortal plane. But most importantly, she also needed to feed. She had been too long without and she could not still that ravenous desire within her any longer. The intermittent hunger pangs drove her, granting a slight sense of urgency to her gait. But where is the doorway?
Titania grumbled under her breath. It was Oberon’s doing. She was sure of it. He could galivant around with his pet, that Goodfellow but she was kept under a watchful eye!
It was as if he was jealous.
Ah! Titania spied the faintly wavering doorway that would be invisible to the naked eye—or to lesser fey. These doorways between worlds were how the folk of Faerie travel to and from their realm to the world of mortals. This particular one leads to a mountainous region with a mild climate, where the faint tang of the sea teased in the air.
Hellas, it was called by its natives.
It also happened to be where the Olympians held sway.
Titania remembered fondly the first mortal she had met there centuries ago. He was a poet and he had worshipped her with his hands and words. Homer was his name. He had called her his muse, and she had reveled in his worship. He never did learn that she was a leannan sidhe—that his adoration of her, and the inspiration that stemmed from their coupling fed and nourished her. She was almost sorry to learn that he had died years later but realized it was better that way.
It left her free to seek worship and sustenance from other mortals, in other places.
Now, Titania decided to visit the woods near Olympus. She was careful to cast a glamour of invisibility around her as she did not want to draw the attention of the mightily randy Zeus. And more to the point, his fearsome wife Hera. Nothing good ever came out from a dalliance with an Olympian, it was said.
It must also be said that what Titania was doing now was breaking the covenant between the pantheons. No god can enter another’s territory unless expressly invited or granted permission to do so. But Titania snapped her fingers at the covenant. The mortals of Albion have been remiss with their offerings to her of late. Rare now was her name called when sacrifices were offered. She kept hearing others being called—Oberon, Herne, Belenos and even Mab—but rarely her. Therefore, she had gone on clandestine expeditions to range afield for her feeding. It galled her that she was reduced to poaching from the outer lands. Or the fact that she was limited to where she could feed. She was the Summer Queen, and equal to Oberon or Mab. Equal to Diana from Rome, or Freya from the Northlands.
There will be no denying what she wants.
And what she wants now is to satisfy that deep hunger within her.
Titania made sure to keep the cloud-wreathed peak of Olympus clearly within her view as she meandered along the long grasses of the plains surrounding the mountain range that housed Olympus. She knew there were festivities afoot. Some highborn mortal was to wed his war-bride from the far lands of wild Scythia, where warrior women rode under the bright face of Belenos. The city was alight with the fires celebrating the occasion. Titania skirted the city and made her way to the woods surrounding the rocky wilderness surrounding the city’s outskirts.
Her attendants flitted about her, light and nimble. They were as invisible as she was. Satyrs and various randy semi-deities roam wild here in the plains and forests of Hellas. And that was not even counting the predations of the higher gods such as Apollo, Zeus and Poseidon. Having their way with a denizen from the realm of Faerie would be quite the feather in their caps. Especially if it was the Queen of Summer. Thus, caution was advisable. Despite the accord the fey had nurtured with the nature deities of Olympus—Demeter, Dionysus, Artemis and Pan—Titania did not believe in taking chances. The Olympians were hardly studies of constancy or loyalty. Their fickle followers have been known to flout their overlords’ commands with a flippancy that would make a fey pause.
Her ruminations were interrupted by one of her attendants. It was Mustardseed, who was taking point in their night trek.
“Your Majesty,” came her hushed, urgent whisper. “Someone comes!”
“Hide yourselves,” Titania ordered, trusting her attendants to obey her.
The Summer Queen channeled her glamour to enable her to ride the air currents. There was indeed the sound of someone—or something—coming through the brush. She summoned another glamour, sheathing her hands in white-hot heat. She was about to unleash the firebolt when the sound of mortal laughter greeted her ears.
Titania lowered her hands, willing the firebolt glamour away. Mortals? This should be interesting, she thought.
She floated up, to perch among the branches. From the jovial tone of the voices these were not mortals harbouring ill intent. Yet it would be wise to employ caution. Mortals look upon the fey as either a novel oddity—not quite gods but unmistakably immortal, and thus to be wary of—or as horrific tricksters to be expunged from the world.
The mortals appeared to be five in number. Was that a lion’s head they were carrying? Titania had heard that mortals sometimes participated in the more ghoulish worship of darker gods but surely Zeus would not countenance this!
Titania relaxed when the mortals passed closer to the tree where she was perched. She saw now that it was a very clever facsimile of a lion’s head. It was a mask of sorts, made of woven willow twigs and covered in hide. The eyes were coloured glass with openings to allow the wearer to see. They were bards! Yes, this night was definitely getting to be more interesting by the hour. It has been a while since she had fed and now, there are five mortals from which to sup from?
Titania rubbed her hands in gleeful anticipation.
#
Bottom the weaver scratched at his chin. The mask was thick and he was sweating as they went through rehearsing the lion scene from Pyramus and Thisbe. It was a warm midsummer’s night and he would prefer to be sleeping in his home instead of tramping around in the woods. He mentally cursed Quince for volunteering to put on a performance to celebrate the wedding of King Theseus. It did not matter that the play was in large part also an homage to Dionysus, the god of revelry.
“It is killing two birds with one stone,” Quince had explained. “We honour Dionysus with this offering of theatre, and we gift this performance to King Theseus.”
Bottom had questioned the choice of the play, feeling that a tragedy was hardly conducive to merrymaking.
He was overruled, as usual.
Among his friends, Bottom was decidedly low on the pecking order.
But he shrugged it aside and went along. It was less troublesome that way, and in the scheme of things hardly important. He knew who he was. He was Bottom the weaver, and he was content with his lot in life.
He sat on his heels behind a small stand of wild shrubs where he waited for his cue. He was supposed to play the part of the lion that mauled Pyramus, therefore causing Thisbe to take her own life in despair at her loss.
Bottom felt a faint whisper of cool air on his skin, forming goosebumps on his flesh. He brushed his palms at the spots, briskly rubbing to generate a bit of heat. He was not fond of cold. Summer was his favourite time of the year, when Demeter’s bounties flowed rich and when Dionysus and Pan invite their worshippers to frolic under the stars. The was a faint puff of mist as he exhaled but as swiftly as it came, the air returned to its previous state of mild freshness.
Bottom heard his cue and immediately stood up.
“GraaaaaRRRRR,” he yelled in his best approximation of a lion’s roar, advancing from his spot in the bushes.
Bottom was slightly perturbed at the sound of his own voice—it was almost as if he was braying.
Quince and the others were staring at him. He must have bungled the roar—perhaps it was not bestial enough. He tried again, louder this time.
Quince and the others were still staring—and this time Bottom could tell, it was with a significant amount of fear. They were frozen in their places, mouth agape. Horrified.
Snug, the joiner was the first to recover. “Run!” he cried as he turned and left them to crash through the brush in the dark.
“We are beset by demons!” Quince exclaimed, after swallowing his shock several times. He, too, joined Snug in his flight.
“Wait!” Bottom cried—or brayed—heading for his friends but they cried out in fear and ran.
They ignored him, leaving him in the small clearing where they held their rehearsal.
Bottom made to follow them but he was unsure of the way and he had not been paying attention to the path they took to come into the woods. Not wanting to risk losing his way in the dark—or worse, being mauled by wild animals—he planted himself under a large elm and hunkered down.
Bottom did not know how long he had been dozing when he felt the cold air brushing his skin again, bringing him out of his fitful slumber. He tried to look up to gauge the time by the position of the moon and the stars but the canopy of leaves was obstructing his view.
He felt the cold caress again. This time it had the distinct feel of razor edges scraping along his skin—not enough to cut but definite enough for him to feel its keen edge. His blood turned cold and not just from the lowering temperature. The woods had gone still and quiet. Bottom slowly rose, keeping his back to the elm’s trunk. In the deep, cold night the sound of his movements seemed magnified. He was about to raise his voice to call out for Quince, or Snug, or any of the others but his tongue turned to lead at a touch on his shoulder.
A cold caress, that made him turn his head slowly. It was a slim, feminine hand gently clasping his shoulder. The owner of the limb moved into his line of vision and Bottom felt his knees tremble.
She was beautiful.
However, it was not her beauty that turned his knees to jelly. Nor was it her nudity. It was the pair of cream-coloured curving horns that emerged from the thick tresses of her red-gold hair. Her hypnotic eyes were a pair limpid blue stillness devoid of pupils and irises.
It was her, the queen of the nymphs.
Bottom was afraid. Very afraid. He had heard the tales regarding her. How she seduced mortals and inspired them to greatness, all the while feeding on their strength and vitality.
“Do not be afraid,” she said, as if reading his mind. Her voice was melodious, all silk and honey, laced with the sultriness of passionate summer nights. Bottom was sure her voice rivaled those of the Muses themselves.
“I am not afraid,” Bottom whimpered out brokenly, hating how his voice still kept its braying undertone.
“Good,” she said with a smile. She embraced him,
The firm press of her warm, unclad flesh against him was his undoing. Bottom could feel himself hardening, his manhood throbbing as she pressed against him. The delicious friction sent fiery sparks along his spine, verging on frenzied lust.
“Good,” she said again. Her excitement and approving smile egged him further. “You are liking it.”
Bottom did not answer, but his hands circled her, cupping her firm buttocks possessively. She let out a sultry moan, luxuriating in his burgeoning hunger for her,
“Yes,” she practically purred. “You are not like your friends.”
Bottom froze. “My friends?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“Around,” she answered airily. Her eyes hardened slightly, and her sultry voice took on a steely edge. “They refused me.”
“What did you do to them?”
“What I always do.” And with that she wrapped herself around him, her mouth catching his in a hungry kiss.
It was like his bowels were being sucked through his mouth. The pain spiked so intensely that Bottom’s mind went into shock and his consciousness faded to black.
#
The highland moors were as unwelcoming as he remembered it. Shadows dappled the land, blanketed by the cool black folds of Mab’s cloak. It was the time of the Turning, when the Seelie rulers pass on the Scepter of the Seasons to the ruler of the Unseelie, keepers of Winter. Robin Goodfellow—Puck, to his close acquaintances—turned to glance at his companion, who seemed mired in his own thoughts.
“It would be good to have a hot meal after days of hard travel, sire,” he began conversationally.
“Aye,” came the soft answer.
“Is there something on your mind, my lord?”
“I am tired,” was the simple reply given.
That was understandable. He made a soft, conciliatory sound and turned back facing the road. It had been a long, painful, travel but they had emerged no worse for wear. And more importantly, uninjured. He knew his companion’s wife would never forgive him if her husband returned marked or maimed.
Puck ruffled his reddish-brown hair, mussing its messy arrangement even further. His cat-like green eyes observed the emptiness around them, the deepening gloom, and the emerging starlit sky. Everything was quiet. Too quiet, as if sound itself was swallowed by the coming night. He was Robin Goodfellow, and as a famous trickster among the fey he knows when there was trouble brewing.
“My lord,” he hissed in a low voice. “There is some mischief afoot.”
Oberon, king of the Seelie fey, sat up straight in his saddle, his glamour gathering around him in flares of fiery motes and sparks of lightning. The night’s gloom was pushed back, and they both could see now that the road ahead was blocked by a trio of cloaked and hooded figures.
“How refreshing,” Puck commented sardonically. “I was wondering when the highwaymen would show up.”
Oberon glared sideways at him.
“One of these days, Goodfellow, that mouth of yours may just land you in a hole even you cannot dig out from,” Oberon muttered darkly. He turned to face the cloaked and hooded trio blocking their path and raised his voice, “If you are looking for a fight, know that you are facing the Summer King!”
The trio remained motionless. Their cloaks were a uniform black. The fabric was a black so dark the fabric looked as if they had been tailored out from the fabric of the night sky itself. Occasionally, there are teasing pinpricks of tiny light coursing along the cloaks’ length—like the coruscating jumble of constellations of the universe unfolding during its creation. They remained motionless. From the distance, with their hoods down it was impossible to tell what manner of being they were.
“We have no wish for trouble,” came a feminine voice.
One of them moved forward towards the fey, the steps easy and sure. The other two followed behind, a step behind and at the same pace. The lead figure threw back its hood and they could now see the face of the speaker.
Her unlined face lent an air of youth. However, a shrewd observer could find hints otherwise. Puck and Oberon could smell the summers that marked her. She was ancient, this being. There is power that was barely contained by her slender frame. Most remarkable were her eyes, deep and unfathomable. Like the deepest void of Kaos--that ancient force that brought existence itself into being. Her companions followed her in revealing their faces. All three were identical.
Not surprising, for they were the Moirai—the weavers of fate. And Fate, though capricious was also inexplicably constant.
“My lady,” Oberon bowed.
Only a fool would risk offending these ancient beings. He yanked Puck down into some semblance of obeisance, if not respect.
“Summer King,” the lead Fate nodded in acknowledgement. “Rise,” she continued, “and be not afraid.”
“To what do I owe this honour, ladies all?”
“It has come to our attention that the eternal Balance requires some attending to,” she said.
“In what way?” Oberon asked.
The one on her left snarled, and pointed a finger at him. “Your harlot wife broke the covenant!” she accused shrilly.
“Peace, Atropos,” the lead Fate said, turning to placate her sister. “Throwing around harsh words solve nothing.”
“You know it was his queen’s fault!” Atropos argued, her arms gesticulating wildly. “Always, Clotho. You have always been too lenient!”
“My apologies, dear ladies,” came Puck’s smooth voice. Oberon winced inwardly and prepared himself for the worst. “May we know what it was exactly you were referring to? Perhaps with knowing the cause we may redress the matter?”
Oberon relaxed. He chided himself for doubting his companion. There was a good reason Goodfellow was the Summer King’s favourite but he could not be yoked and will often go his own way more often than not.
Clotho turned to face them and advanced. She held up her palm, her face serene and her manner unruffled.
“Before my sister interrupts us further with her histrionics,” she began—while Atropos sputtered her indignance in the background—she motioned around them delicately, “Perhaps we could repair to a place more hospitable?”
Oberon was chagrined. “Of course,” he said with alacrity. “It is quite unseemly of me not to grant you proper audience.”
Clotho waved the apology away. “Our outré appearance was unannounced, after all.”
Oberon motioned with his fands and his glamour caused crackles of lightning to course through their surroundings. Once the brilliant bolts faded there sat a cozy pavilion with a brazier burning cheerily in the middle, surrounded by five seats. A brownie stood at attention with a tray laden with a jug of frostberry wine and a plate of honeycakes.
“Shall we?” Oberon asked, leading the way.
“This is an excellent vintage, Summer King,” Clotho murmured after taking a sip of her wine.
Oberon accepted the compliment with a regal nod of his head. He reminded himself that he had the home court advantage. The Fates may be ancient but the Seelie still holds sway over the isles of Albion while the days of the Olympians have passed its zenith by several centuries.
Goodfellow popped in one of the honeycakes and gobbled them without finesse. Oberon almost sighed aloud at his companion’s lack of manners.
“Please,” he asked Clotho. “Would you care to explain what you meant earlier regarding the balance? More importantly, how does my queen figure into this?”
The Fates looked at one another, as if conferring who would broach the topic first. Finally, it was Clotho—who seemed to be the default spokesperson—who spoke.
“There was an incident near the city of Athens,” Clotho began. “Your wife fed on several of Dionysus’s worshippers.”
Goodfellow gasped. “Were there witnesses?” he asked.
“Selene saw her in the act,” Clotho answered. “The chariot of the moon passed directly over the woods where it happened.”
“Did Hades confirm the arrival of their souls in the Underworld?”
The Fate nodded in answer.
“How many?” Oberon asked, his voice soft.
“Five,” Clotho answered, after a small pause.
“Not so many, then,” Goodfellow said.
Oberon almost strangled him for his flip manner.
“They were to put on a performance to celebrate King Theseus’s wedding to his Amazon bride,” Atropos interjected with a hard glare at Goodfellow.
Each word was like a stone that broke the calm stillness of Oberon’s temper. It took all his will not to start cursing his wife. He knew Titania needs to feed regularly. She knew that she should only feed on the offered sacrifices provided by the mortals of Albion. Curse her recklessness! He remembered the warning Mab had given him. The Winter Queen had said that Titania would bring him to ruin.
And now it seemed that she had.
Dionysus’s adherents worship him by staging plays—as he was the patron of theatre. He was also the riotous god of ritual madness. Young he may be by Olympian standards but dark he was. His punishments were often carried out creatively, with horrific results to those who slighted him. And now Titania had not only fed on his worshippers, she had also deprived him of his rightful sacrifice. All knew not to deprive a god of their worshippers.
There would be consequences.
A fight with the Olympians was not something Oberon was confident the fey could win. Not even with the might of both Summer and Winter courts combined.
“Is this then, a courtesy visit to have us get our affairs in order?” Oberon asked. He had decided bluntness was the way to go here.
“No, Summer King,” Clotho placated him. “We come to inform you there is a way to avert war between Faerie and Olympus.”
“I am listening.”
“Reparations,” Atropos cut in. “Your queen caused grief to Dionysus. He demands equal value as payment.”
“How do you mean?”
“Blood is to be spilled on your lands,” Clotho explained.
“Five of ours?” Goodfellow guessed.
“Not quite,” Lachesis now joined in. “The five killed were not only his worshippers. They were performers of the play that was to be performed at Theseus’s wedding.”
“A larger sacrifice?” Goodfellow asked.
“Much larger,” Lachesis confirmed.
“How much larger do you mean?” Oberon asked. He took care not to let any tremor slip into his voice. He glanced at Goodfellow, signaling his companion to stay his tongue.
“A war!” Atropos exclaimed with a touch of giddiness.
Clotho glared at her sister before turning to Oberon. “Do not mind her,” she said with a twist of her lips. “She is imagining the many threads she gets to cut.”
Oberon almost choked on his beard. The Fates may appear as nubile maidens but they were just as bloodthirsty and heartless as any Olympian. He had been young when the terrible war between Ilium and Hellas was waged. It was a genocidal massacre crafted by the Olympians. The Earth had complained of the weight of multitudes of mortals upon her flesh and she had demanded a pruning to ease the burden.
It was time for another pruning, it seems.
There were plenty more mortals where they came from, at any rate, Oberon thought to himself.
Oberon needs to act, and act fast.
“I must return to Arcadia and marshal my forces,” he began, making to rise from his seat.
“That would be folly, Summer King,” Lachesis stated flatly. “Hasty action will only hasten your destruction. No, this requires subtlety and careful thought. And above all, we require cooperation from everyone. From both Olympus and Faerie.”
“Not quite a war,” Clotho added. “A conflict, shall we say?”
“How, and who will start it?”
“This is how you do it,” Clotho answered. “Sow seeds of naked ambition and lust for power …”
#
The beautiful Winter fey sat on her floating crystal throne, surveying her realm. She was Mab, and she was the queen of the Unseelie. A nimbus of gale-force winds surrounded her, sheathing her in an aura of extreme cold. Her long jet-black hair was held back by a crown wrought of silver, dotted with onyx. The loose strands of her hair floated and whipped around her perfectly sculpted diamond-skinned face, tossed by the nimbus of raging winds.
Behind her, a trio of bheur hags also floated serenely in the air behind as her escort. They were ancient even when Mab was young. Their stringy grey hair and threadbare raiment were undisturbed by the winds. Mysterious and powerful, they were her closest advisors and companions. They had advised her that a powerful Seelie fey had crossed their borders and was making its way to the heart of Mab’s realm. Mab had decided to meet this interloper and chastise the creature personally.
Her shiny black onyx eyes narrowed in satisfaction and triumph when she saw the lone Seelie fey trespassing in her domain. The Queen of Air and Darkness willed her throne to slowly float down to the ground. Behind her, the trio of bheur hags followed her. They moved to surround the lone male fey. Winter glamour hissed in the air like unsheathed cold steel as Mab’s companions brought their powers to bear. Before they could act however, Mab stilled them with an imperious flick of her fingers.
The Winter Queen arched an eyebrow. The Summer fey was handsome, even though he showed his age in the countless summers that left his short, light brown hair sun-kissed and tanned his bare skin a rich nut brown. Mab remembered that exquisite brown shade well, and how evenly distributed they were. She hid her smile at the memory and resumed her cool, aloof façade.
“You seem lost, Summer King,” Mab greeted her Seelie counterpart. “Perhaps you require help finding the way back to the border?”
“Nay, Mab,” Oberon replied. He held up a hand placatingly. “I come in peace and in spirit of solidarity.”
Mab tossed her head, her jet-black tresses whipping about in the of strong winds that always swirled around her. “Peace?” she queried, arching a skeptical eyebrow.
“Peace,” Oberon repeated, firmly.
The queen of the Winter fey rolled her eyes and the swirling winds died down, gentling themselves into soft eddies that softly teased the strands of her long hair.
“Very well,” Mab acquiesced. She smiled wickedly before asking, “Does Titania know you are meeting your former lover?”
Oberon grimaced. “No,” he answered curtly. “We keep to ourselves these days. Shall we?”
“You are no fun,” Mab said, reproachful. “I remember the time when you were not so dull.”
“Those days are long gone, Mab.”
“True,” the Unseelie Queen agreed quietly, her tone thoughtful. She held out her hand to Oberon. “Come, take a walk with me and tell me why you are here.”
#
The highland moors were as unwelcoming as he remembered it. Shadows dappled the land, blanketed by the cool black folds of Mab’s cloak. It was late autumn and he was looking forward to seeing his home. At his side, his companion rode quietly although his restless eyes kept a dutiful vigil of their surroundings. They had just come from battle and was not eager for another fight. It had been a long, painful, campaign but they had emerged victorious. And more importantly, uninjured.
And they preferred it that way.
“Do you feel it?” his companion asked.
“It is quiet,” he noted. “Too quiet, almost.”
His companion grinned. “Afraid, are we?”
“Hush, Banquo,” he replied, wincing at the gleeful cackle his companion elicited at his reply.
“You are nervous tonight, Macbeth my friend,” Banquo returned.
“I am tired. I have been riding since afternoon. And I have not had a decent meal for three days,” Macbeth practically growled.
“Fair point,” Banquo agreed. He looked around. “We should come across a farm I would expect.”
As if on cue, the faint glow of firelight caught their attention.
“What is this?” Banquo exclaimed aloud. “’Tis as if the gods were listening!”
“They had better be,” Macbeth groused. “My nethers are aching from bouncing around in the saddle.”
They directed their horses in the direction of the fire, which took them away from the narrow path crossing the moor. Their destination was a small clearing nestled in a stand of willow and yew which acted as windbreak to shield the camp from errant breezes. A group of people—too far to make out properly—circled what seemed to be a massive cauldron placed among the flames of their campfire.
“Women!” Banquo whispered, when they drew closer.
Macbeth nodded, pulling back on his reins to halt his horse’s advance. There was something about this that he did not trust. The three wizened and grey women, circling the cauldron. The dark, depressing desolation of the moors. The quiet stillness of the night. A silence so complete that it magnified the droning rush of night breeze across the moors.
“Three elderly women here by themselves?” Macbeth muttered in disbelief. “With no companions or guards?”
“You suspect treachery?”
“I suspect something much worse.”
“We will proceed with caution then,” Banquo confidently said as he guided his horse into the lead position. His left hand loosened the peace knot that tied his longsword to its scabbard.
Macbeth followed behind him, also loosening his peace knot. He felt immensely relieved that his companion—obviously the more gregarious of the two—had decided to take the lead. Macbeth was no coward, but he was reactionary by nature. His nature was such that at times even those close to him—his wife, for one—felt he was lazy, if not an outright dullard.
Their horses edged closer, guided by their cautious handling. Soon they came to the clearing and he saw the three women clearly.
Elderly had been too generous a word for these creatures. Ancient, hag-like, or decrepit would be closer to the truth. Macbeth held back his revulsion at the sight of the exposed pendulous breasts of one, barely hidden by her tattered rags. Their stringy gray hair flew wild and unkempt, as if knowing neither touch from a brush nor comb.
They capered and twirled as they circled the cauldron, with the gait that bespoke of youthful vitality at odds with their withered forms.
“From women you were born into this world,” one of them chanted. “From women you are brought into the circle.”
“Threefold good fortune you will find,” added another—the one with the exposed breasts—added. “Lost to canker within your mind.”
“Greetings, good mothers,” Banquo greeted them, nodding his head almost regally to them.
“He comes, sisters!” the third crone cried out at Banquo’s greeting. “The promised one is here!”
This was getting too much for Macbeth. He urged his horse forward, losing patience at the capering and chanting.
“Who are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Hail Macbeth,” the first crone greeted, bowing deeply to him. “Right hand of the king. Duncan’s general and Thane of Glamis.”
“Who are you?” Macbeth demanded. “How do you know my name?”
The second crone circled around him in a bizarre mockery of a reel. She hopped and twirled, giggling as she answered, “We know your name, we know your fate.” She stopped, and dropped into a graceful curtsy that would have done any grand dame proud. “Hail Macbeth,” she proclaimed solemnly. “Thane of Cawdor.”
“No,” Macbeth replied. “Lord Rowland is the thane there.”
She shook her head. “Not anymore,” she said before twirling away, her rags flying about her.
“What manner of madness is this?” Banquo cried. “Silence, false sybils.”
The third crone danced her way towards them, her hips undulating with her movements. Her exposed breasts swayed, holding their attention in spite of themselves. She raised one hand and pointed at Macbeth.
“Glamis for now,” she added her prophecy to her companions’. “Cawdor soon to come and then will you be king hereafter.”
“Speak not your lies, witch!” Macbeth growled, unsheathing his sword.
The third crone retreated, but her deep-set eyes never left his. Her baleful stare sent chills of foreboding down Macbeth’s spine.
Banquo urged his horse to Macbeth’s side, sword also drawn.
“Away!” Banquo yelled, brandishing his blade. “Away with you now!”
“Stay your hand, father of kings,” the third crone replied.
Her companions joined her, with the first one stating, “Poorer you are than he,” she intoned as she faced Banquo. “Yet happier you will be.”
“Less than him,” the third crone added. “Yet more!”
The last of them—the dancing one—added her pronouncement. “You will not know the throne yet you will be father of kings.”
“How can it be?” Banquo rebutted, his voice harsh and incredulous. “If Macbeth is to be king, it will be from his issue the line of kings will descend!”
“’Tis a mystery,” the third said as she rose to her full height and raised her hands.
There was a flash of light and heat scorched the air. Macbeth and Banquo turned to shield their eyes from the sudden blinding glare. When they turned back to where the three crones were, the small clearing was empty.
Around them the highland moors remained, cold and unwelcoming as they remembered.
END