“You won’t believe it,” Paul said. “But before I get into that, you should look at this.”
Sylvia stared at the handbill. “Isn’t it illegal for a minister to preach at a school?”
Paul shook his head. “There seems to be a loophole. If you’re arguing that Satanism is real and should be avoided, it’s not considered religion.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So say all right-thinking men and women. The thing is, if I can’t think of a way to stop him, the witches might steal his gizzard or have a cat rip out his tongue.”
“What?” Sylvia sat down heavily in her favourite armchair.
Paul sat in the chair across from his wife. “Oh, did I forget to mention? The witches have decided to switch sides.”
Sylvia frowned. “What you told me over the phone was that you and Riordan had met with the witches and that the meeting went well. Then you hung up, saying that you had to speak with Winston and that you’d fill me in tonight.”
Paul spent the next few minutes recounting what he could remember of what the witches had said. For some reason, the conversation swirled elusively around his mind. Much like Riordan’s account of his dealings with the witches twenty years ago, it seemed more confusing than it should have been. Perhaps because they were witches, memories of them didn’t stick like regular memories.
“So,” said Sylvia. She tapped a thumb against her chin. “You’re saying that the witches are afraid of Mrs. Cadwell?”
Paul almost laughed out loud. “Not afraid. I don’t think they know the meaning of the word. Respect perhaps? They’ve watched Cadwell’s attempts to stop the play and are impressed.”
“And the witches changed the slogans on the picket signs Monday morning?”
Paul nodded. “Near as I can tell, instead of trying to stop the play, the witches now want to see it succeed.”
Sylvia blinked her eyes. “Why?”
Paul blew a gust of air between his lips. “No idea.”
“Well,” said Sylvia. “Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Paul cleared this throat. “My thoughts exactly.”
Sylvia turned her attention back to the handbill. “So what are we going to do about the reverend?”
Scene 10: If Thou Speak’st False
Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the gymnasium so crowded. Since he didn’t have a class in third period, he was able to arrive at the gym well before anyone else and spend a good twenty minutes helping the caretaker, Jerry Noonan, and several student volunteers set up chairs before taking a seat in the front row.
As the students poured in to waste a valuable lunch hour listening to a lunatic, Paul noticed that many of those gathering weren’t students. A good number of the teachers were showing up, more likely out of curiosity than anything else. He recognized a number of faces from the PTA legion who had invaded his auditorium several weeks earlier.
Paul laughed to himself, thinking that the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium would be perfect for Long’s talk. Of course, Mrs. Cadwell wouldn’t dare try to use it. The auditorium was Paul’s turf. She wouldn’t need his permission, strictly speaking, but Paul would have found out about Long’s visit well before yesterday’s official announcement. Besides, the gorgon was used to using the gymnasium for her PTA meetings.
At ten minutes after high noon, Mrs. Cadwell stepped up onto the large dais that had been erected at the front of the gymnasium. The portable platform was the modern equivalent of a soapbox, an apt name for what was about to happen. The gorgon lady looked out at the sea of expectant faces and tapped the microphone. She then gave what Paul believed was an introductory spiel common to schools all across the nation whenever a PTA guest speaker was introduced. After a brief smile, she welcomed best-selling author Reverend Sebastian Archibald Long.
Mild applause greeted the aging minister who Paul knew, after several hours of Internet research, could only dream of having a best-selling book. Despite a plethora of rave reviews and overstated cover blurbs, the man’s books sold infrequently, and then only to a niche market within the lunatic fringe.
What the man did have, however, was charisma. Paul had read about it. And he experienced it himself after only a few minutes of the man’s speaking. Long took the microphone out of its stand and sat in a chair then warmed his audience with a few jokes and an anecdote from his childhood. His face then grew serious as he told the story of a college girl who joined a sorority with rather peculiar hazing rituals. Paul’s hair literally stood on end as the tale degenerated into horrific acts of violence and implied sexual degradation.
Paul was so caught up in the story that he almost forgot to slip his hand into his sport coat pocket and press the button on the small transmitter concealed there.
As Long continued his cautionary tale, a barely perceptible heartbeat added itself to the sound system. Thump-thump. The reverend didn’t seem to notice, and indeed, Paul wouldn’t have noticed either if he hadn’t been listening for it. The heartbeat grew gradually louder until Paul couldn’t not hear it. Muttering from the audience confirmed that others were having the same problem.
The reverend continued his delivery, oblivious. He’d finished the college tale and had started in on some horrible misdeed that happened somewhere, some when, on Halloween. Paul was having trouble paying attention, the thump-thump distracting him from the tale each time he tried to listen.
During his research, Paul had discovered that the reverend’s hearing was failing. He was now deaf in one ear and relied on a hearing aid in the other. However, he had trouble with the lower end of the spectrum. Even with the hearing aid, the old man couldn’t hear the low-pitched heartbeat.
As his talk continued, people began leaving the gymnasium. For some, the steady heartbeat was giving them a headache, possibly a migraine. For others, they had simply grown bored, unable to concentrate on what the reverend was saying.
Long was beginning to look uncomfortable, not because he could hear anything wrong, but because he was losing his audience.
Mrs. Cadwell stepped back up onto the dais and gave the reverend a different microphone.
Paul managed not to laugh. He tried to tune out the heartbeat and listen as Reverend Long described the true cost of being a daughter of the Devil. He listed several physical and mental horrors before concluding with the loss of the soul.
When Paul couldn’t take the audial assault any longer, he rose from his seat and walked out of the mostly empty gymnasium. Movement caught his eye, and he looked up to the top of the folded bleachers, where he saw three hags kicking their feet and cackling.
Keeping an eye out for Mrs. Cadwell and any of her PTA cronies, Paul walked straight to Winston’s office. When Mrs. Kennedy rose from her desk to knock on the principal’s door and announce him, Paul slipped his hand into his pocket and passed her the small transmitter.
He couldn’t have pulled it off without the help of Mrs. Kennedy and the music teacher, Art Perry. Mrs. Kennedy had recommended Art when Paul told her his idea, and Art was only too happy to make the needed recording, tap into the gymnasium sound system, and rig the transmitter to start the playback. When the coast was clear, Art would untap the sound system.
Winston looked up from his desk as Paul entered. “I thought you’d be listening to the reverend, making notes on how to combat the mass hysteria that will arise from his infecting the minds of innocent students.”
Paul decided to do something then that he never did, but figured that since he hadn’t actually been summoned and wasn’t embarking on a confrontation, felt its time had come. He flopped himself down into one of Winston’s two visitor chairs.
The principal’s jaw dropped.
“I listened for a while,” Paul said, “but left when I got a headache.” He rubbed his temples. “I actually kind of like the old gaffer. If he wasn’t off in la-la land, I could listen to him for hours.”
Winston recovered from his initial shock and pursed his lips. “
You’re not concerned that the reverend’s comments will inflame the school to cancel your play?”
Paul shrugged. “The reverend was talking Amityville Horror. I swear he gets his material from the movies. The kids will see through that, even if some of the parents don’t.”
Mrs. Cadwell chose that moment to barge in through the door. She glared at Winston then, seeing Paul seated in one of the visitor chairs, glared at him twice as hard. “What did you do?”
Paul squeezed his eyes shut as the shout bounced around inside his head.
“Mrs. Cadwell?” Winston’s voice was soft. “Is there a problem?”
“He did something!”
Paul opened his eyes to find the tip of the gorgon lady’s finger just inches from his face.
“Indeed,” said Winston. “He went to listen to your witch-hunter and then came here to tell me that he didn’t think your latest attempt to cancel his play is as big a problem as he feared.”
“He—he did what?”
“I was in the audience.” Paul raised his hand and gently pushed Mrs. Cadwell’s finger away. “I kind of like your Reverend Long. His obsession with Satan leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but otherwise he’s an affable old guy.”
“You were in the audience?”
“I also found it odd that all of Long’s tales and cautions were about teenage girls. Aren’t boys equally susceptible to the dark side?”
Winston cleared his throat. “Recent statistics show that boys are thirty percent more likely to get into trouble than girls. Something to do with gender expectations.”
The gorgon regained her voice. “If you were in the audience, then you know there was no audience.”
Paul blew air out of his lips. “It was a full house! At least when it started. You’re right, though. People did drift off. I didn’t stay until the end either. It was rather repetitious, don’t you think? After Long’s third yarn of nubile young women being ravished and tortured, I didn’t think I could listen to another.”
“He said what?” Winston’s voice was no longer soft.
Paul waved his hand. “Long was discreet. Kept graphic detail to a minimum. He’s quite the storyteller.” Paul looked at Mrs. Cadwell. “But that’s all they are, stories. I did some reading about your Mr. Long last night. Seems a good number of people take issue with his so-called facts. They say he cherry-picks questionable witnesses and takes quotes from newspapers out of context, bending accounts and calling his version the only version.”
“That’s slander,” said Mrs. Cadwell.
Paul nodded. “Perhaps. We’ll know next week when my findings are published in the school newspaper. If I’m half as good at cherry-picking the public record as Long is, I should be okay.”
The gorgon’s expression resembled a snake choking on a too-large mouse. “You’re printing a story on Reverend Long in the school newspaper?”
Paul looked at Winston. “Didn’t I just say that?”
Mrs. Cadwell ground her teeth. “This isn’t over.”
The last time the gorgon lady spoke those words, Paul had let it go. But Paul was no longer the same man, and this Paul wasn’t going to let it go. “Mrs. Cadwell, allow me to make a suggestion. Let the students perform the play. Come and see it. Take lots of notes on how damaging it is to the student psyche, and then have your own review printed in the school newspaper. If you like, have your Reverend Long come and write a review.”
Winston stood up from his desk. “Mr. Samson makes a good point. The school newspaper exists as a forum to discuss public opinion. While the intent is for students to submit articles, the occasional article from a teacher or parent shouldn’t be a problem.”
The overweight principal then shooed the gorgon out the door and turned to look at Paul. “I’m impressed. Most of the teachers overreact when the gorgon lady gets them in her sights. That most usually includes you. But lately you’ve kept your nose clean. You may just have your Macbeth after all.”
Paul would have accepted the praise if he hadn’t covertly sabotaged the reverend’s talk. Instead, he felt guilty. Not long ago he had accused the gorgon of high-tech espionage. Not only was that a false accusation, but now here he was, doing exactly what he had accused her of. He had started all this trying to teach a lesson about cheating, and here he was, the biggest cheater of all.
“No need to blush,” Winston said, easing himself back into his chair.
Paul stood but said nothing. He wanted to tell Winston that the red in his face was an entirely different shade of embarrassment, but doing so could be disastrous. He had cheated then lied to cover it up. Somehow he was going to have to learn to live with that. He gave the principal a grim smile and left the office.
–Act VI–
Scene 1: How Now, Hecate! You Look Angerly
On Monday morning, a seventeen-year-old girl with purple-black hair and enough face metal to build a Cadillac walked into the Dairy Queen, strode to the back of the seating area, and tossed a thin newspaper onto the witches’ table.
Agatha glanced down at the Ashcroft Senior High School newspaper then up at the student. “Hecate. That’s a new look for you.”
The student frowned and aged a dozen years in a matter of moments. Then the senior witch sat down. “I’m not impressed.”
“I agree,” Gertrude said. “It’s hardly worthy of the name newspaper. It’s mostly ads and announcements for things the students are already perfectly aware of. It contains hardly any news at all.”
Netty sniffed at Hecate. “I thought you weren’t interested in the news?”
Hecate thinned her lips. “I’m talking about you.”
“Oh!” Netty said. “Well, that’s hardly news either.”
Hecate smiled. “I’ve been hanging around this school of yours for the past week.”
Agatha lifted a French fry off her plate, rolled her eyes at it, and watched it catch fire and burn until it was a cinder. “I understand that hanging around schools can be hazardous to your health. You could accidentally learn something.”
Hecate glared at the burnt fry, and it burned in reverse, becoming a light golden brown. “I learned plenty. Mostly that I’ve been right about you three all along. The play has been hardly vexed, never mind cursed. Have you forgotten how to curse?”
Agatha cast a long stare at Gertrude.
“Oh! My turn.” Gertrude scowled at her near-empty plastic cup, and the plastic began to darken. Then cola began bubbling out of the top of the straw and flowing out onto the table, making a small, dark brown lake.
Hecate sighed and the lake froze, turned into mist, and disappeared into the atmosphere.
Netty made a choking sound and spit a gob of half-chewed French fries onto the table. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. “Are you three going to play with your food all morning, or are we going to say what needs to be said?”
Hecate waved her hand, and the table was suddenly bare of food. The only thing left was a slightly damp school newspaper. “But I was so enjoying your petty attempts at intimidation.”
“I wasn’t finished with my breakfast!” Netty waggled her fingers in the air, and her tray reappeared. On it sat a half-eaten hamburger, a Styrofoam plate of fries, and a hardly touched soft drink.
“What’s with the finger waggling?” Hecate asked.
Netty growled deep in her throat. “It amuses me.”
“I see.” Hecate waggled her own fingers, and Netty’s fries became a puddle of soup.
Netty stared at it, dipped in a finger, tasted it, and grimaced. “Don’t give up your day job.”
Hecate smiled. “And why would I? It’s the greatest job in the world. Too bad you three have given up yours.”
“What do you mean?” asked Agatha.
The senior witch let her gaze drift out the window. “You haven’t cursed the play in over a week. And from what I can tell, you’ve hardly cursed it at all.” Hecate tapped the newspaper. “This is not a curse.”
“It also wasn’t us,” Netty
said. “It was our drama teacher what cut Reverend Witch-hunter off at the knees.”
“Witch-hunter?” said Hecate. “Reverend Long is a recruiter! Nothing tastes as good as forbidden fruit, and Mr. Long is an effective fruit salesman. In the past ten years, he’s lured more women into our ranks than anyone else.”
Gertrude cackled. “So you see what we’ve been up against. Mr. Samson is no slouch.”
Hecate slammed a fist onto the table. “He’s just a man. And a mortal man at that. I suppose he’s also the one who made a disaster of the PTA picket line last Monday?”
Gertrude grinned. “No. That was us.”
The senior witch grabbed a swatch of her own hair and pulled it out of her head, then threw the black strands onto the table. “You should have arranged the picket line, not stopped it.”
Agatha let out a short cackle. “This is our play to curse. We’ll do it our own way, thank you very much.”
“Your own way?” Hecate glared at the school newspaper. It spontaneously shredded itself into confetti and blew around the table. “There is no such thing as your own way. You work for me!”
“Worked,” Gertrude said. “You’re fired.”
Hecate’s eyes bulged out of her head. “You can’t fire me. I’m your boss. If there is any firing to be done, I’m firing you!”
“We accept!” crowed Netty.
Agatha held out a burning French fry. “It’s about time we set out on our own.”
Gertrude held out a burning finger. “We don’t need you telling us what to do. Oh my!” She extinguished her finger. “I thought that was a fry.”
Hecate ground her teeth. “If you do this, you’ll be on your own. Completely cut off. Your names will be stricken from the Order of Witches. You’ll be barred from coven gatherings.”
“Yee-hee-hee-hee!” Netty screeched. “We haven’t been invited to coven gatherings in centuries.”
Agatha nodded. “And we haven’t missed them.”
“Then we are done here.” Hecate vanished.
Much Ado about Macbeth Page 23
