Chapter Two
The pain. Pure pleasure. I have paid for my play in this garden. Tearing at the weeping sores on my body, I am reminded of the price I pay for corrupting that which I created not. The Most High may be my master no more, but His creation certainly is. Its horrible holiness cannot come in contact with my horror, without bruising my damned flesh.
I await the coming of Oberon, aware of his impending arrival.
Yet wait; here is one of those retched fairies, servant of the queen.
“How now spirit!” I growl. “Wither wander you?”
Being repulsed, it seeks to humiliate me with its activities. Telling me of its task of spreading beauty throughout this land, I am quickly enraged to the point of murder.
Sensing my hostility, the fairy says, “Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.”
“The King,” says I “doth keep his revels here tonight. Take heed the Queen come not within his sight.” I growl. “For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, because that she as her attendant hath a lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king; she never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon would have the child knight of his train, to trace the forests wild. But she perforce withholds the loved boy, crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, by fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, but they do square, that all their elves for fear creep into acorn cups and hide them there.”
That I could have done any better, I think. I smother a smile at the thought of the ridiculous argument the king and queen are embroiled in. Jealousy, as I’ve already said, is a wonderfully hellish thing!
I chuckle, as this fairy creature is surprised in its own sudden understanding of who I am. Trembling in fear, it gives voice to its fright, causing the hideous grin of my pleasure to escape my grasp.
“Thou speakest aright;” I laugh back. “I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, when I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, neighing in likeness of a filly foal.” Though Oberon himself is that flatulent equine, in my opinion!
Warming to my boasting, I continue: “And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl, in very likeness of a roasted crab; and when she drinks, against her lips I bob and on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; then slip I from her bum, down topples she, and ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; and then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, and waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear a merrier hour was never wasted there.”
Smoldering in the passion of my memories, I fail to notice Oberon’s arrival until he is upon us. Enraged by this, I shout at the quivering fairy, “But room, fairy! Here comes Oberon.”
I back away, as Oberon and Titania meet in the glade.
Ever ready for Oberon’s orders, I am surprised by the attractiveness of this queen I’ve heard so much about. As I hear the two argue, and realize the similarity between them and I, the lack of concern or respect for the very creation they are entrusted with, I understand my true Master’s plan a bit better.
Titania’s exploits and pride only serve to intrigue me more.
As she leaves, Oberon beckons me thither, ignorant as usual of my true purposes – evil for good.
As the old fool recounts some idiotic memory for me, I obediently answer, “I remember.”
Suddenly, Oberon launches into an irritating tirade about the love-in-idleness flower. Hated by all hell, I cringe when he asks me to fetch him some. Quickly, though, I realize the possibilities such a flower has to offer, as Oberon lays out his plans to me.
“I’ll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes.” I say, knowing I could go much farther in a much shorter time. No need to let this fool know the true extent of my powers. Idleness is the devil’s work. Idle I plan on being.
Spreading my wings and crouching, I hurl myself into the silvery darkness of the night-filled air. Flying high over this wretched forest, I soar in and out of the wet, clinging clouds, grateful for their darkness within. If only this world could be covered in such close, damp, darkness. All would surely wither and die quickly. Such a vast hell, this planet would then surely become the resting place of many a haunt of mine.
Spotting my goal, I drop down, slamming into the ground surrounding the flowers. Grabbing some moss from surrounding trees, I watch as the moss curls and blackens in my hands. Pleased, I wrap the moss around a few flowers, plucking them from their mothers. Quickly, I spring back into the air, thrusting myself back to the task at hand.
“Hast thou the flower there?” asks Oberon, upon my return. Glimpsing my hatred before I can cover with a grin, he adds, uneasily, “Welcome, wanderer.”
With disgust, I drop the foul petaled plants onto the ground before Oberon.
“Ay, there it is.” I say.
But what nonsense has this fool been up to while I was doing his bidding? He speaks of anointing one of my lovers; meddling with those I have so enjoyed destroying. He is actually commanding me to get Demetrius back to Helena. Yet such would ruin all my plans in one fell swoop! Damn the man!!
Quickly, I regain my composure, remembering my Master’s task I have been set to perform. Oberon must not realize my true nature, or I will face the punishment of failure. Realizing Titania is to be enchanted as well, I rapidly form a wonderful plan. I will be there upon her awakening! Though I will have to endure her love, I will be master to that wench! I will order her to wreak havoc on the nature under her control, amplifying that which the Master has foreseen! How incredible will be my rewards in Hell!!
“Fear not, my lord,” I mumble, “your servant shall do so.” Flying off, I seethe in hatred at this arrogant puny being. As I catch and gorge on a night owl, I smile at my evil intellect, drooling feathers and blood and gore.
“I have just the plan.” I think, as I roar towards two of my hapless victims, sleeping below. Oberon will have me bewitch an Athenian, will he? Perhaps he should have been more specific. “Through the forest have I gone, but Athenian found I none, on whose eyes I might approve this flower’s force in stirring love.” I screech, mimicking that bastard king.
“Night and silence – Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said,” I laugh, “despised the Athenian maid; and here the maiden, sleeping sound, on the dank and dirty ground.” Such a horrible burden for so lovely a patch of bog. “Pretty soul! She durst not lie near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw all the power this charm doth owe. When thou wak’st, let love forbid sleep his seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone, for I must now to Oberon.”
“Though first” I think, “to bring someone hither to complete my plans.”
Charging through the underbrush, I find stupid Helena in pursuit of Demetrius, my Oberon’s intended victim. Restraining an urge to reach out and crush his human head in one bony paw of mine own, I lead him instead towards sleeping Lysander.
Lysander awakens, and I see his gaze lovingly settle on Helena.
Leaving these three ignorants to their stupidity, I turn towards the maiden Hermia. Clawing the ground in anticipation, I grind my way to her side.
Reaching down with one hooked claw, I reach into her mind, slithering my way into her dream, hissing in anger at the love I find and attack. She will not be rested from this night, as I have my way with her mind.
Playing Puck Page 2
