Macbeth and Son

by Jackie French

  But Alba had had enough of Duncan’s clan and their wars. On the third day the herald called out the name of the Mormaer of Moray.

  Lulach stood at the front of the crowd on Boot Hill with his mother. She wore her best yellow gown today, with a red cloak and scarf. There were tears in her eyes; the tears she hadn’t let herself shed in the years of terror and sorrow fell now, from happiness, as they watched the Mormaer stride up to the ancient Stone of Destiny, Lia Fáil, his head bright in the sunlight, his face intent and sure.

  The new king put his hands upon the golden sandstone rock. His voice was strong and clear. ‘I swear by my honour and by Almighty God to defend the Commonweal of Alba. I swear to defend the happiness of her people.’

  One by one the clan chieftains stepped forward and pledged allegiance to the new high king. Each carried a little soil from their homeland in the bindings of their boots. They emptied it into a small mound, then yelled the new king’s name so loudly the ravens rose in a thick cloud from the battlements and squawked in protest at the noise.

  ‘King Macbeth!’

  ‘Macbeth MacFindleach! All hail!’

  ‘Macbeth! All hail our King Macbeth!’

  ‘All hail, Father!’ cried Lulach, and heard his mother laugh beside him. It seemed right to call him ‘Father’ now.

  The new king grinned. He swung Lulach up onto his shoulders so that all the crowd could see him.

  ‘Wave, my son!’ he urged him.

  Lulach waved. The crowd roared their approval. ‘Moray! Moray! Macbeth! Macbeth!’

  This is how it should be, thought Lulach. This is right.

  No!

  The dream shimmered as Luke struggled to wake up. This wasn’t right! It couldn’t be!

  Suddenly the dream released him. Luke sat up panting, as though he had been running, not lying there asleep.

  Not Macbeth!

  That couldn’t be the Mormaer’s name! Macbeth was a murderer! How could he use Macbeth’s name in his dream? Duncan, yes, even the three witches…but not Macbeth!

  Luke lay back down. He had to think of another name for the new king. Arthur, maybe, or Jason. Did they have Jasons way back then?

  He had to go back to sleep, he had to dream it right!

  The King’s name was…Samuel, that was a good name for a king. And all the people would cheer him and there’d be a feast…and then he’d do something heroic again too…

  Luke shut his eyes and tried to see the dream again. But it was like playing with his action figures when he was small. You could move them all about but it wasn’t real, not like the dream.

  Real. The dream was real.

  Suddenly certainty washed through him and his skin prickled. Whatever this dream was, it didn’t come from him.

  No dream he’d ever had before had been as clear as this.

  How did he know what snow felt like? He’d seen snow on TV, but never felt it on his skin—so cold it hurt, then left you numb. How did he know what kale tasted like, boiled with seaweed in a pot? Or what a tanist was?

  Where did the dream come from, then? Had he read a story like it, long ago, and then forgotten? But why would he want to read stuff like that? He wasn’t even into history. And surely if he’d read all that he would remember!

  It really happened, thought Luke dully. And I’m seeing it happen all over again!

  But how? Why?

  Maybe when things happened they left an echo. Like a yell travelling over a vast distance, until it was too faint to hear. Maybe, somehow, a distant ear could pick it up.

  Maybe history never really dies, thought Luke, lying in the darkness and staring at the dim ceiling overhead. Maybe everything that’s happened just waits for someone to listen to it again.

  Somehow the darkness made it easier to think. Okay, suppose the dream were true…

  But it couldn’t be true, because the Macbeth he’d dreamed about was a hero. The real Macbeth was a coward and a murderer.

  Except of course Shakespeare’s Macbeth wasn’t real either. Shakespeare’s Macbeth was just a guy in a play.

  Luke sat up again. Had it all happened? Then there’d be records. But how could he find out?

  Now he was awake he was starting to think clearly. The same way he found out stuff for an assignment, he decided.

  Google it.

  Luke slipped out of bed. The computer sat dark and silent on his desk.

  He pressed the power switch. The computer chimed as it booted up, so loudly Luke was sure that everyone in the house would hear.

  What words should he key in? And then they came to him.

  ‘Alba’. ‘Tanist’. ‘Duncan’. ‘Moray’. ‘Mormaer’.

  Then, finally, ‘Macbeth’.

  Chapter 14

  Luke

  Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;

  Come like shadows, so depart.

  (Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 1, lines 110–111)

  Dawn was a pale smudge between the curtains when he finally looked up from the screen. A cuckoo sang out in the loquat tree. Dad had told him years ago about the cuckoo, how it sang just before dawn, or even by moonlight sometimes. The kookaburra called next, then the rooster and all the other birds.

  Luke turned off the computer. His body felt almost too heavy to move. He would be able to sleep now, he knew.

  There were lots of sites that talked about Macbeth—too many for him to read them all. But he’d read enough to know the Macbeth he’d imagined was real.

  The dream was true.

  The real Macbeth had been a hero, just like in his dream. Then Shakespeare had written a play, making him a villain.

  Shakespeare had called liars evil in his play. But it looked like Shakespeare had lied too.

  And Lulach? Did he exist as well? Luke had typed in ‘Lulach’. Most of the Macbeth sites didn’t even mention him. But a couple of them said that Macbeth had married Gruoch, whose son became Macbeth’s stepson…

  Lulach. The boy he’d been.

  Luke rubbed his eyes. Sleep. He had to sleep. Proper sleep, without the dream this time. There was no way he could read more now.

  He knew enough already. Knew what was true and what was a lie.

  Did it matter, any of it? And if it did, what should he do now?

  Chapter 15

  Luke

  this dead butcher, and his fiend-like Queen…

  (Macbeth, Act V, Scene 9, line 35)

  It was a relief to meet Patrick and Megan later that morning, school bag on his back, Mrs T’s banana and cheese surprise muffins heavy in his stomach. Even Mrs Reynolds’s false teeth looked good, because they were familiar.

  Normal, thought Luke. Part of him still felt trapped back in the dream. Green hills and purple heather, the yells of the crowd, the smells of chamber pots, the taste of ox roasted on a spit at the coronation feast…

  ‘Hi,’ he called, as he staggered down the bus, bracing himself as it bounced over potholes.

  ‘Hi, yourself,’ said Patrick gloomily. ‘I have to go to the dentist this afternoon,’ he added. ‘I got a toothache last night. Mum rang for an appointment.’

  ‘What time?’ Luke sat down between the two of them.

  ‘Two. At least I get the afternoon off school.’

  ‘You’ll miss English,’ Megan observed.

  ‘Yeah. I’m crying already,’ said Patrick.

  ‘No, I mean Mrs Easson asked you to read the part of Macbeth today, remember?’

  Patrick shrugged.

  ‘She should ask Jingo,’ said Luke. ‘He thinks he’s king of the school.’ He spoke without thinking. Dumb, he told himself. It sounded like he was jealous of Jingo. And he wasn’t. Jingo was like a shiny bubble. One gust of wind and he’d evaporate.

  Was Megan interested in Jingo? It was hard to tell what chicks felt. They’d been arguing yesterday. But sometimes girls pretended to be really down on a guy just because they liked him.

  Megan didn’t answer. Maybe she wasn’t interested in Jingo, Luke thought
hopefully.

  Then she said, ‘Luke? Has Sam said anything more about the TV show?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him since he left for Sydney on Sunday,’ he said honestly.

  ‘Could you ring him tonight? Please? It’s just that the Council is meeting next week…There isn’t much time.’

  Luke hesitated. Yes, he would call Sam, he decided. So what if Sam just said no again? At least he’d have tried. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Megan beamed at him. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  The school staff room was between the library and the Principal’s office, part of the original school from more than a hundred years before. It was cold even on the hottest day, and dark unless the lights were on, the windows small and square in case those longago teachers needed to barricade out rebel convicts or settlers’ kids who didn’t like the idea of homework.

  The staff room was full this early in the morning. As he knocked on the open door, Luke could see teachers gulping down final cups of coffee or photocopying notes on the machine in the corner.

  ‘Mrs Easson, please,’ he said, as the sports master looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘What is it, Luke?’ Mrs Easson came out into the corridor.

  Suddenly he wondered how to start. He couldn’t just say, ‘I had this weird dream and wonder if it’s real.’

  ‘It’s about Macbeth,’ he said instead. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up in class because it’s a bit embarrassing…’

  ‘Macbeth? Embarrassing?’ Mrs Easson looked taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I…I just had an idea last night. I looked up Macbeth and Scottish history and, well…I found out something.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Easson encouragingly.

  ‘I…I looked up the play last night, and it’s all real!’ He knew it wasn’t coming out right, but he really needed to tell her what he’d discovered.

  Mrs Easson looked puzzled. ‘Yes, it’s one of Shakespeare’s history plays. Like Julius Caesar or King Henry V. We talked about that in class.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that…’ Megan would know how to put it, Luke thought desperately. ‘I mean, it’s all a lie! Macbeth was real—Shakespeare didn’t make him up. But he wasn’t like that at all. Shakespeare lied about him. Macbeth wasn’t evil, he probably didn’t even kill King Duncan. And he didn’t seize the throne, because Scottish kings were elected in those days, and people must have thought he was okay or they wouldn’t have elected him. And Lady Macbeth didn’t go mad, and—’

  ‘Luke, hold it. It’s just a play! It’s not supposed to be true in all its details!’ said Mrs Easson.

  ‘But you just said it’s a history play!’

  ‘Yes, it’s based on history and has historical figures in it. But it’s still fiction.’

  ‘But that’s just it—it isn’t! Shakespeare pretended he was writing about real people! But it was all a lie!’

  ‘Luke, you keep using the word “lie”. Fiction isn’t a lie. A lie is when you deliberately change things.’

  ‘Well, he did!’ said Luke stubbornly. ‘Shakespeare knew he was changing what really happened. So he lied.’

  ‘All right, maybe he lied. But it doesn’t matter! What’s more important? A bit of forgotten Scottish history or one of the greatest plays the world has ever seen?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Luke, confused now. ‘The…the play, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Mrs Easson, relieved. ‘Of course, the history is very interesting,’ she added kindly. ‘I’m really impressed at all the trouble you’re going to, Luke.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Luke vaguely, his brain still far away. It wasn’t enough that the play was brilliant, he thought. Surely it could have been brilliant and true. But he couldn’t think how to explain that to Mrs Easson. Maybe if he were smart like Megan…

  But it was too late, anyway. ‘There’s the bell,’ said Mrs Easson. ‘See you in class this afternoon. Luke…there’s nothing else wrong, is there? Nothing at home?’

  ‘What? No, why?’

  ‘You’ve just been looking a bit worried lately. You must be excited after winning that scholarship, though.’

  ‘Er, yes—everything’s fine,’ said Luke.

  ‘Good.’ Mrs Easson didn’t look quite convinced. But she smiled at him, then went back into the staff room.

  Chapter 16

  Luke

  Thou lily-livered boy.

  (Macbeth, Act V, Scene 3, line 15)

  School dragged all day.

  Part of it was because Luke was tired from all that time on the Internet. But mostly it was because he was trying to think his own thoughts.

  School wasn’t a good place to think, Luke decided. The teachers kept getting in the way.

  Was Mrs Easson right? Did the truth about Macbeth matter?

  Maybe what she was saying was that lies didn’t matter if good came out of them.

  Shakespeare lied about Macbeth, but wrote a brilliant play. So that made it okay.

  So what if he didn’t tell anyone about the exam? He’d made Mum happy. Sam could boast about his stepson and Megan would think he wasn’t the dumb kid next door after all.

  He should just leave things as they were…just enjoy people thinking he was great because he’d got a scholarship, enjoy the dream if it came back tonight…

  Things had turned out pretty well for Lulach, hadn’t they? A stepfather he was proud of—and who was proud of him too.

  What would happen next? he wondered.

  No—what had happened next? All of it had already happened a thousand years ago.

  Was there another war? What was Thorfinn’s daughter like? Fat like him? Or maybe she was really hot. Perhaps she looked a bit like Megan, but with blonde plaits…

  ‘Luke! Luke Beaton!’

  ‘Wha—yes?’ said Luke.

  ‘We were talking,’ said Mr Macintosh, ‘about the square of the hypotenuse. Now, if Mr Beaton could just give us his valuable attention for a minute, we could all see that…’

  I’ll go back on the computer as soon as I get home, thought Luke. See if I can find out who he married.

  He might even dream it tonight too—some of it, at least. But he wanted to know now…

  ‘Luke!’ said Mr Macintosh, exasperated.

  It was funny listening to the play being read out that afternoon in Mrs Easson’s class after he’d been living the whole thing. Especially with Jingo—Jingo!—reading the Macbeth part. There was no way Jingo could ever be a hero like the Mormaer, he thought. Except that in the play Macbeth was a villain.

  ‘Pr’ythee, peace,’ Jingo pleaded in his role as Macbeth, fed up with having his wife nag him to kill Duncan. ‘I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none.’

  Luke grinned for the first time that day. Maybe Mrs Easson had got it right. Maybe Jingo was like Shakespeare’s Macbeth—a big man when his mates were around him. But Luke bet that Jingo wouldn’t have the guts to do anything by himself.

  ‘What beast was’t then, That made you break this enterprise to me?’ recited Megan. ‘When you durst do it, then you were a man—’

  Mrs Easson held up her hand. ‘Megan, Lady Macbeth is angry, she’s trying to shame her husband into acting. She’s even more evil than he is. Try to put more passion into it.’

  Megan raised her chin. ‘I don’t think she’s evil. She’s just stuck with him and trying to make the best of it.’

  ‘Interesting. All right then, that’s your assignment for Friday. You can explain to us why you think Lady Macbeth isn’t evil.’

  Megan blinked. ‘But I was supposed to talk about the poetic language!’

  ‘I’m sure you can work out a new ten-minute talk,’ said Mrs Easson easily.

  Luke wondered if she was getting back at Megan for not agreeing with her. It was hard to tell with teachers. Sometimes they seemed to get off on your arguing, other times it just set them off.

  He glanced at Megan. She didn’t seem upset b
y the new assignment. Just thoughtful, as though she might actually want to do the extra work.

  Mrs Easson looked at her watch, which got half the class checking theirs as well. Then the bell went.

  Chapter 17

  Luke

  When shall we three meet again?

  (Macbeth, Act I, Scene 1, line 1)

  Luke lay in bed waiting for sleep, the smell of not-quite-roses all around him. Mrs T had sprayed his room again.

  He’d been all ready to go back to the computer, to read more about what really happened to Macbeth and Lulach. But somehow he couldn’t. He wanted to live it, not read about it.

  Last night he had read about Macbeth’s life. But his death would be there as well. Lulach’s too.

  Duh! Of course they’re dead, dimwit, he told himself. It was a thousand years ago. You saw the dates last night. When Lulach was born, when he died.

  But…but he couldn’t just read the rest of the story. It’d be like reading what his own life would be like: who he’d marry…

  …how he’d die.

  No, he couldn’t do it.

  If the dream didn’t come tonight, maybe…maybe…he’d look up more of the story then.

  It was hard to get to sleep when you were waiting for it to come. Luke rolled over onto his stomach.

  ‘Sleep…sleep…Macbeth does murther Sleep…’ The play’s words kept sticking in his mind.

  Maybe if he counted sheep. No, something Scottish. He tried to think. Haggises? No, they weren’t animals, and anyway, he didn’t know what they looked like. Bagpipes, perhaps…or deer…

  There had been a deer in that first dream…

  Deer upon the hillside, a cluster of birch trees in a hollow, a brown stream running shallow through the grass, rocks weathered to strange shapes, their shadows waiting to pounce upon the white mist flooding up the gullies.

  White mist…no, thought Luke drowsily, not mist at all. The whiteness was sheep…but close up they were more brown than white. He hadn’t meant to think of sheep, but here they were…