Shakespeare for Squirrels

by Christopher Moore

  * * *

  I thought it best to begin my search where the Puck had fallen, so I made my way to the path on which Blacktooth and the watch had carried me into town. It was easy going for a bit, a wide path under a canopy of massive trees, so I took time to note the annoying and uncomfortable things that filled the forest, ferns and thorns, all the time keeping watch for any wolves, bears, or dragons that might find a winsome fool delicious. I moved as nimble and spry as in my youth, although I could not say from where this vigor sprung, for I was still less than two days from starved and drowned. But upon my spirit I felt a dull ache, a hunger—no, a hollowness. Had it been so long since I had been on my own that a mere hour alone was making a shell of me?

  “More of a bellend,” said the puppet Jones. (Yes, I was working him, but I pretended it was magic.)

  “What would you know?” said I. “Nothing more than an empty head on a stick, you are.”

  “In that we are of a kind. And both move at the whim of cruel masters.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, you’re not lonesome, you git, you’re craving your freedom.”

  I’d had no master but love for my two years with the pirates, and now, once again, I was doing the bidding of a pair of scheming royals, under threat of death.

  “Oh balls,” I said to Jones, choking him somewhat to make sure I had his attention. “I am a fool.”

  ENTER RUMOUR, PAINTED FULL OF TONGUES

  “And with that, the bloody obvious rose like a viper to bite the fool on his bottom.”

  “Ahhhh!” said I, jumping straight up perhaps a yard and controlling my fluids only just. He was an annoyingly tall fellow, thin and pale, wrapped in a robe and wearing a hat, both quilted with what appeared to be human tongues that moved even as he stood, his long scone of a nose so turned up I might have, with better light, seen his brain writhing in its den. Whether he had stepped out from behind a tree or fallen out of one, I did not know, for there was no crunch of leaves or brush of branch, he was just bloody there. “Who are you?”

  “I am Rumour, planner of plots, seer of schemes, teller of tales, a humble narrator, at your service.”

  “I smell a device,” said I. The tongues on Rumour’s robe waggled at me and I jumped away, holding Jones en garde. “Back, thou skulking loony.”

  “Loony? Moi?” he said in barely passable fucking French. “You were the one talking to a puppet.”

  “I thought I was alone. And besides, conversation frightens off bears.”

  “No, it doesn’t. And you aren’t alone, silly fool.”

  “Well not now, but before you crept up like some tongue-covered spider . . .”

  “Not me. You’ve been followed this last hour by a squirrel.” Without looking, Rumour pointed a long finger up to a tree behind him. Indeed, a red, horn-eared squirrel peered down from a branch. It chirped and scrambled to the far side of the tree. “See?”

  “You saw it there just now and you’re trying to be clever. That is a coincidental squirrel.”

  “No, it has been over you since you entered the forest. You probably would have heard it had you not been nattering on to your puppet while you stumbled along aimlessly.”

  “I have not been stumbling, and my stumbling has not been aimless. I am on a mission.” I produced my passport and waved it under Rumour’s prodigious nose. “From the duke.”

  “You’re going the wrong way. You’ll find no clue to the Puck’s movements in that direction.”

  “How do you know I’ve any interest in the Puck at all?”

  “Rumour knows all, sees all. I am the agent of outrageous fortune and twisted narrative.”

  “Well, that’s a bumptious barrel of bear wank.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I do not lie, although I am notoriously unreliable. A hundred yards ahead the path will fork. You will want to take the branch to the right. That will lead you to a clue of what the Puck was doing in his last hours.”

  “And you know what he was doing?”

  “I do.”

  “So you could just fucking tell me and save me the hike?”

  “And deprive you of the adventure of a mystery and the joy of discovery? Never.”

  I drew a dagger from the small of my back and held it low. “Or I could just start carving bits out of you until you tell me.” He was a thin and willowy fellow, even if tediously tall, and I am quick as a cat and well practiced with a knife—if it came to a fight, things would not go well for him.

  “Oh, thou daft spoon,” said Rumour. “You’ll never catch me.”

  “We shall see,” said I. And with that I flipped the dagger, caught it by the blade, and sent it a half turn toward skewering him in the foot. I didn’t actually mean to injure him but aimed so, at worst, I might nick a toe, and, at best, tack his soft shoe to the forest floor, but in a blink, he was ten feet to my right, giggling among the ferns.

  “Ha! Too slow. The quick and the dead,” he said. “I am, at your service, the quick.”

  “That is not what that means,” said I, retrieving my dagger from the loam, where it had buried itself to the hilt. He was frightfully fast, but the miss was mine. I was not a bully born—I am shit at forceful coercion.

  “Yes it does. Nothing exceeds the speed of Rumour. ’Twas I taught the Puck to put a girdle round the globe in forty minutes.”

  “I do not care.” I thought then to cast a devastating insult, a weapon more suited to my skills, but then thought a softer tack might be preferred. I bowed my head. “Good Rumour, I apologize for my temper, but I am desperate. If I don’t find out the Puck’s movement and who ended him the royals are going to kill my apprentice. He’s a dimwitted ox of a lad, but gentle, and my only friend. Have pity on a poor fool.”

  “And tell me, when you tell the royals what they want to know, what is to keep them from killing you both?”

  “Honor?” I ventured, realizing at once how weak it sounded.

  “It seems to me you won’t know what each of them will do until you know what it was the Puck was doing, what it was that he knew that they are so eager to find out.”

  “And then they’ll kill us?”

  “Not if you can find the favor of one over the other. They each sent you separately, did they not?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And did either Theseus or Hippolyta seem eager to have the other find out about the other’s intent?”

  “No, there appears to be no love nor trust between the two. The Amazon’s warriors are allowed no weapons. She is a caged bird, and he a captor afraid of his captive.”

  “There you have it, then, you’ll have to find out the Puck’s intent and hope you can leverage that information of one of them against the other.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Then I’d say you’re right fucked.”

  “I am not. What do you know? You’ve tongues all over your robe and cap.”

  “Said the fellow dressed head to foot in black and silver argyle. You look like a sock with a single toe sticking through.”

  “Touché,” said I, in perfect fucking French. I tipped my hat in salute.

  “The lovers are the key to your quest, fool. When the path forks ahead, go right, it will lead you to what you seek.”

  “Or you could just tell me.”

  “No fun there,” said Rumour. “Adieu, fool.” And with a whirlwind of leaves he was gone.

  “I am not fucked!” I called after him.

  I was fucked.

  The red squirrel chittered above.

  Chapter 8

  The Course of True Love

  I took the right fucking fork in the path and as night lowered o’er the forest, I came upon a hollow of great mossy rocks where four young Athenians flirted and fought like loquacious kittens.

  Two youths, the straw-haired wank stain I’d seen before, called Demetrius, and another fellow, more fit than the first, with a dark, closely trimmed
, pointy beard, were on their knees on either side of the tall girl, Helena, flinging woo at her like Jeff flinging monkey spunk on a day out at the hat shop. A second girl, petite and auburn haired, looked on, quite unhappy with the entire scene.

  “Oh, good forest elf,” Helena called. “Help me, for these three conspire to make cruel sport of me for being unloved and unlovable.”

  “Not an elf,” said I.

  “Unloved?” said Demetrius. “She is anything but unloved. I adore her, I dote on her in idolatry.”

  “Not so much as do I,” said Dark Beard. “Here, good Helena, put your foot upon my head, so you will know I am your servant, your spaniel—for I would be the soil upon your shoe if it means I may be that close to you.”

  And with that, Dark Beard put his head upon the ground by Helena’s foot, and was quickly joined by the straw-haired Demetrius, who put his ear to the ground by her other foot. “Lady, my goddess, tread upon my face, and if perchance your small toe should enter my nose hole, so will I breathe in your essence and never exhale, ere I explode with your love. Both small toes, in my nose, I beseech thee!”

  I looked to the auburn-haired girl, who seemed the only one viewing this spectacle with the appropriate amount of horror. “Lunatics?” I inquired.

  “Bloody enchanted,” she said. “Both were in love with me yesterday, although I love only Lysander.” She pointed to Dark Beard, who had Helena by the ankle and was trying to put her foot on his head by force.

  “Don’t believe her,” said Helena. “Hermia is part of this cruel joke. She delights in my humiliation.”

  “Hermia?” I inquired to the auburn-haired girl.

  “Yes, Hermia, daughter of Egeus,” said she, unable to stop herself from making a polite curtsy.

  “Charmed,” said I, bowing over her hand. “Pocket of Dog Snogging, at your service.”

  She said, “Last night, while we all slept, separate and chaste, the Puck placed some drops in their eyes. He thought I slept, but I saw him. When they awoke they were both in love with Helena and have nothing but scorn for me.”

  “Wretched cow,” called Demetrius, rubbing his face into some leaves.

  “Shut your fetid cakehole, thou festering canker blossom,” Hermia shouted at the piss-haired Athenian. To me, she said, “See? Enchanted.”

  “Well cursed, lass,” I said.

  “Don’t trust her,” shouted Helena, who was trying to stop Lysander from licking her shin. “She was a vixen when she went to school, and though she be but little, she is fierce.”

  “Little, is it?” said Hermia. “I will show you little, thou lumbering maypole. I shall decorate your inconstant lovers with your splattered brains.” She snatched up a heavy branch from the ground and made for her friend. I caught her by the sleeve as she passed by, swung her around, and relieved her of her weapon. She looked at me wide eyed, both surprised and offended.

  I slapped her cheek ever so lightly to bring her attention to the fore. “The Puck, you say?”

  “Hit her again,” shouted Lysander. “She distracts me from my love. I loathe her.”

  “I loathe her more,” added Demetrius.

  She made to grab for her club and I cautioned her by waving the stick in her face.

  “Tut tut, love. Your father promised me good recompense for slaying Lysander and once my blade is bloodied it will be no trouble to cut all your throats.” I am shit as a fighter, being ratshaggingly small and all, but I am the very mutt’s nuts when it comes to crafting a threat.

  “Do your worst on her,” said Lysander. “I love her not and would not stand in your way.”

  “Neither I,” said Demetrius. “I wouldn’t have her if she were naked and carrying her weight in gold, annoying dwarf that she is.”

  “Fine,” I said. I handed Hermia back her club. “Brain them, love. I’ll wait.”

  “Please, good Hermia,” said Helena, hopping from one foot to the other to stay out of the affectionate grasps of her suitors, “let your mercy be as sweet as our friendship was once: kill only Lysander and leave Demetrius to me.”

  Hermia stomped up to her friends, menaced them all with her stick, then screamed in frustration and cast the club into the rocky hollow. “If I were going to kill anyone it would be that rascal Puck. He’s at fault for this—this disgusting display.” She waved at the two grovelers. “This is not a natural allure, but some trifling elvish magic. And you know it, Helena.”

  Helena’s face went slack as anger gave way to revelation. “They’re not having me on?”

  “No, friend,” said Hermia.

  “And they don’t really fancy me, either?”

  “You saw the Puck in the night.”

  “You jesters!” Helena kicked Demetrius and Lysander until they scuttled away a few feet and sulked like scolded puppies. “You buffoons, you have been duped by the Puck.”

  “No, lady,” said Lysander, “if I thought the Puck had but put the taint of insincerity on my love for you I would puncture his liver most mortally.”

  “And I his other liver!” said Demetrius.

  “What are these knobs on about?” said Cobweb, who was suddenly standing at my shoulder without the courtesy of a cough or crunching leaf to announce her presence. I leapt a foot or so into the air and yelped a bit, as a courtesy, so as not to deprive her of the satisfaction of thinking she’d surprised me.

  “Where have you been?” I inquired.

  “Tending to the night queen, as is my duty.”

  “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “I left breakfast for you. There was frolicking to be done. You look better. Didn’t find your giant friend, then?”

  “Oh, I found him. He’s locked in the dungeon under Theseus’s castle, and if I don’t return within three days with the answers Hippolyta and Theseus want, they’ll kill him.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Pocket, trouble follows you like a fluffy tail. What kind of answers do the mortal royals think you can give them?”

  “Like who killed the Puck and what he was doing up until the time he died.”

  Cobweb snorted. “Killed the Puck! Haw-haw. What fools these mortals be. Robin Goodfellow is forever, he can’t be killed.”

  “No, Robin Goodfellow was slain this morning, in this forest. I found him myself, his heart’s blood spilling out a hole in his ribs made by this.” I drew the black bolt from the sheath at my back and held it before Cobweb, whose wide eyes were filling with tears. She took the bolt from me and sniffed it, touched her tongue to the iron tip, then dropped it to the forest floor.

  Her eyes rolled back and she began to fall. I caught her around the waist and held her up, pressing her head against my chest until I could feel her will return.

  “Rather I would kiss a dog’s arse than Hermia’s bubbling lips,” said Lysander.

  “You had no trouble with these bubbly lips last evening,” said Hermia.

  “I was a fool. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now Helena’s radiance.”

  “I, too, was a fool, a bigger fool,” said Demetrius. “When I wooed you for fortune and position I saw not how truly hideous you were in comparison to glorious Helena.”

  “Mock me, cruel rogues,” said Helena. “I am deserved of it, for I am as ugly as a bear.”

  “You are not,” said Hermia. “But these two, enchanted or not, are as stupid as chickens.”

  Cobweb pushed away from me and looked up, blinking the tears out of her eyes. “Circe’s balls, they’re annoying.” She looked over her shoulder at the lovers. “With their tallness and their painted faces and their—their shoes.”

  “Agreed, but they saw the Puck last night. The duke tasked me with finding the Puck’s killer and I am yet to ask them about the encounter.”

  “I’ll do it.” She snatched up the crossbow bolt and charged the lovers. “Shut up, you shiny-haired fuckwits!”

  Everyone grieves in his own way. Evidently the fairy way was violent and armed.

  The lovers hadn’t even not
iced the fairy’s arrival, but they noticed now, as she marched up to them, her jaw jutting hard and sharp like the ramming prow of a tiny warship.

  “Look,” said Helena. “An elf! She’s even tinier than you, Hermia.”

  “Not an elf,” I said to no one, as that is who was listening. The lovers, forgetting their own self-made calamity, had lined up in a semicircle around Cobweb and were examining her as if she’d been presented to them for purchase.

  “Look at her little ears,” said Helena. “They’re pointed.”

  “There are sticks in her hair,” said Hermia. “We should keep her. Have her groomed and show her off at the duke’s wedding.”

  “I’ve never seen an elf before,” said Lysander. “Is this why no one will go into the forest at night? Seems silly now, when you see this wisp of a girl.”

  “You’ve seen the Puck,” said Hermia. “And you might have seen him again last night if you hadn’t been so knackered from trying to shag me all night.”

  “So you say,” said Lysander. “That seems but a dream to me now.”

  “Well if I saw him fiddling with people’s feelings,” said Demetrius, “I’d make him sorry indeed.”

  “By sticking him with this!” said Cobweb, and as she spoke she swung the crossbow bolt up from behind her back. I think she may have intended to present it before Demetrius’s face—confront him with the instrument of his dread-dickery—but whether she was moved by anger or her vision was obscured by her tears, she misjudged somewhat and stabbed the Athenian quite smartly in the tip of his chin.

  Demetrius screamed and went over backward, clutching his chin, which spurted blood no little. Cobweb leapt on him and knelt on his chest, the bolt raised over her head. “Did you kill him, you great yellow-haired twat? Tell me or I’ll make a Cyclops of you with the next plunge.”