Shakespeare for Squirrels

by Christopher Moore

  “Now you believe it?” said I.

  “Well things have changed, haven’t they? Fairies and goblins and squirrels running around willy-nilly. Anything could be possible. Elfs shagging squirrels, not such a stretch anymore, is it?”

  “Not an elf,” said Drool note for note in my voice. Then, in his own, “Pocket, you shagged a squirrel?”

  “Drool,” said I, “you and Snout shall again play the watch—wait, no, the part of the king requires reading. Tom Snout, you shall play Oberon. Snug shall play Burke.”

  “We have no part written for Oberon,” said Peter Quince. “We have no costume for the fairy queen and none for Oberon.”

  “Grab your quill and ink, we shall write a short speech for Oberon, but the rest shall be improvised cruelty. Moth, give your black robe to Snout. Starveling, blacken all parts of Snout that show out of the robe with charcoal from the brazier, including his stupid hat. Peaseblossom, you shall play Titania in flagrante.” I bounced my eyebrows at my masterful use of Latin.

  “That means ‘on fire,’” said Quince.

  “No it doesn’t, it means ‘naked,’” said I.

  “No, it means ‘on fire,’” said Quince.

  “Well I’m not going to do that,” said Peaseblossom. “You can just pretend-shag yourself on fire.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “Just naked, as is Titania’s way, anyway. And Cobweb, you shall play Hippolyta, the warrior queen.”

  “Why does Peaseblossom get to pretend to shag you?” said Cobweb. “It’s because you want to set her on fire, isn’t it? Is that what you like to do with your shoe whores? Put them in their shoes and spark them up?”

  “No one is going to be set on fire.” I thought for a second. It wasn’t necessary to the plot, except it might evoke anger from Oberon, but there would be plenty to spur him without it. “Fine. You, lamb, shall pretend to shag me, while Peaseblossom will pretend to shag everyone else.”

  “As is my way,” said Peaseblossom. “The queen’s way, I mean.”

  “You will need a costume for Hippolyta,” said Peter Quince.

  He was right, of course. “Fine, Starveling, come here.” I cracked the door and pointed out to the audience. “See that girl, the one sitting behind the duke? Go fetch her. Tell her I need her for the play.”

  “The one who stabbed that fellow in the head?”

  “That’s the one. Go get her.”

  “Why don’t you go get her?”

  “Because I am the lead and I must prepare for my role.” I shoved the balding fuckwit out into the hall, where the audience was already clapping and calling for our return. While Starveling was gone I quickly dictated some lines to Quince, who wrote them on parchment, cut them with my dagger, and handed them to the appropriate players, as well as a few lines for Quince himself, the narrator. It was the same story, but now, knowing Gritch’s orders, we needed to compress it, I thought.

  There was a tap on the door. I let Starveling in and pulled Helena in after him, then shut the door behind her. She stood there, rather vacant-looking for a new murderer. I sized her up. For once her annoying height would be a help. (Robin Starveling’s tailoring skills could make great use of all that fabric.)

  She looked down at Egeus’s body and began to breathe in short, yipping sobs of panic. “Calm down, love, he won’t bother you.”

  “But Hermia will be so cross with me.”

  “No she won’t. She knows he was a twat. Now, off with your frock, we need it.”

  She wore a white gown, not dissimilar to Hippolyta’s and Hermia’s, and a wreath of flowers in her hair. I snatched the flowers off her head and tossed them to Peaseblossom. “There, fairy queen, there’s your kit.”

  Peaseblossom donned the wreath, then curtsied as Moth helped her weave it into her hair.

  “Off with it,” said I. “We’ve a play to do. No one is looking, we’re all actors here.”

  Drool, the Mechanicals, the monkey, Bottom, and the fairies all stopped and waited for Helena to take off her dress.

  “Why are those tiny women naked? And why is that fellow all covered in coal? And why is there a monkey in here? And why does that fellow have the head of an ass? And why are those tiny women so tiny? Smaller even than Hermia. And so are you.”

  “Cobweb, would you trade gowns with Helena, please?” I said, with patience I was not feeling. “Everyone else, look at that tapestry on the back wall while the ladies change.”

  “But—” said Helena.

  “Or we can murder you and take your gown,” I said with a charming grin.

  “Give it up, shoe whore,” said Cobweb.

  * * *

  “And so,” read Peter Quince, “we return to the fairy wood, where the shadow king, Oberon, meets with his jester, Robin Goodfellow.”

  Tom Snout and I jumped from behind the tapestry onto the stage. Snout was smeared head to toe in black, and wearing one of the black harem robes and his blackened, stupid, bunny-eared hat, and I wore only a loincloth, fashioned from a foot or so of Helena’s skirt, and my daggers across my back, of course, because sod the fucking play, I was not going unarmed into a room full of scoundrels.

  “Puck,” said Snout, reading from a slip of parchment. “Fetch a magic flower, you know where they grow, and put a drop of its nectar in Titania’s eye so that the next thing she lays eyes on is some horrible beast, with which she will fall madly in love. When she is thus engaged, I need you to spirit away her Indian boy and bring him to me.”

  “I’ll put a girdle round the world in forty minutes, and she’ll be snogging the beast before you can say Robin Goodfellow.” Then I made a fairy fucking trilling noise and Snout stepped offstage. To the audience I said, “Oh, I shall fetch the flower and go to Titania, but the fairy queen has tastes which I am obliged to indulge.”

  And I ran around to the back of the stage even as Peaseblossom stepped out from behind a tapestry, quite naked except for the wreath of flowers in her hair. There were gasps and giggles from the audience. “Lo—” said Peaseblossom. She looked around, noticed, it seemed, that several hundred people were watching her. “Lo—” she said.

  “I am Titania,” whispered Snout, furiously, from behind the tapestry.

  “I am Titania,” said Peaseblossom. She looked around, looked out, looked down. Put her hand over her bits.

  “Queen of the fairies,” whispered Snout, loudly enough to be heard in the third row.

  “I feel naked,” whispered Peaseblossom, loudly enough to be heard in the fourth row.

  “You are naked,” whispered Snout.

  “But I forgot they shaved my bits,” whispered Peaseblossom.

  “Say queen of the fucking fairies!” whispered Snout.

  “Queen of the fucking fairies!” said Peaseblossom.

  The hall filled with laughter. All the royals squirmed except Oberon, who sat forward on his chair and began to scissor the silver-tipped blades of his fingers together. I had expected a reaction from him, but not so soon.

  I stepped back out onto the stage. “Milady, it is I, your servant, bringing the love potion that you anticipated.” I held a blossom from Helena’s wreath close to Peaseblossom and whispered her line to her.

  “Have you brought me my pleasure?” she repeated.

  “I have, milady.” I reached behind a tapestry and pulled Bottom out onto the stage. “Here he is, milady. A man with the parts of the donkey.”

  “Give it me,” said Peaseblossom.

  I made as if I were squeezing the love potion flower into her eye. Once anointed, she looked at Bottom like a goblin at the silver moon. “Oh, sir, thou art fair indeed and methinks I do so love thee.”

  And she was on him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, snogging his rough face and dry-humping him with great enthusiasm, while Bottom reciprocated by braying rhythmically and giving the fairy queen a galloping ride in a circle, to exit through the tapestries while the two of them made a rising caterwaul that ended in a screaming crescendo, fo
llowed by a short sigh. And Peaseblossom was pushed back onto the stage, her hair in her face, her flower garland fallen over one eye.

  “Oh, well done,” she said. “A true lover, not like that needle-dicked Oberon.” She’d delivered the line without prompting and with no little venom. There was real hatred there, and she had captured Oberon’s attention. “I am off to Turtle Grotto. Ta!”

  And she skipped to center stage, where she was met by Robin Starveling, who was now made up to look like Theseus, which did not stop him from announcing, “I am Duke Theseus of Athens.”

  Drool and Snug in their Blacktooth and Burke togs were lurking at the edge of the stage as Peaseblossom fluffed her hair a bit and coyly tiptoed up to Starveling.

  “Duke,” she said, by way of greeting.

  “Queen,” said he, a bounce in his eyebrows.

  And she was on him, approximating the same scene she’d played out with Bottom, only with less braying and more moaning, and they both disappeared behind the tapestries, did a bit of orgasmic screaming, then returned to the stage, massively out of breath. The audience loved it, cheered through the entire scene. Titania seemed bothered not at all, but patted the Indian boy’s hand, as if to assure him that everything was fine. But the duke was aghast and continued to glance sideways at Hippolyta, who seemed curious but not particularly concerned.

  “I am troubled,” said Starveling. “I am to be married in three days and my wife loathes me.”

  “Have you tried a love potion?” asked Peaseblossom.

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “There is, and for your favor now and in the future, I shall send you one. Put a drop of it in Hippolyta’s eye when you are the next thing she shall see and she will be yours. I shall send the Puck here tomorrow morning with one. Have your agents meet him at sunup.”

  They both ran offstage. Drool and Snug whispered between themselves conspiratorially, then nodded and skulked off behind the tapestries.

  Peter Quince retook the stage.

  “Ladies and gents, be not afraid of all the shagging going on, for it is merely stage shagging and not actual shagging. Nor are the betrayals real betrayals. Or the murders real murders. All is staged for your delight and is completely suitable for ladies and children.

  “Now, we are taken to the chambers in the castle of the beautiful Amazon queen, Hippolyta.”

  Cobweb, wearing the remnants of Helena’s dress, trimmed down to her size, and the remnants of Helena’s hair, woven into her own short tresses so it hung in plaits like Hippolyta’s, scampered out from behind the tapestries and whispered in Quince’s ear, then retreated to center stage.

  “For the purposes of drama, the audience should imagine the queen is wearing shoes,” Peter Quince said, then exited.

  Cobweb sighed heavily, which was my cue. I ran from the floor stage left, leapt onto the stage, and did three cartwheels and a backflip to land in her arms, my back bent, faux Hippolyta holding me up. I had some doubts about my tumbling ability, having been starved and shipwrecked, but it appeared the fairies’ frolic was still sustaining me.

  “Hello, Puck,” said Cobweb.

  “Your Grace,” said I. “Fancy a bonk?”

  “Perhaps. If you promise me a favor.”

  “I am your servant, ma’am,” I said with a bow.

  “I am to be married in three days, and before that time, I would like to meet with the goblin king. Can you arrange that?”

  “A piece of piss, love. I’ll have him here before dawn.”

  “Then lay on, Robin Goodfellow!” She was on me, and in the manner of the previously stated trysts, we raucously bounced through the tapestries, much to the delight of the audience. Once offstage she whispered, “You are a shit.”

  “Moi?” said I, in perfect fucking French.

  She kissed me quickly and made for her mark onstage, where Drool and Snug were waiting as the watchmen.

  “What do you tossers want?” asked Cobweb.

  “Ma’am, to report, ma’am, that we witnessed something that would be of great interest to you and would be worth a reward to us.”

  “You shall have your reward. One of my silver armlets. What is your news?”

  I peeked out to see Hippolyta rubbing her biceps where once she wore her silver armlets. Surely, this was not how it had happened, but it was close enough that the point was finally reaching her. She knew we knew. Theseus leaned forward on his chair and was paying close attention. The rest of the audience was watching a silly farce, but the royals were all watching an indictment.

  “The duke is to receive a love potion from the fairies,” said Snug, reading slowly from a slip of parchment. “Which he intends to enchant you with upon your wedding day. We are to retrieve it from the Puck at Turtle Grotto at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Well that shall not happen. You shall stop him reaching Theseus with the potion,” said Cobweb. “In any way you can.”

  “The Puck is very clever. The duke had us out searching for him all day.”

  “Do not let the duke receive that potion,” said Cobweb. “Now be gone, I have a guest coming.”

  Drool and Snug exited.

  “Oh, I need some air,” said Cobweb. She went to the back of the stage and held aside one of the tapestries, through which I stepped, then bowed as Tom Snout in his Oberon togs skipped through.

  “Away, Puck,” said Snout as Oberon. “Come for me before dawn.”

  I exited through the arras but peeked out. This would be the scene where the show would shift to the audience. I checked my two remaining daggers and nodded to Peter Quince, who had two short scripts from which he might read, as well as a third option I’d alerted all the players to, which was to run for the antechamber if it came to it.

  “Oh, my dark lord,” said Cobweb. She moved to Snout and rubbed against him in a lascivious and seductive manner, accentuating their height difference, which, while ridiculous, was no more than that between Titania and Oberon. “Take me, use me, like the warrior tart that I am.” Cobweb looked past Snout to catch my eye and made a silly grin, proud of her improvisation. What she couldn’t see, and neither could the audience, was that much of the soot that we had used to blacken Tom Snout was now smeared on Cobweb’s face and all over the front of her once-white gown.

  I laughed. Cobweb saw her hand, blackened, then looked down her front.

  “But no.” She turned suddenly and went to the front of the stage, as actors do when changing their mind, so the audience may see the conflict in their visage. Or, in her case, the soot all over her. The audience burst into laughter, which energized Cobweb no little.

  “First,” she said, “you must help free me from the bonds of that putrid dongwhistle Theseus.”

  The players definitely had the attention of the royals now. Cobweb was doing smashingly improvising her lines with only the rough instructions we had come up with in the antechamber.

  Snout moved up behind Cobweb and put his hands on her shoulders, leaving black prints wherever he touched.

  “Anything, my warrior queen, if you will submit to my dread pleasures.”

  “You know I am a prisoner here,” said Cobweb, “and even if I escape, there are scores of my soldiers who are hostages, for even as they walk free about the castle, they are allowed no weapons, and every one of my warriors is watched by one of Theseus’s guards.”

  “A sad affair,” said Snout.

  “I am to marry, three days hence, and you and Titania are invited to the wedding. When you come, I want you to bring a cohort of your goblin soldiers, and when I give the signal, they must kill Theseus’s guards and give arms to my warriors.”

  Before Snout could reply, before the audience could react to the idea of goblins, which they thought something made up to frighten children, a ferocious female war cry filled the hall, echoing up into the vaulted rafters, as Hippolyta pulled a dagger from under her gown and drove its point under Theseus’s sternum. She continued to scream, even as she twisted the blade in his chest and h
is heart’s blood poured out over her hand. “Now!” she screamed. “Now! Now! Now!”

  “Go, go, go,” said I to my cast. I shooed the players back toward the antechamber. Cobweb and Snout ran off the side of the stage after them.

  In the hall the dark hoods were pulled back and goblins put blades to soldiers’ throats at every door, disarming but not killing the soldiers. The audience screamed and rose to run, but each of the six double doors was slammed shut and bolted. Above, in the balconies, soldiers had been disarmed and yanked away, presumably held at sword point on the floor, while the balconies filled with goblins bearing crossbows, which they trained on the crowd below. Several of Hippolyta’s warriors reached for the soldiers’ weapons but were beaten back by the swipe of a sword or the aim of a crossbow.

  “Now! Now! Now!” screeched Hippolyta, but her Amazon warriors could not respond to her call, all of them held harmless by armed goblins.

  Hippolyta pulled the dagger from Theseus’s chest and let him drop to the floor as she stood. She crouched and brandished the bloody dagger, ready for a fight. The audience members, including Hermia and Lysander, had moved away from her, leaving her alone with her dead duke. At the other side of the stage, Oberon was on his feet too, looking confused and furious. “Kill the guards!” he shouted, to no effect at all. He looked from balcony to balcony, and from each, a dozen crossbows were trained upon him.

  I hopped on the stage and danced a jaunty jig to the edge, stage right, where Hippolyta waved her knife. At spirits, evidently.

  “Everyone please take your seats,” said I. “We are not finished here. I know this is unsettling, and several of you have probably soiled yourself, but be of good cheer, I assure you no one will be harmed.”

  “Yes they will,” said Hippolyta, shaking the dagger at some goblin archers. “They will all be harmed.”

  I looked down on her, gave her my most beatific smile. “That knife is mine, love,” said I. “If you don’t mind.” I held out my hand.

  She turned as if to attack me and a crossbow bolt thunked into her empty chair, then another one right next to it. I looked to the first balcony, where a goblin wearing two silver armlets stared down, his crossbow ready to be reloaded. Gritch.