Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(11)

I shrieked, high, loud, and somewhat less girlish, and jumped to mine.

She wheeled on me, angry, her eyes still wet with tears. “Thou knave! Thou sneak! Back, villain!”

“You can see me?” said I.

“Of course I can bloody see you, despite your creeping up on me like some lurker in the dark!”

“I did not creep. I am a ghost, invisible to all but the magical forest people.”

“Well I can see you, and I’m not a bloody forest person.” She wiped her eyes and stepped back from me, looked me over in an overly personal way, as if trying to spot a burr snagged in my motley. “Say,” said she, “you used to be a monkey, didn’t you?”

“I did not. I was a fool. A charming, clever fool.”

“Well earlier there was a monkey dressed in that same fool’s outfit. Had his way with my hat and ran off. I’ve heard all manner of magical things happen in this wood. It would just be fitting that the only man who would deign to talk to me is a hat-shagging monkey.” She leaned in closely. “You, sir, have the look of a hat shagger.”

“I do not. But I know a monkey who is quite fond of hats. Called Jeff.”

“Good you specified,” said the puppet Jones. “Lest we blame some other monkey dressed in black and silver jester togs.”

“Quiet,” I told the puppet. Jeff? Alive? Why, I had barely had time to miss him.

“I’ll have my hat back now,” said the girl. “Or have you used it and cast it aside, too? You men are monsters, even those of you who used to be monkeys.”

“I am neither a monster nor a monkey, I am but a sullen newborn ghost, and I only stopped because I heard you weeping and thought I might help.”

“You may help, if you can lead me out of this sodding forest.”

“Me? I was going to ask you. Is this not your country? How is it that you find yourself lost in the forest of your own familiarity?”

“I followed my love, my handsome Demetrius, into the forest.”

“And he was eaten by a bear?”

“No, that’s horrible. Why would you say such a thing?”

“He’s not here, is he? And there you are, sobbing like you’ve been dirked in the dick by grief’s dark dagger. Ergo. Ursa. Arborem. Therefore, bear in the forest.”

“That means ‘bear in a tree,’ fool. And there was no sodding bear. Demetrius has run off after my used-to-be-friend Hermia, who is petite and beautiful, fair of hair, and sweet of voice. If you saw her you would love her too. All men do.”

“I would not. I am soured on love. Also, deceased.”

“Oh, you would dote upon her, make great cow eyes at her, and sing her your songs of woo.”

“I would not. I do not make cow eyes, nor do I moo woo.”

“You would. Just like Demetrius. Oh, he wooed me. Promised me future and family, but when Hermia’s father showed him favor, he forgot me and had only eyes for her and her fortune. She does not love him. She loves Lysander, a boy she has loved since school, but her father detests Lysander, and so commanded her to marry Demetrius on pain of death. The duke backed him but would condemn her to life as a nun, forever without the company of men. So she and Lysander ran off together to live under protection of Lysander’s maiden aunt. I told Demetrius of their plans, thinking he would forget her and love me again, but he did not. He ran after them.”

“And you after him?”

“Well, obviously. But he pushed me down and ran off, faster than I could follow. Skirts are shit for running in the woods.” She waved to the skirt of her long white gown, the hem was stained green and brown, snagged with nettles and foxtails.

“Forget this Demetrius, he sounds to be an opportunist fuckweasel,” said I with a wave of dismissal I reserve for such creatures. “Look at you . . . What is your name?”

“Helena.”

“Look at you, Helena, you are fairly fit and probably not entirely unpleasant when you are not shouting. You can do better.”

“But Demetrius has touched my soul and fired my heart.”

“Has anyone else touched your soul? I mean, if you’ve only had one soul-touch you might not be as on fire as you think. You might just need a raucous, all-night drunken soul-touching that leaves you a puddle of soggy embers in the morning. Then you’ll forget all about him.” I bounced my eyebrows at the prospect, then winced, as the bruise on my forehead was still tender and bright. I swooned a bit with the pain and sat again upon the rock.

“No,” said Helena, sitting down beside me. “I shall become a nun, and forever eschew the company of men. Loneliness shall be my lot, and I shall dwell in quiet contemplation of my misery.” And she began to weep again.

“Cheer up, lass,” said the puppet Jones. “You’ll probably starve to death in the forest first.”

“Shut up, Jones!” said I.

“Or be eaten by elves . . . ,” the puppet added.

“Oh woe!” the girl cried, and buried her face in my shoulder.

I wrapped a tentative arm around her shoulders. “I know, lamb, love is a besquished toad ripening in the sun. But despair not, life in the nunnery is not completely devoid of joy. I was raised by nuns. Once a week you’ll be able to share a sumptuous raisin with your sisters, and then there’s the perpetual flicking of the bean in the dark, for which you’ll have ongoing guilt and repentance during the day, so you’ll stay busy.”