Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(36)

“This loony’s got tongues all over his frock,” said Peaseblossom. She’d dropped out of her tree and was twiddling the tongues on Rumour’s cloak.

“So he does,” said Moth, who dropped to the other side of the narrator and began twiddling the tongues on that side. “On his hat, too. Bend down, love, let us have a wee squeeze.”

“Fancy a frolic?” said Peaseblossom, snuggling against Rumour’s leg, at which point Cobweb giggled in a tone much more high and girlish than her nine hundred years would have suggested.

“Stop that,” said Rumour.

Moth grasped one of the tongues and held it tight between her fingers. “Say something now. See if you can.”

Rumour snatched his cloak away from the fairies and in an instant was three yards down the path, leaving Moth and Peaseblossom grasping at empty air. “Enough!”

“I believe I’m stuck up here,” said Bottom, wedged between branches of the nest tree.

Startled, Rumour looked up and squeaked a girlish scream himself. “A horse!”

“Ass-man, we call him,” said I. “I thought you were seer of schemes, teller of tales, planner—what was it?”

“Planner of plots,” said Rumour. “But that fellow has the head of a donkey.”

“A future you didn’t see coming, I’ll wager,” said I. It appeared that I was relieved of the need to conk Rumour in the head to bring him down a notch. “Why are you here?”

“To correct your path, to point out your errors before you completely cock up the narrative.” Rumour swiped at the fairies, who had resumed twiddling his tongues. “Stop it.”

“Well get on with it,” said I. “We’re knackered and the ladies need to finish their nest building so they can frolic the bloody daylights out of old Bottom here.”

“Thank you, good sir,” said Moth with a curtsy.

“Pocket is a fucking gent, he is,” said Peaseblossom.

“Why are you glowing?” asked Cobweb, approaching Rumour now. “Are you having a self-frolic under that frock?”

“Does it have tongues on the inside, too?” asked Moth excitedly.

“May I wear it?” asked Peaseblossom.

Moth pulled open Rumour’s robe to reveal nothing at all—not even legs or feet, just empty space. She pulled his robe shut as quickly as if slamming the door in the face of a menacing dragon. “Well that’s bloody disturbing,” she said.

“This geezer’s magical,” said Cobweb.

“Magically dried up my nethers like salt on a slug,” said Peaseblossom, unhanding Rumour’s tongues.

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” said Rumour.

“They do that,” said Bottom.

“It is our way,” said Moth.

“We are simple,” said Peaseblossom.

“Just her,” said Cobweb. “She’s the simple one.”

“That’s right,” said Peaseblossom. “Sorry, I forgot. I’m—”

“We know!” said I. “Rumour, state your purpose, or do fuck off.”

“The key to the mystery is the lovers,” said Rumour.

“You said that before, and I’ve seen the lovers, and they’re useless and silly.”

“At the same time,” said Cobweb, nodding gravely. “They didn’t kill the Puck. I asked them myself.”

“Well you’ve missed the clue they bore. Examine them again. And there are three simple words that will reveal the Puck’s purpose, and thereby his killer. Three simple words.”

“The Puck would say that, about the three words,” said Cobweb, “when the night queen was displeased with him. ‘I could fix this in three words,’ he’d say.”

“What are the words?” I asked.

“That you must discover for yourself or your apprentice shall perish,” said Rumour.

“I have already discovered the Puck’s message and what he was carrying to Theseus. And there is no shortage of credible rascals I could blame for his murder.”

“And what of the potion he was to deliver? Was that not part of your task?”

I looked to Cobweb, she to me. “Fuckstockings,” said I.

“And so, the doomed, dull-witted drudge, the soon-to-be-dead Pocket, realized his own futility, and—”

“Wait, you’re the one who said you taught Puck to circle the globe in forty minutes. You could fetch the flower for me,” said I. “You could save Drool.”

“I am for drama, I am for intrigue, I am for misdirection and mystery. I serve only the story. Why would I do that?”

“To get your hat back,” said Moth. With that the towheaded fairy leapt to nearly twice her height, spritely even for a sprite, and snatched the hat of tongues off Rumour’s head, then landed as soft as a cat and rolled, coming to her feet with the hat held high. “Ha!”

The rest of us stood, mouths agape, for what we thought would be Rumour’s head was, indeed, nothing at all. Where his forehead ended was just nothing down to his neck in the back, so it appeared that his ears were simply escorting a long-nosed tragedy mask through the air, and tragedy was his expression, even as he let loose with a long, high-pitched, horrified scream. With a whoosh, in a streak of light, he was gone, taking his annoying glow with him, leaving the call of “The passion of the Puck lies with the prince,” hanging in the air behind him.