Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(39)

“I have not, thou rabbit-eared toss-toad, this is magic of the first order.”

“Squirrel shagger, squirrel shagger, squirrel shagger.”

“Did you not make the beast with two backs with Titania, also a fairy, just last night?”

Bottom smoothed back his ears. “I was an unwilling servant. Used and enchanted, and besides, I didn’t know they turned into squirrels at dawn.”

“I thought Peaseblossom told you.”

“Only about the frolicking, not about the squirrel bit. Did she have a tail?”

“No she didn’t have a bloody tail. You’ve seen them all naked, you nitwit.”

“Oh, right.”

“And you have a tail. And a long snout. And nostrils like teacups. You, sir, are an ass.”

Bottom felt around to the rear of his trousers. “Oh,” he said, and his lips described what approximated, for a donkey, a pout. He sat down on the spot, as if he’d suddenly been overtaken by fatigue, and cradled his great ears in his hands. “How shall I play Pyramus in the duke’s play? The lads will be lost without me. You must help me, maestro.”

“Really? That is your concern? The play?”

“The play’s the thing, maestro.”

“Bottom, you cannot do the play. You’re an ass.”

“But I must do the play, so people will look at me. So people will see me.”

“But you’re an ass.”

“And they will see me!” He looked up, hope sparkling in his eye. “I could play it in a mask. So though I am an ass, I could play a proper man.”

“It has been done before,” said I, nodding as if giving the premise consideration. My anger at the ass-man was fading with the dew. With the Puck the author of the spell that transformed Bottom, the poor weaver might live out his years as an ass. Who was I, a wanton squirrel shagger, to shatter his dream of the stage? “Yes, a mask,” I said.

“No, it won’t work.” Bottom began to weep again, in great hee-hawing sobs. “I am an ass.”

“No, mate, I shall direct you. Your performance will be as honed as a barber’s blade.”

“No, I am hopeless. I have these great stupid ears and this ridiculous snout.”

“And moods that swing like a bell clapper, but you do have a cracking huge knob.” I grinned and did a dance step to cheer him.

“I am hopeless and my knob is huge.”

“Bottom. Lad. Be of good cheer. We will go to the shadow king, who was the Puck’s master, and he will reverse the spell.”

“Oh, maestro, do you think so?”

“We shall see, good Bottom. We shall see. Now gather up the ladies’ frocks and that hat of many tongues and let us be on our way to Oberon’s castle.” As I fitted on my own hat, I noticed that the knot on my forehead was gone, not even a scab where the gash had been. I examined my arms and legs. The scrapes and cuts from my tossing in the waves had healed, the rope burns on my wrist, from being carried on the pole to Theseus’s dungeon, gone, even the rash from my run-in with the nettles had disappeared. Fucking fairies and their fucking frolicking. I could smell her on my arms, wildflower and moss, and stood there watching Bottom gather up the fairies’ fallen frocks and Cobweb’s little bowman’s hat, grinning like a bloody loony.

“Bottom,” I called cheerily. “If Oberon can’t fix you, you can always play the lion. You couldn’t possibly do worse than Snug the joiner. The show shall go on!”

Bottom snatched up Rumour’s hat of many tongues and fitted it over his ears, a sight that gave me a slight spasm of the willies up my spine, as the tongues waggled with joy at finding a new home.

“I liked you better when you were sad,” said Bottom.





Chapter 11

What Fools These Mortals Be




“How bloody far is it to Oberon’s castle?” I inquired of Bottom, several weeks into our hike since dawn. “We’ve been on this trail for days. I think we’re going in circles. This looks suspiciously like the trail near Athens. Are we headed back to Athens?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” said Bottom. “It’s not even lunchtime.”

“How do you know? How can you even tell? There are no bells to ring the watch, no sundials. This forest is bloody barbaric. Why didn’t the fucking fairies give us horses? They have what passes for a civilization, if you don’t mind sleeping in a pile of sticks, why don’t they have horses?”

“Hard getting them in and out of the trees, I reckon,” said Bottom.

“Ha,” said I, with withering sarcasm. “Ha,” I repeated, with no little scorn. “Ha,” I reprised, dripping with venomous irony.

We trod on in silence for a bit, which allowed Bottom’s malignant, amateur jest to dry up and die.

Then: “What do you suppose they were?” asked Bottom.

“What what were?” I replied.

“The three words that Puck would have us remember, according to that Rumour chap.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said I. “They will not help in finding the Puck’s killer.”

“They might.”

“Not unless they are ‘BOTTOM KILLED ME’ or some similar nonsense, which they aren’t, because he said them before he was killed and so didn’t know.”