Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(5)

“Drool,” I called. “Come out, please, and meet—”

“Hello,” said the dim giant as he trudged out of the brush. The Mechanicals were awed. Stupid Hat gasped at Drool’s sheer taurine enormity. Drool approximated the size of two well-fed men-at-arms stuffed haphazardly into a single skin without leaving room for a full serving of brains.

“Zounds,” said the bald one. “He’s fucking huge.”

“Well observed,” said I.

“Well, why then are you so small?” said the shiny-pated toss-bobbin.

“You are an elf, aren’t you?” said Peter Quince. “Francis, throw him another sock.”

“I don’t have another sock,” said the boy with the veil.

Quince winced. “You only wore one sock?”

“I didn’t know there was going to be a bloody elf test,” said the lad.

“I have a sock,” said Snug the lion, revealing a vacant grin as he held up a tattered woolen sock.

Bottom said, “Snug, why is your sock not in your shoe with your foot?”

“I was afraid I was going to be late. I thought I would put it on when I got here.”

I turned to address my apprentice. “Drool, we have at last found your tribe. Gentlemen, this is Drool, apprentice fool and onetime minister of wank to the lands of England, France, Burgundy, Brittany, Belgium, and sometimes Spain.”

“Charmed,” said Drool, reaching down the front of his canvas sailor’s trousers to give a demonstration.

“Perhaps just a bow, lad,” I instructed.

“Pleased to be of your acquaintance,” said Drool, offering his hand to the bald fellow.

“Robin Starveling,” said baldy as he backed away, hiding his own hand behind his back. “Tailor.”

“Well,” said I. “Now that we are all mates in the service of the stage, why don’t you show us to the food, and while Drool and I refresh ourselves, you gents can run through your lines and I will give keen and critical review? Drool can load a great battery of gas he can set alight at intermission.”

“I’m not giving up my lunch to another thieving elf,” said Robin Starveling.

“Still not an elf,” said I.

“Aye, can’t trust an elf far as you can throw them,” said Snout (Stupid Hat) the tinker. “Rascals every one.”

“The last one stole my best hat and touched up my wife by the millpond,” said Snug the joiner. “She’s been useless for wifely duties ever since.”

“Begging pardon, sirrah,” said Bottom, doffing his hat. “Some in our troupe have been much abused by one of the wood folk, a jester as well, called Robin Goodfellow.”

“The Puck,” said Quince. “Said he’d teach us a fashionable dance to do for the duke. Took our coin, then buggered off to who-knows-where, leaving us fuck-all for our trouble.”

“The rascal,” said I. I exchanged a look of flabbergast with the puppet Jones. Truth told, until that moment, I had thought I, too, might bugger off to parts unknown, leaving them with fuck-all for their trouble, but now I felt honor-bound to mend the reputation of my fellow fool and rascal. There are so few of us, after all, subject as we are to being hanged by humorless royals. “That’s in violation of the fool’s code. I shall make good on the Puck’s promise and teach you all a jaunty dance. After lunch.”

“We don’t need a dance now,” said Francis Flute, au falsetto behind his veil. “We’ve Thisby and Pyramus to carry the day.”

“Gentlemen,” said Bottom, as he rifled through the rucksacks, drawing out bread, fruit, cheese, and various basketed jugs as he went and placing them on a shawl he’d spread out on the ground. “Let us allow our professors to regain their strength. I fear the romantic bombast of my Pyramus may otherwise overwhelm their sensibilities.”

“Proceed, gentlemen,” I said, as Drool and I fell upon the Mechanicals’ lunch like wolves on the fold.

Peter Quince, carpenter and director, stepped forward. “Now am I the chorus.”

“Pray continue,” I said around a mouthful of coarse brown bread.

Quince unrolled his scroll. “Two households, both alike in dignity—”

“Rawr,” said Snug, the tall fellow.

“Now is not the time to roar,” said Quince. “I have not yet warned the ladies not to be afraid.”

“Rawr,” repeated Snug.

“No one will be afraid,” said I.

“I shall wear a mane made of straw, and paint my jaws with the blood,” said Snug.

“Do it again,” said I, snatching a plum from our hoard and skipping to the lion’s side.

“Rawr,” said Snug.

“Pathetic. You have to summon the full wind and throat of the beast, lad, not simply say ‘rawr.’ Call up an echo from your memory, then let it roar from time’s ear to today’s lips. Hear the beast, be the beast.”

“Hear the beast, be the beast,” said Drool, note for note in my voice, which is the ninny’s peculiar talent. It’s bloody unsettling at times.

The Mechanicals stared in wide wonder at Drool.

“Like that,” said I. “Make the sound you have heard a lion make.”

“I’ve never seen a lion,” said Snug.