Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(50)
I set the puppet Jones on the table to mark my place, then made my way to the chair at the far end of the table and proceeded to drag it along behind me to Oberon’s end. The chair was heavy and squeaked horribly as I dragged it, filling the hall with a sound akin to that of a tortured baby elephant. Each time I would pause to get a grip on the chair, Oberon would begin to speak, and I would resume the dragging and drowning him out, until, by the time I pushed the chair under the table at his right hand, he was quite annoyed.
“There,” said I, climbing into the chair. “That’s better. A long journey in the forest wears on one.”
“You put your dirty puppet next to my supper,” said the king.
“You’re a dirty puppet!” said the puppet Jones (with my help). From the look on Oberon’s face, he had never encountered ventriloquism before either.
My chair was so low that my shoulders were just above the table. The petite Titania must have sat on cushions or stood to dine here. I tore a leg from the roasted bird, a duck methinks, and had a taste of the greasy flesh, sans plate, settings, or goblet.
“Oh, scrumptious. Well done,” said I. “Do you have any wine?”
The shadow king nodded to a serving goblin, who scooted off to fetch a goblet, as there was already a pitcher of wine on the table. “And a cushion or two as well, love,” I called after. To Oberon, I said, “I can barely get my elbows on the table—must be a bother to Titania. Delicious little fuckbubble, by the way. Well done, there. Mad as a barrel of rats, though. Pity. Did you notice her tits go pink when she’s lying? Oh, of course you did. I’ll wager they look smashing against all this broody black and silver. Never mind. Sorry, I do go on. What did you wish to speak about?”
Oberon drained his pewter goblet, then slammed it down on the table. “I could send you to the most distant freezing shores of Neptune. Have you torn apart by dragons. You dare—”
“Aye, do that then,” said I. “Send me to Neptune, Your Darkness. Banish me to night’s plutonian shore, if you must.” I paused, waited, bounced my eyebrows in anticipation. “No? It’s customary to threaten a fool with hanging, beheading, and dismemberment.”
Oberon stood. “I shall—”
“Hot poker up the bum? Torture and kill my family? Sorry, orphan—everyone is quite dead. Among the more genteel, my company is considered torture, although when I was king, it was agreed throughout the land that I was a fucking delight. Are those turnips?” I drew one of my daggers and speared a roast turnip. A server goblin started at the sight of my knife, which would have been completely unnecessary if they’d brought me a place setting. He ran off to fetch a guard or soldier. “Mate, bring back a serviette, s’il vous pla?t,” I called in perfect fucking French. “I’m in duck fat up to my elbows.” Back to Oberon: “Sorry, do go on.”
“I am—”
“Being the king of the night, does that mean that you just fuck off during the day? Turn into a squirrel and run about demanding everyone’s nuts?”
ENTER RUMOUR, PAINTED FULL OF TONGUES
“Oh fuckstockings,” said I. There he was, his coat of many tongues wagging.
“Majesty, this rogue, this wretch, this scoundrel, this blackguard, this villain, this canker blossom, this twisted, disgusting, perverted little worm of a creature, writhing in his own bilious moral filth, seeks nothing but his own destruction, he craves your wrath to relieve him of his own fetid company.”
“Bit harsh,” said I, around a bite of turnip, which had been roasted in the pan with the duck and so had picked up some delightful flavor from the drippings.
“You took my hat, vile hedge wag.”
“I did not,” said I. “I did not take his hat,” I explained to Oberon, who was still standing and seemed quite taken aback by the appearance of the narrator.
“He doesn’t even have a head,” said the shadow king. “He’s just a floaty face.”
“One of the many elementals under my command,” said I. “This one an unruly sprite, conjured for finding a lost hat. Pardon his shit manners.”
“I am the narrator, the teller of tales, the shaper of plots. I command the elements of substance and style.”
“Back, sprite!” I commanded. “I forbid thee to harm the noble shadow king. Away, I say!”
“I will have my hat of many tongues or this story will turn on you.”
“A fairy took your hat, sprite. I will inquire where she put it after I confer with the king and he finishes torturing me and sending me to Nepenthe.”
“Neptune,” Oberon corrected.
“Right, Neptune. Now, away, sprite, or I shall start trimming the tips from the tongues on your cloak and it shall become a cloak of many lisps. Bloody humiliating, really.”
I feigned an exaggerated lunge at Rumour with my dagger and in an instant he was at the door of the chamber, standing behind two of the servants. “You do not command me, hateful scalawag, I will have my hat and I shall recapture this narrative, and you, in it, shall not fare well, fool.”
I vaulted over the table toward Rumour and took but three running steps at him before he was gone with a whoosh, calling, “Three words, fool!” behind him.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace,” I said to Oberon as I returned to my seat.