Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(59)

“Look, it’s the squirrel again,” said Robin Starveling, who was wisely keeping a safe distance, although I could have speared him in the knee with a thrown dagger if I wished, the thought of which calmed me somewhat.

Cobweb ran down a nearby tree trunk to my eye level and barked at me again, evidently having appointed herself my conscience. The Mechanicals stared at her in wonder, and I almost set into another tirade before I remembered that only three days ago I had tried to talk Snug out of modeling his performance of a lion upon a chicken. So the fauna of the forest held more fascination for these fellows than most.

And Cobweb was right. It was not the Mechanicals with whom I was aggrieved, it was the circumstances in which I’d found them. The conditions under which they lived. Them, the fairies, the goblins, everyone in this godforsaken land. It was then that it occurred to me how to address the puzzle of the Puck and perhaps his three magic fucking words.

“Lads,” said I. “The play’s the thing.”

“Aye,” said Peter Quince. “Which is why we are here rehearsing.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said I, waving him off. “First, Snug, you did not kill the Puck.”

“I did,” said Snug. “With a crossbow from my shop.”

“You didn’t,” said I. “He was already dead and cooling in the duke’s dungeon when I shared lunch with you and your wife and you thought him still alive at the time.”

“I did. I avenged my Bess’s honor. Shot that rascal right in the chest, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“In the neck. Put a bolt right in his throat.”

“No, you didn’t.” I patted his shoulder, rubbing that spot where I had only recently smacked him with my puppet, hoping to bring him some comfort. “The Puck was shot in the back. By a goblin, who did it for silver.”

“They’ll kill anyone for silver,” said Bottom. “But the goblin was only the weapon.”

“There ain’t no such thing as goblins,” said Robin Starveling.

“I will kill you where you stand,” said I to the tailor with a smile, one hand behind my back on the hilt of a throwing dagger. Three words, I said to calm myself.

“Around here, I mean,” said Starveling meekly. “Maybe where you blokes have been . . .”

“Just so,” said I. “Peter Quince, have you quill, ink, and parchment with you?”

“I do, Master Pocket.”

“Then we shall write a new play, a variation on your themes, and we will rehearse it until sundown and you shall perform it for the duke at his wedding and be brilliant.”

“Do you think . . . ,” said Bottom. “Do you think you could write a part for me? A horse part, perhaps? I would be an excellent Pegasus, I think. No, a unicorn. Quince, write me a unicorn part and I shall be such a unicorn as will make the men weep and the ladies dampen their chairs with excitement.”

I went to the bedonkeyed weaver and put my arm around his shoulders, for truly our fate had made us brothers in arms. “Oh, there will be a horse part for you, good Bottom. Such a horse part that before your hooves the world shall wither.”





Chapter 17

Maps for Squirrels




I confess, a wall of worry rises for even the most confident fool when he realizes that his plot for saving the day lies with three squirrels, a troupe of earnest nitwits, a donkey-headed weaver, a silver-thirsty goblin, a notoriously unreliable narrator, and a hat-shagging monkey. And the narrator and goblins hadn’t even arrived yet!

Therein, perhaps, lay the flaw in my quickly formulated plan to meet at the trailhead at dusk. For even with Rumour’s hat retrieved—as Cobweb, Peaseblossom, and Moth had managed to somehow lure monkey Jeff and the hat of many tongues to the rendezvous, although they could not explain how, because they were still fucking squirrels—Rumour had not yet arrived at the trailhead, and even if he did, he had not agreed to retrieve the love potion flower to give to Theseus to secure Drool’s release, and the backup plan, if he did not appear or agree, depended upon the fairies’ still being fucking squirrels, which they would cease to be at dusk, the aforementioned meeting time. Therefore, I found myself drawing maps in the dirt for the squirrels, who, perched on Bottom’s shoulders, looked on, along with a troupe of well-meaning ninnies, and monkey Jeff, who sat on a branch above, eating a fig and making lascivious eyes at the hat of many tongues, which Bottom was wearing.

“I will try to stay with you, but I suspect they may not let me in, so you’ll need a plan.” I pointed with a small stick. “This is the gate into the gendarmerie, which leads to the dungeon down this corridor.” I drew a map of the corridor from memory, glad that I’d taken note of all the doors and passages on my way out. “You’ll pass four heavy doors and you’ll come to a passageway, where you will go left.”

I looked up to make sure everyone was following along. “Nod if you understand. Wait, do squirrels nod?”

The white and red squirrels twitched their tails, while the brown squirrel stood motionless on Bottom’s shoulder, as if trying to conceal herself from a hawk. Of course, Peaseblossom the squirrel was also simple.

“How many doors?” asked Snug the joiner.

“Never mind how many doors. There’s no counting. My mistake. Just go until you run into the first junction of a passageway and go left. Left. Do you get that?” Three tails twitched.