Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(72)

Chapter 20

Act 3




“The problem with act three,” said I as I paced the stage, now back in my black and silver motley, my three throwing daggers home together across my back at last, the audience paying rapt attention, their concentration no doubt sharpened by the prospect of shiny black death raining down on them at a goblin’s whim, “the problem is, we have prepared no act three. True, we could have just killed off all the sympathetic characters as we would have in Pyramus and Thisby, or in Romeo and Juliet, and sent you on your way grieving for lost love, but now we’ve rather written ourselves into a corner from which we must cleverly extricate ourselves with the use of guile, subterfuge, and, of course, the staple device of royals around the world: heinous fuckery most foul.”

“Shoot him!” Oberon shouted to the goblin archers. “Kill the fool!”

I danced to Oberon’s side of the stage. “But they won’t, will they, oh king of shadows? Because you have no power but that they give you, and they seem not in a giving mood. Do sit down.”

Oberon made as if to protest and I tsk-tsked at him. “All-licensed fool,” I said, reminding him of what he still did not know—whether or not I had the powers of the Puck.

“You all will no doubt want to get to burying your duke, but first, let us meet the players and solve a mystery, shall we?” I waved my company onstage, all of them still in costume but for the fairies, who were back in their black robes. Helena had joined them and wore what was left of her torn, shortened, soot-stained gown.

“Ladies and gents, the Rude Mechanicals,” I said with a wave of presentation. And there was terrified silence in the room. “Well clap, you wallies, if they weren’t here you would be but a pile of bleeding corpses.”

Tentative applause expanded to a full ovation, at which point I took my place at the center of the players and led them in a bow. The Mechanicals were veritably glowing with the attention, while the fairies looked a bit confused. Drool, wearing the hat of many tongues, well, drooled. Moth cradled monkey Jeff in her arms while I looked to the fairies and winked at Cobweb.

“Now, doubtless these three and Titania are the first fairies most of you have ever seen. But they have always been here, in the forest, where you are afraid to go at night. And you should know that only by their fertile magic are your lambs born, do your crops grow, are your milk pails filled, because this strange Athens of yours runs by forces not known in the rest of the world. These”—I waved to the balconies and around the edges of the hall—“these goblins, who graciously hold you hostage, while fierce, and frightening, and hideous—”

Gritch lowered his crossbow and waved to the crowd, displaying a smile you could grind your bones upon.

“—well, they are not entirely awful, but if you’re afraid to go into the forest at night, they are a much better reason.”

Gritch bowed.

I continued. “The one magical being you all know, by person or reputation, is, or was, Robin Goodfellow, the gentle Puck, who was murdered in the forest outside of Athens, and his killer is here tonight, and there he stands.” And I pointed to Oberon, who seemed not at all surprised.

“I didn’t kill the Puck,” he said, less emphatic, I thought, than the situation called for.

“No, you did not fire the bolt that killed him, but you sent the goblin assassin.”

“I did not,” said the king of the night.

“Well why, then, did you kill Talos, the goblin who did fire the bolt? I saw it.”

“Because you told me he killed the Puck, and the Puck was my faithful servant, and Titania wished justice. Or so you said.”

“Aha!” said I. “Admit it, you met with Hippolyta, and she promised a silver armlet for the goblin Talos as pay to kill the Puck, then you arranged for him to be at Turtle Grotto at dawn to kill the Puck.”

“How would I know where the Puck would be at dawn?” said Oberon. “I had sent him to enchant Titania, as in your little pantomime, and never saw him again.”

“Twat,” said Titania out of the corner of her mouth.

“Tart,” retorted the shadow king.

The Indian boy studied the air before him, his visage as vacant as a cloudless sky.

“I see,” said I, now walking back among my players.

“You’re doing smashing,” said Cobweb. “Tell them about Puck’s three magic words, like Rumour told you.”

I wheeled on Oberon. “But you were jealous of the Puck having dalliances with Titania, so you killed him.”

“You’re bloody barking, fool. You know well the Puck’s talents, and their value to me, why would I kill him over this well-used slag?”

“Who killed the Puck?” shouted one of the goblins from the balcony.

Then a second goblin, from the floor. “Oi, who killed the Puck?”

Before I could get the crowd back a chant rose up, more voices each time, until two hundred or more voices were chanting, “Who killed the Puck? Who killed the Puck?”

I had really thought I had solved the murder, but this ungrateful rabble was not allowing me to formulate a second theory of the crime.

ENTER RUMOUR, PAINTED FULL OF TONGUES



He didn’t blow in like a whirlwind, nor blink into existence like a shooting star, he came through the antechamber door and quite deliberately trudged to the stage, past Drool, from whom he snatched his hat of many tongues, which he pulled onto his non-head. Then came to stand next to me, center stage, where he glared for a moment while the crowd continued to chant.