Wyrd Sisters

Now he felt old. He watched Tomjon hobble off the stage, and for a fleeting instant knew what it was to be a fat old man, pickled in wine, fighting old wars that no-one cared about any more, hanging grimly on to the precipice of late middle-age for fear of dropping off into antiquity, but only with one hand, because with the other he was raising two fingers at Death. Of course, he’d known that when he wrote the part. But he hadn’t known it.

The same magic didn’t seem to infuse the new play. They tried it a few times, just to see how it went. The audience watched attentively, and went home. They didn’t even bother to throw anything. It wasn’t that they thought it was bad. They didn’t think it was anything.

But all the right ingredients were there, weren’t they? Tradition was full of people giving evil rulers a well-justified seeing to. Witches were always a draw. The apparition of Death was particularly good, with some lovely lines. Mix them all together … and they seemed to cancel out, become a mere humdrum way of filling the stage for a couple of hours.

Late at night, when the cast was asleep, Hwel would sit up in one of the carts and feverishly rewrite. He rearranged scenes, cut lines, added lines, introduced a clown, included another fight, and tuned up the special effects. It didn’t seem to have any effect. The play was like some marvellous intricate painting, a feast of impressions close to, a mere blur from the distance.

When the inspirations were sleeting fast he even tried changing the style. In the morning the early risers grew accustomed to finding discarded experiments decorating the grass around the carts, like extremely literate mushrooms.

Tomjon kept one of the strangest:

1ST WITCHE: He’s late.^{64}

(Pause)

2ND WITCHE: He said he would come.

(Pause)

3RD WITCHE: He said he would come but he hasn’t. This is my last newt. I saved it for him. And he hasn’t come.

(Pause)

‘I think,’ said Tomjon, later, ‘you ought to slow down a bit. You’ve done what was ordered. No-one said it had to sparkle.’

‘It could, you know. If I could just get it right.’

‘You’re absolutely sure about the ghost, are you?’ said Tomjon. The way he threw the line away made it clear that he wasn’t.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the ghost,’ snapped Hwel. ‘The scene with the ghost is the best I’ve done.’

‘I was just wondering if this is the right play for it, that’s all.’

‘The ghost stays. Now let’s get on, boy.’

——

Two days later, with the Ramtops a blue and white wall that was beginning to dominate the Hubward horizon, the company was attacked. There wasn’t much drama; they had just manhandled the lattys across a ford and were resting in the shade of a grove of trees, which suddenly fruited robbers.

Hwel looked along the line of half a dozen stained and rusty blades. Their owners seemed slightly uncertain about what to do next.

‘We’ve got a receipt somewhere—’ he began.

Tomjon nudged him. ‘These don’t look like Guild thieves,’ he hissed. ‘They definitely look freelance to me.’

It would be nice to say that the leader of the robbers was a black-bearded, swaggering brute, with a red headscarf and one gold earring and a chin you could clean pots with. Actually it would be practically compulsory. And, in fact, this was so. Hwel thought the wooden leg was overdoing it, but the man had obviously studied the role.

‘Well now,’ said the bandit chief. ‘What have we here, and do they have any money?’

‘We’re actors,’ said Tomjon.

‘That ought to answer both questions,’ said Hwel.

‘And none of your repartee,’ said the bandit. ‘I’ve been to the city, I have. I know repartee when I see it and—’ he half turned to his followers, raising an eyebrow to indicate that the next remark was going to be witty —’if you’re not careful I can make a few cutting remarks of my own.’

There was dead silence behind him until he made an impatient gesture with his cutlass.

‘All right,’ he said, against a chorus of uncertain laughter. ‘We’ll just take any loose change, valuables, food and clothing you might be having.’

‘Could I say something?’ said Tomjon.

The company backed away from him. Hwel smiled at his own feet.

‘You’re going to beg for mercy, are you?’ said the bandit.

‘That’s right.’

Hwel thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at the sky, whistling under his breath and trying not to break into a maniac grin. He was aware that the other actors were also looking expectantly at Tomjon.

He’s going to give them the mercy speech from The Troll’s Tale, he thought …

‘The point I’d just like to make is that—’ said Tomjon, and his stance changed subtly, his voice became deeper, his right hand flung out dramatically —’“The worth of man lies not in feats of arms, Or the fiery hunger o’ the ravening—”’