“Oh!” said Scarlet. “That’s where those tools came from. I always wondered why my corpse was surrounded by rusted hammers and saws and other things I didn’t recognize.”
“You never knew how you died?” Paul asked.
“Dead is dead,” said Scarlet. “It never seemed important.”
“I think I’d want to know, especially if someone was behind it.”
“I always assumed it was an accident,” Scarlet said. “After all, who’d want to hurt me?”
“Who indeed,” Paul said. “Maybe that’s why Riordan is so distraught. Maybe someone else was supposed to be the victim?”
“Someone else?” asked Scarlet. “We were just a band of actors.”
“Riordan said it should have been him.” It occurred to Paul then that he might be looking at the whole thing the wrong way ’round. Riordan’s odd comments. His failing health. His guilt. His locking himself up in an insane asylum. Had Scarlet’s death been a botched suicide attempt? Had Riordan positioned those tools to fall on himself?
Paul had never felt more exhausted. And it was only Tuesday morning. He’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, racking his memories of those last few weeks of drama class back in high school for signs of advanced depression in Mr. Riordan’s actions.
Back then, Paul hadn’t known what depression was. At the time, the nation had been hooked on Valium, and high school kids, like himself, saw it simply as some form of legalized LSD. It wasn’t until doctors had stopped overprescribing the drug and alternative treatments were sought that chronic depression became an everyday phrase.
But even knowing what he knew now, Paul couldn’t recall a single sign. Mr. Riordan had been one of the most life-loving people Paul had ever met. Smiles and jokes came to his lips as easily as breath. It was one of the reasons Paul had looked up to him.
“What scene shall we run through now?” Sylvia asked.
Paul shook himself and realized that the students, having finished the Banquo murder scene, were looking at him. “The banquet scene is next,” Paul said. “We still don’t have the blocking down. And the guests still just stand around, looking at each other, rather than making small talk.”
The students assigned as stagehands immediately began moving the castle wall flats into place, while Banquo and the three murderers helped to move the scenery flats depicting Scotland’s forested countryside out of the way. The murder actually took place in a park outside the castle, but using the rougher forest setting worked just as well.
Fleance joined the banquet cast, pulling a white tunic on over his woodsman costume. He would double as one of the servants.
When the set was ready, Paul lifted his megaphone. “Curtain rises.”
The servants hustled out onto the stage, looking much more organized than they had in past run-throughs. In no time, they were standing against the castle walls as the guests arrived. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth smiled and laughed politely as they greeted them.
Then Macbeth turned to the audience and spread wide his hands. “You know your own degrees; sit down: at first and last the hearty welcome.”
The guests began finding seats while the First Murderer appeared at the edge of the stage and Macbeth quietly joined him. A few lines later, “Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scaped.”
Dismissing the murderer, Macbeth exchanged words with his wife, Lennox, and Ross. Then Lenny proceeded to give perhaps the best performance of his life when he glanced at his supposedly empty seat. Macbeth stared then did a double take.
“What is’t that moves your highness?” Lennox asked.
Macbeth looked out over the guests and said, “Where the hell is Banquo?”
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” Paul almost threw down his megaphone in despair. “You have the sentiment correct, Lenny, but your line is: Which of you have done this?”
Lenny lifted his hands. “But there’s no Banquo. John was supposed to ghost his way through the guests and sit in my chair. He didn’t.”
Paul was at a loss. Banquo was sitting right where he should be. Paul had watched his entrance and stumble-free passage across the crowded stage. It wasn’t John Freedman’s best effort in the scene, but it was passable.
Lenny and the other students were looking about the stage, as if trying to find the missing student. If it was a joke on their teacher, Paul failed to see the humour. John was still sitting in Banquo’s chair, and Scarlet was talking to him. John was talking back.
Paul felt the megaphone slip through numb fingers and clatter against the hardwood floor. Almost before he could wonder how John could talk back to Scarlet, Paul saw that Banquo wasn’t John Freedman at all but a smallish man with dark hair tending to silver. His chin showed several days’ growth, and his costume was . . . the only way Paul could describe it was that the man’s costume was more authentic than the tunic, workpants, and boots John Freedman had assembled.
“I found him!” one of the students yelled from backstage.
Paul forced himself to ignore Scarlet and the mystery Banquo and follow his wife and the other students to the farthest corner of backstage, where John Freedman lay curled up in a ball, snoring away.
“Should we call the nurse?” asked Gemma.
Paul couldn’t tell if she was worried or stifling a laugh.
“Let’s wake him up and ask,” Paul said.
One poke and the boy jumped awake. “What? What? What happened?” John looked around at everyone watching him then climbed quickly to his feet.
“Are you okay?” Paul asked. “We found you sleeping back here instead of haunting the banquet scene.”
“I’m fine,” John said. “Fine. I don’t know what came over me. One moment I was watching for my cue, and the next I was dead tired.” His face reddened. “Sorry if I ruined the scene.”
“That’s not important,” Paul said. “As long as you’re okay.”
The bell rang, ending class.
Sylvia stopped John as the students began stowing their costumes. “If you feel tired or in any way odd, go see the nurse. There’s a cot in the room beside her office where you can catch a nap if you need one.”
“I’m not tired,” John insisted. “I don’t know why I fell asleep.” He left with the rest of the students, appearing just fine, if a bit shaken.
“Feel like an early lunch?” Sylvia asked Paul.
But Paul hadn’t forgotten the false Banquo. “I have a lot of things to do before my first-year class,” he lied. “Rain check?”
Sylvia smiled. “Sure. I’ll let you get to it.”
By the time the auditorium was empty and Paul had returned to the stage, the odd little man was gone and Scarlet was sitting in Macbeth’s chair, frowning.
“You’ll never guess who that was,” Scarlet said when Paul approached.
“Probably not, so I won’t even try.”
Scarlet let out a short, high-pitched laugh. “That was Banquo’s ghost.”
“Well, obviously,” Paul began.
“No, I mean the real Banquo.”
Paul dropped into one of the other banquet chairs. “There was a real Banquo? Macbeth is just a play.”
“Based on real history,” Scarlet said. “Apparently Shakespeare took a lot of liberties with it. Banquo said that he was forced to read the play before making his appearance and that he was rather appalled by the whole thing.”
Paul grinned. “Too much ruthless bloodshed?”
“No,” said Scarlet. “Not enough. But that wasn’t what rankled him. It was the ghosts and witches. He says there’s no such thing.”
“But he’s a ghost himself, isn’t he?”
Scarlet rose up from the chair and stepped along the trestle table. “He is now. But he says he never even met Macbeth, never mind haunted his banquet. He also thought it amusing that Shakespeare drove Macbeth insane with guilt for murdering Duncan, when Macbeth was only defending himself from Duncan’s ambition. He said that Macbeth went on to have a relatively long, peaceful, and prosperous reign.”
“That’s all very interesting,” Paul said, and it was, “but where did this ghost come from?”
“You’re not going to like that part.” Scarlet paused a moment. “He said that a witch summoned him from his grave to haunt the play.”
Paul swallowed. “A witch?”
Scarlet nodded.
“A real witch?”
“Apparently it was the same witch who killed him almost a thousand years ago.”
Paul wasn’t sure yet if he himself believed in ghosts, never mind witches. He could certainly feel where Banquo was coming from. “Yet he said he doesn’t believe in ghosts or witches.”
Scarlet let out a small laugh. “That’s why he was rankled. He didn’t know that the decrepit old woman who had poisoned him was a witch until this morning, when she summoned him out of a cauldron.”
“A cauldron?”
Scarlet shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Well, why wouldn’t a witch use a cauldron? Where is he now?”
“He said he’s only allowed to appear during the banquet scene to take your Banquo’s place.” Scarlet put up a hand. “No. Allowed is the wrong word. He is forced to appear.”
“That’s inconvenient,” Paul said. “Did he say why?”
“I started to ask him that when he faded away. From what little he said, I gather he’s supposed to frighten you into insanity.”
Paul flexed his hands. “He may annoy me to death, but I’ve sort of gotten comfortable with ghosts.”
“But you should be frightened,” Scarlet said. “According to him, a witch is trying to curse the play.”
“Oh, I will be frightened,” Paul said, knowing that he was right back to where he was a week ago. “As soon as all this sinks in, I’ll be so frightened that I won’t be able to leave my house.” A witch is trying to curse the play.
As Scarlet’s ghost faded away, Paul still didn’t know if he could believe any of it, but he did know one thing: he could no longer ignore it.
It was almost midnight, and Paul still hadn’t woken up from the nightmare he’d been living since second-period class. He lay awake with Sylvia snoring beside him, oblivious to the news that a witch was cursing his high school production of Macbeth.
There was no such thing as witches.
Paul had made some allowance for ghosts. He could almost believe that the play was haunted by not one but two ghosts. He had seen them with his own two eyes. He had spoken with one. And she had spoken with the other. They seemed harmless. He could almost even ignore them and life would go on.
But the second ghost had been sent by a witch . . . to drive Paul insane. Paul couldn’t imagine what he had done to deserve such attention.
“Are you still awake?”
Paul hadn’t noticed when Sylvia had stopped snoring. “Restless,” he said.
Sylvia slid herself up against the headboard and adjusted her pillow. “It’s more than that. You’ve been sleeping badly on and off since the school term started. Something’s troubling you. It’s not the gorgon lady, is it? What’s she up to now? Since Susie put the kibosh on her petition, I know she must be planning something. People like Cadwell don’t lose graciously.”
“No doubt,” Paul said. “But I have no idea what she’s up to. Winston has demanded that I keep my distance.”
“Not too much distance, I hope,” said Sylvia. “There’s a PTA meeting tomorrow night. Perhaps we should go.”
Paul sputtered as he attempted to talk. “Attend a PTA meeting? They’d skin us alive.”
“But we’re parents!” said Sylvia.
“We’re not Cadwell’s brand of parents. We’d be as welcome as a bad rash.”
“I supposed you’re right,” Sylvia said. “But we do need to place a spy in their ranks. Maybe one of Susie’s friends’ parents.”
“A spy?” In all Paul’s years of teaching, he had never once thought of spying on the PTA. “That’s . . . brilliant! We can be two steps ahead of Cadwell instead of two steps behind.”
Sylvia reached over and squeezed Paul’s shoulder. “Maybe now you can get some sleep.”
Paul placed one of his hands over one of Sylvia’s. Planned or not, Sylvia was his partner in this play, and he had been keeping her in the dark. “The gorgon is the least of my worries,” he admitted.
There. He had opened the door. He knew Sylvia well enough to know that she wouldn’t let him close it again or pretend that it wasn’t open. He had as good as told her everything already.
Sylvia remained silent, and Paul decided to keep talking rather than wait for her to prod. “You must think I’m nuts since I told you I was seeing Scarlet Walker’s ghost,” he said.
“I’ve chosen to keep an open mind,” Sylvia said. “Stranger things have happened. Like Susie enjoying drama.” His wife chuckled.
“Then you’d better keep that mind open a little longer.”
“Go on.”
Paul took a deep breath. “Yesterday I introduced Scarlet to Mr. Riordan.”
“I see,” said Sylvia. “How did that go?”
“Of course he couldn’t see her,” Paul said, “but Scarlet was happy to see him. I sort of translated their conversation.”
“Mr. Riordan believed you?”
“To be honest,” Paul said, “I’m not really sure. It freaked him out and he left.”
Sylvia was silent for a moment. “So you still have no real evidence that this ghost is real?”
Paul could almost hear his wife’s next words. Have you seen a doctor?
But that isn’t what she said. “You’re going to have to get proof.”
“Proof? Why? It’s not like I have to convince anyone. Scarlet is harmless.”
Sylvia moved her hand from beneath his and punched him in the shoulder. “So you can convince yourself, silly. So that you can sleep.”
Paul took a deep breath. “That’s not what’s keeping me awake. A second ghost showed up today.”
“A second ghost?” For the first time, Paul heard disbelief creep into his wife’s voice.
“Yeah. The weird part is that this ghost claims to be Banquo. The real Banquo. From history.”
“There was a real Banquo?”
Paul shrugged. “So the ghost claims.”
“The ghost told you this?”
“He told Scarlet while we were making sure John Freedman was okay.”
Sylvia’s hand tightened on his arm. “The ghosts were there today? Both of them? I didn’t see either.”
“I told you. Only I can see them. And they can see each other.”
Sylvia was silent for a moment, thinking. “So you’re saying that this ghost of Banquo took John’s place in the rehearsal?”
“Yes!” Paul said, perhaps a little too excitedly. Did Sylvia actually believe him? “That’s why I didn’t stop the scene when John didn’t show up. I was watching the real ghost of Banquo in his place.”
His wife nodded, causing her pillow to shift against the headboard. “It’s not actually proof, but it’s a start.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is. That boy didn’t just spontaneously catnap in the middle of rehearsal. He was put to sleep.”
“By the ghost? But Scarlet said that she couldn’t interfere with real life. She can only observe.”
“Has she tried?” Sylvia asked. “I don’t know much about ghosts. But can’t they move objects and make people see things?”
“In the movies,” Paul said. “But that’s just stories.”
“All stories have a basis in fact. You just told me there was once a real Banquo.”
“Nothing like Shakespeare’s Banquo.”
Sylvia harrumphed. “Even so, this Banquo’s ghost put one of your students to sleep. No wonder you’re worried.”
“Actually,” Paul said, “that’s not what’s worrying me.”
“There’s more?”
“Banquo said that he was sent by a witch to drive me insane.”
Stunned silence. Then Sylvia said, “That ghost is out of his mind. There’s no such thing as witches.”
Paul was both exhausted and invigorated as he and Sylvia entered the empty auditorium on Wednesday morning just before class. The exhaustion was from getting little sleep two nights in a row. The invigoration was because he was no longer alone in his potential insanity. Sylvia not only knew about both ghosts but also seemed more inclined than he was to believe they were real. And today they were on a mission: to find out more about this so-called witch behind Banquo’s ghost.
“Is she here?” Sylvia asked.
“Standing right in front of us,” Paul said. “Scarlet, this is my wife, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Scarlet. She’s an actress who performed with Mr. Riordan.”
Scarlet frowned. “I know who Sylvia is. She’s been here almost every day. And I never performed with Simon. We shared several weeks of rehearsals before I died.” Then she smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Scarlet says she’s pleased to meet you,” Paul said to Sylvia.
Sylvia spoke to the ghost’s left shoulder. “Have you tried to make other people see you? Ghosts in the movies can do it.”
“I’m not in a movie,” Scarlet said. “And of course I’ve tried. I’ve tried until I’m blue in the face. Not literally, of course. And I’ve tried moving things. With my hands and with my mind. The only thing I’ve been able to accomplish is to not fall through the floor.”
“Scarlet says she’s tried,” Paul said. “And she can’t move objects either.”
Sylvia shook her head. “But the other ghost can make Paul see him. And he put that boy to sleep.”
Scarlet waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been thinking about that. It must have been the witch who did those things.”
Paul conveyed Scarlet’s words then added, “We have to find out more about this witch. We’re going to run through the banquet scene again today, and Scarlet, I need you to find out from Banquo as much as you can.”
“Promise him anything,” Sylvia said. “But make him agree to not tell the witch that we’re on to her.”
“What if the witch is here watching? Invisible?” Scarlet asked.
Paul let out a deep breath and repeated the ghost’s question to Sylvia.
Sylvia shook her head. “Then we’re pretty much screwed no matter what we do. But we can’t do nothing. If Scarlet has a better idea, we’d love to hear it.”
Scarlet didn’t. And by the time Paul and Sylvia had set the stage and the students began arriving, none of them had come up with a better plan.
Paul sat in his director’s chair and toyed with his megaphone while his actors assembled. The second chair was empty. Sylvia had gone backstage and concealed herself behind the forest scenery flats. Paul had no idea if she could hide from a ghost or if she would see anything, but it was worth a shot.
“Okay, students,” Paul said. “We’re going to pick up from where we left off yesterday: the banquet scene. Go get your costumes and get ready for the curtain to go up.” When they were ready, Paul said, “Curtain.”
Like the previous day, the servants hustled out onto the stage, once again looking like real servants. They placed their burdens on the trestle tables and faded backward to stand against the castle walls. The guests entered merrily from stage left and mingled in front of the tables, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth greeting them.
Macbeth then spoke the cue for the guests to sit. “You know your own degrees; sit down: at first and last the hearty welcome.”
The First Murderer appeared and reported to Macbeth. “My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.”
Macbeth dismissed the murderer and hobnobbed with Lady Macbeth and some of the thanes. He then went to his seat, looked out at his guests, and went horribly off script. “Banquo’s missing again.”
“Pretend he’s there!” Paul shouted into his megaphone. He waved back at the empty theatre seats. “The audience is watching. Unless the director lowers the curtain, you continue the scene. Adlib if necessary. You can’t just stop. The show must go on!”
Lenny shrugged and made a halfhearted effort at his lines, pretending to see the ghost taking up his empty seat. “Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you?”
Paul didn’t care what Lenny or the other students did, so long as the scene continued. What was important was that Paul could see the ghost sulking in Macbeth’s seat, then vanish, then return after Macbeth’s toast to the absent Banquo. All the while, Scarlet hounded him, talking fast and waving her hands, coaxing words out of the reluctant ghost until Macbeth’s final importuned banishment sent him away for good.
The scene ended two minutes later, and Paul called, “Curtain.”
The students immediately rushed backstage, Paul chasing after them, and found John Freedman fast asleep with Sylvia standing over him.
“Unbelievable!” said Lenny. “Is John trying to ruin my performance?”
“This isn’t about you,” said Gemma. “John must have mono or something.”
Paul hadn’t heard anyone mention mono since he was in high school. He wasn’t even sure it was a real illness. A kissing disease that made you sleepy? There were just too many connotations you could hang on that.
“Gemma,” said Sylvia, “you and some of your friends please take John to the nurse’s office and ask her to check him out.”
“The rest of you,” Paul said, “go find a spot up in the theatre seats and practice your lines until the bell. Some of you aren’t completely off book yet.”
John looked sheepish when Sylvia woke him up but knew better than to argue. There was no argument for falling asleep twice in two days.
Once they were alone backstage, Sylvia said, “John just sat down and fell asleep. One moment he was awake, and the next, he was visiting dreamland.”
“It happened the moment Banquo appeared,” Scarlet said. “Banquo didn’t do anything. He just appeared from thin air, and the boy dropped off.”
“What did he say?” Paul asked. “Banquo didn’t look very cooperative from where I was sitting.”
Scarlet shook her head. “It was confusing. I think he was scared. He said the last thing he remembered was talking to me yesterday. The next moment, he was here again. It’s like he didn’t exist during the time in between.”
“That’s not what it’s like for you?” Sylvia asked when Paul relayed Scarlet’s words.
Scarlet nodded. “I’ve been awake every moment since I died. No sleep. No lost time.”
“Did he agree to help us?” Paul asked.
Scarlet shrugged. “He said he hasn’t seen the witch since she woke him up and ordered him to read Shakespeare’s play. After that, he’s been with us twice, with no memory of anything in between. He doesn’t think there is anything he can do. He sounded pretty fatalistic.” Scarlet shuddered. “I’m glad I’m not him.”
“So we still know nothing about this witch,” Sylvia said. “What she can do. Why she’s doing it. What we can do about it.”
“Maybe she’s cursing the play,” said Scarlet.
“Should we cancel the play?” Paul asked.
“But the kids,” said Sylvia. “They’re working so hard. And Susie has never been happier.”
“I know,” Paul said. There was a heavy lump in his stomach. “But I’m out of ideas.”
“I’m reluctant to admit this,” said Agatha. “But I’m growing tired of GrillBurgers and fries.”
“Try one with cheese,” Gertrude suggested. “And order poutine instead of fries.”
“I can’t abide poutine,” said Netty. “Or anything else French. Quiche. Crepes. Baguettes. You call that food? How the French can stomach any of it is beyond me.”
“Poutine originated in Canada,” said Agatha, “not France.”
“You like the French fries well enough,” Gertrude said. “Heh. You’ve eaten enough fries to sink an iceberg.”
“You’re mixing your metaphones again,” said Netty. “They might call the fries French, but they’re from Belgium, along with Trappist Beer, Godiva chocolate, the Smurfs, and Jean-Claude Van Damme.”
Gertrude’s eyes went shiny. “Jean-Claude Van Damme.”
“I’m going to send out for pizza,” Agatha said. “Who’s with me?”
“No anchovies, please,” said Netty. “It was the French who put anchovies on pizza.”
“No it wasn’t,” said Agatha.
“From that little place downtown?” asked Gertrude. “Where they weave a rope of cheese through the crust?”
Agatha nodded.
“Then count me in.” Gertrude licked her disfigured lips. “I don’t care what’s on it. I’m just going to eat the crust.”
“That’s no proper way to eat pizza,” Netty said. She looked at Agatha. “What’s that you’ve got?”
The tall witch’s face reddened. “A cell phone. How else am I going to order pizza?”
“You?” Gertrude asked. “A cell phone? Heh. You’re the one who still takes carriages rather than a taxi.”
Agatha harrumphed. “Have you seen taxi fares lately? Five dollars. And that’s before you’ve even left the driveway.” She pressed the number three on the phone and held the device to her ear.
“You’ve got the pizza place on speed dial!” Netty crowed.
“Sometimes,” Agatha sniffed, “you need to give a nod to change. Yes, it’s Agatha. I’d like the usual. Times three. On my tab, yes.”
“You’ve got a tab?” Netty let out an uncomfortable cackle.
“Deliver it to the Dairy Queen next to Ashcroft Senior High. Yes, the Dairy Queen.” Then she hung up and buried the phone somewhere in her layers of shawls. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Perhaps we should see how our ghost is doing.”
Gertrude smiled like a Cheshire cat. “You just don’t want us to heckle you about your cell phone.”
“Heckle all you like,” invited Agatha. “No phone, no pizza. Oh, look! We have company.”
Where moments earlier the bench seat next to Netty had been vacant, it was now occupied by a diminutive man with scraggly, greying hair and three days’ growth on his chin. He sported a scar beneath his left eye, was missing half his teeth, and wore a grey tunic that had seen better days. His eyes were very wide, with a yellow tinge where there should have been white. Those eyes were currently shifting among the witches’ faces.
“There are three of you!” he said.
“Oh my,” said Gertrude. “The boy can count. Who knew?”
“You brought him here?” Netty cried. “To the Dairy Queen? What will the staff think?”
Agatha let out a cackle. “They’ll think that we haven’t moved from this spot in three weeks and that Hecate has dropped in every day or three wearing some outrageous outfit. In other words, they won’t think anything. It’s business as usual.”
“What do you want?” Banquo mewled in a trembling voice.
“The boy’s got cojones too,” said Gertrude.
“He’s ill?” asked Netty. “I didn’t think ghosts could get ill.”
Gertrude rolled her eyes at Netty. “Christmas is coming. I’ll get you a dictionary.”
“Please,” Banquo whimpered. “Just let me go to my rest.”
“Of course,” said Agatha. “When the job’s done. Tell us, how goes our drama teacher’s sanity?”
“Who?” asked Banquo.
“The man in charge of the play,” Gertrude said, “the one who can see you.”
“Oh,” said Banquo. “The fellow shouting through the horn. What a magnificent device. I could have used that on the field of battle. If I—”
“His sanity!” Agatha repeated just a tad more forcefully.
Banquo looked at her and at the other two witches with large eyes.
“He’s thinking something,” Netty said. “I don’t like ghosts who think.”
“Stop thinking!” Agatha ordered.
Banquo shrank back against the bench seat. “I—I’m just trying to decide how to answer. I’ve only observed him for perhaps ten minutes in total. And all that time he was sitting a distance away from me in a tall chair, watching. When he wasn’t shouting ‘Curtain’ or ‘Cut’ into that horn of his, whatever that means.”
Gertrude frowned. “He didn’t jump out of his chair and cry out with fright that he was seeing a dead man while no one else around him could?”
Banquo stared at her. “Um, no, the boy in the black outfit did that. Which is odd because he also claimed that he should be able to see me but couldn’t. Is confusion adequate? I don’t know if anyone was insane, but there was much confusion in the room.”
Then Banquo was gone.
“It’s too soon,” Gertrude said.
“What’s too soon?” asked Hecate. “And who was that fellow warming my seat for me?” The senior witch wore a fluffy white dress with puffy sleeves and had a piece of white cloth woven through her hair. Her makeup was modest, and she looked a decade younger than usual.
“That was Banquo’s ghost,” Netty said. “He was reporting in.”
Hecate grimaced. “I don’t like ghosts. They’re always uppity and protective of their haunts.”
“Banquo is a summoned ghost,” said Gertrude, “not a haunting ghost. We wouldn’t dream of meddling with a haunting ghost. Nothing good can come of it.”
“What are you supposed to be now?” Agatha asked. “Snow White?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hecate. “Well, actually, yes, I am. But it’s a complicated story, so I’m not getting into it.” Princess Hecate sniffed. “I was thinking about our last conversation, and I’ve changed my mind. Using Banquo’s ghost to turn the director into his own Macbeth isn’t brilliant. I finally got around to reading the play and—”
“Yhaaaah!” Agatha let out an ear-rending howl. “You’ve never read the play?”
Hecate continued as if nothing had happened. “—the ghost played a much more minor role than I had been led to believe. He was barely on stage for five minutes.”
“You’ve never read the play!” repeated Agatha.
“And he had no lines,” Hecate finished. “Using him as a curse is like slapping a soldier in the face with a duck.”
Silence.
“A what?” asked Gertrude.
“A minor inconvenience,” suggested Hecate. “No wonder it is taking you weeks to curse the play. If all you’re using as ammunition is wilburys from a gaudy Anglo-Saxon skit—”
“Skit!” Actual thunderclouds formed over Netty’s head. “This ‘skit’ has been our livelihood for over four hundred years. We have slept, eaten, and breathed this ‘skit’ until we are red in the face.”
“Blue,” suggested Gertrude. “Blue in the face. Not red.”
“Blue, then,” said Netty. “And we have been doing this on your orders!”
Hecate let a cold smile creep across her young, flawless lips. “Well, what did you expect? Ineptitude is punished, not rewarded. And four hundred years is just the beginning of your punishment.”
Gertrude turned to Agatha. “What is this silly young girl on about?”
“She’s on my nerves,” said Agatha. “Apart from that, I have no idea.”
Hecate’s girlish face grew suddenly long and horselike, the carefully styled hair fought against the white bow, and the heads of snakes emerged and bobbed about as though dancing to a soundless tune. If a thundercloud had formed over Netty’s head, the rest of the storm had found refuge above Hecate.
Hecate grinned though overlarge teeth. “You didn’t think your reprimands were the end of it, did you?”
A weathered document appeared on the table in front of Agatha. Parchment that was once the pale white of human skin was now almost black with age, yet the words could still be read. A Weirding, it said. For Sister Agatha, for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
A similar document appeared in front of Gertrude. A Weirding for Sister Gertrude, for behaviour unbecoming of a witch.
A third document appeared in front of Netty. A Weirding for Sister Anjennette, for failing to show the merest smidgen of witchlike zeal.
Gertrude stared at Netty. “You got an award too? You never said.”
Netty’s thick lips curled into a frown. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning.”
“Award!” shrieked Hecate. “You have you no idea what Weirding means, do you? You three have the distinction of being the only witches in history to be so disappointing, so vexatious, so utterly useless as witches as to earn the Weirding title!”
“Are we?” asked Agatha. Hecate’s visage and demeanour were enough to frighten bark off a tree, but Agatha was having none of it. She tapped a bony finger on the table in front of the senior witch. “If we’re such pariahs, what did you do to earn the privilege of being our boss?”
Hecate glared at each of them in turn then vanished.
“Uhrm,” said a voice.
Standing next to the table was a skinny, freckle-faced kid with long hair and bad breath. He held three pizza boxes in his trembling hands. “Did someone order delivery?”
Paul spent the remainder of the day, when he wasn’t in class, in the school library. He flipped the pages of countless books and searched the Internet until his eyes were sore. If he had thought the World Wide Web held too much inconsistent and frivolous information on ghosts, ghosts had nothing on witches.
They ranged from housewives experimenting with herbal remedies to candle-lighting sorority girls, to baby-eating daughters of the Devil. And he found all that in the first five minutes.
Eventually he focused his efforts on the Weird Sisters from Macbeth, who were arguably not witches at all. If the three hags hadn’t been focused on Macbeth’s destiny, they might be hedge witches or village wise women. The more he searched, the more he confirmed his original thought, that the Weird Sisters were just Shakespeare’s literary device to push Macbeth down the road he was already traveling, but at a quicker pace. They weren’t key to the story at all.
When his sixth-period class ended at four o’clock, Paul received a summons to Winston’s office.
“You had some trouble in class this morning,” the heavyset man said from behind his desk.
“Trouble?” Paul asked. There were a dozen things Winston could be referring to. None of which would be good for him to know.
Winston tapped a sheet of paper on his desk. “You sent John Freedman to the nurse’s office.”
Paul let out an involuntary breath. This was nothing he couldn’t handle. “John fell asleep in class.”
“Kids fall asleep in class all the time.”
Paul smiled. “Two days in a row. I was concerned he might be ill.”
Winston frowned at the paper. “Nurse couldn’t find anything.”
“That’s good news,” Paul said.
“Is it?” Winston’s eyes narrowed. “Freedman is in your senior class, isn’t he? Your Macbeth class?”
“The play is coming along nicely,” Paul said, grinning. “I’ve never seen students more excited.”
Winston echoed Paul’s grin, adding a hint of mockery. “So excited they’re falling asleep.”
“Which is why I was understandably concerned.”
Winston stared at him.
“I’m glad John was just tired and not sick,” Paul said.
The principal dropped his faux grin. “You are aware that there is a PTA meeting tonight?”
“I don’t pay attention to PTA meetings,” Paul said.
Winston suppressed a chuckle. “Perhaps you should. Your play is sure to be on the agenda.”
“I’m not going to let Mrs. Cadwell’s agenda run my life.”
“I hear you.” Winston waved a hand in the air. “You can be sure her petition last week wasn’t the end of it.” The principal leaned forward over his desk. “Next time I may have to decide in her favour. Cadwell may be a bigger thorn in my side than you are, but I can’t ignore half the school’s parents.”
“I’m just trying to do my job,” Paul said.
“As am I,” said Winston, leaning back in his chair. “You can go now.”
Paul left the principal’s office kicking himself. He had forgotten all about the PTA meeting.
“Welcome,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “to Ashcroft Senior High’s second PTA meeting of the school year. I am overjoyed to see that so many of you made the time to come out tonight.”
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Agatha said from where she and her sisters sat in the back row of chairs. About three hundred chairs had been set up in the school’s smaller gymnasium.
“Bunch of people in a room listening to a prig,” Gertrude agreed.
“I gave up listening to prigs centuries ago,” Netty said. “Why are we here?”
“To see this woman talk,” said Agatha.
“She’s been doing a better job of cursing the play than we have,” added Gertrude.
Netty grumbled. “Says Hecate. You’re not putting any stock into what she says, are you?”
“Says me,” said Agatha. “Hecate can go disembowel herself.”
Gertrude erupted with laughter. “I’d like to see that.”
“Shhh!” said a man with psoriasis and a bad toupee who was sitting in front of them.
“As you know,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “our petition to halt the Macbeth play didn’t go as planned. Apparently Mr. Samson made his students round up a counterpetition.”
“Can a teacher do that?” someone asked.
“Oh, poo,” Netty spit in a whisper. “Samson didn’t even know about the petition. Either petition.”
“You can’t be a prig without lying to your constituents,” Agatha said.
“Should we let the people know she’s lying?” Netty asked. “I can’t abide a liar. Well, when it’s not me doing the lying.”
“Because calling a prig a liar has worked so well before?” suggested Gertrude. “She’s only telling them what they want to hear. Prigs have been doing that for longer than there have been witches.”
“And so,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “we’ll move on to plan B.”
A hand went up. “Ah, Mrs. Cadwell. Wasn’t the petition plan B. I thought plan A was the meeting in the auditorium where your son stabbed us in the back.”
The entire gymnasium sucked in its breath.
“Demonstrating,” said Mrs. Cadwell through clenched teeth, “what a terrible influence Mr. Samson, with his outlandish methods, is on our children.”
The air in the enclosed room actually stirred when its occupants resumed breathing.
“Moving on to plan C,” said Mrs. Cadwell.
“Did you hear that?” said Agatha. “Our Mr. Samson has outlandish ways.”
“Man after my own heart, then, he is,” Gertrude said.
“Shhh!” repeated the man in front of them.
“Monday morning,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “we’ll blockade the main entrance to the school. We’ll have picket signs with appropriate slogans, like No Macbeth Here and No Witches in Our School.”
“How about Macbeth Must Die!” a woman with multicoloured hair shouted, followed by laughter.
“Or Shakespeare Is for Pussies,” shouted someone else. More laughter.
“But I have to be at work Monday,” an angry male voice grumbled. “Can’t we do this on Saturday?”
“Please, everyone,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “This is serious. If our slogans are a joke, we’ll be a joke as well. And no, Mr. Stewart, we can’t do this on the weekend. The school is empty on weekends. No one will see us.”
“We can call in the newspapers and television,” someone suggested.
Mrs. Cadwell nodded. “Yes, we’ll do that anyway. But it will be for eight-thirty Monday morning, when the teachers and students are trying to get into the school.”
“What about the other doors?” someone asked. It was the woman with the multicoloured hair again. “Shouldn’t we block those as well?”
Mrs. Cadwell tapped her microphone for order. “We can’t block all the doors. We’d be spread too thin. And if no one can get into the school, Principal Winston will have no choice but to call the police. Our goal isn’t to get arrested, but to inconvenience everyone and to let the world outside the school know that there is a problem.” A rictus grin marred the gorgon’s face. “If Winston won’t listen to the parents, let’s see how well he listens when the community at large speaks up.”
“Oh, she’s good,” said Agatha.
Gertrude nodded. “Clever. Doesn’t lose control. Has an answer for everything. Heh. She’d make a good witch.”
“So,” said Netty. “You admire the woman now?”
“She reminds me of Hecate,” said Agatha.
Netty pursed her lips. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“She’s a grade-A shit disturber,” Gertrude said.
Agatha nodded. “But it’s our shit she’s disturbing.”
“Shhh!” the toupee’d man said a third time. He turned completely around in his seat to glare at them.
Agatha glared right back, glowering down her long, crooked nose.
The man dropped his gaze and turned back around.
“It’s settled, then,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “We’ll meet in the Dairy Queen parking lot at eight a.m. Monday. Keep your signs in the trunks of your cars until I give the signal. Then we’ll cross the street to the school and form up in front of the main entrance. I’ll let the press know to be there at eight-thirty sharp. Any last questions? No? Then let’s adjourn for punch and cookies.”
“There’s cookies?” crowed Netty. “Then this evening wasn’t a complete waste of time.”
After a third night with little sleep, Paul arrived at the school Thursday morning well before his second-period class started.
“I wish I knew what went on at the PTA meeting last night,” Sylvia said.
Paul’s wife looked as tired as he felt. She had asked a few friends with kids at the school to attend and let her know what Cadwell was up to, but they unanimously declined, saying they wouldn’t be caught dead at one of the gorgon’s meetings. All of them had called her the gorgon lady. Seems the moniker was ubiquitous.
“Nothing good went on,” Paul said. “Count on it. Cadwell’s PTA is the worst thing that ever happened to this school.”
The PTA meeting was half the reason Paul had slept poorly. The question of the witch was the other half.
Even though class hadn’t started yet, Scarlet greeted them as soon as they stepped through the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium’s east entrance. The ghost knew they would be rehearsing before the students arrived, and that seemed sufficient to let her leave the confines of the lamp. “Do you really think this will work?” Scarlet asked.
“If it doesn’t,” Paul said, “then Banquo isn’t much good to us.”
“What?” Sylvia said. “Oh, she’s here, isn’t she? Hello, Scarlet.”
Paul and Sylvia busied themselves arranging the set for the banquet scene while Scarlet paced nervously across the stage. Paul knew they couldn’t keep rehearsing the same scene over and over again, especially with John Freedman falling asleep each time. Paul wouldn’t be surprised if John stayed home sick today.
When the set was ready, Paul and Sylvia stood near Macbeth’s chair and began reading the scene, Paul delivering Macbeth’s lines while Sylvia delivered all the others. Scarlet stood at Paul’s elbow, waiting to let him know when, or if, Banquo’s ghost arrived.
Paul didn’t know the lines well enough to go off book, but whenever Macbeth wasn’t speaking, he looked up, hoping to see the ghost.
“He’s here,” Scarlet said even as Paul saw the diminutive once-man enter from stage right.
As much as Paul wanted to interrogate the ghost directly, he knew that Banquo would vanish once the scene stopped. So he continued reading as Scarlet played her part and paced the ghost, asking him questions.
When the ghost reached Macbeth’s empty chair, Scarlet gave Paul a thumbs-up. He immediately set down the script.
The small man cast Paul a roguish grin and said, “Thank you.” Then he promptly vanished.
“It’s worse than we thought,” Scarlet said.
Those weren’t the words Paul wanted to hear.
“Banquo says there are three witches.”
“Three?” said Paul.
“And they expect his haunting the play to drive you insane.”
“Me?”
“Paul, dear,” said Sylvia. “Could you be a little more coherent? I’d like to know what’s going on.”
Paul relayed what Scarlet had told him.
“Anything else?” he asked the young ghost.
Scarlet shook her head. “He only spoke with the witches for a moment. But he’s agreed to help us. He said he doesn’t much like the witches.”
“So I guess they aren’t good witches,” Paul said.
“What?” asked Scarlet. “How could they be? They’ve summoned a ghost to drive you insane.”
Paul laughed. “I wish them luck. If Cadwell and Winston haven’t succeeded, why would a silent ghost?”
“Three witches and Banquo’s ghost,” said Sylvia. “That’s straight out of the play.”
“Not straight,” Paul said. “You yourself reminded me that there are four witches in the play. Though Hecate only speaks twice, she seems to be the stronger, more dangerous witch. And Macbeth is already mostly insane from guilt. As is Lady Macbeth. Murdering Duncan had already done the job. Banquo’s murder merely hastens Macbeth’s fall.”
“And you’re not Macbeth,” said Scarlet. “Lenny Cadwell is.”
“I’m the director,” Paul agreed, frowning. “Yet I’m the one who can see the ghost, not Lenny.”
Paul hadn’t forgotten Simon Riordan’s suggestion that his daughter, Susie, might have made a deal with the Devil. Perhaps Riordan had it wrong. Was it a deal with the witches? Just as Macbeth had communed with the witches? But in Shakespeare’s tale, no actual deal had been struck. The witches merely told Macbeth his destiny, and Macbeth hastened to follow it.
Then he reminded himself that, despite the similarities, he was not reliving the tragedy of Macbeth. It was more of a mash-up, a term he had heard his students use. Elements of Shakespeare’s story were intersecting his production of the play, creating something different from both.
Banquo had been instructed to drive Paul insane. Did Susie somehow hate him? Was that the deal she had made? But he didn’t believe it. Like most teenagers, Susie had struck out on her own, seeking independence, in a sense, rebelling against her parents, but more for self-discovery than for anything he and Sylvia may have done or not done. His daughter’s sudden appreciation for drama was a surprise, but Paul preferred to see it as a step in finding herself rather than a convoluted plot to get back at a parent she had been ignoring for the past two years.
“What are you thinking?” Sylvia asked.
Paul hadn’t shared with Sylvia Riordan’s comments or his own concerns about the Devil, and he wasn’t about to now. So he said, “I’m thinking it’s time to have another talk with Simon Riordan.”
The students arrived and rehearsals went smoothly. Paul started at the top, Act I, Scene 1, making notes of places that needed more work. The bell sounded before they reached the banquet scene, and Paul sleepwalked through the rest of Thursday, his thoughts distracted by Banquo’s ghost, witches, and the prospect that his daughter had made a deal with the Devil. Never mind that the apparent purpose behind all three was to drive Paul insane.
On Friday they resumed rehearsal, beginning at Act III, Scene 3. They quickly reached the banquet scene, and the students, especially John Freedman, grew suddenly apprehensive.
Paul continued anyway, making as though nothing were amiss. Sylvia, however, went backstage and, shortly after Banquo’s ghost began making his slow way among the seated guests, John stumbled out from behind the curtain and staggered his way through the scene. Paul noted ruffled clothing from where Sylvia had shaken him awake, and he worried that John would fall back asleep the moment he sat down in Macbeth’s chair. As it was, when he did sit down, directly in the lap of Banquo’s ghost, the ghost disappeared and John was suddenly wide awake.
For a moment, Paul feared the ghost might have possessed the boy. With everything else that had happened, why not? But John was obviously himself, and he left the stage with greater haste than when he had arrived.
Paul hated to put anyone, never mind one of his students, through that experience but saw no way to avoid it. Skipping the scene would have raised questions. Questions that no doubt would have made their way to the gorgon lady, who would have used them in ways Paul couldn’t even begin to contemplate. Surviving the scene accomplished the opposite. The students were reassured, and no ammunition was provided to Mrs. Cadwell.
The rehearsal ended with the close of Act V, Scene 8, just minutes before the bell.
“That was great, class,” Paul said. He looked down at his many pages of scribbled notes. “There are still a number of things we need to work on, but four weeks is plenty of time. Most of our scene changes are still too slow, but you’re all off book now and more or less know your lines. The fewer mistakes, the better, so keep running them through your heads. Class dismissed.”
Fifteen minutes later, Paul was seated at a booth in the Dairy Queen across from a foul-tempered Simon Riordan.
Riordan had returned his call late the previous evening. He hadn’t wanted to talk and was about to hang up when Paul said, “There have been some developments.”
“So,” said Riordan, cradling a plastic cup of DQ water in his hands. “What are these developments?”
Paul had no idea where to begin. “For one thing, we have a second ghost.”
“A second . . . ?” The skeletal man made a face as if he had eaten sour grapes. “Who?”
“Banquo,” Paul said.
“Banquo? From the play?”
“No,” Paul said. “From real life. Or so he says. He claims he lived a thousand years ago in the days of the real Macbeth.”
Riordan waved a hand. “Ridiculous. Someone is putting you on.”
“But that’s not the interesting part,” Paul said. “Banquo said he was sent to haunt the play by three witches.”
At this, Riordan’s face paled.
“He said he’s supposed to drive me insane. How’s that for developments?”
Riordan raised his cup of water to his lips and drained all six ounces. Then he put the cup down.
“Cancel the play,” Riordan said. “Walk away and don’t look back. Forget you ever heard of William bloody Shakespeare and don’t even think about ghosts or witches.”
“I’m not worried about Banquo,” Paul said. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy.”
Riordan slammed his fist on the table. “Forget Banquo. He’s not your problem!”
“What do you know?” Paul asked.
“You don’t want to know what I know.”
“Yes, I do. I can’t fight this thing if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”
“Fight? You can’t fight. You can’t win. All you can do is run. And hope they don’t give chase.”
“They?” Paul asked.
Riordan glared at him.
“They?” Paul repeated.
“The witches! All right? There. I said it. The witches, damn you.” Riordan picked up his cup, saw it was empty, and threw it across the seating area. The cup bounced off an empty table, hit the floor, and rolled to a stop against a wall.
“What do you know about the witches?” Paul asked.
“What do I need to know?” Riordan said. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “They’re witches. That should be enough.”
“So there is no Devil?” Paul said, remembering his first meeting with Riordan.
“I’m sure there must be a Devil,” the old man said, “but what I saw were witches.”
“You saw them?”
Riordan twisted his head back and rubbed his face with his hands. “I made a deal with them, damn you! Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Paul sat stunned. Mr. Riordan—his Mr. Riordan, from back when he was in high school—had made a deal with witches. Paul couldn’t imagine it. “What kind of deal?”
One of the restaurant staff, an older woman with a net shrouding poufy hair, set a new cup of water on the table. Dairy Queen didn’t wait tables, but Paul guessed that the staff had noticed when Riordan threw his cup. They also noticed that he was old, ill, and having some kind of fit. Paul supposed it was a blessing that they brought him water rather than call the paramedics. Or the police.
Riordan thanked the woman and took a small sip. “What kind of deal?” The skeleton snorted. “No deal at all.” He shook his head. “I suppose it’s about time I told someone. My doctors tell me I don’t have much time left. And someone should know. It may as well be you.” He took a deep breath, and life seemed to flow into him. Colour came to his cheeks, and he looked somehow more firm that he had a moment before.
“It was a dream come true,” Riordan said. “Getting acting roles was difficult while working full time as a teacher. Even community theatre doesn’t give you much time to learn your part. Twelve weeks. A couple of hours’ rehearsal on two or three weeknights. A weekend if the space is available. You spend the first few performances tuning your part so that by closing night, you can put on a perfect show.
“Then a Hinton Valley community theatre group announced auditions for The Tragedy of Macbeth. All my life I had wanted to play Macduff—”
“Not Macbeth?” Paul asked.
“Macduff is the true hero of the play,” Riordan said. “A tragic hero. He’s not only true to proper rule but loses his family in the pursuit. He’s also the one who kills Macbeth in the final battle, even though the crown falls to Malcolm.
“Anyway, the audition went smoothly, but it also went well for other actors trying out for the part. My stomach was roiling with worry that I would be passed over, that the part would go to someone else. I needed to get out of the city.
“I drove. No idea where I was going. And found myself parked at a rest area, watching the most fantastic sunset I had ever seen. I realized, as the sun lowered itself over a grassy plain, that what I was seeing was a heath, straight out of Macbeth. I know the countryside is more rugged in northern Scotland, but even so, I let my imagination run wild. The soldiers of Cawdor clashed against the swords of Macbeth and Banquo. Blood flowed across the fields. And as the sun vanished below the horizon and a gibbous moon dominated the sky, three women trudged up the road.”
“The Weird Sisters,” Paul said.
Riordan nodded. “I didn’t know that at first, but that’s the role I cast them in. Imagine my surprise when they stopped and one said, ‘Hail, Macduff.’ Then the second cackled and said, ‘You misspeak, sister, for he is not yet Macduff.’ The third said, ‘Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so.’ It got confusing after that. One of the sisters said something about giving Douglas Adams a rest, and they got into some kind of argument. Anyway, they went on to say that it was my destiny to play the role of Thane Macduff and that I should be of good cheer.
“The Weird Sisters moved on down the road, and I drove back home. The next day I received a callback.”
“To play Macduff,” Paul said.
Riordan shook his head. “No, the director said someone else would play Macduff, but that I so impressed her with my audition that she’d like me to try out for the role of Banquo. I did and I got the part.
“First chance I got, I drove back out to the heath. And there I found the Weird Sisters waiting for me. They had another argument and then told me that I was impatient. My destiny awaited me and could not be changed.
“I was too caught up in achieving my dream to consider that the witches were frauds, that someone was yanking my chain. I had little time to think about it anyway.
“At our next rehearsal, I learned that the actor playing Macduff had dropped out along with his wife, who was playing one of the witches. We were already three weeks into rehearsal, and there wasn’t enough time for more auditions and casting, so the director elevated one of the murderers into Banquo’s role and crowned me the new Macduff. She wrote Hecate out of the script and made the woman playing her the third witch.
“I literally didn’t sleep for three days in an effort to learn my new lines and blocking. I got caught up with the new part, and two days before opening night, the director had nothing but praise. It was to be the role of a lifetime.
“And then it happened. Lady Macbeth—Scarlet—was walking the stage, rubbing her hands, calling, Out, damned spot! out, I say! when something fell from the rafters, striking her on the head. I rushed onto the stage, as did the director and the other actors. There was hardly any blood. Just a spot on her sleeve. But Scarlet was dead.“The show was cancelled, of course. The troupe disbanded. I sat in my apartment, the lights turned on day and night. I called the school and told them I was done. I didn’t think I could ever face a stage again. I haven’t. Until last week when I visited your school. Eventually I went out to the heath. But there was no sign of the witches. Their task was done. They’d told me my damned destiny. And indeed, I had played Macduff, through all of nine weeks of rehearsals. But I never had an audience.”
Paul sat stunned by what he had heard. It was like listening to someone read a fairy tale from a book. But with everything that had happened to him since the start of school, he had no trouble believing Riordan’s tale.
“That’s a grim story,” Paul said. “But I don’t understand. What was the deal you struck? Usually a deal involves a mutually beneficial exchange.”
Riordan took a second sip of water. “I’ve been pondering that question for twenty years. Here’s the best I’ve come up with. The witches offer you a destiny that happens to be your heart’s desire. You believe them. I suspect that if you don’t believe them, that they will then have no power over you. It may still come true, but the witches will have no involvement. But if you believe them, you have accepted their deal and they will meddle to ensure that your destiny technically happens but not in the way you want. And there is a cost. In my case, the cost was Scarlet’s life.”
“The witches killed Scarlet?”
Riordan nodded. “As good as. They caused her death. I’m sure they also created some tragedy that caused the original Macduff actor and his wife to drop out of the production.”
Paul sipped cola through a straw, the first time he touched his drink since he sat down. “What do the witches get out of it?”
“The witches?” Riordan pushed a heavy breath out through his nose. “I have no idea.”
“Are we going to eat that pizza yet?” Netty asked. “It’s been sitting there for two days.”
“We’ll eat pizza when I say we eat pizza,” Agatha said.
Gertrude harrumphed. “Who died and made you Hecate?”
Agatha glared at her. “Don’t you dare mention that harpy’s name. She called The Bard’s Play a ‘skit’.”
“That’s not what’s got your bloomers tied in a knot,” Gertrude said. “You’re upset because Hecate called us vexatious and said that cursing the play is a punishment.”
“I always thought,” Agatha admitted, “that being the Weird Sisters was an honour. And now, hundreds of years later, I learn that we’re just a joke. A laughingstock. Assigned make-work projects to keep us out of the way of respectable witches.”
Gertrude snorted. “Hecate never said any of that.”
Agatha shook her head. “But she implied all of it.”
“Oh, look!” said Netty. “Our Samson has made an appearance.”
“I’m not in the mood,” Agatha said.
“And Simple Simon is with him again.”
“Still not in the mood.”
“What are they discussing this time?” asked Netty.
“Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “Our Banquo has been indiscreet. Seems he’s been chatting up the enemy.”
“I never trusted that little bugger,” said Netty.
Gertrude’s face turned dark. “He told them about us! I’m going to kill that pathetic little Scotsman.”
“You already killed him,” Netty said.
“Still not in the mood,” said Agatha.
“Simon’s telling our Samson to run and hide.”
“No place in Earth, Heaven, or Hell he can hide!” Netty said. “Though a chase could be amusing.”
“I’m not chasing anybody over a ‘skit’,” said Agatha.
“Oh, my,” Gertrude said again. “Now Simple Simon has admitted that he’s met with us.”
“What was that noise?” asked Netty, the bulbous witch’s eyes going round like plates, albeit filthy plates.
“Heh,” said Gertrude. “He’s thrown his water cup.”
“Oh,” said Netty. “That’s sort of anticlimactic.”
“Has this ever happened before?” Agatha asked. “A current curse getting a heads-up from a past curse?”
“I thought you weren’t in the mood,” said Gertrude.
“I have a short inattention span,” Agatha admitted.
“I can’t think of any time this has happened,” said Netty. “People say it’s a small world but it isn’t. Especially if you’re walking.”
Gertrude nodded her crooked head. “Times were simpler when we confined ourselves to the British Isles.”
“I had fewer corns in those days,” Netty agreed.
The other two witches sighed.
Then Agatha made a rude noise in her throat. “As much as I enjoy hearing about your corns, Netty, I’d rather hear about what Samson and Simon are discussing.”
Gertrude let out a lengthy yawn. “Oh, Simon’s just reliving his glory days when he played the role of Macduff. He’s at the part where he first met us out on the heath. His memory isn’t very good, however. He says the three of us were arguing.”
“We never argue!” Netty said. “We have enthusiastic conversations.”
“In that case,” said Gertrude, “his memory is spot on. He even remembers Douglas Adams.”
“Who?” asked Agatha.
“You know, that marvellous London writer whose line Netty stole for that first meeting.”
Netty grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Douglas Adams. His books are classics in the making.”
“He’s been dead for years,” Gertrude said. “So now his books are classics. I understand he left his last book unfinished. Heh. Heard it was about salmon fishing.”
Netty frowned. “I didn’t know he wrote those kinds of books. Now I’ve lost all respect.”
“As much as I’m amused by the concept of frivolous comedy being deemed as classic,” said Agatha, “I’d still like to know what else Simon is saying.”
“No,” said Gertrude, “you don’t.”
“And why, pray tell, not?”
“Because,” Gertrude said, “he’s claiming we cheated him. Telling him what he wanted to hear and then pulling the prize out from under him.”
Agatha scowled. “He’s calling us prigs?”
“Not in so few words, no.”
“I’ll prig him,” said Agatha. “Then he’ll know what a prig is.”
“I don’t think you can use prig as a verb,” Netty said.
“I’ll use prig however I please, thank you very much.”
Gertrude tsked. “Now he’s claiming that we killed Scarlet.”
“Who?” Netty asked.
“Lady Macbeth.”
“Which one?” asked Agatha, calmer now that the conversation was back in familiar territory. “There have been so many. I lose track.”
“The one from when he was Macduff,” said Gertrude. “Where that toolbox fell from the rafters and clocked her a good one.”
“Ah, yes,” said Agatha. “The toolbox. Funny how it suddenly slipped down from the rafters after resting there undisturbed for three years.”
“I have no idea why everyone always blames us,” Netty said. “Perhaps there was an earthquake.”
“An earthquake?” asked Gertrude.
“Just a small one,” suggested Netty. “Not so anyone would notice, but enough to dislodge a lost toolbox.”
The other two witches stared at her.
“What?” asked Netty.
Agatha shrugged her narrow shoulders. “That’s the first good idea you’ve had in the four hundred years since I’ve known you.”
“It is?” A rosy smile spread like a disease across Netty’s creased face.
Gertrude, however, was frowning.
“What?” asked Agatha.
“Our Samson just asked Simple Simon a telling question.”
“What question?” asked Netty.
“He asked Simon what we get out of all the cursing we do.”
“I’m curious as to Simon’s answer,” said Agatha.
“He says he hasn’t a clue,” Gertrude said.
Agatha harrumphed. “So Simple Simon isn’t as smart as he pretends to be.”
“Well, what do we get out of it?” Netty asked. “We’ve been cursing Macbeth for four hundred years, and I still haven’t figured that one out.”
“It’s obvious,” said Agatha.
“It is?” asked Netty.
“You tell her,” Agatha told Gertrude.
“It isn’t obvious to me,” Gertrude said, “so you’d better tell us.”
“Well.” Agatha fiddled with the corner of a pizza box. “It gets Hecate off our backs.”
“Not very well,” said Gertrude.
“She’s always riding us,” added Netty.
“And it’s what witches do,” said Agatha. She nodded her pointed chin, implying that was the final word.
“Is it?” asked Netty, ignoring the implication. “It’s what we do. But I’ve never heard of other witches cursing plays. Sure, the occasional opera or heavy metal concert gets cursed, but we’ve been cursing the same damned play for four hundred years.”
“Netty has a point,” Gertrude said.
Netty crowed with delight. “That’s two good ideas in the space of ten minutes!”
Agatha glared at her. “Don’t get cocky.”
“I think Agatha already told us what we get out of it,” Gertrude said.
“I have?” asked Agatha. “I mean, of course I have. When?”
“Just before Samson and Simon arrived. You said that Hecate was keeping us out of the way of respectable witches.”
“I don’t see how that gets us anything,” said Agatha.
“It doesn’t,” agreed Gertrude. “Hecate has us cursing The Bard’s Play for the sole purpose of benefiting other witches.”
“We’re the Weird Sisters!” Netty cried. “The unwanted stepsisters. Too ugly to be seen in certain company. Kept locked in the cellar, and made to shovel coal into the furnace.”
“Heh,” said Gertrude. “The imagery gets a D, but the sentiment is A material.
“I’m tired of shovelling coal,” said Agatha.
Netty grinned. “Agatha likes my imagery.”
“I think it’s time,” Gertrude said, “that Weirding was a reward rather than a reprimand. So what if we’re different? Different is good.”
“But not too different,” said Agatha. “We’re still witches.”
“Yes,” said Gertrude, “but we should be witches on our own terms.”
“Let’s cut Hecate’s puppet strings!” Netty said.
“Um,” said Agatha. She reached for her silver pendant and rubbed it with restless fingers. “Okay.”
“It’s settled, then,” Gertrude said. “From now on, we do what we like, when we like, and how we like. And Hecate can go curse herself.”
“Exactly!” crowed Netty. The rotund witch rubbed her pudgy hands together as a broad, gap-toothed smile crept across her face. “So what do we like right now?”
“I,” said Agatha, letting go of her pendant, “would like some pizza.” And with that, she ripped the lid off a two-day old box. The cheese-laden ingredients inside stared up at them, looking indecipherable.
“Are those bat’s ears?” asked Netty.
“I have dibs on the crust,” said Gertrude.