XL. Once Upon a Time

14

"Macbeth! Welcome to my humble abode, old sport!"

As Chicago burned, Shakespeare ate a croissant.

The city was fuming – bending, crying out in desperation as the smoke consumed it in a blaze of blackened glory and gore. But Shakespeare was unfazed, he chewed on the croissant with profoundness; savoring the flavor, fiddling with an orange peel as the slices smoothly slicking up his palm.

There was an old red alone in the darkness, and as he pathetically attempted to cure his writerʼs block by manipulating real people like they were his muses, his pawn pieces feeding his pleasure, Macbeth watched his son, Hamnett Shakespeare, clean after him. Blood kissed every nook-and-cranny of the Twelfth Night pub, hot with an omnipotent, s*xual magic, and as he watched women and men Shakespeare butchered swing aimlessly from the ceiling: flesh buttered by Shakespeare delirium, skin painted in profligacy, profanity, and necrophiliac desire, Macbeth took a seat.

Hamnett poured him a glass of cheap Irish ale, flinching. Still that bitter-sweet taste he remembered, but corroded by the tea-like consistency and the toasted malt character it possessed. Rap music played in the background.

As Chicago burned, Macbeth drank quietly.

Shakespeareʼs little edge of the world had always been the epitome of a writerʼs debauchery.

"Sorry for the mess, and the music," Shakespeare mused. "Surprisingly, it helps in writing scantily composed, and scandalously orchestrated scenes. So simple. So...erotic."

Hamnett gulped nervously, motioning for Shakespeare to offer Macbeth a drink.

"Ah yes," Shakespeare muttered. "Iʼm losing my grip. Do you see what this damned Ingibiorg plot-line is doing to me, Hamnett? The messiness of Marcellaʼs reveal, documenting Macʼs invasion of Chicago? This act, Ozymandias, is such sloppy writing in this retelling of The Scottish Play. Fantasy novels are like hotspots for writerʼs block. Their proclivity for breathless confusion and unoriginality...restless. It is breaking my concentration, Hamnett–"

Time stopped around Macbeth. Froze up, clench up. Shakespeare wore the carbon copy of his visage from centuries passed. The English f*ck was...unchanged, everything exactly as heʼd last seen them: the receding hairline, the billowing white hair, the trimmed mustache, the cold, covetous dilation of his pupils, the pastiness of his skin. Haggard, slightly old as when heʼd last seen him, but still breathing the air that should have been meant for Isobel, for Lulach. Shakespeare survived, bringing his son – a trite, clichéd muscly maiden fantasy – to the New World after stepping over his grave to get there.

Macbeth interrupted Shakespeareʼs banter with a cough.

"Do you remember when we met, William?" Macbeth asked with a dangerous edge in his voice, lost in the blood red cradles of his boiling rage. But he kept it quiet, quiet as a mouse, waiting to see what the mighty English rat would spew next.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Iʼm getting the...strangest sense of déjà vu, old friend. Enlighten me."

A beat.

"Kvinnesfast. We met in Kvinnesfast, that small Norwegian hamlet, just by Aberdeen – one of your fatherʼs territories. With its white harbors and its plentiful taverns, brothels, abbeys. I was Berchánʼs apprentice during the war. When you came...Gods, that night was cruel, Macbeth. So cold it froze even the meatiest of men from Kvinnesfast to Essye. All the inns were over capacity; at least forty men died."

Macbeth and Shakespeare drank their ale in unison.

"Aye, that night was cold. Damnably cold. The Norwegians came ʼround Aberdeen and made it their ʼomeland. Furious with Cnut the Great gifting my brother Orkney in the northernlands. So we spilled blood in Berchánʼs little hovel once we had our fill of Norwegian women and tasted bone on our fists. Defended the nest. The men I killed that day, they were idiots. Dumb high-born lads with egos larger than their damn c*cks and they tried to bring me down. With axes, and hammers, and Norwegian battlecries that could only break an eardrum let alone a bone.

"And every lordling that took wore Norwayʼs colors that night, they died. Every rib shattered, every tongue ripped out, every breastplate used to decapitate their heads from their scrawny little necks. Gods, I was strong then. Bloodthirsty. A butcher, suckling the wee corpses oʼ bloody Cronish prostitutes from the South and Norwegian inkeeps from the West and Rysene sailors from the North and Badland fishermen from the East. Forty men died in Kvinnesfast, twenty oʼ them biting the dust after wenches warmed their beds, and we were in the business to ruin lives. Same with your Berchán, your prophet."

Another beat.

"We are in the business of ruining lives, but when Scotland was born, old sport, innocence wasnʼt in any of those lands. No, just brutish savagery. We were men then. Vagabonds, charging Morayʼs road with our swords at our sides and blood in our eyes. Unless it came to women."

Macbethʼs lips curled into a smile; Shakespeareʼs eyes lit up.

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea; my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite," Macbeth recited, cocking an eyebrow. "I figured wooing women made you different from other men, William."

Shakespeare laughed.

"Romance is a disease that infects the mind of illusive women, poisoning it with false hope and expectations that only get higher with age. Instills a confidence in people that endangers the virtues of beauty and s*x and is easy to manipulate. Thatʼs why Berchán stuck to writing about history; a dull endeavor. Me, on-the-other hand?

"You knew I craved to write about more, explore more, have the legacy of men in the palms of my hands, at the mercy of my pen. Romantic ideas sell. Theyʼre why I gave you Berchánʼs copy of Ozymandias, Mac. First in Scotland, again in Chicago.

"You know that. Prophets have all the power in the world to alter the course of history, to write instead, but instead, we are scribes. Slaves, trapped by the rules of courtly poetry and condemned to record history. To remind our subjects of their history. I was doing my job, old sport."

"Youʼre not completely powerless, William. Didnʼt you give me your room in that Norwegian pleasure house for...inspiration?"

"Iʼm an entrepreneur, Mac, I make money off of...managing certain situations. You happening upon that Norwegian whore was simply on icing on the cake, baby."

"Youʼre a p*mp, Master Shakespeare."

Shakespeare chuckled, quite drunk off the ale in his glass and the blood of the women in the air.

"I suppose youʼre right. She was one of mine, after all. Gods, what was her name? Blonde hair, catʼs eyes, with tits you could bury your face in and a thick *rse to match."

"Malkina," Macbeth said slowly, enunciating his words, perfecting her accented name.

"Malkina, yes. Thank the gods for Malkina, and that strapping brother of hers. Did you take a go at both of them that night, old sport? Indulge your darkest, wildest pleasures? Iʼm curious."

Macbeth drank in silence.

"Malkina was a religious woman," Macbeth supplied. "Especially when I was in-between her legs. But religion can never stop resentment, and the hate she had for me was hungry. A bottomless, endless pit between her legs. I never knew what it meant to feel that much hatred but after I f*cked her, William, do you know what she told me?"

"Mmm."

"How easy it is to spot an English rat."

Macbeth lunged –

– and Shakespeare thrust his knife between Macbethʼs fingers, rolling the hilt of the knife towards the crooks of Macbethʼs fingers, brushing the skin with the delicacy of a painterʼs brush and a sense of malicious intent. The fake sincerity, the false warmth, it drained out of him quickly, dissolving into inhumane emotions. Shakespeare didnʼt feel hate, didnʼt feel anger, gluttony, envy, etc...but rather, happiness. A dark, vicious, bloody kind. He craved it, as Macbeth craved satisfying his hunger. He stared at Macbeth, and nicked at the edge of the junction where his thumb and forefinger met, drawing a rill of blood in tandem with the way he drew a puff from his Marlboro red.

"You have an awfully chipper, colorful voice on you, lad," Shakespeare growled through gritted teeth. "Tell me, do you ever get bored with your incessant whining? Your neediness? Your pathetic, ill-conceived tales of woe? Because I do. And frankly, I feel mocked. Did you really think you could best me, boy? When I know your every move, and every thought, play-for-play?"

"You ruined my life. I could have had Decarabiaʼs fleet; I could have had Hell in the palm of my hands; I could have escaped alive. Instead, you manipulated every move I made vying for the Orderʼs throne since I met you in Kvinnesfast. You ruined my life–"

"You may think youʼre an animal, Macbeth, but I am a monster and I am more terrifying than you could ever imagine. Oh, if I wanted to ruin your life? I could have done it an instant; made you bleed before you were even born. If you kept your d*ck in your pants and tucked your tail in-between your legs and went to bed with your wife instead of f*cking your Portuguese mistress, you wouldnʼt be the disappointment you are today: a penniless king squabbling for a throne that was usurped from him. All for love. Dying for love. I made you, I crafted you from the deceitful guile of my quill, and you insult me with your mediocrity, boy."

Hamnett poured another glass of old Irish ale with shaky hands. Staring at Macbeth pleadingly.

Macbeth ignored him.

"Why are you here?" Shakespeare asked.

"You know why, Master Shakespeare."

Shakespeare snorted at that.

"Marjorie."

Shakespeare, then and there, flashed a wolfish smile, and then, with a shaky exhale and a lack of patience, watched his son pour them both glasses of water.

"My boy, as you will come to learn, there are forces in this world that transcend us beings, mortal or not. I may see the future, I may have the ability to change that future, but the days where Prophets hold every single card, every single ploy, every single move...theyʼre long, long gone. This is the Rhaetian Age of gods and men. My powers are clipped by the Order of the Dragon, my folly ruinous, my legacy stagnated, stopped. I don't know where Marjorie is, I donʼt know who brought you back, I honestly really donʼt care, but make no mistake – nothing is coincidence. You didnʼt just stumble across Decarabia, you didnʼt just conjure up an army of the undead and some lowlife chimeras, you donʼt just find things, Macbeth. Literature is currency, old sport, and someone is making an exceptionally handsome profit off of your shortcomings."

Another beat.

"Now, stay."

When Macbeth obeyed, Shakespeare beamed at that, watching as Hamnett served the two of them a spicy Italian bisque, fiery as Chicagoʼs flames.

"Good boy," he cooed, beginning to eat.

Macbeth glared at him, mind idly fuming with a swelling rage that battered and bruised his concentration.

"What do you want?"

Desperation, thatʼs what it was. Pure, unadulterated desperation to hold the reigns of his dynasty in the palm of his hands again.

Shakespeare frowned.

"Has anyone taught you negotiation, dear boy? You give in way too easily, and frankly, itʼs very boring. I thought Orion would fluff you better, get you ready for me," Shakespeare told him, sighing warily.

"I usually donʼt negotiate, Master Shakespeare."

His name was a poison on his lips. Toxic, venomous with hate. Shakespeare fed off of it easily.

"I suppose not. With all your brutish fighting and swordsmanship and all that Scottish f*cking they teach you up there. The Red King, the Northern King, the King of Scots," Shakespeare raved.

"Perhaps Iʼll teach you a lesson in negotiation, boy. Itʼs quite simple, really. What the bloody hell is it you want from me, Mac?"

As Hamnett delivered yet another drink, Shakespeare handed it to Macbeth as a piece offering: a glowing amber nestled at the bottom of the glass, and Macbeth took it as he would a pound of salt. He didnʼt give a regard for the ephemeral, acrid taste that would make him wince as he shot it down, or the icy coldness. He simply slapped the glass against the table; the shards slamming against the floor in a sharp hiss, and as he dangled one bludgeoned piece with his fingers, Shakespeare sighed in exasperation.

"That was a good beer, Macbeth, for chr*ssake," Shakespeare snapped.

"You know what I want, William. Acting like you donʼt and stalling is idiocy," Macbeth told him.

"Marjorie is dead. The Order is commanded by a usurper. The rebels have wormed their way back into Europe and the Americas. The snake is scorched, not killed, and I ʼave nothing but an army of the undead and the ghost of my wife. So I repeat. What the bloody hell is it you want from me?"

Shakespeare fiddled with a pen and paper, and pursed his lips.

"To a propose solution," Shakespeare said simply. "I want you to help you...help me, if you will."

"You want my help?"

"Mmm, yes. You see, when your wife...left this world, and you unceremoniously with her, it caused a wee bit of trouble for me. Iʼve had writerʼs block for such a terrible time, old sport. I tried to satisfy it with Orionʼs coming, with Robin DeMarcusʼ internal struggle, with your ascent to power but the 21st century isn't as glorious as your time was. Pre-and-post medieval ages. God, men were such savages and women were so manipulative in their submission. The material was fierce and rich, and now itʼs nothing. Dust, ash. And then you rose from those ashes without a damn given in the world and knowledge of anything: your wifeʼs infidelity, the incest your legacy has brought, the violence, the bloodshed, the cannibalism, the...wars fought in your name. Like a sweet Spanish fruit of promise, you came to me because you still needed me to write your torment, your pleasure, your hatred, your blood-lust. You needed me to make you the man you want. So I did just that."

Shakespeare handed a copy of a book. Old, deprived of life. The pages yellowed with age, its leather-bound weight light as a feather, and as Macbeth held the antiquarian novel in his hands, he noticed a freshly scripted title upon the faded manuscript. A novel of tragedy, a novel of political intrigue that cited the Marriage of Heaven and Hell, with a touch of Raskolnikovʼs cunning. The worldʼs evil was packed into this second edition novel, and that title, minted with the minced words of fallen kings and queens, it was one heʼd tortured himself with. The future that was robbed from him written in Hellenistic words:

The Scottish Play.

"The Scottish Play; my story," Macbeth repeated.

"A copy of it," Shakespeare murmured. "The Scottish Play is the source of the Order of the Dragonʼs power because it has the magic of Prophets like Berchán and I trapped inside. After you died, Fleance – your brotherʼs son, and your predecessor – he decided that Prophets should be stripped of their power. So he trapped it in the Book. But, as weʼve discussed, literature is currency and the dark forces trapped in that book are so...richly evil. Evil enough to put Pandoraʼs box shame. The Nobles embedded within the Order determine who their next monarch is based on the way the Book writes its history. Always paying homage to you, but always moving forward. You engineered the Order that way, old sport, to always have its sovereign decision making be inspired by yours. When the Book gets into the wrong hands, however, or is lost...catastrophe strikes. The winter storms in Louisiana, the floods in the Northeast, hell, you burning Chicago. The person in pursuit of the Book, and the person that holds the Book, they hold the Order. Only a leader deemed worthy by the Book can bring peace, and that can only be determined by worthiness and by blood. The last time I saw it was with my apprentice, Halcyon al-Hurra."

"And how does a copy of The Scottish Play help your case?"

"Not a copy; the original. I need the original. All of my notes, all of my spells, all of my observations and predictions and excellently orchestrated plot-lines are inside that book. I want to write again; I need to write again to preserve my immortality. The Book is tethered to my life-force, my power – and if it were to be destroyed, I would also be destroyed."

Macbeth was silent; Shakespeare continued going off.

"In the Book were notes on how you could regain control of the Order; of Scotland. Notes I took on other stories, orchestrated, grand plots for more classic novels. And I believe that with those notes, and my powers back, I could help you retrace your steps. Someone brought you back to salvage your broken crown yet left no trace of their dirty work, of their admiration. I bet that the same person that brought you back is the same person that has the Book."

Macbeth shook his head, laughing.

"You think that a history lesson will make me help you? Really, William?"

Shakespeare smiled smiled like a thief on the run, and slid him a picture of a woman. Macbeth stared, gritting his teeth.

"Oh youʼll help me, love," Shakespeare murmured with menace.

Buxom and beautiful with tanned skin as gold as the sun, with eyes as dark as the moon. Thick black hair, luscious waves of woven obsidian, kissed the middle of her back as her full, blood-red lips would. She wore a gown that caught the golden orange of the day, neckline plunging to reveal two supple breasts and an exposed navel, and like a man hungry for the end of his fast – Macbethʼs eyes grew ravenous. She wore gaudy jewelry doused in scorching silver, Egyptian gold caressing her fingers, spell-casters and warding symbols branded into the jewelry. Her skin like porcelain, delicate when his was coarse. He could taste the Portuguese dripping from her mouth, the sultry, seductive aura that she enchanted the Scottish court with. The painting, a rendition of the spiteful Queen Gruoch ingen Boite, was a thick black miasma in his heart; smoky, like a serpent, and the flames that devoured Chicago. And he could only stomach it; stomach the pain of such a flitting memory, of...everything heʼd lost because of him. Them.

Macbeth hardened, hesitant. He was bluffing; he had to be bluffing; that was what Shakespeare was good at. Lying and bluffing.

"Why would I help you?"

Victory lap.

He did a victory lap; Shakespeare did. Eyes lighting up in delight, a power-hungry look evident in his pupils, his hands folded neatly in-front of him as he watched Macbeth come undone.

"Because, Mac," he murmured. "I know where your dark flower is."