Shakespeare for Squirrels

He was munching a handful of clover as he went and I let him. As I had not had the heart to tell him I had secured no remedy for his donkey form, I could not deprive him of that small green pleasure.

“Blacktooth and Burke were quickly on the spot, weren’t they? Perhaps they decided to do their own killing and take the reward this time. Although my blood was high with the frolic when I gave chase, and I think if it had been a mortal I would have caught him, or at least caught a glimpse of him.”

“Could be. A silver armlet like the goblin had would fetch enough in Athens to buy a small farm. I’ve no idea the value in goblin coin.”

“The goblins don’t give a tick’s willy what you can buy with silver,” said I. “They love it for the color, the beauty, and the feeling of it. Methinks a goblin would have the same passion over the reflection of the moon in the water.

In fact, if you could convince him that you put it there, he would be your slave, I’ll wager.”

“And so did Oberon convince them thus,” said Bottom. Then he tossed away his bouquet of clover, raised his arms, and commenced to orate as if upon the stage. “Here are the moon and the stars, I have made them, only this Tuesday, and now I give them unto you, so that you might build me a great palace of night and pay me tribute with your sweat and your blood. All good things flow from me and it is only by my grace that you take breath, which I, the shadow king, will snatch from you on a whim.” He ended his speech with a great flourish, as if winding up his cape of night and tossing it behind him.

I applauded his performance, as a measure more of pity than of appreciation, and Cobweb chirped from her perch in the tree above. “Good Bottom, thou hast righteously traded your bundle of clover to chew the scenery to a tattered motif. Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!”

“Thank you,” said Bottom, bowing to me, to Cobweb, to the odd shrubbery as he went. “You are too kind. Too kind.” He laughed, a hee-haw of satisfaction with himself, and danced a little jig. “I do hope I am transformed back in time to perform Pyramus for the duke. I would not want to let the Mechanicals down over a mere misadventure with a fairy queen. Wouldn’t be brotherly, for surely, he who treads the boards with me this night shall be my brother, no matter how dimwitted he may be, and all the men abed in Athens shall hold their manhood cheap, that they were not on the stage with Bottom upon the duke’s wedding day!”

And off he charged toward Athens, even though, for all I knew, we were miles from town. Cobweb ran down a fir tree until she was eye level with me, then tapped her paw and barked harshly at me, which I took to mean, “You had better tell him, you blistering fuckweasel!” (She had a very eloquent bark.)

“I was getting to it,” I said to the squirrel. The bloody barking ginger squirrel did not relent. “Fine!” said I. “Fine, I shall dash the hapless weaver’s last hopes posthaste.”

I ran after the ass-man and caught up to him just as . . .

ENTER RUMOUR, PAINTED FULL OF TONGUES

“Zounds!” cried Bottom, going from a full gallop to backing up the trail away from the peculiar narrator as if he wore a cloak of vipers rather than tongues. I caught the ass-man by the shoulders and steadied him.

“And so, the ne’er-do-well English fool, devoid of principles or any sense of decency—nay, humanity—betrayed his own traveling companion by keeping secret—”

“Rumour!” I called, with great jocularity and joy, as if I had encountered a long-lost uncle along the trail. “Just the gent I was hoping to see, for I have splendid tidings to share, which shall bring you great pleasure.”

Rumour squinted at me as if he might gaze into my intentions if only he could see beyond the glare of my sunny disposition. His suspicion was betrayed by the waggling of the tongues on his cloak, all of which seemed to be performing a silent and disturbing ululation.

“What are you up to, fool? I know, of course, but I’m just checking to see if you’re even capable of telling the truth.”

“I would embrace you, but alas, you are a horrid, hollow creature and the idea rather shrivels my wedding tackle, but nevertheless, welcome to our band of jolly travelers. What delicious trifle of narrative do you bring to us today?”

“Are you having me on?”

“Yes.”

“Well it doesn’t work if you just tell me you’re having me on.”

I made as if to put my arm around his shoulders, to take him into my confidence, but then, he was covered with tongues, so I merely mimed the gesture, allowing my arm to hover a handbreadth above his shoulders. Nevertheless, his cloak tried to lick me.

“You see, good Rumour, we have found your hat of many tongues, and you need only meet us at the head of this trail in Athens, at dusk, with a blossom from a purple love potion flower in hand, and we shall return it to you. You know of this flower, I presume, as you know everything twice more than everyone?”

“I’m not going to do that. Oh, I will have my hat, but I will not bring you your flower.”

“Why not? Why would you not fetch a simple flower that would save my apprentice, who is a good-hearted if profoundly thick lad—an innocent in this heinous fuckery?”

“Because you are complete rubbish at following clues.”

“I don’t follow,” said I.

“Exactly. I told you the key was the lovers. Nothing. I told you about the Puck’s three words, you still know nothing. I told you the key to his passion lies with the prince. Nothing. Methinks you are a fool, fool.”

“That is not true, I know the meaning of all of those clues, I simply have not had opportunity to reveal them.”

“Oh,” said Rumour.

“So help me release my mate.”

“No, but the key to your revelation is the play. The play’s the thing, wherein you’ll catch the conscience of the king.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. ‘The play’s the thing’?”

“Aye, there’s the rub,” he said, and with a whoosh he was off again.

“Well that’s a soggy sack of squirrel spooge,” said I.

“But now how will you get your friend out of the dungeon without the flower?” asked Bottom.

“I suspect we are going to have to craft a plan for his escape. First, I will shave Cobweb’s tail and rub ashes on her, so rather than a red squirrel, she appears to be a large rat. Then—”

At that point Cobweb ran down the tree I stood by, stopped at eye level, scratched, tapped her paw, twitched her tail violently, and let loose a rather angry fusillade of barks, screeches, and several noises I was not aware a squirrel could make.

“I don’t think she’s keen on the bit about having her tail shaved.”

Cobweb made several barks of affirmation and tried to bite one of the tentacles of my hat.

“But you can sneak in by the guards as a rat, then at dusk, you will return to your most fit and comely woman form, not that you are not the loveliest of squirrels, to be sure, but then you can free Drool from his cell and perhaps provide him with a weapon.”

At which point Cobweb leapt from her tree onto my head, relieved me of my hat, and began to remove my scalp in squirrel-bite-sized patches, until I snatched her by her tail and flung her affectionately back into the tree from whence she came.

“Fuck’s sake, sprite!” said I.

“You keep making her cross, she’s never going to shag you again,” said Bottom.

“It was just an idea,” said I.

Cobweb chittered angrily from the tree.

“She says that plan will not do,” said Bottom. “The play’s the thing. We must hurry and find my mates.”

“Just because you are covered with fur, it doesn’t mean you are suddenly able to translate from the squirrel,” I replied, but he had galloped away.

* * *

“Two households, both alike in dignity,” read Peter Quince, the gray-haired carpenter, from his scroll. “Two families, equal in stature—”

“Oh, well done,” called Bottom as we emerged from the wood into the clearing where the Mechanicals were rehearsing. “Well done!”

“Bottom!” cried Tom Snout, the tinker, who was still annoyingly tall and still wore the stupid bunny-eared doeskin hat. “You have returned, and in fancy dress too.”

“What has happened to you?” said Peter Quince. “You have the voice and clothing of my friend Nick Bottom, but what is this mask?”

“He is enchanted,” said I.

“And you have with you the elf!” said Robin Starveling, the balding, bad-mannered wankpuffin who seemed eager to be beaten about the head with a puppet stick.

“Not an elf,” I replied.

“Fear not,” said Nick Bottom, his muzzle on a swivel as his friends gathered around him to examine the changes he had suffered. “This countenance is but a temporary spell, put upon me by the Puck, but soon to be lifted by Oberon, the king of the night and the goblins.”

“Oh woe, oh woe, oh woe,” said the young lad whom I had last seen playing Thisby, and who again wore the veil and spoke in falsetto. “Our Bottom has gone quite mad. He is ruined, a lunatic who must wander the forest, living upon rocks and tadpoles, oh woe, oh goodbye, sweet sanity! Farewell, sensibility! Adieu! Adieu! Adieu!” And he collapsed to the forest floor in a heap.

“The bitch is dead,” pronounced Tom Snout gruffly.

The Mechanicals all turned to the fallen Francis Flute and clapped politely.

“Oh, brava,” said Peter Quince. “I think you can see, Master Pocket, how Francis has taken your method to heart. He has played the brokenhearted maid since last we met. Was thrown out by his father and declared a simpering pooft by his sweetheart, yet the lad has not broken character. Although we have changed the name of Thisby to Juliet, and the wall is now a balcony, and oh, yes, the lovers die by poison, but there is a smashing swordfight and gobs of blood.”

“All done with good taste, so as not to disturb the ladies,” said Tom Snout.

“But am I to play Pyramus still?” asked Bottom.

“Now you shall be Romeo,” said Quince. “Although the lines are nearly the same. And methinks you’ll need a hat to cover those ears or there may be suspicions our play is not serious.”

“Fear not,” said Bottom. “By midnight I shall be myself again and with a spot of greasepaint I shall be a most passionate and pathetic Pyramus.”

“Romeo,” corrected Quince.

“I shall be the smoothest and most powerful of Romeos,” said Bottom.

And Cobweb chittered angrily from a tree high above.

“Look! A squirrel!” said Robin Starveling.

“I cannot look, for I am tragically perished,” wept Francis Flute, from his heap of femininity.

“Forget the squirrel,” said I. “Bottom, I fear I have sad tidings. As fortune has it, Oberon said he would not change you back to your manly form. Sorry, mate.” I waited then for the news to settle on the ass-man like a cloak of doom. His mates all watched with me, as if waiting for a prompt for their next line.

“But be of good cheer,” I said. “You’ve got cracking great hearing, and your other gifts, I’m sure, will be much appreciated by Mrs. Bottom.”