“And we're Rude Mechanicals as well?” said Baker the weaver.
“I reckon.”
“Bum!”
“Well, we certainly don't talk like these buggers in the writing,” said Carter the baker. “I never said 'fol-de-rol' in my life. And I can't understand any of the jokes.”
“You ain't supposed to understand the jokes, this is a play,” said Jason.
“Drawers!” said Baker the weaver.
“Oh, shut up. And push the cart.”
“Don't see why we couldn't do the Stick and Bucket Dance . . .” mumbled Tailor the other weaver.
“We're not doing the Stick and Bucket dance! I never want to hear any more ever about the Stick and Bucket dance! I still get twinges in my knee! So shut up about the Stick and Bucket dance!”
“Belly!” shouted Baker, who wasn't a man to let go of an idea.
The cart containing the props bumped and skidded on the rutted track.
Jason had to admit that Morris dancing was a lot easier than acting. People didn't keep turning up to watch and giggle. Small children didn't stand around jeering. Weaver and Thatcher were in almost open rebellion now, and mucking up the words. The evenings were becoming a constant search for somewhere to rehearse.
Even the forest wasn't private enough. It was amazing how people would just happen to be passing.
Weaver stopped pushing, and wiped his brow.
“You'd have thought the Blasted Oak would've been safe,” he said. “Half a mile from the nearest path, and damn me if after five minutes you can't move for charcoal burners, hermits, trappers, tree tappers, hunters, trolls, bird-limers, hurdle-makers, swine-herds, truffle hunters, dwarfs, bodgers and suspicious buggers with big coats on. I'm surprised there's room in the forest for the bloody trees. Where to now?”
They'd reached a crossroads, if such it could be called.
“Don't remember this one,” said Carpenter the poacher. “Thought I knew all the paths around here.”
“That's 'cos you only ever sees 'em in the dark,” said Jason.
“Yeah, everyone knows 'tis your delight on a shining night,” said Thatcher the carter.
“Tis his delight every night,” said Jason.
“Hey,” said Baker the weaver, “we're getting really good at this rude mechanism, ain't we?”
“Let's go right,” said Jason.
“Nah, it's all briars and thorns that way.”
“All right, then, left then.”
“It's all winding,” said Weaver.
“What about the middle road?” said Carter.
Jason peered ahead.
There was a middle track, hardly more than an animal path, which wound away under shady trees. Ferns grew thickly alongside it. There was a general green, rich, dark feel to it, suggested by the word “bosky”[22]
His blacksmith's senses stood up and screamed.
“Not that way,” he said.