Shakespeare for Squirrels

“That’s the way Moth and Peaseblossom went. You can see it better from above.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said I as I pulled on my leggings.

“We should go see,” said Bottom, dashing off into the dark forest like some horse-headed loony.

“Wait,” I called, but off he went, probably to his death, and as soon as I’d pulled on my boots and tucked my leggings in them, I gathered up the rest of my kit and took off after him, probably to my death, because sod all, I’d found my tribe of tiny tarts and I was duty-bound to do something mind-bogglingly stupid on their behalf. Evidently.

When I caught up to Bottom he was crouched behind a great fallen tree at the edge of a clearing from which the bright blue glow was emanating. He pulled me down beside him and bade me be quiet by putting a finger to his lips and blowing a damp raspberry of donkey spit over me.

“Fuck’s sake, Bottom,” said I, wiping the spray out of my face.

“Shhhh,” said Bottom, “look.” He gestured for me to peek over the fallen tree trunk.

I did, and there in the clearing, a space as wide as a country church nave, danced Cobweb, Moth, and Peaseblossom, their bodies glowing blue in the mist, their skin sparkling as if containing the dust of stars. In my time as a pirate we once captured a treasure from a merchant ship in the Black Sea that contained stones called opals, which shone in many colors, as if they had whole worlds of moonlight trapped within them, and now, the fairies put me in mind of those stones, but with their light emanating from within. The dance was free of form, like butterflies flitting on invisible breezes, the fairies moving light in leaps, with spins, even somersaults, but without the weight of whatever stuff we mortals carry.

“Frolicking,” whispered Bottom.

“But I thought—”

“So did I,” said the ass-man, “but what you were doing with Cobweb is not a frolic. Peaseblossom so explained to me, swearing me to secrecy.”

Even as we watched, the fairies lifted in the air until their feet were only brushing the tips of the ferns and they were, indeed, floating. The ferns and other low plants took on spectral highlights around them, as if embers of glowing ice were floating out from the circle the fairies formed.

“How do you know what I did with Cobweb?” I said. From what I could tell, it had been a private and quiet thing, and I was aggrieved that anyone had even a bit of it beyond us two. Also, Cobweb had placed a delicate hand upon my mouth and gently bade me to shut the fuck up when passion rose to voice.

“Not to worry,” said Bottom. “Yours were not the rutting wails of the bawdy house, more like the sound of suckling puppies. Sweet and lovely, really.”

“It was lovely,” said I, rather more defensively than was called for. Had I suddenly become shy in my dotage?

As I watched Cobweb and the others dance I felt something brush my knee and I nearly leapt out of my boots. Bottom steadied me and reprised his horse-spittle shush, spraying me once again. He pointed to the ferns around our feet, which were unfurling new fronds as we watched, even small blossoms of white and violet pushed their way out of the forest floor below.

“Remember what Titania said about how only with the dance of the fairies do the grains ripen, the fruit trees blossom? This!”

“Well bang on keeping the secret,” said I.

“I thought Cobweb would have told you.”

The dance went on, I know not how long, for I was mesmerized with the light and life of it, the grace of it, and even as I felt myself a low and loathsome thing by contrast, there, too, was a joy, a delight in it. These were magical creatures, divine creatures. In all my life I had never seen nor felt anything like it, except perhaps for moments that very night making love with Cobweb.

Then, as I was carried on the seeming dream of it, I heard the call of a songbird, then another, signaling the coming dawn. The blue light in the clearing began to fade, then recede to the center, where the three fairies floated, hand in hand, to the ground, even as the light emanating from them faded and once again they appeared to be flesh, three naked nymphs standing in the forest (I had not even noticed that they were not wearing their rough linen frocks). In the next second, as the first light of dawn broke through the trees, the three receded, shrank, in place, until they were squirrels. Yes, three squirrels: Cobweb the red squirrel, Moth the color of an eggshell, Peaseblossom light brown. They scampered away into the trees.

I stood, stunned. I dragged my coxcomb from my head in reverence, or perhaps bewilderment.

“You aren’t alone, silly fool,” Rumour had told me, pointing out the red squirrel above. Had he known? Of course he had known. I was glad the fairies had stolen his hat.

I was pulled from my reverie by the hee-hawing guffaws of Nick Bottom, who was nearly bent over in laughter, pointing at me.

“Haw, haw, maestro, it seems you have shagged a squirrel.”

“I have not, thou rabbit-eared toss-toad, this is magic of the first order.”

“Squirrel shagger, squirrel shagger, squirrel shagger.”

“Did you not make the beast with two backs with Titania, also a fairy, just last night?”

Bottom smoothed back his ears. “I was an unwilling servant. Used and enchanted, and besides, I didn’t know they turned into squirrels at dawn.”

“I thought Peaseblossom told you.”

“Only about the frolicking, not about the squirrel bit. Did she have a tail?”

“No she didn’t have a bloody tail. You’ve seen them all naked, you nitwit.”

“Oh, right.”

“And you have a tail. And a long snout. And nostrils like teacups. You, sir, are an ass.”

Bottom felt around to the rear of his trousers. “Oh,” he said, and his lips described what approximated, for a donkey, a pout. He sat down on the spot, as if he’d suddenly been overtaken by fatigue, and cradled his great ears in his hands. “How shall I play Pyramus in the duke’s play? The lads will be lost without me. You must help me, maestro.”

“Really? That is your concern? The play?”

“The play’s the thing, maestro.”

“Bottom, you cannot do the play. You’re an ass.”

“But I must do the play, so people will look at me. So people will see me.”

“But you’re an ass.”

“And they will see me!” He looked up, hope sparkling in his eye. “I could play it in a mask. So though I am an ass, I could play a proper man.”

“It has been done before,” said I, nodding as if giving the premise consideration. My anger at the ass-man was fading with the dew. With the Puck the author of the spell that transformed Bottom, the poor weaver might live out his years as an ass. Who was I, a wanton squirrel shagger, to shatter his dream of the stage? “Yes, a mask,” I said.

“No, it won’t work.” Bottom began to weep again, in great hee-hawing sobs. “I am an ass.”

“No, mate, I shall direct you. Your performance will be as honed as a barber’s blade.”

“No, I am hopeless. I have these great stupid ears and this ridiculous snout.”

“And moods that swing like a bell clapper, but you do have a cracking huge knob.” I grinned and did a dance step to cheer him.

“I am hopeless and my knob is huge.”

“Bottom. Lad. Be of good cheer. We will go to the shadow king, who was the Puck’s master, and he will reverse the spell.”

“Oh, maestro, do you think so?”

“We shall see, good Bottom. We shall see. Now gather up the ladies’ frocks and that hat of many tongues and let us be on our way to Oberon’s castle.” As I fitted on my own hat, I noticed that the knot on my forehead was gone, not even a scab where the gash had been. I examined my arms and legs. The scrapes and cuts from my tossing in the waves had healed, the rope burns on my wrist, from being carried on the pole to Theseus’s dungeon, gone, even the rash from my run-in with the nettles had disappeared. Fucking fairies and their fucking frolicking. I could smell her on my arms, wildfl

ower and moss, and stood there watching Bottom gather up the fairies’ fallen frocks and Cobweb’s little bowman’s hat, grinning like a bloody loony.

“Bottom,” I called cheerily. “If Oberon can’t fix you, you can always play the lion. You couldn’t possibly do worse than Snug the joiner. The show shall go on!”

Bottom snatched up Rumour’s hat of many tongues and fitted it over his ears, a sight that gave me a slight spasm of the willies up my spine, as the tongues waggled with joy at finding a new home.

“I liked you better when you were sad,” said Bottom.

Chapter 11

What Fools These Mortals Be

“How bloody far is it to Oberon’s castle?” I inquired of Bottom, several weeks into our hike since dawn. “We’ve been on this trail for days. I think we’re going in circles. This looks suspiciously like the trail near Athens. Are we headed back to Athens?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” said Bottom. “It’s not even lunchtime.”

“How do you know? How can you even tell? There are no bells to ring the watch, no sundials. This forest is bloody barbaric. Why didn’t the fucking fairies give us horses? They have what passes for a civilization, if you don’t mind sleeping in a pile of sticks, why don’t they have horses?”

“Hard getting them in and out of the trees, I reckon,” said Bottom.