Shakespeare for Squirrels

“Now you believe it?” said I.

“Well things have changed, haven’t they? Fairies and goblins and squirrels running around willy-nilly. Anything could be possible. Elfs shagging squirrels, not such a stretch anymore, is it?”

“Not an elf,” said Drool note for note in my voice. Then, in his own, “Pocket, you shagged a squirrel?”

“Drool,” said I, “you and Snout shall again play the watch—wait, no, the part of the king requires reading. Tom Snout, you shall play Oberon. Snug shall play Burke.”

“We have no part written for Oberon,” said Peter Quince. “We have no costume for the fairy queen and none for Oberon.”

“Grab your quill and ink, we shall write a short speech for Oberon, but the rest shall be improvised cruelty. Moth, give your black robe to Snout. Starveling, blacken all parts of Snout that show out of the robe with charcoal from the brazier, including his stupid hat. Peaseblossom, you shall play Titania in flagrante.” I bounced my eyebrows at my masterful use of Latin.

“That means ‘on fire,’” said Quince.

“No it doesn’t, it means ‘naked,’” said I.

“No, it means ‘on fire,’” said Quince.

“Well I’m not going to do that,” said Peaseblossom. “You can just pretend-shag yourself on fire.”

“No, no, no,” I said. “Just naked, as is Titania’s way, anyway. And Cobweb, you shall play Hippolyta, the warrior queen.”

“Why does Peaseblossom get to pretend to shag you?” said Cobweb. “It’s because you want to set her on fire, isn’t it? Is that what you like to do with your shoe whores? Put them in their shoes and spark them up?”

“No one is going to be set on fire.” I thought for a second. It wasn’t necessary to the plot, except it might evoke anger from Oberon, but there would be plenty to spur him without it. “Fine. You, lamb, shall pretend to shag me, while Peaseblossom will pretend to shag everyone else.”

“As is my way,” said Peaseblossom. “The queen’s way, I mean.”

“You will need a costume for Hippolyta,” said Peter Quince.

He was right, of course. “Fine, Starveling, come here.” I cracked the door and pointed out to the audience. “See that girl, the one sitting behind the duke? Go fetch her. Tell her I need her for the play.”

“The one who stabbed that fellow in the head?”

“That’s the one. Go get her.”

“Why don’t you go get her?”

“Because I am the lead and I must prepare for my role.” I shoved the balding fuckwit out into the hall, where the audience was already clapping and calling for our return. While Starveling was gone I quickly dictated some lines to Quince, who wrote them on parchment, cut them with my dagger, and handed them to the appropriate players, as well as a few lines for Quince himself, the narrator. It was the same story, but now, knowing Gritch’s orders, we needed to compress it, I thought.

There was a tap on the door. I let Starveling in and pulled Helena in after him, then shut the door behind her. She stood there, rather vacant-looking for a new murderer. I sized her up. For once her annoying height would be a help. (Robin Starveling’s tailoring skills could make great use of all that fabric.)

She looked down at Egeus’s body and began to breathe in short, yipping sobs of panic. “Calm down, love, he won’t bother you.”

“But Hermia will be so cross with me.”

“No she won’t. She knows he was a twat. Now, off with your frock, we need it.”

She wore a white gown, not dissimilar to Hippolyta’s and Hermia’s, and a wreath of flowers in her hair. I snatched the flowers off her head and tossed them to Peaseblossom. “There, fairy queen, there’s your kit.”

Peaseblossom donned the wreath, then curtsied as Moth helped her weave it into her hair.

“Off with it,” said I. “We’ve a play to do. No one is looking, we’re all actors here.”

Drool, the Mechanicals, the monkey, Bottom, and the fairies all stopped and waited for Helena to take off her dress.

“Why are those tiny women naked? And why is that fellow all covered in coal? And why is there a monkey in here? And why does that fellow have the head of an ass? And why are those tiny women so tiny? Smaller even than Hermia. And so are you.”

“Cobweb, would you trade gowns with Helena, please?” I said, with patience I was not feeling. “Everyone else, look at that tapestry on the back wall while the ladies change.”

“But—” said Helena.

“Or we can murder you and take your gown,” I said with a charming grin.

“Give it up, shoe whore,” said Cobweb.

* * *

“And so,” read Peter Quince, “we return to the fairy wood, where the shadow king, Oberon, meets with his jester, Robin Goodfellow.”

Tom Snout and I jumped from behind the tapestry onto the stage. Snout was smeared head to toe in black, and wearing one of the black harem robes and his blackened, stupid, bunny-eared hat, and I wore only a loincloth, fashioned from a foot or so of Helena’s skirt, and my daggers across my back, of course, because sod the fucking play, I was not going unarmed into a room full of scoundrels.

“Puck,” said Snout, reading from a slip of parchment. “Fetch a magic flower, you know where they grow, and put a drop of its nectar in Titania’s eye so that the next thing she lays eyes on is some horrible beast, with which she will fall madly in love. When she is thus engaged, I need you to spirit away her Indian boy and bring him to me.”

“I’ll put a girdle round the world in forty minutes, and she’ll be snogging the beast before you can say Robin Goodfellow.” Then I made a fairy fucking trilling noise and Snout stepped offstage. To the audience I said, “Oh, I shall fetch the flower and go to Titania, but the fairy queen has tastes which I am obliged to indulge.”

And I ran around to the back of the stage even as Peaseblossom stepped out from behind a tapestry, quite naked except for the wreath of flowers in her hair. There were gasps and giggles from the audience. “Lo—” said Peaseblossom. She looked around, noticed, it seemed, that several hundred people were watching her. “Lo—” she said.

“I am Titania,” whispered Snout, furiously, from behind the tapestry.

“I am Titania,” said Peaseblossom. She looked around, looked out, looked down. Put her hand over her bits.

“Queen of the fairies,” whispered Snout, loudly enough to be heard in the third row.

“I feel naked,” whispered Peaseblossom, loudly enough to be heard in the fourth row.

“You are naked,” whispered Snout.

“But I forgot they shaved my bits,” whispered Peaseblossom.

“Say queen of the fucking fairies!” whispered Snout.

“Queen of the fucking fairies!” said Peaseblossom.

The hall filled with laughter. All the royals squirmed except Oberon, who sat forward on his chair and began to scissor the silver-tipped blades of his fingers together. I had expected a reaction from him, but not so soon.

I stepped back out onto the stage. “Milady, it is I, your servant, bringing the love potion that you anticipated.” I held a blossom from Helena’s wreath close to Peaseblossom and whispered her line to her.

“Have you brought me my pleasure?” she repeated.

“I have, milady.” I reached behind a tapestry and pulled Bottom out onto the stage. “Here he is, milady. A man with the parts of the donkey.”

“Give it me,” said Peaseblossom.

I made as if I were squeezing the love potion flower into her eye. Once anointed, she looked at Bottom like a goblin at the silver moon. “Oh, sir, thou art fair indeed and methinks I do so love thee.”

And she was on him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, snogging his rough face and dry-humping him with great enthusiasm, while Bottom reciprocated by braying rhythmically and giving the fairy queen a galloping ride in a circle, to exit through the tapestries while the two of them made a rising caterwaul that ended in a screaming crescendo, fo

llowed by a short sigh. And Peaseblossom was pushed back onto the stage, her hair in her face, her flower garland fallen over one eye.

“Oh, well done,” she said. “A true lover, not like that needle-dicked Oberon.” She’d delivered the line without prompting and with no little venom. There was real hatred there, and she had captured Oberon’s attention. “I am off to Turtle Grotto. Ta!”

And she skipped to center stage, where she was met by Robin Starveling, who was now made up to look like Theseus, which did not stop him from announcing, “I am Duke Theseus of Athens.”

Drool and Snug in their Blacktooth and Burke togs were lurking at the edge of the stage as Peaseblossom fluffed her hair a bit and coyly tiptoed up to Starveling.